This morning, strolling down to the school after breakfast, I was accosted by an elderly lady with the kind of upper crust voice that can shatter glass. Think of Penelope Keith in To The Manor Born, but a bit more strident. She saw my identity badge and asked me if I were a teacher. When I told that I was she said,
“I have just spoken to one of the boys…”
My heart sank as I wondered what hideous transgression he had committed.
“…I said good morning and he didn’t reply.”
I don’t know if my bafflement was obvious. It didn’t seem such a crime to me, but she was continuing,
“… so I asked him if they no longer teach good manners at Harrow, but he still didn’t answer me.”
“I have never known such a fall in standards,” she said, “Why, some time ago I was walking on the hill, near to the small tea room – do you know it? – when I saw a boy playing with himself. He stood there in the street with his hand inside his trousers holding his dick. I’ve never known such a thing.”
Before I could compose an answer to this decidedly unexpected piece of information she had gone on her way, up the steps and towards the street, doubtless off in search of further impropriety.
I on the other hand continued down the hill to search for someone to tell about this odd encounter. Some stories are just too good to keep to yourself.