The dust man had another role.
One so awful it may explain why he spent so much time with his incinerator.
Our primary school wasn't air-conditioned.
And the roof was made of tin.
We had none of today's get-out-of-jail-free temperature thresholds.
We worked and ate and played and fought in the true-blue, dinky-di Australian heat.
At least, most of us did.
Some were of a relatively delicate disposition.
Lily skinned, slender limbed, carrot hued and/or freckle flung.
For these, summer was a time for spewing.
I don't know if it was the heat, the lack of glad-wrap on home-made jam sandwiches, or the highly processed tuck-shop fare.
Perhaps a combination of all 3.
What I do know is there was an awful lot of spew about.
The corridor floors were shiny with patina and polish.
When sick hit - often with considerable force - it splattered comprehensively.
Compounding the situation after the fact was the dust man.
His response to spew was to strew it with sawdust.
Appropriate, you may think.
But then,
he left it.
As the hot day wore on, the barf bouquet breached every nook of the school.
And, like so many mouse-trap-taped ping-pong balls, one emetic event could spring kindred reactions from sensitive souls.
By mid-afternoon, the halls could be decked with hazards.
Nor did it end there.
We always yearned to be out of class.
And played ferociously at every chance.
When the bell knelled a return to travail, we lingered as long as we dared, then raced back to class at the last instant.
The sad confluence of this was that one poor, speeding pupil invariably fell foul of dusty chuck.
I can hear it now.
Pounding footsteps down the hall.
The shriek of recognition on turning a blind corner.
The screech of protesting Bata Scouts.
The awkward thump, and long, hideous slither.
The scream of anguish.
The clatter of heels.
The raucous Schadenfreude.
And the wail of the victim who, tarred and feathered, had stinking hot hours to endure.
Why the dust man did it, I'll never know.
I suppose, these days, we'd call it poor cultural fit.
The chunder down under was always gone by morning.
The scene set for another fool
to fret the stage.
[First published 5 Mar 2016.]