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.

Mum and matching colours

Mum was a great one for matching accessories; handbags, earrings scarves had to match an outfit or 'tone'.  These accessories were usually in her favourite colours: caramel, beige, ecru, taupe - i.e. brown (I really hate brown - what's to like?).

Matching became a bit of an obsession when she started dressing us in similar outfits.  I vaguely remember us wearing matching kilts and capes - mine was green and Mum's navy blue. There is a nice picture of us holding hands in front of the Viking ship at Pegwell Bay - Mum, young, slim and dark in a pale dress with a sticky-out skirt, me, small, blonde and cute (yup - I was once - for about five minutes) in a matching frock.  Goodness how long it took to get a decent photo as I spent much of the time sulking, having a strop or whining.  Back to the photo - I suspect I might have been the infant equivalent of Paris Hilton's handbag dog.

When my sister was about two and I was eleven Mum began taking the matching to new heights (lows?).    She decided to save money by making our clothes.  I particularly remember the purple crocheted dress with matching white pom-poms.  Sister being a tiny, dark-headed moppet looked quite sweet in her purple outfit; I, being at that skinny, gangly, knees-too-big for-legs stage looked hideous.

One delightful outfit was an A-line dress (flattering to most shapes - especially those with no shape), large, puffy sleeves (not so good) and a ruffled clown-style collar - think big, think enormous. In a subtle colour this might have been just about bearable, but it wasn't subtle in anyway.  The fabric had a white background with large swirly patterns on it - might have been a super-sized paisley - in shades of yellow and orange (I really hate yellow and orange - almost as much as brown - makes me go all shivery thinking about it).  I've never seen anything quite like the fabric - suspect it was for making curtains or upholstery.  This example of haute couture or should I say basse couture (been revising French GCSE with daughter - vocabulary increasing by the day...).  Again nice on the moppet, but a garment of extreme embarrassment for me - there was no hope I would ever grow out of it as it was made to be grown into.  

  Fortunately Mum got fed up with this new hobby and I was able to have clothes like normal people.

Nan and coats

Nan liked to buy me clothes and always insisted on buying what she called 'big things' such as coats and shoes.  She aimed to buy items that got you looked at,  as in her mind any attention was good attention.  Unfortunately her idea of what was a good look rarely matched mine - I refer you to the tale of the   Nan and the party dress

Coats were always dangerous.  I remember a maroon cord coat with white fur around the cuffs and hood - so not a good colour on me and the fluff moulted something dreadful.  Nan insisted I looked like someone called Lara.  I have since seen Dr Zhivago and have to say - sadly- I bore absolutely no resemblance to Julie Christie.  In fact in this coat I looked like Like a cross between Little Red Riding Hood and Liam Gallagher.

She then turned up with an enormous fake fur coat - made for someone about 40 years, no  60 years older than me.  It was an alarming yellowy-brown colour and looked like it had been made from a dozen dead cats.  When I wore it (under duress) people used to hiss at me and chant 'Fur is murder'.  I wondered at what stage Nylon had been alive.

But the height (low) of her coat purchases was the Afghan coat.  Her friend worked in a dress shop and when clearing out old stock the woman passed various items to Nan.  One of which came my way.  Now I think Jimi looks fantastic in his Afghan, but by the time I got mine they had not been in fashion for some time.  It had the advantage of keeping me warm, but my goodness when it rained - well, of course it smelt like a wet goat mixed with my signature scent Rive Gauche - hideous. Fortunately  one day I 'left' it on the bus - and it was never seen again.

Me and trying to look different

In a fairly tame way I tried to look different when I was a teenager and I found it most gratifying when old ladies said rude things about me on the bus.

A favoured outfit included one of a number of pairs of vintage (i.e.old and grotty) stilettos from Oxfam, worn with fishnet or footless tights (I vaguely remember this was a winter craze as my legs feel cold as I write).  On top I wore a leotard (dreadful things when you need a pee in a hurry) and a tight skirt.  My parents would roll their eyes and Dad would ask if I was off to work walking the streets - their humour was not appreciated.

