Me and the lunch time excursions

Moving schools in the Sixth Form was not such a great idea.  Friendships had already formed and, apart from being invited to the lunchtime prayer group, the girls weren't very friendly. The top dogs at school were a group of girls called Ellen; (there were 3 Ellens and their satellites were also known as  'The Ellens' - think 'Heather' just not as  friendly).  The Ellens went for a team strip - long, straight hair with fringes, Wrangler jeans and lambswool v-neck jumpers in pastel shades - I could never fit in - I think I might have had the remains of the ill-fated perm, was a Levis girl and favoured my Dad's shirts (I refer you to    Nan and the party dress  and   Me and the perm).  On my first day the chief Ellen asked me if my father was a don (this is Oxford - so I am being asked if my Pater teaches at the University, not if he is a Corleone or if he was a Wimbledon FC supporter - before the days of schism).  I say no and she doesn't speak to me for the next two years.

In my English class there is another new girl - Annie.  She is very confident and I'm not sure if I like her - although I like her jeans.  But it turns out we have mutual acquaintances and become bosom buddies; complaining about the school and the Ellens (just who do they think they are?).  We are allowed out of school during lunchtime and spend a fair number of them cycling off to Annie's house (her parents are at work, rather than liberal-types who encourage truancy), eating all their food and washing it down with sips of whisky- not because we liked it, just because we could. We would then top the bottle up with cold 'milkless' tea.  Post-lunch history lessons are quite blurry and after a term we give up our lunch-time excursions and stayed in the Sixth Form common room - I think it might also having something to do with her Dad discovering his single-malt tasted a bit strange.

Me and school uniform

My school uniform was pretty standard: white blouse, pleated skirt (on the knee), grey pullover, grey socks (very nasty and itchy) worn with a turquoise, black and silver tie.

In year 7 some girls managed to make this uniform their own - displaying black and red lacy bras through the thin white cotton (mustn't exaggerate - two girls did this).  The rest of us wore M&S vests and could only aspire to such greatness. 

But depending on prevailing fashion we all spent quite a lot of time either rolling our skirts up - to create a curious artificial muffin top or at other seasons pulling the skirt as low as possible - taking care not to reveal too much knicker.

There was also a fashion for wearing as baggy a jumper as you could get away with.  Girls would sit with their knees clutched to chests and then pull the jumper over knees; after a lunch break sat in this position most jumpers would be bigger (if although rarely uniformly - it produced a strange lumpy effect) - sadly for me Mum's washing techniques always returned mine back to normal size or possibly somewhat smaller.

Ties were worn as short and fat as possible, especially by those with cleavage; alternatively you tied them so that the slim side was uppermost (think Justin Timberlake in school uniform - there is a man who likes a skinny tie)  Strange that we never tried different knots - so much variety out there - Windsor, Pratt, Four-in-hand, Prince Albert (um ... mind boggles with the last one - I couldn't bring myself to do a Google image search).

Me, RE and the boys' school

We move house when I am going into the Sixth Form.  Rather than take a bus to my old school I decide to move schools.  The new school is an all-girls, set in imposing grounds - think I must have been having  Mallory Towers fantasies when I ask to go there.

On the first day of the autumn term we are given our timetables with details of where the lessons will be held.   Against my RE lessons was written  Boys instead of a room number.   Much giggling (this was the usual reaction to the word Boys at the new school  - at the old school if you saw/heard the word Boys you just groaned dismissively and then flicked your hair about in the hope someone would notice you).  I ask for clarification from my new form teacher - where will I find Boys. It turns out that as only two of us want to study RE at A-Level  the school has decided it isn't economical to offer it so we are to take a thrice-weekly cycle ride to the nearest boys' school to join their lessons.  This results in almost universal hysteria in the common room and there is much discussion about changing subjects - RE has never been so popular.

Fran and I cycle wearily to the boys' school - we have little time between the end of English and the start of RE.  We are arrive red faced and probably rather sweaty - but let's not go there - boys in the playground would say things like 'Hot, girls?'  rather than 'Hot girls!' - it was very dispiriting.

