My life as a spy, and other interesting stories: Recent Episodes
Michael Rocharde
Chapters from 'My life as a spy, and other interesting stories', a collection of humorous anecdotes from an exciting life as an adventurer, world traveller and itinerant gypsy (without actually being a gypsy), plus interesting conversations with people who have unusual life stories, passions or professions
My first school was called St. Anne’s. It was a preparatory school for children after kindergarten and up to the age of 11. I don’t remember much about St. Anne’s but, according to my mother, I was always getting into trouble. One day when my mother came to collect me, she was waylaid by one of the teachers who, quite indignantly, told Mum that I was the naughtiest child ever. Apparently they had served salad for lunch which I detested then, and still do. Instead of eating it, I put it on my seat and then sat on it to hide my crime. After agreeing with the teacher and promising to discipline me properly when she got me home, Mum got in the car and convulsed with laughter.
I left home for the first time at the tender age of two. It wasn’t that I was unhappy or being badly treated, it was just that I had this overwhelming urge to explore the world. Most children who leave home run away; I could barely walk so my escape was somewhat slower. Needless to say, my mother managed to catch up with me before I had gone too far but it did her no good as the moment she turned her back, I was gone again. Apart from infuriating her, she was baffled; there was no Australian aboriginal blood in any of the family genealogy and none of the family before me had ever had such a wanderlust.
One evening I had cycled to the local pub for a drink and had had a few glasses of cider. I walked into the house, said “Hello” to my parents who were sitting watching television and immediately went to bed.
My mother turned to my father and said “That boy’s drunk!”
My father said “Nonsense” and went back to watching TV.
As usual, Mum was right.
I woke up the following morning with a dreadful hangover; cider is particularly virulent and nasty to get drunk on. Thirty odd years later I still couldn’t touch the stuff.
Later that same day, there was a knock on our door. It was a member of the local constabulary who had come to advise them that I had been stopped, on the way home the previous evening, for being ‘drunk in charge of a bicycle. As usual, I pled complete ignorance, and, as usual, my parents pretended to believe me.