Kenzie has just asked me how old I am. Given that I’m wearing a badge the size of a dustbin lid displaying this very information (thank you colleagues) I wonder about his understanding of the number system. Or possibly his eyesight. When I tell him I’m 21 he looks at me quizzically. Several conflicting arguments gradually resolve themselves and he shakes his head. “My dad’s 29 and he looks a lot younger than you.”
For some reason, I can’t generate enough cheeriness to tell him that being a primary teacher is the number one cause of premature ageing. My sense of humour is at a low ebb since I woke up to the fact that I am now officially an OAP. Receiving birthday cards containing jovial references to age-related incontinence, walking frames and failing sexual prowess is irritating. But not as irritating as this.
Alongside the cards that littered our doormat this morning was something even more depressing. It was an invitation to plan my own funeral. On the front were two happy smiling old people surrounded by their happy smiling grandchildren. Presumably, the missing generation had left the older one to babysit while they went off to enjoy the financial benefits of not being saddled with ever-increasing funeral costs.
Kenzie’s birthday was on 3 July so it’s going to be ages until his next one. Then he’ll be 9 and he’ll probably be getting a remote control drone, a remote control racing car, two remote control robots that fight each other and some sticky poo you can throw at the wall. Before he gets the chance to go into fine detail about the sticky poo, Jamie runs up and drags him off to play zombie killers.
I enjoy being on playground duty, especially during moments like this, when there are no fights to break up or tears to dry or arguments about football to referee. There’s something about it that makes me feel especially alive, even when a cold northeasterly slaps me in the face and makes my nose run. I think it must be the unleashed energy. Or the irrepressible vitality. Or the fact that children sometimes do the unexpected.
After a couple of minutes playing zombie killers Kenzie returns with the rest of the undead. They grin at each other like children do when they’ve planned something they think will please you. “We’ve got a surprise for you, Mr Eddison,” says Kenzie. Then he leads them in a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday to You.
65 is too young to be getting rheumy-eyed, so I think it must be grains of dust whipped up by the wind. I mean it’s not possible that a grizzled old codger, hardened by years of ingrained cynicism, would ever shed a sentimental tear, now is it? Anyway, just to be on the safe side I distract everyone by presenting Kenzie with my birthday badge as a thank you.
“65 is right old,” he says as I pin it to his chest, and to further cheer me up he adds: “Does that mean you’ll be dead soon?”
Steve Eddison is a teacher at Arbourthorne Community Primary School in Sheffield.
