Being late became part of my life at secondary school.

I was never late at primary school - but as the school was less than five minutes walk from our house it would have been a stretch. Even at secondary school it took a while. The number 12 bus terminus was at the corner of the street and it took us pretty much to school. Through some cunning plan we were sent to a brand new comprehensive a couple of miles away. It had enormous bike sheds, but for some reason we were not allowed to take our bikes to school. In fact Highfield had lots of facilities that were not to be wasted on its pupils. A fine stage that didn’t host productions, tennis courts that were used for anything but tennis, a library that didn’t issue books, a kiln that singularly failed to fire pots and ’seminar rooms’ - obviously as secondary schools have lots of seminars!

The trend toward lateness was triggered courtesy of the Northern Bus Company who, for reasons that still don’t make sense, changed the number 12 to the number 59 and moved the terminus along to the shops. At the same time the 82, became the 639 and also started from the shops (the Co-op had now closed and my mother had to walk a further 400 yards to get lard and dripping). The numbers didn’t make sense, the changes seemed pointless. This is a pattern that is repeated throughout the country from time to time. Bus numbering is mad. It was nothing personal but at the time it seemed like it was. Catching the bus became more difficult and walking became the easier option - it was all uphill.

After the third year I was late more often than not. Mind you that was pretty good for Highfield. Half the kids in my class seemed to regard turning up at all as optional. A couple of the girls, Lynn and Katherine - both well developed at an early age, disappeared entirely not to be spoken of again. They became grandmothers at 40, apparently.

For the first couple of years I used to walk down to see my Grandma and Granddad at lunchtime. They lived about 100 yards from the school - so even I could get back on time. Granddad had been a deputy and shot-firer in the mines, had fought in the Great War and was wounded at Passiondale. I enjoyed Grandad’s company. He also had a lot of books - something my mother thought were a nuisance as they “attract dust”. We lost track of time entirely one day while watching Harold Wilson speak the Labour Party Conference. I liked Wilson. Grandad smiled and said he was “a fox”.

By the time I was in the sixth form Grandma and Grandad had died and I had given up any notion of getting in on time. My old Head of House, Alf Thyne, who knew me perfectly well, had been put on the gate to take names of late comers. Every day he asked me my name. Every day I told him it was Emerson Fittipaldi. Every day he wrote down “Emerson Fittipaldi”.