My first teacher was Mrs Berry.
I was 5.
The following year I was in Mrs Staples class … then Mrs Crowe … then Mr Catchick [who I will never forgive for making me clean up some other kids vomit in the classroom] then uber-strict Mrs Terry’s and finally, the gentle giant [unless he was giving you the slipper] Mr Aspinal.
The headmaster was Mr Dewing … the caretaker was Mr Roberts … the dinner ladies were Mrs Whitehead, Mrs McCutchon and Mrs Gibson … Mr Fletcher doubled as the sports teacher and Mrs Cohen – who I fortunately avoided – was the lady who used to slam a ruler down on your fingers if you had misbehaved.
Between the years of 1975-1981 – apart from my parents – these were the adults that I saw most in my life.
Now obviously that is a long time ago.
A very, very long time ago.
And while there are a few things from that time that are still in my life … my Mum, my family home, Paul [who I was in every class at school with between 1975-1986] and Nottingham Forest … it’s fair to say my life has pretty much moved on.
With all that in mind, it’s kind of weird that an innocuous little notice – posted on my Facebook wall – could have such an effect on me.
Mr Fletcher never taught me.
He was there on the very first day I started at Heymann, but I was never in his class.
And yet I wish I was there to wish him well.
I wish I could shake him by the hand and say thank you for 37 years of teaching.
I wish I could ask how he feels about never making Headmaster.
I wish I could chat with new and old pupils and teachers and compare stories.
I wish I could see the hall and see if they still hide the apparatus behind the back curtain.
I wish I could see the chairs so I can remember how small I once was.
I wish I could see if the marble was still half buried in the playground concrete.
I wish I could walk in and smell the air.
Or hear the bell.
Or the echos of my past.
I wish I could say goodbye.