Early Memories - Guernsey VI A Lighter Side

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One teacher we had was a tiny man, dwarfed by the tallest first years, he seemed to have one of those characters that are associated with small people. He was a bully, who liked to shout and would often start a lesson by giving the whole class detention.

This man was clearly not cut out to be a teacher and I seem to remember that he did not last a full year at the school.

The poem below describes students bullying a teacher which seemed funny at the time, but looking back at it was not so laudable. That said the point I am trying to make in the poem is that sometimes when you fully expect the whole world to come crashing down on you, as by rights the two lads and those who were laughing at the teachers misery should have done, the unexpected can happen. I guess that morning the deputy head was thinking the teacher would benefit from some of his own medicine, and he did the bare minimum to stop what was happening.

I have always wondered what happened in the staff room when he was next in there?

Early Memories - Guernsey VI - A Lighter Side

The teacher was but four foot six
the juniors towered over him,
he’d scream and shout all day long,
and the boys just ignored him.

He was a vicious little man.
His pupils grew to hate him.
The other teachers tried their best
but they obviously found him grating.

One day as I walked along behind him,
two boys picked him up!
They walked along; his little body
dangling between them.

Then around the corner came Vernon,
he was the deputy head.
Strict and fair and very scary;
I thought they’d soon be dead.

He yelled; “Put that teacher down!”
and the two lads dropped him smartly.
Strangely Vernon carried on,
He did not stop to scold them.

Once they’d passed, I saw his face
light up in silent laughter;
and in that instant, I understood
how human was this master.

John Carré Buchanan
24 March 2012

Early Memories Guernsey V



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When I was in the fourth form we had a common room which was split into two levels with a large under-floor space between them. The common room was decorated with hanging tie-died sheets and carpet tiles from the carpet shop sample catalogues. The common room was pretty much our own space and we were, for the most part, left alone, to do what we wanted in it.

Someone, I can’t remember who (honest), had the bright idea of making our own alcohol and we set trying to make cider. In those days there was no internet and we were boys so we didn’t do books! This left us at a slight disadvantage as we had only learned the very basics of making alcohol in biology.

The following poem is my memory of a couple of terms spent making cider. I hope you enjoy it.

Early Memories Guernsey V

In biology we’d made alcohol
which sparked the great idea;
to make our own cider
to drink at end of year.

We scrumped and crushed the apples
and collected all the juice,
which we stored in a glass flagon;
purloined for just this use.

One lad acquired some yeast
on a trip to the brewery.
A great big yellow lump of it
which made it bubble with fury.

The sugar came real easy
as tea was served at break
and pockets full of sugar
were delivered with a shake.

So juice, yeast and sugar
were mixed in a bubbling flagon
kept warm under the floorboards
by leaving an electric bulb on.

It made a murky, frothy potion
which needed to be strained,
so we made a filter with a loo roll
through which the mix was drained.

The result was pink in colour?
The loo roll without a doubt!
The first few sips drew gasps
as we choked and spat it out.

Five minutes later, our precious brew
was tipped into the gutter;
and the evil smelling pink concoction
down the drain did splutter.

The next few weeks a funny smell
pervaded the whole area.
The masters tried to find the source,
While we - kept silent - of course.

John Carré Buchanan
23 March 2012

Early Memories Guernsey IV

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I was 11 when I moved down to what we called the ‘Upper School’, the boarding school was much bigger with 65 boarders instead of 16. During the first few years we lived in ‘New Block’ which makes the corner of Upland Road and the Grange. In those days there was one large dormitory upstairs and another downstairs and each slept 22 boys with 18 inches between each bed.

The prefects or duty house master were responsible for lights out and would usually insist on silence before flipping the light switch and going back to whatever they were doing before their duties interrupted them.

It was then that the youngest boy known as the ‘KV’ (Abbreviated ‘Cave’ = Latin for ‘Beware’) would let us know that they had gone and the fun would start. This poem records one of the activities which used to happen from time to time.

