In lower Sixth Form those of us studying French Literature for A Level were invited to the University of Sussex at Brighton for a day of study along side first year undergraduates.

The first session was to be watching a film adaptation of Jean Paul Sartre’s Huis clos followed by a seminar to discuss what we’d just seen. After lunch there was to be a lecture on Sartre and Existentialism.

While I was filling in the form at home I noticed that there were two options for the seminar; English speaking or French speaking. Without hesitation I ticked the French speaking option and next lesson handed the form in.

It didn’t occur to me that I might be the only representative from my school in the seminar; I blithely assumed that everybody else would relish the challenge. It didn’t occur to me to mention my choice to any of my contemporaries either.

On the day we travelled to Brighton in the school’s recently acquired and, frankly ramshackle minibus but somehow we arrived safely. After a brief introductory talk and coffee we went into the main theatre to watch the film.

As we were leaving the theatre I followed the directions for the seminar and a puzzled voice called out “where are you off to, Mac?” Looking back I just said “the seminar, of course; aren’t you lot coming?” and carried on walking.

I was the only one who’d opted to attend the French speaking seminar and for a brief moment I regretted it. Then, deciding that I’d have to live with my choice I tossed a casual “À bientôt” over my shoulder and sauntered off.

The seminar was incredibly tough going and I found myself struggling to put my insights across. The students I was working with were exceptionally helpful and seemed willing to tolerate a rather hubristic sixteen year old. The Lecturer conducting the seminar was very patient as well.

In the end I decided that I’d made the right choice and had gained a great deal from the experience. Reading in French was one thing but thinking in French was a completely different matter.

The journey back to Midhurst was interesting. Opinion seemed to be divided as to whether I was incredibly brave or just astoundingly arrogant. Eventually I grew bored of the whole matter and retreated into a book after muttering the famous words of Sartre.

“L’enfer; c’est les autres.”

Love

When I started this often painful excursion through my formative years I did so with the desire to give as honest a record as possible which necessitates recalling some pretty horrific moments.

I loved Dad and I know that he loved me. Our problem was on a rather more visceral level, we didn’t actually like each other and that’s a much more difficult situation to resolve.

As a teenager I’d get irrationally upset by trivial things such as his whistling while he shaved and when he came down for breakfast. That’s hardly a failing on his part, now is it? What’s wrong with a man being happy in his life and his work?

For his part Dad completely misconstrued my dislike of being touched as rejection. By the age of eleven I flinched from contact with any man or older boy but of course nobody had any idea why.

When I kicked over the traces Dad reacted the only way he knew; genuinely believing that strict discipline and corporal punishment were the only things that would keep me in line. At the time this was accepted thinking when dealing with errant boys.

For my part I provoked him beyond reason many times and could hardly claim to have been surprised when the belt made contact with bare flesh. That said the punishments were painful and, in the nature of their delivery humiliating.

Not being a parent or a teacher I can only imagine how frustrating it must be to deal with a supercilious and patronising child who simply has to have the last word on any subject.

One of our former next door neighbours summed the whole thing up rather neatly when we were talking after Dad’s funeral “I think that stepfathers and stepsons nearly always have problems”.

That may sound simplistic, even trite but fundamentally it was probably an accurate assessment.

I want to dispel one possible misconception. I have never claimed that certain events in my early life ruined it and I certainly don’t regard myself as having failed in any way because of those events.

I’ve had some high profile jobs over the years and have worked for some extremely well known companies. With the exception of being made redundant in 2009 my leaving those jobs has been entirely my decision.

Circumstances changed my young life dramatically, sending me along unexpected and sometimes treacherous paths but they didn’t ruin it.

It’s very easy to get trapped by the linearity of cause and effect; that’s a form of denial. To simply say that X happened and that Y resulted is to deny one’s own contribution.

Yes, the abuse made me angry and depressed but in my last year at primary school there was something else weighing heavily on my mind. My best friend, the boy I’d known since we were 3 wasn’t coming to Grammar school with me; none of my friends were.

