Lindie Heeralall

The playground stretches out before me beneath a bright grey sky. Silver puddles turn tarmac into a shimmering lake. Boys and girls everywhere, darting, hopping, skipping, kicking, jumping. The sound of a school of children laughing, chatting, shouting and shrieking grows into one loud unbearable din crowding around my ears.

I don’t know what to do. Where do I go. How do I play. How do I join in. What if I ask to play and they say no. They won’t want to play with me. They are all such good friends. They have a different language. It is an unspoken code that I never learnt and I was not born with.

I lean back on the wall of the school and rest with my hands behind my back. I feel something slimy. I look at my sleeve and upon my cuff there is a blob of glaucous green goo. My stomach flips. It is too disgusting. I must get it off. I rub it on the bricks but it smears further along, stretching and growing.

I see a boy when I look at the bogie. His nose is pouring with green and yellow ooze. He wipes them on walls, tables and chairs in the school. I must get it off without anyone seeing. If they see they will never want to play with me.

I am five years old, rubbing my sleeve on rough bricks and my heart is thumping. And I am still there, trying to reach the world before the bell rings, as I battle the anonymous bogie.