I also had a penchant for dungarees (think some misguided fool had said I looked cute or it might have been my continuing crush on John Boy Walton).  Lee dungarees were my favourite, but I also had a bright red pair.   I thought the legs were too baggy so altered them to a skin-tight fit - again this made me a cheap date (no - not in that way - I was a nice girl) as I couldn't risk drinking too much and having to go to the loo.

The skin-tight theme continues with the purple satin trousers (terrible for VPLs) worn with a black vest - I remember wearing this outfit to a Rockabilly club and wondering why I got stared at.  I think the most shameful outfit was the red and white striped bikini which I would wear with a pair of cut-off shorts when walking from my university hall near Gower Street to Regents Park.  Any bloke who happened to even look in my direction was greeted with a hissed, 'Sexist pig - women can wear what they like, Germaine says so'.
Um ... the folly of youth or was it the vanity of a size 10 body?  The latter I fear.

Me and Forever Amber

As a family we were all avid members of the public library and would make weekly visits to pick up our full quota.

Initially I was happy in the children's library: Enid Blyton, Leon Garfield, Malcolm Saville, Noel Stretfield (Ballet Shoes - definitely my favourite - so sad, so happy).  But by the age of 12 I was bored and keen to move on to the forbidden delights of the adult library.  Unfortunately you had to be 13 to join the 'big' library; after much special pleading from my parents (worn down by my sulking, whining and general surliness) I was allowed to move 'up' on the understanding that the Librarian had the right of veto over anything I borrowed .  It grieves me to say that 'she' could have starred in some awful cliché ridden comedy about librarians - does one actually exist already?  Anyway I think the idea of her intervention was to save me from myself and to stop me borrowing corrupting and salacious books.  Actually the dodgy books were the ones I read in  the library, quickly shoving them on the shelves when 'she' came by.

The great day came when 'she' was ill and the woman from the junior library stood in and I was able to borrow Forever Amber.  A bodice ripper of the first order (as you can see from the selection of covers) the book is set in the 17th century and tells how Amber moves up in society by marrying/having sex with increasingly powerful men, but all the time still longing for original love.

I had a quick look on the Internet and was delighted to find that it had been banned in several American states (it was written in 1944).  This quote is from  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forever_Amber_(novel)  '...The first was Massachusetts, whose attorney general cited 70 references to sexual intercourse, 39 illegitimate pregnancies, 7 abortions, and "10 descriptions of women undressing in front of men" as reasons for banning the novel.'  


 Now I remember it being a good read and a satisfactory introduction to Restoration England (well, better than my A Level textbook as it missed out the boring bits...), but I really don't remember the above.  I shall buy a copy and check to see if it is accurate.  
Kathleen Winsor - I salute you - great heroine, great book.

Me and philosophy

I am interested in either tangible things (preferably decorative or edible) or in human emotions  - I can discuss both with enthusiasm.  But ideas that are just about ideas are not for me - my brain is not built to understand them (bit like maths).  So it probably surprised friends that as a teenager I answered an advert asking for a young person to read philosophy to a mature gentleman for two hours every Wednesday evening - in retrospect this sounds so incredibly dodgy I'm surprised my parents allowed it.

The elderly gentleman was kind (probably wasn't really that elderly - but when you are under 18 anyone over 30 seems positively ancient - I expect my daughter thinks I should sleep in a coffin - just in case) and very keen to teach me about philosophy.

Strangely the male of the species have always wanted to teach me things - do I look like there is room in my brain for esoteric pursuits?  I have been offered lessons on ancient Greek, electronics, plumbing, UDC Classification (well, he was a librarian - turned that one down very smartly), driving (that didn't last long),  how to play Medal of Honour and a few things I really can't bring myself to share (but I shall treasure the thought - nice to be viewed as adventurous even by delusional people).

Anyway decrepit gentleman (DG hereafter) announces we are going to read Plato's The Republic.  I refer you to wikipedia for more information http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Republic_(Plato) as I can remember nothing about it (like physics it has been expunged from my memory).

I would read a page, stumbling over the names - Greek not being a language I had ever studied.  DG patiently corrected my pronunciation - but to no avail I just can not remember them.  Then horror of horrors he would ask me what I thought the recently read section meant; not wanting to disappoint I would waffle on until he took pity on me and explained in great  detail.  About half way through the session his wife would totter in bearing  a tray with two mugs of cocoa - I'd pray that at least one was laced with hemlock - frankly I didn't care if it was his or mine.

