I can imagine now that the last class of the week on a Friday afternoon is not one for which teachers have any particular fondness, despite the promise of freedom that lies after the final bell. For my twelve-year-old self, the weekend was the light at the end of the very long tunnel that was double chemistry with Mr. Walters. The Friday I remember so vividly was in winter; the light was already fading and it would be dark before I got home. It always seemed that the best and brightest part of the day was wasted in school – until Mr. Walters introduced me to the alkali metals.
On the laboratory bench were three small jars, opaque, with tightly sealed lids. Taking a pair of tongs and opening the first, Mr. Walters took a small grey lump of metal and then cut it with a scalpel! To me, metal had always meant steel, or maybe aluminium or even gold - never something soft – and yet this small hunk of lithium was sliced so easily, and then began to tarnish the moment its shining, freshly cut surface was revealed. Mr. Walters, his eyes shielded behind a thick pair of safety goggles, dropped the metal into a beaker of water. Of course, it began fizzing and buzzing around the container before exploding with a small “pop”. I was enthralled, even more so when Mr. Walters demonstrated the effect with sodium and then potassium. That night I asked my father what might become of rubidium, caesium and even francium. I wanted to see more, to know more, to be a chemist.