Looked at through mature eyes that may seem trivial but to 10 year old Malcolm, losing the unfailing love and protection that Rich gave me was a cruel blow.

Before I even got there I was scared of and hated the school for which I was destined and had probably already made a subconscious decision to be unhappy.

Love

That holiday was quite an adventure itself so I’m not going to dwell on it here, that will keep for another day. I’ll just say that I had the best 3 weeks I could remember and really didn’t want to come home so I stayed at my friend’s house for a few days and his Mum did all our accumulated laundry.

By the time I got home it was well into August and time was running out. If things didn’t pick up very soon I’d be doomed to going into the Sixth Form at Midhurst and the thought of that made me feel physically sick.

My results arrived with a note from the Head of Year congratulating me on the 100% pass rate and asking me to go in and discuss my A level choices, not something I’d anticipated doing. I dutifully took the bus into Midhurst and went in to see him.

My choices were predictable and he was quite happy with them. Music was inevitable, English Literature was predictable and French Literature was perfectly logical. He just wanted to be sure I understood the workload that Music would bring, the equivalent of an extra 2 subjects.

I reminded him that this was an academic discussion and that all being well the subjects I studied wouldn’t be his concern or that of anybody else at Midhurst. He just looked non-committal.

Worried and beginning to get angry I took the bus home. Once both of my parents were available I demanded answers yes, I demanded them.

Finally some sort of truth came out, they told me there was a concern that if I got the grant for Dartington it might adversely affect my University grant in 2 years time.

I was incandescent and a row started immediately, rapidly reaching the decibel level that guaranteed a painful ending. Desperate to maintain some sort of peace Mum dragged me out of the room and banished me upstairs to calm down.

I didn’t calm down and when I was called back to talk about things I flat out accused them of lying to me, they just didn’t want me to go! They’d just strung me along so I’d achieve exceptional exam results. Well that row ended predictably; I went back to my room subdued and sore.

I faced the ghastly reality that I wasn’t going to get out of Midhurst, I was doomed to spend another 2 years there. I made myself a promise before I eventually went to sleep. If I had to stay at that hideous place then they were going to remember me!

I did go back to Midhurst, into Lower Sixth and at the end of assembly on the first day of term the Headmaster asked if Mr McLachlan would attend him in his office immediately.

I already felt like an utter prick, we didn’t have to wear uniform in Sixth Form and the dress code was pretty loose but Dad had said quite adamantly ‘you’re not going to school looking like a hippie’ and I might as well have been in uniform, I’d had to dress that smartly.

It was obvious that every one was jumping to conclusions, only half an hour into the first day back and I was in trouble already. Throwing my best glare at anybody in range I stalked out of the hall.

He actually tried to be nice, offered his sympathy on the failure of the Dartington plan and hoped that we could develop a rather more amenable relationship over the coming 2 years. I accepted his olive branch with as much grace as I could muster.

At home a few weeks later I demanded an answer. Why didn’t they want me to go to Dartington, why were they so intent on screwing up my life? I finally got the honest, if sickening truth ‘Music isn’t a proper career is it?’ The subtext was all to clear, Music wasn’t a proper career for Me, it didn’t fit with their plans.

I was sent to my room before I had a chance to say anything, probably just as well and I stomped upstairs slamming every door behind me, deliberately inviting retaliation.

Quivering with rage I picked up my music stand and was about to hurl it through the closed window when I thought if I did that then my next move had better be cutting myself so badly with one of the glass shards that an ambulance would be needed.

If the window was opened though, something could go through it quite easily.

Me.

Love

How does a nearly 16 year break something like that to his parents? The only thing to do was talk to the one Master that I completely trusted. The man who’d been my Form and English Master since Second Form.

My fear was that if I simply went home and announced the idea, my parents would just dismiss it as a fantasy and that would inevitably degenerate into a violent confrontation.

Smiling, he pointed out that the most ardent supporter of the whole grand scheme was likely be my Headmaster who frankly didn’t like me.

There was a reason for this antipathy but it’s a story all by itself, one that I will tell because it’s another good example of just how confrontational I could be especially if I was in the right.

