A DAY AT SCHOOL (Bransholme '76)

If you've been around this blog a bit, you'll know it's a Gallimaufry, with no obvious agenda. Over the years it has reflected what was in my head that day, or the emotion of a moment, with the odd bit of humour and music.

Today I feel tired and nostalgic (so that's it! - I MUST be old - OMG!).

Anyway, let's not dwell on that, for I was rummaging through my mental trunk and then looked up old books I've kept since school days, particularly those in which I wrote "poetry", prose, odes or absolute crap. 

Bransholme High (and this) (and this) transitioned me into adulthood, wiser in thought and raring to go, but it also gave me happy times, some of the best being in my last year there ('76), when I started to write "stuff", occasionally as demanded by others. Let me explain.

I loved the girls and they liked me, principally because I never tried to "hit on them" (much) because my sisters had removed fear and taught me that chat was the way to a woman's attention. I liked this and a fringe benefit was guys would follow my lead, to pick-up tips or girls. 

I wrote quite a few odes to flatter or record school life then, so today I'd like to introduce you to a world of mediocrity; to an ode about a day at school. It's a bit clunky and best read quite quickly, in a "flipperty-flop" way. Good luck.

A DAY AT SCHOOL (Bransholme '76)

Caught the bus to school today.

Nodded to Carolyn and went on my way.

Climbed the stairs and found a seat.

God it's good to rest your feet.

Arrived at school five to nine. 

Greeted friends with the usual line.

Dumped me books, checked me looks and found a seat.

God it's good to rest your feet.

Said hi to Liz, Colleen and Dawn.

But coming exams made me moan.

I had the jitters but in came Pete.

A good name that: it rhymes with feet!

Assembly finished and I'm working fast.

I'm no good at math but I won't come last.

An ego-tripper, that's what I am.

But I haven't a rhyme, so I'm gonna use Spam.

The test was murderous, I cannot regale.

Didn't have any breakfast, thought I'd failed.

Talking of breakfast I fancied some ham.

Well, I didn't really, but it brings back Spam!

Now at this juncture I must explain,

Why I always drift back to say things again.

At poetry you see I'm a bit of a ham,

sorry folks, I'm back to Spam.

Words you see come hard to me,

I force them out, they don't come free,

thus the reason for Pete and feet;

they fill out a piece and they rhyme real neat!

But enough of excuses and onwards I say,

'cos if I write more there's more to say.

I walked into the sixth-form, five to eleven.

Following maths, an annex of heaven.

Saw Erica, Elaine, Julie and Pete.

Bezzy mates and glad to greet.

The break passed all too quick.

I thought of the test, convinced I was thick.

There came Russ Atkinson, so time for tech-drawing.

Didn't wanna go and it was all very boring.

Back in the sixth-form around twelve-fifty.

All tests over and I felt quite nifty.

Time to relax and fall into a chair.

It was good to be alive, just loafing there.

Sitting alone, I watched Suzzane Maw.

Ten seconds flat, apple to core.

Five seconds later in stepped Dawn.

On went the radio; why was I born?

Soundwaves permeated the room,

and beat on my brain like the back of a broom.

God it was noisy, I had to get out,

and Fisher was wailing as if he had gout.

I made up my mind, I'd have to go.

Then I thought, "dammit, why should I blow?"

So instead of going I turned it down.

Now, Fisher didn't like that and gave me a frown.

A quarter past one and the place is packed.

In comes Jebson and Pete gets hacked.

Asking Pete what he had to say,

his only reply was, "he wants me to stay".

Half past one and I'm talking to Wendy.

Now there was one who could really send me.

A quarter to two and I hear something grave.

Grovelling gravestone: "Pywell's begun to shave!".

Dinnertime passes, all too quick.

I still think of maths convinced that I'm thick.

What comes next is bad-boy Bratton.

A teacher who thinks he's general Patton.

In class we wait 'till four o'clock comes.

Looking intelligent, but twiddling our thumbs.

At last it comes and it's time to go.

Split the scene man, time to blow.

With Erica and Pete, there's pace without fuss.

We have to rush to catch our bus.

But Carol arrives, coat, bags and basket.

And shuffles around like she's blown a gasket.

The day draws in and the end is near.

I grab my books and pile on my gear.

Say goodbye to Elaine, Colleen and Dawn.

And life feels good.

I'm glad to be born.

There, I told you it was clunky, as were many more of its period / ilk, but some of which I might add in the future as they come to light, starting here.