It was 1962 and as an 8 year old, I'd just moved up to the junior school from the infants. My first teacher in the juniors was Miss Broadhead. To me, Miss Broadhead was nothing short of fantastic. She was beautiful and wore beautiful clothes. She was trendy too, at least to me. She had a bouffant hair style, like Alma Cogan and high stiletto heals. She seemed very shapely, like my mother, but obviously younger. She moved about the school quickly, with great purpose, but she was graceful too. She had a wonderful habit of standing on her tip toes when she was pleased or excited. In fact, she often seemed pleased or excited, especially, I rather vainly considered, with me, (although that might have been my imagination). I do remember one particular occasion when I announced to the class that over the previous weekend I'd won a "twist" competition, the "twist" being the "in" dance of the day. Miss Broadhead seemed delighted and asked me to do a demo for the class, which I was equally delighted to do, since I was a total show-off. Her face, as I danced, lit up, showing off her very white teeth, which dazzled against her tanned skin. On her face she had dimples which were emphasized when she smiled, which you won't be surprised to learn, was something she did a lot.

Unlike today, competition then amongst even young school children was not frowned upon and I recall that we were constantly tested on things like spelling and arithmetic and the results were regularly posted on a chart on the classroom wall. I also recall that I generally didn't do well in these tests and my position seemed to be around 32 to 33 out of 34. Somehow, I don't remember ever coming last, which I recall was something I desperately didn't want to do and I also recall (possibly incorrectly) that a certain Stephen Powell frequently bagged the bottom position. I know that I actually liked Stephen, and this was partly because we were partners in indulging in bad behavior together and partly because I could trust him to always do worse than me in the tests. Despite all this, I felt Miss Broadhead had a soft spot for me, and I've a notion in my head to this day that despite being only eight years old, I understood the advantage of this and I exploited it.

Another area where I believe I had a rapport with Miss Broadhead was in art. When we were set little art projects, I would undertake these with gusto. The reason was simply that I have a runaway imagination and whatever were asked to do, I could quickly think of something which, more often than not, was whacky, and entertainingly so. So, I think Miss Broadhead liked this and it may have compensated somewhat for my poor performances in the "three R's". I would point out for the record, that, again, unlike today, our classes were all streamed and I was actually in the top stream, so I wasn't exactly a dunce. In fact, I suspect that the pattern which was emerging then which came out more and more as I got older was that I had some difficulty taking things too seriously, and I loved making jokes about things which other people took seriously. This has historically tended to polarize people's view of me (where a view has been expressed) and I think that Miss Broadhead was someone who quite liked this mischievous side.

Returning to art, one day we were set some project or other (the detail of which I've completely forgotten), and, as usual, after the allotted time, Miss Broadhead would wander around, looking at what we'd done, offering comments. Whatever I'd done on this particular day, she seemed especially pleased with, as she enthusiastically enquired about my motives and objectives for what I'd created. Somehow, during this brief review period, I'd got distracted by another pupil (probably Stephen Powell) and I wasn't looking at Miss Broadhead. For some reason, she took this brief opportunity to sign her name in huge writing across a blank page of my exercise book. I didn't see her do it, but as I turned back to my desk, there it was, her autograph, staring me in the face, as she carried on her inspection, without glancing back at me for a reaction. I can see it clear as crystal in my mind today "P G Broadhead" it said. It was beautifully written, about two inches high and eight inches across, with great confident loops. As I gazed at it, I immediately considered the piece of paper as an object and symbol of beauty and of my wonderful relationship with the writer. I wanted to treasure it, no-one else in class had ever had this. For me it was an incredible, unique and special gift. As far as it would be possible for any eight year old to do so, I felt I loved Miss Broadhead, and that moment, that was its Zenith.

I don't know how long I held onto that piece of paper, but I know that I decided to make numerous copies of it. I went over it again and again with a biro, then I recreated it by following the grooves I'd made. This went on over months. I seem to recall the original piece eventually disintegrating, as I'd gradually destroyed it by making so many copies. I also recall looking at one of the copies a long time later, long after the original had gone, being livid with myself for not having the foresight to somehow give the original precedence over the copies.