All I’ll say here is that I could imagine him being very keen on a proposal that would get me out of his school. I made an appointment to see him.

I arrived outside his office ten minutes ahead of the appointed time having been very careful to obtain written permission from the Master who’s lesson I was missing, I didn’t want some self important prefect finding an excuse to cause friction.

My uniform was immaculate and my hair was neatly combed, I’d even made an extra effort in polishing my shoes the previous evening. At the superficial level I was a model pupil.

Sure enough the Headmaster wasn’t just supportive of the idea, he was positively enthusiastic. It’s a strange feeling to bring someone so much pleasure by telling him his school’s inadequate for a gifted pupil.

It never occurred to me while we were talking that this plan could fail and that he and I would somehow have to plan for another two years of personal confrontation.

He agreed to liaise with Dartington, get all the necessary forms from the local authority and ensure that anything needed from school was forthcoming. My part was to get my parents’ permission.

I waited until an evening when both of them were available and it was just us in the house, not as easy as it sounds. Then I took a very big breath and put the proposal forward.

The anticipated refusal didn’t happen, all they wanted at that point was information. I’d got the prospectus ready for them and told them that the Head knew all about it so all they had to do was contact  him.

When Mum understood the full implications, that I’d be going to boarding school a long way away, she was a little unhappy but I suspected that was a normal maternal reaction.

I hastily reassured her that I did love them but this was such an important opportunity for me to do the one thing that really mattered. I might have been exceptionally good (allegedly brilliant) at some subjects but music was different, it defined who and what I was, I stood up and announced

“I’m a Musician”

They promised to consider the idea, warning that they’d be looking very carefully at all the details. Then they set one non-negotiable condition, I had to pass all my O Levels, absolutely no exceptions.

Satisfied that I had a real chance at my dream I kissed them both, said “thank you” and went to my room to study, although I’ll admit that I did take time off to dream for a little while.

It’s going to take more than one post to tell this story because the details are important.

In February 1969 I sat my mock O levels and everything was wonderful. I passed all of them and got better grades than expected in some. Nobody was surprised that I got top grades in Music, English and French, that was expected of and by me.

What I didn’t know was that a very small group of teachers, the ones that for the main part were worried about me, had been having secret talks. Apparently it had been noticed that I wasn’t happy, I can’t imagine why.

After a long and particularly gruelling session on violin, I was preparing for Grade 6 at the time, my violin teacher asked me if I’d be at all interested in going to Dartington Hall.

Assuming that she meant attending a course similar to Lodge Hill I said yes, of course I’d be interested, how long for?

For the rest of my school days she explained, it was a school specialising in music and performing arts that specifically catered for children who needed more freedom and support to develop exceptional talents.

That felt as though she was doing herself down, she’d never stinted on supporting me and I said as much. Yes, she agreed without a shred of false modesty, she was a very good teacher but she only saw me twice a week. How much better would it be if I had that quality of teaching every day?

Every day, what an amazing prospect! I could already see a problem though, this sort of school sounded expensive and my parents simply couldn’t afford it.

Not necessarily a problem, she assured me. For one thing there were local authority grants available but even better, she wanted to put my name forward for a full fees scholarship.

Wow! I knew I was good, I’d never doubted it but even I wasn’t sufficiently arrogant to believe I might be that good. When I asked if she really thought I could do it she grumpily said that if she didn’t we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

A fair point I conceded, so where did we go from here? She handed me a prospectus for Dartington Hall telling me to read it carefully, we’d talk more at my viola lesson later in the week.

That night I read the prospectus from cover to cover, twice to be certain that I understood everything. Then I sat at my little desk for a very serious think about the full implications of this proposal.

For the idea

I’d be getting the most intense level of music training I could sustain, I would be the only limiting factor

I’d be able to pursue my English and French Literature studies at my own pace being mentored rather than taught

I’d be away from home for whole terms at a time, Dad and I might even be able to get on a bit if I was only home for the holidays

I’d be out of the school where I was so unhappy and which was driving me closer and closer towards a full scale breakdown

Against the idea

I’d be separated from the girl I adored, in a very non-sexual way, and the relationship would probably fizzle out

I’d be separated from my best friend, a boy I’d met in Second Form and with whom I wanted to be much more than friends

I’d be saying goodbye to a few teachers who meant a huge amount to me and had been very supportive

There was no doubt about it, there was much more for the idea than against it and I knew what I’d be saying at my viola lesson on Thursday morning.

