Miss couldn’t pull the wool over MY eyes ...

TIMeS were tough when I was born in 1940 in Rowley Regis, in the heart of my beloved Black Country. I had started infants’ school before my parents could afford to buy me my first machine-knitted jumper. When I finally got one, it was a vivid colour and my teacher spotted it as soon as I entered the classroom. ‘You have a new jumper, Peter,’ she said. ‘That’s a very bright colour, do you know what it is?’ ‘Yes, Miss,’ I replied. ‘Well, what is it then?’ she asked. ‘It’s maroan, Miss,’ I answered. ‘No, no, it’s not maroan, it’s maroon!’ she emphasised. ‘No, Miss,’ I replied adamantly, ‘Me mother says it’s maroan!’ ‘Well then, when you get home this evening, I want you to tell your mother that your teacher wants to know what the colour of your new jumper is, and in the morning you can tell us all what she said. Now don’t forget to ask her, Peter.’ ‘No, Miss.’ The following morning, as soon as teacher had called the attendance register, she asked me if I had done as she’d requested when I’d got home and asked my mother again what the colour of my new jumper was. ‘Yes, Miss,’ I told her. ‘Good boy, so tell us all what she told you then.’ In my broad Black Country accent, I replied: ‘Well Miss, she toed me to tell yer the colour is buddy maroan.’ Teacher was speechless and never mentioned it again.

Peter Goddard, Hook, Hampshire.