Summer 2019 has been a time of running around the garden naked, barefoot and gorging on ice pops. I have played in the sand pit (which the Big One has managed to keep surprisingly free of cat/fox faeces this year) and been for many a walk in the woods. Despite the ingrained dirt under my finger and toe nails, I have managed to avoid the dreaded sunburn of which people of my hair colour are prone. This is mainly down to the fact that Primark started to sell a range of affordable factor 50 sunblock, therefore allowing my Mother to protect me from the sun without having to sell a kidney to fund the usual bottles of high-end Nivea.
However, summer is fading as fast as my mothers Superdrug brownest brown hair dye which means I now must enter the school system and start to be shaped in to an up-standing member of society. I know my mother is dreading this. Despite the fact she has already forced two other children down this route, she is apprehensive. I have been given strict instructions to “do good listening” and “Don’t hit people” and “Keep your bloody clothes on”. The uniform I need to wear is green and compliments my complexion amazingly. So I was terribly sad to discover when wriggling into this new ensemble that the material is rather tough and scratchy. The trousers are made from cloth akin to hessian and could also double up as an outside door mat. The shoes I have to stomp about in (and stomp I shall, believe me) could be worn in the event of a chemical spill they are that sturdy and utilitarian looking. Dreadful, albethey purchased from Clarkes. I feel my individuality is being wrung out of me. As soon as I step through the front door after school I release myself from the ugly constraints and fling them into a corner of the hall. I am back in my natural state of nakedness save for my ear defenders and ninja headband.
When the hefty one appears at the school door ready to collect me after my hard scholarly day, I know she has a tasty morsel for me hidden in her disorganised shoulder bag. The first week of school she came bearing fancy cakes from the bakery and had obviously planned ahead. As the days pass the treat proffered is going rapidly down hill. Instead of the intricately iced gingerbread men of last week she is now scrambling about in the bottom of her bag amongst the tatty sanitary towels, old receipts and loose change to find a crumbling Freddo. After shooting her a swift look of distain, I accept the Freddo in the hope she steps up her snack game next week.
Homework is another new creature I am learning to handle. I am going to be quite frank and say I am finding it fairly easy so far. The reading books have no words, just pictures. Much easier to deal with than the Oxford Reading Tree books my mother spent a fortune on earlier in the year and I have already made a strong start on learning jolly phonics. I enjoy the ten minutes she and I spend together in the evenings. It’s entertaining to see her try and decipher the actions and sounds. It usually ends up with her red faced and muttering under her breath, “f**king stupid…. what happened to Peter and Jane…?” as she heaves herself up from the sofa to return the books to my bookbag.
All in all, I have made a strong start at school. My teachers are happy and I have managed to stay off the sad face on the class behaviour chart.
Long may this victorious streak reign!
Peace and love, dear Reader.