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Caught myself thinking about my primary school headmaster the other day. He was a lovely man, getting on in years even in the early/mid 90s, but always with a smile, and his favourite few hymns he'd reference every end-of-term assembly like a school anthem.
I don't like to go into my childhood much if I can help it, but I had almost no friends, and one of the teachers genuinely hated me and would single me out all the time. So I frequently found myself outside the head's office, even when I'd just defended myself to that teacher.
This particular time I'd been caught blowing kisses at some of the 'other' boys in the playground, and in 1995 England, I may as well have stabbed another child for how that got treated. I was sent straight to the office, missing the start of the afternoon lesson.
It's been almost 26 years but I can still vividly recall that bench outside his office, uncomfortable and small, in a far corner of the hall, nobody else around except an occasional teacher who'd do their best to not look at you, and a ticking clock, echoing in the empty space
Finally I saw the head and I was bracing for the worst, expecting to be told how bad a child I was for things that didn't seem remotely wrong to me. I sat down in a child-sized armchair and thought what my parents would say when I got home in a few hours.
And this man, with his rimmed glasses that seemed to match the smile on his face, this man just gave me space, let me cry, and over some water, told me there was nothing wrong with what I did. That others might not get it and that was their problem but I should be careful anyway.
He didn't hug me, but it felt like the equivalent of a hug. It was a "I'm sorry the world is like this" talk delivered to someone whose teens were still years away. I always appreciated that, and held a spot of thankfulness in my heart, for how kind he had always treated me.
And then one day, decades later, I came across that hymn he always liked to sing, and remembered him, and then it occurred to me - this had all happened at the height of Section 28. His kind words, his blaming of the world not me was exactly what he was *not supposed* to do then.
Had the school governors - who were like the mafia if they were middle-aged Tories who often spoke about how sad it was Thatcher was gone - found out, this man could have lost his job. It was after all a school that had a hubbub over a Muslim kid getting allowed to sit out hymns.
I looked for him online - hoping there'd be some email address, a Facebook profile, some way of just sending him a little thank you, decades on - but never found anything after he left the headmaster position, only a few years after I'd gone to secondary school. Well. He was old.
I don't look back on my childhood with much fondness or nostalgia, but this was one man who went above and beyond to be a friend when a friend was needed. And since I never found him, I guess this is the tribute I was always going to write him. I hope he got to be happy.
If you are ever able, always be that friend with a glass of water, a soft chair, and words of reassurance to someone in distress, faced with a ticking clock, a hard bench, and averted gazes.
