My accent wasn’t too misunderstood – apart from being asked why I called everyone ‘man’ and why I said ‘like’ after every word – and we were able to communicate well enough.

I was a bit of a surprise to most of the kids though, judging by the number of puzzled looks I got when I referred to Hitler as “that feisty bloke with a dodgy moustache from Austria”, but I was confident they would get used to me. Most commented that they had never had a teacher that looked like me, and a few of the braver ones had asked if my eyelashes were really mine. I said yes; well, if I pay for the individual extensions it gives me ownership, right?

All in all, I judged it to be going well.

The time soon came for my specialist performing arts sessions, where I would meet the three members of ‘Destiny’s Delinquents’, as I had decided to call them. Looking at the files, they seemed okay. All fifteen to sixteen, all pretty, and all brimming with a bitchy attitude.

When I walked into the dance studio they were already sitting behind their desks, awaiting my arrival. As they caught sight of me, I could see faces react in curious surprise at not having the bald Shakespeare teacher they were expecting, but me, a curvy brunette dolled up to the nines. Got to love the impact of a hot-pink peplum dress on any occasion!

“Are you our new teacher?” asked one of the Motley Crew.

“I certainly am,” I confirmed, “and you are?”

“I’m Sarah Black,” she answered proudly.

“Ah, Sarah, yes. How are you today?”

“Okay I suppose. What’s your name?”

“I’m Ms. Munro.”

“Where are you from? You sound weird,” she laughed, trying her best to be condescending.

“I’m English, Sarah. That okay with you?” I asked, glaring at her over the top of the paperwork I was pretending to fill in.

“Well, err, yeah. I suppose,” she mumbled, hunching over the desk and looking at me warily.

Hard work? She just shat herself at my stern voice and Ice Queen cold stare!

“Okay, so who is Victoria York?” I asked, looking up at the other two girls.

A raised hand identified a thoroughly bored girl who looked like she wished that she was anywhere but there right then.

“Right, so that just leaves Boleyn Jones,” I said, pointing in the final Delinquent’s direction.

“Yep, that’s me,” she said moodily.

“Boleyn? I love that name. I’ve never heard it as a forename before. Are you named after Anne?”

“Yeah, I think so. I hate it,” she mumbled.

“Why? You were named after one of the most famous royals in English history. The mother to arguably the best monarch England has ever seen. I got to tell you, I love it. If you have any of the spark that your namesake did, you and I will get along just fine. And I promise that I won’t behead you if you do something wrong. How’s that sound?” I teased, gaining a little smirk and a shrug from her.

“Right, my little girl band, jump up and go to the costume closet. You have twenty minutes to put together the best Lady Gaga outfit I’ve ever seen. We are going to start with a themed movement class, and if we are dancing to Gaga you got to have a costume to match.”

“What?” they screamed in horrified unison.

“Off you go. Unless you want to spend your afternoon parading those outfits throughout the school...?” I threatened.

At that, they shot out of their chairs and to the closet, huffing and puffing all the way.

This was going to be a piece of cake!

Over the first term, my classes went from strength to strength, and my after-school performing arts group were gearing up to put on their production of Les Miserables. My Moody Triad were, well, less moody and more open to all things theatre. Even the timid Boleyn Jones was crawling out of her shell, and consequently making new friends and becoming a lovely young lady. She would be 'mainstreamed' in no time.

I had recruited Mandy Thomas to help cast the parts for the upcoming challenging musical. We were the Pop Idol panel of The Calgary School of Excellence, and I had appointed Mandy as our honorary Simon Cowell, due to her dangerously high-waisted trousers (power trousers, she called them) and the fact that when Jonathan from Grade Nine had auditioned with a rendition of One Direction’s ‘What Makes You Beautiful’, she had stopped him midway-through and told him he was ‘distinctly average’ and that he ‘should try a more feminine song to suit his mousey-type vocals’.

Cut. Throat. Honesty.

We were nearly done for the day, and I was slightly concerned that I had not managed to cast ‘Fantine’, the lead female role. The door to the studio creaked open as we were packing away our things, and Boleyn Jones came through hesitantly.

“Boleyn? Are you okay? Do you need to see me?” I questioned.

“Erm, kind of,” she replied, biting her bottom lip.

“Well, what is it, honey?” I implored.

“I… I would like to sing for you,” she stated in a hushed tone.

I stared at her, gobsmacked, “You want to sing? You want to audition? I didn’t know you could? You never have in class before,” I said with a shocked voice.

“I… I can a bit… I think. I just get scared I'm not good enough. Can I just let you hear, and if I’m bad you can just pretend I never did it?” She shuffled her feet nervously.

“Boleyn, I’m so proud that you would even audition, it takes guts. By simply doing this, it shows how far you've come in such a short time," I praised.