Sex Education

Lucy’s column for November 4th
Sexlo…1
Now, what was I doing when at infants and primary school? I certainly had the three Rs drilled into me, by a lovely team of teachers who I thought were ancient, but with some perhaps only in their 30s, but delivered with such intensity and interest that by the time I left Class One, I could read, and ‘rite, though ‘rithmatic baffled me then. And continues so to do.
It was a school play-time of hopscotch, skipping games, hand-stands, and leap-frog, all the while willing the lads to loan you a conker or a bull’s eye marble to show your prowess on the macho front. Before sulking on the back row of the form’s afternoon music sessions with the miserable triangle when you craved the front row with the tambourine – the boys always got the drums – or dreaming of the day you were asked to read out YOUR poem, or landing the part of the Virgin Mary in the school’s nativity instead of a one-liner angel with dodgy wings and chunky legs.
What I’m getting round to saying is that there were far more things to worry about as a school-kid than sex-n-drugs-rock-n-roll. This comes in the light of the latest edict from our nincompoop nanny state, which proclaims sex sessions for tiny tots as young as five. It’s something I cannot get to grips with.
When we weren’t belting around the playground, playing hide and seek or tick-a-nit, the majority of my female compatriots were at home with whips and tops, a dressing-up box, in the back yard under the clothes horse covered with a sheet with a tea-set and soggy sandwiches our claim to housewifery fame. We had dolls and prams – my friend, animal lover Lil Bancroft, didn’t have dolls and made do with the family cat, done up in a bonnet, lolling in the pram, until one legged it in the Arboretum, but that’s another story - before moving on to Doctors and Nurses.