Southerly by David Haywood

NZPA-Reuters:

National-ACT coalition negotiations look set to return Sir Roger Douglas to government in a role outside cabinet as Minister for Zoos.

"I'm delighted to be considered for a leadership role in this position," says Sir Roger. "I believe that the ACT party is uniquely qualified to make a contribution to our nation's zoos."

Sir Roger already has well-developed plans to implement a voucher scheme for animals. "The vouchers will provide transition funding for the first year," he explains. "After that, each zoo animal will be responsible for its own upkeep via individual earnings."

"At the moment we have the ridiculous scenario whereby successful creatures are cross-subsidizing unsuccessful ones. Zoo customers clearly prefer exciting animals such as lions, crocodiles, and piranha. Why should their entry fee also pay to support boring animals such as hippos and giraffes?"

Under ACT's proposed system, unprofitable animals will be culled at the end of each financial year. "We intend to auction the hunting rights, which will provide a valuable new income stream for zoos," says Sir Roger. "I anticipate that big-game hunters will pay large sums to bag an unpopular monkey or a flock of penguins that don't do anything. There's also an obvious market for the less physically-active hunter who prefers to stalk animals in the undemanding environment of a zoo enclosure."

Sir Roger describes the nation's zoos as being in crisis after years of mismanagement. "It was a complete shock when we opened the books and realized just how bad the situation had become. There is really no other alternative -- zoo animals must learn that nothing is free in life. Unfortunately some of them will have to make painful or even fatal adjustments because of the politically correct policies of previous governments."

He hopes that ACT's approach to zoos can eventually be duplicated in the wider context of the Department of Conservation. "We should be assessing each New Zealand animal on its economic merit," says Sir Roger. "For example, if we were honest, I think most of us would acknowledge that Hector's dolphins aren't really big enough to be considered proper dolphins -- basically they're just fish. In this case, wouldn't it be more sensible to hunt them as food? I also have serious fiscal concerns about our nation's bird-life. Is there really any point to fantails and takahe? Shouldn't they be replaced with more financially-viable animals such as vampire bats or venomous snakes?"

ACT leader, Rodney Hide, says that Sir Roger's appointment as Minister for Zoos provides a valuable opportunity for his party. "Like the rest of New Zealand, our nation's zoos have become nothing more than a socialist nanny-state," he claims.
"This makes them the perfect candidate for reform, and will provide a clear demonstration to our coalition partners of the effectiveness of ACT policy."

"Obviously, it's only a small step from Minister of Zoos to Minister of Tertiary Education," adds Sir Roger. "And from there, I'm sure it's just a matter of time before we can implement similar policies in the health system, ACC, and social welfare."

Cast your mind forward two months into the future.

It's Christmas Eve 2008 in the Haywood household. The electricity has been disconnected, and the room feels like the interior of a blast freezer. Snow is whipping dismally against the window-panes. The icy corpses of little birds twinkle in the trees where they have become frozen to the branches. Bob-the-baby is saying goodnight to his mother.

"Will Santa Claus bring me lots of presents tomorrow?" he asks sleepily.

Jennifer decides that it's best to be truthful. "No, Robert, I'm afraid you won't be getting any presents this year."

Bob sighs, and his chronic tuberculosis sends him into a spasm of wheezing. "How about Christmas dinner? Will we be having delicious food?"

"No," confesses his mother. "I'm afraid we can only afford a bowl of sand for Christmas dinner."

"Will it be piping-hot sand?" asks Bob eagerly.

"No, the sand will be completely uncooked, I'm afraid."

Bob-the-baby draws the thin blanket closer to his body. Suddenly he bursts out: "Oh -- why must we all suffer like this at Christmas?"

"Well, Robert," says Jennifer gently. "It's because your daddy didn't make enough money as a journalist this year. It's all his fault."

Yes, dear readers, isn't this sad?

Perhaps you're even thinking to yourself: "If only there was something I could do to help."

