Words,words,words.

My first school was a nursery school,the only thing I can remember about it was being hit on the head with a wooden spade by Chris Webb.A hard nut even at that age.I can't think of anything I learned there,other than to keep out of Chris' way.
My mother taught me to read at home,we sat on her bed or in the park reading a book or the daily paper.I don't remember the cat sitting on the mat,should I.I remember a childs bible,should I.
The primary school I went to had a small library but they were childish books,the kind I'd read and put aside.It was the same problem when I moved up to the junior school,the books I wanted to read were for the boys a year or so ahead of me.So mum and I went to the local library and got me a library card,oh yes!If I were careful I could sneak into the adult section,okay,some of the books were a bit beyond me.I didn't know what all of the words meant,but they had a dictionary.Later I learned that mum had been told off for teaching me to read too early,or the wrong way.How dare she!
Where we lived it could be difficult for a boy who carried books in his satchel and not a catapult or a knife,or if he preferred cricket to football,tennis to boxing.And when it came to music,well,a boy without a father,not quite the words used,shouldn't listen to Shostakovitch,Glenn Miller or Stan Kenton.Even if he did listen to Chuck Berry and Little Richard as well.
By the time I was in the senior school I new my place at home,at school and on the street.And all I remember is trying not to remember.