Schooldays are the best days of your life?

Reaching certain milestones can often spark periods of reflection.

The other day I heard an old, once popular, phrase - ‘schooldays are the best days of your life’.

Uh? It certainly didn’t apply to me. I sat thinking about school. They were truly terrible days.

My parents paid for my schooling, first at four, for a brief spell before moving up to Scotland, and then again at 11, when we returned to England. I hasten to add they didn’t do the same for my sisters. It was a man-only world in those days, wasn’t it?

My secondary school experience was of bullies (senior pupils and staff) who enjoyed administering corporal punishment. Learning came second to discipline.

The school ethos was that we must accept England was Church of England in faith and Conservative through and through. This was despite a Labour government. Parents should only read broadsheet newspapers and every boy will enjoy playing rugby, even if he’s awful at it, and it’s a cold, grey, frosty day in January.

Prefects wore gowns – as did the teaching staff – to signify they had power, rather than being desperate to keep chalk off their suits.

Boys could not walk on the quad grass or put their hands in their pockets. As a result, I had to circumnavigate the local park while other boys cycled across it, and handkerchiefs took root in untouched pockets until someone else found them.

The school was about as out of touch with the 60s as any institution could be. It confused and frightened me from the moment I first walked into the place. I felt completely dumbfounded when they asked me to choose between Classical Greek and Latin classes. Considering my age, it’s probably the dumbest thing anyone has ever asked me.

Girls were out of bounds, along with soccer, freedom of thought, expression of view, answering back, and left-wing novelists.

So, I was continually in trouble with the hierarchy and also with my parents, who continued to remind me how much my schooling cost them until I was 60.

Eventually I left, after the school wrote to Mater and Pater, suggesting there wasn’t much point in my returning the following term. I now had a couple of O-Levels and extremely disappointed and angry parents.

For my part, I experienced a sense of relief being out of the school gates for good, although I acknowledged the need to improve my circumstances.

So, I went to college. I passed four O-Levels in one academic year, then enrolled in a Business Studies diploma course and enjoyed the next two years of studying. I passed with credit. Simultaneously, I passed two A levels in one year. I concluded I wasn’t a failure as had been (repeatedly) suggested.

What changed? I guess I reacted positively to my new environment and teaching style. My lecturers encouraged me rather than bullied me. My lecturers didn’t castigate me in front of my peers or tell me I was dim. Learning became a positive experience. I could express myself. I can honestly say I enjoyed my days at that small college.

After college, I moved into the newspaper industry as a trainee journalist. It was a three-year training period. Every few months, the editor packed me off to Sheffield for six weeks’ studying. I loved it, so much so that I was ready to qualify six months earlier than planned.

But that school could be a happy place still interests me greatly. If only it could be a carefree, positive experience for youngsters. It’s so sad if it isn’t, but I can honestly say I haven’t heard many people say good things about school.

So, I asked Mrs B whether her schooldays were the happiest days of her life.

‘Err, yes, I think they were.’ She smiled briefly, then, a little flustered, added hastily: ‘Until I met you, of course.’