Swot

Swot and Softy. The two words that I remember being associated with me - pre 11 years old.

School work did come easy to me - there's no doubt. From the age of 5-7 I was put on a class table that needed little attention from the teacher - indeed it was out of sight. I would get my work done in no time at all and spend the rest of the period in question acting out these fantastically detailed imaginations where my friend and I were child spaceheroes who had mechanical bird assistants called Quiet Wings.

At the end of Junior School, aged 11 therefore, I remember the teacher taking pains to remind us all that at our next schools we wouldn't be the brightest, the fastest, the best at football. Eyes turned to me - which I thought was unfair - I was terrible at football.

There's no doubt either that I was a softy. I hated conflict (I still do) and the closest I got to a fight was what could only be described as a "face off" with another kid - the stress of the instance shook me up so badly that I had to go home.

I was still confident however. I didn't care about being in this group or that group. I did what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. The digs that were taken at me ("he's got pidgeon feet", "he's got the wrong bag/coat") were easy to brush off and my relative dearth of friends, every now and then, I don't remember bothering me. It did bother the teachers it seemed - I was shoe-horned into the second eleven football team (a disaster for all concerned) as well as the chess team (ditto). Such tribulations I, more or less, took in my stride - the kids didn't hate me, they didn't much like me in their droves either.

The parents' role is always interesting in the name-calling/labelling debate. "You don't want to be a softy like him" I recall a mother telling her kid, about me. Her son's, at the moment, unemployed and onto his second marriage. She must be so proud.