Well, happily, there is. Bob's good-for-nothing daddy has written a book:

It's a collection of what might pretentiously be called 'humorous essays' (or, perhaps more accurately, 'strange meanderings'). As a special feature, the book has been designed with soft puppy-like pages -- making it ideal for reading in the lavatory. And it's light-weight enough to be posted as a Christmas present to your friends and enemies all over the world.

Thanks to our fabulous 'see inside' technology, you can even inspect the Table of Contents, where you'll note that many of the pieces have already seen the light of day on Public Address. So it's both a meet-new-friends and invite-old-friends-to-move-permanently-into-your-house type of thing.

The price is NZ$19.95 (plus shipping), and it can be delivered to any country (and even Hamilton). You can use your credit card to order it here. If you're a bookseller, distributor, or librarian, send a message here.

The book is the very first release from Public Address Books (www.publicaddressbooks.com) -- another division of Russell 'Rupert Murdoch' Brown's ever-expanding multimedia empire. Over the coming years Public Address Books will be publishing a number of new works by the Public Address writers (speaking for myself, I've already pre-ordered Jolisa Gracewood's 'Busytown: Knee-high in New York'). You can also use the website to purchase the existing masterpieces of Messrs. Brown, Slack, and Reid.

Pop over and check out the site. And consider buying a copy of 'My First Stabbing' for yourself and everyone you know (and all their relatives). The Haywood family could be eating sand for Christmas dinner otherwise.

A pair of fifth formers walked down the bus queue. They asked the same question to each of the new boys: "What class did they put you in?"

It didn't occur to me to lie. "3A," I replied.

One of the fifth-formers grabbed me by the bottom of my shorts and tipped me onto my head. Then both of them spat on me. A few seconds later, speechless with shock, I managed to pick myself up. Two quivering oysters of mucus were sliding down the front of my school shirt. Another gob of spittle was smeared across one of my cheeks.

There was a damp patch in my hair. My head had struck the concrete path, and I wondered if I was bleeding. Gingerly, I touched the wetness. When I inspected my hand, glistening strings of saliva were dangling between my fingertips.

It was my first day at Paremoremo Boys' High School.[*]

The suburb of Paremoremo sits upon a low peninsula in the mudflats between North Lynn and Glencoe.[**] On hot days, a faint tang of dead shellfish hangs in the air. In wet weather, the ground turns into slimy grey mush. The undesirability of Paremoremo as real estate means that the Ministry of Education has become the biggest landowner in the area -- with a primary school, two intermediate schools, a deaf school, and boys' and girls' high schools.

A street sign on the main drag warns motorists: "Six Schools Ahead!" As my bus chugged into Paremoremo each morning, it felt as though the sign's message was "Abandon Hope". A sensation of almost primaeval misery would descend upon me.

The boys' high school functioned -- if that's the appropriate word -- like a cross between Stalinist Russia and Lord of the Flies. The bigger boys brutalized the smaller ones; the smaller boys brutalized each other; the teachers brutalized everyone.

This culture of Paremoremo was aptly demonstrated in two incidents from my first weeks of high school. The first incident occurred when I was sent to visit another class on an errand. I noticed an unusually frigid silence in the school-room. "They're feeling sorry for themselves," the teacher explained casually, "because I've just strapped them all for not doing their homework."

The strap lay on the desk in front of him. It was a formidably solid-looking lump of leather; I could almost have mistaken it for a piece of wood. It bore the inscription: "Approved by the Department of Education, Wellington." I wondered who had the job of authorizing straps and canes for use on children. How did they test them? Was there a bureaucrat who carefully selected the instruments of discipline, packaged them lovingly, and then dispatched them to teachers around the country?

The second incident took place as I was kicking around a football with some friends at lunchtime. We were approached by a sixth former from one of the school rugby teams. "I don't like seeing kids playing soccer," he said. He'd heard that rugby enrolments were declining as a result of the "nonsense" about the South African tour.

"We've just had to bog-flush some of the junior soccer team," he continued. "I mean, we can't let rugby die out, can we?" He gave the impression of a man who'd played a role in a noble and patriotic event. "Think about that if you decide to continue with soccer," he added.

