1986 | The Littles Give a Party.

It’s the stuff of memes now; the pure excitement of the Scholastic Book Club catalogue.

Those thin, glossy pages full of books that could be purchased by putting cash in an envelope accompanied by a little tear off form our mum’s filled out for us to confirm our choice. We brought our envelopes to our teachers, carefully transported in school backpacks that were bigger than we were with such pride and excitement for we were responsible enough to carry money and on an unconfirmed day, at some point in the future, there would be a shiny new book waiting for us, the anticipation of its arrival as intoxicating as the book itself.

The smell of it, the smooth spine, the untouched pages with my name on a little strip of paper tucked inside so Mrs Skalicky knew it was mine. The sheer excitement, a present and it wasn’t even my birthday. The pink cover, the illustrations, the big kid, small font size for competent readers; it was a moment of joy and pride.

Until I couldn’t find it anywhere. I hadn’t even had a chance to take it home and show mum yet, I’d not even read it and I’d lost it. I was so upset; I’d lost my brand-new book on the day it arrived.

Someone must have alerted Mrs Skalicky to what had happened and it was soon located.

My beautiful book with its pink cover was buried in the class sand pit. Pulling it out of the damp sand, the pages crinkled from the moisture, the spine bent, the cover slightly peeling, I was hurt and I was angry. 

I had never felt injustice before, I was 5; it was a new full-body sensation. I was overcome with righteous rage at the boys who had buried my new book in the sand pit, it was just plain wrong; why would someone do something so unjust, so mean spirited?

I lost my shit.

Sometimes I dig out my crinkled copy of The Littles Give a Party from 1986 and I still get a flutter of righteous rage 40 years on.