Esther Chilton

If you’d like to be included in this slot, please get in touch: estherchilton@gmail.com. Poems can be up to 60 lines and prose 2000 words. If you’d like to add a short bio and photo, then great. All I ask is that there’s nothing offensive.

My guest this week is fellow blogger, Cee Tee Jackson. Please give hima warm welcome as he brings you news of his latest book, which sounds great fun as he takes us down memory lane. Here’s the first chapter:

Chapter 1 

A Long-term Memory

I began my primary education in August 1963 and left secondary school after Sixth year, some thirteen years later.

School offered me so much more than Latin, Chemistry, and pink custard. Yet, for all I enjoyed both the academic and sports curricula, the full-on, fun-filled days of the summer holidays ranked even better.

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Was there ever a better day in the primary school calendar than the day we broke up for the long summer holidays?

It would often be a lovely, warm and sunny day, giving us a glimpse of what Nature would keep hidden from us for most of the following eight weeks.

At nine years of age, I’d already recognised our teasing and vindictive Scottish weather system’s propensity to over-promise and under-deliver.

Family finances were tight – tight as the blazers and jumpers we were fast growing out of. We had to squeeze as much wear possible out of all our clothes before they were handed down to younger siblings or cousins. So, when Mr Thompson, our headmaster, relaxed some rules for this special day, including the obligatory wearing of uniforms, we were packed off to class dressed in whatever ‘good clothes’ our parents had bought us for the previous weekend’s Sunday School picnic.

(That one good outfit would be bought on the large side, so we could grow into it. It would be worn to friends’ parties, family outings, weddings … everything. Eventually, the hem would be let down and the sides let out, before it ultimately proved too small and was passed to a shorter, slimmer or younger family member.)

There was a palpable sense of excitement in the air, although the observant amongst us would also have registered an air of dread emanating from our parents, most notably our mums.

Off we’d trot, off to school for the final time that term. It seemed so long since the Easter break.

Some pals had money in their pockets. Lunch money. Their parents, I suppose, had failed to read the teacher’s note about the early finish that day, and dinners were off the menu, as it were. We’d pester those kids to blow this unexpected wealth in the Cooperative General Store or Jamieson’s Newspaper Shop on the way to school.

Yippee! Bazooka Joes and Black Jacks all round!

(No kid I knew ever made the rash “Milky Bars are on me!” declaration as seen in the television advert – the white chocolate treats were way too expensive for sharing. ‘Two for a ha’penny sweets’ went a lot further among friends.)

Our walk up the hill to Westerton Primary would be filled with excited chat centred around the various board games many pupils had brought in their quaint little satchel / faux leather briefcase.

Snakes & ladders (boring); Ludo (boring); Cluedo (likewise); Chess (alright, clever clogs! We’re meant to be having fun, right?); Risk.

Risk? Has someone got Risk? Me. Me. Can I play? Pleeeaase?

At the school gate there’d be an atmosphere of celebration. Everyone was happy, even Mr McKay, the janny (janitor.) Blimey – he was kicking footballs back to kids who had yet to hone their passing skills. Was he drunk? No – not that early in the morning. He couldn’t be, could he?

Many children would bring cards for the teacher. Home-made ‘thank you’ cards in the main, but also some to wish her a happy holiday. Several pupils came bearing gifts: cheap perfume, chocolates, mantlepiece ornaments and flowers. I’m sure she was touched and appreciative of them all, but there’s only so much Yardley’s Lily of the Valley a woman can use. Which is more can be said for a faux porcelain Siamese cat! The chocolates would go down well, though.

The mood of the teachers puzzled me, however. It was the opposite of our poor, dejected and already deflated mums. It would be about another twenty-two years before I appreciated the reason behind that conundrum.

High on the euphoria of relief, relaxation, anticipation and being one year closer to retirement, they were all in buoyant mood. Though I didn’t understand it at the time, it’s obvious now – they were demob happy, didn’t have a care in the world and in short, didn’t give a stuff.

It’s last day before the summer holidays – who cares if I lose a kid or two?

“Come on children, gather up your games – let’s play outside. It’s too warm in here.”

So outside we’d go, marching along the short corridor, down past the dining hall, hanging a left at the toilets and out into the bright sunshine.

