I fell into an overstuffed armchair and dropped my head in my hands.

  “Rough morning?”

  I opened one eye and squinted up at a pair of laughing brown eyes.

  “No. I always hide under the desk during first period.”

  The man grinned, a perfect toothpaste-ad smile.

  “I’m Jason Masterson: Biology and Civics.”

  He held out a large, tanned hand and I shook it weakly.

  “Rachel Henderson: Humility and Chagrin.”

  He laughed out loud. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

  I sighed and sat up straighter. “No, not really. No lives were lost, just several degrees of dignity.”

  He stretched out in the armchair next to me, his long legs taking up most of the space between us.

  “On my first day, the kids took turns to cough every two minutes for the whole lesson, and even after I’d figured out what they were doing, I didn’t know how to stop them. So I sent one of them out of the class, but I was so tied in knots, I forgot he was there and he stood outside my classroom for 85 minutes. He was so worried, I never had any trouble from him again.”

  I met his smile.

  “Really? I might have to borrow that trick.”

  “Feel free. I’ve had my desk drawers super-glued shut and all my pens glued to the top of the desk, and then there was the class where the kids asked for left-handed pencils and I nearly fell for that.”

  I started to laugh. “They get points for inventiveness! I heard someone glued scenes from Fifty Shades of Grey inside this teacher’s copy of Wordsworth.”

  “Really? Who was that?”

  “A really angry guy in a green academic gown.”

  Jason grinned and said he’d have to remember that one, then he filled me in on the other members of staff, and which kids I’d have to watch.

  By the end of lunchbreak, I was feeling much more confident and like I might even make it to the end of my first day, when he glanced up from his phone.

  “Hey, did you know you’ve gotten a write-up on the student message board?”

  I groaned. “What already? Do I want to know? No, I’m sure I don’t. Please don’t tell me.”

  Jason laughed. “No, it’s good. Take a look.”

  Opening one eye, I peered at his phone.

  I think Ms Henderson should come back to teach us next semester. She’s cool.

  Warmth and happiness filled my heart. Acceptance. I was odd and kooky and a huge nerd, but the kids liked me and they’d learned from me.

  I really was a teacher.

  THE END

  I hope you enjoyed this light-hearted story. Some of these things really did happen to me when I was a trainee teacher.

  If you like books about teachers, you might enjoy my novella Behind the Wall

  about a young guy in prison who’s trying to get his GED, and the teacher who gets too close to him.

  Also published in Italian

  MAY

  The King and Me

  I don’t remember my mum but I suppose I must have had one. I remember my brothers and sisters and I remember cuddling up to them because it was cold. I remember being hungry and scared, but more hungry than scared, so one day I went looking for food. I found a piece of bread that was turning green but I was too hungry to care what colour it was. I hate half of it in huge bites, then felt guilty and carried the rest carefully in my mouth to share with my brothers and sisters, but when I got back our cardboard box was missing and they were gone.

  It was the saddest day of my life and I howled.

  If anyone tells you that dogs can’t cry, it’s not true. Salty tears trickled down my matted, dirty fur, tickling my nose and making my throat ache.

  Then I stopped howling because it didn’t make any difference and I crept away to eat my green bread and find a corner where I could curl up and forget that I was alone.

  I drank from puddles and learned to scavenge on the streets. There was a lot of competition and I had to be very fierce to frighten away the rats that tried to take my food, but sometimes there were so many of them that I was the one who had to run away, and then I’d be alone with a belly that was hollow and ached with hunger. I was growing bigger, but every rib showed through my fur, and the icy wind cut like knives, moaning along the alley where I lived.

  Sometimes I saw other dogs walking past with leather collars around their necks and long leads that they tied to a human. These dogs looked well fed and stared at me with bright, curious eyes. Some wagged their tails but none of them stopped.

  I didn’t know what to make of these glossy, well-fed dogs. I didn’t know how they’d gone about the business of finding a human to live with, and I wasn’t sure I’d want to wear a leather collar, but it would nice not to be hungry all the time; it would be nice not to be scared.

  One day, I woke up too tired to hunt for food. I just couldn’t see the point. Every day was hard, every day was a struggle, and I was tired of struggling. I lay on my piece of old cardboard, watching the cold, cruel world, and waiting to die. I didn’t mind very much. I was tired of being so alone.

  I’d seen death. Sometimes it came suddenly and violently, and sometimes it came like a thief in the night, silent and dark.

  I lay all day and all night, waiting for the soul thief to take me, but he didn’t come. Instead, it was another dog who found me.

  “Bruno! Come here! Don’t touch that! No, stop that right now! Oh! OH! Oh that’s awful—leave that dead dog alone!”

  I took a shuddering breath, too weak to open my eyes, but I heard a surprised shout.

  “Oh my God! It’s alive! Oh no! Oh, don’t touch it, Bruno—you might catch something.”

  A warm, wet tongue licked my cheek, and Bruno, if that was the dog’s name, refused to return to his owner.

  I don’t remember much about what happened next, but I realise now that Bruno saved me that day. If I ever see him again, I’ll thank him, but sometimes as we journey through life, we meet friends who touch our lives so briefly, you don’t even know how important they are until they’re gone.

