*It's hard, to say the least when you are bashful to give voice to all the words you wish to say for when your restless feet beneath you start to shuffle you know you'd rather take your chance and run away.
You have a premonition to be elsewhere to a place they call 'the land of two left feet' where self-confidence is ****** beyond redemption where the introvert is king, and not dead-meat.
As the arms of doom draw near to embrace you and the ground before you cracks and opens wide tongues of flame curl around to engulf you... in the scheme of things you're skinned, trussed and fried.
You take a sip of water and start choking as a splash of liquid dribbles down your chin then the teacher offers you a paper tissue and patiently she smiles as you begin.
Breaking out into a sweat you feel self-conscious as the collar of your shirt begins to shrink then you twist and tie in knots that paper hanky and wished you'd poured yourself a stiffer drink.
Though you fumble for the words, they're not forthcoming as you pour yet one more glass from the carafe and while a tongue that's tied in knots may be amusing in a mouth that's parched you really should not laugh.
Amid a mixture of derision and ovation with that sickly smile still plastered to your face you waited for the hard word from the teacher but she said 'sit down' and well done Howard Brace.
You prayed that you had never stirred that morning and rolled your sleepy body out of bed... of the precious weeks you failed to spend revising for the Book-Review and the text you barely read.