Thank you.
Thank you for being there, a small tin holding stuff for so many years.
For awhile you were in daily use, at least in term time, travelling to and from school on the bus. Moving around from classroom to classroom. Put to use on the lounge coffee table as homework completed in front of kids TV.
Packed back into a bag on a Sunday night, with that sigh of school again tomorrow.
Who did I first let write on you? Was it me or someone else? Over those two last years of school you were scribbled on and scratched. Names I no longer remember etched onto the tin. Come June 1988, that was the end of school, and a summer of working before new beginnings.
Then at some point, you were promoted to a keeper of sharp things, of scalpels and blades. Used less frequently, you were in the art carry case and on the desk at my digs.
Then again back home, change of studies. Now your use was more sporadic, just at the end of projects to cut card, ready for mounting work for display. We move again, you stay with me. Though late nights of writing essays and of lazy mornings dreaming about images. Those dreams becoming reality, shot on to film and them made into prints. More cutting of card, more mounting.
Then the essays take over, the practical work put to one side, and you were kept where? I’m not sure, but you stayed with me throughout moves. From flat to house. At some point, you would be found for the odd cutting of card to mount work, holding the blades safe for me.
The studies come to an end, certificates up on the wall and I had already started teaching. For awhile you travelled with me, in my work bag until there was a close shave at an airpot and I nearly lost you altogether. Other run ins with those in uniform, who would search bags of wayward looking young women, should have alerted me that carrying your contents - even as a photography teacher was not wise.
For a over a decade we stayed in the same place. First of all you were kept in an cupboard, until I had a desk of my own, one with drawers that could be locked. That was in the office without air, a tiny cramped space. Full of colleagues and memories. The space to hear stories of students who just needed someone to listen. Again you would appear at the end of projects, showing others how to cut safely and with precision. You were not to be shared. The first rule of any art college is never to put your coffee mug or knives down or they would be gone.
That time came to an end, you were packed up with all the books and came home for a bit of rest. I considered options, studied how to grow things until subsumed into business life. You came with me to another office space, as I tried to create a dual life. One of business and one of making. I used you much more regularly for a few years before I let other people steal my time and you returned home. For the final few years, there you have been, holding those blades that got sporadic use.
Before Christmas, when making cards I realised that you no longer held blades safe. The lid did not latch and the blades could not be contained. A year of making looms ahead. New classrooms are on the horizon to explore and teach in. Health and safety forms to complete and I need to know that the sharp things are kept safe. It was time for you to go and a replacement found. Thank you for your service.
We’ve been together a long time and it has been particularly hard to throw away this pencil tin.
I’m guessing we were first bought together during a back to school shop sometime in the summer of 1986. I have memories of the tin coming with a ruler, pencil, rubber and pencil sharpener but I could be wrong. When was it first scratched upon, I don’t know. The first visible date is from the Autumn of 1986.
That was the year I started the 4th year (year 10 in new money). We were the first cohort of GCSE’s and so everything was shifting around. Subjects had been renamed. Technical drawing had become Design and Communication. The City and Guilds in Typing and Shorthand replaced by GCSE Office Technology - with an added new whizzy component on spreadsheets.
Some subjects were the same, but with an added coursework contingent bought in. Even Maths had coursework now. Teachers adjusting, undoubtedly on the back foot as they navigated the new regulations and requirements.
For me it was the start of the end of compulsory education. I hated school, I didn’t hate education or learning. I just hated THAT school. My previous schools both primary and middle (my town operated a three tier system: primary until age 9, then middle school from 9-12, senior school from 13-16 with the option of sixth form.)
There was no way I was staying on for sixth form. I had adored primary school, enjoyed middle school and then something happened at the transition upwards. The senior school was adjacent to middle school but at the new school, as soon as I started the 3rd year (year 9), I felt desperately out of place. Not fitting into any group.
I wanted to be in the cool group, but I couldn’t be cool even if I tried now. Looking back, introverted me could never be one of the outgoing gang. I wasn’t sporty, or the amateur dramatic type. I wasn’t a troublemaker either, so not part of those groups. There was nothing I excelled at. Smarter than average but no way the best at anything. I hated that school - I’ve said that before I know. I was often too ill to go to school and ended taking more and more time off. There were several hospitalisations where I would be kept in for several weeks at a time. I would endeavour to catch up. I had friends that would lend be notes to copy up and I worked on much of my coursework at home or in hospital.
Looking at the pencil case, I’m not sure how I ended up with pastel pink and white striped tin. I’ve never liked pink, not as a child, not now. It grates on me, a colour that doesn’t suit my pale skin. The implied girliness of the colour annoys me, frustrates me and I want to push back against that colour. When I was first prescribed glasses at age 7 or 8. I remember the indignation from the optician when I wanted to have blue NHS frames. ‘Those are only for boys’ he proclaimed and thus I ended up with pink frames. Which of course I neglected to wear, hating the colour so much. Which in turn meant that my eyesight got worse and worse and eventually at some point in time I was able to choose the androdrognous metal frames that had become available for children.
Why I have a kept a pencil tin in colour I really don’t like, from a period of my life that I didn’t enjoy, I have no idea. But it is time to let go.
I feel we would have been best friends at school, this is a familiar story. ✨
Loved reading this Andrea.. being the same age and seemingly having similar school experiences, a lot resonated.
I still have my calculator from first year. I don't know what happened to my exciting cosign, tangent one we had to have for GCSE Maths.. withered away through lack of use probably..