As I came in to the maths lesson an old man was standing on the far side of the room near a desk. In the middle of the wall between him and the entrance door was the blackboard.
He was old, quite old indeed when I looked at him. Yet around him was a sense of vigour and enthusiasm.
As the last boy sat down at his desk the old man walked towards the door. Or did he limp. No it was that one of his legs did not bend properly so he swivelled it aroudn as though it was a wooden leg.
To my surprise with this same "wooden" leg he applied a hefty kick to the door so that it slammed shut. From a man some eighty years old it showed style.
"I am Colonel Septimus. I can't stand foweigners and idiots. You must realise that Maths is the gweatest subject"
He had a very forceful tone. There was a twinkle in his eye. he turned to the baord and began to write his first maths equations.
During the lesson he established his main technique - that of posing problems that we had to try to solve whilst he sat at his desk and waited. each pupil would come up in turn and would show their exercise book to him and he would mark it correct or otherwise, grumpily.
"When you are doing Maths at University..." he would often say as he started a sentence, or "when you are doing A level Maths".
he was a powerful personality, and fun. I liked him and I left the lesson feeling better in myself.
Monday, 12 November 2007
Mr Runner leaves
Runner had left the classroom and the sense of tension slowly fell away.
I was in a daze. What could he mean by "an essay on nothing". My previous experience of school had never prepared me for such a philosophical idea. Or was it philosophy. Certainly my head was swimming.
The boys, released from the dread of this fierce schoolmaster, rapidly returned to their accustomed air of cynical superiority. As they began to file out of the classroom they used the demeaning nickname that had been given to the teacher. he was known as "Zit" Runner, due to his complexion.
Zit is awful
Yeah, I hate Zit
etc. etc.
I asked one of the kinder boys to give me a hint for what this essay was about. The only idea I got was to describe a vacuum.
Academic terror was descending upon me - a terror with at its origin a complete lack of comprehension for what was going on. IN my last school the essay title might have been "describe an experience of being lost in a forest" and the teacher would have taught us at length how to sue metaphors and similes to achieve this. Then we would be given a fixed half hour period in which to do this prep (at 7-7.30 pm) at the end of which our exercise books were collected.
Here at Goring in almost my first lesson i had been given an essay with an impossible title, with no indication of how I was to write it, with no idea of technique, length or limit, and with no fixed period in which to do it. I could feel that I was completely out of my depth. At that moment it was a feeling for the future. I could delay the moment when I would actually have to try to write this essay. But like water on top of a hot curry, it only made the experience hotter.
Outside the classroom, the corridoor was full of pupil traffic and trudged off reluctant to my next lesson, Maths with Colonel Septimus.
I was in a daze. What could he mean by "an essay on nothing". My previous experience of school had never prepared me for such a philosophical idea. Or was it philosophy. Certainly my head was swimming.
The boys, released from the dread of this fierce schoolmaster, rapidly returned to their accustomed air of cynical superiority. As they began to file out of the classroom they used the demeaning nickname that had been given to the teacher. he was known as "Zit" Runner, due to his complexion.
Zit is awful
Yeah, I hate Zit
etc. etc.
I asked one of the kinder boys to give me a hint for what this essay was about. The only idea I got was to describe a vacuum.
Academic terror was descending upon me - a terror with at its origin a complete lack of comprehension for what was going on. IN my last school the essay title might have been "describe an experience of being lost in a forest" and the teacher would have taught us at length how to sue metaphors and similes to achieve this. Then we would be given a fixed half hour period in which to do this prep (at 7-7.30 pm) at the end of which our exercise books were collected.
Here at Goring in almost my first lesson i had been given an essay with an impossible title, with no indication of how I was to write it, with no idea of technique, length or limit, and with no fixed period in which to do it. I could feel that I was completely out of my depth. At that moment it was a feeling for the future. I could delay the moment when I would actually have to try to write this essay. But like water on top of a hot curry, it only made the experience hotter.
Outside the classroom, the corridoor was full of pupil traffic and trudged off reluctant to my next lesson, Maths with Colonel Septimus.
Tuesday, 6 November 2007
Hugh's first english lesson
Hugh picked up his books from his carol. For the first english lesson he needed only his file.
