‘Minutes of the last meeting of the Food Committee - 23 April, 1998’ read the title- typed, bulleted and posted on the boarding house notice board to catch the public eye. I quickly scanned over and digested the ‘boys’ complaints’ section, inadvertently nodding my approval of numbers 4, 12 and 15 - ‘not enough yoghurt’, ‘only one choice of gravy’ and ‘the doughnuts are too oily’.

I paused at the ‘caterer’s comments’. ‘Please could boys show a little patience when waiting for food’, and ‘could the boys place their cutlery on the trolleys before leaving the dining hall’. Scoffing, I glanced around to see if there was someone who could share in my disgust.

"Naturally we’re going to be impatient if we have to wait fifteen minutes for a fresh batch of rolls, only to find that there aren’t any knives!" a fellow passer-by protested, as if the committee could somehow hear his opinion. I managed a rather less convincing, but equally legitimate, "Yeah, and why can’t the waiters take our plates? I thought that’s what we paid them for!". Not overly impressed with our attempt to criticise the publication, we wandered off to separate destinations, hands crammed into inviting pockets.

Thanks to the bulletin-board distraction, I was running late for the afternoon hockey match. Frustration set in on discovering that one of my boots had carefully hidden itself behind a chair leg. As I ran towards the fields it seemed as if even the elements were ganging up on me - a fine drizzle which clouded visibility plastered my face and formed a pool between my jersey and neck.

I arrived with 20 minutes to spare, only remembering on the way that the starting time of our match had been delayed. As I waited on the stands, mulling over my day, a giggling sound alerted my attention to what was unfolding beneath me. One of the younger spectators (she couldn’t have been more that 4) had escaped the beady watch of her mother, and was exploring the grass under the stands. Although the drizzle had ceased, the ground was coated in its remnants. Surrounding the field was a flimsy wire fence consisting of large squares (as opposed to the triangular type), and on the other side of it 3 young black boys had gathered. The two parties were fascinated with each other. The girl abandoned her solitary game of collecting discarded bottles and sweet wrappers, and pressed herself up against the fence. The boys let out a shriek of embarrassed nervousness and excitement, and edged closer. Mom realised that her beckoning was not going to help, and going down to retrieve her daughter seemed like too much effort. She convinced herself that no harm could arise from the encounter, and went back to watching the game.

A chubby arm capped with a white hand reached through the fence and groped, as if looking for the light switch in a dim room. It found the head of the smallest boy and, momentarily paused to take in the texture and feel of its resting-place. The hand examined the rounded ears, grubby shirt and mud-caked elbows, with the touch of someone handling a priceless artefact. While he sat bewildered by the situation, the other two boys erupted into laughter. This period of discovery continued for a few minutes, before mom insisted that dad go down and put a stop to it. The girl did not seem overly distressed about being carried away from the side of the field, and gazed contemplatively at the fence in a manner unusual for someone her age.

Laden with sweat and the heaviness of defeat, I trudged back to the boarding house. I was so wrapped up in the memories of our match that I almost dismissed the small, dark figure as part of the scenery. Her naked feet occupied themselves by kicking a tin can. Her hands seemed lost in the tatters of her old jersey as she attempted to fight out the frigid wind. As she approached me it became clear the she was murmuring a tune to herself, eyes transfixed on the patch of tar before her. A hand-me-down satchel clung to her back, and occasionally she shrugged to reposition the bite of the makeshift string straps. When she was within ten metres of me she stopped abruptly, and peered into the shrubbery on the side of the road. She reached down and victoriously lifted up an old, reasonably dirty looking crisp, which could have been lying nestled in the ivy for a matter of days. Not perturbed by this minor detail, she first blew, then used a finger to remove the unrelenting grime, before savouring the morsel bite by bite. Satisfied with her findings she ambled on, kicking her tin and singing.

I stood mesmerised. A thin shaft of light peered through the trees and dared to cast my shadow before me. I saw in it a spoiled and selfish white child, complaining about gravy and doughnuts. Slowly my short, chubby hand is reaching through the fence, and discovering a hidden world.

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