All I had to do was work out how I was going to sell this idea to my parents.

Love

“Luke” as he was affectionately, and I mean that sincerely, known was determined that corporal punishment would be used only in the most extreme cases and as a last resort short of expulsion if suspension had failed.

Don’t, however get the idea that Luke didn’t believe in discipline he was just much more creative than a lot of Headmasters. The school had a very strong prefect system and very little went unnoticed.

Many of us lived in remote villages, although few quite as remote as Lurgashall and detention, always on the day and on a tariff of one period per infraction could be a big problem as I was to find out. Walking 7 miles through hilly country lanes wasn’t a pleasant prospect.

By and large the deterrent worked and I tried to minimise the detentions I suffered. Unfortunately being an argumentative and very opinionated child meant that I fell foul of authority on many more occasions and the older I got the less the “but I live miles away, Sir” ploy worked. I had to walk home, politely refusing any offers of a lift.

When we finally got a phone at home I could at least warn Mum that I’d be late but in keeping with the ethos of the punishment Dad was never despatched to pick me up regardless of the weather.

There was a perfectly logical reason for evening detention, the school had boy’s and girl’s boarding houses with several resident Masters and Mistresses. It was much simpler, logistically to extend an errant child’s day by as long as necessary.

When I served detention I did so in the company of the boarders in my year who were doing their prep, so my punishment was visible to at least some of my peers. I wasn’t allowed to do my prep I was given a special essay to write so by the time I got home I still had that to do as well as my violin practice.

I suspect that Luke also understood how most boys were dealt with at home and knew that suspension for a serious offence would be met with severe punishment from parents.

Knowing what you do about me can you imagine what would have happened if I’d arrived home one evening to tell my Mum that I’d been suspended for a week? I’d have probably considered caning at school a kindness.

Talking about school days with many of the people I’ve met over the years has made me aware of just how unusual and forward thinking Luke was. Until his retirement, at the end of my Third Form days his beliefs seemed to work for the most part.

Given that I’ve said already I was a victim of bullying some may question the system that Luke operated but that’s not really a fair criterion.

Bullying is, in essence a form of abuse and most victims suffer in exactly the same silence. I was certain that reporting any of the incidents would end up with me as a bloody smear on the floor of the boy’s toilet as retribution for squealing.

Luke was an astonishing man in many ways but he’d have been mortified to learn that he was, in part responsible for my early unpopularity.

By spotting me from my rather blatant hair colour, deducing who I was and addressing a First Former of less than 2 weeks by name “Mr McLachlan” he marked me out.

By telling me how much he expected of me, given my 11 Plus marks and reports from my primary school he marked me as different. I’m sure he thought he was being kind but that almost pants-wetting moment when he stopped me didn’t get my Grammar School days off to a good start.

I will always remember Luke, and his wonderful wife with the greatest fondness, perhaps if he’d been my Headmaster for longer things could have been different.

That’s something nobody will ever know.

Love

Just after I started Third Form, aged 13 I got into a stand-up row with the RE Master. I’d got on my high horse about something and he made the mistake of telling me I was wrong.

The rest of the Form gleefully watched the entertainment which was probably part of the reason for the red faced Master suddenly shouting “that’s it, McLachlan you’re on detention!”

Believe it or not that was my first one. Up until then I’d always managed to avoid detention by playing the “but I live miles away, Sir” card which got detention commuted to an essay on “why I shouldn’t…” or some such twaddle.

I tried that on the RE Master and failed, I was on detention for 45 minutes from the end of school bell and the journey home was my problem.

In the way that things seemed to happen to me it was gym and violin day so I had my satchel, my gym kit and my violin to carry. To make things worse it had been raining since lunch.

