Ah, the fire drill—an educational institution’s favourite chaos-inducing ritual. A glorious interruption to remind us that if there ever were a real fire, we’d all perish in a sea of poorly executed “orderly evacuations” and forgotten headcounts. But today, dear readers, the fire drill wasn’t just a disruption. It was an ambush.

The lesson was going remarkably well, which, in hindsight, should have been my first red flag. The Year 9s were halfway through their group experiment on energy transfer (read: trying to find new ways to set things on fire with a Bunsen burner), and no one had yet screamed, cried, or "accidentally" broken anything. A rare moment of calm in the shitshow that is my life. Then it happened. The dreaded BRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! of the fire alarm. A sound so loud and shrill it could wake the dead—or, worse, alert teenagers that it’s time to lose their minds and act like two year olds.

The chaos was instant. Kids bolted from their stools like they’d been training for the Olympics. "Sir, is this real? Are we going to die?" one asked, clutching his phone like it was a lifeline. Another, already halfway to the door, yelled, "Do we have to leave our bags? What if someone nicks my AirPods?" Priorities, mate.

By the time I corralled them into something resembling a line, half the class had forgotten what “quiet” meant, and the other half were Snapchatting their “near-death experience.” One student—let’s call him Danny, because there’s always a Danny—asked if he could bring the experiment outside. "In case it’s a fire drill about science, sir." Sure, Danny, because carrying a live Bunsen burner into the playground screams health and safety compliance. FFS.

Out on the field, the entire school looked like a bizarre cross between a music festival and an apocalypse movie. Year 7s huddled together, terrified, while the Year 11s wandered around like extras from The Walking Dead. Meanwhile, the teachers stood in small clusters, all exuding the same vibe: “I do not get paid enough for this shit.” Our principal, clipboard in hand, was barking instructions into a megaphone. "Everyone to their designated areas! Form lines! Heads of year, begin your counts!" His voice, though amplified, was still largely drowned out by the collective sound of 800 teenagers being… teenagers.

Counting my students should’ve been easy. There are only 27 of them. But no. In the five minutes since leaving the classroom, three had vanished, two were "just grabbing something" (translation: wandering aimlessly), and one was hiding in the bushes pretending to be a fireman. I yelled, “Get back in line before I make you repeat Year 9!”, which, surprisingly, worked. Karen, bless her laminated worksheets, was already waving her colour-coded clipboard like a lunatic. "I’ve counted mine twice. Do you need to borrow a pen, Stewart?” No, Karen. What I need is a stiff drink, some earplugs and a weapon.

When the principal declared, "All students accounted for!" I resisted the urge to yell, "Unfortunately, yes!” Instead, we stood there. Waiting. For what, I do not know. Maybe for the imaginary fire to finish its rampage? One student asked if they could sit down. Another asked if this counted as their PE lesson. I ignored both because my sanity was already hanging by a thread.

Finally, the all-clear was given. Back to class. But, of course, the students were no longer in “science” mode. No, they were in “post-apocalyptic giddy” mode. The Year 9s swaggered back, chattering about how they’d "totally survive a real fire" and arguing over whose Snapchat story was the best. Danny, ever the scholar, asked, "Can we set off the fire alarm for fun, sir?" That’s a solid no, Danny.

Lesson salvaging was impossible. I attempted to recap energy transfer, but my audience had the attention span of a goldfish. "Sir, do you think the fire alarm could power a rocket?" "Sir, what if we harnessed the energy of screams?" "Sir, can we do a fire experiment now?" The answer to all of the above? No. No, no, and absolutely not.

As the bell rang for break, I slumped into my chair, staring at the charred remains of what was supposed to be a productive lesson. Karen popped her head in, clipboard in hand. "Wasn’t that drill so well-organised? I think the kids really learned something today!" Yes, Karen. They learned that fire drills are the ultimate excuse for chaos. And I learned that next time, I’m calling in sick.