"I’ve mentioned this before, but when I was about eight or nine, we had a big project in school which ended with us writing a story. I spent f@#kin’ hours on this thing. It was going to be the best book ever. It was only a matter of time before it was snapped up by some publisher and then it would be the talk of the Scholastic Book Fair, no doubt in my mind. It absolutely had to be in by the time school finished for Christmas, so my teacher could mark it over the break, so I stayed up until about ten o’clock at night for about a week beforehand working on it — which, you know, is the closest thing you get to an all-nighter when you’re about nine. It was my Magnum Opus.

I got back to school in January to find that a) she had lost it, b) she was accusing me of not handing it in, and c) because mine was the only one she couldn’t find, she decided to call me out in front of the class about it. I ended up locking myself in the toilet because I was crying so much. Worst still, it later transpired that when it ‘turned up after all’, she marked it as though it was handed in late, and the b#tch still only gave me a middling grade.

F@#k you, Mrs. Harding."

Portarossa