My father sent me to an expensive all- boy boarding school - a sort of second rate Eton. "It's got a reputation for teaching manners," he explained. "And the prefects don't have bum boys." He explained. True enough. When I got there I discovered most of the sex consisted of mutual masturbation, with no kissing, either.
My dad was keen on rugby. He gave me a new rugby ball. I hated rugby. I let all the other boys played with it and watched.
The years passed. One teacher (of geography, I think) used to sit at the top of my table at lunch. "Weston, you are not interested in rugger or cricket - and not the army either," he remarked, genuinely puzzled. "So what are you interested in?"
Eventually - in fact on the second to last day of my last term - I was expelled. It was never made clear exactly why, but ever since I have worn my expulsion as a badge of honour. My father, though, tried to take away the credit.
"I only sent you to that school," he told me, on the first day of the rest of my life, "because I hoped you would rebel against it."first blogged here in February 2007
