I had an unusual experience today - I was offered a ladies telephone number. No - I don't mean by a mate down the pub, but by the lady herself. I tactfully declined the offer for a number of reasons, some personal others professional - but I was still rather pleased and "chuffed". I went away thinking of a time nearly forty years ago, when I walked away from a girl feeling as though I had been kicked in the emotional bollocks.
I hold no animosity towards the heartless, up herself, little brat who broke my heart, so I wont mention Nicola Freeman's name. It was 1969 and we were both thirteen. I was captivated by her elf like appearance and Julie Driscoll hair. Her hair was probably the main reason I fancied her, as "Jools" as she was known, was the first female - how can I put this delicately - I fantasised about to a satisfying conclusion!
I overlooked the fact that she finished every sentence with, "you know", and also turned a blind eye to her belief that lasagne was an Italian soccer team. I didn't even mind what the other boys in school said about her, although it did take me a while to figure out the "Village bike" and "Y shaped coffin" jokes.
Yes, she sneered a lot but that was only her way of appearing to be "cool" which also explains why she looked at people with complete disdain. Her "look" so annoyed Mrs Jones, the Welsh teacher, that she stormed up to Nicola's desk and screamed "If I were your mother, I'd give you a hundred lashes with a belt."
That did it. No one insults my heart's desire and I sprang to Nicola's defence.
"Excuse me Mrs Jones, but I had no idea they had teacher training college in the Waffen SS".
My mother is from Vienna - the same place as Hitler. Even though the war had finished many years before, that did not stop the small minded 60s Welsh, frequently using it as tool against me. "You would know all about the SS, with your mother being a Nazi" she snarled. Not only did the bitch then march up and hit me over the head, she also caned me.
In those days you didn't complain about teachers, nor did you get your parents to, "go up the school". You dealt with it yourself because no one else would take any notice. It also achieved far more satisfying results.
Mrs Jones was a disgrace not only to teaching but to the human race. She was a lousy teacher and a lousy human being. From that moment on, I made her life a misery at every opportunity. Our final confrontation came on a cold February afternoon. Nicola had said something to her, so the woman caned her hands, then made her stand outside the classroom door. The classroom was an outside classroom, and Nicola stood there in the freezing cold.
My anorak was on the back of my chair, so I stood up, picked up the anorak and walked towards the door. "Where are you going" the so called teacher roared. I politely explained that I was going to give Nicola my anorak. "Get back to your desk Hitchen" she bellowed. I completely ignored her and continued on my way.
Eventually one day I was called into the Headmaster's office, and there stood Mrs Jones - in tears. She told me that she had decided to give up teaching - all on account of me. For thirteen I was remarkably calm and not at all deterred by the presence of the headmaster.
"If there is one thing in this life I can ever be proud of, then I have already achieved it" I replied. I then asked the stunned headmaster if I could leave, and he meekly nodded his head in consent - even he had the intelligence to realise there was more to all this than met the eye.
You would have thought that all this gallantry would have stood me in good stead with Nicola wouldn't you? Nope. She continued to ignore me the same way she had always done. You would also think that I would have got the hint by now. Nope. I continued to think of a way to impress her and ask her out.
Then one day, the ideal solution hit me. I would give her a note. I realise it's not exactly original but my note was to be different - it would be romantic. I was convinced that despite everyone else thinking Nicola was the good time that was had by all, underneath all the mascara lay a true, old fashioned romantic.
The big hit song at that time was Stevie Wonder's, "My Cherie Amour" so I bought a card with pink flowers, carefully wrote the lyrics inside, then left it in her desk.
She didn't open it until lunchtime. With two friend, she stood in the doorway that led to what was then called the playground and read the card. She started laughing, then showed it to her friends, who also started laughing. Then she tore up the card and threw the pieces on the ground. The three girls walked away still laughing.
Watching the scene with me was another girl - a year ahead of me. She came up to me and in her broad Welsh accent told me, "Never mind love - she's not worth it".
Several years ago I came across my "comforter" online and we became friends and business associates. We still talk about the day we watched Nicola throw the tattered pieces of my card and my heart onto the ground.
Nicola went on to marry and have six children - and I hope they were all like her!
In those days you didn't complain about teachers, nor did you get your parents to, "go up the school". You dealt with it yourself because no one else would take any notice. It also achieved far more satisfying results.
Mrs Jones was a disgrace not only to teaching but to the human race. She was a lousy teacher and a lousy human being. From that moment on, I made her life a misery at every opportunity. Our final confrontation came on a cold February afternoon. Nicola had said something to her, so the woman caned her hands, then made her stand outside the classroom door. The classroom was an outside classroom, and Nicola stood there in the freezing cold.
My anorak was on the back of my chair, so I stood up, picked up the anorak and walked towards the door. "Where are you going" the so called teacher roared. I politely explained that I was going to give Nicola my anorak. "Get back to your desk Hitchen" she bellowed. I completely ignored her and continued on my way.
Eventually one day I was called into the Headmaster's office, and there stood Mrs Jones - in tears. She told me that she had decided to give up teaching - all on account of me. For thirteen I was remarkably calm and not at all deterred by the presence of the headmaster.
"If there is one thing in this life I can ever be proud of, then I have already achieved it" I replied. I then asked the stunned headmaster if I could leave, and he meekly nodded his head in consent - even he had the intelligence to realise there was more to all this than met the eye.
You would have thought that all this gallantry would have stood me in good stead with Nicola wouldn't you? Nope. She continued to ignore me the same way she had always done. You would also think that I would have got the hint by now. Nope. I continued to think of a way to impress her and ask her out.
Then one day, the ideal solution hit me. I would give her a note. I realise it's not exactly original but my note was to be different - it would be romantic. I was convinced that despite everyone else thinking Nicola was the good time that was had by all, underneath all the mascara lay a true, old fashioned romantic.
The big hit song at that time was Stevie Wonder's, "My Cherie Amour" so I bought a card with pink flowers, carefully wrote the lyrics inside, then left it in her desk.
She didn't open it until lunchtime. With two friend, she stood in the doorway that led to what was then called the playground and read the card. She started laughing, then showed it to her friends, who also started laughing. Then she tore up the card and threw the pieces on the ground. The three girls walked away still laughing.
Watching the scene with me was another girl - a year ahead of me. She came up to me and in her broad Welsh accent told me, "Never mind love - she's not worth it".
Several years ago I came across my "comforter" online and we became friends and business associates. We still talk about the day we watched Nicola throw the tattered pieces of my card and my heart onto the ground.
Nicola went on to marry and have six children - and I hope they were all like her!