Early Memories Guernsey IV

The lights went out and the dormitory fell silent,
beyond the door retreating footsteps descended the stairs.
The youngest eyes watched from the sash window
waiting for the duty prefect to leave the building.
The word “ok” was whispered.
From the other end of the dorm a sash could be heard opening.
Silently a young lad slipped clothes over his pyjamas.
Then he ducked through the first floor window.
A shadow stole along the wall to the lamp post,
It slipped silently down and disappeared.
Footfall, barely audible could be heard padding off into the night.
Using all available cover the young boy stole unseen along the road,
hiding from passing headlamps and skirting pedestrians.
His pulse pounded in his ear as he passed the old graveyard,
he hoped his racing heart couldn’t be heard.
Slipping between the bushes he passed the tower and fire station.
His objective now in view he waited behind a bush
biding his time, watching silently for familiar faces.
Then, all clear, he slipped across the road and through the door
approaching the counter, pyjamas legs showing beneath his jeans,
he uttered; “Twenty two packets of chips please!”

John Carré Buchanan
21 March 2012

Early Memories Guernsey II

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This is another of my early memory series. This particular memory is of my first day at boarding school. I was seven years old and as the poem says I had only been there half an hour when the events happened. Technically the school did nothing wrong, they had Loco Parentis, meaning they were my legal guardians; it was just interesting, in fact almost amusing, to find out some forty years later that my real parents had never been told.

Early Memories Guernsey II

They’d left me half an hour before,
a boarder at new school,
I’d joined the other lads outside
the tree house was real cool.

But then I slipped and fell
and landed on a stone,
I split my young head open
right down to the bone.

A lady called Matron
patched up my bleeding head
and sent me up to the dorm
and made me stay in bed.

Now that was that for forty years
when chance I did recall
the incident to my parents
who’d been told bugger all!

The loco parentis forms
had only just been signed
so I guess the school’s point of view
was; 'why spoil their piece of mind?'

John Carré Buchanan
09 March 2012

Early Memories Guernsey I

When I was seven I was sent to boarding school, I have three memories of my first day; the first was calling the housemaster 'Sir', it was the first time I had ever called anyone Sir, and for some reason it made me feel grown up.

My second memory of that day was falling out of a tree house and splitting my head open within about half an hour of my parent leaving me there. My parents only found out about this when I mentioned it some forty years later.

The overarching memory was being left, and the following poem describes how the excitement that my parents had built up turned into a feeling of being utterly alone, but also being aware that I must not show I was upset. I hope you like it.

Early Memories Guernsey I

Today was the day I’d been prepared for
I was bubbling with excitement
as we neared the big blue door.
We were met by a teacher
my Mum my Dad and me,
he was going to be the Dad
of my brand new family.
Later on; that same day
my parents said goodbye
and I was left, a little boy
determined not to cry.

John Carré Buchanan
07 February 2012

Home

I have been very fortunate to have travelled the world extensively as both child and adult. I was born in Trinidad and sailed back to the Channel Islands via the UK at the age of about 6 weeks. Shortly after that we sailed out to Kenya via the Suez Canal. I remained in East Africa for Three years before returning to Britain via the Cape of Good Hope. By the time I was four I had crossed the Atlantic and circumnavigated Africa on board 3 liners.

My parents knew that if I continued to live with them I would be constantly changing school and in order that I had a stable education they sent me to boarding school whilst they continued to Globe Trot. By this time Airliners had become the normal means of travel and so my school Holidays were full of trips to exotic countries such as; Ascension Island, Mauritius, Hong Kong, Grand Cayman and Gibraltar, to name a few.

This nomadic lifestyle continued when I joined the Army on leaving school. I moved regularly sometimes for a few weeks and other times for months or years. By the time I left the Army the longest I had lived in one place was three years.

I have now lived in Guernsey for eight years and I am still enjoying the stability that has come with remaining in one place. I was thinking about this about a year ago and thought that it might be fun to pen some verse on the different forms of accommodation I have lived in over the years. I hope you enjoy the results of this endeavour;

Home

I boarded at school
along with my brother,
spending our holls.
with Father and Mother.

