Incorrigibly inanimate

Was I the most unpromising schoolboy that ever wearied the arms of cane-wielding masters? Not quite.

I lolled comfortably as Shakespeare was enacted mainly because I wasn't "being taught". Later in life I developed an interest in physics, mathematics and that orphan of the schoolroom, chemistry. But these enthusiasms owed nothing to those grindingly dull and badly expressed classes in which I cowered and sought to make myself invisible. History? A random series of dim events. Divinity (These days, comparative religion)? As risible as Grimm's Fairy Tales. Geography? Coal is mined here; don't forget it.

My problem was I didn't know what school was for. Whatever I did with my life I doubted the Don Pacifico Incident would enhance it. Nor would I be hailed by the halogens?

Why now, after all these years? Because certain schools have been opened and children, well-scrubbed, with earnest faces, ice clean tee-shirts and cumbersome shoulder bags are running eagerly towards gates that are unpleasantly reminiscent of open prisons. Questioned, they say they are glad to be back. I'm happy for them; they will make their mark in occupations that don't depend on the racketiness that is at the heart of journalism, my trade.

Most of all I recall the cruelty of the summer holidays. That an irresponsible existence should ever come to an end. That a dark tunnel was re-opening on punishment, coercion and a profound conspiracy that adults know best. That I would - yet again - be seen as unworkable material.

And again, that smell which I associate with gym shoes, then called plimsolls. Rubber is not a neutral smell, it’s sharp, even acrid. In contrast horse manure is more welcoming.  And there’s a poetic juxtaposition, if you like. Unlearned in school.