Once upon a long time ago, there came at long last, my starting day for school. It wasn't exactly a disaster but it came very close.
Almost on wakening I remember the day - but too, the fact that Sarah of the brawny arms and rolled up sleeves was to take me. Dad had to be at work, and Mother was kept very busy with Alice and Dick the baby.

Sarah could tell them my date of birth and other things they might want to know that I might not know, but Sarah would as she had been with me almost from the moment of my birth.
As it actually came about Sarah arrived all dressed up in what Mother called a 'costume' and looking more like a Sunday-School teacher, in 'Sunday-best' than ever I had seen her before - or after for that matter. I almost felt proud of her and would have been had she not firmly gripped my shoulder and as firmly propelled me forward and forbade me to talk.

That was the start of it. At the school she left me high and dry with Miss Ecclestone, and strode, seemingly proudly off and away - leaving me now as a 'mixed infant'.
So, I was led away through a bead curtain and met other boys and girls waiting for us to join them and so complete the class. I think I lost my freedom from that moment; learned to stop talking, to fold my arms, to march, to stand to attention, to raise my hand to get permission to ask a question, and to sit down the moment I finished asking.

It was all so exacting - and no Nellie to guide or help me.

Before we settled down we, the newcomers, were taken away from the body of the class and led to a corner where a rather large and lifelike, though brighter coloured rocking-horse and a low rocking-cradle for two were.
The boys rode the rocking-horse and the girls the cradle. Riding the rocking-horse I sat remote and lonely - below, two girls rocked the cradle, exclaimed, laughed and chattered.
I was beginning to appreciate a lesson I had learned both early and consistently with my family - that pleasure and most things had to be shared to be enjoyed.
I looked down on Hilda Green who lisped and simpered, and Martha Fishwick who scarcely spoke but both laughed, chattered and giggled together and I rode my high horse - remote and removed even from the other boys.

Worse was to come. I endured introductions to new subjects and got used to the squeak - the awful squeak of slate pencil on slate sheet - when a break came. No-one had told me of playtime or lunch breaks (dinner then was mid-day and followed a regular routine of breakfast, dinner, tea and supper).
Anyhow as it was, I mistook playtime for hometime and hurried home, taking a short-cut that later was forbidden. Mother was aghast at seeing me and grabbed me, hurriedly explained the pattern and order and sent me back - pushing me to impress the need of urgency. I got back just in time, but I think Miss Ecclestone had noticed - I soon learned she was infinitely wise, she saw round corners as well as under desks and even heard the lowest of whispers. She pointed out that playtime would have been a nice time to eat my 'lunch', as eating or even chewing was not allowed in class. So much was not allowed it became tedious.

The same day I was given a task of 'silent reading' as Sarah had told Miss Ecclestone I could read. It was explained I was to read it quietly and by myself, this constituted silent reading and she would ask me questions on what I had read later.
I read solidly through the given task but taking it syllable by syllable - had read giant as 'gie-ant' - so when questioned about a giant I denied all knowledge of it. The error was pointed out, truly great was my chagrin and my confidence went.

Lastly there was 'skipping around the May-pole'. For the life of me I couldn't skip. No way, no how could I get the hang of it and confided to Hilda Green that I didn't like skipping. Shortly after - when I was stood a slight way off from them - I heard Hilda say to Miss Ecclestone "Billy Birchall doesn't like skipping" and Miss Ecclestone replying "Billy Birchall doesn't like skipping because Billy Birchall can't skip". I heard and could not, and did not deny.
It came to an end as all things - good or bad - do, and I met Nellie on the way home - she from the big 'Girls' and I from the 'Mixed Infants'. I told her of my troubles. She told me not to mind and that she would teach me how to skip after tea.

True to her word she persevered and, despite my awkwardness and stupidity and it taking an awful long time, she did teach me and we skipped hand in hand all the way from Barnes Road (near to the School) to home. I had started to skip when Nellie sensed it, ran and grabbed my hand, and in perfect time and rhythm skipped me along with her. My heart swelled with pride nigh to bursting. Years after came a war and on the eve of my call-up I was remembering every detail of the incident and wrote in blank verse:

"Who knows when we may fare forth together again
Like two happy, carefree children
Who take each other by the hand
And run and skip - and don't know why?"

When we did we were remembering subconsciously! I know that - now!

The next day I went to school on my own. I passed several children on the way. I ate my thinly sliced jam butty for lunch at playtime. In the afternoon when I saw the ribbons being handed out from the base of the maypole I confided to Miss that I liked the weaving of the colours and how it was brought about by the music, the skipping and the under and over of the ribbons and - could I skip please? She nodded and never was a boy prouder or enjoyed the skipping more. Miss Ecclestone smiled. Hilda Green cheered!
What man could want more?

The school was never a frightening place again. Almost every day after that I enjoyed. The first was the worst.

There are a lot of morals to be found in this tale and I leave you to find them, because despite what Harold Skane said about the jogging - Bill (I've lost the 'y' over the years) is old and tired and, really and truly this time, can't skip - but enjoyed remembering when he could.