Workshop Practice : Beginner's Blooper

It was like any other day of the first week of college. The sun shone brightly, hot and merciless, peeking from behind the scattered clouds that we had foolishly hailed as a messiah that would rescue us from the scorching heat. To no avail.
As is not unusual in the first week of college, I was to be acquainted with yet another new subject, which I was to either like or dislike but sooner or later, loathe.
Wednesday morning had arrived and I was scheduled to attend my very first 'Workshop' class.

I had heard many tales of Workshop Practice, tales of lust and desire.... err, no wait. That's a different story.
Oh right, tales of laborious work in the gruesome heat, in a shabby little shed tucked away in a place where the cries of anguish and horror could not reach Superman, Spiderman or any of the outside world, for that matter. And wednesday had arrived. It was time for my first dose of workshop penance.... uh, practice.

But wednesday was like any other day.And like on any other day, I was late for class.
And so I strudded along, late as usual. It took me just less than half a century, eight minutes to be precise, to make my way from the hostel gates to that infamous shed; and having descended no more than 500 steps, about 16 should you desire an approximate, I stood at the porch of hell.

There wasn't a soul to be seen. The silence was haunting. Had I gone to hell? Had a famine wiped away all traces of humanity? Had a flood occured, washed away my room-mates and miraculously dried up?
Naturally, not. I was late for class and they weren't. Thus, they were seated inside, and I wasn't. And as I stood there, it dawned upon me that it would be in my best interest to join them, however late. I entered.

Indeed, they sat there, rows and rows of boys and girls with their eyes and ears transfixed upon the two specimens of homo sapiens that sat before them, one short and one tall, who I suitably assumed to be our instructors.
As I approached, the tall man looked me up and down, a nasty glint in his eye, disapproving in every way, peered into the attendance register, looked up again and in a tone one would take with a victim, said "You must be 279."
"Yes, sir", I responded.
As I took my seat, he forewarned, "If anyone enters the class, hence, after 9'o' clock, he or she must carry a note requesting permission to attend that class while forfeiting any claim on attendance." As he spoke, he set his eyes upon me. In my mind, I stuck my tongue out at him. In truth, I looked away.

After a thankfully short and mostly inaudible lecture by his short colleague, we were escorted away by him to be introduced to the weapons, I beg your pardon, tools that we would be working with.
The exercise began. He'd hold up a tool, describe it in unnecessarry (for us) detail, some would listen, others would ignore.
After having introduced us to about 3000 different types of files, 5 to be exact, came the hacksaw, hammers and so on and so forth.
Not surprisingly, I lost interest in the form of concentration. My eyes and ears continued to follow the Smith and his tools, but the remaining senses explored a world of their own.
And in nearly no time from the moment my senses took leave of us, he held up another queer but boring instrument.

Teacher : This is called.... (A short pause elapsed in which, I suppose, he expected the class to answer in chorus, almost as if under the assumption that knowledge of Workshop Tools was General Knowledge.)
............. Tri square (after we shattered his miserable notion by not responding).
(And having confused himself with a Disc Jockey, working up the crowd......)
What is it called?

(To some succcess)
Class : Tri-square
Teacher " It is also called...... Engineer's square. What is it called?
Class : Engineer's Square.
Teacher : It is also called ..... Two-Seventy-nine.
(At this point, some of my senses were restored. And they scrutinized that funny little tool, that resembled a right angle but was called a square though it looked nothing like one, and queerly, was also called Two-Seventy-Nine.
And as my senses pondered over that tool, I realised that I was looking right into my eyes and he into mine.
No, it wasn't love. Something much worse. He looked positively peeved.)
What is it called?
(Realising he was speaking to me, I broke out of a daze and answered..)
Me: Two Seventy Nine.
(People all around giggled. I was annoyed. Seemingly, so was he.)
Him : Yeees, what is it called?
Me : Two Seventy Nine.
(Everyone all around giggled again. Some sniggered. I was all the more annoyed. Here I was, minding my own business, answering the question and people all around were sniggering and he was repeating the question like a malfunctioning tape-recorder.)
Him : So what is it called??!?
Me (Louder and slower as if speaking to a retarded person) : Two - Se - vin - tee - Nine.
(Meanwhile, my friend standing right beside me, one of the many spectators of the show, took upon himself to educate me of my gross misunderstanding.)
Mohit : Err.. I think he was addressing you by calling your roll number.
I sank into my shoes.