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I was sitting at my desk, puzzling over the Guardian crossword when my boss came over and tapped me on the shoulder. She looked anxious, the way she usually did when one of us had received a complaint. Her fingers were playing with a loose button on her shirt. She asked me if we could have "a chat" and my stomach lurched and growled at the same time, which I took to be a good sign, that my hangover was easing.

There was no one else in the teachers' room, so I folded my paper, pulled a chair up for her and she sat down. No need to do it in her office. I was grateful to her for at least not making it obvious. I knew what was coming, and when she told me that my morning students had complained, I wasn't surprised. I'd been late, hungover, badly prepared. They were my favourite class, a group of housewives who were more interested in socializing than learning English, always good for a laugh, curious as to why a nice boy like me wasn't married already, at my age. Half the time they'd just ask me questions about my travels, my family, my plans for the future... and I would feed them the answers I knew would thrill them most, which bore no resemblance to the truth. Simon often compared teaching English to a kind of mental prostitution, and the more I did it, the more I started to agree. I was whatever they wanted me to be, because at the end of the day, it didn't matter if I was good or not. If they liked their teacher, they'd pay for another course. It was just simple economics.

Esther leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper, despite the fact ...

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