An EducationWe weren’t bad boys, just mischievous; Martin and I spent a lot of time visiting the Headmasters office while at secondary school.
Back from summer break we had a lot to catch up on – lessons were far from our mind.
Sometime over the holidays Martin had discovered that ‘p****’ (as in cat) was also slang for a ladies private area – a fact we found hilarious.
Paula, a plain girl sat in front of us for the last lesson of the day; just before the teacher arrived I tapped her on the shoulder, “Hey, Paula, do you have a p****?” Her reply was enthusiastic, “Yes, I have a big ginger one that loves being stroked!”
Once again we found ourselves outside Mr Slattery’s office awaiting punishment for the common crime of laughing in class.
We discussed our excuses, but Slattery’s command to enter was swift, leaving us
un-rehearsed and nervous. Just as we were about to enter, Martin turned to me and said desperately, “Don’t make me laugh Clancey, cos I might fart!”
Slattery began his remonstrations while we looked at the floor. Martin’s words were tickling me and I struggled to stifle a giggle. My mouth was clamped shut, but my shoulders started to shake; Slattery noticed, “Now Clancey, don’t bother with the water works, crying will not get you off the hook.” That was it – I exploded! My laughter filled his office and infected Martin, whose mirth came with snotty tears. We were given suspension, 2 weeks – harsh.
We came back changed; told we were bad for each other and kept apart. By the time school finished Martin and I were strangers, our shared laughter a distant and dangerous memory.