Fifty years ago: Monday, 10th May 1976
(Winder House, Sedbergh School. Age 14)
5:30 a.m. I woke early; it was already warm, and the sun was bright. There was a heavy warmth and bright sunshine all day – rare in my experience, having been born and raised in Northumberland and Cumbria. When it was sunny, you felt it and noticed. There could even be an extra half-day holiday, that’s how rare good weather could be – like snow in winter! This is different, though … we are heading into a severe drought.
I pull a blanket off the bed to cover my eyes. Comforting!
We early risers are a rare breed. Occasionally, I’d come across one other boy. I liked being on my own, and early mornings provided that. Pills and I went fishing.
The river was a short walk down a grassy bank from my House – Winder. You could hear the river from our dorm window—I’ve always loved the calming sound of running water.
I struggle to recall how we fished. Did I take a fly fishing rod? I knew how to tickle for fish. Did we do that? If we got a fish, would we cook it ourselves on a gas ring? Can we even go down to the river out of hours? I doubt it. I imagine presenting the Housemaster with a trout. Would that get me off punishment?
The School Day
Chemistry: I dread getting an impot. I got fed up with being punished for not getting it. Something didn’t tally. I was getting left behind. Ph, gas and lithium.
Being punished was no incentive—I could stare at a page on Chemistry for 30 minutes and still not understand it. Winnit, the teacher ought to have offered me extra classes, not punishments. OK.
Winnits (or winnits), by the way, is a slang term that refers to small, dry pieces of faeces that cling to the hair between the bum cheeks. This teacher had been known to scratch his arse. I had never witnessed it. The nickname had been handed down from previous generations. I’d had to ask another boy what the nickname meant. Everyone had a nickname, teacher and boys alike.
Physics: Start with magnets. We’re working our way through a textbook. Basic Physics. Abbott.
Art
I had expected to be awarded the art prize – but no. I’d been winning art prizes when I was six or seven. Our mother was an art teacher with an MA in Fine Art from the University of Durham. She had her children doing observational drawing before they could read or write. I wondered to what degree I was seen as outside the system for School art? I produced a mural for a lecture theatre wall! I was long beyond school art prizes in that respect.
English: I was told off for not being there on Saturday. I took quite the legal tone when wronged, armed perhaps by my father’s manner—he was a lawfather who would not tolerate being falsely accused. My excuse was rehearsals for the school play. Being in the school play and rehearsing were commendable. I hadn’t skived off somewhere. I hadn’t done well on test 11/12.
Break: no letter from Mowden (I left a year ago). For reasons I don’t understand, I’d written to a couple of teachers. Ridiculous that at 14 I could have felt in any way in a position to judge the place or share my feedback on my five years there. One came from my former Geography teacher, a lovely man, the other the deputy head and French Teacher—a vindictive arse.
Latin: Roman history.
Maths: chance.
English: Twelfth Night. I read “Feste the Clown” and surprised the class by singing the part when it called for it. I could read music and sing, so when I saw the lyrics and score, I sang it. I liked bringing it to life and giving it my all. For years, I had wanted to act. Singing Feste would have been a highlight. I’d have surprised a few people, not least the teacher, while a knowing glance from boys who knew me as a chorister from prep school.
“O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear; your true love’s coming…”
French: somelove’sof hassl” and I think I was sent out with Bumfluff.
Swimming: swam front crawl pyramids, front crawl 50, 100, 200, 400 and down again. Then sprints. To have a formal swimming session at all was rare. I think we were without a coach my first year. I enjoyed a distance swim.
Eat chocolate. Read Man Born to Be King and feel really good. It impresses me, all these decades later, how well-read I was becoming, as I thought I took little interest in reading until I was 17 or 18.
Back rub. Algerpan was applied by me.
Prep: do music.
I liked and could see that the day had been busy and varied, and that, in between some frustrations, I’d also achieved things. This is why keeping a Diary meant something. I wrote it up in bed before going to sleep.
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