Holidays

Being an incredibly posh guy, I went to boarding school back in the 90s.

The worst thing about boarding school was the last few days of the holidays; with "back to school" time edging closer every second of every day, silently sapping all enjoyment from all activities. The most miserable time of all was that final Sunday afternoon; packing trunks and bags, making sure I had all the right rugby kit and school uniform, making sure my Mother (Molewoman) had stitched a little name tag into every piece of fabric I owned and watching the clock until it was time to embark on that final, sickening journey... BACK TO SCHOOL.

It was such a powerfully depressing sensation that I've never been able to shake it. I still have nightmares about being at school (I think a lot of people do) and I still dream about that final journey of the holiday in a car laden with school shit, creeping ever closer to the GATES OF DOOM.

Well I'm in my mid-20s now and I live on my own in a small flat in the South of England, but I still get that "back to school" feeling whenever my holidays draw to a close. The knowledge that I will have to iron my suits and shirts, polish my shoes and go back to work for 9am the following Monday really drains my enthusiasm for the final few days of holiday and I resort to smoking large quantities of marijuana to numb the feeling, which invariably makes me think about it even more.

I wonder if I'll ever get over that sensation. I wonder if my boarding school days, with their strict routines, relentless bullying, terrible food and ruined old teachers (embittered by their own sense of futile underachievment) have scarred me permanetly -am I a product of public school?

I have a friend who was in therapy a long time before I first sat down opposuite a head-doctor who told me that most of her deep-rooted problems in life, from her lack of organisation, her trouble with relationships and her motivation "issues" to her lack of realistic ambition and her constant low-level depression all stemmed from the eight years she spent at boarding school.

That's always kind of stayed with me; I think about all the brilliant people out there who are, to this day, tortured on some level by their experiences of school. The people who are weighed down by heaps of unclaimed emotional baggage that have piled up as a result of their school days like some kind of first week at Terminal Five Heathrow of the mind. Or something.

So I've weighed up my options and I think the most sensible thing to do, the one thing that's really going to bring me freedom, closure and peace of mind is if I fire-bomb my old school with molotov cocktails made from jay-cloths, milk bottles and 4-star unleaded petrol.

Who's with me?