Not quite sure, Max, what to make of this. It's partly nostalgic, partly guilt-strapped (at the bullying), and partly happy to leave all that behind. Line 3 line turn odd to me. Presume you don't mean that coat-hooks smell? The 'mutual disdain' between masters and you lot might be opened out more. Like the final 'dire' line.
Bill
> On 11 Mar 2015, at 8:53 am, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> Wet Schoolday 1953
>
> Raining again on my Grammar School.
> Biking there was hard and slow - bike shed’s full -
> long dark passages with coat-hooks smell
> bad already - wet coats, dank boys.
>
> Morning classes drearier than usual -
> calculus, French grammar, mutual
> disdain between masters and us.
> We don’t get out at noon for air, these
>
> standard Auckland winter days.
> Lunchtime at last - masters vanish)
> into their common-room haven.
> We line the corridors, sandwiches
>
> munched quickly, restless and bored.
> How can we pass the time? Whenever
> some boy comes our way heading
> for the far end we jostle him, shoving
>
> him to the other side - others
> jostle him back to us. With luck
> he’ll impale himself on a metal
> coat-hook at shoulder level.
>
> The wet day’s been marked
> for shortening. The bell sounds:
> briefest lunch break, early release
> from restive afternoon class,
>
> satchel crammed with homework,
> biking shakily homeward,
> up Alberton Avenue, round
> sodden Mount Albert again
>
> in trying winds and freezing rain.
> Mother’s been on the watch for me: son,
> change into these in front of the fire,
> kettle’s boiled - tomorrow’s forecast’s dire.
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