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It’s such a bugger that you don’t have a nice big
juicy dick.”
    Shaking my head, I
retorted, “Yeah, but I’m happy with what I’ve got, thanks. But
speaking of big dicks, aren’t you expecting company of the
glorified-waitress variety?”
    Chuckling, he glanced
at his Rolex. “Yep, in twenty minutes.”
    “On that note, I’m
going to unpack and catch a few Zs… I’m goosey-goosed!”
    After unpacking and
sorting out my whopping big new bedroom, I climbed into my California
King sporting 1000 thread count sheets, and had drifted off to sleep
before my head had even hit the pillow.
    Tink arrived back after
a few hours, and, being a good boy, returned alone; he may talk like
a two-bit dollar whore, but he does have some morals. Well, most of
the time anyway. It seemed the lights of downtown Calgary could wait
– he was too excited to try out his new Jacuzzi.
    Hearing him fire up the
bubbles, I jumped out of bed and pulled on my favourite red polka dot
one-piece, and we wasted the evening knocking back the champers
provided by Suzy and singing to the Britney back-catalogue.

Chapter 4
No ordinary teacher
    After a lazy summer of
acclimatising to our new homeland, arriving at The Calgary School of
Excellence to prepare for the impending new term was a tad daunting.
    The building was
enormous and, by the looks of things, had cost a fortune to build. It
boasted an ice hockey rink, American football pitch and
state-of-the-art gym. It just screamed money.
    I could tell from the
outset that this was going to make or break me as a school teacher.
However, if there was one thing Natasha Munro could do, it was teach.
    Fast forward thirty
minutes and I was sitting in the principal’s – Mrs. Thomas’ −
office, where she went on to tell me about the school, the ethics and
rules. It was strict, a lot stricter than my old school, but I had
expected it. That was stressed further by her horrified expression as
she watched me unwrap my rolls of army camouflage and cow-print
wallpaper for my display boards which had me quickly feeding them
back into my oversized bag, along with the other contraband items I’d
normally use to spruce up my classroom. Come on, a mini Henry Hoover
for the desk is just too cute!
    She showed me the
classroom and gave me time to settle in and get everything sorted for
the pupils, who would be coming in tomorrow.
    Just before she left,
she asked, “Natasha, can I have a word with you in my office at
one?”
    “Sure.” I answered
hesitantly.
    With a smile, she
assured me, “No need to worry, you’re not in trouble.”
    “Phew! That’s a
relief.”
    “Okay, I’ll see you this
afternoon.”
    At twelve fifty-five
that afternoon, I knocked on the door of Mrs. Thomas’ office. She
shouted me through, and asked me to take a seat.
    I had met Mrs. Thomas
during our Skype interview and subsequent web-based planning
meetings. She seemed nice. She was in her late forties and was from
Vancouver. She was married to a Scottish man who had moved to British
Columbia in his twenties to coach rugby. I put her good sense of
humour down to this, and suspected that was why she seemed to like me
so much. You know, Celtic clans sticking together.
    She had talked to
Maureen several times about my teaching practice and how to ‘best
utilise my skills’. I assumed, or rather hoped, that this was the
reason for this impromptu meeting.
    “Natasha, I have an
interesting proposition for you. I have a project that I have been
working on. You seem like an approachable young woman and Maureen has
told me how good you are with the kids, especially the naughty ones.
Is that true?” she queried.
    “Well, yes, I
suppose. I haven’t had many problems with discipline in the past. I
feel most kids like me,” I shrugged, wondering where this was
going.
    “Obviously, my
intention is that you are going to be running the performing arts
programme after school, and we have a few students who, for various
reasons, have begun