I’ve lived in the tropics,
the Far East and near,
a while in the US,
I even lived here.

I spent years in barracks
surrounded by wire,
with guards on the gate
ready to fire.

I’ve lived in a trench,
in all kinds of weather,
wrapped in a poncho
surrounded by heather.

I lived in a port
in a bombed out warehouse.
In Hong Kong I lived in
a parquet floored penthouse.

I spent six months
In a far off region,
sharing a camp
with the Foreign Legion.

Now refugee camps
are not “state of the art”;
they have to be uncomfortable
so people depart.

While a shipping container’s
a ready made shelter
it’s freezing in winter,
and in summer you swelter.

The heat of a jungle
the cold of the snow
these are the things
I’ve come to know

I’ve lived in buildings
as tall as the sky
and down in the cuds
but these I decry;

For all of these places
have become part of me,
but none were a home
without my family.

John Carré Buchanan
25 September 2010

Image: NASA/Via the Daily Mail

Smiles Apart

I met one of my school masters in town today. He retired from teaching a few years ago and returned to Bangladesh with his family.

We had a bit of a chat and he told me that he had returned to teaching, but rather than at a public school he was now teaching street children. These young children were attending school between jobs or instead of scavenging for the next meal. Many of them had no home to return to and lived on very dangerous streets.

We discussed the difference in attitude towards school between the kids he used to teach and those he teaches now. I must admit that having seen kids walking miles to school in a number of countries; what he told me came as no surprise.

I decided I would write this poem to record the difference;

Smiles Apart

The kids sit in the back of the car
A big, posh four by four,
Their mother’s taking them to school
A place they all abhor.

They’re dressed up smart at start of day
and their faces wear a frown.
by break they’ll have their shirt tails out
as tie and socks come down.

They talk in class and muck about
And tease those keen to learn
They have to hear things several times
As they their lessons spurn.

Their homework seems to take an age
and boy don’t they complain
they’d rather play on their x-box
then develop their brain.

These kids are a privileged lot
most eat three times a day
they get to sleep in their own beds
and have toys with which to play.

In other parts of our world
The story’s very different
Some kids live on the streets alone
while society remains indifferent.

These kids have horrific tales,
they’re often all alone,
Two things they have in common.
Abuse; and nowhere to call home.

There are kids who live with kin
and some even go to school
but they work in their spare time
and life is often cruel.

Governments, charities and missions
Offer some poor children schooling
And kids can walk for many miles
Their journey often gruelling.

Some lucky kids have uniforms
They are always smartly worn
and the children pay attention
when the teacher’s in front of form.

These children are all eager
To learn and better themselves
They take nothing for granted
And work as hard as elves.

They wear smiles on their faces
and grasp opportunity by the hand,
they do all they can to better themselves
and stride forth from where they stand.

Many kids of the rich, like their parents,
take for granted the privilege they share.
They moan at the chances they’re given
and with glum faces shout ‘It’s not fair”.

And then there’s the kid in a million
Who grows up with a conscience fair
and devotes their life to poor children;
the ‘have nots’ in need of care.

John Carré Buchanan
19 July 2011

Hands

Between the ages of 7 and 18, I went to boarding school and access to family was pretty restricted. I spent most holidays with my parents who lived in a number of exotic locations overseas, but I used to spend my Sunday exeats with my Grandparents.

This afternoon I was thinking about all the Sundays we spent together back then. I remember Gran best as sadly Grandpa died when I was only 11. Gran always treated my brother and me as if we were her own sons and I guess during those magical Sundays we were!

I wrote this poem shortly after Gran died;

Hands

I sit beside her bed,
thinking of what’s ahead.

Her frail hand rests in mine,
and our fingers entwine.

Our hands wear their love,
as if it were a glove.

Her gnarled arthritic finger,
upon my palm does linger.

Could it remember the time,
it first met mine?

My tiny pink hand,
gripping her wedding band.

Perhaps it could recall,
holding me lest I fall?

Or swinging me by the arm,
As we walked around the farm.

