As the warmth from the sand seeped through my beach towel and the late afternoon breeze wafted over my body, my mind drifted back to the summer of 1960.

It was a time most people said was the beginning of a New World, an exciting world of television and space travel, a world of peace and goodwill. Everyone had a job, and if you didn't like your job you simply moved on. There was enough money for the kids to have coins in their pockets and smiles on their faces. Everyone's dad had a job and everyone’s mum was there when you were hungry.

Yes…… everything was right with the world, except for me, William Kidder; I was five years old and had just peed my pants in the Headmaster’s office.

The Headmaster’s secretary was trying to stem my tears with soothing words; the Headmaster was looking right through me, and in so doing chilled my bones and caused me to pee again.

Suddenly a tall, thin lady appeared at the door and following a few hushed words with the soothing secretary, I was on my way home with my mother, having spent one hour of my life in school.

"I don't know what you were thinking William calling your teacher that, and on your first day at school, I should think your father will have something to say when he gets home, I don't know what got into you of all the things to say and on your first day at school".

My mother was practically dragging me along the footpath, and while her mouth was going almost as fast as her feet, I was always three steps behind them both.

The footpath leading from the school to our home was tree lined, and the birds were still singing their morning melodies, then flitting from one branch to another as they were accosted by my mother’s tirade.

"And who do you think will bear the brunt of this? Well? Who I ask you? And where do you hear such things? I don't know what to do with you, are you going to have me called up by the Headmaster every day? What do you think your father will say when he gets home? How could you call your teacher such a thing?…… and on your first day at school. What will the neighbours say? Just wait till your father gets home. The more I try to understand you the more you confuse me!"

Confuse her! My feet were almost keeping up but my brain was lagging well behind. Was I supposed to be answering her questions, and as far as being worried about "when Dad gets home", it was Dad who told me my teacher's name was Miss Fishlips.

"Miss Fisher! William, Miss Fisher, got that? Miss Fisher, not Miss Freshlips!"

My brain reeled in confusion. I thought I'd called Miss Fisher Miss Fishlips. She must have thought I’d said "Freshlips" and my mother, she didn't know what to think, so she kept babbling on about what my father would say when he got home.

We rounded the corner and I saw our home, with its open front door inviting me to safety. Then my chin dropped as my mother dealt a blow to my sense of fair play.

"As soon as we get you into some dry clothes, it's straight back to school with you!" she said.

The steel gate let out a rusty squeak and my mother immediately went quiet. She released my hand and patted my head as she gave a quick wave to Madge Patterson, who had abruptly ceased her morning ritual of sweeping her front pathway and scurried over to the low hedge that separated our houses.

"Finished school already Billy? That must be the quickest kinder-bloody-garten graduation in the history of Australia."

I liked Mrs Patterson; she was fat, always smiling and she called me Billy. "I suppose you'll be going to Uni-bloody-versity next week!"

My mother gave me a wink and told me to run along inside and get my playlunch that I'd forgotten.

Mrs Patterson was the only woman I knew who not only swore, but could swear within individual words.

My mother said "bloody" wasn't really a swear word, but one time when I had asked for a jam-bloody-sandwich, my bum was sore for a week. I wasn't even game to mention the word 'jam' again, in case her hand smacked me without knowing what it was doing.

I left Mrs Patterson complaining to my mother about the price of sliced-bloody-bread, and went inside hoping they would talk for hours and forget all about me.

My mother was in a better mood when she came inside. Mrs Patterson always had that effect on her. My Dad said it was because they enjoyed talking about other peoples’ business so much that it took their minds off their own troubles. Whatever the reason, I was glad of it.

Soon I was on my way back to school, not only drier but also happier, because Mum and I were chatting, or rather she was chatting, and I was listening.

Mum said that she had arranged for me to start school in the other kindy class, meaning of course that I didn't have to face Miss Fisher again.

"Your new teacher’s name is Miss Bottomley." she said.

I jerked my head upwards to see if Mum was smiling. She wasn’t, so I made up my mind to purposely forget my new teacher’s name and just call her ...... Miss.