Alma Mater

[poliphilo]

My old school (which is a "public school", meaning a private school, a fee-paying forcing-house of privilege) sends me its annual old boy's mag. Very glossy. The headmaster lauds his achievements. We are told about exam results, sports achievements, building projects. Yes, yes, yes, I mutter; but why won't you tell me about the real life of the school- like who's hot, who's smoking what and who's going to bed with whom.

At least I'm not having to pay for these ghastly sales brochures. "How about remembering us in your will?" they hint.

In a pig's arse, friend.

The mag is full of faces. Privileged faces. Crusty and ugly and hooting drunkenly at some awful reunion dinner. Oh look, there's Sir Tim Rice!

And here in a single frame are my two least favourite teachers: the baby-faced paedophile and the creepy chaplain. Forty years have passed. The paedophile is no longer baby-faced. The creepy chaplain looks like a lizard.

Comments

[jackiejj.livejournal.com]

Why were your teachers featured? Are they still there?

Oooh, like a lizard.

My high school principal's name was Mr. Honey. He had a creamy voice, too, and a sticky sweet smile. He scared me to death, because his eyes were cold.

Is the pedophile still teaching? The horror!

[poliphilo.livejournal.com]

The teachers were at some big dinner. The paedophile will have retired by now, but he still hangs around the school. Ugh!

I don't think he ever molested anyone, but he used to have lots of "special friends" among the younger boys. He was well hated.

He also happened to be a very good maths teacher.