My new found passion for philosophy had nothing to do with a thirst for knowledge.  It just meant that Mum was happy for me to go into Oxford on a school night and I could combine the reading with a visit to my boyfriend who was a student.  Students were generally not trusted by parents - especially during the hours of darkness.  I was reminded on a daily (hourly?) basis that students were only after one thing (I felt it tactful not to enlighten them on the libido of the teenage girl), but fortunately combined with philosophy, my virtue was thought to be safe.

Coincidentally the boyfriend was also studying philosophy.  He frequently asked if I would like a philosophy master class (the fool) - I swiftly disabused him of this notion and suggested he saved his thoughts on The Republic for his next tutorial.

Me and being working class

I make a new friend at secondary school called Holly who invites me to her house for the weekend.  We have fun staying up late and eating sweets in bed (an innocent age).   On the first morning I go down to breakfast in my pyjamas - the family are all bundled up in dressing gowns.  The next morning I get up to go to the loo and hear Holly's parents talking - I quickly realise they are talking about me and, of course, can not resist listening.  Holly's mother says, 'She is a nice little girl, but I'm not sure she is quite the friend I want for Holly.'
Holly's father says, 'I think they get on quite well.'

Mother then asked him if he hadn't noticed that I came down to breakfast without a dressing gown which indicates I am working class.

What is this thing called working class?  I feel uncomfortable all day and can't wait to go home to ask my Dad.  Dad laughs and confirms that I am working class, but that it is something to do proud of.  Mum is cross and asks why on earth didn't I pack a dressing gown as I have a perfectly respectable one upstairs.  The reason I didn't take it was because there was no room in my bag.


I often wonder if this early trauma explains why I have an excess of dressing gowns hanging in my bedroom?  My favourite being a genuine Japanese kimono; it has enormous sleeves with deliberately gaping holes under the armpits (not to be worn when starkers as somewhat revealing).  It is sky blue and decorated with pictures of water lilies, chrysanthemums and peonies - great for tripping around the house while pretending to be a geisha.  I also have a sensible shortish grey jersey dressing gown for wearing over shorts - if I ever take up boxing I could wear it into the ring.  The least favourite, which rarely gets an outing, is a white towelling robe - not  all flattering as it makes me look like a non-cute polar bear - think this should be discarded forthwith.

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 perm

As a teenager my hair was dead straight and it made me sad - I wanted wavy tresses to swish around.
Odd that now my hair responds to any moisture by becoming somewhat sheep-like; this morning it dried naturally and it looked like I could join a Peter Frampton tribute band.

Quite a few girls at school had their hair permed into bouncing curls so Mum suggested I should do the same.
Instead of going to a decent hairdresser in town I go to the hairdresser that my Nan goes to (mistake #1) - Nan comes with me and tells the hairdresser what I want (mistake #2).  After hours of sitting with evil-smelling, corrosive gunk on my head the moment of truth arrives.   My head is covered with tight curls (an old lady perm to put it bluntly).  Instead of hair to flick around I look like a cross between Pennywise  and Harpo Marx (just not as appealing).


I rush home, weep, shout and when not weeping/shouting I wash my hair over and over again.   I refuse to go to school until it relaxes a little.  I wear hats and scarves (more Rosie the Riveter than Princess Grace) and put my hair up in a bun - but the crinkliness can not be disguised.  It took a whole year to grow out - a very distressing and never to be repeated experience.

Me and Wild Boy (5): Trilogy (ELP)

The next morning WB stands in the snowy garden wearing only a pair of jeans - no shoes, socks or shirt (one of his typical dramatic gestures that I initially thought amazing and then found really, really sad).  I am inside with his mum and longing to go home.  She says,  'I love my son, but he'll come to nothing. Don't do anything silly - you've got your whole life ahead of you.'

At home I write WB a letter, tell him I don't love him and I don't want to see him again.  It was a lie as I do love him so much that it still makes me almost sick to think about him, but his intensity and lack of control are really frightening and I am only a kid.

