Viva Brighton Issue #43 September 2016

COLUMN
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Lizzie Enfield
Notes from North Village
“I have to go to the school,” I tell my husband, “to
pick up the offensive weapon our daughter took
with her this morning.”
He is not listening so my words have little impact.
“What time will you be back?” he asks cheerily, not
worried that our gentle, mild-mannered daughter is
in serious trouble.
The North Village is a lovely leafy area, and the
children go to a lovely leafy school. There has
never been any violence or knife crime. This is the
first incident I have heard of... and my child is the
perpetrator.
“You understand I cannot return the offending item
to your daughter,” the head says on the phone.
I feel about eight years old. The head is probably
a few years younger than I am. But he is a figure
of authority. Thirty-something years after last being
summoned to the head’s office, I am not looking
forward to being in one again.
“Of course not,” I say. “I will come and pick it up
myself.”
I don’t actually have to go to the head’s office to retrieve
the confiscated item but I still get the ‘you’re
a bad parent’ look from the school secretary who
hands it over.
It was a penknife, although, to be precise, it was really
just nail clippers in the guise of a penknife: a
penknife with only three tools - scissors that don’t
cut, nail clippers and a blade so blunt we were allowed
to take it on the airplane with us, after buying
it at the airport in Switzerland.
But the school have a strict ‘No Knife’ policy and,
to them, it’s a knife.
“I can’t think why she brought it in,” the secretary
says handing it over.
“She was cutting her nails and slipped it in her
pocket without thinking,” I say, wondering if she
will shrug and smile at the ridiculousness of it all.
She does not.
“I never went to school without a penknife,” husband
says when I fill him in, adding. “Or matches.
Are they allowed matches at school?”
I very much doubt it, but a few days later I bump
into a scientist friend who was part of the Sussex
University team which won a Nobel Prize for the
discovery of a particular carbon atom. He is carrying
a large rucksack and a couple of bin bags.
“Are you off somewhere?” I ask, querying the stuff.
“I’m doing a workshop in a school this afternoon.”
He does a lot of work aimed at making science more
accessible and interesting to youngsters.
“I’m going to show them how to make fire extinguishers,”
he pats the backpack and indicates the
rubbish. “I’m using this to make fires in the playground,
which they will then have to put out.”
“Excellent,” I say.
“Excellent,” says my husband, later, rubbing his
hands together with such delight that I wondered
if he is trying to show the kids how to make fire,
without matches…
Illustration by Joda, jonydaga.weebly.com
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