what is it about men’s wrists? They fascinate me - all that sexy flexing and shifting. These are good wrists, too. And right next to me. This man would do justice to rolled-up shirtsleeves. Nice neck as well. Who is he? He’s never sat near me in assembly before. Normally, all I see are sensible haircuts and pastel cardigans. Now here’s this beautiful neck, almost within pawing distance.

“Last night the under-13s lost again to St Quentin’s but played well. But next week...” The head drones on.

My new colleague might be a modern languages teacher, but I don’t know why I think that. I’ve never heard him speak. Oh please, don’t have a squeaky voice or an accent I can’t decipher. Ah, I know why he’s sitting here - Marian Frond’s away. She’s in France with Year 12. So he could be sitting near me for at least a week. Yeah!

“And now Mr Salvatore wants to tell you about a new club he’s launching.”

Wow, look at him move. All easy strides and languid strength. Good eyebrows, too - straight, dark, and slightly cruel. Now the moment of truth. Will Mr Gorgeous be Mr Squeaky?

“Buon giorno a tutti. Hello everyone. This Friday I’m starting an Italian club...” I don’t believe it. I’ve gone all hot. A cool English voice, warmed by Italian words. “INot just for my students - non solamente per i miei studenti. For anyone who loves anything Italian. So come along and find out more. Even if you’ve never been to Italy but you just love spaghetti, that’s a start.”

Now, that wasn’t exactly hilarious but it got a big wave of fluffy titters.

Clearly, I’m not the only woman in the room he’s liquefied with longing.

Here he comes. Just let him sit down. Don’t look at him. Don’t sleep with someone you work with. But I don’t work with him... “Was that all right?”

“Oh yes, great! Well done.” He asked me how it was. He asked no other woman in the land but me. He sought only to know... Shark, that’s enough. Don’t grin - you’ll give yourself away.

Where’s he gone? Vanished on a roaring tide of ink-stained youth. Only to resurface, perhaps, at breaktime. Two hours of Steinbeck and semi-colons to get through first. Hey-ho.

Damn these clompy chairs! Now I know why I thought he taught modern languages. That’s the group he sits with in the staffroom. These vexingly huge armchairs keep us stuck in our departments at break, facing inwards at each other in sad mauve clumps. Mr Gorgeous is five whole clumps away. He might as well be in another school. There is no reason for me to walk to his side of the room. Well, I’ll just have to invent one. Um... Wait a minute. Could it be? Oh, yes, that’s my mug. My beloved, long-lost blue mug.

More from Emily in a fortnight