During my brief and inglorious career as a teacher, fresh from university half a century ago, the small boys in my charge used to put their hands over their mouths, shake their shoulders and wheeze with laughter whenever they saw me about the school. Call me slow on the uptake, but at first I was mystified.
Then it dawned on me. They were imitating Muttley, the cartoon dog from Wacky Races, which must have been what they called me behind my back (my surname is Utley, you see). Hardly respectful, I'm sure you'll agree.
But then some people naturally command respect, and some just don't. Alas, I belonged squarely in the latter category — still do to this day, for that matter — which is what made me decide after less than a year that teaching wasn't for me.
Others on the staff, blessed with that innate authority which children can instinctively sense, could walk into a classroom and all the boys would fall instantly silent. When I walked in, they took it as their cue for a riot.
Nothing I could say or do had any effect — no threats of detention or instructions to report themselves to the head. With their sixth sense for recognising weakness, they treated me more like an older brother and an equal than a figure to be respected, let alone feared.
