Beware of writing to me as I will answer you, but be warned: I cannot stop being grateful. I tend to be one of those chaps who will thank you for writing and so on and so on.
All those thank-yous have become rather annoying for all involved over the years. Old friends of mine will tell you they have feigned blindness to put a stop to it, though I have been chuffed lately to learn that Evelyn Waugh, that writer's writer, was a terrible rethanker and was taken to task by many in his day.
I cannot let something go when a letter or an email arrives; I simply must respond, no matter if it is a death threat. Inevitably I will start babbling about how much I enjoyed the fact that the perfectly dreadful person took the time to enlarge upon my coming demise, followed by a "Thank you." Am I mad?
Like most of us, I blame my mother, who used to say one must always take the time to thank everyone, no matter what their motive might be. Nevertheless, I enjoy most of what is sent to me and I am delighted to find how bright my readers are, at least the majority.
On a completely new subject, the world has changed so fundamentally that I cannot help thinking that I could bring every single teacher who taught me up on a charge of student abuse and illegal touching. In the distant past, when I walked amongst dinosaurs, it was felt that a good flogging of a child was right up there with a nourishing glass of orange juice. Both were understood to focus the little dunderheads and provide health benefits.
Do not mistake me for someone who would encourage deviants or criminals, but kicking some boy, especially at a boarding school, was almost mandatory on my harrier team.
"Harriers" was the old-fashioned term in those days for a running squad. In our case we were coached by a teacher called Geoffrey Plimsole, a very dedicated teacher, but given to running beside his team and kicking any boy he felt was exuding defeat. He once kicked me so hard on my backside that I finished several places ahead of where I was when he lifted me, within sight of the finish line.
He was also my calculus teacher, and booted us in class as well. If your work was below his high standards, he would ask you to stand in the corner where he could wallop you at his leisure, which was often. He was a great chap by all other measures then, but today would be on the front pages as a filthy scoundrel.
I also recall the Latin master, Mr. Cooker, insisting that we wrestle in his rooms, in order that I finally become fluent and translate my Virgil. Oddly, it worked. What would they make of that today?
Times change and perhaps we should not judge from afar, as it does not seem fair. After all, the Bible mentions more than once not to steal your neighbour's slaves.
The cats are up in arms again because it seems that I am too tough on them in the food arena. But blast them, they are each over 40 pounds and something has to be done. Pericles and Bertram now waddle about the place, but never far from their dishes as if they expect to be fed on the hour every hour.
I came up with the brainstorm of both saving money, as their food bills would have raised eyebrows at Versailles, and insisting the wretched creatures lose a few kilos. I hid the dishes.
Now there are scratch marks on the door of our refrigerator and teeth marks on the marmalade tin. Fat cats. Bah. [email protected] Twitter: @TheYYJMajor
