How To Spell Fansy
Dick swinging, charismatic, funny, legend, lady’s man, man’s man. All words that spring to mind when I think about the person I was at Primary school.
More accurately in years 4 and 5 (around 8 to 9 years old)
Before social anxiety and weight gain crippled any confidence and self esteem I had.
I day dream about that time in my life and I give myself a smirk of approval. I was a dude. I was cool. I wore a backwards Kangol cap and basketball attire. I was knowledgable about football. I loved the Spice girls too much. I was an all rounder.
I think about my downfall from popular playboy to anxious, high blood pressure boy and I have come to realise that there was a specific moment that started my decline.
I was courting a girl named Gemma. Gemma was in year 6 (2 years above me). Courting consisted of getting ‘pretend married’ in the playground and sometimes holding hands or getting your hair stroked in front of the other kids. A few weeks in and I felt there was trouble in paradise. I was getting mixed signals and the spark wasn’t there like it was in the first 2 and a half weeks. Because Gemma was 2 years above me it was hard to get some proper time to sit down with her and see what the problem was. Was it me? Was there someone else?
I decided I would write Gemma a letter. Like a love letter but without too much of the love and more than a sprinkle of desperation. A ‘desperation letter’ if you will.
I gave the letter to my next door neighbour and good friend George to pass on it on to Gemma, as he was in her class. I always looked up to George but I was scared of his lack of regard for the rules and his rebellious nature.
In hindsight I shouldn’t have trusted him with such an important task.
In a twist of events George is actually now my brother in law. Nowadays there aren’t many people I love more or trust more in this world, but at the time it was a mistake to trust him, but I was blind with love and insecurity. So I gave George the letter and said ‘Hi George, please give this letter to Gemma and don’t let anyone else see it’
He took the letter from me and said “okay”
Cut shot to lunch.
The deed must have been done by now. I’m a ball of nerves. I see George.
No sign of Gemma. The year 4’s and year 6’s ate in the same hall, but at different tables (it wasn’t a big school).
I get George’s attention he looks a little sheepish. A look I’d not seen on him before. My heart sinks. The hall door slams open!
Everything is slow motion. Like I’ve got shell shock. The background chatter is muddy and muffled. Everyone’s attention has suddenly been pinned to the doors.
In walks Mrs Fleming….
Mrs Fleming was the year 6 teacher. I can’t remember exactly what she looked like. When I try to, I just see a darkness. A vacuum. A walking black hole that sucks the life out of starry eyed children. (not in a paedophilic way)
She must have been 120 years old. She’d been teaching year 6 her whole life. Rumour has it she never went home. After school she would stare at the black board for 4 hours then go to sleep upside down in the stationary cupboard. In Year 4 we only knew her as the angry, scary lady that you didn’t mess with, so when Mrs Fleming comes barging into the lunch hall there was not a single child in there that was not going to be hanging off every word she said. (Just a little side note. When we got to year 6 a couple of years later, it turns out Mrs Fleming was a little scary, but actually a very good teacher and fair and nice and had a happy life)
Mrs Fleming comes storming towards the year 4 section waving a piece of paper frantically.
It is THEN that it dawns on me. That is no normal piece of paper.
“THOMAS PITTS. You Spell FANCY with a ‘C’ not an ‘S’” Mrs Fleming screams with not even a hint of playfulness. The situation probably needed a bit of playfulness.
That piece of paper was the outpouring of my heart. It was my letter for Gemma. It was the letter that I’d probably written the word ‘fancy’ about 15 times.
“I really fancy you”
‘I’m not sure if you still fancy me’
‘Do you fancy me?’
‘I’ve never fancied anyone as much as I fancy you’
Each time I’d written fancy I’d written it ‘fansy’
I thought that’s how you spelt it. I thought you spelt ‘Fancy’ with an ‘S’
“THOMAS PITTS!” Mrs Fleming barrels towards me.
“You spell fancy with a “C” not an “S’’ She handed me the letter “now don’t you ever send love letters in my class Master Pitts”
I didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want me to say anything. She was already walking away. All spelling errors had been corrected. She’d read the whole thing. I zoned out. I am a disgrace. An embarrassment to my friends and family. I’d been publicly shamed before it was cool to be. I’d been cancelled before it became beneficial for you career and bank balance to be cancelled.
To this day I don’t know how Mrs Fleming got her hands on that letter. Did George give it to her? did Gemma? Did she spot it being passed round? Was it all a conspiracy against me. I was pretty popular and had a lot of influence around the school for my age. I needed bringing down a peg or two.
Well it worked. I’ve never regained those steps I fell down on the social ladder that day but I’ve never forgotten how to spell fancy.
