Congratulations to everyone who is under 18, or a teacher, and thus limbering up for a six-week break. You’ve made good life choices.
I’m still in the office, kicking my printer. Though I don’t miss everything from the halcyon days of school. Around about now I’m haunted by the smell of cut grass and white liquid chalk.
Read more We all need six weeks holiday
That musty airless pong of changing rooms. The sweat trickling down my back. Sports Day. Just typing those words plunges me back into nylon gym knickers. And netball.
As an adult I enjoy exercise. And yet the words “I’m not sporty” all too easily spring from my lips. A pre-emptive disclaimer in case anyone even mentions team games.
I can still feel the sheer terror of the time the rounders ball came straight at me during an inter-class match.
God knows what I was doing near the team. Character building, or some other prescribed pot-psychology.
Despite trying to hide in a remote outpost of the sport’s field, the orb of disaster broke the laws of physics and found me.
I didn’t catch it. Instead I scrabbled in the dry grass, while my entire class screamed at me. Sports Day was like that, but with a bigger audience.
Thankfully I came of age in an era with no camera phones. The thought of biting the dust in the 400m hurdles and being captured for posterity is sickening.
In 20 years, some bitter twerp will tag a fully functioning successful adult in their nightmare Sports Day moment.
Somewhere right now a kid like me is being turned into a gif. And it’ll take longer than six weeks to get over that.
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