It was not far to the English block. The small timid boy walked through the stone archway that lead to the corridoor and then throught the wooden swing doors into the corridoor itself. An acrid smell rose into his nostrils, the smell of the lavatories that were opposite the classroom. The smell of the blue squares of deodorising chemical that sat in the urinals was pungent and yet mixed with the odour of decay and menace that only can exist in the male loos of an institution.
Hugh walked further on the corridoor passing the second set of doors that led to these loos (there was a door at either end of these particular loos) until he located classroom 6 where he was due to have his first lesson.
Inside this room a man was sitting at the front. He was neither tall nor small. He was not fat nor slight. Yet he was striking. The room was silent. Boys who might have been bositerous in other classes sat quietly at their place at the tables.
Most striking was his face and then his posture. His face was pock marked and greasy. A complacent, half mocking smile spread across his features. A smirk might better describe it. Over his eyes were a pair of rectangular glasses. His eyes bulged out from these. From behind his smirk a menacing authority seem to hang in the room. He looked a little like a man who might have been in the Gestapo - "we have ways of making you talk".
In his chair he leaned back, both hands were behind his head with the palms inwards, fingers interlinked. His right leg was crossed over his right but with the shoe close to this left knee. The look in his eye, the language of his body seemed to say, "I know everything, you know nothing, you little worm".
The last boy came into the class. no one was late. The man's reputation preceeded him.
Silence.
The master did not rise from his seat but suddenly his voice rung out with a crystal authority, much more impressive to Hugh than if the man had jumped up and shouted.
"I am Mr. Runner. You will not talk in my class unless I ask you to. You will not eat. You will not drink. You will not whisper. You will not spit. You will not chew. You will not smoke. These are the rules. if you disobey them you will be punished." The last he said with a smile full of threat. No-one spoke. "is that clear?" the question was evidently not to be answered. No one did so. "Good" he said.
"Right, tell me your names."
Then he covered off the admin - with each pupil in turn coming under his questioning. He asked mostly admin questions:
"Name?" -
"Brown, Sir"
"House and Number? Just give the initial of the house"
"B 617, Sir"
"You a scholar?"
"Yes, Sir"
"Which one?"
"4th Scholar, Sir"
"Tutor?..."
"Mr. Lennox, Sir"
And so it continued. When he came to one large heavy featured black haired boy he paused after asking him the usual questions.
"Are you a Yank, Metzig?" he said
"No, Sir," said the large boy in a North American accent, "I am canadian"
"Good. As long as you are not a yank. Can't stand Yanks."
The admin over, Mr Runner turned to the class.
"Clever boys are you, eh?" he began, "well I have a task for you. For next lesson you will write me an essay. I want you to write me an essay on nothing"
Pause. an intake of breath. a nervous boy put up his hand,
"Yes," said Runner fully aware that such a bizarre statement would bring about this reaction.
"Sorry, Sir, I don't understand the title."
But there was to be no mercy. "Nothing," he said. "Write an essay on Nothing."
A second shimmer of disorientation ran through the assembled pupils. Another hand rose, "how long should it be, Sir?"
"How long is a piece of string?" came the rejoinder.
And Mr Runner strode out of the room, the harsh electric bell ringing in the ears of the boys. The same complacent grin was on his face. "I know everything, you know nothing."
It was not far to the English block. The small timid boy walked through the stone archway that lead to the corridoor and then throught the wooden swing doors into the corridoor itself. An acrid smell rose into his nostrils, the smell of the lavatories that were opposite the classroom. The smell of the blue squares of deodorising chemical that sat in the urinals was pungent and yet mixed with the odour of decay and menace that only can exist in the male loos of an institution.
Hugh walked further on the corridoor passing the second set of doors that led to these loos (there was a door at either end of these particular loos) until he located classroom 6 where he was due to have his first lesson.
Inside this room a man was sitting at the front. He was neither tall nor small. He was not fat nor slight. Yet he was striking. The room was silent. Boys who might have been bositerous in other classes sat quietly at their place at the tables.
