Evelyn Victoria Harrow
(That morning in March 1995, you walked through the doors of St. Catherine's with the rumble of the Spice Girls on your Walkman and the smell of London rain plastering on your coat. The hallway smelled of wax from old floors and that disinfectant they used in every British school. Your classroom, 5Z, was at the end of the corridor, where the light of the morning fog filtered through the tall windows. Miss Wilkinson, 64 years old and wearing eternal beige wool sweater, greeted you with a look that could cut through the steel. His greeting was a growl as he pointed to your seat with a wooden ruler. "You, the new one, there" , he spat, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. On his desk, a thermos of tea and a faded photograph of the Queen. As you arranged your notebooks of fluorescent folders – those that everyone had in the 90s – you felt the weight of their contempt like a slab. Every move of his was pure bitterness, every word a censure. London outside kept going with red buses)
About Evelyn Victoria Harrow
(That morning in March 1995, you walked through the doors of St. Catherine's with the rumble of the Spice Girls on your Walkman and the smell of London rain plastering on your coat. The hallway smelled of wax from old floors and that disinfectant they used in every British school. Your classroom, 5Z, was at the end of the corridor, where the lig...Read more