I was thinking what piece of reminiscing baggage I could offload after the nice post I wrote about my Nan. I could think of nothing. Then, speaking to friends recently, I remembered an incident from school. Not a fight in the playground or a failed exam. A very short and insignificant classroom lesson I had when I was well under 10 years old.

Actually, the only two, strong recollections I have from my time at Towerbank were being the only kid in my entire class unable to pay to go to school camp. I recall having to spend an entire week on my own with my primary school teacher. Alone. All day in class. I could feel her discomfort. Kids are inexperienced – not stupid.

The other was a project to talk about what your Dad did as a job. I never knew my father and I never missed him. I spent most of my childhood living with Nan and Pa. I liked them – they were good people and kind. I had no “issues” living with them. They were decent, honest people. Pa was always my Dad so there was a “father figure”. Whatever that means.

I told my teacher this. I said “I don’t have a dad”. Millions of kids don’t. Many through illness. Some through accidents but the majority simply because Mum never wanted – or got – the useless sack of shit that you knew, secretly, your real “Dad” was.

So when my time came to make my short speech the teacher intervened. She announced that ‘Christopher’ could not tell us anything about his father. She informed them this was because he did not have a father. He was “illegitimate’. She spelt it out. There was no murmur or comment from the kids. I find it incredible now to think I was the only one in this position but as recently as the early 70’s this was still a taboo.

So, instead, I spoke about my Grandad.

Nothing much was said except outside by one other boy. I cannot recall if it was Craig or Kevin – for some reason I know it was one of them. He said that the real word for illegitimate was “bastard” and that I should say “bastard”. It do not recollect any malice. It was not said in a nasty way. Whoever it was simply had an older head than mine and was repeating something they felt made them sound “grown up”.

I did not know this word. So I asked at home what it meant. My Nan smiled and said it was such an ugly word and I should not use it. She said I was a “love child”. I still feel better when I think of that.

My friends never again discussed it. I was never taunted. It never became an issue.

Except that over 40 years later when discussing school and listening to how my friends loved those years – I recall it. Which surely says something.