Most striking was his face and then his posture. His face was pock marked and greasy. A complacent, half mocking smile spread across his features. A smirk might better describe it. Over his eyes were a pair of rectangular glasses. His eyes bulged out from these. From behind his smirk a menacing authority seem to hang in the room. He looked a little like a man who might have been in the Gestapo - "we have ways of making you talk".
In his chair he leaned back, both hands were behind his head with the palms inwards, fingers interlinked. His right leg was crossed over his right but with the shoe close to this left knee. The look in his eye, the language of his body seemed to say, "I know everything, you know nothing, you little worm".
The last boy came into the class. no one was late. The man's reputation preceeded him.
Silence.
The master did not rise from his seat but suddenly his voice rung out with a crystal authority, much more impressive to Hugh than if the man had jumped up and shouted.
"I am Mr. Runner. You will not talk in my class unless I ask you to. You will not eat. You will not drink. You will not whisper. You will not spit. You will not chew. You will not smoke. These are the rules. if you disobey them you will be punished." The last he said with a smile full of threat. No-one spoke. "is that clear?" the question was evidently not to be answered. No one did so. "Good" he said.
"Right, tell me your names."
Then he covered off the admin - with each pupil in turn coming under his questioning. He asked mostly admin questions:
"Name?" -
"Brown, Sir"
"House and Number? Just give the initial of the house"
"B 617, Sir"
"You a scholar?"
"Yes, Sir"
"Which one?"
"4th Scholar, Sir"
"Tutor?..."
"Mr. Lennox, Sir"
And so it continued. When he came to one large heavy featured black haired boy he paused after asking him the usual questions.
"Are you a Yank, Metzig?" he said
"No, Sir," said the large boy in a North American accent, "I am canadian"
"Good. As long as you are not a yank. Can't stand Yanks."
The admin over, Mr Runner turned to the class.
"Clever boys are you, eh?" he began, "well I have a task for you. For next lesson you will write me an essay. I want you to write me an essay on nothing"
Pause. an intake of breath. a nervous boy put up his hand,
"Yes," said Runner fully aware that such a bizarre statement would bring about this reaction.
"Sorry, Sir, I don't understand the title."
But there was to be no mercy. "Nothing," he said. "Write an essay on Nothing."
A second shimmer of disorientation ran through the assembled pupils. Another hand rose, "how long should it be, Sir?"
"How long is a piece of string?" came the rejoinder.
And Mr Runner strode out of the room, the harsh electric bell ringing in the ears of the boys. The same complacent grin was on his face. "I know everything, you know nothing."
Thursday, 1 November 2007
title
Lord of the Flies
Survival of the Fittest - English Public School - Darwinism in action
Suffer the little children
Suffer the adolescents
Hugh Brown's school days
Survival of the Fittest - English Public School - Darwinism in action
Suffer the little children
Suffer the adolescents
Hugh Brown's school days
continued from last
So then I went off down the lonely hill to my lessons. The path down the hill started with a tarmac path. As it became steeper it turned into large horizontal slabs of concrete which were laid down as long steps. They were pale coloured and ugly and I remember them as always having a decent deposit of white phlegm splodges. These had been hawked up and deposited there by the "slob" lads (of all age groups).
I remember lessons as being very hard when I arrived and I was keen to get to the break at 1040.
To signal the break between lessons an electric bell rang out, a harsh unhuman sound.
To my astonsishment I found that at the break time there was no refreshment laid on by the school and one had instead to buy ones own sweets / drinks etc. from the tuck shop. This was so popular a desire that the queue was terrible, involving an unpleasant scrum to get to the front. As with all other areas of Goring life, the smallest / youngest lost out in these situations.
Then the bell rang and it was back to the next lesson, before which a rush to get the relevant books form the carols.
I remember lessons as being very hard when I arrived and I was keen to get to the break at 1040.
To signal the break between lessons an electric bell rang out, a harsh unhuman sound.
To my astonsishment I found that at the break time there was no refreshment laid on by the school and one had instead to buy ones own sweets / drinks etc. from the tuck shop. This was so popular a desire that the queue was terrible, involving an unpleasant scrum to get to the front. As with all other areas of Goring life, the smallest / youngest lost out in these situations.
Then the bell rang and it was back to the next lesson, before which a rush to get the relevant books form the carols.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)