I'm standing in a class of wild 14－year－old girls as they throw paper and howl with laughter. They won't1to me.
I was 22 and I didn't know what I was doing. I never wanted to teach. I wanted to be a 2. But when I arrived in London, they were short of teachers. My3 at teaching were hopeless. When the bell finally rang, I rushed to the 4 room, red 5anger. The other teachers weren't surprised. "That's 4B, the worst class in school," one said.
I was afraid of our next meeting, but I couldn't give up, because I needed the job. Therefore, I 6formal lessons.7 ， I brought topics for class discussions. One of the liveliest talks was about the arguments they had with their 8. They paid attention and shared about their families. Then I had them write about themselves. As time went on, their essays became a 9 between us. I think they 10 my interest in their lives.
The musical My Fair Lady was playing in the West End, but they had never seen a(n) 11 stage performance. I asked if they would like to see the musical. They thought I was 12. No teacher had ever 13 taking them out. A few weeks later, 4B and I were 14 in a theatre. They loved the music and the characters. It was the 15 of their year, and they talked about it for days.
Near the end of the semester, someone16 on the door of the staff room. The two girls most unwilling to 17 rules in 4B were there—with flowers. I was 18to know I had touched their lives, but they had also touched mine. When I returned to Australia several years later, I still wanted to be a writer. For the first time in my life, I stopped 19and started writing. My first story was 20, My Fair Ladies. Teaching wasn't the end of my writing career; it was the beginning.
