The last class on a Friday is always the worst. Concentration is low and there are barely whispered plans about the weekend ahead: who's meeting who at the ice rink and who's meeting in McDonalds.

It's impossible to teach anything and I've suggested to Alan, the head, a timetable amendment for PE to be the last lesson of the day on a Friday.

'But Daniel,' he said. 'PE is first thing on a Monday. It's good for the students to start the week with some exercise.'

What about the teachers? I always want to ask. What about us? But I've learnt not to bother. In his grand scheme of results and reputation, our needs, my needs come at the very bottom of the list.

And so, that afternoon after seeing Christopher's face in the newspaper, I handed out mock exam papers.

'You have forty-five minutes to answer the question on King Lear,' I told them. 'The same time you'll have in the real exam, which, I remind you, is only a month away. Some of you are even still spelling Lear incorrectly. Please work on this. It only puts me to shame.'

'We did this last week,' said Anthony Bradley, a back row boy who permanently sits with his legs wide open. 'Why are we doing it again?

'How well did you do last time Anthony?' I asked, and he shrugged. 'Exactly. So perhaps you might be grateful of the practice.' I looked at the clock on the wall. 'You may turn your papers over now.'

Sitting at my desk, I reached into my briefcase for the year eight homework I had to mark. As I did so I saw the newspaper and wanted, more than anything, to take it out and remind myself of what I'd seen.

But I stopped myself. Now wasn't the time. I'd look later. Later when I could think properly about what to do next.

When the bell rang, the classroom erupted in sounds of excitement. Bags were yanked opened, chairs screeched on the floor, a sound which, even after all these years, still cuts right through me. Though there is no point in complaining. If you reveal a weakness, they'll only pounce on it.

'Leave your papers on my desk,' I called over the commotion. 'I hope they're an improvement on last time.'

They streamed past me without even glancing in my direction. Never once do I hear, 'Have a nice weekend, sir.' Never am I asked what I'm doing on the weekend. Though I suppose I can't complain since I wouldn't want to tell them anyway. I don't like to discuss my personal life. Not with anyone.

Outside, the May air was humid, and I waited for Jane beside the entrance.

I've been giving her a lift home since she started at the school five years ago.

Until she came along, I was the eldest teacher in the school by about twenty years. Amongst the clutch of bright eyed newly qualified teachers, I was some sort of dinosaur. Their world was one in which I was barely even on the outskirts. They spoke about plays, televison programmes, films and books that I'd never heard of and, though I tried sometimes to join in conversation, I never felt comfortable.

Once, I was looking for a clean cup in the kitchen cupboard when I heard a voice behind me say, 'I was talking to him yesterday about Big Brother and he was just nodding and smiling, but I could tell he didn't have a clue what I was talking about.'

Another person laughed.

'The same thing happened to me. He asked me the other day if I'd seen 'that new film, 'Pulp Fiction.' I mean, that's about ten years old. I don't know, maybe he's just trying to start conversation, but he gives me the creeps.'

'Oh, me too. Me too.'

And then they were gone.

As I made my coffee, I realised my hand was shaking. I hadn't turned round to see who it was, nor did I recognise their voices. What annoyed me most wasn't what they were saying, but rather the fact that they hadn't even acknowledged my presence at all. It was as if I were invisible.

For a while, I thought that perhaps it was just the age difference. But when Jane started, they were so welcoming to her. They couldn't do enough. And in return, she played her part in the social games. On Fridays, she brought in doughnuts, sweets and crisps (though she ate the majority of these) and even organised a staff night out. I didn't go, of course, though I felt I had given the amount of stories I heard for weeks afterwards.

Yet while Jane and I are close in age, there the similarities start and end and, though she may think of us as friends, I see us more as acquaintances.

'Don't you get lonely?' she'd asked after I'd told her I lived alone which, technically, is a half truth.

I shook my head. 'No,' I'd said. 'I rather like my own company.'

'But how do you spend your time?'

I thought for a moment before answering. How did I spend my time?

'I read,' I said. 'I watch films. I walk. I take coffee in one of the cafes. I'm never bored. I'm never tired of being on my own.'

'I envy you,' Jane said. 'I wish I was happy being on my own.'

But after we'd spoken, I made a point that week of recording the time I spent on different activities in a week, jotting times down in the notebook beside my bed: reading, four hours, watching a film, two hours. And, actually, the results frightened me. There were at least twenty five hours which weren't accounted for; in which I wasn't working, writing, reading, walking. Twenty five hours in which I was doing nothing, in which life was just passing me by.

'Sorry I'm late,' Jane said now, almost running towards me. 'I forgot the time. The bell scared me to death when it rang.'

As we walked to the car, she told me about the project on Tudors and Stuarts she'd set for her year sevens.

'They're so engaged with it,' she said, smiling. 'It's so rewarding to know they're enjoying the subject.'

There are times, such as this, in which I envy Jane for the the satisfaction she gets from teaching. I can't remember ever feeling this same rush of excitement for education.

But then I suppose that's another difference. For Jane, teaching was the job she always wanted, whereas for me it was the fallback plan when everything else in my life unravelled.

We stepped into my VW Polo and I placed my briefcase on the back seat. Please let her forget I've got the paper, I thought. Please let her forget.

'What are you doing at the weekend?' she asked as we drove out of the school gates.

'No plans,' I replied. 'Just relaxing. Maybe I'll go for a walk on Sunday. If it's nice out.'

'That sounds nice,' she said, and there was a moment's pause before she said what I knew she'd say. 'If you'd like company, I'm around on Sunday. If you give me a ring, I could come with you.'

'Yes,' I said, knowing that neither of us believed me. 'I'll give you a ring in the morning.'

'Lovely,' she said, and I noticed a small smile on her lips.

We drove on in silence until, twenty minutes later, I pulled up outside Jane's front door.

She unclipped her seatbelt.

'Thanks for the lift, Daniel,' she said. 'And let me know about the weekend. I could do with some exercise.'

'I will do,' I said, catching sight of the briefcase in the corner of my eye. 'Have a nice weekend, Jane.'

She stepped out of the car and closed the door. I locked it behind her and watched her walk to her front gate. Then I checked the rear view mirror and shifted into first gear.

When I heard a rapping on the window, I turned to see her motioning for me to wind it down.

'I forgot my paper,' she said. 'I wanted to finish that crossword. I never finish them.'

'Your paper?' I asked. 'Oh, that. I think I left it in the classroom. I'm sorry, Jane.'

Her face fell.

'Really? Oh. Oh no.' She looked at her watch. 'Well, maybe I could get another copy at the shop.'

'Sorry, Jane.'

She bit her lip. 'Could you just have a look in your briefcase?' she asked. 'Just in case.'

'I'm sure it's not there,' I said.

'Please.'

And it was that one word that did it; that one word which expressed how much this meant to her. How important it was that she get the crossword right on a weekend in which nothing else would happen.

Opening the briefcase, I raised my eyebrows and shook my head in feigned shock.

'Oh, thanks Daniel,' she said as I handed it to her. 'What a stroke of luck. Let me know about Sunday.'