Age 15. A brilliant English teacher, Mrs Kerr. She set us a homework task (can’t remember the theme or context). I loved English lessons, Mrs Kerr was strict (“Now, Sam, ‘nice’ is a no-no word…”) but inspirational. I came up with this piece, which I found recently when sorting through some boxes in the loft. Look at that immaculate handwriting! After returning our marked work, Mrs Kerr took me aside and told me it was the best piece of writing she’d seen. I was slightly taken aback, but I still bask in that glow. She was adamant that I pursue a writing path. Unfortunately, a few months later, after a Form assembly where I played a comic Eve in my class’s dramatic rendition – fully clothed, of course – of the Garden of Eden story, she took me aside again and said I should join the drama club, indulge my performing talent before life and university gave me little time to enjoy it. My mind and my passion was turned, and it was an actor’s life for me. I’m sorry, Mrs Kerr, but I’m trying to redress the balance!
A Sense of Guilt
by 15-year-old Me:
I became quite peckish whilst I was reading, so I went into the kitchen for five minutes and came out with a glass of milk and two biscuits. My chair was warm and soft so I did not want to move from my position. I sat down again despite my conscience, for some odd reason wearing my mother’s voice, warning me to eat at the table and not on the new, clean furniture, “Well, no-one’s home, so why not?” My voice echoed around the room, so I proceeded to eat in comfort.
Unfortunately, my worst fears were realized when I shifted my position. The glass of milk tipped and I watched in horror as the cold, white liquid fell in slow motion and made a ghost-like pattern on the brown cushions. My mind raced as my body stood still. “What to do? What to do?” I shouted inwardly but I seemed deprived of motion. After what seemed like a lifetime of black silence, I at last found the power of movement. Quick, jerky actions brought me to the kitchen once more, but this time I was searching for a rag. Back again to the living-room to vanish the spectral stain. It refused to disappear. Quite the contrary, it grew. In desperation I turned the cushion over and was extremely relieved to see the ghost melt away.
When my mother returned I gave an Oscar-deserving performance of innocence, which lasted until she noticed that the seam on the cushion did not line up with that of the others. Again, I was silent and paralysed and a white ghost stood beside me.
“Oliver!” shouted Mummy to my brother. “Come here.”
“Er… Mummy,” I interrupted. The ghost had at last vanished, leaving me with some explaining to do.
Lady Valetta Writes 