After that he occasionally turns up, often late at night, at my house.  Despite disliking him,  my parents insist he stays as they worry he will have an accident on his motorbike. He continues to say that I am the only person who can save him and that he can make me happy - even at that age I know neither is true.  Eventually when I go away to university he drops out of my life and I hear from mutual friends that he has become increasingly dependent on drink and drugs.

He died some years ago, but I think about him nearly every day.

I sometimes hold it half a sin 

To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the soul within. 

Me and Wild Boy (4): Love Hurts

Wild Boy is expelled from school and goes back home to the Midlands.  His mother invites me to spend New Year with them; I don't want to go, but don't know how to say no.   On arrival I am surprised to find that he lives in a house not unlike mine and that his mum and sister are not unlike my mum and sister.  I think I imagined he either lived in something akin to Blenheim Palace or a crack den - so my months of worrying he'd think me too ordinary were wasted.

It has been arranged that we are going to a New Year's Eve party.  I wear a turquoise cheongsam dress that is so tight I can't bend down to do up my sandals without assistance - I think I look mighty fine (mighty cold actually - it has been snowing and my mottled blue legs tone well with the dress).

The party is at WB's Dad's golf club - the ultimate in middle class, middle-agedness - where has my wanna-be rock god gone?  Dad - all sheepskin coat and flash car - drives us there and Mum stays at home. I am surprised (and a little shocked - I have led a sheltered life) to be introduced to Dad's girlfriend - she is probably no more than 6 or 7 years older than me.

Just before midnight the DJ announces the next song is dedicated to a lucky lady whose boyfriend is intending to propose to her that night.  All the party guests say how romantic and on New Year's Eve too.  The song comes on and it is 'my' song (well, the one WB says is my song - we never agree on music).  I am embarrassed that in front of a crowd of people WB gets down on one knee and asks me to marry him - I say nothing and this is taken as grateful consent.  I am sixteen, scared of him and just want to go home - even if my parents do say 'I told you so'.

His Dad's girlfriend says that I am a lucky girl and if I ever decided I don't want him she'll have him - she proceeds to give him a congratulatory kiss that morphs into her eating his face.  Strangely I just don't care.

Me and the purse-belt rebellion

There were only so many ways that school uniform could be customised - sophisticated girls wore American  tan tights (any other colour was strictly verboten) and rebels wore black pullovers rather than the regulation grey.  We were frequently lectured about the importance of maintaining a good uniform (honour of the school,  not looking like slappers) and there were regular uniform inspections with dire consequences if found wanting.

Some bright spark suggested we should wear the correct elements of the uniform, but mix things up a bit (I bet she became a lawyer).  So one Friday at break time,  along with most of the girls in Year 8,  I took off my tie and fastened  it around my waist.  Then the particularly ugly grey purse-belts we wore around our waists were worn as necklaces.  We all wander around the school giggling like idiots and feel quite secure as there was safety in numbers as Slipper Woman couldn't whack  all the girls in our year.

My hero

Our insurrection did not go unnoticed - we were summonded to the hall and the deputy head asked the instigator to stand up to save the rest of us from punishment.

I would like to say that we re-enacted the famous scene from Spartacus and that girl after girl stood up to say 'I am the purse-belt rebel'.  (Isn't Kirk Douglas lovely in that scene, a little bedraggled and dusty, but that manly tear so makes up for his lack of grooming.  Not so keen on the pants, but suppose slaves couldn't be picky).

Back to the hall - no one owned up so we all had a lunchtime detention.  Uniform rules were rewritten to specify what part of the body a particular item could adorn.

Me, the Boyfriend and how I finally crack maths

I go to University and do not give maths a thought for two and a half years.  But then in my final year the job market rears its ugly head and with it my appalling lack of mathematical qualifications.

I complain to my boyfriend that loads of idiots can do maths - why not me?  Boyfriend sees me as the ultimate mathematical challenge and says he will teach me.

