Well, That Was 1958 for You!

SOMETHING TO PONDER

The year was 1958 and I was a nine-year-old pupil in Class 2 of St Andrew’s school in Totteridge. I spent five, happy childhood years at this school and have some very lovely memories of it. Even now, sixty three years later, I remember the place quite clearly. I recall the large airy classrooms with enormous windows, that could only be opened or closed by means of a long pole with a hook at the end. It was considered a great treat to be allowed to use this pole and as soon as the request was made for ‘someone to open the windows,’ hands shot up and there was an immediate clamour of “Me Sir,” “Me, Sir.”

Our classroom contained fifteen, front facing, double desks, each equipped with its own inkwell. The desks were arranged in three rows, of five desks per row. There was sufficient space between the rows to allow the teacher to saunter up and down, surveying the pupils’ exercise books.

At the front of the class, there was a small, raised dais, accommodating the teacher’s desk and a huge blackboard. There was also a shelf for the chalk and blackboard erasers. Every so often, the erasers had to be taken outside for cleaning, which was achieved by banging them against a specially designated, external wall. This was a most unpleasant job, because you ended up coughing, spluttering and covered with clouds of chalk dust. Strangely enough, it was also a job that was much sought after, especially by the boys. In fact, the teacher would often mete out this particular task as a treat or reward. Sadly, the erasers were also used for a purpose far less noble than that of erasing chalk. They made ideal missiles for lobbing at unruly pupils and some teachers indulged in this practice with great gusto.

Our class teacher, Mr Smith, was super strict but nonetheless held in great esteem by his pupils. He was generally adored by the girls and tolerated by the boys.

“Smithers” as he was known, had an idiosyncratic routine which he carried out sporadically. He would stroll leisurely down the aisle between the desks and, on returning, would deliver a smart cuff round the back of the head to each boy, with the exception of the West Indian lad, who got two cuffs. It must be noted that this was not in any way associated with the lad’s colour, it was solely because he was exceedingly naughty. It must also be noted that no girl was ever at the receiving end of this procedure.

“This is not, (whap) for what you have done (whap) that I know about, (whap)” Smithers would chant, ”It’s for what, (whap) you have done (whap) that I don’t know about."

Ponder for a moment, on the number of present social expectations that were contravened during this exercise and consider where it would leave him today.

In Smithers' defence:

TOO MANY ‘ISMS’

Too many ‘isms’ and too much ‘j’accuse.’

Can only cause schisms with the ‘isms’ you choose:

Ageism, racism, sexism, smack-ism,

Cubism, nudism, pat-on-the-back-ism.

The continual clamour for ‘social correctness’

Impinges on candour and stifles directness.

Back in the 50’s, few ‘isms’ were found,

And ‘social correctness’ was thin on the ground.

We’ve now turned the tables, the outlook ‘s quite bleak,

We’re smothered with ‘isms’ and correct ‘social speak’

Maggie Smart

My Late Sister-in-Law

An Absolute Star

Darling Patsy,

In your social life you were always late,

Remorsefully, repeatedly and resplendently late.

Sometimes your tardiness would take on a different dimension,

As it challenged conventional time zones, defying all comprehension.

Time travel was once suggested as a solution to your capricious unpredictability,

Which sparked a debate on whether this should be viewed as a gift or a disability?

Once, you were a staggering twenty seven hours late,

Invited to lunch on Sunday,

You finally turned up at 6 pm on Monday.

You would always arrive in a fluster,

Laden with guilt and gifts,

And as many excuses as you could muster.

But we loved you, so we put up with the apologies, the phone calls and the waiting,

Though, we had to concede that, at times, it could be irritating.

Strangely enough, you were never once late for a show,

You were always there for curtain up, how you did it, we'll never know.

But just for once, we wouldn’t have cared, and that’s for certain

If you’d been sufficiently late to miss that ‘final’ curtain.

Maggie Smart

Mitten The Squitten

(The brilliant artwork on this page is courtesy of Chloe May Smart)

This is Mitten The Squitten, half squirrel, half kitten. He is a champion of the fairies and elves and lives with them in a big ash tree (that's tidy and trash-free). There, he has his own smart bachelor-pad, where he enjoys a tranquil existence and gets on well with all the neighboring woodland folk.

Mitten is a well known and highly successful private detective, who played important roles in both ‘Fairy Save’ books. In a previous case, Mitten The Squitten had traveled to the far away, enchanted land of Mangolo Pongolo, where he recruited a number of local inhabitants to assist him in the very troublesome case of the ‘Squitten that Squawked.'

All did not go to plan, and the whole episode disintegrated into 'a pack of nonsense,' much like the following verse, written in the style of Lewis Carroll’s brilliant nonsense poem, ‘The Hunting of the Snark.’

THE SQUITTEN THAT SQUAWKED

The birds in the air and the beasts of the field

Came mostly by bus, though some walked,

Each one was exhorted to keep their eyes peeled,

And look out for the squitten that squawked

Two dozen blackbirds trilled sweetly on flutes,

Thirty five llamas played drums,

The crustaceans and reptiles were all in cahoots,

against those with opposable thumbs.

The shamshanks were swarming to swindle the swine,

When upbraided, they showed no contrition,

But laid out their shamsticks in one, long, straight line,

In remarkable juxtaposition.

In the midst of this turmoil, a tall turtle talked

And finally agreed to confess,

That he'd seen for himself the squitten that squawked

And could thus put an end to this mess.

He issued directions, with maps, graphs and notes,

With longitude lines sketched in blue,

And all the protagonists took to the boats,

Though none of them knew what to do.

At length they made progress, and hot on his track,

With grappling hooks, crampons and slings,

Apprehended the squitten, escorting him back,

To face justice and other such things.

Mitten himself, overcome with contrition,

Pitied the squitten that squawked,

When the prisoner acknowledged the legal position,

Mitten arranged that he walked.

Maggie Smart

This poem is dedicated to my old school friend, Sue Hibbert, who has been so encouraging and supportive during my battle to get this blog off the ground. I remembered that she enjoyed nonsense rhyme, so decided that she should have some.