The threat of violence was omnipresent at Paremoremo Boys' High School. It taught me some useful life skills: avoid eye contact with people; don't draw attention to yourself; don't show any signs of weakness.

Some of the violence that I experienced was racial in nature. Many Polynesian immigrants had settled in West Auckland, and their presence was strongly resented by the European population (who accused the Polynesians of "stealing" their jobs). Racism was widespread; there were police raids and mass arrests of illegal immigrants. It was perhaps only natural that some of the Polynesian boys would vent their anger on their European school-mates.

Sadly, even at school, the Polynesian pupils had good reason to be resentful. Paremoremo was organized into academic streams from 'A' down to 'N'. The streams at the lower end of the alphabet were disproportionately composed of Polynesian immigrants. It was widely acknowledged by teachers that boys in these classes were only "baby-sat" until they turned fifteen and could leave school. One teacher joked that the 'N' academic stream stood for "nigger"; another used to admonish our unruliness by saying: "Don't behave like a black class."

I thought this was appalling -- but, unfortunately, I was never given the opportunity to explain my sympathy to those who perpetrated random violence upon me. I was obviously European; I had the misfortune to have been assigned to the 'A' stream; and, even worse, I was the second-smallest boy in the class. It made me an obvious target.

At the opposite end of the bashing colour-chart were the 'Boot Boys'. I never figured out if ours were official gang members or mere wannabes -- but in a sense it scarcely mattered. When I accidentally splashed a Boot Boy's trousers with water, he kicked me so hard in the arse with his steel-capped boot that I developed a contusion of truly awe-inspiring proportions. Over the course of three months it gradually progressed through every colour of the rainbow. My right buttock featured a noticeable dent for several years afterwards.

Some days the atmosphere of violence in the school would reach fever pitch. Rumours would be whispered: "There's gunna be a rumble"; "The Boot Boys are gunna bash some coons". Punches would be thrown. A shout would go up: "There's a fight!" School-boys would stampede to catch a glimpse of the action.

A week of rain was usually sufficient to douse these tensions. In theory, we were allowed to remain in the classroom during wet lunchtimes. In practice, the weather frequently failed to follow the specifications of the forecast. We would be locked outside in torrential Auckland downpours, huddling for shelter under trees and eaves of buildings.

At times like this I felt that even the school's architecture was against me. Someone once told me that Paremoremo Boys' High had originally been designed as a prisoner-of-war camp during World War II. I could easily believe it: concrete blocks and fibrolite; dank echoing stairwells; hardboard interiors with curling linoleum; the smell of dead ants. It was enough to make you turn to God.

The school's Christian Fellowship met at lunchtimes. The group was organized by the same teacher who'd strapped his entire class. "What if you see a woman, and -- y'know -- you want to screw her?" he asked us one day. "Well, in God's eyes, wanting to screw her is as bad as actually screwing her. And guess what God has to say about that? He says: 'If thine eye offends thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee!'"

As it happened, having sex was practically all I thought about whenever I saw a woman. Could the teacher really be suggesting that I rip out my eyeballs? And, if so, why didn't I see more eyeless people around?

The Christian Fellowship meetings played an important role in the formation of my religious beliefs. "You can only truly be a Christian through the Bible," the teacher assured us. "So how many of you have actually read the Bible? Can you honestly call yourself a Christian?"

I went home that night and dutifully opened a copy of the King James. By the time I reached Genesis 19:8, I'd become an atheist. It probably wasn't the outcome that the Christian Fellowship teacher had in mind.

Paremoremo Boys' High School made a philosopher out of me. Everything seemed so meaningless: the institutionalized violence, the pointless rules and regulations, even the design of the school uniform. We were required to wear short trousers all year round. Hadn't anyone noticed that it got cold in winter? Bare legs, a school jersey, and a thin cotton shirt provided almost no protection against freezing southerly winds. As I waited for the bus on frosty mornings, I could watch a queue of school-boys slapping their legs to keep the blood circulating.

