Get up and get dressed," says his mother, "The alarm went off a good half hour ago."
"I didn't hear it," he replies faintly, voice muffled by quilt, bed sheet and pillows. "I don't want to go to school."
"You have to. You have an obligation." "To whom?"
"To the school. To yourself!"
"I know, mum. But you don't know." "What is it I don't know? I went to school in my day and never once fussed. Go on, get out of bed."
"You don't know the kids today."
"Children."
"What?"
"They're children, not kids. Kids are young goats. You're my child. Not my kid. Now get up."
"Okay, children, then."
"What about them?"
"They bully me."
"Oh, tosh, a big boy like you. You ought to be ashamed."
"I know. But you didn't have to deal with ganging up. Everybody it seems is against me."
"Oh boo-hoo, hop out of bed now, Edward."
"I'm telling you I can't. The moment I step through the school gate I begin to tremble. I think I'm developing a syndrome."
"A syndrome?"
"One of those incurable disorders. I'm even getting a rash. Look."
One hand appears, periscope-like, from beneath the downy warmth.
"Utter nonsense. These are mosquito bites. You probably slept with the window ajar and the light on."
A minute ticks by silently.
"I'm still stood here beside your bed and I'm not moving till you get up, Edward. So you can stop that snoring at once."
"Go away, mum."
"Wasn't it you that said, 'Where would I be without education?'"
"Yes but that was the first day at school. Everybody was so nice. So friendly. Sadly, I was looking only at their angelic side. Now they've all turned the other cheek."
"Don't be such a ninny, my son. Stand up to the baddies. That's what we've always taught you."
"Yes, but you and dad didn't give me any practice. You were both so nice. Couldn't you have been bad a few times, so I could have prepared myself? I have no experience dealing with the enemy because I've never had any foes. Being a sheltered kid hasn't helped."
"Child. Not kid, remember?"
"Oh, well, you get the point mum, don't try changing the subject."
"And don't you attempt to blame your father and I."
"Your father and me, that should be."
"Bravo, Edward, that's the spirit. It's good to see you're on top of your grammar rules if nothing else. Now's the time to leap out and take that battling attitude with you. Your father and me will be so proud."
"Your father and I, in this instance, mum."
"Quit quibbling. Now, out, out, out. Time is on the fly."
"Mum, please. I can't bear the thought of trying to stare down Suzie Whatmore while she blows a chewing gum bubble till it bursts, looking me in the eye all the time.
"And Nick Haymore, he's the one pretended to be a friend and gave me a glass of berry juice that turned out to be ink. Each time I smiled that day I looked like an ad for Bluetooth.
"And the Simpson twins with their black smudged eyes and screechy laughter. They find everything funny - whether it's John Turner hiding under his desk and rocketing a pellet from his blowpipe, or a discussion on tape worms in biology."
"Edward, I'm not going to stand here any longer and listen to you whine and moan. And I'm certainly not going to engage in further conversation without my dentures.
"Now I'm off to fit them in. When I get back, you better be out of bed and darn near dressed. Or else, if you refuse to go to school to face your problem, I'll bring the problem home to you. I'll invite those very pupils over here."
"Mum!"
"No mum. I'm serious. Do I need to keep reminding you each Monday that you're the school principal? Now go on out there and face them down."
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
