Three months, six months, eleven months… it all seems like far too long, but in retrospect, maybe I should have admitted to knowing them yet refused to name them, that way I’d have only had to come for six months instead of eleven. We spent the best part of an hour discussing the ins and outs of the story she’d read, as well as discussing our own misdemeanours and how we might have handled things differently. It was a long boring hour to spend perched on a stool with no backrest.
“Right… let’s have some fun shall we?” the woman suggested after we’d returned our stools to the end of the hall. She asked for two volunteers and told them to fetch the net-stands; two long poles on weighted bases between which a badminton net hangs. We play balloon volleyball, but since there’s seven in our group, one stands out leaving an even three on each side. But they don’t just stand and watch… they’re given a skipping rope to play with until three points have been scored, then they swap places with one member of the winning side. Playing balloon volleyball is far more sedate than proper volleyball but it’s still good fun… I almost forgot I was wearing my dress for a few seconds here and there. When it was my turn to stand out, I confessed to not knowing how to skip when I was given the rope. “Well the important thing is you try.” the woman told me… and try I did. I also failed to get into the swing of it.
After five minutes out of the volleyball game, I hoped I’d be able to put the rope down and begin enjoying myself again, but the woman in charge of our group suggested that I continue practising my skipping. “Every girl I know can skip with a rope.” she said. “Why you boys struggle to do play such a simple game I honestly don’t know.”
I continued trying and failing to skip as the others in my group played balloon volleyball. I felt like such a ninny in my prissy white dress, pelerine knee socks and girlie shoes, struggling to do something that girls find so simple. Afterwards, the woman asked if I have a skipping rope at home. I shook my head. She suggested that I ask my mother to buy me one and spend the week practising.
The next activity was the book group, and since it’s my first time, all I can do is sit and listen to the readings and discussions. One is reading a book called Heidi, others read Malory Towers, Anne of Green Gables, The Lost Princess, What Katy Did and Polyanna. They all sounded like boring girl’s books to me and listening the the passages read out, they were definitely boring girl’s books. At the end of the book group session I was given a book to read. “Can I choose a different one?” I asked, on being given a book titled A Little Princess.
“You can have a different one after you’ve read this one.” I was told. “Now put it in your handbag so you don’t lose it.” she said, before asking if I’ve wet my nappy yet. I shook my head and felt myself begin to blush. It’s embarrassing enough having to wear one, let alone being asked if I’ve wet myself in front of the others.
“I have Miss.” one of the others meekly admitted.
“OK.” the woman said. “You can have a dry one after we’ve done some dancing.”
This turned out to be the worst activity of the day. The hour long English country dancing class involved having to hold hands with a boy, curtsey and follow the steps whilst some jaunty folk music blared out from a battered old cassette player. I found myself stepping back and forth, twirling in unison, skipping and prancing whilst my dress swished this way and that… and I hated every minute of it. I felt like such a sissy and by the looks of it, everyone else did too… girl’s included.
