"But sir," said he, pushing aside coffee cups and insincerity to make way for the truth. "You have no legs."

He hovered for a while, on the cusp of apologising for his sudden outburst. Gravely, I regarded him, and grey eyes met brown. The grey eyes turned away and looked to the others for support - but they were met with stony silence. At long last, I replied that I was indeed aware of the pre-mentioned fact. In fact, had I not been aware that I have no legs since they were forcibly removed from my body following an unfortunate incident with a Toyota, I might have guessed after realising that I was in a wheelchair and, without it, was three feet tall.  My wry sense of humour regarding the accident failed to amuse the panel of pale-faced interviewers, and they stared back at me like four ivory lollipops.

"But you're applying for the post of PE teacher," he blustered.

I checked my CV, examined my name-tag, glanced at the job-specification sheet and pronounced this to be true. The second revelation of the day was as shocking as the first - it merited a small intake of breath from the burly man on the far right, who had observed me manoeuvring into the room with barely-concealed incredulousness. The bastard. Another of the men looked uncertainly at his fellows, blinked, before repeating, somewhat helplessly:

"But you have no legs."

I turned to the man, and silently evaluated him. Judging by the crows' eyes, he was either over forty, or under forty and over-worked. All the signs (coffee cup, shaking hands, red-rimmed eyes and a certain nervous disposition) pointed to the latter, although it was always possible that he was simply hung over. He reminded me, funnily enough, of the days when I had been a bright-eyed student, intoxicated on knowledge, responsibility, and a good deal of foreign beer. Over-worked, yes: but proud of it. The man sitting in front of me displayed that same tired arrogance - he was the sort of man that would boast about his 60-hour weeks, but collapse into bed as soon as company had left. In other words, two-faced, and probably borderline insomniac. The insomnia I could sympathise with - after all, losing one's legs is hardly conducive to a good night's sleep. But the two-facedness? That I couldn’t stand. Slightly disgusted, I watched a rivulet of sweat track its' way down the side of his neck, into his collar.

We had waited long enough. Arranging my hands in the area that had once served as my lap, I regarded the three men steadily.

“Maybe you’re right,” I started. “Maybe I shouldn’t be applying for this post – after all, what your pupils need isn’t somebody that will inspire them and encourage them to pursue their dreams despite the odds. Maybe they need somebody to show them the subject rather than teach it to them. Maybe they need some fresh-faced young graduate with a just-minted teaching degree rather than somebody who has spent the past five years both teaching PE, and lecturing on drink driving with teenagers just like yours. But then again, maybe you don’t need somebody who will make a positive impact on your school. Maybe you don’t need somebody who will teach your children understanding, tolerance, and respect. You just need somebody who can walk.”

Three open-mouthed suits stared at me.
I stared back.

“It’s not a question of your abilities,” The man on the far left said. “It’s just an issue – “
“An issue of the facilities.” I finished for him.
“Precisely.”

The three men nodded, satisfied to have produced an adequate reason for refusing me the job. I wanted to despise them, but instead, all I felt was pity.
“A final question, if I may?” I asked as I gathered together my CV. The three men nodded condescendingly at me, sensing victory. “Have you any children?”
Six blank eyes stared back at me.
“I thought not,” I said, and wheeled myself out of the door.