Legend:

Legend = Imagery

Legend = Personification

Legend = Hyperbole

Legend = Alliteration

Legend = Metaphors

My primary school, in the 1950s, was incredibly strict. We lined up when the bell rang for the start of
the school day and marched in smartly, swinging our arms. Anyone who swung their arms a little too
wildly was severely punished. You were always punished for breaking the rules. In the infants, you
were simply smacked on the back of your legs, but in the juniors, there was a cane in every
classroom. It was seldom used, but it was an ever-present menace in the corner. There were any
number of petty classroom rules. You always stood up when a teacher came into the room. If you
dared yawn, you were sent to run round the playground, to wake yourself up. You mustn’t ever
whisper to a friend. If spotted, the teacher threw a piece of blackboard chalk at your temple with
deadly accuracy. If you were very unlucky and in Mr Branson’s class, he threw the blackboard rubber
too, and nearly knocked you unconscious. It also seemed to be a school rule that all our teachers
were highly eccentric. Miss Dowling was a fierce lady who taught us to make raffia baskets and cross
stitch purses. Mrs Symons was Austrian, as sweet as the pastries she brought in for a Christmas treat.
Mr Townsend was the kindest father figure, encouraging us all so that we blossomed. The quirkiest
teacher of all was Miss Audric, who taught nature study. She could have been any age between 30
and 70, a startling-looking woman with hair as orange as a carrot. She wore it in old-fashioned
earphones but occasionally, on sunny lunch hours, she would sit on the school lawn, undo her coiled
plaits, and brush her hair until it rippled, like a crazed Rapunzel. She wore hand-knitted suits, winter,
and summer, in eye-blinkingly bright colours: green, purple and electric blue. One memorable sunny
day, when we were all feeling dozy after lunch, she stopped drawing an oak tree on the blackboard,
threw her chalk away and clapped her hands. “Let us go and look at real oak trees, children!” she
declared. “We’ll take a trip to Richmond Park.” So, we took a trip there, right that minute. No
permission was sought. We broke the most fundamental rule of all: no leaving school premises until
going-home time. Miss Audric marched us 40 children out of the school and all the way to the park.
No one saw or stopped us. It was a good half-hour walk and our straggling crocodile must have been
hard to direct across all the roads, but Miss Audric was up for it and so were we. When we got to the
park, she allowed us to break ranks and charge through the grass. She showed us hundreds of
ancient oaks, herds of red and fallow deer, pointed out wildflowers and butterflies and birds, and
when we eventually got tired and started whining that our feet hurt, she took us even further into
the park to Pen Ponds. There was sand at the edge, almost like the seaside, and the water shone
bright blue. We didn’t hesitate. We flung off our sandals and went splashing into the water. Miss
Audric undid her suspenders under cover of her woollen skirt, slipped off her lisle stockings and
joined us. We splashed and sang and laughed for sheer joy. Of course, we were all limping in our
soggy sandals by the time we got back to school again, long after four o’clock. The headmaster was
waiting, arms folded, and anxious parents were complaining bitterly, but Miss Audric wasn’t cowed.
She swept past like a Pied Piper, triumphant. We all knew this extraordinary breaking of all the rules
had been the most memorable school day of our lives.