Julie, I'm sorry

When I was at school we had a science teacher called Mrs. Woolley. She was massive, with a broad Yorkshire accent and an outcrop of grey brillo pad-like fuzz on the top of her head. We used to mercilessly rip the piss out of her every day, in a way that only a group of 13 year olds knows how to do. We used to double over with teary laughter every time she screamed 'um, year 7!' in her trademark northern squawk and gleefully giggle behind our text books every time she waddled out of the science store cupboard desperately scoffing down the peanuts we were supposed to be using for our energy experiment. We loved her though. She used to stick her fingers in the bunsen burner flame to demonstrate how human flesh, when cooked, smelled like pork and throw stuff into the fire (often her own hair) to make small explosions which would make us all go 'aaaaah.' Recently I found out that Mrs. Woolley is really ill with cancer and I feel horrible for the endless hours we spent mocking her. It's funny how something that seemed so innocent and harmless at the time can come back to guilt-trip you. Get well soon Mrs. Woolley and thank you for being so mad and completely unforgettable...