Pav’s patch; There really is no such thing as a free lunch

ISN’T it strange how history can come back to haunt you?

I thought I had eaten my last school dinner in 1970, yet a few weeks ago I found myself facing one again, “enjoying” it just as little, and almost in the same place.

Just before Christmas I had to see Brian Wild, a Dukinfield councillor, and it was agreed that we should meet at Lyndhurst School, Crescent Road, which has replaced one of my old places of education — Crescent Road Infant School.

There was me thinking we would have a swift, 10-minute chat, but I found myself being propelled into the canteen to join the children. My pleas to be allowed to go home were ignored. Oh dear, with due respect to all concerned, I was not a happy man.

I found myself on a tiny chair, surrounded by children who wanted to talk to me about WWE wrestling. Well, I knew just about enough from my own lads to get through that, but then my meal appeared.

As I waited, I had been worried it would be one of Jamie Oliver’s healthy offerings — just the sort of thing that doesn’t appeal to me. But no, it was worse than that.

It was the thing I have nightmares about. Arriving on a plastic plate was a Christmas dinner complete with boiled veg and the thing that probably turns my stomach more than any other — school mash.

While Wildy mixed everything into a huge ball and wolfed it down I could not touch the mash or veg. I managed the turkey, cold gravy (ugh) and stuffing, but the veg and mash was going nowhere, not unless somebody near by wanted a Technicolor yawn.

I was ticked off by a female PCSO who accused me of wasting food. There I was, 6ft 4ins and 51, and it was as though I had gone back 40 years. Just as in those days, I pondered saying something back.

But, just as I never had the courage to tell Miss Jones she was an old bat, I resisted the temptation to say to the PCSO: “Well, if you’re so tough, why aren’t you a proper police officer.”

However, my day was not over. “What are you doing now?” asked Wildy. “Nothing,” I replied, and within 20 minutes found myself at Dukinfield Town Hall helping with a pensioners’ Christmas party.

After several school choirs had performed, I was one of a lucky few to be allowed to pour out the tea and coffee. But I shouldn’t grumble.

After all, I did get a free mince pie.