Three days later and sixth class is still in emotional turmoil. Michelle and Paul skulk closely and whisper suspiciously as I skip past them on the stairs. The stiff wooden door needs oil but after a struggle it relents and I try to jaunt into the room.

Heads turn but bodies don't. Some cold eyes glare while others refuse visual communication and stare blankly at Mars on the wall. Nervous fingers twitch on the desks as if unconsciously remembering their loss.

I offer a breezy morning greeting. Mumbled responses quickly fade into angry silence. I place my bulging leatherette case on my desk and remove 29 spelling note-books which were corrected during a repeat of ER. Give me the trauma of dealing with a g.s.w. to the abdomen and the frenzy of administering 200 volts with the internal paddles to coping with the grievances and sense of justice of 11-year-olds.

I open the desk drawer. Amid the scrags of chalk, crushed staples and Pied Piper tapes lie the six objects of contention. I try to instigate some confidence-building measures.

"Okay, I'll give them back. But you have to promise to keep them out of sight when we're doing our work. Press all the buttons you want before school and at break time. But don't let me catch you with them or they'll go straight back to the drawer."

The tone of my voice changes from Dana to Hitler as I try to convince myself of who is in control. "No excuses." From Lisa's corner comes "it's still not fair" accompanied by a scowl. "They'll die." Substantive talking has begun.

"We have to get our work done and can't be interrupted with bleeps every five minutes."

Laura, a presidential potential in 2025, offers a settlement. "Can we check them between subjects when we're getting our books out?"

"I suppose so but not during work."

A couple of tuts later we reach a complete if not permanent cessation of Tammagochi hostilities.

The staffroom finds it funny. Maura suggests that the Department of Education could create jobs for retired teachers by establishing creches for virtual pets. Noelle, fresh from her extra-mural course in counselling, lauds the Tammagochi: "They can foster notions of the responsibilities of parenthood."

Louise, lifting her head from the Habitat catalogue, retorts: "Give them to the parents at the next RSE meeting." Eamon prefers to reminisce about the simplicity of marbles and how they used to go mad for them. Maura interjects: "Was that before or after yourself and Michael Collins were in the GPO?"

Back in the classroom, a confident Lisa prepares an ambush. "Ye know, sir, about allowing us check our Tammagochis between subjects?" I nod indifferently as I wonder about how to teach the Elizabethan plantations of Ireland in MTV sound bites. "Can we change the subjects every 15 minutes?"

Everything is on the table.