The Swimming Pool Cake...

If you were in Class Two N in nineteen-seventy-nine at the school my Mother taught at, then the chances are good that you might remember Me, too.

That was the year I was in Kindergarten, so the children She taught were about seven, whereas I was only five. Sometimes, if I was home sick- or pretending to be- I would have to go to school with her for the day. I would sit at the desk in front of her, with a fresh new exercise book and a tin of newly-sharpened pencils, and did as much of the work as I could follow along with.

She was a great teacher to have- the walls of her classrooms were always covered in the student's art- one theme I can remember was Jason and the Golden Fleece, or something else to do with Ancient Greece, and some kid, whose name I never knew, had drawn a painting of Medusa with a head full of green snakes with red forked-tongues tangled amongst her black hair.

At recess time my Mother's little pets, Corrina and Elizabeth, take me around the playground and show me where the bubblers are. This school is like a maze compared to my school- all the buildings are the same green paint and brown doors.

Corrina. It's like a faeries's name isn't it? I guess you might say I liked her a little bit, and would often look at the class photo that my Mother had. She's also the reason why I was looking forward to going to high school- I would get to see what she looked like being older with her front tooth grown back and all; and we did end up going to the same school as the story turns out- but by the time she was starting year nine she didn't want to talk to some year seven kid whose Mother had taught her years and years ago, and she told me to piss off before I could even tell her who I was.

I suppose good faeries can turn bad.

A lot of my Mother's ex-students did remember Me, though, and would often tell me that she was their favourite teacher. It's funny, because my eldest Sister was taught by our Mother for a full year when she was six, and she remembers Mum being a mean and strict teacher...

She's really quite crafty, my Mother; she can knit, crochet and do macrame. Her fad at the moment is crocheting bikinis that she will never wear. She asked me which colour I wanted mine made in, but my Naturist's body's not about to suffer wearing swimmers anytime soon, so I've declined the offer- but still expect one will be wrapped up with my next birthday present. I won't wear it- my tits resemble two used tea-bags and look shit in a bikini.

Going down a completley different track....

One time my Mother made a party game for the girl who lived across the road- it was a whole lot of cardboard cut-out fish with metal tacks for eyes, that we 'fished' for with a pole and a magnet. I always wanted her to make me a big bucketful of fish to catch- I was jealous that she made one for the girl across the road- it must have been because she got run over by a car one day- in front of the bus-stop across the street from my house- that's why everyone's making such a fuss. It's only a broken leg, after all, and it's her own fault for not looking both ways and for thinking that she was faster than all the cars.

I think she was actually running away from her big brother, who was a really mean kid, and from what I later heard- an evener meaner man. They had a Corgi named Honey and their dad was a builder who looked a lot like Tony Barber, the game show host. Just thought I'd throw that in for any of you at home still playing Guess Who?

My Sister's tell me that they can still remember the days when our Mother used to cook all sorts of good stuff- like lemon-meringue and apple and meat pies. Not all together of course. Apparently she can make apple turnovers, too, and chocolate eclairs from scratch, but I've never seen the proof and I don't eat pudding. I caught the end of the craze, there were times where She might make a Walnut and Caramel slice to take along to the rare theatre night suppers she attended, and I would help her to crush the Milk Arrowroot biscuits with a rolling pin for the base while the liquid caramel bubbled on the stove.

She also makes our birthday cakes sometimes- my little Sister got a rabbit cake that was pink and covered in coconut the year her birthday fell on Easter Sunday. The year I turned four, the same year my little Sister was born, my Mother made me the swimming pool cake out of the Women's Weekly Cookbook- complete with green jelly for water and Jelly-babies floating in their chocolate-covered aniseed life-bouys. The best part of the cake is the pool fence, made out of chocolate biscuit sticks. I want to eat everybody else's fence bits.

That might've taken my mind of the itchy red dress with the small blue dots I have to wear. You can see the displeasure I feel at wearing it even in old photos- my arms folded defensively across my small chest. There are other photos of this event; the girl who broke her leg crossing the road is there- wearing a green crepe-paper party hat; dipping her cold Little Boy into the communal bowl of tomato sauce that is thick and crusty with broken-off sausage roll pastry flakes.

Next to her was baby Matthew, sitting in the high chair that turns into a baby's rocker, his cheeks red and chubby, his index finger up his nose, digging for gold...

And then there's Me, leaning against the wall, snarling at whoever was behind the camera, my party hat in shreds on my paper plate. I'm pretty good at pulling the wounded diva act when things aren't going my way.

I haven't had a party since- though who knows- I may break the rules when I turn forty, and have a party that year, with my then twenty one year old Son.

We'll see...