At school, we’d be jubilant when the TV was wheeled in.
Hungry for a Night of the LongKnives, feather-brained Braun
or learning how to salute with two fingers.
If the teacher was two minutes late, we knew.
Heard the metal scrape and screech along the concrete floor,
Hearts imploding like a neglected buzz bomb.
For the cool ones, it was belly flop to the back row
Like your life or a classmate’s depended on it,
Pinching skin in the weary metal through summer shorts.
We’d wish ourselves
A holiday from mum and dad and our eleven-year-old stresses.
How lucky, those cockney kids with their taste of adventure
Each gifted their own brown box and elusive banana.
Those were the Great Days.
Our happiness might’ve peaked. The teacher would cry:
“We’re watching Schindler’s List for the next two weeks!”
And we’d conga the halls, bouncing off our bunker walls.
Because we got excited by
Because we thought they were dead.
Amy Charlotte Kean is an advertising strategist, lecturer