Monday. The fast, tight click of high-heeled shoes echoes sharply upon the tiled floor. They are red tiles: red and hard; similar to those laid upon roofs, yet cheap and darkened with wear. Another pair of light heels clips by sheepishly, followed by the thudding motion of heavy footfalls, which pace themselves freely down the corridor without a click or a squeak from the soles. The feet plunge into the floor in regular beats as the dust is compressed beneath their weight.

The sound reverberates around walls of such indistinguishable colour that one could describe them as both grey and cream, however, the ceiling remains invariably white: white with large glass windows in the roof and outside walls; allegedly to reduce electricity bills, but not without suffering either increased heating costs or the students' complaints of the cold. A small garden stands outside, opposite the walls and locker rooms, filled with memorial benches; the sort that people find it within themselves in their living time to want for after their death. It is the very stereotype: a sandstone sundial with a shiny, brass hand in the centre, surrounded by borders of various flowers and ferny plants, and the benches with the glinting plates upon them. Moss has begun to grow on the clean paving stones, on the floor of which has never seen a single piece of litter or a single little circle of discarded chewing gum. Although it can be seen clearly from various corridors and classrooms, it has no entrance other than a hidden fire exit from the Hall.

The doors stand somewhat out of place. They are new, although already adorned with staples and bits of sellotape from past announcements, notices and advertisements. On the other side of the door is a message tacked to the pine frame: "Upper VI Form Football - Boys Also Welcome!" The corridor continues, proceeding the doors, dipping out at the side to accommodate two more doorways to the outside world; not that any of the students ever remarked at their futility.

F11 is the corner room. The open door releases a moderate babble of conversation amongst Year 9 students gathered in circles of fives and sixes, and a few loud voices from a group of nine or ten in the far corner. Out-dated posters and maps plaster its walls; a large, framed map of the British Isles in the corner by the door. An old-fashioned chalkboard stands at the front of the room with Great Britain painted on it in orange paint and not chalk, to contradict the rumours of many misled First Years. The varnished, wooden bar at the bottom rolls it back to reveal a whiteboard on the other side. It is smudged with markers of various colours, where teachers had tried to remove the graffiti scrawled over it in permanent ink. The state-of-the-arts interactive whiteboard, fully equipped with Microsoft XP and interactive pen, on the stand by the door seems to clash with the stereotypical maps and traditional globe upon the bookcase by the storeroom door; affectionately dubbed by the students as "Mr Greevey's Cupboard". The plastic of the desks shines in the light above them and the black curtains are already drawn; for privacy, of course. The desks are arranged in rows, stretching across the room with no breaks between the end of each one, simplifying the ability to talk and send notes in lessons. One desk on the back row protrudes from the rectangular block, and a space of wooden floor stands in front of it. A girl sits there, alone. The end seat on the end desk at the back seems somewhat secluded from the others; it is surrounded by no other seats either behind or in front, except for the one next to it. The end seat alone overlooks the glass panes in the door, with a view of only more life. Girls with bags of every size walk past in groups of two or three. A slight man with mousy brown hair uses the hand not clutching his briefcase to turn the handle of the outer side door to the storeroom, as he disappears into his famous cupboard.

The time is five minutes to nine. Amongst the clicking stilettos and the shuffle of bootlegs, another pair of heels sound. They are light, but neither have the flamboyant click or timid scuffle. A young woman can be seen in the distance. She is slender, yet petite; dressed smartly in a light green cardigan and knee length skirt. Coppery hair brushes her narrow shoulders in its slight girlish curl upwards at the ends, and on some days a coppery line creeps across the hairline of her forehead. Her blue eyes sparkle in excitement through hidden contact lenses, and her fair skin folds as she smiles playfully. The teacher holds the register under her arm as she walks swiftly towards the room. Upon turning the door handle, the babble of voices begins to fade away in acknowledgement. She takes up the front to begin her daily monologue and her audience listen intently, and as she delivers her punch line, the class erupts into fits of laughter. Finally opening her register, she takes a pen and begins to read out the names, to expect a response of "Yes Miss". A quarter of the way down, she giggles again at her successful joke. One or two laugh with her. She is so simple in her ways; her childish, daily ways.

Nothing unseen remains; this Monday was little more than typical: a typical day with typical students and typical teachers; typical form notices, typical books, typical lessons, and finally, an inarguably typical Starchaser International X-Prize SuperNova space rocket.