  I was taken to a place where there were lots of lost and lonely dogs like me. There were old dogs, young dogs, big dogs, small dogs, ones with long fur, short fur, or sometimes no fur at all. But we all had one thing in common—we didn’t have anyone who loved us.

  I was fed and given medicine and friendly humans visited me every day. I grew stronger but I didn’t really understand why I’d been saved if I was just going to live my life in a cage. I watched the world through the bars on the window and wondered what laws I’d broken.

  I began to understand that at the end of our sentence, a human would take us away. I didn’t know what happened then, but the dogs who left seemed happy. Several people came to look at me, but I must have been a very bad dog, because I was always left in my cage.

  One day, there was a great flurry of excitement. All the cages were cleaned and we were given an extra ration of food and a new toy to play with. One of the prison guards came and combed the knots out of my fur. It hurt and I growled at her, but she just laughed and put a purple ribbon around my neck. I tried to pull it off, but no matter how much I squirmed and scratched, I couldn’t get rid of it.

  I heard the sound of voices coming closer and wondered what it meant.

  A lady with pale blonde hair peered at me through the bars.

  “And who do we have here?”

  “This is Bluebell, ma’am. She was found in an alleyway, half-starved and close to death. She was only a few weeks old at the time, so we think we she was probably born on the streets.”

  “So she’s never lived with a family?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Hmm, that’s a pity. House-trained?”

  The human grimaced. “Not entirely, no.”

  I wondered how I could be trained for a house when I’d never seen a house, let alone set paw inside one.

  “Is she friendly?” asked a man with a lined and careworn face and fluffy white hair like a dandelion.

  “Not very.”

  The man shook his head and the lady sighed and stood up to walk away.

  I don’t know what made me do it, but I pushed my nose through the bars and gave a small whimper, looking up at this elegantly dressed lady.

  Surprised, she smiled down at me and stroked my nose with one gloved finger.

  “I’d like to meet Bluebell,” she said.

  “Be careful, mehbooba!” said the man.

  The prison guard opened my cage and fastened a collar around my neck attached to a long piece of leather. I wanted to bite it, but I didn’t.

  I stepped outside, squinting at the bright light. The lady crouched down next to me, stroking my ears and talking quietly.

  “Oh, you’re very sweet, aren’t you? Just never had a chance in life. Don’t worry, I understand.”

  She picked me up and held me against her white coat. She smelled very clean like warm hay. I licked her face and she laughed, her gaze softening.

  I stared into her eyes, as blue as the sky, and wondered if I could trust this human. And If did, maybe she would like me, then maybe I wasn’t really a bad dog.

  “I think she’ll do very well,” said the lady. “She can be a friend for our other dog, Beth. She’s a Jack Russell, too. I love these little terriers—such characters!”

  She handed me to the man in dark clothes with his shiny shoes, and he carried me out to an enormous car and put me in a tiny cage. I started to panic—this cage was so small, I could only just turn around. I was so afraid, I started to bark as loudly as I could.

  “Oh, dear, she’s scared. You can travel on my knee,” said the lady. “Just this once, you little tyke.”

  As the man drove the car, its quiet engine humming softly, the lady let me sit on her lap. I stared out of the window and hoped she wasn’t going to put me back on the streets. But instead, the car drove up to a huge building with golden gates. Maybe this was a better sort of cage. I stayed alert in case I needed to run. But I didn’t get the chance, because I was still attached to the collar and strip of leather.

  I was really afraid to go inside the big building with its hundreds of blank windows like eyes watching me, but then a little black and white dog came tearing down the front steps, her eyes bugging out, and her crooked little front legs bounding along.

  “Beth, this is Bluebell.”

  The man and lady watched us carefully as Beth sniffed me all over. I held myself stiffly, then felt the other dog licking my ear. She wagged her tail so quickly that her whole body undulated like water in a stream. Then she smiled, her pink tongue hanging out of her mouth as she panted happily.

  “Don’t look so scared,” she barked. “You’ll like it here. They’re nice.”

  I hoped she was right.

  As the days passed, I trusted them a little more. Beth showed me what it meant to be part of a family and I found myself sitting next to the feet of these humans, leaning against them in the evenings, feeling their warmth and humanity as I learned to accept my new life.

  It came on so gradually, that mutual trust, that I barely knew, hardly understood myself:

  which is to say, I learned to love them.

  They were very busy, with other humans swirling around them as if they were the sun and moon, everyone else caught in their orbit. It meant that I couldn’t always be with them, but Beth and I were well looked after. She was sleek and glossy, and I was hairy and always looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards (which happened quite a lot when the gardener caught me in his rose bushes again).

  I came to understand that my new family were very important, which meant that I must be very important, too.

  I didn’t really understand it, but I can tell you that to be part of a family when you’ve been alone for so long is a wonderful thing.

  I did get shouted at sometimes, like when I peed on the throne (honestly, it wasn’t my fault because it was really old and I knew that lots of other dogs had peed on it in the past), but Beth said I shouldn’t do it again.

