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the new girl
The day I was sent to boarding school was easily the worst day of my life so far, aged eight and thrown in to the upper class mosh pit that was to be home, my new life ...my new world for the next few years to come.
Don’t be fooled by the posh kids or uniform..including the archaic crimson colored cloaks we were forced to wear whenever we had to make the walk up from the Dower house to the main ‘Red House’ part of the school ..heavy, felt material so if it was raining, they got heavier and heavier.
Even if it was eighty degrees outside we still had to wear our handmai..Er I mean ..modesty cloaks.
As the ‘cheap local taxi ’ that was my chariot of doom, drew closer to my area of the absolutely gigantic school that was ‘ Queen Margaret’s School for girls ’
I felt sick and my stomach churned.
Looking up at the impossibly high ceilings, I yearned for the open blue skies of Liberia, not this fine plasterwork and huge oak doors.
A sharp tangy smell hung throughout the building, it was a smell that was always there constantly and I know now that it was the smell of homesickness and unhappiness.
All the girls stunk of it.
The bullies, the bullied... the teachers, one of whom always stank of strong scotch whiskey ALL day, I’d lived in a pub when I was really little so I knew the smell of whiskey and mrs smith stunk of it. The worse she smelled, the more mean she was. The teachers all had their favorites and those unlucky enough to not be anyone’s favorite at all.. well, life was just shit.
If your kit wasn’t correct, named or on the list and you didn’t have it, you got punished
If your kit was correct but cheap or worse still..homemade, you got bullied.
After all girls can be cruel and this was a rich mostly spoiled girls boarding school ...somebody help me!!.
My first night there, they ‘applepied’ my bed...
* END OF PART ONE *
© katMaddi
Don’t be fooled by the posh kids or uniform..including the archaic crimson colored cloaks we were forced to wear whenever we had to make the walk up from the Dower house to the main ‘Red House’ part of the school ..heavy, felt material so if it was raining, they got heavier and heavier.
Even if it was eighty degrees outside we still had to wear our handmai..Er I mean ..modesty cloaks.
As the ‘cheap local taxi ’ that was my chariot of doom, drew closer to my area of the absolutely gigantic school that was ‘ Queen Margaret’s School for girls ’
I felt sick and my stomach churned.
Looking up at the impossibly high ceilings, I yearned for the open blue skies of Liberia, not this fine plasterwork and huge oak doors.
A sharp tangy smell hung throughout the building, it was a smell that was always there constantly and I know now that it was the smell of homesickness and unhappiness.
All the girls stunk of it.
The bullies, the bullied... the teachers, one of whom always stank of strong scotch whiskey ALL day, I’d lived in a pub when I was really little so I knew the smell of whiskey and mrs smith stunk of it. The worse she smelled, the more mean she was. The teachers all had their favorites and those unlucky enough to not be anyone’s favorite at all.. well, life was just shit.
If your kit wasn’t correct, named or on the list and you didn’t have it, you got punished
If your kit was correct but cheap or worse still..homemade, you got bullied.
After all girls can be cruel and this was a rich mostly spoiled girls boarding school ...somebody help me!!.
My first night there, they ‘applepied’ my bed...
* END OF PART ONE *
© katMaddi
