I exhaled, staring at Eversdal Primary School, a looming behemoth – or so it seemed – to my 6-year old self. Then I entered, flanked by my parents, into the double doors leading to the assembly hall.

Now in the hall, I gazed around, astonished by the waves of people streaming into the room. A tall man, presumably a staff member, stood in front of a stage, directing people to their seats. We were seated, anxiously awaiting the headmaster. Then he appeared, a short, stout fellow. He welcomed us, both parents and learners, to the school. Then he rambled on about things my little mind couldn’t comprehend.

I was awoken by people rising to their feet. I bid my parents farewell, before scuttling over to my teacher. I can only remember long black hair and friendly voices, sadly. Then she escorted me and about twenty-six (I’m not sure exactly how many, due to me having the intelligence of a talking rabbit) other children to a class, where we were introduced to one another.

We played, talked and “worked” all day, or until one o’clock, midday. When the bell finally sounded, I leapt up, grabbed my bag and ran at full sprint from the school. Nope. School wasn’t – and still isn’t – for me.