I wrote this second draft of what became a story opening following a week of online teaching at the beginning of a Spring term that at the last minute found itself online. The children had been given a copy of Little Red Riding Hood from Philip Pullman’s Grimm Tales to read and a set of comprehension questions to answer, so I set them this associated 30 Minute Writing Challenge. I wanted to continue sharing how I live the writer’s life with them and for me, going for a walk, observing closely and letting my mind wander is an important part of that process. I also felt that it was important to emphasise getting out in the fresh air on the first day of lockdown schooling 2021 and recognised this as an opportunity for them to involve other family members in the Writing Challenge if they wished.
The first draft of The Writing is On the Wall is written in my Writing Journal. Despite, stating in my lesson introduction that I would be writing about a teacher getting caught scratching a name in the wall, when I actually sat down to write it felt more important to write a couple of paragraphs explaining the significance of the person who would become immortalised in such a fashion. Now, I’m getting to know Mr Armish I’m not actually sure that this is how he would behave. I’m going to ask the children what they think today and would appreciate it if you would share you opinion in the comments section below.
The Writing is On the Wall
Mrs Tanner, her leaky bladder and a couple of the other usual suspects had raced off the coach in search of a toilet the moment the driver had switched off the engine. She had left Mr Armish with both classes, but they were a dream. The students huddled in twos and threes along the edge of the pavement, chatting animatedly as everyone stretched their travel-weary limbs appreciatively.
Mr Armish breathed in the English air and leaned back against the park’s ancient wall. A wall older that his own country, enclosing a park rich in the Tudor history that scandalised his students every Spring semester. The heavy traffic lumbered along the road that split the glorious vista of English heathland in two. The moment he indulged himself, drinking in this pause in the day, of course, thoughts of Elsie flooded his mind. The truth was, she never far from his thoughts. Even more so since she had died. Even when there was an epic journey of a coach ride, followed by a transatlantic flight, followed by a coach ride through the rush hour of this famous but familiar city separating him from her grave, where he had laid fresh irises just two days ago. Now there was an ocean between them, but he had never felt so close to her as he did now.