Of course, such worldly concerns were never an issue for the First Fifteen -- whose superiority was acknowledged by a special uniform with luxurious full-length trousers and a cosy blazer. More than anything else, this typified the school's attitude towards education. If there was some sort of philosophy behind the madness, it resembled one of those crazy Nazi party slogans -- perhaps 'Erziehung durch Rugby'.[***]

School assemblies consisted of nothing more than the intoning of sports results. From time to time, the headmaster would depart from his text to administer praise, admonishment, or (on occasion) vague threats: "The Second Fifteen lost again on Saturday. This isn't good enough, and if I don't see improvement next week I shall have to take action."

It astounds me, then and now, that our teachers -- grown men -- could take schoolboy sports so seriously. When one of my friends was offered a place on the Auckland cricket team, he was subjected to a spot of blackmail worthy of MI5.

"From an academic point of view, you'd be foolish to leave the school team," my friend was informed by a senior teacher. "If you're playing for the school, and you're not doing so well in your tests -- then, of course, we'll know it's because you're working so hard for the cricket team, and we can take that into consideration. But if you're playing for Auckland... well, I can't imagine that we'd have any sympathy at all."

A more disturbing incident was related to me by a member of the First Fifteen. He'd intended to leave school after fifth form, but was persuaded to stay by assurances that he'd be "looked after". At the end of sixth form, he was accredited his university entrance qualifications without having to sit the exams. This was quite astonishing, he claimed, as he'd barely submitted any academic work during the whole year.

In light of such events, the actual teaching at Paremoremo Boys' High seems almost irrelevant. Our school-masters ranged from excellent to alcoholic. We had an art teacher who criticized one of my friend's paintings via the well-established method of punching him in the head. A geography teacher once began a lesson by asking: "Why should we be proud to be New Zealanders?"

I can remember contemplating his question. Was he referring to Kate Sheppard and the granting of universal suffrage in 1893? Or perhaps the social welfare system initiated by the first Labour government?

The geography teacher answered himself: "Because New Zealand is the greatest rugby-playing nation on earth! Never forget that!"

At the other end of the educational spectrum, my Latin teacher must have been something of a genius to enthuse me for his subject. A history teacher and a mathematics teacher were also competent.

An English teacher, Mr Roberts, would frequently greet me with the words: "You're looking even more imbecilic than usual, Haywood. I wouldn't have believed that possible." Despite his unnecessary levels of honesty, he possessed a passion for poetry and literature that I found genuinely inspiring. We studied Wilfred Owen, Roger McGough, Dylan Thomas, and Shakespeare -- I loved every word. Who knew that Shakespeare was such a brilliant writer? Who would've guessed that poetry could actually be enjoyed?

At the age of fifteen, I experienced a dramatic growth spurt, and my height suddenly overtook many of my classmates'. The tormentors from my third and fourth form years departed school (one of them embarked on a career as an armed robber). Only the effeminate boys were bullied. Male homosexuality was illegal in New Zealand, and there was a general feeling amongst my schoolmates that it should be 'stamped out'.

With my disinterest in rugby, I worried inordinately that accusations of gayness might be levelled against me. One of my friends, a particularly witty and intelligent chap, asked me my opinion of homosexuality. I condemned it in the most unmistakable and unforgivable terms. Soon after leaving school, my friend bravely announced that he was gay. I can only imagine what he suffered at school, and the effect that my words must have had. It seems ironic that those vilified as unmanly are often called upon to demonstrate more courage in life than any number of All Blacks.

After my school certificate examinations, I was advanced directly to seventh form (along with many of my classmates). There was a slightly Faustian aspect to this apparent bargain. It was expected that the ablest pupils would repeat their seventh form year, and -- on their second attempt -- score much higher marks than a conventional single-year seventh former. Possibly this would be advantageous to the student; definitely it would benefit the greater glory of the school.

On my first attempt, more by luck than talent, my bursary marks were sufficient to allow me entry to any university course that I cared to take. I discovered that I wasn't particularly troubled by the glory (or otherwise) of Paremoremo Boys' High School. As far as I was concerned, fate had just handed me a get-out-of-jail-free card -- and I intended to use it.

