Day 360
It was book group last week and we did The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks. As an example of how childhood isn't that innocent, and children are not always sweetness and light, it was very successful. The main character had already killed three members of his own family before even becoming a snotty teenager, and describes it as a phase he was going through. Nice.
Got me thinking about my own adolescence though.
I suddenly remembered the thrill of power and pride that had spread though our class, when we heard our English teacher had suffered a nervous breakdown. We were convinced we had driven him to it and shamelessly gloried in it.
Steve said the same had happened at his school so we weren't unique in our callousness by any means. To have an effect on the outside world - on the adult world - was something we all aspired to and bragged about.
"We made Miss shout/throw the board rubber at Sid/storm out the room/cry" meant you weren't at the bottom of the food chain any more, and there is nothing more enticing to any child than having power over an adult.
I personally couldn't get away with it with my parents - they were just too terrifying - but teachers were fair game. And dinner ladies. And the driver of the school bus if it was Ken (but not if it was Herbie c'os he was nice).
So when Penny had a crush on the maths teacher and just leaned back in her chair, glowing at him lasciviously, and the poor man had to hide in the stationery cupboard until he'd got himself together, we thought that was wicked.
And there was one lad who had a set of skeleton keys he had made that opened every door in the school. He was our hero. A total God of cool.
And when a sneakily made audio tape circulated around the school, of Miss Threapleton (the strict and unpopular classics teacher and head of the girls boarding house) and the new sports master in bed together, our glee was unparalleled.
God, we were horrible.
In my defence, can I just say that I do still feel guilt and remorse over one incident.
On a school walking trip, me and Alison Neate (the class gorgeous girl), were hanging back and waiting for a chance to nip behind a tree for a wee. Up came Dr Skinner, IQ of gazillions and therefore, not very cool but really making an effort.
He kept talking to us, very pleasantly, as we meandered along, but showed absolutely no signs of leaving us and catching up with the others no matter how slowly we went.
Eventually, my walk had turned into a closed legged sort of waddle, and I whispered to Alison "this is getting worse and worse".
Not quietly enough.
Dr Skinner went bright red, muttered something about needing to join the others, and sped off leaving us in fits of embarrassed laughter, whereupon I pee'd myself anyway.
For six years - let me repeat that, six years! - I tried to pluck up the courage to apologise to the man. Never did. Still feel dreadful about it because it was accidental.
Had we intended to insult him, however, we would have been triumphant. Therein lies the difference.
So - childhood - not so innocent. Come to think of it, the only innocence I remember was a complete lack of comprehension about the consequences of my actions and the limitless ability to revel in the misfortunes of others.
Still, we can't get away with that as adults, so enjoy it while you can, kids.
Unless you want to be a sociopath and end up in a book by Iain Banks, of course.
