Back to school

I was late for work this morning.

I blame the children of the nation.  For choosing today – the first of September – to further their education. The inconsiderate little monsters.

I realise that most of them would rather spend the morning in bed, and rise at about ten for a bowl of Sugar Puffs, and then continue the day with a playstation or an X-Box or a Sega Megadrive – or whatever contraption is en vogue at the moment. But I need to vent. So they are the obvious target.

The first of September is the day when every year, like clockwork the merry go round of school restarts. And a seat on the bus becomes a luxury commodity.

On the plus side I shall meet Beyoncé and her Mam Bruiser – with her Desperate Dan jawline – again. Unless they have been permanently housed over the summer, and she now goes to another school. Actually that would be better. I hope I don’t see her. I wish only the best for Beyoncé and Bruiser.

I saw the autistic teenager (who you can read about here – The Road to Hell) this time with his mother. They must have been late also. He was not looking too pleased. And why should he?

There was a little boy with his father on the bus. It must has been his first day. His schoolbag completely dwarfed him. He looked so tiny in his little school uniform; his hair with the ever trendy side-parting and sporting some snazzy spectacles. A man after my own heart.

I hope however he doesn’t repeat my trick – which my mother still gets palpitations over, when she remembers it. Way back in the dim and distant past, I too, had a first day of school. The howls of grief from thirty shrieking four year olds, heard from down the hall, as my mother and I approached the classroom, still haunt my nightmares.

At the eleven o’clock break I decided that I had had enough. Godammit. So I packed my bag, fetched my coat and sauntered home. Quite casually. How pleased everyone would be that I had decided that school was not for me.  My mother still recalls the shout of ‘MAMMY’ over the hedge as I approached the house and the terror and confusion. What was I doing there? Hadn’t she dropped me at school?

I was frogmarched back to class, when the terrible reality hit my mother and I simultaneously. For my mother it wasthe fact that the teacher hadn’t missed me – despite being warned about my diabetes and the occasional habit I had of passing out, as a result. For me the horror was more to do with the dawning realisation that school was not optional. I had a twelve year old bodyguard with me during all break-times for the next fortnight in case I made another run for the hills.

That was then. This is now. And I reckon I need to factor in an extra ten minutes in my journey each morning.

Or maybe disable that infernal snooze button and get up when I am told to?

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