Oswald’s Grammar School for BoysTuesday, 7th September
There’s always a special kind of chaos on the first day. Boys late, boys lost, books to be collected, stationery to be distributed. The classroom changes didn’t help; the new timetable had failed to take into account the renumbering of the rooms, and had to be followed by a memo that no one read. Several times I intercepted columns of boys marching toward the new German departmental office instead of toward the Bell Tower, and had to redirect them.
Dr. Devine was looking stressed. I had still not cleared out my old office, of course; all the filing cabinets were locked, and only I had the key. Then there were registers, holiday work to collect, fee checks to be sent to the Bursar’s office, locker keys to distribute, seating arrangements to be made, law to be enforced.
Luckily, I don’t have a new form this year. My boys—thirty-one of them in all—are old lags, and they know what to expect. They have got used to me, and I to them. There’s Pink, a quiet, quirky lad with a strangely adult sense of humor, and his friend Tayler; then there are my Brodie Boys, Allen-Jones and McNair, two extravagant jokers who earn themselves fewer detentions than they deserve because they make me laugh; then redheaded Sutcliff; then Niu, a Japanese boy, very active in the school orchestra; then Knight, whom I do not trust; little Jackson, who has to prove himself on a daily basis by picking fights; large Brasenose, who is easily bullied; and Anderton-Pullitt, a clever, solitary, ponderous boy who has many allergies including, if we are to believe him, a very special form of asthma which means that he should be excused from all kinds of sports, as well as maths, French, Religious Education, homework on Mondays, House Meetings, Assemblies, and Chapel. He also has a habit of following me around—which has caused Kitty Teague to make jokes at the expense of my Special Little Friend —and bending my ear about his various enthusiasms (First World War aircraft, computer games, the music of Gilbert and Sullivan). As a rule I don’t mind too much—he’s an odd boy, excluded by his peers, and I think he may be lonely—but on the other hand, I have work to do and no desire to spend what free time I have in socializing with Anderton-Pullitt.
Of course, schoolboy crushes are a fact of teaching, with which we learn to deal as best we can. We’ve all been on the receiving end at some time or another—even people like Hillary Monument and myself, who, let’s face it, are about as unsightly a pair as you’re likely to find out of captivity. We all have our ways of dealing with it, though I believe Isabelle Tapi actually encourages the boys—certainly, she has any number of Special Little Friends , as do Robbie Roach and Penny Nation. As for myself, I find that a brisk manner and a policy of benevolent neglect usually discourage overfamiliarity in the Anderton-Pullitts of this world.
Still, all in all, not a bad lot, 3S. They have grown over the holidays; some look almost adult. That ought to make me feel old, but it does not; instead I feel a kind of reluctant pride. I like to think that I treat all the boys equally, but I have developed an especial fondness for this form, which has been with me for the past two years. I like to think we understand each other.
“Oh, sü-üür !” There were moans as I handed out Latin tests to everyone.
“It’s the first day, sir!”
“Can’t we have a quiz, sir?”
“Can we do hangman in Latin?”
“When I have taught you everything I know, Mr. Allen-Jones, then perhaps we may find time to indulge in trivial pursuits.”
Allen-Jones grinned, and I saw that in the space marked FORM ROOM on the cover of his Latin book, he had written Room formerly known as 59.
There was a knock, and Dr. Devine put his head around the door.
“Mr. Straitley?”
“Quid agis, Medice?”
The class sniggered. Sourgrape, who never did Classics, looked
There’s always a special kind of chaos on the first day. Boys late, boys lost, books to be collected, stationery to be distributed. The classroom changes didn’t help; the new timetable had failed to take into account the renumbering of the rooms, and had to be followed by a memo that no one read. Several times I intercepted columns of boys marching toward the new German departmental office instead of toward the Bell Tower, and had to redirect them.
Dr. Devine was looking stressed. I had still not cleared out my old office, of course; all the filing cabinets were locked, and only I had the key. Then there were registers, holiday work to collect, fee checks to be sent to the Bursar’s office, locker keys to distribute, seating arrangements to be made, law to be enforced.
Luckily, I don’t have a new form this year. My boys—thirty-one of them in all—are old lags, and they know what to expect. They have got used to me, and I to them. There’s Pink, a quiet, quirky lad with a strangely adult sense of humor, and his friend Tayler; then there are my Brodie Boys, Allen-Jones and McNair, two extravagant jokers who earn themselves fewer detentions than they deserve because they make me laugh; then redheaded Sutcliff; then Niu, a Japanese boy, very active in the school orchestra; then Knight, whom I do not trust; little Jackson, who has to prove himself on a daily basis by picking fights; large Brasenose, who is easily bullied; and Anderton-Pullitt, a clever, solitary, ponderous boy who has many allergies including, if we are to believe him, a very special form of asthma which means that he should be excused from all kinds of sports, as well as maths, French, Religious Education, homework on Mondays, House Meetings, Assemblies, and Chapel. He also has a habit of following me around—which has caused Kitty Teague to make jokes at the expense of my Special Little Friend —and bending my ear about his various enthusiasms (First World War aircraft, computer games, the music of Gilbert and Sullivan). As a rule I don’t mind too much—he’s an odd boy, excluded by his peers, and I think he may be lonely—but on the other hand, I have work to do and no desire to spend what free time I have in socializing with Anderton-Pullitt.
Of course, schoolboy crushes are a fact of teaching, with which we learn to deal as best we can. We’ve all been on the receiving end at some time or another—even people like Hillary Monument and myself, who, let’s face it, are about as unsightly a pair as you’re likely to find out of captivity. We all have our ways of dealing with it, though I believe Isabelle Tapi actually encourages the boys—certainly, she has any number of Special Little Friends , as do Robbie Roach and Penny Nation. As for myself, I find that a brisk manner and a policy of benevolent neglect usually discourage overfamiliarity in the Anderton-Pullitts of this world.
Still, all in all, not a bad lot, 3S. They have grown over the holidays; some look almost adult. That ought to make me feel old, but it does not; instead I feel a kind of reluctant pride. I like to think that I treat all the boys equally, but I have developed an especial fondness for this form, which has been with me for the past two years. I like to think we understand each other.
“Oh, sü-üür !” There were moans as I handed out Latin tests to everyone.
“It’s the first day, sir!”
“Can’t we have a quiz, sir?”
“Can we do hangman in Latin?”
“When I have taught you everything I know, Mr. Allen-Jones, then perhaps we may find time to indulge in trivial pursuits.”
Allen-Jones grinned, and I saw that in the space marked FORM ROOM on the cover of his Latin book, he had written Room formerly known as 59.
There was a knock, and Dr. Devine put his head around the door.
“Mr. Straitley?”
“Quid agis, Medice?”
The class sniggered. Sourgrape, who never did Classics, looked
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