Last night I beheld the umpteenth variation on the classic teacher’s dream. Basic recipe and a few optional extras: you confront - no other word will do - a class, and find you have no idea why you are there. You might possibly have no trousers on, or you might detect sneering and contempt from the students, who know a lot more than you do about the matter at hand, for you know precisely nothing. Maybe you are performing like a real trooper but failing to engage any member of an icily unreceptive or openly contemptuous group. The key ingredient in the whole sickly cocktail is your humiliation at being unmasked; you were only ever blagging your way through your teaching career, and now it's common knowledge. You are like, totally pwned.
Last night’s version: I have a seminar to conduct about… something or other. I am not expecting anyone to show up, indeed hopeful nobody will, but in the event about thirty students arrive. I stand in front of the class and realise I know absolutely nothing about the subject I am supposed to be teaching. The show must go on, however, so I start busking with a language game, until the students start to get restive and cotton on to the fact that the Emperor is bollock naked. Eventually I throw a fit, push over the overhead projector, storm out of the classroom and lie down in the hallway outside with my thumb in my mouth.