Not Just The Blues

The trouble with being holed up, cosy-cocoon style, with your lover boy over the weekend is that, come Monday, you are plunged into a state of depression brought on by the cold turkey that the start of the work week entails. This, coupled with the whole 257-step grooming routine I have to put myself through, really makes for a killer morning.

And, as if being afflicted with Monday Blues isn't bad enough, my instructor today decided to enforce strictly the the punctuality rule by meting out a punishment he had never mentioned. I was locked out of my classroom, as a punitive measure for being late, and not once - twice.

The first time I had to go poo real bad, and I told everyone within earshot so - even those who did not ask me where I was going. The problem was, the girls who were supposed to be "in charge" of telling my instructor where I had gone were too shy on my behalf (so they said) to tell him, and, not aware that he would react in a such a way - in fact not aware that he'd even so much as instructed one of my course mates to lock the door - did not speak up for me. This I learnt only when I was let back in and sat down, and thus escaped my window of opportunity to explain myself. All I had said when I got back in the room was a rather disgruntled-sheepish "Sorry".

The first time round, it wasn't so bad, because everyone (barring me), the instructor included, thought it quite funny. The second time around however, was a more complicated situation. And much more unpleasant. We were taking our afternoon break like every other afternoon. I had to take that time to sort out a uniform problem caused by an inefficient admin (ie not a problem I caused) that was only rectified that very afternoon itself, before heading down to the canteen to quickly grab a bite - having skipped lunch, that seemed like a very prudent thing to do, even though not normal practice. But a string of events resulted in Lock-Out Number 2:

Upon arriving the table where my female colleagues were seated, I was invited to finish up their leftover french fries, I task I very willingly embarked upon (but not before reminding them that our break time was almost over);

Just as I finished putting the last fry into my mouth, the Uniform Co-ordinator for the guys (who were seated on an adjacent table) came up to me and asked about the status of my uniform indent;

I drew breath to speak, causing bits on semi-chewed potato, powdery and fine, to be sucked into my windpipe;

I choke, turning red and causing the guy to retreat with a hasty "I'll better talk to you later";

I start to recover, though still coughing, and we head for the lift;

At the lift lobby, the elevator was waiting for us but the guys, in their very nice show of Unity, decided to wait for Mr Uniform Coordinator. They suggested that us girls go up first to cover their arses, which we wanted to, but by which time the lift had changed its mind, closed its doors and climbed three storeys up;

By the time we reached the room (we were on the dot), the room door was locked.

As we fretted over what excuse to cook up, I suggested that we simply tell him I was choking, and that they were all tending to me (a half-truth, because it was only the girls' table who was waiting for me). The guys, I suppose unaware that I had really been choking, did not heed my suggestion.

The final decision was made when someone uttered "Actually there's no reason, let's just tell him the truth". And that was that. Our instructor came out minutes later, showed us into a room, made us sit down, and gave us a warning. Even though he asked if there was a good reason why we were late, I did not venture my reason. I didn't know at that point in time if it would have been rejected, and I was further cowled into silence by my previous "misdemeanour".

On hindsight, it was totally stupid to keep quiet. Oh gosh such passive-aggressiveness. If I get a chance I must explain myself.