“Have you packed your lunch box?”
“Yes Mum.”
“Have you got your books?”
“Yes Mum.”
“Are you listening to me?”
When I was very small, my mother would take me onto her knee and tell me stories. I would bury my curls into her shoulder until only the softest words were audible, and the smell of her perfume made my nose burn. She taught me about God and read me Aesop’s fables, all the while stroking my childish spine in what I now know to be apology.
I’m sorry…so sorry…
“Of course,” I said, turning from the television and grinning in a thoroughly unconvincing fashion at my mother, who stood in the doorway, arms crossed and dishcloth in hand.
“Fine, then what did I just say?” she questioned, to which my reply was a swift leap off the sofa.
“It’s 8:00 Mum, see you later!”
I never liked school and school never really liked me; we put up with each other for the sake of the cause. As a child I had foolishly begged my mother to teach me literacy, a feat that had earned me accusations of intelligence ever since.
At eleven, I was ushered into the grey wash that was Wilstone School, a place where even the teachers appeared the same and the uniform was plain black on white. The only speck of personality about the place was an ice cream van Headmaster allowed onto the premises each lunchtime, which served 50p mixes of whatever was going out of date.
At fourteen I was bored with it all. Bored with waiting for a run down bus to take me somewhere I hated. Bored preparing for examinations I would inevitably fail, as contrary to popular belief, I was not intelligent in the slightest. Bored of reading textbooks in the hopes something would sink in.
Standing at the bus stop, I zipped my coat all the way to the top and stared over at the hills on my left - soaked it seemed in blankets of mist.
I only hope it doesn't rain.
“Yes Mum.”
“Have you got your books?”
“Yes Mum.”
“Are you listening to me?”
When I was very small, my mother would take me onto her knee and tell me stories. I would bury my curls into her shoulder until only the softest words were audible, and the smell of her perfume made my nose burn. She taught me about God and read me Aesop’s fables, all the while stroking my childish spine in what I now know to be apology.
I’m sorry…so sorry…
“Of course,” I said, turning from the television and grinning in a thoroughly unconvincing fashion at my mother, who stood in the doorway, arms crossed and dishcloth in hand.
“Fine, then what did I just say?” she questioned, to which my reply was a swift leap off the sofa.
“It’s 8:00 Mum, see you later!”
I never liked school and school never really liked me; we put up with each other for the sake of the cause. As a child I had foolishly begged my mother to teach me literacy, a feat that had earned me accusations of intelligence ever since.
At eleven, I was ushered into the grey wash that was Wilstone School, a place where even the teachers appeared the same and the uniform was plain black on white. The only speck of personality about the place was an ice cream van Headmaster allowed onto the premises each lunchtime, which served 50p mixes of whatever was going out of date.
At fourteen I was bored with it all. Bored with waiting for a run down bus to take me somewhere I hated. Bored preparing for examinations I would inevitably fail, as contrary to popular belief, I was not intelligent in the slightest. Bored of reading textbooks in the hopes something would sink in.
Standing at the bus stop, I zipped my coat all the way to the top and stared over at the hills on my left - soaked it seemed in blankets of mist.
I only hope it doesn't rain.
