like a normal person; I wanted to use the opportunity to play a practical joke on him. The previous Christmas, the object of my desire had been a digital watch. Not the kind with a calculator or the super-slim model that played ‘Scotland the Brave’ or ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’, but the kind with a seemingly blank ruby face which would display the time in glowing red if you pressed a button on the side. It wasn’t entirely practical and its supersession by the grey-faced, silver, ditty-playing next wave of digital timepieces is understandable, since surely the convenience of the wristwatch is that it requires only a glance and does not require any assistance from other digits or limbs. Despite its super-modern feel, in practical terms it was a return to fob-watch fiddliness. At the time, however, the novelty was sufficient to make it highly desirable, and the idea seemed awfully futuristic to this pint-sized sci-fi fan. Also, nobody else in my class had one, making me at the vanguard of new-wave timepiecery.
Christmas drew nearer and presents began to stack up beneath the tree. Every day I would survey the packages, attempting to identify the one that must surely contain my brand-new digital watch. However, the elusive little box failed to materialise and on Christmas morning, having scored an impressive haul of toys and games (that I now wish I’d kept boxed and never played with), I came to my main gift. This last remaining package represented the grand finale to the day’s gifting; the crescendo to which all the other presents had been building. But, the box was big and, although still exciting, couldn’t possibly contain a digital watch. I hastily tore off the wrapping to find a nondescript box, inside which was another wrapped box. This happened several times until I eventually got down to a small square box.
I was buzzing with excitement, and inside, just as I had hoped, was the watch, all the sweeter for coming as a complete surprise. I remember thinking what a clever way to deliver a shock and still give me exactly what I had asked for. It was this cunning practical joke that I borrowed from my parents the following year when delivering Mr Skinner’s Mars bar. I wrapped it in a box and placed the box within a box, then wrapped up that box. I repeated the process several times until the chocolate bar was housed at the heart of six boxes and appeared to be something far bigger. I inscribed the gift card:
To Mr Skinner, Just like I promised.
I took the gift into school, snuck into Mr Skinner’s classroom when he was off somewhere else being cool in a tracksuit, and left it on his desk. That lunchtime he found the gift and began to open it. I watched through the glass in the door as he negotiated his way through box after box. Mr Miller was in the classroom with him and I remember seeing him hooting with laughter, slapping his good knee as each new box presented itself. I ran back to my classroom before they emerged and sat in my seat the very picture of well-behaved innocence.
Mr Miller entered the room shaking his head and laughing and asked if any of us had given Mr Skinner the present. I remained silent. A few moments later, Mr Skinner entered the room and playfully demanded to know who had left him the cryptic offering. Still, I didn’t say a word. I realise now, looking back, that I slightly overestimated Mr Skinner’s recollection of his own jokey stipulation, which had meant so much to me. To him it was more of an offhand comment intended to make a young boy feel better about not being a confident swimmer.
It became obvious that he hadn’t got the joke at all, assuming one of us was just having a bit of fun. He singled out a boy in the class who looked the guiltiest and asked him to step to the front. I could see I was going to have to do a little of the work myself, so I raised my hand and confessed, at which point Mr Skinner feigned outrage. I can’t remember exactly how things transpired
Christmas drew nearer and presents began to stack up beneath the tree. Every day I would survey the packages, attempting to identify the one that must surely contain my brand-new digital watch. However, the elusive little box failed to materialise and on Christmas morning, having scored an impressive haul of toys and games (that I now wish I’d kept boxed and never played with), I came to my main gift. This last remaining package represented the grand finale to the day’s gifting; the crescendo to which all the other presents had been building. But, the box was big and, although still exciting, couldn’t possibly contain a digital watch. I hastily tore off the wrapping to find a nondescript box, inside which was another wrapped box. This happened several times until I eventually got down to a small square box.
I was buzzing with excitement, and inside, just as I had hoped, was the watch, all the sweeter for coming as a complete surprise. I remember thinking what a clever way to deliver a shock and still give me exactly what I had asked for. It was this cunning practical joke that I borrowed from my parents the following year when delivering Mr Skinner’s Mars bar. I wrapped it in a box and placed the box within a box, then wrapped up that box. I repeated the process several times until the chocolate bar was housed at the heart of six boxes and appeared to be something far bigger. I inscribed the gift card:
To Mr Skinner, Just like I promised.
I took the gift into school, snuck into Mr Skinner’s classroom when he was off somewhere else being cool in a tracksuit, and left it on his desk. That lunchtime he found the gift and began to open it. I watched through the glass in the door as he negotiated his way through box after box. Mr Miller was in the classroom with him and I remember seeing him hooting with laughter, slapping his good knee as each new box presented itself. I ran back to my classroom before they emerged and sat in my seat the very picture of well-behaved innocence.
Mr Miller entered the room shaking his head and laughing and asked if any of us had given Mr Skinner the present. I remained silent. A few moments later, Mr Skinner entered the room and playfully demanded to know who had left him the cryptic offering. Still, I didn’t say a word. I realise now, looking back, that I slightly overestimated Mr Skinner’s recollection of his own jokey stipulation, which had meant so much to me. To him it was more of an offhand comment intended to make a young boy feel better about not being a confident swimmer.
It became obvious that he hadn’t got the joke at all, assuming one of us was just having a bit of fun. He singled out a boy in the class who looked the guiltiest and asked him to step to the front. I could see I was going to have to do a little of the work myself, so I raised my hand and confessed, at which point Mr Skinner feigned outrage. I can’t remember exactly how things transpired
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