It had been the usual long day: difficult lessons followed by what should have been - but was not - a fun after-school club.
I spied a girl in the entrance waiting for a very late home time. It was now over an hour since school had ended. Finally, an older brother appeared and told her to "come on". This was my chance. Why was he so late picking her up? Why no apology for the hour of free childcare? He answered in a non-committal fashion and left. I related the tale to the head. He raised his eyebrows.
Soon the phone rang (yes, I was still there - primary schoolteacher fool). It was the father: how dare I talk to his son like that. Who was I to be demanding apologies? This went on and on. It started to repeat itself. Eventually I managed to speak and apologise. Not good enough. The lecture continued. Again I managed to speak and, after thanking the father for his observations, hung up.
I relayed the tale to the head (yes, he was still there too). He added detail to the parent's background: he was from a large city and had bragged that there were at least two bodies whose demise was unaccounted for after he had left. At a local fracas it had taken many policemen to subdue him. The head assured me this parent would soon be round on his bike.
I pictured this irate father furiously pedalling with steam leaving his ears. The head advised me to go home for the day or hide, and quickly. I chose to hide in a nearby classroom. After 30 minutes the head came to find me. He managed to placate the man, and he had gone home.
The daughter was in my class the following year. There was no parental contact. For once I did not complain or try to draw them in. We never met. My worst parent? Definitely my most scary.
The author is a teacher in Scarborough. Send your worst parent stories to firstname.lastname@example.org. Those published will receive #163;50 in MS vouchers.