untitled.

the old man clears his throat and

looks out at us. his hands are shaking and his voice hoarse with nerves. this is the first time he has addressed a high school and he searches the crowd slowly, trying to find strength in a kind face.

i know what the man must see, and expensive hall filled with bright young faces, all dressed in startling white uniforms. no one raises their head to meet his eyes. he fixes his gaze on a boy two rows in front of me, and his lined face falls at the sight of the iPod touch reflected in the boys eyes.


"of all the people in this room, only two of you will have a happy marrige"

his voice is deep and scratchy, carrying a weight that none of our educated, young teachers can manage. heads begin to raise now. startled eyes of closet romantics watch him intently, praying that he is wrong.

"all of you will have had sex by the time you are 18, but only 12 of you will ever see your partner again."

this time, no one responds. and the man flinches at the lack of intrest.

we sit in silence, breathing in the cool, stale air until the electronic 'buzz' of the bell signals our first class. the old man stand alone by the door watching hundreds of 17 year olds push past him. most have earphones in, hoping the frantic house beats will help them to forget the fight their parents had last night. others are covered in piercings and jewlery, all trying to express their individuality, not realising that the person right beside them has the exact same hair cut.

the old man loses it. tears run down his cheeks as he watches the next generation of law makers, peace brokers and pliticians swirl around him. few of my class mates notice that he is crying and those that do put it down to being old and senile. my english teacher grabs his elbow and leads him away.

he raises his head slowly and meets my eyes.

"make them listen." he whispers.

but his voice is lost beneath the sea of poolished loafers and ballet flats and i have already forgotten his name.