Viva Brighton Issue #43 September 2016

COLUMN
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John Helmer
Schooled
Illustration by Joda, jonydaga.weebly.com
“Do you like school?’”
“No.”
“Do any of your friends like school?”
“No.”
“Do you think the teachers like school?”
“No.”
“Do you think anyone likes school?”
“No.”
I’m heading into school with Poppy (13). It’s the
Summer holidays, but we’re going in to buy her a
new blazer for the coming Autumn term.
“Why do we all do these things we don’t like
doing? Perhaps I should pack in working and
home-school you.”
“Then we wouldn’t have any money.”
“We wouldn’t need blazers and stuff.”
“But we’d still need food.”
In the hall they have a ticketing system like the
one in Clarks. You take a ticket from the red dispenser
when you arrive, and wait in the dining hall
on the uncomfortable chairs until your number
flashes up on the illuminated sign. It’s one of those
institutional experiences like shopping in Argos
or signing on for benefits. We find some
seats, and I look around the hall, which is
crowded already.
“Do you know any of these kids?”
“They’re all Year Sevens,” she says
dismissively. This is bad news. It means
they’re new starters and will be buying
full battledress, including sports kit,
which means we’ll be here for ages.
I look at the number on our ticket and
then on the row of trestle tables at the
front, where uniforms are being dispensed.
“Five people serving, and another 25 tickets
to be served before ours - if they take
five minutes each to be served
that means… twenty-five divided by five—”
“Stop it!” hisses Poppy, outraged.
“It’s called estimation. It’s how some people run
entire businesses.”
“Just stop it.”
A tow-haired youth wearing a red spotted bandana
round his head waves shyly at Poppy. She smiles
back.
“Who’s that?” I say suspiciously.
“He was in Berlin.”
“You talked to boys on that school trip?” Now I
am the outraged one. “I told you not to speak to
boys.”
We have already had the talk. Don’t speak to boys.
Boys lie. I know: I was one.
Within 25 minutes, roughly as I estimated, we are
served, and shortly afterwards on the way home
for lunch. Which is when she drops her bombshell.
“I want to redecorate my room.”
Ice floes form in my bloodstream. This is how it
starts. We have seen three children through to
their majority before Poppy and they all, at some
point, go to the dark side. They come back again,
with any luck, but they do go to the dark side.
This usually manifests itself as a change of tastes -
e.g. Harry Potter out, the diaries of Kurt Cobain
in - and the repainting of fingernails and bedroom
walls in more somber tones. Scanning the list of
website domain names I have purchased over the
years, I found I could pinpoint the moment with
chilling accuracy in the case of Poppy’s older sister.
She was keen on building websites back then, and
mere months separated prettyrainbowfairyland.
co.uk from disturbedbeautiful.com.
“So I suppose you’ll be painting your room black,”
I say gloomily.
She thinks for a moment. “White, I thought.”
I breathe again.
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