We weren’t on the phone at home and neither of my sisters would notice my absence from the coach. My after school activities were nothing to do with them and by the same token theirs were no concern of mine. The coach left at its usual time without me.

The final item on this list of woes was that I didn’t have any money on me for bus fare. I didn’t just have a long journey in front of me, it was a 7 mile walk.

Before anyone thinks ‘duty of care’ this was 1966 and I was 13. My duty was to be a well behaved schoolboy, if I failed in that duty I faced the consequences.

Finally allowed to leave I settled my satchel on my back, hoisted my gym kit over my left shoulder, settled my violin case in my right hand and started the walk home.

By the time I’d covered almost a mile I was soaked through to my skin, I didn’t have a raincoat with me. The rain was clearly set in for the night so there was no point in taking shelter, on I trudged.

Several cars went by sending waves of water over me that just added more misery and then one car’s brake lights went on, it stopped and the passenger door opened.

I knew every car in my home village and I’d never seen this one before. The driver was a complete stranger, a man of about Dad’s age. Delighted at the prospect of saving about 6 wet miles, I readily got in putting my luggage behind the seat.

He asked me where I lived and was appalled at how far I had to walk but he had a good laugh at my explanation. He said that he lived in Petworth but would run me to Lurgashall. I could have hugged him, he was going miles out of his way just to help a soggy kid.

At no point during the journey did anything untoward happen by word or deed and he didn’t just take me to the village, he got me to guide him right to my home. Thanking him fervently I retrieved my gear and got out of the car, obeying his instruction to just run for the house.

I breezed in through the back door to be met by a look of thunder on Mum’s face and was ordered to stand just where I was on the doormat and not drip  water all over the place.

Mum went to get a towel then ordered me to strip naked and dry myself before taking one step further into the kitchen. Thankfully my sisters were all in other rooms so at least I didn’t have that embarrassment to deal with.

Once dry I was allowed to sit by the Rayburn, just wearing the towel and feeling vulnerable. Then the questions started.

Mum knew exactly what my extra-curricular activities were and always made sure that on those days I had bus fare so I could take the long journey via Petworth and reduce the walk home to a mere mile from Lane End.

Why had I missed the coach? There was no point in a lie so I admitted the argument with the RE Master and the subsequent detention which wasn’t as much of a problem as I’d expected.

If I’d been in detention why was I home so early? That was the killer question but again there was no point in lying, she knew perfectly well that I didn’t have any money. I timidly admitted that I’d accepted a lift from a complete stranger.

Mum went mad! Before I knew what was happening I’d lost my towel and was over her knee getting the thrashing of a lifetime.

After that, while I was still howling I got a long, loud lecture, Didn’t I realise what could happen to children who took lifts from strangers?

I tried rationalising that nothing bad had happened but was arguing from a hopeless position. I knew perfectly well that what I’d done had been stupid and irresponsible.

The plea that I was wet and cold cut no ice, not that I thought it would and I was abruptly dismissed to have a hot bath before coming back down for some tea.

After tea I did my violin practice and then sat at the kitchen table, as near to the Rayburn as I could get to do my prep. I didn’t even make it through one subject before a feverish headache started and Mum had to help me up to bed which was the end of my school week.

Dad was on late duty so I was well asleep by the time he got home. The next morning he came into my room and, ignoring the fact that I was ill gave me a fearful telling off. I thought I was in for another thrashing but Mum had clearly convinced him that she’d made me suitably penitent.

He did make it very clear that if I ever did anything like that again he’d deal with me, whether Mum had already done so or not. I was fairly sure that his big leather belt would be involved.

Not very long after that my bottom and that belt did become acquainted but not because I took a lift from a stranger, his threat worked on that score.

Love

When I was 12 the mother of one of my school friends (yes I had one or two) and my Mum hatched the idea that a Youth Hostelling holiday on the Isle of Wight would be a good way for two boys to get their first taste of a holiday away from parents.

Unlike most of my friends I never belonged to the Cubs or Scouts. When I’d asked if I could join the Cubs at the age of 8 Mum had simply said she didn’t think it was a good idea and my persistent efforts to get an explanation nearly ended with the standard punishment.

