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As I sat just outside room four, my gaze wandered to the wall opposite. The large clock at the end of the corridor told me that Mrs Honeycomb was running at least ten minutes behind her schedule. I wondered if all clocks installed in schools were standard issue, as they all looked, and sounded the same. Heavy black rim, large white face with black numerals, and the loudest “tick, tock”, possible.
The magnolia painted walls was barely visible underneath the colourful displays of the children’s class work. The thickly covered paintings were curling at the edges, despite the efforts of four extra large lumps of ‘blue tack.’
The door opened, a smiling couple emerged clutching a wad of precious paintings. A very tall, and very young Miss Honeycomb followed them.
“Luke’s Mom? Do come on in,” she said cheerfully.
Miss Honeycomb led me over to a group of very small, melamine-topped tables and chairs. On top of the tables was an assortment of coloured plastic trays. Each tray bore the name of a child and was packed to ca
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Every morning, after Mrs Smith had taken the register she would pick a child to take the register back to the office. The pattern was always drawn in the left hand margin and would usually be a letter from the alphabet used in repetition.
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. The begging for the honour of cleaning the blackboard would start, and so would the tears. The child awarded this duty would take the register to the school office and collect a plate of apple slices for the morning break. The uniform of the day was to wear one of our fathers discarded shirts as a ‘cover up’. The parquet flooring had a glossy surface built up over the years by the same loving attention as the desks, but this time supplied by Mr Knox the caretaker.
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