…Edward brought in some Victorian pottery to school this morning
in a big box and fooled everyone except me and James Woodward
into thinking it was his gerbil.
Actually when he took the pieces out they looked so modern that
we all thought he had smashed up all his mum’s pudding bowls
and brought them to school.
We had curry for dinner.
It was so hot that we needed about 10 glasses of water to
remove the tangy taste.
We did alliterations this afternoon.
Alliterations are words in a sentence that must all start with
the same letter or sound, for example:
One wet wallyish whale wondered about worms while wishing
about wigs walking the waltz in Wiltshire.
Mrs Gibson called me an “intellectual”.
I spelt [sic] that word after looking it up in
The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole…
My teacher made this declaration in front of the whole class, but my embarrassment was tempered by the fact that everyone, including me, wasn’t entirely sure what she meant. I had a fairly good idea what an “intellectual” was, but mercifully we were all at an age where things like self-deprecation and self-awareness counted for nothing. Had such a scene happened in, say, a couple of years time, I would have crumbled with mortification and been mocked by my peers for the rest of the term. Thank heavens for ignorance which, on this occasion, was bliss.
Even now I don’t know why Mrs Gibson said what she did.