Death of Jezebel

The boys in our class consisted of Bob, who is engaged to be married to the Head of RE's daughter (yes, they are both 16).  The daughter is home-schooled, but joins us for RE - the affianced couple sit cosily sharing a bible.  The other three lads won't even look at us - we weren't that repulsive, even if perspiring a little, but girls from our school had a reputation as the local Jezebels (they were probably worried they'd end up like Ahab - dodgy wife, dogs licking blood etc).

Two years of toiling up and down a hill, studying John's Gospel and the Book of Job and not a single party invitation from any of the lads - although we were once asked to a bible-reading weekend.

Me and the Deputy Head's slipper

It is my first week at secondary school - I am terrified, but determined to make friends as soon as possible to avoid social ruin.  A few girls in my form meet at lunchtime and decide to form a 'gang' (too many Enid Blyton books rather than the viewing of violent films).  We decide to call ourselves 'The Naughty Gang' - given that we become the swottiest girls in the year I can't help feeling a little melancholy when I think what might have been.

 Like all gangs we need an initiation ceremony - we dismiss killing people, drinking buckets of blood or chopping off digits as a little excessive and go for something uniquely our own - we would be dragged through rose bushes.  You might think this sounds a bit soft - not only did we have to deal with thorns, but the flower bed is directly outside the Deputy Head's office window.

The Deputy Head is a very scary woman with unnaturally black hair and an intimidating pair of horn-rimmed glasses - she carries a slipper for whacking bad girls (it was actually a black plimsoll - not one of those furry things - that would be silly).

I am dragging my friend Holly through the bushes: she obviously likes it as she is shrieking like a banshee.  Suddenly the window opens; Slipper Woman takes one look at us and calls us in.  Three whacks of the slipper each on the back of the leg and then we are told by the Basilisk that we have made a very bad beginning to our school careers, that she will be watching us closely as we are likely to become a bad influence on other children.

Me and the broken arm

This story is dedicated to Jana.

It is summer - so sadly no more hockey or netball.  How I miss wearing those lovely divided skirts and thick socks held up with elastic garters (actually cut the garters - they were excruciatingly painful) - not for us those wussy shin pads that are now compulsory - we were the Jean Claude Van Damme of hockey teams and proud of it).

Summer meant athletics - which I hated with a vengeance for a variety of reasons.  The chief being that we had to wear gym knickers and a short airtex tops - so not a good look for the vast majority of girls - the boys were luckier and got to wear white short and shirts so were able to cover up a bit more - it was not unlike the Degas painting The Young Spartans Exercising.  Then the joy of sports day - having to sign up for events you had never done before - generally for a very good reason.  Failing to get to the sign-up sheet, within the first ten minutes of it being posted, could mean an afternoon of extreme terror (rather than just the run-of-the-mill sports day humiliation).  Inevitably the only events remaining would be either shot putt (not possible  - I had no arm muscles-  whereas now I could give Madonna a run for her money), javelin (unpleasant to be responsible for the near-death experiences of classmates) and long jump (risk of sand in gym pants - exfoliating, but not in a good way).  I would try to sign up for one of the running events that involved going round the track about 50 times - it had a certain Zen quality or hurdles (I can think of no good reason why).

All the equipment was set out for sports day on the playing fields; we had been warned not to go anywhere near it unless with a teacher.  It is lunchtime; having listened to the dire warnings my friend Coral and I saunter down the field to 'have a look' at the instruments of torture laid out on the grass.  We decide to race over the hurdles.  I extremely competitive and  determined to win - I jump too soon and fall.  My hand doesn't look like it belongs to my arm, it sticks out at a funny angle and hurts like hell.

In the sick room the Deputy Head is called for her opinion (she of the plimsoll  which was used to hit bad girls).  She grasps my hand - pumps it up and down -  says that it isn't broken and I should get back to Latin (as goodness knows I need to get those gerundives sorted).  I faint, Mum is telephoned to come and take me to hospital where my broken arm is put in plaster.

I get a starring role in the next day's assembly to my chagrin.  The Deputy Head talks about casting out bad apples from barrels so not to spoil the rest and a certain girl who now has a broken arm - as I was the only person sporting a cast it was obviously me and I endured a few days of being called 'hurdle girl' and such.  The only positive thing I can say about this experience is that I did not have to take part in sports day.