My Secret Diary by Jacqueline Wilson

Author:Jacqueline Wilson [Wilson, Jacqueline]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Juvenile Nonfiction, General
ISBN: 9781407048307
Google: pJXdzuKOwcMC
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2009-03-11T18:30:00+00:00

9

School

I hated school. I didn't mind Latchmere, my primary school, but I couldn't bear my five years at Coombe County Secondary School for Girls. I've been back to Coombe quite a few times to give talks to the girls. I've even presented the prizes at the end of term. I've talked about my school days and I've been polite and tactful, because Coombe now is a very different school. It's warm and relaxed and all the girls (and now there are even boys in the sixth form) seem cheerful. They get excellent exam results and they're very sensitive to any girl with special needs. They tick every box and get ten out of ten, full marks for a fine school.

Coombe way back in 1960 was a very different sort of school. All schools were different then. There were pointless rules, fierce regulations about uniform, a strict standard of behaviour. You were expected to conform. I've never been very good at that.

I loathed most of the lessons too. I disliked PE most of all. Every Friday morning I'd wake up and stick my head out from under my eiderdown, straining my ears. What total joy if I heard rain pattering against the window! Friday was double hockey in our yellow shirts and green shorts – 'G-r-e-e-n and yellow, G-r-e-e-n and yellow, oh Mum be quick, I'm going to be sick, just lay me down to die,' we sang in the changing rooms.

I had no idea how to play hockey. Miss French, the formidable new PE teacher, had told us the rules, but I'd never listened properly. I simply ran when she blew the whistle – away from the ball and the likely whacks from everyone else's hockey sticks. Then she'd blow the whistle again and shout, 'Jacqueline Aitken! What are you playing at?'

I didn't want to play at anything. If it poured with rain, making the playing fields too muddy, we couldn't have double hockey. We had country dancing instead, and I adored any kind of dancing.

Hockey was the worst torture, but netball was almost as bad, shivering on the court in the middle of winter, our bare legs beetroot red. I couldn't see the ball until it practically knocked my head off. One day it caught the side of my glasses and sent them skew-whiff, so I went around looking lopsided for weeks.

The scariest ball of all was the hard little rounders ball. Miss French became fed up with me lurking way out on the edge of the pitch as a deep fielder. For one terrible term she insisted I man first post at every game. This was a key position. It was vital that you caught the ball to get the batter out. Miss French was such a sadist. She knew I couldn't catch the ball to save my life.

'Come on, Jacqueline Aitken, wake up, watch that ball, catch it, catch it, catch it!' she screamed.

I dropped it. I dropped it. I dropped it.

The batting girl hared round second post, third post and was home with a rounder before I'd stopped fumbling.

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