Many years ago when I was a school girl, I participated in Youth Parliament.
I’m not quite sure why, because the median participant was a loathsome, pompous, overly talkative jerk.
My guess is that my real motivation was to mix with boys – I attended an all-girls school. They might have been dud boys, but at least they were boys.
Anyway, one night, my girlfriend and I were attending a session of Youth Parliament at one of the large Catholic boys’ schools. While we were members of the government, we were mere backbenchers ( I guess because we were girls) … which was pretty boring, to say the least.
I still have a vision of the “Prime Minister” – quite tall, incredibly loud and boorish and completely full of himself.
Having sat through the parliamentary proceedings for a while, my friend and I decided to take our leave of the ‘chamber’ and take a stroll through the school grounds. How were we to know that a division would be called and the bells would be rung.
Needless to say, we didn’t make it back to the chamber in time and the ‘government’ fell.
By this stage, the (former) ‘Prime Minister’ was apoplectic with rage – I can still recall his deep pink facial hue – and spent five minutes yelling and screaming at us. I should find out his name and sue him after all these years. Did he not realise that we were just helpless females lost in the grounds of a large and foreign school campus?
After a little while of being berated by the faux PM, I hit back. In today’s patois, I said something like: “Suck it up, Princess. Shit happens. And by the way, you were not really the PM.”
Get over it, everyone. Things that were done and said during our formative years are completely irrelevant to the present, although I am still wondering whether I should sue that faux PM for pain and suffering. I could get my friend to verify the events. Only joking.