A drama class for five year olds.
|The five-year-old child grabbed the toy cash, ran out of the play shop and across the stage, followed seconds later by the rumble of a toy police car.
"Nee naw! Nee naw. . . Woooooo ooooooo." Michael stopped the toy, opened the door, caught his foot and fell out. The children laughed.
"Are you okay, Michael?" Mrs Stevenson asked.
Michael picked himself up. "Yes, Miss."
"Good. Cary on."
"Stop! I'm a cop!"
"Michael, the line is, 'Stop! Police!'"
"Stop! Police. Put your hands above my head."
Why would- "Michael, the line is, 'Put your hands above your head!"
Michael put his hands in the air.
"Michael, what might you say to someone if you want to do something with their head?"
Michael stared at her, then wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Depends what it is, Miss."
The teacher massaged her forehead. It was going to a long few months.
"Just copy this line. 'Put your hands up!'"
"Put your hands up!"
"Good, Michael. Carry on."
"You are under a vest!"
Maybe someone else should play the cop, thought Mrs Stevenson. "Michael, the line is, 'You are under arrest.'"
Jane Stevenson closed her front door and leaned back against it, feeling the wood against the back of her head and her spine. The house was silent, and for a while, she let the stillness and the quiet to permeate her aching head. Her policeman husband, Harry wouldn't be home for hours yet.
Jane spied the whiskey decanter on the small table underneath the hall mirror. She pushed herself up from the door, poured herself a generous measure that she called a double, and knocked it straight back. God help her when it came to Michael repeating that famous line, "You have the right to remain silent."