A Life More Ordinary

School days, we are often told, are the happiest days of our lives. I hope you’ll forgive me if I disagree!

Primary school, to me, was an endless stream of navigating mini-popularity contests while trying to work out what the fuck was going on with myself and the world in general, a harsh lesson on the fallibility of human nature and the innate tendency in a percentage of the population to attempt to impose their opinions and restrictions upon others. I wouldn’t say that I was ever one of the popular kids, always worried about being wrong so I would never raise my hand to answer a question in class, which probably said more about the fact that I was continually led to believe that I was either stupid or worthless than it did about any actual ability that I may have possessed. Break times were generally spent playing football and avoiding anyone who looked like they might be trouble. The constant threat of being on the receiving end of an unprompted wallop refining my instincts to spot any potential issues from several miles away to an almost supernatural level.

My memories of Inverteign Junior School, scene of my first foray into the education system, are more than a little hazy. I have vague recollections of a girl called Emma, who came round to Kingsway after school one afternoon, where we spent a good half an hour sliding down the back of the sofa onto the cushions below and laughing uncontrollably at the fact that we were being allowed to do so – normally any such behaviour would have elicited a hefty clip around the ear (for me, obviously, not my guest). By all accounts, I often cut a forlorn figure in the playground, avoiding crowds and instead preferring to sit by a flight of steps, watching all of the drama unfold before me while wishing that I was somewhere else. I remember nothing of the lessons, but one lunch time, while standing in the dinner line, a girl called Sarah, who had short hair and a round face, pushed me out of the way and took my place in the queue. I pushed her back and thought nothing of it until I felt myself lifted off my feet by the collar of my shirt and found myself levitating backwards, zooming further and further away from my much-needed lunch and down corridors towards the headmaster’s office. However minor my misdemeanour had been, I had made the fatal mistake of transgressing in full view of Mr Last, the aforementioned headmaster, who might not have ruled with an iron fist, but pretty close to it. In my memory, he looked like a younger, slimmer Ricky Tomlinson but was far less avuncular than the popular Scouse actor.

Once in the office, I was deposited upon the floor and told to stand in silence as he looked me up and down with an icy stare. He pulled open the drawer of his desk and took out the cane, laying it carefully and precisely down on the desk in front of him. No stranger to pain or violence by now, my stomach lurched in an all-too familiar way and tears sprang to my eyes. I knew better than to protest my innocence, it was pointless.

Whether or not Mr Last took pity on me I’ll never know. Perhaps he knew of my situation at home, my older sisters were or had been in attendance at the school. Or maybe the stars just aligned in my favour for once. But whatever the reason, I escaped physical punishment by the skin of my teeth. I was, however, left in no doubt as to what would happen if I were to behave in such a manner again, especially towards a girl.

Thinking back now, that must have confused me. We’re taught that physical aggression is wrong and that violence towards women and girls is rightly unacceptable. So how did that square with what I witnessed at home? For clarification, I’m not excusing what I did and it was totally right that I got pulled up on it and neither am I suggesting that aggression towards women or girls is acceptable in any situation. Perhaps confused is the wrong word because I knew that my father’s behaviour was unacceptable. Anyway, it was a harsh lesson, but an entirely necessary one, especially given what I would regularly witness or be on the receiving end of.

Our move to Ideford would see me leave Inverteign and head to Bishopsteignton, which sounds not unlike the title of a new Sunday night period drama on the BBC. By this point, I had already had a short spell at Colgate Primary School after Mum’s initial aborted attempt at leaving the family home and I wonder if chopping and changing schools at this point in my life made it difficult for me to establish and maintain friendships, something that I’ve always struggled with.

At Bishopsteignton, things were arguably much smoother than they had been previously, although the long bus journey to and from school meant that I was having to get up even earlier, tricky during the summer months after evenings in the pub garden and the subsequent late-night conversations.

My memories of the actual school itself are patchy, vague recollections of queueing for thin and watery semolina with a blob of strawberry jam floating in the centre swim among half-remembered conversations and the occasional misdemeanour. What I do remember is that I had an affinity with books and was good at spelling, while plenty of time on my own nurtured my love of writing stories.

P.E. was generally fun, although I remember one ‘gym’ session where we had to vault over the long ‘horse’. I’m sure those of you of a certain age will remember it, it was always put out ‘lengthways’ and would essentially lead to young boys attempting to clear it with a jump off a badly placed springboard and more often than not end with them squashing their knackers as they landed with a thump on the padded top.

There I was in my ill-fitting kit and black pumps (which, believe me, was a blessing in those days as the punishment for forgetting one’s P.E. kit was to do the lesson in one’s pants – boy or girl, they didn’t tend to discriminate when shaming kids), staring nervously at the springboard and the seemingly enormous obstacle in front of me. I’d previously struggled to get anywhere near the end of the horse, let alone completely over it. On this occasion, filled with a mixture of fear, hope and resignation, I charged off towards the springboard and timed my jump perfectly, riding a wave of elation as I soared into the air like a scrawny eagle, almost clearing the vault. Almost. I caught my arse parts on the back end of it and felt an intense stab of pain shoot up my cheeks and spine before landing flat on my face on the floor beyond, unable to do anything but roll around and wail in agony for a good two minutes. Eventually, I was helped up and guided towards the school office, my face streaked with tears and what little dignity I retained shattered into tiny pieces.

