All the way back to those story-book days; sweet smell of dough on your hands. Tastes salty. Gathered in a circle, a puddle round and damp shorts. More hands up with Dr Seuss and that elephant. Someone pukes on the dough, slimy like slugs.
Say a word you heard your dad say and get sent to wash out your mouth. What's the word? Whispers sidle into idle ears at play.
Back then, there's just the kids who are smart and the kids who aren't. Kids who have bugs and no socks and dirty faces. Kids who don't get washed. Kids who smell and have sticky eyes.
Later they'll be resigned to the trash heap of adult life. Hopeless and helpless. No information is relevant to their lives at home; it's not retained. School is just a place that watches your kids for you - no value in it. Resentful parents and unrealistic expectations of mercenary gain reap few rewards except more resentment. Cynicism of the age.
Which are the ones who will drag themselves out? Takes more than many have to give. That's a hard path - a lonely way. There's not much room at the top. Sure is a hell of a lot of room down here though.
It's a fallacy we can all get there. Only so many angels can fit on the head of the pin. We get dislodged, knocked off and are falling.
See me, I'm hanging on by my nails. Boredom will kill me before they do.
It's not for you.
What did it do for me? Consign me to flotsam drifting and watching that sodding clock.