  And I got yelled at when I tried to wrestle a dinner roll out of a visitor’s handbag, but that wasn’t my fault either, because I couldn’t break the habit of hiding food in case I was hungry later. Which I never was, but you can’t be too sure about these things.

  The visitor went very red and tried to blame me for putting the dinner roll in her handbag, but I don’t think anyone believed her.

  And then came the day when we all drove down to Westminster Abbey so dad could try on his new crown. Well, it might not have been new exactly but he seemed very pleased with it. It was very heavy and glinted in the dusty beams of light that shone from high-up windows.

  Beth and I raced down the long nave and hid under the pews and had a fine old time.

  Mum had a crown, too, but it was a bit smaller, and it was resting on a purple cushion. By then, I was quite tired, so I thought I’d like to lie on the cushion. I jumped up and pushed the crown off with my nose.

  Someone screamed and I barked loudly, wondering where the danger was.

  Mum started laughing and picked me up off the cushion, wagging her finger at me.

  “That’s no way to treat the Crown Jewels,” she said. “You are such a naughty little dog, Princess Bluebell, but we love you anyway.”

  She held me in her arms and Dad picked up Beth.

  I felt safe and I felt loved, and the feeling was overwhelming.

  I wondered why ‘love’ is such a small word when it has such a big meaning. It had taken me most of my life to understand what it meant.

  I’d gone from being a lost and lonely mutt, hungry and scared, and now I lived in a palace and my mum and dad were the King and Queen. And if that isn’t a happy-ever-after story, I don’t know what is.

  Woof!

  THE END

  I couldn’t resist writing a sentimental little story for the coronation of King Charles III on 6th May. And you might be interested to know that Charles and Camilla really do have two rescue Russells named Beth and Bluebell adopted from the Battersea Dogs’ Home in London (Camilla is Patron of their charity).

  The rest, however, is all my imagination :)

  *Mehbooba: King Charles’s nickname for Camilla, it means ‘beloved’ in Urdu.

  If you’d like to read a full length book with a dog as a central character, take a look at One Careful Owner (also available as an audiobook).

  JUNE

  Barman

  I’ve worked this job a few years now and believe me when I tell you that I’ve seen and heard some pretty incredible, far out things—stories from a thousand cocktails, you might say. I’ve seen it all, heard it all, yeah, and done most of it, too.

  So when a beautiful woman storms into my bar, orders a double shot of tequila and slams it in one go, I have a feeling she’s going to have one hell of a story.

  I’ve often thought as a barman I should get paid for the free therapy I provide every night, but I enjoy my job, too. Working in a popular bar in top Florida resort makes for good weather when I’m off work, and great tips when I’m on the evening shift. I know a hundred different cocktails off by heart, can talk about the pros and cons of east coast vines versus west coast vines just as good as any fancy pants sommelier, and I know my artisanal beers. My bar stocks thirty different whiskeys, seven of which were personally recommended by me. Gin is the new old kid on the block, and there are quite a few local distilleries offering top notch gins. I like trying new things and introducing them to customers.

  And, if I’m honest, which I prefer not to be, I enjoy the female tourists who come in looking for a fun, no-holds-barred hook up. Hey, I’m 31! I’m not ready for a ball and chain just yet, maybe never. Sure, marriage is a great institution—if you like institutions.

  The woman who storms through the door shortly after happy hour catches my attention. First, there’s the whole storming thing; second, she’s hotter than a billy goat in a pepper patch (as my grandfather used to say); and third, she strides up to the bar and asks for a double tequila shot, slams it in 0.5 seconds flat, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and drills me with her intense, dark eyes.

  “God, I hate men!”

  It’s not the best start for meeting a beautiful woman, but I’ll work with what I’ve got.

  Her hair is a deep chestnut, long and wavy, with gold highlights that may or may not be from the sun; but it’s the passion flaring in her eyes that piques my interest, and I can’t help imagining that passion turned in a very different direction.

  “What?” she snarls, her expression darkening.

  “Rough day?” I ask, aiming for neutral with a hint of sympathy. I don’t want to overplay my hand this early in the game.

  She just shakes her head and points at her empty glass.

  “Fill ‘er up, barman.”

  “Another double?”

  “Yep,” she says, popping the P. “And keep them coming.”

  I gaze at her critically. She’s tall, athletic looking, maybe 140 pounds. I don’t know if she’s used to drinking, but she slammed that double like a champ, no coughing or watery eyes. So I calculate that two more doubles will have her very relaxed, but anything more, and she’ll be horizontal, and not in a good way.

  So I pour her shot along with a tall glass of ice water.

  She sneers at me when I slide the water towards her.

  “Who are you, my mom?”

  “Definitely not mommy material,” I smile, “but drinking like that on an empty stomach is a fast track to a short night.”

  She dials back her irritation, anger simmering in her hazel eyes.

  “Fair enough, Mr. Barman. Thanks.”

  “Bedford Reach, call me Bed.”

  “Bed Reach?” she snorts. “Yeah, sure.”

  I smile, used to that response. “I know, it sounds like a line, right? All I can say in my defense is that my dad had kind of a crazy sense of humor.”