From the editor
I remember my first day at school. 1970, Raumati South. Just over the road from where we lived. Both my much older sisters were there. I was standing with a bunch of other new entrants in the quadrangle at playtime, huddled together like infant animals thrown to the wild, certain only of one thing: if we stuck together we might just be fine. My sister (who would’ve been the baby of the family had I not come along) came up to us with a handful of soft cotton wool. She asked me to touch it. What I didn’t know was she had obscured a compass underneath and, when my finger gently touched the cotton wool, I felt a prick. I was stung more by the humiliation. I was 5, she was 10 and she just hated my guts back then. I had also brought along my doll, Caroline. That was in the days when you literally had one prized toy, not the vast pile of options kids get today. The teacher, who was very stern and seemed ancient, came over to my little wooden desk, grabbed the doll and threw her in the grey, circular metal rubbish bin. Where she stayed for the rest of the day. I remember dropping my own children, twins, for their first day, back in 2010. They had each other. They looked back at me, waved and smiled, before going into their classroom. That day, Daisy was appointed support for other new entrants and Isaac tried to jump over the wall surrounding the school and return to kindy. The entire class was dispatched to get him back because the teacher couldn’t run that fast. Greg Bruce writes this week about the first day of his eldest daughter, Tallulah. It’s achingly good. Even if it was a trigger for my compass/ doll trauma memory.