And with a gentle squeeze,
my worries she’d appease.

But alas as I grew,
our embraces became few.

It wasn’t cool for a young man,
to be seen holding hands with Gran.

Yet in the autumn she took my arm,
and it had a certain charm.

Her hand would rest on mine,
as we walked beside the brine.

Well met these hands, o’er all the years,
They’ve shared both happiness and tears.

We sit in silence, no words needed,
as memories of our hands are heeded.

She draws my fingers to her lips,
And with a gentle kiss; she slips.

John Carré Buchanan
10 September 2010

Progress

In 1991 I was presented a beautiful Blackthorn walking stick with a silver ferrule engraved by the organisation that gave it to me. At the time it was a gift I never thought I would use, but it has remained one of my treasured possessions ever since.

Over the last few years I have found myself relying on the stick more and more. Whilst my heart made me use the blackthorn, I must admit that the root knob was pretty uncomfortable in the hand. Eventually I bowed to the pressure of the red circle in the palm of my hand and bought myself a new walking stick. It was a rather smart mahogany colour Derby Cane with a brass ferrule and a handle offering a more comfortable grip.

Within two days I dropped the new stick and the varnish chipped, two months later the stick looked like I had owned it for years. The thick layer of hard coloured varnish was chipped all over and the “brass” ferrule had been scratched to reveal a cheap aluminium band underneath the brass top coat. Whilst the stick itself is well made the manufacturers had spoiled what could have been a quality product by applying a veneer of cheap coloured spray-on varnish to finish it off, presumably to cut costs.

Aware that the stick was looking scruffy I decided to remove the varnish and re-polish it. Having stripped the stick back to clean wood I applied layer upon layer of a natural wax polishing the stick well between each application. The finished product was a big improvement and I feel confident that it will continue to look good for some time to come.

The physical process of polishing the cane was quite cathartic and as I sat in my shed, or hobbled around the garden buffing up the stick with a rag torn from an old T shirt, I got to thinking about how the stick could be used as a metaphor for progress.

It occurred to me that our modern society is often so eager to get things done quickly, cheaply or easily, that that we end up taking shortcuts. At the time the shortcuts seem like a good idea, but they often result in some form of re-work being required to put things right, or a lesser quality product being produced.

I asked myself; will the furniture, toys and buildings of today stand up to the rigours of history as have the antiques and historical buildings we enjoy today? It seemed to me that in the rush to produce vast quantities at speed for as little as possible we have sacrificed quality in almost all areas of our endeavour.

Our foods are artificially flavoured, coloured and preserved, to the extent that some of the fruits and vegetables we eat have been stored for a year before reaching our tables and the nutritional content has been virtually eradicated.

In medicine doctors prescribe drugs designed to address specific symptoms, these often have unwanted side effects which require other drugs to be used in order that the first ones can be taken. This leads to a situation where the cocktail of drugs being taken can be more harmful than the original cause of suffering. The sad point is that it is often the symptom that is treated and not the cause.

Treating symptoms is common in modern society. Crime, substance abuse, social housing. jobs, education and even foreign policy, all suffer from the effects of policies designed to be the quick fix for one symptom or another. Unfortunately they seldom address the real issues and money and resources are squandered.

The poem below is a light hearted attempt to illustrate how progress can have negative side effects. What is more it suggests a solution to the problems of traffic congestion, childhood obesity, parental stress and does all this whilst having a positive effect on family finances.

Progress – School Run

I used to ride or walk to school,
along with all my friends.
Now I sit breathing fuel,
as travel time extends.

The car in front’s a four by four,
as is the one behind.
They seem to have kids galore,
In safety seats confined.

Mums put on lippy as they rush
to drop kids at the gate.
Then back to get a quick Red Bush
before a lunch with Kate.

The little darlings clamber out,
dragging bags behind them.
Mobile phones are quick dugout
the traffic becomes mayhem.

Some would call this progress;
plump kids and jammed up street.
But I would call it progress
if more would use their feet.

John Carré Buchanan
14 September 2010