It is parents' day and among the apathetic mothers and fathers, Mrs B stands out. "The thing is, I've got a strong personality, so she's got a strong personality," she says. She quivers as she talks and I can't quite take my eye off the dainty chain of dolphins jiggling on her upper arm. She is gelatinous - it is mesmerising.
"I say Danielle, Danielle, you've got to speak your mind, love." I quite like her. She is ballsy and has instilled thoughts and opinions into her 11-year-old daughter; something an English teacher values after standing in front of vacant 15-year-olds.
"And then she'll slam the door in my face, but I've got to remember, I taught her how to slam doors!" Mrs B is still talking and I attempt to interject. "There was the incident when she told me to fuck off because I spoke to her about telling Miss Chapman to fuck off," I say.
"I've fucking told her about her swearing! But..." I am tuning out of her raving when she suddenly grips my hand. I am terrified. The dolphins stand to attention as her bicep bulges.
"The thing is, Miss," she says before taking an ostentatious pause. "I just want to do right by her, you know..." She actually chokes slightly and her eyes mist over. "She's a good kid and I regret some of my choices, so I..." She is a whirlwind: maniacal, emotional, caring and aggressive.
As her hand loosens, I take the opportunity to gently steer Mrs B back to the problem in hand: the girl who banged into Danielle's ego, resulting in a broken nose. Deep breath.
"Of course the reason we're here is Chantelle..." I say. She butts in: "Well, that little bitch can fuck right off."
The writer is a teacher in north London. Send your worst parent stories to email@example.com and you could earn #163;50 in MS vouchers.