Me – Early Me Was a Bit of a Worrier!

So, somehow Mum has still got copies of my primary school reports. Not sure how. I mean – we emigrated from England with a suitcase each. Lived in a caravan for 6 months. As well as this Mum and Dad’s house burnt down – yet she still has them.

My primary school years took place at Grange Primary School in Bermondsey, Southwark. I went there till I was in my last year of primary school, just started that school year when we left for Australia in September 1977. Have gone back a couple of times – once when I was at university and once as a principal of DPS. Both times the staff were amazingly friendly and took me for a tour and had a good old chin wag. The school is now one of the better performing in the area, but in about 2000 it was ranked by an OFSTED appraisal as the worst school in the UK. It was closed for a bit and a whole new leadership team were placed at the school to fix things up. Thankfully that and a whole heap of money spent on modernising the school has meant things have been on the up for this institution. Hopefully things continue to improve for them!

Anyways …. A few years ago Mum shows me the reports and to my amazement the first four years of my primary school resulted in reports from four different teachers saying I worried too much. Now there was either a conspiracy going on to wind me up (wouldn’t surprise me “bloody teachers”) or there was something in this. Now I’m a great believer in Six Principles of Nurture. One of the principles of nurture is “ all behaviour is communication” so what was I communicating as a youngster and has some unresolved “trauma” resulted in me always being a bit of a worrier – even as a BDOB!

So it got me thinking …… and I reckon the age of about 6/7 ish was a bit of a rough one for me.

In no particular order ….

I was run over by a car. Spent some time in Guys Hospital. Was playing run back and forth across Willow Walk (a main road) with my mate Terry. Got clipped by a car. Remember vividly the ambulance drive – Nan was with me and the ambulance officer was asking me my name, Mum’s name, address and every time I answered he would check it was correct with Nan. No major injuries, although I did share a room with a young burns victim who had to sit in a high chair the whole time to protect his burns. Even slept there.

I had to have my tonsils out. For years I had suffered terribly and regular gallons of pink Penicillin was poured down my gullet! So off the Belgrave Hospital for Children in Kensington. A stone’s throw from both Kensington Park and Kensington Oval (The Oval for those interested in cricket). I remember Dad taking me to the oval to watch some cricket from the top of one of his work lorries when he was a glazier (over the wall – no payment for tickets thank you!). A test match England were involved in – but when we got there the scheduled 5 day game was over in 3 and we had missed out! Anyway, the whole experience was awful. I remember bed hopping around the ward – getting closer to being in “The Beds” that meant you were next. When waiting I realised every single kids that came out of surgery wet the bed afterwards. Those of us waiting all vowed for this not to happen to us! But alas! On waking up and needing to go to the toilet, no matter how hard I tried, not a sound would come out of my sore, swollen throat and inevitably I wet the bed. As did everyone else. The jelly and ice cream was nice though! I did make a temporary friend for a couple of days. There was this young lad who was immunocompromised and had a room to himself, not allowed in the main ward. I was the only one allowed in with him – made me feel kind of special, even though I wasn’t really sure what was going on.

My Grandad had a heart attack. Now as mentioned in an earlier post – my Grandad was an important person in my life. I spent a lot of time with him, especially when Nan looked after me when Mum went back to work after having me. So when he fell ill I was devastated! But when I was told he had to go away to the seaside for convalescence I was heart broken (mainly because I had no idea what convalescence was). Convalescent homes were built away from the cities in the UK, in the countryside or in seaside towns where there was plenty of fresh, healthy air. My Grandad spent some time recovering in one after his heart attack – but I remember it rocking my world for a bit!

My sister was born (been causing me trauma ever since – love ya sis xx!) which in itself was a bit of a shock. I did have my parents and family all to myself for over seven years and along comes this cute baby to cramp my style! Not at all, the issue was Mum nearly dying. Her immune system went nuts when she had my sister and she had to have an emergency splenectomy. This kept her in hospital for quite some time. Not only did she come out with a new baby but a fairly spectacular scar from the operation!

But probably the hairiest thing happened one afternoon when I went to football training with my Dad. Me and my mate Terry (yep hit and run Terry) went to Senegal Fields for one of Dads training sessions! Interestingly where Dad trained is now where Millwall Football Club have their stadium “The New Den”. They are my local football team who most of my Mum’s family support – just not me. They also have the worst reputation of any fan base in British football. Any conversation about football hooliganism in Britain will have Millwall Football Club supporters as the worst of the worst! Thankfully, the club is working hard to change this – maybe one day another club will be spoken of instead of this proud SE London one! Anyway the tale is not one of football hooliganism or even football! So whilst Dad was training Terry and I snuck through the fence at the end of the fields and onto the railways lines that ran alongside them. We walked along for a bit when we came across this bloke who exposed himself to us – fully erect. He encouraged us to do things with his erect appendage – I told him to fuck off and that I was going to get my Dad and ran off in the direction of where Dad was training. Leaving Terry to his own devices (yep I just scarpered!). When I got to the hole in the fence, I just froze – in the end too scared to go and tell my Dad incase we got in trouble for going onto the railway tracks. I waited for a while and then went back to find Terry all by himself. He wouldn’t say what had happened and we walked back to the field together in silence. I never told anyone about this until I was an adult and the details are still sketchy! I do know I feel like a real s**tbag for running off on Terry, not my proudest moment. My Nan and Terry’s Mum were neighbours and soon after this my Nan moved house and I lost touch with him (he moved somewhere else as the whole street was being bulldozed and turned into an estate.) Years later when I was about 20 I stayed with my Nan whilst I was on a holiday in the Uk – she mentioned she often saw Terry who was a street sweeper and did her street. Whenever he saw her he always asked after me. She said she thought he lived on the new estate opposite the end of Kintore Way. I tried to find his flat and was assured by neighbours he lived there but never managed to catch him home. Bit sad really – never did say sorry!

No wonder I worried – all that happened to me at the age my granddaughter is now (I was a couple of years younger actually).

Not after sympathy – just telling my story as I remember it! Bit of a bummer this post, I’ll lighten the next one up, promise. Til next time.