To this day I have no idea why she took this attitude, all 3 of my sisters were Girl Guides in their day and that seemed a fine idea for them. Admittedly I was a pretty sickly child but nobody had ever suggested that I was too fragile for normal boyish activities.

It’s perhaps significant that the decision to allow me to go on this holiday came a month or two after Mum remarried and I suddenly had a Father again after 8 years. Maybe it was time to start ‘making a man out of me’.

The only way we were being allowed to go on this adventure was if we were accompanied by someone old and sensible enough to ensure our safety and good behaviour.

Thankfully my Big Sister, 16 and very sensible (if a bit bossy at times) volunteered for the job so a route was planned that was actually achievable by a pair of 12 year olds and bookings were made at the various Youth Hostels.

In those days my bike was an old Hercules which, for the uninitiated, was made entirely of steel and to a skinny little 12 year old weighed a ton. Its strength and weight were actually considered virtues!

It had a 3 speed Sturmey Archer gear hub which had to be treated with great respect. If you didn’t back pedal to change gear there was a strong likelihood of the gears slipping followed by a cross-bar accident, the bane of many a boy’s cycling experience.

So come the great day my sister and I cycled over to Graffham to collect my friend and then the three of us set out for our first stop. Andy and I had been all for making straight for Portsmouth, catching the ferry and making our first stop on the Isle of Wight.

Bless my sister for obstinately refusing that idea and insisting that a hostel outside Portsmouth should be our first stop. By the time we got there I had to admit that that I couldn’t have gone another hundred yards let alone make it all the way to Portsmouth Harbour.

Dinner, no worse than the school canteen and eaten in the same refectory setting was a small milestone in my life.

After we’d eaten and got a mug of tea I looked down the long table and realised that by the time the sugar bowl made it as far as me my tea would be stone cold, so I drank it without sugar for the first time ever.

I never took sugar in tea from that day on, indeed I found sweetened tea to be quite nauseating and for a couple of weeks after I got home had to keep reminding Mum about it.

After dinner came the introduction to the very ethos of Youth Hostels, everyone got a chore. I was assigned to the washing up crew which gave me some clue as to what the canteen ladies had to put up with every school day, I vowed to show them a lot more respect in future.

The most unsettling aspect of the Hostel was dormitory sleeping, something I had no experience of. Naturally the older boys got to choose bunks first and the younger boys all ended up on the bottom bunks.

Thus it was that I was given an inadvertent eye full of a boy in his late teens who, to my shock clearly intended to sleep naked. Before I could hastily roll over and face the wall his threatening voice came down.

“’Ere, kid, you lookin’ at my dick?”

I had the presence of mind to stay silent, saying no would have been tantamount to admitting that I was indeed looking at a very big and interesting dick, not something I wanted to admit then.

The incident passed without further comment and a few minutes later the Warden came in to announce lights out. The blessed safety of absolute darkness came to my rescue and being very tired after such a hard day I was asleep in minutes anyway.

Love

Given the traumatic nature of the experience why didn’t I simply go to my Mum and tell her what had happened?

There’s one very shallow and unconvincing answer which is that I was afraid of being punished myself.

Anyone of my generation will know how naughty boys were customarily dealt with and that would certainly have happened but I was hardly a stranger to this sort of treatment by the age of 10 and a sore bottom doesn’t stay sore for very long.

A slightly more realistic answer is that I was scared of K, the teenager who committed the offense. He was a great deal bigger than me, physically a full adult and tough, with a reputation for violent behaviour when crossed.

An even more convincing answer is the sense of shame I felt after that morning. I knew that everything I’d allowed, sometimes encouraged to happen was wrong not so much in the legal sense but in the moral and religious sense.

I had a pretty strict Christian upbringing and had been given a fairly strong set of moral values, most of which I appreciated and tried to live by. I wasn’t a cruel boy and never joined in when another child was picked on at school, I was far more likely to offer comfort to the victim.

It may seem facile to some but there was a trust issue as well. Every time I’d been with K he would extract my promise that I wouldn’t tell anybody what we’d been doing.