I phoned the school to announce my leave-taking. The school phoned back to announce that I had been summoned to an interview with the senior master "to discuss your possible plans". My possible plans were actually definite plans, but strangely I went to the interview anyway. I don't know why -- perhaps merely for the pleasure of defying a teacher.

The interview included four of my fellow pupils who also planned to leave. The senior master had never heard of such a thing before. He accused me of encouraging the others (this was a contemptible lie; I had only encouraged three-quarters of them). He predicted that we would do badly at university; he lost his temper and accused us of betraying the school. At close quarters the senior master bore a remarkable resemblance to the British comedian, Benny Hill. It was hard to take his words seriously -- especially when you knew he couldn't cane you any more.

The interview ended badly, and we were dismissed without goodbyes. I was so disconcerted by the degree of acrimony that -- in the manner of an institutionalized criminal returning to jail -- I inadvertently began to make my way into the school rather than the outside world. Abruptly backtracking, I nearly collided with the senior master marching down the corridor in the opposite direction. His face was flushed with rage. He turned and spat a couple of contemptuous sentences at my back.

His words lingered in my ears as I passed out of the school gates for the last time: "You're going to be a failure, Haywood. Remember that."

My grandfather, an anarchist from Glasgow, had mellowed considerably by the time I started school. He seldom accused policemen of being class traitors any more, and had even -- after 45 years behind the wheel -- taken the plunge and applied for a driver's licence.

It was only in the matter of diet that his anarchist tendencies went unrestrained. During our after-school visits, he would happily allow his grandchildren to fill up on golden syrup, raw jelly-crystals, and spoonfuls of condensed milk. Sometimes he would even pay us to consume chocolate against a stop-watch.

The fact that none of us have developed diabetes is a minor miracle. My sister and I had some degree of restraint, but my brother would put away sweets like a child possessed by sugar-demons. "The wee lad's got hollow legs," my grandfather would say proudly.

In the aftermath of a sucrose binge at my grandfather's house, none of us children were particularly interested in the carefully-balanced meal that awaited us at home. In fact, to the great concern of my parents, my brother would often go for weeks without anything nutritious passing his lips.

Nowadays my brother is an adult with children of his own -- and it's interesting to see how differently they've been raised. The last time Jennifer and I visited Auckland, my six-year-old niece, Cuba, asked if she could spend the day with us.

When we called to collect her, she was waiting at the front gate in a pale neatly-ironed frock. In one hand, she held a parcel containing an apple and banana. "Those are for snacks," explained my brother. "Just feed her some vegetables at lunchtime -- she's very fond of carrots and broccoli, and healthy food like that."

Cuba gazed up at me with large limpid eyes. "Vegetables are good for us," she said meekly.

Our first stop, at Cuba's request, was Cornwall Park. "Watch me roll down the hill," commanded Cuba. She scampered up the hillside until she was tiny dot against the sky. It took several minutes to tumble back down to where we waited. Upon arrival, her frock could no longer be described as neatly ironed. In fact, it had collected so many grass and mud-stains that it now resembled camouflage cloth.

"Won't your father mind that your dress is dirty?" I asked anxiously.

"Him?" said Cuba incredulously. "He likes doing laundry."

She went up the hillside for a repeat performance. After her descent, she wiped the mud from her hands and knees onto her skirt. "Now I want to climb some trees," she said. She selected a lethally-tall oak and disappeared into its branches.

A few minutes later we sighted her in the foliage at the top of the tree. "Are you being careful, Cuba?" called Jennifer.

"Do your parents let you climb such tall trees?" I asked.

"They don't care," Cuba shouted back.

We were relieved when she returned safely to earth. "You must have used lots of energy climbing that tree," said Jennifer. "I bet you're ready for some fruit from your bag now."

"No," replied Cuba. "I think I'll wait in case we have cake or ice-cream."

"But don't you prefer healthy fruit and vegetables?" I asked.

"Vegetables, hah!" said Cuba scornfully. She launched herself into a series of deft handstands.

