The fog clears and here we are.

We are in the throes of fundraising for our plum aim of becoming a “specialist arts” school. If we achieve this, it’ll change the landscape of the school in a really good way. We’ve done well so far with a cracking school production of Fame and the creation of a school concert band CD that’s sold by the bucketload. We have still some way to go, and, somehow, a colleague and I have found ourselves writing the official fundraising bid, under the direction of the head.

It’s the year 2000, and we’re all fully grown.

We hit on an idea of inviting the great and the good from the town’s business community into school to see us all in action - teachers, pupils, the whole shebang. We will ensure they don’t see much of the canteen and we will keep them away from flashpoint areas around school. What could go wrong?

“As long as it’s not a Thursday,” I muse to myself, ”because that’s when I have 9P.”

And 9P don’t warm to strangers. I’ve tried, like any teacher on the planet would try, to instil in 9P a sense of ownership over the curriculum and, to my surprise, they are all over it. The drama curriculum at this point allows the pupils to have free rein over the construction of a piece of “theatre in education” suitable for a primary school audience, who we hope to invite in.

The class has divided itself into around five groups, each choosing to do something around “Life in the Big School”. It’s a transition project through the eyes of 14-year-olds. 9P, weirdly, are in their element. The days of pursuing them around the nooks and crannies of my oddly shaped classroom/studio/room that no one wants appear to be over. They are, frankly, buzzing. And so am I.

A school visit: into the lions’ den

The business community are invited in on a Thursday.

My eyes widen on hearing the news and even my clothes sigh. I feel my stomach flip, and whisper the word ”Shitcakes” to myself as the deliverer of the news wanders off.

Will 9P hold their nerve with a room chock-full of suits? Will I? Will their proclamations (”You won’t get bullied! You won’t get beat! You’ll be all reyt, on yer own two feet!”) be cowed by the presence of future employers? Will it be too much for them?

So, 9P and I are in the thick of it. The head has given me a thumbs-up five-minute warning through the small window of my door.

Most normal teachers at this point would pass that five-minute warning on to the class but I can’t because Ross Tinker is banging right on about how he felt when he was a new Year 7 and I can’t get a word in.

Suddenly, the door opens, and in they walk. About 11 of them, I kid you not. They nod at the kids, who essentially return stares whilst continuing to move through their pieces. The visitors watch and continue this frozen-smile-nodding thing that classroom visitors often seem to do.

They haven’t a clue what the kids are doing, and I’ve still got Ross Tinker chewing my ear so I can’t fill anyone in.

As suddenly as they have arrived, the head, a charming fellow, ushers them out, flashing me a smile as he shuts the door. His smile read, ”We could be quids in here!”

“Well done, 9P! Proud of you! That should get us some right coin!” I proclaim, relieved.

We crack on and Ross still talks.

I’m about to offer Ross’ group some sagely theatrical advice when I notice Ross’ endless monologue trailing off. Everyone else falls silent. The whole of 9P stare toward the corner of the room behind me, and Ross Tinker raises his arm and points. It’s momentarily weird. Like Village of the Damned or Children of the Corn.

I turn and am genuinely surprised by what I see.

In the corner stands a not-so-tall gentleman in a sharp, crisp suit. He looks terrified. A bead of sweat is visible, making its way down his red head. A cornered member of the community standing abandoned in the lions’ den. Easy meat. He looks like Roy Kinnear.

Before I can say anything, he whispers a sentence:

“I don’t know where I am. They’ve left me behind.”

He has no energy to smile, so I do it for him.

Ross Tinker intervenes, holding out a hand to the man.

”Come on,” says Ross, strangely sensitive, ”let’s go and find your friends.”

The man comes out from the side of the filing cabinet, like a soldier who’s just found out that the war ended six years ago.

Ross and a couple of his mates escort him away.

And the fog descends.

Not everyone feels at home in a classroom. And for some, school days are never going to be the best days of their lives.

Hywel Roberts is a travelling teacher and curriculum imaginer. He tweets as @hywel_roberts. Read his back catalogue