I am in my last year at primary school and my moment of glory is fast approaching. Annually the school held a May Day festival (yes - it was a bit like Larkrise to Candleford - this being rural Oxfordshire). The maypole is wheeled out in its milk churn and children from the top class (this being a three-class school) are drilled to dance around, to lovely tunes such as 'Black Nag' weaving coloured ribbons into patterns.
Beyoncé and the other two - see who actually cares what they are called?). And that year the eldest girl in the school was ME. There might have been a May King - some poor boy dragged kicking and screaming I expect - but frankly who would be looking at him anyway? I have no memory of what they wore - and even less interest.
But - there is always a but - a few months before the May Day parade a new girl came to school; goodness why she had to - we were all leaving in a few months to go to secondary school - why couldn't she be home schooled until then? Anyway my arch-rival appears on the scene and her birthday is September 6th (I remember the date to this very day. Susie Newall - where are you now? Did it never cross your mind that without you I could have been a contender?) and mine is in December.
So Susie was May Queen with the lovely (satin - grrh!) dress, flowers, pictures in local newspaper and two sidekicks. I had my chance to be the Kelly Rowland of May Day, but pride would not allow it so I told everyone I was born to dance and that the maypole was calling me. The clothes for the dancers were not so good - I had a white shirt, a tangerine-orange skirt with matching hairband made by Mum (not my best colour, but at least she went some way to acknowledging my pain.)