The Isis CofE Middle School

Yes, I went to a school named ISIS. Yes, I understand that’s hilarious since half my family are Middle Eastern. No, I’m not going to make any jokes about it. It really speaks for itself, doesn’t it?
It’s review #1992 because that was one of the years that I may or may not have been here. The C.E. stands for Church of England, but no I’m not Christian, nor am I Benteke nor Gray. Way more interesting than the latter. Sexually speaking. It wasn’t an in-​your-​face religious school though. You’d hardly have known God was running it. Or god, if you prefer.
Isis was — by far — my favourite school that I ever went to. I have love for Peers because of the teaching staff, but not the students. I have love for SS Mary & John but not how in-​your-​face-​religious it was. But Middle School? That was my jam. We owned the place. We ran competitions, we ran the halls, we ran the fields. I was a track star, and occasionally a soccer star. I was friends with the geeks and with the «jocks» although they were never known as such back in England.
Yes, life was good back then. I missed the first year of Middle School because of my Mum’s escapades in Manchester, stealing us away and all that. But when we were returned, I had a wonderful time in this wonderful school, and I feel like it gave me more of my formative years and the basis for my (questionable, lol) intellect and Oxford University education, than anywhere else did.
So shout outs to Mrs Little in Year 6, Mr Ford in Year 7 (ouch) and the lovely Mrs Webb in Year 8. Two wonderful women sandwiching a rather awkward little man that everyone was scared to death of. He was from Sunderland, you know. A Mackem from Wearside. I wonder how he’s doing these days.
Years later, I went back to participate in sports day and was enamoured by a girl named Heather. A teacher, but dressed very provocatively. It turned out she wasn’t a teacher… she was a student that looked 10 years older than she was. Very very very very underage. Let that be a warning to you. You just never know. It’s not worth it. Sleep with old people instead.
My best memory of Isis was when the hottie music teacher and the married, nightmarish, awful Science teacher (Mr Rose) kicked us out of a music practice room at break time, and then went in there together, drew the curtains and locked the door. Mr. Rose later divorced his unsuspecting (maybe?) wife and married our music teacher. You go girl. Except, yeah, she was way too cute for him. But that’s life. We would have liked to have loved her, but we were just kids. Her candle burned out long before we ever reached puberty.