Letters written on cream wove with a post office nib were more reliable. One of the favourite jobs at primary school was mixing up the ink for afternoon copybook lesson. The bad boy in the class always got the job. Apparently, I wasn't bad enough. One time he beat me up. I was a bit on the light side and under powered for my age. I don't remember what I did to provoke him but I do remember getting into trouble for fighting. After all, I was the one with a black eye. I guess they thought he was a lost cause. No wait! I remember. He called me a bastard and I took umbridge at the slight on my mother's reputation. I knew what the word meant but didn't really understand swearing yet, and what's more I was excessively loved up as a kid.
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