If there's one thing I wasn't expecting when I kissed Amelie goodnight, threw Shimmy out of her bedroom, and turned on the kitchen radio half an hour ago, it was to hear my old school mentioned on the 7 o'clock news.

Apparently a 12-year-old girl died this afternoon after being hit by a rugby ball during a P.E. lesson at Woodlands School in Basildon. Which happens to be my old, and much loved, seat of learning. I'm even listed as a 'notable alumnus' on their Wikipedia page, which quite honestly is just weird. Especially as I didn't put it there.

When I was at Woodlands, they used to let us go down the local snooker hall once a week, instead of getting sweaty on the sports field, which definitely worked for me, and made me the man I am today. Fat and unfit. But quite good at snooker. Things have clearly changed since then though, and with catastrophic results.

I don't quite know how you get over the shock of losing a daughter in a school P.E. lesson, so my heart goes out to the parents. Sadder still is that they'll probably have a major investigation, which will result in new health & safety rules banning any kind of ball games on school property. And that would be a shame. One thing I loved about Woodlands was the vast expanse of playing fields, and variety of sports on offer. Not that I wanted to do most of them, but I appreciated the fact they were there. I spent many happy hours on that rugby pitch, writing articles for the VIth Form Magazine between classes.

So it's a terrible thing to have happened, and the family have my utmost sympathy. In fact my jaw dropped when I heard the news. But oddly, I found something else just as startling. It transpires that the headmaster at Woodlands hasn't changed since I left there twenty-one years ago. The chap leading the tributes on the national news this evening is the same man who stumped up 20p for a copy of my first magazine in 1990. It's a miracle how little we've both moved on.