Just Williams

Simon casts his mind back to school

IT’S WONDERFUL HOW education has changed since I tried it; the teachers are kind and imaginative, they smile and wear clothes that ordinary people wear. They seem to actually like children, although they’re not allowed to pat their backs or put a plaster on a sore finger. The carrot has proved mightier than the stick. Here’s a nice example of what I mean: when a newly arrived Polish couple registered their son, who spoke hardly any English, at our local primary school, his teacher downloaded a number of popular Polish songs and got her class to learn them, so when the new boy arrived, they could all sing together. A win-win idea.

For me boarding school came as horrible shock. What had I done to deserve exile? All the teachers were still jolly cross about the war, they’d growl at the sight of a Volkswagen or a frankfurter. Their ancient tweed jackets were crying out, ‘Take me to the cleaners!’ They smelt of Three Nuns tobacco and had nicknames like Chalky or Slapper. They believed in learning ‘the hard way’ – ‘I before E except after C.’ Wallop. Wallop. Wallop. Teachers didn’t need any qualifications, they just had to hate children. The crazy cost of private education didn’t include looking for a child’s potential. When the Latin master smacked me (hard) across the face, my pink glasses went skittering across the floor – they weren’t easy to find among all the desks,

Teachers didn’t need any qualifications, they just had to hate children

what with the salt sting in my eyes. Dear Sir, you are still at the top of my list of people I hope are rotting in hell.

There were good times of course, but mostly I just wanted to be a grown-up in mixed society, where I’d drive a Morris Traveller with a collie on the back seat. A fun part of the boarding school day was bedtime. There were 10 of us in my dormitory and before bed we had to say our prayers (in my case it was just a list of animals I wanted gentle Jesus to look after till the end of term). After that, matron would open a ledger to record the details of our bowel movements. In turn we’d call out the number of times we’d ‘been’. Silly boys, we played an early version of Spoof – each of us betting on the dormitory’s total output. With 10 of us, a total of between 10 and 20 was a reasonable bet. Being a ‘W’ I was always last to declare, so that tactically I sometimes had to either make a bid of double figures or offer no score – so I’d be caught between liver salts and syrup of figs. A daft game, but you might want to give it a whirl one wet weekend. Simon play Justin Elliott in The Archers