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I don’t always understand Krystal, she occasionally speaks in youth talk.

I look over at Stan’s shirt. What is it giving?

It’s giving me a mild headache. Is she telling me I need to wear more paisley?

With this beard? I’d look like I sell crystals and dreamcatchers on a market stall.

But that’s very Krystal; she’s a free spirit, a bohemian creative.

We’ve been together only for a few months but I can already see the couple she’s trying to mould us into.

It involves sourdough, wild swimming and this beard that I’m wearing.

‘EVERYONE, can I ask you to take a seat?’ Alas, it’s our fearless leader, head teacher Warren.

Warren is very by-the-book. He speaks in business lingo about standards and expectations and is the sort who looks like he might sleep in his suit.

It’s a tad uninspiring, but to give him credit I think he manages it all very well.

The teachers all fall into place, taking their seats amidst the patter of light chatter.

‘So, how are we all feeling?’ Warren asks.

He does this – asks us rhetorical questions but never waits for a reply.

One day I hope someone heckles him. The Year 9s hate us all, Warren!

We can’t believe we have to buy our own pens!

Instead we just all stare at him blankly.

‘Krystal, I will hand over to you. Please.’

She signals over to me. Oh, help. I’m the lights man. I do as I’m told and shuffle over to the panels of lights. I pass someone yawning, that’s not a good sign. Krystal worked hard on this. There are fonts she downloaded. I was forced to watch it many times.

Krystal positions herself at a lectern and begins.

‘Hi…so I won’t keep you, but I came here today to show you some of our ski photos from the trip last month to Italy.

I was one of the many members of staff who went, and I can totally recommend it.

It’s seven nights including travel, a chance to really get to know lots of kids in our school community, bond with teachers, indulge in a fair bit of après ski… ’

I look up at the screen and feel a surge of concern.

I’ve seen this presentation many times so, as the words come out of her mouth, I know that what’s on the screen is not what she prepared.

What are these pictures? What I saw was a jaunty collage with graphics and a cursive font.

This is a real mish-mash of pictures, as if it’s coming straight from her camera roll.

Krystal’s oblivious, her back to the screen.

Do I say something? Interrupt her? I’m not sure she’d like that.

She’s just put up a picture of her cat licking himself.

A few people laugh. She thinks it’s because she’s funny.

I try to signal to her and she puts a thumbs up at me.

She’ll turn around in a moment and realise what she’s done.

And then I realise what’s happened. She’s connected her phone to the laptop and it’s just automatically playing photos from around the time of the ski trip.

Photos on her phone. A clip comes up of her walking in the park, spinning around to show her affinity with fresh air, then there’s a photo of a smoothie bowl, a saved meme, a selfie of both of us.

This is back when…Oh, god. Turn around now, Krystal.

Stop harping on about the coach journey.

A few people laugh under their breath and she assumes them to just be rude, giving them evils.

I can feel panic rising up in me. I cough. Loudly. Because I know what’s in her photos.

‘And the school offers a voucher so you can buy all the gear you need.’

Please no. Krystal, please turn round. I see Warren rise from his chair to intervene.

Krystal looks mildly annoyed. The next photos are selfies of the two of us at home.

Crapping hell. No. I know what comes next in this sequence.

I run-shuffle towards the computer and slam my hand on the keys.

But I haven’t quite made it in time. I look up at the screen where I have indeed frozen a still from a video rather than stopping it or moving it on.

And there I am. Naked. Worse than that. Not totally naked.

I look out into the audience to see mouths agape, eyes boggling. Patricia may very well expire.

And how exactly did you kill the head of RE, Charlie?

Thing is, before my girlfriend of mere months went on the trip, I was helping her pack.

We were both a bit drunk and we were just fooling around with her thermal socks and goggles.

And before I knew it, I was naked and dancing.

With a thermal sock on my knob. I thought she took a photo.

I didn’t realise she had been filming. I didn’t realise my knob had such impressive swing.

Stan with the paisley shirt has an expression on his face that’s a cross between a snarl and a stroke. Krystal turns around and sees what’s on display as I try, in vain, to get this massive naked image of me off the massive screen, watching members of staff turn to each other talking in whispers.

‘What the hell?’ she says, panicked.

‘You were filming me?’ I ask, desperately trying to shut down the screen.

She seems unapologetic, more insulted that I’m upstaging her. ‘Why did you put that up there?’

‘Me? Why the hell would I put that up there? Why has this computer just frozen?’ My hands are just pounding at keys, pulling at cables. I guess it could be worse. I could be broadcasting this to the whole school via a live assembly on Teams.

‘This is all your fault,’ Krystal mumbles, shoving me aside and pressing ESC multiple times, to no avail. I look at her, shocked at her anger, her rage. ‘You were supposed to get here early to help me set up. You know I’m shit at technology. Fucking idiot.’

I step back as if I’ve been slapped. How is this my fault?

But I say nothing. Can we cut the power to this place?

Whoever has their phone out in the second row needs to be rugby-tackled to the ground.

Someone turns the lights on, and the ridiculousness of the situation kicks in.

This is mildly funny, no? But Krystal’s face says differently.

I’m the one who should be feeling embarrassed, surely?

I turn to my colleagues. Do I bow? Maybe I shouldn’t.

But instead, I stay glued to the spot, a thick sickly heat around my collar, not knowing whether to laugh, cry or throw up.

And for the first time, I feel very grateful to have this stupid big beard so I can at least hide how awful I really feel.