The activities in Cornwall Park set the scene for the day. Intellectual speaking, Cuba was one step ahead of us. She was so adept at anticipating our sensible grown-up suggestions -- and so forceful in dismissing them -- that it felt embarrassing to insist.

By afternoon, we had ridden the horses on Jennifer's brother's farm, eaten cake (once), ice-creams (twice), and played at being pirates (numerous times). Actually, mostly I played at being the victim of piracy.

Cuba: You stand over there, and then I'll stab you, and now you've got to fall over dead.

Me: [cleverly extemporizing] Oh, the pain!

Cuba: Don't talk, you're dead!

Me: [silence].

Cuba: Okay, now you're feeling better -- but then Jennifer comes and chops off your head.

On our drive back home, I sensed that Cuba had a hidden agenda. "Oh, we're driving past a McDonalds," she said innocently. A little further on, she added: "Oh look, there's another McDonald's."

After a few minutes, she announced her wishes more forcefully: "I'm thirsty and I need a drink." She paused in brief contemplation. "The sort they sell at McDonald's."

Our last vestiges of self-worth as adults prevented us from wilting before these hints. We stopped at a take-away food shop that wasn't McDonald's. Cuba requested a cup of lemonade in a size called 'super-mega-jumbo', which looked to be about two litres.

"No, that's too much for you, I think," said Jennifer.

I was briefly visited by the ghost of my Grandfather. "If I buy it," I said, "I'll bet you five dollars you can't drink it all."

Five minutes later, and five dollars poorer, I carried Cuba from the takeaways. Approximately ten per cent of her body mass was now lemonade. "I'm sloshing," said Cuba weakly.

I put her on the footpath in the recovery position. Jennifer and I listened to her stomach. A sound -- as of a million barrels of petroleum swilling around an oil tanker -- met our ears. "Do you think someone could kill themselves from drinking too much lemonade?" I wondered.

"Maybe a child," said Jennifer uncertainly.

For the rest of the drive home, Cuba lay silently on the back seat of the car. At Titirangi township, we stopped to throw away Cuba's bag of healthy fruit -- which, by now, had taken on the quality of incriminating evidence. Cuba started showing signs of life as we approached my brother's house.

My brother was in the front garden. "What on earth's happened to your frock?" he asked Cuba.

We didn't linger. As we walked back to the car, voices from inside my brother's house drifted to our ears.

My brother: Your dinner's on the table, Cuba.

Cuba: Um, I'm not really feeling very hungry...

In early summer, just before the cicadas had started singing, our kindergarten teacher formed us into a crocodile, and we marched over the hill to Mount Atkinson Primary School*. I hadn't previously heard of crocodile formation, and I remember being disappointed that it didn't involve actual man-eating reptiles.

There was no disappointment about the school visit itself. The Primer 1 teacher, Mrs Phelp, was so gentle and friendly that she seemed to project a golden aura of loveliness -- rather like Glinda the Good in the Wizard of Oz. She spent a few moments with each child (I was even allowed to sit on her knee), and then she played us the LP version of The Tale of Peter Rabbit. We crocodiled back to kindergarten while she waved fondly from the classroom door. I didn't want to leave.

I paid another visit to school after Christmas -- this time alone with my father. The headmaster asked if I ever wet my pants. What a disgusting question; didn't he know that I was nearly five years old? I contemplated the beauty of the coming year: the prestige of being a school-goer, the tender affections of Mrs Phelp, and endless sunny mornings of Beatrix Potter stories.

My fifth birthday fell on a Thursday. Heavy rain in the morning didn't dampen my enthusiasm -- although I did experience a twinge of panic when my mother left me in the classroom. Mrs Phelp seemed strangely distant. She led me to a large bucket and handed me a lump of clay. My classmates were busy at work-tables making snakes.

I sat down and fiddled with my clay. At another table, two boys became involved in a scuffle. Mrs Phelp strode forth and dragged them to the front of the schoolroom. I noticed that her face had become flushed and crimson. "This," she announced to the class, "is what happens to children who fight." She grasped the boys firmly by the hair, and cracked their foreheads together. They reeled backwards, wailing and clasping their brows.

