In most Australian family photograph albums there’s a treasured snap of the little ones on their first day of school. Standing up straight and proud in a uniform that’s just a wee bit too big. Faces scrubbed, hair neatly combed or scraped into a ponytail with a ribbon.
My mother recalls: “As a toddler you’d just wander off into the classroom when I was busy with the washing or something. Phillip and Noel did too, and your father would bring them home at lunchtime. Sometimes I’d find Helen there in front of the grade six boys with no nappy on.” So I grew up in a schoolroom and count myself the luckiest of children. I loved it when the other kids went home and I could sit at the empty wooden desks in the front row, swinging my little legs and poking around in the inkwells.
As the statistics tell us, children experiencing disadvantage are, on average, two to three years behind in reading and maths by the time they’re 15 years old. Not all children get an equal start in life. In wealthy Australia, they should.
I hated every day of 12 years at school. Having to leave my lovely interesting home and my animal friends was heart wrenching every time. Then being confronted by stupid inflexible teachers and ridiculous rules made it torture. I hated being confined with other kids all day too.