Lunch in the loo

The history toilets.

They were the safest.

Nobody knew they existed, even the teachers.

Which was great, because that meant that you didn’t have to pretend everything was OK to somebody.

You didn’t have to pretend that you were just on the way to meet your friends.

Because, underneath it all, you knew you didn’t have any friends.

Not really.

And, underneath all of that, you knew that the teachers knew you didn’t have any friends, and that you pretended just to make them feel better as well.

So yes, the history toilets were the safest place.

In the history toilets you could unwrap the sandwich your Dad had made for you that morning.

The sandwich with a little too much coleslaw and the questionable addition of mango chutney.

In the history toilets you could long for a lunch that was envied by other kids.

In the history toilets you could imagine what it might be like for somebody to think you cool enough to steal your chips.

In the history toilets you could unwrap the sandwich your Dad had made for you that morning.

You could unwrap the sandwich and remember the last time you braved doing so in the dining hall.

You could remember the group of boys who laughed at the generous serving of coleslaw.

The group of boys who called you ‘fat’.

The fact that you were size six.

The fact that they were one whole year younger than you.

One whole year younger than you, and still able to see you were never going to be cool.

You could unwrap the sandwich and remember their taunts, their jeers.

In the history toilets you could unwrap the sandwich your Dad had made for you that morning.

You could unwrap the sandwich and remember when you thought one of the cool kids liked you.

You could remember being invited down the bus path with them.

You could clearly remember the look of horror on the boy’s face who had lost his dare, the realisation that his challenge was going to be to kiss you.

You could remember that he joked about you smelling of whatever had bene in your sandwich that day.

You could remember the sound of the laugh all the way back up the bus path, past the nursery school, past the music department, past the hockey pitches and still echoing in your ears by the time you got to the tennis courts.

In the history toilets you could unwrap the sandwich your Dad had made for you that morning.

The history toilets weren’t like the toilets beside the lockers, near Home Economics, that pretty much everybody went to.

In those toilets, you ran the risk of your head being flushed down the toilets.

No, in the history toilets you could unwrap the sandwich your Dad had made for you that morning.

The history toilets weren’t like the toilets on the maths corridor.

Those toilets were full of older kids, who were trying to smoke out the windows.

Those toilets came with a bribe that you wouldn’t tell Miss. Taylor.

Those toilets came with people who pretended to be your friend, just so you would grass them up..

No, in the history toilets you could unwrap the sandwich your Dad had made for you that morning.

The history toilets weren’t like the toilets in the main hallway, which were full of people trying to finish their homework.

Those toilets came with kids with panicked expressions and stolen protractors.

In the history toilets you could unwrap the sandwich your Dad had made for you that morning.

You could learn how to be happy with your own company.

You could be thankful that there was nobody there to take the piss, or laugh at your funny accent, or flush your head down the toilet.

You could dream of a life where you would have friends to share your lunch with.

You could dream of a life where you weren’t going to be laughed at.

You could dream of a life where you weren’t going to be the ‘bad’ part of a dare.

In the history toilets you could unwrap the sandwich your Dad had made for you that morning.

In the history toilets, you could realise that one day it was all going to be OK.

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