During a joyless trip to Wales for Geography, the only fun we'd managed to get up to was a fairly innoccuous incident revolving around a coat being thrown in the Severn.
While the more popular children drank White Lightning, three of us were left to our own devices. A conversational lull was eventually filled with hushed and graphic descriptions of which teachers we would like to proper buff. We became less hushed, and more graphic, until - a good five minutes into our now preposterous claims about what we would like to do to Miss Reed - her voice came through the wall, crystal clear, telling us to shut up. In no uncertain terms.
Our faces dropped further than our balls ever had.
Breakfast the next day was a frosty affair, with no parties exchanging little more than an embarrased glance, until we rescued the situation by squashing a cumberland sausage in a Gideon's Bible and put it back on the book shelf.