I was twelve goin’ on thirty, struttin’ around like Perry Mason raised on Purity syrup. Sister Hyacinthe Marie was hangin’ on by a guitar string, and I wasn’t helpin’ her nerves one bit.

One day I told Sister Benedict I wanted to “try” the Special Aid Class. She waved me off like she was flaggin’ down the mail truck on Coarse Hill.

What I walked into wasn’t a classroom. It was Coarse Hill on a windy day — everything flyin’ everywhere.

Kids sprintin’ across desks like they were chasin’ loose laundry. Two fellas playin’ pitch‑ball with textbooks. One lad climbin’ a coat rack tryin’ to see the harbour. Another under a desk givin’ commentary like he was on CHCM.

I lasted ten minutes. Then I bolted out of there faster than a Trepassey woman leavin’ bingo with no dabber.

And that’s when I learned the truth of life:

Freedom without supervision is just Coarse Hill foolishness Indoors.