Marc, this is the cliffhanger/resolution 2/3 minutes.
SCENE 3. INT. DAY.
BACK IN THE CLASSROOM LATER THAT DAY.
MISS WHIPPY: So, gentlemen, have you been mulling over the R's?
PICKERING: Oh, yes, we've had a radical rethink and we realise what total idiots we've been.
MISS WHIPPY: (LEANS CLOSE TO PICKERING'S FACE AS HE LEANS BACKWARDS) You smell of fish. (BEAT) Go on.
PICKERING: (WITH HAND SHIELDING MOUTH) We recognise what wonderful wives we have...and...we respect them enormously...and...the first thing we're going to do when we get out is order a wonderful bouquet of flowers for them...not the Tescos ones...proper ones...from a florist.
MISS WHIPPY: And you, Balshaw?
BALSHAW: Yeah... Wot 'e said.
MISS WHIPPY: I see. Were those magic pilchards you consumed for lunch by any chance? (THE TWO MEN EXCHANGE ANXIOUS LOOKS) BALSHAW: Well...the pilchards did 'ave summit to do with it, yes, because it makes you fink dunnit? The dinners at home are so much better. A man would be an idiot to take 'is wife for granted, wouldn't he?
(MISS WHIPPY LASHES BALSHAW'S DESK WITH THE CROP)
MISS WHIPPY: (RAGING)
Can you see placenta behind my ears?
(MISS WHIPPY BEGINS TO LOOK DIZZY)
Oh...I feel a little nauseous...I feel...
(SHE FAINTS. SHE IS LYING ON HER BACK. THE MEN REMAIN IN THEIR SEATS LOOKING SUSPICIOUS)
BALSHAW: Is she dead?
PICKERING: No, I think I can see her chest moving.
(THE MEN SLOWLY GET UP AND STAND EITHER SIDE OF HER)
BALSHAW: Give 'er the kiss of life.
PICKERING: What if she doesn't respond?
BALSHAW: What d'you want 'er to do, put 'er tongue down your froat?
PICKERING: Well...er...aren't you supposed to do the chest pumping thing nowadays?
BALSHAW: Go on then.
PICKERING: She hasn't got a medallion on.
(MISS WHIPPY GROANS AND MOVES HER ARMS)
BALSHAW: Hold up. She's comin' round.
(THE MEN BOTH TAKE AN ARM AND PULL HER TO HER FEET)
MISS WHIPPY: Oh...what happened...I...
PICKERING: You fainted. (BEAT)
I gave you the kiss of life, and Balshaw here gave you...a chest pumping.
BALSHAW: Yeah, you were nearly a gonner.
MISS WHIPPY: Oh, my lord, thank you.
BALSHAW: Does this mean we're off the hook?
MISS WHIPPY: (REGAINING COMPOSURE)
Hardly. One snog and a grope doesn't make for a personality transplant. But...all things considered, I won't consign you to the Bigot Bog for now. I'm sticking my neck out, but I'll recommend Improver's Centre for both of you.
BALSHAW: Yeay! I knew the fairy godmother would come up trumps!
(MEN DO HIGH 5's)