I will never forget my first day at school, even though it was a long time ago. A lifetime ago, in fact. I didn't want to leave Muffin The Mule, Andy Pandy, Graham Kerr, Mr Benn, The Saint, Captain Scarlet, The Wooden Tops, Fanny Cradock, Brian Waldon and yoga's Richard Hittleman. I genuinely wanted to stay at home in order to enjoy these televisual delights from the safety of my parents' comfy, threadbare, working class, hoovered, rented bunker of a living room floor.

When I played-up on that fateful first school morning by stamping my feet and objecting to entering the real world away from the BBC and Thames Television, my old nan told it to me straight: 'You have to go to school, it's the law.' It wasn't very nice for me or my mum, that morning. Having said that, I was only four-years-old and had no choice in the matter. My mother was about 39 and she had no choice either.

So I dutifully left my tearful mother at the school gates and was led by my new teacher, Mrs Simpson, into the unknown. 'He'll be okay', Mrs Simpson called to my mother, knowingly.

I was a bit tearful too, but my first teacher took me steadfastly by the hand and transported me - as if by magic - from the 'pretend' world of Mr Benn's costume shop, into the 'real' world of learning how to grow up and forget how to care without caring how to forget.

As I manfully wiped a tear from my eye, Mrs Simpson took me to the place where I would hang my coat and cap for the next four years. 'This is yours, Erastus', she said, pointing to a hanger in the school corridor, 'the one with the picture of a crown attached.'

After all, I couldn't yet read or write my name because I was just starting out in life. Thankfully, I didn't have a sword to hang up and I don't think there was a pink ribbon involved. After all, pink was (and still is) for girls.

When my mum walked me home that day and we discussed my first day at school, my father was not around. You see, he didn't get home until 8 at night because he had to drive a lorry for fourteen hours a day, which meant he had to leave the house at 3.30 every morning. My father was completely shattered when he got home and due to his unsociable hours was unable to attend open evenings, swimming galas, nativity plays, sports days, bring-and-buy sales, cheese & wine evenings, football matches and end-of-term speeches. Still, he was earning a living and I understood, loved and respected him for it.

Which brings me to our new blogger, Mr Johnson.

Mr Johnson, if I can be bothered to tell you a little bit about my life, hopefully you can take the time to answer some of my questions. Then again, perhaps you're working as hard as my father worked before he snuffed it at the grand old of 65?

If you can't find the time to answer my questions, perhaps you shouldn't find the time to write a blog. Then again, perhaps you're unable to reply because you're making the most of your MP's long summer break, far away from the Palace of Westminster, while the rest of us sweat it out earning tax for the government's coffers.

Erastus