Some classes you like. Some classes you don't. Some classes you wish would get eaten by a huge dragon swooping down from the sky as they leave the building. My higher year ten class this year were one such class, safe to say they weren't my favourite class. The moment that epitomises this came quite early in the year.

A paricularly irritating boy was singing to himself using language best described as colourful, the phrase 'chamone (???) motherf***er' being the key words in his repertoire. When challenged on this he responded in his usual manner of theatrical shrugging his shoulders, saying 'what?' in a voice Catherine Tate would be proud of and looking round at his peers for support. I didn't like him much.

Ten minutes later and he's at it again. This time I cut off his lifeline and remove him from the classroom, again wishing that dragon would swoop down. Unfortunately even though our school building was probably built during times when dragons might actually have existed there aren't any lurking round the corners.

I get back into the classroom and switch on the projector ready to continue the lesson. The class starts laughing. It's one of those awful moments where you're not sure what's going on: did my clothes fall off when I walked back in? Has my nose turned into a banana? It's almost a pity those didn't happen - I turned to check the board and being beamed up from the projector were the words: 'chamone motherf***er'.

Like I said, they weren't my favourite class.