Not so rosey school days.

"One of the earliest memories of my childhood which I can still recall with a semblance of detail is when during my first week at primary school I was sent to the headmaster for “petulance”. Our teacher had asked us to each bring in some rose buds for the next day’s class. I informed my mother of this when I returned home and although evidently perplexed she assumed they must be for a nature project or something of that ilk. Luckily, our garden at the time harboured a solitary rose bush tucked away amongst the bushes and even more fortuitously it indeed did have some available buds that had not yet bloomed. Where my classmates who resided in blocks of flats and other gardenless homes would be sourcing theirs from was a mystery but not one I pondered as a five year old.

The next morning my mum woke me up earlier than usual and went out to the garden to acquire the items necessary for my project. After observing her clip and then delicately wrap the buds in cling film before carefully placing them in the pocket of my duffel coat I headed off to school proud of my haul.

It was a Roman Catholic school and so after the calling of the register we embarked upon the daily recital of obligatory Morning Prayer. This predominantly consisted of asking the Lord to forgive us for the “sins” we had committed since the previous morning’s ritual… a bizarre concept for a young child and one that no doubt often encourages its participants to develop and nurture an unwarranted guilt complex throughout their lives.

What happened in the next ten minutes gave me my first real insight into how experiences in life are not merely confined to feeding ducks in the park and watching the Flumps on the magic little box in the living room.

The teacher asked us to all get out our rose buds and place them on our desks. Excitedly I fumbled in my coat pocket for mine hoping they wouldn’t get too damaged by the in-dexterity of my clumsy five year old fingers. I retrieved them and put them on the desk admiring them blissfully unaware of the children sat next to me trying to stifle their giggles.

My pride at my offerings was abruptly ended when the teacher stormed over and shouted “What is the meaning of this boy?!!” I looked up to see the face of the stout middle aged woman contorting with a mixture of anger and confusion. “My rose buds miss” I meekly replied, daunted as to what had provoked her outburst. “Get out. Get out now. Go to see the headmaster” she continued grabbing my prized rose buds up in one swift movement and crushing them in her meaty hands.

It was only as I left my desk and walked furtively to the door and she said to the other pupils “Right, has anyone else not brought in their “Rosary Beads” that I noticed that my fellow classmates were holding up crucifixes on elegantly decorated chains and not in fact the colourful flowers as I had unwittingly brought to the party.

From what I understand of modern schools had this incident occurred today I would have been held up as some sort of frustrated genius, examined for symptoms of Attention Deficiency Disorder or at the very least been offered a hearing test

Unfortunately for me this was High Wycombe in 1984 and the education system was still somewhat Dickensian so off to the headmaster I trudged."

 

           

 

 

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