Our maths sessions go something like this:
Me (frowning) - But why do you have to do the same thing on both sides - it doesn't make sense?
Him (sighing) - Of course it makes sense - just get on with it.
Me (hair swishing) - Why is maths so boring?
Him (wincing) - Maths is beautiful.
Me (extreme hair swishing with some pouting) - Shall we go and have a drink?  Maths makes me thirsty for alcohol - do you think many mathematicians become alcoholics?
Him (through gritted teeth)  - Please, please stop talking for ten minutes.  Oh for God's sake - even just one minute - please, I beg you.
Me (cheerily) - Sounds like you need a drink - I'll go and get my coat.

Six (very, very, very long) months later - the day after my finals - I go back to my old school to take the maths exam along with a roomful of clever-looking 16 year olds (how I hate them all).

August, the letter comes - I have passed.  I am delighted for about 10 minutes, have a lot to drink to celebrate, burst in to tears and promptly forget how to do percentages.  Boyfriend heaves giant sigh of relief that this is the end of his mathematical involvement with me - well, that is what he thought at the time - even now I email him if I get stuck on a particularly tricky percentage...

Me and Dad's razor

Before or after?

Strange how something as natural as female body hair is now something women are told they should be ashamed of.  I'm concerned that we are in danger of creating a generation of John Ruskins and that when the full bush makes a comeback (as it surely will - think the modern obsession with vintage) all these young men will be traumatised and have to undergo graduated exposure therapy.

The fair-haired tend not to be very furry, but as teen I realised that even blonde hair on legs was thought unacceptable - someone stroked my leg (uninvited I should stress) and said that my leg felt like his guinea pig (hope he meant one of those smooth ones, not the tufty type).  Now I love guinea pigs, but I don't think  it was a compliment.  So I borrowed my dad's razor (to both his horror and disgust), shaved my legs and managed to gash the back of my thigh open (scar still there) - the bathroom looked like something from Psycho.  But the said legs did feel rather nice - once the scabs had gone.

Having got the hang of the razor (despite dad's protests - and when have I ever taken notice of them?)  I decide that my eyebrows are grotesque (blonde version of Frieda Kahlo crossed with Breshnev) and need some attention.  There are no tweezers in the house (we didn't have a phone - we're hardly likely to have tweezers), so I take the heavy razor and apply to my left brow - that goes quite well.  I then apply steel (or whatever razor blades are made from) to the right brow, the razor slips and removes half my eyebrow - unfortunately not the outside bit which could easily be hidden.

In despair I inspect my denuded brow - it looks a bit like a baby mouse, pink, naked and vulnerable.  There is no such thing as an eyebrow pencil in our house (Mum being dark and not having need of such things) so I fetch a felt pen and try that - I look a bit like Bette Davis, scrub it off (funny how brown felt pens leave a blue after-stain - chromatography I vagely remember explains this).  So the glowing naked brow is now bright pink with a blue aura.

Disguising it is going to be difficult - I don't have a fringe, just a floppy sheet of hair that will not cover the nude brow.  The hair stays in place if I hold it in my mouth - sadly not practical in the long run.   So I adopt a very low parting - female version of the comb-over.  I think it is hidden quite well, but immediately I go downstairs Mum asks where my eyebrow is, Dad inspects me, looks a bit cross and says, 'In my razor - I expect'.

I would like to say the eyebrow grew back, but sadly it is still patchy.  Perhaps this should serve as a lesson for anyone shaving their punani - be warned it may not grow back  (possibly safer to stick to waxing) - then when fashion changes you'll face a lifetime of wearing merkins.

Me and when I'm not allowed to have a good time

I have a role in a school play as a Sultana (wife of Sultan rather than wrinkled currant-type thing) - don't ask as I remember very little about my Thespian experience.  My 'Sultan' is from the year above – not typical passion material as he is very keen on physics, but he makes me laugh like a drain, steals my pencil case and  spends a lot of time pushing me off chairs (such are the inexplicable courtship rituals of the young). 

Term ends and I am parted from this fascinating creature.  Living in the countryside is a bit of a pain as we don't live in the same village and transport is limited.  He can not phone me, as for some reason, my parents don’t have a telephone (we also have a black and white TV unlike everyone else I know).

One day Mum holds up a crinkly envelope and says, 'Who is writing to you?'  

