Primary School

I vaguely remember my early hears in Galton Primary school and what I do remember wasn't that fun. I remember wanting to play with the other boys in my class but just getting told to go away and if I refused I was just pushed away by the “big one” who had something against me. Where as one of them was instantly a god, for, as far as I can remember, no reason at all. It made me feel very small and lonely. Funnily enough all three of us get on fine now.

I remember the ramble for the toys when the teacher brought them out to the “knee skin graveyard” (the playground) and everyone would grab and pull stilts and hula hoops off her as if she was being raided by a bunch of ravenous baboons who frothed at the mouth and smelled like “Bold 2 in 1”.

And, ah yes, the playground, more like the battleground of wounded children who use up more plasters than a group of self-harmers. The bloody, skin coated, concrete floor of death. I’m surprised anyone managed to leave school with knees!

I remember the transfer to the other building. Primary one’s to there were in there building and when you reached Primary four you went across to the bigger school but us Primary four’s were in the “huuut”.

Primary five was a long drag of medieval lessons and French. Primary six was much more fun, I remember writing lots of stories and getting awards for them. I was also good enough to be part of the guitar class taken by Miss Kerr, a young guitar teacher fresh from university. She was quite a nervous teacher but introduced me into the world of instruments, for which I am grateful. I remember the woody, metallic mesh smell that reached your nostrils that has stayed with me.

Everyone loved our teacher for Primary six, Miss Wright, who put into simple terms was just nice. We were her first class ever as she too, like Miss Kerr was fresh out of university. She got me to love writing and told me to stick at it when she left. I never did. But just recently I have got back into it with the combined inspiration of Charlie Brooker but that’s going a bit off subject.

We came back from the summer of Primary six thinking Primary seven would be great. Wrong. Our first take of Primary seven was to write a story about what you did in the summer. Everyone completely failed. We were shouted at for the whole school to hear. Why everyone failed, I don’t know. It may have been because everyone made themselves a new heart in Primary six for Miss Wright, that was now broken, shattered like a fallen chandelier.

Primary seven perked up after that. We got “duties”. It was ace, well, some duties were. I loved “door duty”. I've always loved medieval type stuff and this made me feel like a Roman guard getting to choose who came in and who didn't. Then you got duties like cleaning up everyone’s tray in the dinner hall. There was a big bin like bowl where all the leftovers got scrapes into that smelled vile and looked like a pig’s future dinner, which it probably was eventually. Or ours.

Primary seven was full of fun memories and occasional bad, for example the custard was delicious, I’m not even gonna attempt to create a metaphor – that’s how delicious it was. And bad memories, like regretting not going on the one week trip to York. I miss primary. Leaving your bag in, playing with toys and the general friendliness of it all.

I think some of my primary school teachers may have inspired me enough to become a primary school teacher myself because I enjoyed it so much. In Primary seven there are a lot less people and it really makes you feel like part of the class, also just having the one teacher, you really grown on them. It’s just such a close friendly atmosphere where everyone has their own role, such as the “class clown” or the “drama queen”. If I could go back I would have changed my role from the depressing sod to something more cheery, if only I could.