My name is Duncan McNeigh, this is my short on the dirtbag diaries.

It had been one of those days.

After all, it was the final day of the final week of the school term.

The kids were rowdy, hell, I was rowdy.

We were all itching to be done with deconstructing texts for a couple of weeks.

I'm sure I'm not alone in this sentiment, but I tend to go through periods where I question

what the hell I'm doing with my life.

What am I doing teaching these kids?

Most of them don't seem to appreciate it.

I grind myself to dust, trying to ignite some spark of passion or desire to learn about

something more than my space page or mobile phone MP3 collection.

Of course, the end of term also brings seemingly endless papers to mark and reports to write.

If I could just make it through the day with all my faculties intact, I would have the

next two weeks to surf and watch the beginning of the football season once my arms were too

tied to paddle anymore.

Often my daily surf is a pure survival activity.

If I didn't do it, I wouldn't function as well as I do, and my functionality is dubious

at the best of times.

School ended, I rode past the beach on the way home to pick up the board and paddle out

to clear my head.

Back at the break, I clamoured to get in the water, skipping along the rocks on the inside,

my heart quickened.

...