Primary School Confidential by Woog Read Free Book Online Page A

and headed down to the paddock, swinging a halter and lead in my hand. I then proceeded to ride my horse, which was about seventeen hands high, through the streets—navigating some very busy intersections—and into the drive-thru, where I ordered some hot chips with extra salt. The slack-jawed teenagers serving could hardly believe their eyes. I took the hot chips down to the river, hoovered them up, then treated Abby the horse to a little swim. I did all this without the benefit of a helmet. Or a saddle. Or any sense whatsoever.

    Horses were my first love, closely followed by hot chips. But that was about to all change for me.
    The first time a boy ever told me that he loved me I was all of seven years old. We had only known each other for two days. He looked me in the eyes and said confidently, ‘I love you, Kelly.’
    Which was fine by me, even though my name was, and still is, Kayte. But, hey, he was cute and someone loved me and so I was Kelly for the next twenty-four hours until the end of that pony club camp.
    I didn’t think about boys for a few years, then all of a sudden they were all I could think about! I flew through a handful of crushes. There was Lance, who looked like a sheep, so thick and curly was his white-blond hair. And then there was Christopher, with whom I was quite smitten until my mum remarried and we moved towns. So he was gone (though, clearly, not forgotten).
    By the time I reached Year 5, if you didn’t have a boyfriend you were considered a complete loser. I wished not to be a complete loser and by this stage I had, fortunately, lost my Coke-bottle glasses, my hair looked relatively normal and my teeth had decided to straighten themselves out. The only problem was I was quite tall for my age, and all the boys were midgets. But this was a minor impediment. I wouldn’t say that I was in the running to win the Dolly Covergirl competition, but I was not a complete cretin either.
    So I put the word out via my little gang of friends that I was ready to ‘go with’ someone. (The term ‘go with’ was the vernacular at the time and the ironic thing was that you ended up going nowhere. It was just a label.) It was like I was putting out a request to tender for the role of my boyfriend. At recess and lunch, interested suitors were put forward.
    ‘Alan said he would go with you,’ came the word.
    And I would be all like, ‘Alan! He has fricking warts!’
    Next!
    ‘Peter said he would go with you.’
    Sweet Mary, mother of GOD! Peter shat in his pants two years ago. Was this it for me? Was I already scraping the bottom of the barrel at the age of eleven?
    ‘Paul said he would go with you.’
    ‘Ryan or Waters?’
    ‘Paul Ryan in Year 6.’
    And that is how I got my first boyfriend.
    Now that I had my boyfriend, what was I supposed to do with him?
    The answer, my friends, was handball. Using chalk, a huge grid was drawn up on the concrete with allocated spots for King,Queen, Jack and Dunce. We played mixed doubles, with each square accommodating one happy couple.
    I was a very good handball player and Paul proved to be a good match for me in that department. We didn’t speak much. Just played handball a lot.
    The relationship, perhaps due to its non-verbal nature, failed to thrive. But little did I know just how bad things had got. Shortly after acquiring my first boyfriend, I would find myself on the receiving end of my first dumping.
    It all started on a school excursion. As usual, everyone raced to the back of the bus, trampling smaller ones who got in their way. I was not that concerned about sitting at the back of the bus, so took my seat about halfway down the aisle. Word travelled down to me that Paul had saved me a seat at the back of the bus.
    He wanted me to sit next to him? Who was he fucking kidding? No WAY!
    This act of independence proved to be my undoing. The next day, in the playground at recess, one of Paul’s mates told my friend Penny that Paul wanted to break up with me.