The Old School Days
The year was 1980, I was almost 16 and for me school wasn’t a chore, I enjoyed it You probably call me a geek these days, or perhaps a bookworm, but back then, I simply loved it. Every creak of the polished wooden floors, every chalk dust mote dancing in the sunbeams that slanted through tall windows, I loved the smell of old paper, the rhythmic scratch of pens on exercise books, the comforting drone of a teacher’s voice. I loved the way the world made sense within those brick walls, a miniature universe where everything had its place and its challenge. And I truly, deeply didn’t want to leave.
The thought of ‘the big wide world’ loomed with the ominous weight of a thundercloud. It felt vast, unpredictable, entirely too sprawling for someone as neatly contained as me. I remember standing in Mr. Jones; s office, the headteacher’s formidable yet kindly presence filling the room. He sat behind his imposing oak desk, spectacles perched on his nose, a half-smile playing on his lips. I, a trembling twelve-year-old, fidgeted with the hem of my school uniform.
“I don’t want to go, sir,” I’d pleaded, my voice barely a whisper. “Please don’t send me out there. I’ll… I’ll completely mess it up.” Of course, I didn’t use those exact words – ‘cock it up’ being far too vulgar for school grounds, LOL – but the sentiment was clear. My brain couldn’t fathom navigating the labyrinthine complexities of adult life. Mr. Jones chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. He leaned forward, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Deborah, my dear, you have a lovely voice. I have no doubt you’re going to do well with a singing career.” A singing career! and had painted a future for me entirely foreign to my own imagination. Clearly, I didn’t pursue that path. The only stage I ever truly craved was the one where I could remain a child, forever safe within the gentle embrace of childhood.
But if school was my sanctuary, the world outside, specifically the world of a 16-year-old was a swirling vortex of unfiltered joy and nascent rebellion. As soon as the final bell chimed, signalling liberation, my real life began.
My teenage years had been fun and laughter. My friends and I would converge at the youth club exciting hub of adolescent energy. The smell of stale crisps and cheap disinfectant was the perfume of freedom. We’d sprawl on worn beanbags, plotting our next great adventure, or challenge each other to fierce, clumsy games of table tennis. The cinema was another temple we frequented, its velvet seats sticky, its air thick with the smell of popcorn and anticipation. We’d lose ourselves in the flickering magic of the silver screen, emerging hours later, blinking into the daylight, our minds still buzzing with heroes and villains, romance and adventure. Afterward, we’d drift to one of our houses, usually mine, where the real magic happened. My record player, a prized possession, would be dusted off, and the ritual would begin. Stacks of vinyl – of our favourite artists– would be pulled from their sleeves. The crackle of the needle hitting the groove was the overture to our own grand symphony.
With hairbrushes as microphones and broomsticks as guitars, we’d transform my bedroom into a makeshift stadium. We were a new rock band sensation, Deborah and the Dazzlers, or perhaps The dream team , headlining sold-out shows to an invisible, screaming multitude. Our voices, still high and reedy, would strain to hit mighty wails, soaring notes. We’d thrash our long dark hair, stomping our feet, utterly convinced of our own impending stardom. It was all about Rock and Roll, the raw, untamed heartbeat of the decade, and we were its devoted acolytes.
Summer holidays were an entirely different kind of wild freedom. With the sun high and the days stretching out like an endless promise, we’d pack worn rucksacks with pop and snacks bikes rattling over country lanes, the wind whipping through our hair, the scent of honeysuckle and wild grasses filling our lungs. Berry picking was a favourite pastime, our fingers stained purple and red from blackberries and raspberries, our faces sticky with juice and triumphant smiles. We’d disappear for hours, truly vanish, no mobile phones to track our movements, just the implicit understanding that we’d be home before the streetlights came on, guided by the setting sun and the rumbling of our stomachs.
But the absolute pinnacle of our week, the shimmering jewel in the crown of our adolescent existence, was Saturday afternoon. That’s when we’d head to Babaellas for our youth disco. The air inside Babaellas was a potent cocktail of cheap hairspray, adolescent hormones, and the thumping bass of disco. We’d dance with uninhibited abandon, our moves a clumsy but enthusiastic imitation of whatever we’d seen on Pop show. The lights would flash, the music would pulse, and for those glorious hours, nothing else in the world mattered.
From Babaellas, fuelled by fizzy drinks and the shared euphoria, we’d migrate to the Golden Mile. This was the grand finale, the crescendo of our Saturday. We’d practically float through the bustling arcade, the cacophony of pinball machines and slot machines a vibrant soundtrack. Then, we’d head upstairs, our hearts thumping with a mixture of excitement and mild trepidation, to the Waltzer’s The Waltzer’s, with their dizzying spins and unpredictable lurches, were the ultimate thrill ride. We’d cling to each other, screaming with delight and mild terror as our little carriage spun faster and faster, blurring the lights and faces of the world outside into an exhilarating, colourful streak. We’d emerge breathless, dishevelled, but utterly invigorated, the world still spinning just a little around the edges.
Looking back, thinking about those days in 1976 and onwards , the endless summers, the rock and roll dreams, the sheer, unbridled joy of friendship and freedom… I’ve got to say it. It was one of the best times of my life. My headteacher was wrong about the singing career, and my fear of the big wide world eventually faded into the background, replaced by the sturdy reality of growing up. But the whimsical magic of those school days, those disco nights, and those sun-drenched, berry-stained afternoons, shaped me in ways I still cherish. They were a symphony of laughter, a tapestry of adventures, woven into the very fabric of who I became. And sometimes, late at night, I still hear the faint thrum of a bass guitar and the delighted screams from the Waltzer’s, calling to me from that golden year.
Thank You for Read
Deborah C. Langley
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