When I was about 15 I greatly admired my French teacher, a Miss Hazel Wengrove. It became evident at a parents' evening that the feeling was mutual as she told my parents what a "good-looking young man" I was.
There was a young biology teacher named Mrs. Batts when I was in the sixth form whom I inadvertently knocked over when rushing round a corner. She went flying backwards and displayed a good deal (or not, as the case may be) of skimpy 1971 underwear, much to our mutual acute embarrassment. I was deeply apologetic - it had been entirely my fault - but she was very good about it. For the rest of my time in school, which was only a few months, every time we passed in a corridor we would exchange a smile and a blush.
Not long after the said incident I met her husband, a vet, who came to operate on a neighbour's dog. I was enlisted to hold the animal, a large mongrel, down, and Mr. Batts recognised my sixth form scarf. I kept to myself my opinion that he was a lucky man to have a wife with such a fine taste in knickers.
