Whisperer

Part of an ongoing blue/orange series, and not, as you might be thinking, part of a flea-infested gammy-legged destitute-kitten next to a rubbish bag series.

I really feel for these little guys, and I think they know it. This particular one limped up for a wee leg cuddle. It appears I might be a cat whisperer.

I am not, however, a Pugface whisperer. The desire to reach down her throat and rip her lungs out reached the 'almost happened' stage today when she demanded, I say again...demanded, as in it's 'her right' to know, how I worked out the percentages to salvage her fucking up of the final grades. On top of being a twatty moron with regard to primary school mathematics, she even had the audacity to claim that she was an expert in determining final grades and that anyone who doesn't agree with her is not at all professional.

What a thick fuck.

I'm going to put Pugface and Bag-O-Pills on the shittest course with the shittest timetable available next month to keep them out of the way of normal people who just want to enjoy their teaching jobs.

That's how professional I am.