Suddenly I was reminded of another August 31, when I was either 11 or 12 (something around those pre-teen years) and was about to attend the so-called “Meet & greet your teachers” event, which always took place on the eve of September 1, The Shenanigans Day (aka the first day of school).

Not that I was eager to go: I hated pretty much all the school activities, disliked my peers with minor exceptions (it was mutual: I was regarded as a weirdo and didn’t become a complete outcast only because the most popular folks in my class used my knowledge and fear of being ostracised for their own benefit: I helped them with literature and maths, lol) and was indifferent towards the cult of extravert cheerfulness (“Be ready!”—”Always ready!” and similar bs).

But of course there was *that* boy whom I liked, who had to be there like the rest of us and who—of course!—had no clue about all the courteous stuff going on between us in my head, lol. So, in the depths of my heart I hoped to impress him, but interestingly enough, the question “how?” didn’t bother me as relevant in any case: maybe the mere fact of my presence should have somehow struck him as if something absolutely gobsmacking occurred: I wish I remembered the details of my silly Tom Sawyer-ish fantasies, though.

But wicked Fate had her own plans: the day before, I was stung by a wasp in my right eye. To any of you who don’t know, unlike with bees, it’s nearly impossible to pull out a wasp’s sting. Babushka, Dedushka and Babushka’s younger sister, Auntie Lena, who was our guest at the time, tried hard to help me, but with no success. My eye was swollen, and I looked like a mini version of a young pirate-apprentice (not that it’s bad, of course: I mean, it’s sort of cool, but I didn’t have a neat black patch with a Jolly Roger on it—I got one for myself later on, for my Steampunk activities), which I didn’t appreciate that much. Well, “didn’t appreciate” would be an understatement: I wholeheartedly hated it, yikes.

I’m afraid, the next day’s meeting didn’t go as planned: I did indeed become the centre of attention, but for all the wrong reasons, and guess who laughed his head off the most? Right: that object of my obscure desire. Believe it or not, but it was a wake up call: I decided that he was an idiot and switched my interest to someone else (don’t remember even the tiniest detail about him either).

Funny, how my screwed up memory suddenly revealed this episode of my never-happened triumph after many decades of oblivion.