I woke up this morning thinking about my old binders. It had nothing to do with my last dream I remember clearly, and yet it's appalled that opened my eyes to one fact: I could not remember most of my binders. Impossible to tell what they looked like, if I college with a sports bag or briefcase leather. I think I suffered some sort of trauma. I remember yet, primary, black leather binder with a pocket on the front to slide a label bearing his name. I blew up the plastic cover, and rain in North diluted ink of my first name when discovered. A good time. But that was before the tragedy.
A snowy day winter 1990, I raise a satchel full of color and therefore, plastic. A brand. My parents paid for me a lafuma, you imagine the class. Yellow, white and blue. With it, you can not miss year school. Except that.
children that we had the habit of depositing their briefcase in the hallway before class, then come out and play dan court. We could have put them under the shelter designed for this purpose, but drop his bag in the corridor was a privilege of the "big" CM1 CM2. I would deposit snapped my business to go enjoy the snow, despite the icy wind.
And when I came back, a burning smell in the air. My briefcase had been shifted to the central heating, and leisurely began to melt! A trace brown adorned the facade, which think of a piece of paper burned by a cigarette ... My bag was damn good.
And surprisingly, it's the last I remember one of my school bags. Nothing comes back to me about college. Let alone high school, and his best years. In college, I do not even remember having a bag, and yet ... For some reason, I do not remember my binders since that day.
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