I wonder if it might be an answer from the agony aunt in my ‘teen’ magazine giving advice on how to stop your mother steaming open your letters?  But no, it is from Jerry inviting me to a gathering at his house which I am informed is ‘in aid of nothing, but having a good time’.

Sounds good to me, but Mum obviously doesn’t want me to have a good time and strictly forbids me from going. Her main reason being that she knows just what 'having a good time' means - I find this very hard to believe. (She may have had a point - I was probably about thirteen or fourteen).

I am distraught, slam doors and sulk.  I phone Jerry from the phone box and announce I am not allowed to  ‘have a good time.’  He comforts me saying that it won't be long before school starts again and we can see each other.  I am not comforted - this is a tragedy of epic proportions.

I sit at home that Saturday night glaring, but as Mum and Dad had gone to the pub my glares were wasted on them.  I then look mournfully out of the bathroom window in the direction of Jerry’s house and concentrate really hard on making him think about me and hope he isn't having a good time.

Eventually the Autumn term starts.  I return to school sporting that fetching combination of knee-length grey woolly socks, a skirt that should be on the knee but is rolled up revealing lots of mottled thigh.  I suspect it was accessorized with a slightly too short fringe - Mum would have been busy with the nail scissors the night before.

I go into the classroom where Jerry can usually be found and find him sitting on one of the huge cast-iron radiators that heat the school.  Sadly he is not alone; he is snogging (I will not dignify his actions with anything as delicate as kissing) a girl called Susie from the year above him.   Such public displays of affection are rarely seen at school (or in the hours of daylight in Oxfordshire).  I am not amused, actually I am furious - all those evenings of thought transference wasted when I could have been watching TV.

I decide to play it cool - in my dreams.  I get very red in the face and shout at them, ‘You'll get piles!'
I am then mocked, for the rest of the term by the boys in his year, as the girl who thinks that (what can I safely write here?) ‘physical congress’ gives you piles.  It didn’t matter how often I repeated ‘cast iron radiator’ they still laugh.

Me and sex education: books

In our sitting room was a bookcase with a number of books placed spine down.  As a voracious reader no book escaped me; so at at youngish age I devoured 'Giovanni's Room', 'Lady Chatterley's Lover'  and 'Fanny Hill' which I found interesting, if a little confusing.

Then one day I went back to basics when I found a book by Claire Rayner, 'Sex Education for Girls' or some such.  The pictures left a lot to be desired and filled me with a certain amount of concern as no one in my family looked like that with their clothes off - how many children have been traumatised by black and white line drawings?  But Claire was a nurse (it said so on the back) so she obviously knew what she was talking about and perhaps D. H Lawrence didn't?.

About six months later Mum said that she would tell me where babies came from - I didn't like to tell her that I had a pretty good idea from my extensive reading of our equivalent of the British Library Private Case, from kids at school and not withstanding that my bedroom window overlooked a field full of cows and the occasional bull.  She produced the Claire Rayner book, said we would read it together and learn where babies came from.  I felt it only polite to pretend I hadn't read the book before and whenever she got embarrassed I'd try and help out by asking her leading questions being careful that I didn't bring in the activities of Fanny, Constance or David.

Me and how I lost my sense of humour

I inherit my friend Lucy's boyfriend Piers when she moves on to someone else.  I am in ecstasy - I've had a secret crush on him for ages;  actually it probably wasn't such a secret as I am one of life's blushers and he may have noticed my rapid change of colour whenever he appears.  He has dark hair, crinkly eyes and a thin top lip that I find both strangely repulsing and enticing at the same time.  The only fault I can find with him is that he is very attached to his tambourine and carries it around at all times - he is musical so I suppose this eccentricity can be forgiven, but in retrospect I can't decide if he was more Liam Gallagher or Linda McCartney

To be honest, although delighted to be the Chosen One,  I feel that Piers is totally out of my league and can't understand why I am honoured with his attentions. He says he likes me because I am funny and make him laugh (Note to those looking for lurve - it is OK to tell a woman she is funny, but start with something a little more romantic - it will be appreciated). This is not what I want him to say, but I decide to work on improving my traditional girlfriend qualities.

