I did not like school. I know this isn't unusual, in fact, people who did are like people who enjoyed the last War..probably for similiar reasons. I don't like cameraderie, loathe shouting, mass singing,running, heavy use of weaponry, and cannot abide a uniform. Therefore, school was a bit of a bore; "The noise, my dear, and the PEOPLE" as Ernest Thesiger was said to have remarked of his experiences in the First World War. I went to school pre-deod, too, so imagine the dreadfulness. It was relatively civilized, up until age 11, when I went to a perfectly frightful establishment called Sherwood's Lane Secondary Modern" The 11-plus passers were put into a "Selective Stream", so we could be more easily identified and beaten up. Oiks of both sexes concealed themselves in the unspeakable lavatories, and lurked,ever-ready with a meaty fist and an unprintably foul greeting, in corridors and behind walls. Being in possession of red hair, glasses, and an arcane vocabulary made me a target-rich environment, and I was trounced daily.The Headmistress, a Miss Alcock (I know,I know...) refused to admit that any bullying existed in her school. She kept up this pig-headed pretence, even when the severed heads of spectacled children bobbed past her offices,mounted on pikes.
Eventually, this "Lord Of The Flies" atmosphere began to tell on my youthful sensibilities, and I proudly clocked up a fully-fledged"nervous breakdown" before I had so much as a pubic hair. They gave me Valium. It relaxes the muscles,without, in my case, having much of a soothing effect. This just made me less able to run away. I also felt that it would have been nice had some attempt been made to reduce the savagery of the other children (many of whom,at 16, had moustaches and medals for boxing,and as for the boys...),rather than to tranquillize the victim into not minding quite so much about being punched in the chest and face several times each day. Plus, the uniform was disgusting, dark green,with an over-reliance on pleats, and a BERET. That thing was like a boomerang, I simply could not get shut of it..during my thumping sessions, I would pretend that it was my dearest possession."Oh please, Rough Thug, don't throw my darling beret on the railway line, I beseech you". So they wouldn't; they would stamp on my specs again instead. Thick, you see. Had they read any Beatrix Potter, or Brer Rabbit, they would have grasped my literary illusion straight away.
My school wasn't really like Malory Towers, or The Chalet School, or any of the middle-class, wholesome yet mischief-riddled establishments that my reading had led me to expect. It was more "Papillon" mixed with "Marat-Sade". My mother had interpreted the school uniform literally, too. What we were meant to wear in the summer was this: " A dress in three-inch square check cotton, yellow & white or pink & white cotton.Cap sleeves and hem to be bound in bias binding,calf-length skirt with six box pleats". So my Mother's dressmaker ran up a couple of these horrors. I looked like a middle-aged milkmaid from a family in Arkansaw who only married their cousins.All the other girls wore tiny gingham mini dresses with little puffed sleeves, in nylon fabrics.And American Tan tights,and kitten heels. And white lipstick.
I wore Clarks "GoGirls",massive box-shaped leather foot-coffins. And knee-length white socks. My hair had been waist-length, shiny, and auburn. After two terms of bad treatment,I had chunks of it missing, chewing gum embedded in it, and cigarette burns on my scalp.So it was cut and permed. Andre Bernard did this.Yes, I am prepared to name names.My school photograph shows the face of a cynical thirty-five year old Italian prostitute, with catseye spectacles. And a Harpo Mark coiffure.
Finally, after my Mother sat in the in tray of the local councillor for two years, and I had developed every disorder apart from Tourette's, (which would have made me fit in much better, actually), I got out.I was put at the dim end of a Girl's Grammar School,and marked "Not expected to thrive". However, apart from having to wear my old school uniform for a term because we couldn't afford a new one, I was considerably happier, and got on with coming top in everything except Maths and Housecraft, met like-minded girls, and became annoying, giggly, and "far too lippy". My school reports identified me as being "Indolent, sarcastic, and a show-off". My Mother was delighted, I was normal at last, at least for our family.
Eventually, this "Lord Of The Flies" atmosphere began to tell on my youthful sensibilities, and I proudly clocked up a fully-fledged"nervous breakdown" before I had so much as a pubic hair. They gave me Valium. It relaxes the muscles,without, in my case, having much of a soothing effect. This just made me less able to run away. I also felt that it would have been nice had some attempt been made to reduce the savagery of the other children (many of whom,at 16, had moustaches and medals for boxing,and as for the boys...),rather than to tranquillize the victim into not minding quite so much about being punched in the chest and face several times each day. Plus, the uniform was disgusting, dark green,with an over-reliance on pleats, and a BERET. That thing was like a boomerang, I simply could not get shut of it..during my thumping sessions, I would pretend that it was my dearest possession."Oh please, Rough Thug, don't throw my darling beret on the railway line, I beseech you". So they wouldn't; they would stamp on my specs again instead. Thick, you see. Had they read any Beatrix Potter, or Brer Rabbit, they would have grasped my literary illusion straight away.
My school wasn't really like Malory Towers, or The Chalet School, or any of the middle-class, wholesome yet mischief-riddled establishments that my reading had led me to expect. It was more "Papillon" mixed with "Marat-Sade". My mother had interpreted the school uniform literally, too. What we were meant to wear in the summer was this: " A dress in three-inch square check cotton, yellow & white or pink & white cotton.Cap sleeves and hem to be bound in bias binding,calf-length skirt with six box pleats". So my Mother's dressmaker ran up a couple of these horrors. I looked like a middle-aged milkmaid from a family in Arkansaw who only married their cousins.All the other girls wore tiny gingham mini dresses with little puffed sleeves, in nylon fabrics.And American Tan tights,and kitten heels. And white lipstick.
I wore Clarks "GoGirls",massive box-shaped leather foot-coffins. And knee-length white socks. My hair had been waist-length, shiny, and auburn. After two terms of bad treatment,I had chunks of it missing, chewing gum embedded in it, and cigarette burns on my scalp.So it was cut and permed. Andre Bernard did this.Yes, I am prepared to name names.My school photograph shows the face of a cynical thirty-five year old Italian prostitute, with catseye spectacles. And a Harpo Mark coiffure.
Finally, after my Mother sat in the in tray of the local councillor for two years, and I had developed every disorder apart from Tourette's, (which would have made me fit in much better, actually), I got out.I was put at the dim end of a Girl's Grammar School,and marked "Not expected to thrive". However, apart from having to wear my old school uniform for a term because we couldn't afford a new one, I was considerably happier, and got on with coming top in everything except Maths and Housecraft, met like-minded girls, and became annoying, giggly, and "far too lippy". My school reports identified me as being "Indolent, sarcastic, and a show-off". My Mother was delighted, I was normal at last, at least for our family.
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