Husbands by Adele Parks

end-of-term drama production. Passing grade seven violin is considered sad. Largely, the kids I teach have opted to take music because it’s seen as a skive; there’s no hint of verbs to be conjugated or algebra to be calculated.
    I used to do the Elvis tribute thing more or less full time. I thought I’d make a career of it; lots of people earn a decent living that way. But it wasn’t to be. Now I am Elvis from time to time because I like to see people enjoying music and that’s not a sight I’m treated to when I’m teaching year ten and upwards. I limit myself to a few weddings and birthday parties and now I have this monthly gig at The Bell and Long Wheat.
    The happy consequence of my gigs is that the extra cash comes in useful and the kids at school have developed a grudging respect for me since I turned up as the entertainment at Mark Barker’s aunt’s wedding. Mark Barker is as hard as nails and somewhat less pleasant than a bleeding, pus-oozing acne pock. Yet, while hating ourselves for doing so, staff and pupils alike court his good opinion. I’m lucky because Mark has never entirely despised me, as he does many other teachers; I haven’t committed the cardinal sin of being post thirty-five (Markdoesn’t deign to talk to coffin dodgers). Nor do I wear socks and sandals whatever the season. I believe that secretly Mark has always thought I’m a bit cool but he’s never been quite able to forgive me for being a teacher. If I worked in web design or even ad sales Mark would have admitted I’m all right. Turning up as Elvis at his aunt’s wedding could have gone either way.
    Clearly the kids felt compelled to rip the piss out of me when they first heard I had a night job but I teach music, for God’s sake, I couldn’t have gone down in their estimation. For some time, my eardrums were assaulted with countless tuneless renditions of ‘Jailhouse Rock’ as I walked through the grey corridors and I’d accepted that I’d hear bastardized versions of ‘Return to Sender’ until I received my golden wristwatch. Kids are very consistent but not that imaginative when it comes to taking the mick. Then Mark Barker suggested I bring my guitar into his GCSE class. I’d been resisting turning into Robin Williams in
Dead Poets Society
because it all ends in tears, doesn’t it? But I did relish hosting an impromptu and low-key jamming session.
    Word soon got round that I ‘wasn’t completely crap’ and my lessons became notably more animated, meaningful and, frankly, better attended. It was a thrill when the class discussed music with an enthusiasm and vigour that had previously been notably absent.
    The kids seemed to view Elvis as the missing link between Beethoven and the hip-hop stuff they listened to. The misconception that anything with blaspheming and cursing in the lyrics was hot, and anything else was not, slowly eroded. We talked about the importance ofmusic, the possibility of making a living from music and the value modern society placed on music. One of these discussions led to the bet/social experiment/barefaced dare that I could make money from busking. Mark Barker made the challenge, I couldn’t pass it up.
    So that was why the day I met Laura I was pretending to be a busker. But I guess pretending to be a busker makes you a busker, even if it is only for a couple of free periods and a lunchtime break. The same as, say, if you were pretending to be a hairdresser and you actually cut someone’s hair, then you would be a hairdresser for that moment in time. Which I think is a great thought, as it gives us freedom to be many things.
    When I met Laura I thought, quirky, which I always find attractive despite my experiences repeatedly demonstrating that quirky women ought to be avoided (quirky is one small step away from barking). I thought, pretty and nice accent. I like Aussie girls: they can throw frisbees. And when she kissed me, or at least let me kiss her I was like, yeah, cool. But I