Glimpsed from the train window: cows grazing their way across a field, all facing the same way.
The door of the gents at Sevenoaks station has a pronounced squeak as it swings to. A sound half way between a protest and a jeer.
An invitatation has arrived to a reception to celebrate the 90th birthday of my English teacher, Stephen Lushington. He was greatly respected at school not just by me, but by everyone he taught. What lesson do I remember? I handed in a piece of homework, a description of trees. I thought it was a little masterpiece. It was in fact a string of platitudes and clichés. When returning our work to us, he saved mine until last, and was unsparing in his assessment of it. What I had thought was so wonderful, was I realized truly awful. I don't claim that I never used acliché again, but the fear that I might, has always been with me and still is.
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