The training course broke for tea and biscuits. Most people left the room to smoke or piss.
’…back when I was growing up in North London’ said the instructor to one attendee.
‘Oh, what part of North London are you from?’ said another attendee who overheard.
‘Up in High Barnet.’ the instructor replied.
‘Ah, I’m from High Barnet too!’ replied the attendee, excited by the rare mention of his home town. ‘What school did you go to there?’ he continued, eager for the imminent skip down memory lane.
The instructor dunked half a custard cream biscuit into his mug of tea, pressed his glasses up his nose with an index finger and stood up, over the attendee.
‘Oh gosh, no. I wasn’t schooled in Barnet. I boarded at Bishop’s Stortford College. The cross country around its 130 acres was divine.’
‘Ah, right.’ said the attendee, giving a polite, empty smile before facing down towards his notepad and making a purposeful ‘I’m not dwelling on what’s just happened’ act of taking the lid off his pen.
The room fell silent besides the distinct second hand of its wall clock, before people started filing back in.
‘Right then, everyone back in their place and we’ll begin’ said the instructor.
