Being given relief classes can just about trip your day up - unless you've got a good story. And the last week I've been telling the same story for the kids I with whom I have to co-exist for 40 minutes. It goes like this:

My grandma was in Singapore when the Japs invaded in WWII. Singapore, being as about defensible as a sausage counter in the presence of starving kids, was falling and so the civilians fled to Australia on three ships (there were probably more ships which left the harbour but the way I recall the story being told, only three made any meaningful progress).

So, there we have it: Three passenger ships, one of them carrying my grandma and grandpa, racing to the Land Down Under, being pursued by battleships and fighter planes from the Land Rising-Sun.

Three ships. Speeding for safety. Don't even think about taking no pit-stop. Three ships - my grandparents are on the ship in the center. The fighters were coming. Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-KAK! BAM! The left ship goes down.

Now it's two ships fleeing Tojo's death-machines. Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-TAK! BOOM! The right ship goes down.

(At this point my students are on the frickin' edge and, frankly, so am I...)

Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ka-ka-ka-ka-BAM!! The center ship surges onwards withstanding the onslaught. Ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-BARM!!

The ship arrives safely in Australia where American-revived defenses repel the pursuers. My grandparents make it. And it is in Australia that my aunt is born.

Needless to say, there was EVERY chance that my grandparents could've gone on any one of the other two ships. They could've been shoved left/right. They could've gotten the tickets at the wrong time or just assigned to a different boat.

(And there goes the school bell. Let's tell it to another class...)