It was a horrifying moment. The sound of the boys' heads knocking together was particularly nasty. I'd somehow expected a noise like ripe coconuts -- the sickening wet crunch, and the screams of the punished were infinitely more disturbing.

Mrs Phelp's temper was on a hair-trigger for the rest of the morning. There were no further physical corrections, but several times she shouted and ranted at children (over trivial matters) until they were left sobbing. By lunchtime, her resemblance to Glinda the Good had entirely evaporated. In fact, if Mrs Phelp had flown away on a broom-stick, leaving the words 'Surrender David' as a vapour trail in the sky, I wouldn't have been at all surprised. And I would have surrendered, too.

During lunch break, the six-year-old girl who lived on our street cruelly rejected my overtures of friendship, on the basis that: a) I was only five years old; and b) I was a boy. I was left to wander, spurned and friendless, around the playground. I had never before felt so alone and miserable. An older boy stopped me, and informed me of his intention to report me to the police. I protested my innocence. The boy assured me that I was guilty of "throwing a pie at a policeman" -- and that he'd seen it with his own eyes.

I now realize that this was a feeble joke. At the time, however, I ran terrified to the back of the school where -- I imagined -- the police were less likely to search for me. There was an old air-raid shelter built into the hillside near the school incinerator. The entrance to the shelter had been blocked off, but through the bars I could see a long tunnel snaking underneath Mount Atkinson.

Two older boys were loitering near the shelter. I asked them what it was. One of them replied in a very grown-up manner -- I suppose he was eight or nine years old -- that it was where the headmaster put naughty children for punishment. And by the look of me, he said coolly, I could expect to spend a bit of time there.

It was all too much. I sat on the stairs at the back of the school and began to weep uncontrollably. Eventually my sobs diminished, and my attention was drawn to a trickle of liquid, dribbling down the steps. I wondered if a pipe were leaking in the cloakrooms. Upon further investigation, I discovered -- to my horror -- that the liquid was coming from my trousers. It was the sort of accident that hadn't happened to me in a very long time.

After lunch I sat damply in the schoolroom as the junior mistress took us for a lesson. Mrs Phelp was elsewhere -- perhaps summoning an army of winged monkeys. The class was asked to stand for a game of 'Simon says'. One of the new boys in the class, Troy, remained seated. He suffered from cerebral palsy and couldn't walk without crutches.

The junior mistress ordered Troy to stand. He was unable to explain his predicament. Several members of the class tried to give an explanation on Troy's behalf -- but made themselves incoherent by speaking at the same time. Enraged at the apparent act of rebellion, the junior mistress attempted to drag Troy to his feet; and when he collapsed on the floor, she pulled down his pants and belaboured his bare bottom.

Troy was removed from school shortly after this incident, and a year or so later it was rumoured that he had died. I've often wondered whether the rumour was true.

As a new entrant, I was allowed to go home at two o'clock. I remember the enormous sense of relief when my mother collected me. And the inconceivable thought that I would have to go back.

In time, however, I adjusted to school. I never liked the place -- but there were some mitigating features. The school grounds were surrounded by native bush. We were strictly forbidden to go beyond the playing fields, but I spent many lunchtimes illicitly climbing trees and exploring a leaf-stained creek. There was a hollow puriri tree where I used to read. Even now, if I were asked to describe a perfect afternoon, I couldn't do better than a book under a puriri tree with speckles of sunlight across the pages.

In Standard 4, presumably due to an administrative error, I was briefly appointed 'bell monitor'. I was a total failure, and once achieved the spectacular feat of keeping the entire school twenty minutes late at lunchtime while I watched an eel in the creek. Strangely, I was never punished for this enormous crime, which makes me wonder if the teachers weren't secretly grateful.

My first day as a school-goer contained all the ingredients that would characterize my subsequent school experiences: fear, bewilderment, violence, and injustice. I didn't know it then, but by Standard 4, the happiest of my school-days were behind me. From this point onward, things would begin to seriously deteriorate.