The Generation Game Read Online Free

forced to strip to our pants and vest and
pretend to be as small as mice. She knows nothing of the endless dinner-time when we are chucked into the throng of the playground to be bumped and barged by really big boys and girls all of whom
like calling me Fatty.
    Instead.
    She plants a rare kiss on the top of my head, grimacing at the taste of hairspray.
    ‘Must dash, Philippa. Mustn’t be late for work.’
    And she is gone.
    I am hot and squashed on the Carpet, one of a multitude trying to ‘sit on our bottoms with legs crossed nicely’, extremely tricky with plump legs like mine. I
manage to dodge Christopher Bennett who is fidgeting in a Special Place at Miss Hitchcock’s feet, craftily untying the laces of her man-shoes (I caught Mother scowling at them this morning
during the brief moment she was in Miss Hitchcock’s orbit). Instead, I am wedged between Mandy Denning with the blonde hair and doll-sized hands (do her eyelids click shut when she lies
down?) and a quiet boy with messy hair and skin the colour and smoothness of duck eggs, who quite possibly might crack open if he falls in the playground he looks so fragile. Maybe that is why he
spent Break playing on his own in a (miraculously) quiet corner, gently moving his arms up and down, side to side and round and round in some kind of balletic rain dance.
    Miss Hitchcock sits on her chair reading from a book with funny pictures. It is about two children with absentee parents and I warm to it straightaway, especially when a cat sporting a rather
nice hat turns up, causing mayhem. (Why isn’t this book in the library?) Just as we think things can’t possibly get any messier, the cat introduces his two friends, Thing One and Thing
Two. Chaos! But not to worry: the cat tidies up before Mother gets home. All we catch of her as she opens the front door is a glimpse of red coat and high heels (and even if they do have laces like
Miss Hitchcock’s shoes, I just know she is wearing lipstick like Helena).
    By the time the bell rings at Hometime, I am feeling better. I’ve done it. I’ve been to school. I am a Big Girl now. We surge for the cloakroom, a riot of shuffling feet and flailing
arms, freedom beckoning. So it comes as something of a shock when Miss Hitchcock’s booming voice cuts through the hullabaloo: ‘Don’t forget to bring your dinner money tomorrow,
Christopher Bennett.’ We all look at each other, horrified.
    Tomorrow?
    ‘Yes, tomorrow, Philippa.’ Helena hands me a tissue at the school gate. ‘I thought I’d explained. School is every day.’
    ‘Everyday?’
    ‘Except Saturdays and Sundays. And the school holidays.’ She buttons me into my coat. ‘But you’ve got weeks before those start,’ she adds, finding it hard to
disguise the relief in her voice. Then she manoeuvres me deftly through the swarm of reunited mothers and children, and strides off along the pavement as fast as she can in her heels, pulling me
along in her wake.
    How long is a week? I look up at Helena – focused straight ahead – but no further information is forthcoming. All I know for sure is the length of six hours: an eternity filled with
bogies and bonfires.
    Eventually we Halt at the Kerb around the corner (I am a fully-fledged Tufty Club member). ‘Look right, look left, Philippa,’ Mother commands. ‘And look right again.’ I
am still not sure which is which so I watch Helena out of the corner of my eye. ‘If all clear, quick march.’ And we are off.
    Helena is fervent about road safety, preparing me for later life when I will have to cross roads on my own, knowing there is little hope that cars will stop for me in the same way they stop for
her (with a screech of brakes and a funny whistle). So I take it seriously too and know my Kerb Drill by heart.
    Things lighten up, however, when Helena stops at a newsagents, one we have never visited before, presumably because this school route has taken us out of our usual environment. She peers