Today, in a desolate wasteland known as The Field Beyond the School Fence, I am on the lookout for a rare and exotic creature that was last seen heading in this direction. In a desperate bid to escape the prison bars of formalised learning, Mr Crocodile ran away to seek refuge in a place where only the hardiest of creatures can survive. A place where winter temperatures drop to as low as minus parts of my anatomy.
There are few signs of life on The Field during January. Emaciated dogs on the lookout for easy pickings sometimes roam its margins. Crows defiant of the bitter wind tugging at their feathers peck for dead things in the frozen turf. Occasionally a pair of hooded teens bunking off lessons roar across the open plain on a mini motorbike. Today, the only sign of life is Mr Crocodile.
Unlike others of his species, he walks on two legs and is currently engaged in a complex discussion with himself. I approach him tentatively in the hope of establishing a bond between us. He isn’t dangerous (by which I mean he isn’t the sort of crocodile you find in a swamp hoping to snap up an unsuspecting lunch and make a name for himself on Planet Earth) but he does have trust issues.
When I get close enough, I appeal to his basic survival needs. “Come on, Mr Crocodile,” I say. “Let’s get back into our warm classroom before the impending ice age wipes us out.” Although my appeal falls on deaf ears, I know his reptilian indifference to my words is not bad behaviour. It’s just part of Mr Crocodile’s (or, rather, Jayden’s) condition. He’s on some sort of spectrum.
‘Come on, Mr Crocodile, let’s get back into our warm classroom before the impending ice age wipes us out’
But then, who isn’t? According to Mrs Eddison, my own behaviour frequently pushes the boundaries of normality. “Do normal people need to perform keepy-uppies with a ball of socks?” she asks. “Do people of sound mind remove their underpants by flicking them with their toe and catching them on their head?”
The reason I call Jayden “Mr Crocodile” is because he insists on wearing his crocodile hoodie to school. It’s green with printed scales on it and spines sewn down the back. The hood has a googly eye on either side, and is fringed with pointy white teeth. “Did you know the climate in our classroom is ideally suited to crocodiles?” I ask him. It is a statement that finally catches his attention.
Jayden turns to look at me for the first time. Behind his glasses his eyes remind me of a curious underwater creature discovering a world beyond the fish tank. I have a feeling that in 20 seconds’ time, his memory banks will be erased but for now he’s happy to engage with me. “Animals don’t want to be inside,” he tells me. “It’s like keeping them in prison.” He puts his cold hand in mine and we begin walking back towards school. “And don’t call me Mr Crocodile,” he adds.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because I’m a komodo dragon,” he replies. I consider taking issue with him on this point, but it’s too cold to argue.
Steve Eddison teaches at Arbourthorne Community Primary School in Sheffield
