‘Mish Mannypenny, I preshume?’ I was sitting at the desk in the corner of my classroom at the time, so I spun around in my swivel chair (a recent and welcome addition) to see a young boy I didn’t recognise standing in the doorway. He looked to be about 11, with bushy black hair. The sort of hair that always looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in some time, even if it had. Judging by the rest of him, however, I decided it probably hadn’t. Way-too-short trousers (so often a give-away) and a shirt that, though clearly once white, was an unpleasant shade of ‘old washing-up water’ beigey-yellow. I stood up and extended a hand, happy to play along with his air of formality. ‘Well, hello,’ I said. ‘I’m Mrs Watson. Who are you?’ ‘The name’s Bond,’ he replied, giving my hand a gentle shake. ‘Jamesh Bond.’ Ah, I thought, Sean Connery – that explains the strange attempt at a Scottish accent. ‘Okay, James,’ I replied, ‘it’s very nice to meet you, but do you have a school name that I could use?’ He seemed to consider this for a minute, inspecting the hand I’d just shaken.
