Plague diary — week 18. My dear mother had an impeccable record at school PTA meetings. She never attended one. And for that I am eternally grateful.

I had a bad spell at school between what was then standard 7 and standard 9. After just three days in a riotous 7c class — crammed with older boys who had been repeatedly kept back — I was considerably more worldly-wise than a 14-year-old should be. And I recall that 9c was a rather lawless bunch — albeit with creative tinges, thankfully nurtured by our inspiring English teacher, Mr Strohman (bless you, sir, wherever you are). We were largely left to our own devices, and for weekly blood-lettings we’d arrange a bone-crunching version of volleyball during our mostly unsupervised PT classes...

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