I’d learned some very painful lessons in my short life about the importance of keeping promises but didn’t have the analytical tools to understand that a promise of secrecy under those circumstances was meaningless.

Thus when K made me actually say the words “I promise not to tell anybody” after each meeting I believed that I had to keep that promise.

Intellectually, and I use the word advisedly, I knew that these clandestine meetings with K were wrong, that being naked around him was wrong and that letting him touch me (and touching him in return) was very wrong.

So why did I allow it to happen again and again? Taking my courage in both hands and admitting to Mum what had been going on would have changed history, well mine anyway.

Every time that K went too far and either hurt or frightened me his apologies were contrite and seemed utterly genuine. He would invest a great deal of time comforting me and would then scale back his actions while slowly building towards the next major event.

Like countless abuse victims before and after me, I accepted his apologies and allowed myself to remain in his power. That is the key word when discussing the successful perpetration of child abuse.

It’s all about power.

Love

This is another story I told some time ago but it bears retelling, anyone that missed it first time round may find it amusing and a very good example of what happens when you push someone too hard.

On my very first day at Grammar School I was teased about two things, my bright ginger hair and my surname. I was struck by the banality of supposedly intelligent children seizing on these details as an excuse for teasing.

Within a couple of weeks, after the other boys had a chance to see how physically weak I was, teasing graduated to full scale bullying. My decision to learn the violin simply added fuel to the flames, I was now regarded as a sissy.

The fact that I didn’t have a father also added the term ‘bastard’ to the repertoire of insults and pointing out that my Mum had been married when I was born made no difference whatsoever.

It didn’t cross my mind to report any of this at school, I had no reason to believe that I’d get a sympathetic hearing, so I complained about it at home.

I was shocked and disappointed when Mum, supported by the man who would become my Stepfather, told me that I was a big boy now and had to learn to stand up for myself.

One morning break I was standing alone as usual quietly thinking my own thoughts when a tirade of insulting names began to come in my direction from one of the chief bullies.

Remembering Mum’s words I decided that the time had come for me to ‘stand up for myself’ and without stopping to think I ran the few yards to where my antagonist was standing and launched myself at him in a flying leap.

Even under 4 stone of furious redhead has a certain mass and as luck would have it I knocked him straight into a chain link fence. Everything clicked together in my mind and I hooked my little fingers into the fence while pushing my thumbs onto his windpipe.

I can honestly say that nothing I’ve experienced in my whole life has been as sweet as the look of sheer terror on that boy’s face as realisation dawned that I fully intended to kill him.

I vaguely registered that there was a lot of shouting going on and that hands were trying to drag me off but nothing was diverting me from my chosen task. I didn’t even flinch when he managed to get a knee into my groin.

Someone punched me in the side of the head, sending my glasses flying and breaking my concentration sufficiently to loosen my grip. Then I found myself lying in the mud getting a severe kicking.

Once everyone was satisfied that I was properly quelled the kicking stopped and the bullies went off, taking their rather subdued friend with them. A couple of boys who were almost friends helped me to stand up.

They pretty well dragged me into the changing room and made me look at myself in the mirror, it wasn’t a pretty sight; I already had a black eye and a fat lip as well as some other cuts and bruises.

The breast pocket of my blazer had been almost completely ripped off, my trousers were torn and covered with mud and my glasses had been smashed.

I had to make it through the rest of the day with no glasses so I couldn’t see the blackboard at all and I refused refused point blank to clean myself up which earned me a note from my Form Master to be delivered to Mum. I was told that I was lucky not to be sent to the Headmaster.

I wasn’t at all surprised to get a vicious thrashing when I got home. Less than half a term into my new school and a very expensive uniform had been ruined. To add to the thrashing my various injuries had to be thoroughly disinfected which hurt like the devil, TCP really stings on open cuts.

My attempt to justify the situation by explaining that I’d just been standing up for myself cut no ice at all, apparently I was supposed to negotiate my way out of these situations and not use violence.

Unfortunately it seemed that I was the only boy in my year that was expected to live by that rule.

Love