  Laying flat on my back in the grass, looking upwards, the sun was high in the sky. I tried to focus, just enough, to run in the opposite direction, but to no avail. Everything was hazy, pulsating back and forth, a fog descending across my line of vision, rippling outwards distorting the surrounding panorama. Gently, I lifted my head from the ground, using my elbows as leverage, steadying my ascent. Pain shot down the right side of my face; sharp, intense. I gritted my teeth together tightly, as the throbbing shot across my jaw. My right elbow collapsed as I rolled to one side; slipping down the hill hitting my head ever harder, I began to tumble downwards. Rolling faster and faster, I hit the bottom with an abrupt thud, smacking my forehead on a wooden bench, placed strategically at the end of the playground, breaking my fall. Dazed and bewildered, I hesitantly opened my eyes; I could see the misty green hue of the hill above. Without moving my head I looked over my right side, I had fallen on my arm. A trickle of blood from underneath my wrist, flowed slowly onto the paving slab, where I lay unceremoniously, bedraggled and unkempt. I was numb, incapacitated, there was no pain, just confusion and shock. Gradually my eyes rolled backwards and everything went dark. I woke suddenly, sitting bolt upright, grabbing my head with my hand as I did so. Rubbing it carefully, I tried to find the source of the pain; a rather large lump, tender to touch and tingling, was smarting from the impact at the bottom of the hill. I glanced downwards, there was a bandage on my wrist, blood was beginning to soak through the gauze; I could feel the wound bubbling underneath. My shorts were dirty, the right-hand pocket ripped and dangling, held on only by a sliver of lining below. My tank top was covered in grass, and those sticky corn like darts we used to find in the undergrowth, while building a den in the fields surrounding the school. I placed my head gently back down on the bed, furtively looking around the small room. I spotted the School nurse in the corner, her back turned to one side. She was a large lady, friendly but firm; her grey hair was tied back in a ponytail, accentuating her rather gargantuan face. She wore no makeup or jewellery; flat shoes, wrinkled stockings and a large bobble cardigan over her nurses uniform, held together with a small watch pinned to her chest, completed her look. Her chubby hands were rustling in the drawer in front of her, finally producing a small black bottle and some cotton wool. Turning to face me, she smiled, walking over to my side. Looking up at her, I began to cry; Not uncontrollably, just a small stream of tears flowing down my cheeks. She raised her eyebrows, shaking a finger in front of my face, tutting in her wake. Placing the small bottle on the table next to the bed, she removed a hanky from her sleeve; wiping my face vigorously, she sighed, repeating the words, ‘No no no, we don’t do that!’ I pushed her away, again and again, annoyed at her continued persistence. After the third attempt, she tapped the back of my hand, rather taken aback, I closed my eyes tightly, avoiding her gaze. A swab of iodine to my brow, some butterfly stitches to my arm and a quick wash down, I was ready to fight another day! Aware of my limitations, I never again ended up at the bottom of the hill; A hard lesson learnt at the beginning of the day.   
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  A trusted middle aged woman, who had dedicated her life to the children she taught; dressed in twin set and pearls, tight fitting light tweed jacket and accessorised with a brooch on her left lapel. Her sensible court shoes were patent leather, shiny and gleaming, just like her deep set eyes; hiding behind a pair of thick 1970s spectacles, that usually hung around her neck, on a golden chain. This was my first teacher; a lady I have fond memories of. She was patient, firmly spoken, clear and articulate; her air of authority, respected and rarely questioned. As a young boy attending my first class, Mrs Brooks was the best I could have hoped for; others were not so lucky. She was unassuming, approachable, a little dour but enthusiastic in her role; a position she relished, a job she loved. As a five year old boy, I felt secure in her presence; important during those first few years, away from home and the safety of a Mothers arms. The caretaker pulled his wooden cart with T shaped handle, along the echoing corridors of the school; wheels squeaking, clanking as he went about his business. Breathing heavily, muttering to himself under his breath, he diligently delivered the warm quarter pint glass bottles, of Co-op milk, to each class. The classroom door would spring open, our eyes averted briefly, as he left the rattling crate of blue top, perched precariously in a corner. I hated this time of day; warm milk was just not palatable. My stomach churned at the thought of having to drink yet more of this white stuff; feeling queasy, gulping deeply, anticipating frantically! Milk would forever be the bane of my life, the smell of it, made worse from the heat of the day; sun pouring through the great expanse of glass encasing the school. The bell signaled morning break; the silence of the room suddenly became loud and noisy, as chairs were scraped along the wooden parquet floor. Children began chattering to friends on the other side of the table, a play fight by the door, a handball thrown in haste; all the while, Mrs Brooks calming the fray. The milk monitors walked to the back of the class, taking each small bottle in turn, handing them out to each of us, without exception. In front of me was also a straw, used to pierce the foil top, spitting residue over my freshly laundered clothes, lingering on my turtleneck knitwear, proudly sported each morning. The liquid soaked through the wool, as I tried to brush it away; a familiar odour protracted, until I could leave at the end of the day! I sat there looking at the bottle for a minute or two, thinking about how I could drink the contents fast enough and make the taste more appetising. Gently, not wanting to upset a single drop, I removed the top and straw, looking down at the milk inside; jiggling the bottle gently, left to right. Gripping the flagon tightly, I retched ever so slightly, as the rim of the bottle touched my lips. I closed my eyes systematically, pinched my nose securely, and quickly poured the opaque white liquid down my throat, spilling most of it in my wake. It wasn’t unusual for me to make a quick exit to the toilet at this point, roughly putting my head under the tap, drinking water as fast as I could, trying to take the taste away. As I look back with affection, at those halcyon days; the lack of stress and worry, playing in the fields, so green and lush in this new and wondrous World. I am reminded that not everything was great back then; bad memories loitering longer. I have never drunk milk since that time and was glad when Mrs Thatcher ‘The Milk Snatcher’ took it away. A difficult part of childhood remembered with fondness, as I write this memory today.   
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