What are the three words you’d least like to hear?: “We’ve caught you”; “I’m leaving you”; or “Wow, that’s tiny”? For kids, the world has not any three words less fair to show than the dreaded “Back to school”.

Do you remember those endless summers, when your only responsibility was to enjoy yourself? When eight weeks off seemed like forever? When the sun shone every day, and life was full of tents and museums, picnics and parades?

And then suddenly, without warning or justice, it was “Back to school”. Your parents might have started to mention it ahead of time, but you didn’t hear them. You might even have been taken to buy a new blazer or skirt, but that was an adventure in itself, even if the intended purchase was a hateful reminder of last term, last year, and other long-forgotten times.
Out of the blue, bedtime was brought forward; the crystal radio set (a sort of oldies’ iPod, kids) was no longer to be listened to under the sheets at night; and breakfast was at 7:00 sharp the next morning, and you’d better not keep your Dad waiting when he’s ready to drop you off at school on the way to work. A sense of doom prevailed.

“Back to school” signified the end of the world you loved, and the start of a world you didn’t. All the goodness was drained out of everything as the awful day approached. The new blazer had to be taken out of its plastic bag. One appalling September day, and this I shall never forget, I had to wear long trousers for the first time, a shocking and unwanted step on the road to adulthood.

As part of the ritual of humiliation, I had to try on the long, grey school pants in front of the entire family and some neighbours, who had been brought in especially for the occasion. I changed into the ghastly things in the downstairs bathroom, did up the buttons (a sort of oldies’ velcro, kids) and emerged to applause. I vowed revenge on the entire human race, as surely as Superman had vowed to take down Lex Luthor in that summer’s final comic book.

I hadn’t thought of that day until now, nor had I realised that living in Bermuda was my way of getting back at the adult world. Like most of the men I know, I wear short trousers whenever I possibly can — year round, in my case. I didn’t until this very moment understand that I was daily extracting my promised revenge on a hateful world, like Dr. Brown in the Premier’s office.
Those long pants weren’t just a casual means of humiliation; they were a form of subjugation. No wonder I hated them. No wonder “Back to school” always sounded more like a command than an invitation, reinforcing the notion that I was a prisoner, trapped in the adult world.
Good job I never had kids. Or grew up, come to think of it.