My first school day

Tell us about your first day at something — school, work, as a parent, etc.

It must be sixty-five years since my first school day, but I remember it vividly. It was probably September 1960 at 5 years old. It was the Stone-age, an age of inkwells and the cane.

Crooking Lane Primary—school motto: “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.” A cross between Hogwarts and Colditz.

I remember the cries of anguish like the wailing of lost souls in hell as tender hearts were broken by separation from home. I didn’t cry, I was too absorbed by the surroundings and the thrill of freedom.

This was a tough northern school, one of scabbed knees and catapults. Roll-call instead of Registration. Exercise Yard instead of Playtime. I learned to fight, steal and lie, resist torture and hold my breath during duckings in the toilet.

We moved around Lancashire quite a bit, my father’s job was itinerant, I went to four different Primary Schools before eleven years old. That first day in school however is embedded in my memory forever, the sounds and smells similar to an abattoir mixed with wax polish.

Before I leave you shaking your head in disbelief, I must tell you about Shaw Church of England Primary School. This hell-hole made Special Forces Training look like a Holiday Camp. I remember my late little brother getting beaten up and me being sent by my father to beat the bully up after school. The school toilets were made from sheets of stone flags open to the sky with no roof. We got days off to allow the rat catchers in when someone got bitten. I never witnessed an execution, but got a few whacks with the cane.

Yes, school days were the finest days of my life, I learned to survive into old age because of them. I hope there is a special place in hell for some of the sadists I was left in the care of.

Conversely I must thank my English Teacher though—Miss Baines, who gave me a love of reading and writing. Long gone now, but I know she’s watching over me still. A lifetime hatchet-faced spinster who made me laugh with her renditions of Chaucer and Shakespeare. Thank you Miss Baines.

And finally, my music teacher, Mr. Mooney, he of the squint and broad Scots accent, whose grandfather was tutored by Beethoven, or was that tortured? Nevertheless, he helped me survive my A-level music and propel my clarinet playing to new depths. Och, thanks Walter!

So there you have it—mission accomplished, my first day at school plus extras to pad it out a bit. The worst of it? It’s true!