The Goldfish Bowl
Way back when I was at junior school we had a weekly school assembly. We were led in by our teachers, class by class, and sat cross-legged in rows on the gritty wooden floorboards of the assembly hall.
One morning a red-headed boy, I don't remember anything else about him, was invited to stand up and read a poem he had composed. The lad got to his feet, unfolded his sheet of paper and in a clear, posh voice read out the title, “The Gold Fish Bowl”. A wave of sniggering washed across the hall before breaking out into open laughter. I laughed too. For weeks afterwards we would loudly repeat, “The Goldfish Bowl”, in our most exaggerated Lady Bracknell voices (although we had no idea who Lady Bracknell was) and laugh ourselves silly.
It was, as they say, a teachable moment and one that I took the wrong lesson from. That I don't remember if the red-headed boy ignored the sniggering and read his poem to the end, but I still recall the humiliating laughter, says more about me that it does about him.
It wasn't a premeditated childish cruelty, but sprang spontaneously from what had occurred. If any of my circle had been asked to stand up in front of the entire school and recite poetry we would have suddenly developed a debilitating illness that prevented us from attending that morning.
I can only assume that the teacher who suggested the boy read his poem had a much higher opinion of us than we deserved. If The Goldfish Bowl was meant to inspire us to embrace the arts and celebrate self-expression it had the opposite effect.
We were certainly a bunch of obnoxious little gits, but also a product of our upbringing. Poetry was never read at home, nor in the homes of anyone I knew. Poetry was the stuff of Walter the Softy. We all aspired to be Dennis the Menace. We had a catapult in the back pocket, not a volume of Keats.
I was reminded of this while being interviewed for an Italian newspaper (as you do) when I answered a question about my worry that The Book Tour might be my last book, and about the precariousness of freelance cartooning:
The book has done well and I have the opportunity to do more comics, but there is always the shadow of having to get 'a proper job' in the back of my mind. I'm from a working-class background so it is hard to shake off the mentality that creative work isn't 'real' work.
That last sentence echoed around my mind for some time afterwards. Had I accidentally revealed more than I intended? Do I still feel that way deep down?
This incident stays strong in my memory precisely because it shouldn't still resonate so clearly in my fifth decade. I have accepted, and celebrate the fact I am very much on Team Walter. Although, if I am totally honest I am still not a big reader of poetry, and the one time I did go to the ballet I struggled to stay awake.
But I still cringe for the red-headed kid and my cheeks blush for him and my part in the sorry incident forty years later. I like to think he foresaw the mockery but stood up and read his poem regardless. Probably not, but that is how I want to see it.
I sang along to Adam and the Ants at the time, but the real lesson was in The Goldfish Bowl.
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You can read my interview for Corriere della Sera in English for free here
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