Strangely, the last thing I remember about Miss Broadhead was sometime in late November 1963. The reason I know the date was that she was visibly upset by the assassination of John F Kennedy, which was November 22, 1963. It was especially poignant for her because she had gone to America for a holiday in 1962 and had managed to shake the President's hand. I remember she had told her class about this with some pride, so somehow, his death was, I suppose, slightly more significant, more personal. As an aside on this, Kennedy's death seemed to have a big effect on many people at the time. My mother cried and I remember later that an Irish family I was friendly with had given pride of place in their lounge to a framed photograph of JFK, as a posthumous honour. It remained there for years. You somehow couldn't imagine that happening with any of the recent presidents.

In fact, perhaps there's a strange connection in the time line. As Miss Broadhead faded from my life, co-inciding with JFK's demise, there was, for me, a general evaporation of all things romantic and magical (thankfully not permanent, I should add). I even, to some extent, think that JFK's killing marked the end of the new romanticism which had briefly befallen the western world at the time. Precisely in line with this, my next two school years seemed tougher. For the second year of juniors, Miss Broadhead made way for a Mr Andrews. Suffice to say, that Mr Andrews was less convinced by my charm or my "creativity". So unconvinced by my charm was he, that he meted out the first of two severe beatings I had at junior school. The beating which he gave involved a large sports shoe (called a "pump", back then) and a long run up, followed by a whack which was clearly delivered with optimum force. Funnily enough, the punishment was also simultaneously given to my old cohort, Stephen Powell. We were given it six times each. Our crime, by the way, was urinating down the drain of the swimming pool changing rooms, which I'll accept wasn't a very nice thing to do, although it did cause much guffawing by the others present and whether two nine year olds should be subjected to that kind of assault, is certainly debatable.

I don't remember pining for Miss Broadhead as I entered the third year juniors, and I have a feeling she'd moved on to another school. It wouldn't surprise me if she found the regime a bit brutal, but that is conjecture. My third year juniors teacher was Miss Phelps. Miss Phelps, to me, seemed the absolute antithesis of Miss Broadhead. She resisted laughing at my class jokes and every time I created some whacky offering in art classes, she complained that I'd missed the point. There was one time when she did some sort of experiment. She said she was going to do something, and then we had to write about what we thought about it. She then slammed her desk lid down without warning, so then we had to give some written response. Whether she said that we should write specifically about the desk slamming, I don't know, but I decided to write about what I was actually thinking about at the time, which happened to be dinosaurs. Of course, this was not what she had in mind, so rather than praise me for lateral thinking or innovation, she told me I was either stupid or perhaps I'd deliberately done this to "show off". Either way, looking back, given any context, any time period, any curriculum, indeed any other variable, I tell you what, on the whole, I'd rather have Miss Broadhead, than anyone else, running the class for me, or my children, or anyone else's kids for that matter.

The story, if that's what this is, doesn't quite end there. Lest anyone should consider me a slightly obsessive weirdo in my devotion to the long gone Miss Broadhead, I have to say that after '63 I got on with life, dealt with Mr Andrews & Miss Phelps in a slightly contemptuous way and largely enjoyed the rest of my school days (with only one more hideous beating). And, I have largely spent the intervening 50 years barely thinking about my lovely Miss Broadhead. That is until last night. It was a brief dream, in which I felt once again, the inexplicable rush I'd experienced in the "Miss Broadhead signature" moment.

In the dream, I have gone to attend my adult educational sessions (which is currently really happening, so that's no surprise). Except, in the dream, the teacher is new. Incredibly, I recognize her as Miss Broadhead, but she had duly aged, bearing in mind she'd now be in her seventies. However, there is no doubt whatsoever, that despite realistically aging, this is Miss Broadhead and she has unmistakably retained her stunning beauty. She clearly recognizes me. I smile and say, "My God, it's you!". In my dream thoughts, I sense an un-missable opportunity "Miss Broadhead" I said quite calmly "I want you to know that I loved you". She smiled gently in a very wise way, lent over toward me, and she kissed me on the cheek. And with that, I awoke.