I refer, of course, to the nail polish still adorning the finger ends of Tayler, McNair, and Allen-Jones. My personal policy is to ignore such trivia as untucked shirts, subversive socks, and similar accoutrements, designed to draw attention away from the really important things, like Latin translation, irregular verbs, and keeping the classroom litter-free. Indeed, I’ve always found that where teenage rebellion fails to shock, it quickly loses its appeal—but the idiot Markowicz, in spite of having attended more courses than a normal human being can stand, is apparently unaware of the most elementary rules of teenage psychology.

As ill luck would have it, this lunchtime my boys were in the Middle School Common Room with the girl Benedicta while Markowicz was on duty there. If I hadn’t already judged the man, his method of dealing out discipline would have already marked him in my mind as one of life’s hopeless cases—a Jackass, according to my Rough Guide to the Common Room—a man who believes that anything can be achieved simply by braying loudly enough, and who invariably comes down hardest on the most harmless of miscreants, in the hope that the real toughs will be fooled into obedience.

This was why my Brodie Boys, conversing with their usual level of exuberance, were immediately singled out by Markowicz, who took offense, first to their high spirits and then to the nail polish, and who, after a slight altercation of the kind no member of staff should ever allow in a public forum, found themselves summoned into the presence of Dr. Blakely, aka Thing One. The girl Benedicta tried to object, and was duly sent to Ms. Buckfast, who seems to have had the common sense not to make a fuss. However, as a result of this, Sutcliff and McNair were late to afternoon classes, and Allen-Jones never reappeared. When I made inquiries (via Bob Strange) I was told that the boy had been suspended, following a “serious breach of discipline,” details of which could be found in an e-mail sent by Dr. Blakely and copied to the Head of Year.

As soon as I was free, I went to Dr. Blakely’s office to complain. I found him with Markowicz and the Head, which did nothing to allay my disquiet.

“Ah, Mr. Straitley,” said Dr. Blakely. “I’m glad you popped in. Your boy Allen-Jones—”

I sat down in his armchair. Pat Bishop’s armchair, to be exact; molded to his proportions. The new man will never enjoy it: he is too straight, too angular. He has an ergonomic chair to match his shiny new workstation, and a series of abstract prints on his wall replace Pat Bishop’s photographs of rugby players and sporting heroes throughout St. Oswald’s history.

“My boy, Allen-Jones,” I repeated. “Rumour has it you’ve sent him home. How considerate of you to step in on my behalf, without taking the time to consult me.”