Languages are important. English, so they say, is the hardest to learn, being born in Worthing with English speaking parents, I didn't find it that hard. Spelling, yes, possibly that would have been easier had I been born in America, and "The COLOR of the sports CENTER" would make sense.
Its 1953, I am sixteen years old and foreign languages are a foreign world. I went to West Tarring School and the teachers had enough trouble with teaching us English, I am working now, and I have never needed a foreign tongue.
Sitting with several pals in the ice cream parlour, lingering over a coffee, for far to long, in the proprietors opinion, we, we are sixteen years old, have no shame, and all eyes turn to watch as the I.C.P. (ice cream parlour ) is filled with young ladies, and it doesn't take us long to realise that they are from France.

Now we know all about French women, we have heard about the films that we are not allowed to see, we have heard about the books that we are not allowed to read, and we have hormones bursting out all over us. They ignore us, even though we invest in a record on the juke box, "Under the bridges of Paris with you". I don't tell my pals, but, I have a plan.

My sister, she had been to Davidson's School ( a bit "posher" than mine), she had been taught French, she could teach me.

I do not remember what she would have charged me for the lesson that I wanted, but, I must have thought it worthwhile, and it was only much later when I realised that she could have told me anything and I would have been none the wiser.

"Kom on voose appelay voo" and "Voo lay voo promenard avec mhwa" and that was the lesson over.

It worked, but that is another story.

p.s. for those that also didn't learn french, my sister said that the first phrase was, "What is your name?", and the second, "Will you come for a walk with me?".

My school days were a long time ago, but, some memories remain.

Our last few weeks at the junior school . and when my parents had got over the fact that I was not clever enough to go to the High School, where we could have learnt Latin and logarithms, no, I spent those days looking forward to the secondary modern, West Tarring School, and Woodwork and Metalwork lessons.

West Tarring School, Worthing, Sussex, Headmaster Mr D.A. (Dabber) Best, then there was, Mr (Bill) Stone, mathematics. Mr (Percy) Lewis, music. Mr Young, geography. Mr Warne, science, and also the after school boxing training. (Ted) Cavey and (Stan) Mathews P.T., and others, names that have faded in to the past, except for one, and his name was Mr Turnbull.

Woodwork was the domain of Mr Turnbull. Hammers, chisels, saws and drills, and not a pair of goggles or gloves in sight. We did, of course, get a safety talk, "Chisels are very sharp".

Mr Turnbull was a craftsman. The "Mortise and Tenon" joint that he had made was a thing of perfection, and it was only many years later, when I was called on to carry out a little d.i.y. project that I realised this.

"The" mortise and tenon joint was passed around the class so that we could admire the precision of the sliding parts. It was good, but, we were twelve years old.

Each of us boys receiving our two bits of wood, saws, chisels, scribe rs, etc commenced making, what would turn out to be , blood covered kindling for the fire.

I have convinced myself that Mr Turnbull was to blame. He should not have left us alone, But, if he did have to, he should have removed his "Mortise and Tenon joint.

It was just too tempting, the pot of glue was on the stove, there was a brush in it, it wasn't just me, and if Dave C reads this, well, he will know who I am writing about, the "joint" was stuck for ever.

Two days later I was in the prefects room, I was bent over a desk, and "Bill" Stone, in charge of punishments, was caning my backside. I found it difficult to walk for a bit, I found it very hard to sit down for a lot longer. Of course I deserved it and I didn't dare tell my parents, and I still can't make a "mortise and Tenon" joint.