I do return to my old village, every so often, and so I did . . . I don’t know why, because invariably the bad things come flooding back, not the good ones. Passing by my primary school, I went in to see my old teacher, only to learn that she had died two years ago, about eight months after I last saw her. She was always incredibly kind to me when nobody else was, and she would let me stay indoors at break-times and help her tidy the classroom because I was being bullied anywhere else. And she would tell my parents on parents evenings that they should be very proud of me, and whilst I couldn’t and can’t see any reason why that should have been so (and nor could they, I shouldn‘t think), the fact that she would say it meant an awful lot. I wasn’t in any way a memorable child, or even one that warranted any comment, but occasionally she made me forget that, which was and is invaluable.

I don’t know where these innate assumptions that some things were always there and always will be come from, but sometimes they are yanked away, leaving nothing but shock and the naked realisation that we should say what we mean and what we want to be heard. While we have the time to do it.

Thankyou, Mrs. Rutland, wherever you are and if you somehow know (and I like to think you do) . . . infancy would not have even been bearable without you - I’m really going to miss you - and I’m sorry I didn’t say so sooner. Thankyou.

x

(It has as much tune as I have talent at composing ditties, but I did mean it).