One Saturday afternoon we go back to his school (he is a boarder).  His study is full of lads who have been invited to meet me (great - a mass inspection - just what a girl needs for a confidence boost).
Piers says: 'Come on Renka - say something funny.  I've told everyone you're the funniest girl I've ever gone out with'  (See what I mean - that 'funniest girl' doesn't have the same ring as 'nicest', 'sexiest', 'loveliest' does it?)
This, I feel, also says a fair amount about his former girlfriends (and him) as I am not exactly Dorothy Parker, more Lady Penelope's Parker.

I'm not saying I'm Scheherazade -but I'm beginning to see how she must have felt - performing to order.  Achieving the ultimate prize isn't exactly what I thought it would be and has a detrimental effect on my sense of humour. When I'm with Piers I can hardly speak, my throat constricts and my tongue turns to cardboard;  I feel undeserving and hence can think of nothing to say.  After a few weeks of this he dumps me (kindly - as he is a nice person); initially devastated I survive and decide to seek boyfriends who can make me  laugh.

I was reminded of this episode when rummaging through my jewellery box recently and came across the silver charm bracelet I always wore as a teenager.  Inside the miniature Aladdin's lamp was a piece of cotton from one of his shirts, it had got snagged on my bracelet and I had kept it like a piece of some saint's thigh bone in a tiny religious reliquary.

me and bras

I went to John Lewis to buy that oh so desirable an object - a new sports bra.  At least JL has a good private lingerie department where you are unlikely to run into passing male acquaintances as you hunt through racks of garments that look like medical trusses.

I initially looked online and was rather taken with the idea of what M&S advertised  as 'suptuous sports bras' - now suptuous to me suggests something that would feel amazing - silk, satin, possibly even velvet.  Impractical I know, but what about a lavender-coloured velvet sports bra with chantilly lace - how nice would that be?  Anyway sadly M&S had nothing in the least bit sumptuous to offer.

Putting aside fantasies of aesthetically pleasing sports bras (wonder if blokes have similar dilemmas when purchasing jockstraps?) I head to Oxford Street.  JL (they should employ me as a global ambassador) has an extensive range which is good.  But I am disturbed by what they are called - Shock Absorbers being a pretty good brand, but I don't want to feel like my big end (or whatever shock absorbers are for) has gone.  Actually they certainly do give you a shock when on - never wear for a hot date (any date actually) unless you are perhaps into S&M - then it might be an acceptable look.  Suspect if Michael Fassbender had chanced upon a Shock Absorber in Shame  he'd have found a new addiction.

The names of these garments of torture (constricting in the extreme - I could hardly flex my shoulder blades)  leave something to be desired unless you are a former East German shot putter ( I mean from what was East Germany, rather than a retired sports person)  - who wants to wear something called Sportsjock,  Lessbounce, Moving Comfort Juno (for your inner goddess?) or the French brand Zbra (no  - I can not have a racial stereotype attached to my chest).

This was definitely a case of  'be careful what you wish for'.  I remember all the nights when I'd pray for a chest (Ok, let's not be coy - breasts).  I think I could have empathised with Job (studied for RE A level) if he had been afflicted with a flat chest - but all those boils just left me cold.

Getting changed for the first PE lesson of secondary school was an eye-opener in more ways than one.  Most of us wore white regulation  vests, the lucky ones had a small bow or fabric rose to relieve the grimness ( although I have to admit it can be a good look on some - think Wolverine or David Beckham).  But at least we were together in our sartorial shame  - that was until the two girls in our class, who already looked like they could be pulling pints behind a bar, (jealous - moi? - Non) took off their shirts to reveal ... black lacy bras.  OMG  I don't think I had even seen a black bra - I lived a sheltered life where female relatives thought that a pale blue or pink underwear was extremely racy and likely to put them on the road to perdition.

I go home and tell mum I must have a bra - she laughs and I continue to wear a vest for a good while (I will not reveal how long - I am not seeking pity).  Eventually the day comes when I get my M&S 26AAAA  (very slight exaggeration) and think I have become Madonna in that J-P G cone bra.
But today when wrestling with the sports bra (I think I may have dislocated my shoulder trying to do it up) I remember those vests with great fondness.

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.