I remember sitting in the classroom on what may have been my first day, but I can't be sure. It was Miss Tobin's class, and I must have been only five years old. The tables were flecked grey, like lino floor covering. When pushed together, they'd make a hexagon for us to sit around in our miniature red plastic chairs. The room was huge to me, full of colourful things, bottles of paint, jigsaws, beanbags and board games on shelves.

An Indian kid with his mother came into the room. He must have been late that day because we were all seated around our hexagon tables. Pleasantries were exchanged, I expect, I don't remember much of that, but then it all kicked off. She tried to leave, and he wasn't having a bar of it. Like a repetitive movie scene, forty-five years later, I see him restrained and screaming at the top of his voice. He must have settled down eventually. Traumatic, though, for kids to be separated from their mothers. We became friends eventually.

Many years later, I found myself back at that school – St Joseph's, Wellington Street, I think. It's a community centre and afterschool now. The yard wall doesn't look so high now, and what were classrooms are a canteen, games room and offices. Funny how the world looks so big and intimidating when you're small.