3 November 1999

There was one thing that even Ellen could not persuade me to do: to go back to Exeter University and resume my teaching. She said I should, that I had a duty to do it, that if I didn’t I’d wither, collapse in on myself. I couldn’t explain to her about my essential hardness, or how I had tested that hardness before looking in a mirror for the first time. I tried to but she couldn’t understand — she said that what she spent time doing was learning to forgive herself for suggesting a fishing trip, trying to become softer, gentler, and maybe I should do the same? And I did try. I went back to lecture at Exeter for six months and my colleagues tried to help me but what could they do? Because when all was said and done, when the vice-principal had welcomed me back, when they’d all become used to looking at my changed face - then I had to push open the doors to a lecture theatre and stand in front of a hundred students and speak. I could hear the whispers running round the curved benches, could see the shock on familiar faces, the gawping on unknown faces. They stared, they didn’t listen. As my voice echoed their hands remained still; they took no notes as my fingers rubbed Harry’s silver compact in my pocket. I stumbled through the days, aching to be alone in my office, dreading the clock hand as it moved to the time when I’d have to stand in front of row upon row of young, undamaged faces to speak of aesthetics. Ellen said it would get better, that I would become used to it, inured. But I knew that every year it would happen again, every semester the timetable changed and I would meet hundreds of unknown faces and their eyes would be riveted on mine. So I stayed for a few months because I knew that would silence people who said I hadn’t tried, hadn’t persevered Then I wrote my letter of resignation and gave it to the vice-principal who had welcomed me back. I think he was relieved.

That was when I finally retreated from the world. I wrote occasional papers, contributed to academic works, read the current theories, talked with ex-colleagues. Eventually my interest faded, grew cold, and Ellen stopped trying to persuade me to return to academic life, allowed me to live my own. I started to do up the house but soon got bored. Once I’d put down the paintbrushes, I did make one decision which, as it turned out, was visionary. Possibly the only decision of that sort that I’ve ever made. When I stopped reading texts and poetry and began reading newspapers instead, I turned to the financial pages first, began to understand the world of finance, and in the late seventies I invested in a new company. The company was called Microsoft. The amount of money that snap decision generated has been astounding; quite, quite stupid. I give most of it to charities but set aside enough to keep myself in good single malt and to see the world with Ellen. John, too, has this Midas touch. I know that others must look at us and feel envy, but if they do they’re fools. It’s been suggested to me that I could use this money to rebuild my face — but, really, what’s the point? The surgeons say they could smooth out some of the scars, straighten my eyebrows. But the thing is, I’ve grown indifferent to many things and my face is one of them. Anyway, I shall never again look like I did — time has seen to that.