Dignity at primary school is, in my opinion, highly overrated. School discos were the perfect environment to suffer both shame and embarrassment. I’ve never been a dancer but have always been reasonably happy with my lack of rhythm and co-ordination, settling instead for looking ‘thoughtful and sophisticated’ while cradling a pint on the outskirts of the dance floor. I love the thought of dancing, of being able to express oneself with finely timed and co-ordinated movements but I just can’t do it and am convinced, probably with good reason, that any time I attempt to move around in time to music that I look like a poorly co-ordinated twat suffering random body cramps.

But once, in my innocence and naivety, I decided to give it my best shot. I couldn’t tell you for one minute what I was wearing to the aforementioned disco, but aside from a time that I will come to later, I’ve never really been blessed with sartorial elegance and neither were we particularly well off as a family. In all honesty, I was probably still in my school uniform, but with Adam and the Ants blasting out of the DJ’s speakers I was enthused enough by the rhythm of Goody Two Shoes to ‘throw some shapes’ if I may be permitted to use the slightly more modern vernacular. Quite what those shapes were is anybody’s guess, but I suspect that they were being thrown along with a healthy dose of undiagnosed autism and probably appeared more than a little camp. Undaunted by my lack of skill and rhythmical co-ordination, I continued to whirl about like a boy possessed, who had just been plugged into the mains, careering into two nearby teachers and catching two plastic cups full of squash with my flailing arms, sending them soaring into a nearby crowd of girls who were shuffling about in a far less enthusiastic but ultimately more graceful and attractive manner than I had been managing. Soggy screams cut across Adam Ant and his ponderings about exactly what we did if we didn’t drink or smoke and once again I found myself dragged from the scene of the crime, my shoes sliding forlornly through the trail of spilled squash and my dancing career entering a pretty permanent hiatus.

One other thing that I discovered at Bishopsteignton was that I had a natural propensity for finding trouble. There comes a time in the life of every primary school child where they make that wonderful discovery that their teachers are real people and as such, have real names. Those of us who are or were deficient in the social skills that seem to come so readily to the ‘confident, symmetrical geniuses’ that all classes have would inevitably come a cropper when making this discovery. Whether that be falling out of reality upon seeing a teacher out of their natural environment and doing something mundane like the weekly shop and being unable to complete a coherent…whatever or worse. And I’m sure that you can guess that I inadvertently took the path marked ‘Here be Dragons’.

We’ve all had those horror moments in class, haven’t we? You know the ones I mean, when you accidentally call your teacher Mum or Dad or a variation thereof. We had a new teacher arrive at the school, Mr Glenny, who took over the football team from lovely, but elderly, Mr Dunn as well as some of his classes. One morning, after being entrusted with returning the register to the school office after registration, I handed over the manilla folder, which in my head contained top secret documents, as one of the office staff was talking to the aforementioned suavely attired Mr Glenny, with his immaculately coiffured side-parting and his softly spoken voice.

‘Morning, Dave,’ said she, full of the joys of spring and perhaps with a slightly flirtatious tone in her voice. That last part might be completely untrue, but it reads a little better and all good stories need a love interest.

I gimbled in fascination at the discovery of my teacher’s first name. This was incredible. This was bigger than finding The Ark of the Covenant, more wondrous than the treasure of Sierra Madre and second only to finding white dog poo in the playground. I was Indiana Jones without the whip and fetching hat. I was suddenly in possession of information that might make me cool.

Cool has always been overrated and ultimately unattainable in my book, but in that moment this previously unheard knowledge made me king of the school. I strutted back to the classroom, if such a thing is possible at the age of ten, down corridors that glistened in glorious sunshine and I’m pretty certain that somewhere a crowd roared in celebration at the gladiator’s return. This was A MOMENT! A moment not to be wasted. Of course, that information was eager to escape from my tightly pursed lips, keen to be set free to be whispered in cloakrooms and giggled at beneath the basketball posts. But this wasn’t just a moment, this was MY moment, so the timing had to be perfect. Somehow, I held on to this forbidden gem until that afternoon, I navigated the treacherous territory of break and lunch time to get to the afternoon lesson.

Homework had been submitted a couple of days previously and as was the case when it had been marked we were called up to the front of the class to collect our books. I sat in silence as those with surnames beginning with the letters A-G were called up ahead of me, a confident smirk upon my lips, content that I was about to wow everyone with my secret intelligence on the relatively new teacher…

‘Groves…’ My friend, Cameron, trotted obediently to Mr Glenny’s desk to collect his book before turning on his heel with a quiet ‘thank you, Mr Glenny’ and returning to his seat.

‘Hepburn…’ I was out of my seat like a shot, feet gliding across the thin, brown carpet, certain that I was about to be lauded among the hallways of Bishopsteignton forever, that this moment of mine would be the talk of the town forever. I reached out to take the tatty, pink book, butterflies bursting into existence in my stomach.

‘Thank you…Dave…’

Silence fell in an instant where there should have been raucous laughter. If the absence of grinning faces and excited murmurings didn’t instantly tell me that I had massively fucked up, the hand on my collar dragging me out of the classroom did. The lesson was short and sharp but the punishment was effective. No football training after school and I missed the next match a week later. But I swear that as I looked down at my shoes, my shoulders slumped as I issued a mumbled apology that Dave Glenny had a smirk and just the tiniest trace of admiration on his face.

Copyright Alec Hepburn, 2026.