10 Life Lessons. Number 7.

A few weeks after my ninth birthday, and with money desperately tight, Dad finally gave his permission for mum to get a job. I know that sounds misogynistic, but that’s how things were back then. As far as dad was concerned, mums job was to look after us kids, his job was to provide enough money so that she could feed and clothe us and pay the household bills so we all had a roof to live under. His conditions were firm, as long as she was there when we went to school and was there when we came back, then it was okay by him. Mum became a dinner lady. Not just any dinner lady. The dinner lady at my school. The school that was just twenty yards from our front door.

You’d think that would be good news.

But she was there from 10.00 am until 300pm. This could be disastrous for me.

If you were naughty you were made to stand outside the classroom, if you were really naughty, you were sent to the headmaster's office and made to stand outside until he saw fit to see you and give you the cane. Sometimes you could wait for an hour before he called you in.

So mum knew every day if I was naughty and on what scale.

I was no angel. Even though I had jobs to do, I occasionally got into trouble, scuffles, scraps, and fights, even if it wasn’t me that instigated it, all parties would be sent for punishment. But, bless her, she never once mentioned it to Dad.

The plus side, of course, was that I got treated very well by all the dinner ladies. The dishing-out spoons seemed to be bigger for me. Dad was pleased as well because nothing was thrown away. Mum always brought home plenty of leftovers, and on many occasions, I’d recognise the giant piece of meat pie on Dad’s plate as the same that I’d had for lunch.

A new teacher arrived. Mr Brindle. He was young, from up north and had a beard. He looked like a rugby player. He was lodging with one of Mum's friends, another dinner lady in her fifties. He was mad keen on sport and couldn’t understand why our school didn’t have a football team. The answer was simple: we didn’t have any grass. We just had concrete and lots of it. We didn’t have playing fields like some of the posh schools, we just had concrete playgrounds.

But Mr Brindle was determined. He had us running around like headless chickens during our lunch breaks and for half an hour after school. We’d kick a ball up against the wall, then run to the other side of the playground while another kid did the same thing. He gave us all positions. I was inside right? I had no idea what that meant. Inside of what?

A few weeks later we had our first game. Against Monteagle School. Mr Brindle told me it was important to keep my position. So I did, I barely moved all game. We lost 16 -0.

We didn’t have a “Kit” like the other kids. We just turned up in a dark T-shirt and white shorts. Most of us wore our PE plimsolls. Some kids turned up in their dads white pants with a belt to hold them up.

The next game was against the local Church Of England School, again we lost 14-0.

Then, the big one. We were up against the poshest school in the borough, Manor. This school had acres of playing fields, including two full-size football pitches and even a running track. There was no concrete here; there was grass everywhere. These were the kids who had parents who owned their own houses. They even had a proper kit. Blue shirts with a school badge with white shorts. Can you believe it? They even had proper football boots. We lost 24 – 1.

I can’t remember who scored the goal or how we scored, it might have even been an own goal. When we scored, none of us were sure how to celebrate because it had never happened before, so we all just stood and clapped.

On Monday morning at assembly, after hymns, Mr Wood, our Headmaster, got up on stage and announced in his big booming voice that he wanted all the football team to stand up. We did. Then he told the whole school that we had scored a goal against Manor Junior School. The teachers began to clap, and suddenly the whole school was clapping and cheering. We felt like champions! He never once mentioned the score, just that we’d scored a goal against the posh boys.

They were great times, but Mr Brindle was gone in six months, and we never played football again.

Life Lesson Number Seven. Forget the negatives, concentrate on the positives.