The Corruption of Strict Keith

Just for the record I feel I need to document that it has now been confirmed that the boy known as David...David Who? does exist.

After months, perhaps years, of hearing about this elusive character, so much of a none-entity that his surname is a matter of perpetual mystery, a rear view glimpse was captured a few days ago. Furthermore, an actual phonecall from the enigma that is this thirteen year old was received today by ma, in reference to meeting N (at the life-affiming joy that is the middle school summer fair no less, at which a great deal of e-numbers and musty-smelling junk is always consumed and acquired).

Of course I still have no actual proof that he is a living, breathing, real-life character (Despite N being adamant that 'he is one of my best friends, I've known him for aaaages!'), as the glimpse could have plausibly been anyone of xy chromosomes and the right side of puberty. And a voice on the end of a phoneline could hardly constitute as evidence that would hold in court. In fact, the more I think about it, N could well be constructing an elaborate con. He wasn't present at the time of the phonecall after all. Hmmm... Requires further investigation methinks.


I think I may have possibly encountered the poshest person alive. Known to all as Strict Keith, he is a vision in smoky-coloured tweed and impressionist painting ties, and is the type who can derive endless chuckles from little anecdotes concerning Roman emperors and finds his subject infinitely fascinating. I hardly need add that he is of course a history teacher of the ancient variety (in terms of period and his own age). In fact I am sure we can cite him as our source material in exams as he was evidently present at the rise of the Roman Empire. Which is why his knowledge is so extensive no doubt.

Adorably stuttery and well-meaning, he stumbles through his clipped Oxbridge vowels and befuddling latin names nervously, never having been faced by such a large class of gormless, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, empty-vesselled troglodytes. Having originally come from teaching at a boys public school, then being a recluse in the toppermost tower of the Hydro building, teaching a mere handful of latin fluent prodigies, he has now been thrust into the throes of the state school in all its glory. I don't think the poor chap had even ventured out of his 4 foot square office on F floor, before having to contend with year 12 Ancient History.
All credit to him though. He handled the onslought of newly evolved charv (a new generation of them seem to have emerged, ruder than ever before, in the blink of an eye. I don't know where I've been, but this new elite charv army seems to be growing) barging into the poorly equipped, peeling classroom our humble class had been allocated to, demanding to 'lend' chairs whilst sporting multicoloured tramlines down the side of their heads as a kind of war paint.
However, when faced with the white board situation, he had not realised that teachers really ought to carry around their own pens as it is rare that there will ever be any actually at hand. An unfortunate incident with a permanent marker followed.
He has obviously never had to do anything practical in his life (that is all probably taken care of by Mrs Strict Keith, if there is such a woman) as, when another board in another classroom required wiping, he stood and stared at it for some time, scratching his head in puzzlement, before asking somebody to deal with it for him. He will learn soon enough I am sure. The innocence of the private system will duly be corrupted.
Am loving him though; once the awkward initiation phase is over I am sure the banter (of the intelectual kind naturally) will be in full flow.
That's if he hasn't had a shock induced stroke of course.