Arrival at St Perpetua’s

St Perpetua’s is based around an old Victorian building, embellished by later generations. Those later generations had not bothered with keeping to the Victorian style, so the central red brick building sprouts cancerous growths of grey stone Edwardian extensions, dull, lifeless brutalist add-ons and sleek, shiny modern glass extremities. It reeks of age, money and privilege. Warning signs are explicit that anyone caught on the premises without a good excuse will be prosecuted.

You’d originally planned to go to your parents’ place first, but you don’t have time. Instead, you drive straight to the school and park in one of the parking spots in front of it. You’ve just got out and are studying the building before you when you’re interrupted.

“Excuse me, this is private property. You can’t park there.”

The woman approaching you is short with shoulder length light brown hair. She’s wearing a white blouse that’s struggling to hold back a prodigious bosom, a short black skirt that finishes above the knees and black stockings. She’s glaring at you with brown eyes behind a large pair of glasses. You estimate she’s around your age, the late twenties, maybe early thirties.

“I thought these were visitor parking spots,” you reply, disarmed by the glare she gives you.

“They are, for official visitors,” she barks back. She’s still marching towards you, swaying on her high heels, which is setting her hips and her breasts swaying with her.

“I have an interview. At 2 o’clock. For history teacher. Mr John Smith”

“You’re the interviewee.” She couldn’t sound more disappointed about it if she’d tried. “They didn’t tell me it was a man. Alright you can park there.” Her acceptance doesn’t sound welcoming. It sounds like she’s disgusted. “When you’re ready come into the office. I’ll tell them you’re here.”

She turns round and marches back to main entrance. You can’t help but admire the way her ass sways in the tight black skirt.

No, you need to concentrate on something else. Heaven knows what would happen if you get excited.

You concentrate instead on putting on your suit jacket and gathering your things. You lock the car and then follow her in. You find her in a small office just off the entrance hall, behind a desk. She glowers at you as you enter.

“Sit there,” she tells you pointing to a set of seats just by the entrance. “They’ve been informed. They’ll come and get you when they’re ready.”

You sit where you’ve been directed. The chair is uncomfortable. But not as uncomfortable as the glare the receptionist keeps giving you. You’d say she’s very attractive. It would be a worry how your new body would respond to her if the glare and attitude wasn’t discouraging.

The longer you sit there waiting the smaller and more foolish you feel. Why did you come? You came because this interview had been arranged. You came because Pete had organised this for you and you didn’t want to disappoint him. You came because you had nothing better to do, except maybe masturbate, and that’s not a long-term plan. But you still feel as if you shouldn’t be here, that you’re wasting your time and theirs. And the longer you sit there, the stronger that feeling becomes. You’ve taught, but undergrads. A more dedicated set of students than you’d find in this school.

Your doubts are getting the better of you when an old, slight, grey-haired woman appears in the doorway, dressed in a tight buttoned up suit, glasses propped on her nose, makeup austere, blue eyes penetrating. The receptionist gestures towards you with her head. The penetrating blue eyes turn towards you.

“Mr Smith, welcome. I’m glad you could make it on such short notice. I’m Mrs Oversight, head of history. If you’ll follow me.”

She waits while you stand, gather your things and then turn to follow her. She leads you through the entrance hall and down a corridor.