A class of twenty-two 9-year-olds of both sexes lunging at each other with compasses is the stuff of nightmares and Tops Movies. Such an image was evoked while I was trying to devise a mathematics lesson on angles and their properties. This, to be sure, would be an unforgettable experience for the little alumni. This lesson would be taught with aplomb and panache worthy of the great pedagogues such as Socrates and Aristotle. Unfortunately the latter was accused of “corrupting youth" and was sentenced to death. As for the lesson on angles, a colleague made me acutely aware of the degree of danger in allowing a few obtuse youngsters to brandish sharp instruments perpendicularly to each other's eyes and ears. I certainly wanted no blood on my or their hands and my colleague had the right angle on the situation. Having been shown both sides, the way ahead was ‘plane'. However, while the class had been hitherto condemned to uninspiring lessons, I had sincerely believed there was a radian of hope and everyone could expect a slice of the education pie soon. Alas, no. Health and safety considerations forced me to alter my approach. My initial reflex was one of...Look, I'm really sorry about this. Now then, where was I? Oh, yes. Angles. The thought of bisecting an angle brings to mind the smell of clothes that have not been washed and worn by a person who has not seen a bar of soap since half past 1963. As class 4AY at junior school, we were generally happy. We adored our teacher, a lady with the figure of a model and jet black hair in a bob. Shortly before the Christmas holidays of 1966, the walls of our classroom were festooned with our impressions of the Trojan War – men impaled on fearsome spears, Patroclus being taken for a drag, Achilles and his heels. We were middle class and proud of learning about the Iliad. Some of us were gradually flattening out speech habits of the local accent in our speech as we avoided saying ‘ate' for ‘out', ‘twaalv' for ‘twelve', and ‘neow' for ‘nail'. The main division in our class was between boys and girls. The latter were ‘soppy' and drew horses and spend their time passing notes to each other during and out of lessons. We boys were not great footballers, but we indulged in rough pastimes which involved lifting each other off the ground and pushing each other off low ledges. In the heady days of the 1960s, parents had little choice as to where to send their children within the state system. While you could have your child educated at Eton or Mars at your own expense, government-run schools were situated in a ‘catchment' area. A clever metaphor that evokes the image of a school casting a net over a two-mile radius and drawing in children of all social segments. (More about the edge of the circle later) Even so, children were grouped according to age and, dare I say it, social class, which meant the dreaded one-monthly sessions when the boys of 4AY joined the boys of the predominantly proletarian 4BY, and the girls of the latter joined their sisters in the former. Not only did we brace ourselves for an assortment of stale body odours when we went to the B-class, we were also wary of the possibility of tiny livestock taking up residence in our hair. While we were preoccupied with maintaining our standards of personal hygiene, the teacher of 4BY would show us how to draw parallel lines, equilateral triangles and bisect angles on dog-eared squared paper with compasses. And no bloodshed. We survived. For many years, I have seen the jockeying for power, competitions for the limelight and the recusants at the back of the class. Each group of children from an early age recognise the top dog in their ranks. He or she is king of the castle in the classroom and on the playground. There may be competition for attention and merit points within the group, but when confronted with another class, group cohesion is tighter in the contest for sports day glory and in the spotlight of the assembly in front of parents. The loudmouths may be shouted down occasionally. The quietest student occasionally has his or her when he or she answers the question that has stumped everyone else for the last fifteen minutes. When compared favourably to another class in the same year group, your charges glow with satisfaction that lasts all of five seconds. When told that they do not know their obtuse angle from their elbow, they smoulder for the rest of the period and hand in classwork executed in a slapdash devil-may-care attitude. Yet the teacher has the last word. Only when the dispenser of knowledge leaves the room does the dominant member of the group come to the fore, and is shoved back in place as soon as the teacher re-enters. And they say lessons in school are lessons for life. As promised, more about the edge of the circle. Mr and Mrs Rents were proud of their son, Comfort, which they pronounced the French way with the ‘t' silent. The boy excelled at school and gained a first class honours degree from one of the country's most prestigious seats of learning. He worked his way up the hierarchy of government service along with a rival, his namesake surnamed Zone, for the top positions. In the prime of middle age, Rents and Zone were knighted for their efforts. After the Queen moved the tip of the sword from his left shoulder to the right, she said ‘Arise, Sir Comfort Rents'. A few years later he retired. His colleague, however, fared badly. Personal problems led to a drink problem that spiraled out of control. He embezzled public funds and disappeared with only an attaché case busting at the seams with cash. To this day, we are still looking for Sir Comfort Zone.
