Canned laughter

When I was seven years old I killed two pensioners.

For some reason, aged seven, I was put up a year at school. I have still never worked out why, nor why at the end of the year, I rejoined my old classmates and ended up in the correct year group after all.

This is all beside the point.

Anyway, final year infant, performing at a first year junior level, it was our class' responsibility to invite the local old people of Loughborough to the annual Harvest Festival at Booth Wood Primary School. The old people would be rounded up, herded into the hall, and then forced to take groceries home with them. I have never, never understood this. But, old people would sit there, we would sing and then they'd have to take home a couple of tins of salmon and a mouldy-looking pear. That's what Harvest Festival is all about. Praise the Lord.

So, the job of old people invitations was fairly divided between the class, and each of us was responsible for getting the list from the teacher and writing two invitations to old people. Finally, it was my turn for the list. It was a bit dog eared and had clearly been around for years. I wrote my invitations in my best handwriting to Mr Barsby and to Mrs Jessop. And, looking at the predecessors on the list, most of whom had a neat line ruled through them, I carefully ruled a line through both Mr Barsby and Mrs Jessop.

Proud as a peacock, I handed my invitations to my teacher, along with the list, so he could hand it onto the next child.

"Laura," the teacher said.

"Yes?"

"Did you cross Mr Barsby and Mrs Jessop off the list?"

"Yes, once I'd written their invites."

"Laura. Go and stand in the corridor and think about what you've done! Do you even know what you've done?"

My bottom lip started to quiver. "No..."

"We only cross the old people off the list once they're dead!"

That list had a lot of crossings out. I'm guessing some of that tinned salmon may have been past its best.