Memory#3: Sleepovers

Posted on January 25, 2015 by Chit Chat Charlie

I was the girl who never made it through a sleepover; I would inevitably call my parents to stage an intervention and collect me, usually around 9pm, before the horror films started.

One time, the family had just taken delivery of a kitten, and as the little feline passed from child to child to endure its tortuous welcome, it soon became clear that it was infested with fleas.

The other children, used to living amongst a menagerie of more or less domesticated creatures and variously suffering from nits, impetigo or ring worm seemed un-phased, but I was horrified. I quickly put in the call, gathered my belongings and staked-out the wait in the porch. At home, I was put in a bath of TCP vowing never to make the same mistake again.

In the first year of high school, aged 12, I did, however, once more reluctantly accept to attend a sleepover at a “friend’s” house. First, because the girl’s mother did not drive, we had to walk about 3 miles from school. A group of 10 pubescent girls, honked at all the way by men in white vans: I suspected that this wasn’t going to work out so well after all.

On arrival at the home, we were welcomed with bottles of Hooch by the girl’s mother’s boyfriend, before he drove us to the video shop so that he could rent out the selection of “18-rated” films the other girls had identified. I survived rather later at this sleepover than at others, on account of my new strategy for horror-film endurance, which involved accepting the worst viewing spot in the room, listening to Take That on my Walkman and averting my eyes for the duration. But my pride at escaping Chucky’s wrath was short-lived, when next, to my horror, the home-made Ouija board was revealed and the candles lit.

Once again, I hurried to the telephone and issued the SOS. This time I waited in the front garden, to escape the attention of any lingering spirits, or rather the inevitable coup planned for my humiliation by the birthday girl.

My sleepover career was categorically ended on the occasion when it was not me but the hostess’ mother who made the call. It was the week of Diana Princess of Wales’ funeral and the family, together with the 12 pre-teens were sobbing over news coverage of the gathering crowds. In the tradition of the Gallic Republicanism in which I had been raised, I analytically offered a running in commentary of Di’s demise as a symbol for the ultimate anachronism of monarchy, together with a terrifying display from the masses, of all that was wrong with Britain. But it seemed not every household ran by the guiding triumvirate of ‘Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, and I had caused irreparable offence.

My parents were called to remove me from the party, much to my relief: I had spotted the VHS of Candyman waiting next to the TV.

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Memory#2: Gerbils

Posted on January 18, 2015 by Chit Chat Charlie

When I was about 9, our class took possession of a pair of gerbils in a glass tank. They were to be a common enterprise, the first objective being to suitably name the little pair. The child with the winning choices would be offered the first opportunity to care for the duo over the holidays, so home I raced.

gerbils2

The following day, I proudly raised my hand prepared to announce what I felt sure would be a gamut of winning options, discussed with much gusto the night before around the family dinner table.

My first suggestion, the teacher diligently inscribed on the blackboard: Morris and Minor. Other children offered their ideas: Tom and Jerry, Mickey and Donald… but I was confused, these were hopeless suggestions and who were Mork and Mindy anyway?           The teacher continued to write the class’ options on the board: “Barbie and Ken”. This last option caused me to panic. Hadn’t we agreed the previous day that the two creatures were male? I hadn’t anticipated this flagrant flouting of the rules, and I realised I needed to raise the stakes quickly: “Socrates and Aristotle!” I excitedly shouted out.

Although it seemed as if the teacher’s acquiescence was waning as my agitation grew, she stoically etched my second idea onto the board before quickly announcing that she was only accepting two entries per child. This seemed too unfair and again, had not been established as a rule. I had been saving the best to last, but had I known, I would have inverted my carefully planned order of announcement. I had more to add to the list, no one had said it was only two entries per child.

The teacher started to explain the voting system, but I still had more ideas to give, so I continued to shout them out: “Disraeli and Gladstone!” The teacher glared at me. “Khrushchev and Kennedy!”: a warning for silence decreed.

I was outraged by the other suggestions, spurned by the injustice and dizzy from the game. The other children were now issuing the usual chastisements reserved only for my degradation, but I just wanted to let the teacher know I had worked hard on the task.

As the excitement simmered and the voting began, I defiantly leapt to my feet and shouted out one last pairing as loud as I could: “Jesus and Judah!”

In the resulting silence, I was evacuated from the classroom and sent to sit outside the Head Teacher’s office, sobbing.

I never did find out what had caused most offence: my disobedience or my suggestion.     In the end, the child with the winning suggestion was going to Fuerteventura for the holidays, so Bubble and Squeak stayed with us for the week anway.

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Memory#1: The treble recorder

Posted on January 16, 2015 by Chit Chat Charlie

My husband often says he would have hated me in school; he’s probably right.

I played the treble recorder. It was much harder to master than its larger or smaller relatives because it was in a different key. But, it did not carry the kudos of the giant tenor or the tiny soprano: more difficult, less cool, or in other words, the story of my life.

Never Angel Gabriel, always the Narrator, my good reading voice personified me more than the required golden curls or slight stature. I early experienced the humiliation of being told to stand at the front of the photograph queue, with the boys (it was only much later in life that I learned the trick of wearing one’s hair loose and over the shoulder on a class photo, to avoid the injustice of being mistaken for one of the scrofulous males to the left or right.)

It always felt like I was for a life of demarcation. The comparative contents of the school lunch box proved an early sign. For every Cherry Aid, Waggon Wheel or bag of Monster Munch consumed by infants of the ‘90s, I was trying to detract from my consumption of homemade apple compote, Ryvita or the most problematic, a foil pouch of peanuts (too many pieces, hard to disguise). School uniform being optional in primary school, most kids were sent in wearing a shell suit but I was kitted out head to toe from the first, apart from on Fridays, when I was sometimes allowed to wear the latest Clothkit, fashioned from discount material purchased at Abakhan fabrics.

Being asked to take a piece of A3 paper home and draw around my feet marking the correct position (according to Sheila Nelson) for playing the violin was considered rather too ephemeral. The paper I was provided with was used only to trace the position onto the guide that was judiciously fettled from two pieces of hardwood, fixed together with gaffer tape, so that it opened and closed like a book. Whilst the others cheerily stowed their guides into their folders, mine had to be manhandled from its “special” storage place to the side of the teacher’s desk every time.

“Special”, that was me.

 

 

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