by Ross W
I was lucky enough to attend a school within walking distance of my home, and to start at just four years old in the Reception class.
It was thought (by my parents and my teachers) that this would give me a head start in the basic skills of reading and writing, so they were baffled by some of the peculiar spellings I adopted, such as how, when asked to give a word beginning with the letter “B” for example, I wrote, “Botatoes”: how “d”s and “b”s and “p”s, “n”s and “m”s all got muddled, and how, at seven years old, when taking a small exam, I explained to my mother that I thought I would have done very well indeed, “If I had just been able to read the questions!”
My parents were puzzled, since we are, in general – I have older and younger sisters – a reasonably intelligent family. Yet the ink-spattered, unintelligible rubbish I was turning out seemed to have more in common with the Just William style of presentation than that of a bright young boy, lucky enough to be receiving good teaching.
However little was known (or acknowledged) about dyslexia at the time, so it was accepted that I was perhaps just “not quite the ticket” and school life went on.
This was until something rather odd happened.
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