‘Miss’ would help us search for an unoccupied grassy spot in the playground. However, she’d spent way too long gushing thanks over her three bottles of Yardley perfume, six boxes of Matchmakers, that bloody Siamese cat thing and the bunch of flowers that looked like they’d been picked from a garden en route to school that morning. All the areas of shade had been taken by those more playground-savvy teachers and their classes.

Exiting the dark confines of the school building and into a gentle, wafting, warm breeze was wonderful. It was ten o’ clock in the morning and on any regular school day, we’d be having a spelling test.

I now appreciated the thinking of some historical characters, stories of whom had bored me rigid in our lessons. If this was freedom, it was indeed worth fighting for.

The balmy, early summer air would be fragrant with the delicate aroma of freshly cut grass. Mr McKay and his wife would be off to Skegness for a fortnight the following morning, so he’d have made sure all his immediate duties had been attended to.

It was idyllic. We’d be engrossed in the games we’d brought. Teacher would don her sunglasses and angle her face to the sun, and sigh. A deep, ancient sigh. A sigh that had been building in the pit of her very being since the previous August.

“Play nicely now, children,” was the instruction. And we did. For a while.

Of course, peace could only hold for so long in the rising temperature.

“Miss, I need a drink.”

“Miss, I need the toilet.”

“Miss, Gillian’s a cheat!”

“Miss, Robert stuffed a handful of cut grass down my back.”

“Miss, David stood on Russia and scattered my armies as far as Australia and I’ve now lost St Petersburgh. And I think one of my artillery pieces is in the grass that Robert pushed down Alan’s pullover!”

“FOR F**** SAKE! CAN’T YOU CHILDREN JUST BE QUIET FOR HALF A BLOODY HOUR?!”

Oops! Did I say that out loud?

‘Miss’ would throw down her Skytours holiday brochure in a fit of blind temper – the page with details on some place called Benidorm would be creased and dog-eared.

“OK – yes, you can go to the water fountain; yes, but straight back from the toilet; I’m sure Gillian simply didn’t understand the rules … isn’t that right Gillian? Robert – apologise to Alan right now! Alan, can you please give James his artillery thingy back. David! You can’t just walk into countries and scatter that nation’s armies. Behave!”

(A little bit of geo-political satire there. You’re welcome.)

Twenty minutes till bell-time. Twenty chuffin’ minutes. Come on – you can see this through.

“Angela! Give Lynnl back her Sindy doll!”

“Stewart McKenna! Where did you hear language like that? Wait till your father hears about this!”

Oh, Dear God! Please. Five more minutes to go.

Brrrrrrrrrrnnnnnngggggg!

Hallelujah!

“Right, children, don’t forget all your bits and pieces. Or your jumpers. Line up in pairs and head back to class and collect your term work …. And have a Happy Holiday! I look forward to seeing you back here in eight weeks’ time.”

‘Miss’ lied, of course.

We were gone! Out of there! Bags bursting with artwork and projects to amaze our parents, we’d run, skip and perhaps also fight on our way home. When we came back in eight weeks’ time, we’d be a year older. Amazing, that.

“Hello darling, good final morning at school?” mum would slur, surreptitiously sliding a half-empty, large green bottle behind the u-bend of the kitchen sink.

The Summer Holidays were here.

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To buy on Amazon, click here

COLIN (CEE TEE) BIOGRAPHY

Cee Tee (Colin) is a bit of a short-arse with a shorter attention span. He’s an ex-Bank Manager and (since late 2024) retired Petcare Professional. The latter spawned his first book, ‘Damp Dogs & Rabbit Wee,’ back in 2015.

For several years, he was the Scottish correspondent for the national (UK) music magazine, Artrocker. In July 2025, he will publish his fourth book, having also ‘ghost written’ two ‘gift books’ for Summersdale Publishers a month prior.

A keen sportsman all his life, Cee Tee has competed at football (soccer), athletics (running), baseball and tennis. He is now hooked on pickleball!

Cee Tee (Colin) has been married to Diane for forty-three years (at 2025) and they have two sons, Greig & Brett. They also have two rescued feral cats, Suki & Lulu.

He is also a very, very lucky Sudden Cardiac Arrest survivor – see his book, ‘NO LAUGHING MATTER … a short tale of death & how to recover from it.’

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