I remember the walk to the school sick bay vividly. To reach it you had to travel almost the full length of the college, from the front of the original 1930s building to the rear of the main block, where the sports hall was.
I normally started feeling ill during my French lesson. A knot would develop in my stomach and a lump would fill my throat: I didn’t feel sick exactly, more breathless. Helpless. I would hope desperately that the teacher would come and ask me if I was OK. If she didn’t, I would have to wait until the lesson finished before approaching her tearfully.
Then, either accompanied or alone, I would have to make my way out of the “new block”, where French, English and Maths were taught, through a door next to the sports hall, past the science labs, then down some steps just beyond the staff room into the gloomiest and oldest bit of the school, where dusty photographs of year groups gone by hung. On the right were the offices of the head and deputy heads, while on the left were the original toilets and changing rooms – first the boys, then the girls. The sick bay was next.
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