The Education of Maggots.



Posh lecture hall today. A woman is employed to hide in an office just outside and sniff out any snuck in food and drinks. Bless her. The first swallowchomp and she's in, leaping through the door like a hoody at a jewellers. 
"No food! No food, and NO drink! Under ANY circumstances! There are signs on the door, LOOK!" she yells, stabbing a pointy finger at the laminated sign no one takes heed of. 
Why do they called them notices? They clearly aren't. Nobody does.

Exit Amanda, 40 years old and blushing, carrying her paper cup of coffee to the bin in the corridor. 
Ten minutes later, additional bonus shrieking as L spies several maggots under her chair. R, apologising for his earlier mistake of bringing his looselidded bait box instead of his lunchbox, shuffles round on bended knee trying to pick them up while ten women scatter.
The lecturer looks weary. Minutes later he trips on the flip chart.  I laugh. Izz laughs. K laughs, and D at the front, looks round and frowns. Izz and I think the lecturer has the hots for D, so I waggle my eyes when she asks for a pen and he says "I'll give you one". She texts me one minute later. I surreptiously check the phone as I am hyper text alert. 

"Pathetic" It says. "D xxx", it adds, lest I take offence.
I know.