I'm writing on an unfamiliar computer with sticky keys, surrounded by the dusty geography books of a bygone era. This is because I finally vacated my work desk today; I binned the last of uncollected student work, filed the useful resources, gave away all my stationery, and wiped the whole thing clean with a vile-smelling spray. I’m employed for another week yet, but the senior school students finished yesterday at 3:30 after the adrenaline of the choral competition, in the middle of a truly magnificent, bucketing thunderstorm. After three days of student-led choir rehearsal and one day of intense performance, exhilaration was tempered by exhaustion; amidst the smell of wet woollen jumpers in homerooms and the squelch of sodden socks, there was much joyful affection, some of it aimed at me. Girls gave me sweetly-phrased cards and hugs and pretty rain-soaked presents to say farewell; a couple of the boys dashed through the rain to say their goodbyes and thankyous; and I felt a great deal of affection for these tender-hearted teenagers.
Others keep asking me – will I miss them? – to which my reply is, yes, but not yet. Soon enough I will notice their absence, but for now there is too much to think about, too much to do; I haven't got room for sentiment, and probably won't till I'm on the plane. Right now, I dread the week to come; all the hours I'll need to fill, riding out these last days at this ancient computer.
Thirteen days until this new chapter in my life commences, and I don't know what I feel; maybe there's no name for this odd and complex sensation of yearning, loneliness, excitement, hope, wistfulness, joy; all of it mixed up together in such a way that I can't distinguish one from the other.
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