When I was in lower primary school, one of my greatest ambitions at the time was to climb the school roof. The particular building I wanted to climb was single-storey, with a flat, horizontal, corruated-iron roof. Right next to the building was a netball hoop. It seemed the perfect roof to walk around on. I had an obession with climbing to high places for years, and with my habit of climbing the nearest high object – chairs and bookcases when I was small, walls and trees when I was a bit older – I knew I’d have no trouble with something as simple as a netball hoop and this roof. Problem was, if anyone spotted me up there I’d cath it instantly, so I didn’t dare fulfil my ambition.

Until grade four.

In year four my teacher decided we should have a one-night camp at the school, and sleep overnight in one of the demountable classrooms. Early next morning – long before teachers or students began to arrive -the boys were bored and looking for something to do. They decided to shoot goals using the nearby netball hoop. Yep, the one by the roof.

I was nearby, watching – I had this strange obsession with balls, especially soccer, netball and basketballs, that took a long time to grow out of – when to my elation, the ball overshot the hoop and landed instead on the roof!

This was clearly my moment. The year six boys climbed on the roof all the time to retrieve lost balls all the time with barely a reprimand, so I knew it was a semi-acceptable excuse for climbing roofs. As the boys stood around complaining, I dashed over and announced grandly that I would get their ball.

Wriggling up the pole, I rasped the rim of the netball hoop and pulled myself up through the middle of it so that I was sitting, legs dangling through the circle. Admiring the height for a moment, and ignoring the encouragement and jeers of the interested boys below, I then shifted acros to the building next to me, clibing up on to the roof.

I saw the ball a short distance away and collected it. I walked to the edge of the roof and threw the ball down to the waiting group, which cheered and hollered. Unfortunately, the moment they had the bal back, some little snitch instantly fetched the teacher. She arrived to find me wandering around on the roof in interest, noting how far away the ground looked from here and wearing an expression that yes, I was pleased with myself.

“Get down here right now!” my teacher bawled, no doubt having a small heart attack at the mere sight and knowing that yes, this whole camp thing had been a bad idea. Scowling I obeyed after a second shout, knowing what my mother  would say if she heard that I’d climbed a roof and refused to come down. Getting back to the ground was much harder than getting up there had been. I momentarily became stuck with the hoop circling my chest and going underneath my arms, the rest of my body dangling, and reflected that I hadn’t foreseen this difficulty, wondering how to get down and thinking that boy, wouldn’t it be embarrassing if I got to this point and had to be rescued now? I had brief visions of the fire brigade being called out to remove a small girl from a netball hoop among a crowd of laughing, pointing children and a furious mother. After a moment though I worked out how to shift my position and drop down through the hoop to skivvy down the pole, to a crowd of jeering, admiring boys who thought tihs was much more interesting than shooting goals and one very angry teacher.

Said teacher dragged my away angrily, while I fumed at my classmates betrayal. They wouldn’t have dobbed if it had been one of the year six boys getting their ball! That was boys for you, they couldn’t stand girls doing boy things. My teacher explained that I wasn’t allowed to climb school buildings, ever, not even for a good reason, ignoring my protests that the year six boys did it all the time without punishment, and told me that I had to sit in the classroom until she said I could go. Then she left to supervise my rioting classmates, leaving me sitting on my chair.

I fidgeted. I swung my feet. I sang a little and reflected upon the perfidy of man. My best friend came along to the window, mildly interested in what mad thing I’d done now, and chatted for a moment before continuing on her way, not wanting to get in trouble herself. Some time later my teacher returned.

She appeared inexplicably surprised to find me there.

“Oh, Ace, I’d forgotten you were here,” said the amnesiac. “You can go now.”

I fled, glad to be allowed to go, but somewhat exasperated at my teacher’s forgetfulness. I walked along, brooding about my classmates, relishing the triumph of achieving my ambition, and wondering where my best friend had gotten to.