By Keith Evans
School holidays are imminent. No more anxious glances at the board in 1912 by the 'thin blue line' about to go on duty. There were 90 kids crocodiling through the Main Hall one morning last week, most of them hopping along the polar bear foot-prints. Later that morning I was up in Look Out when a dozen of them came stampeding up the stairs. An elderly couple beat a hasty retreat via the lift.
A teacher, a woman of very slight build and, without being unkind, past her prime, brought up the rear and stood in the doorway. "QUIET!" she roared. The windows rattled, the crabs on the pontoon dived for cover, all the seagulls within half a mile took to the air and I lost a few more auditory nerve cells. Within a couple of seconds you could hear a pin drop. Well, that's rather novel in this day and age, I thought.
Reminds me of one of my old Masters who used to roar across the classroom. He had uncanny accuracy with any missile to hand, usually a piece of chalk. In contrast to another Master, Mr Bell, affectionally known as 'Ding Dong', who could control a class by raising his eyebrow. I'm sure the teacher in the Look Out last week was Bossy Mosses', as he was called, great grand-daughter.
