me forward in its briny embrace and depositing me on the beach of certainty. This school would not hold me and I would not wait for death to take me, like a scythe-bearing bully: if death did come, it would be on my terms, active and heroic, not passive and cowardly. I clenched my fists, steadied my stance and spoke loudly, clearly and, if I am honest, possibly a little too high-pitchedly to really convey the bravery and resolve I wished to exhibit.
‘No! I have already lost my mother and father,’ I squeaked. ‘I will not now lose my sister and best friend. Tomorrow we escape from St Bastard’s . . . or we die in the attempt!’
1 Most nineteenth-century public schools had artillery in case the French ever invaded or the poor got uppity. Use of pupils as ammunition was unusual, however.
2 St Bitch is the patron saint of cats, girls’ sixth forms and writers with friends more successful than them. Again, it is impossible to trace an actual place of that name. The most likely candidates are St Miaow’s or the Abbey of Our Lady of the Sacred I’m Going to Scratch Your Eyes Out. The latter was where the Church sent only its finest female devotees, hence its nickname ‘Top Nun’.
PART THE TWOTH
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
An unexpected aid-provider providentially provides aid
Alas, we died in the attempt.
Or, at least, nearly so – or else what would the remainder of this book be other than a long litany of pages made blank by the author’s death many years ago? It would be a mightily short book, or perhaps a mightily long book with multiple pages devoid of ink, words, story, emotion, grammar, spelling misteaks and autobiographical anecdotage. Indeed, the last words of it would not be ‘Alas, we died in the attempt’ but instead ‘No, look out— Eurrggh!’ followed by acre upon voidy acre of this:
Trees would have been felled and paperized for naught, horses would have been boiled into book-glue for fun, not purpose, and print-setters would have lost their jobs through lack of print to set – though the publisher might have made a goodly saving on ink and, indeed, simultaneously created a new product, part book, part blank notebook, a literary-stationery hybrid that would surely have been both financially viable and vinancially fiable. 1
I may have digressed a little. Let me now return to my life story. 2
Trapped as I was in Britain’s cruellest school, the question of how to escape was one with no easy answer, as opposed to questions such as ‘Would you like a brandy?’ or ‘What is the capital of France?’ to which the answers are clearly ‘Yes, please’ and ‘Who cares?’
Then how lucky it was that my new-found best friend and chum-us maximus Harry Biscuit should have had plans for an escape, indeed plans he had already planned.
‘I have two plans, Pip Bin. Three if you count the third one as well, which I do.’
‘Four plans? But, Harry, that is brilliant!’ This announcement filled me with cheer, excitement and a funny giddy feeling I recognized as hope. Or an incipient inner-ear infection.
‘My first plan is for a new method of transportation, using highly trained geese and compressed air. 3 Look, here is my blueprint . . .’ He unfolded a sheet of paper with the word ‘Geese?????’ scribbled in blue crayon, followed by the word ‘air’.
I began to leak cheer, excitement and hope, like a sad balloon or cracked joy-bottle, and it started to form a large puddle of disappointment at my feet. Yet Harry happily ploughed plannily on.
‘My second plan is for a new restaurant where you dine on raw fish brought to your table by a system of continuously moving belts. 4 Good, eh?’
He said this with such delighted aplomb that I felt guilty at the strong desire arising within me to punch him for his plan-uselessness. Somehow I punched him not and merely asked, ‘But, Harry, how will these plans help us escape?’
‘Well, I reckon either of them could make us enough money to bribe our
‘No! I have already lost my mother and father,’ I squeaked. ‘I will not now lose my sister and best friend. Tomorrow we escape from St Bastard’s . . . or we die in the attempt!’
1 Most nineteenth-century public schools had artillery in case the French ever invaded or the poor got uppity. Use of pupils as ammunition was unusual, however.
2 St Bitch is the patron saint of cats, girls’ sixth forms and writers with friends more successful than them. Again, it is impossible to trace an actual place of that name. The most likely candidates are St Miaow’s or the Abbey of Our Lady of the Sacred I’m Going to Scratch Your Eyes Out. The latter was where the Church sent only its finest female devotees, hence its nickname ‘Top Nun’.
PART THE TWOTH
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
An unexpected aid-provider providentially provides aid
Alas, we died in the attempt.
Or, at least, nearly so – or else what would the remainder of this book be other than a long litany of pages made blank by the author’s death many years ago? It would be a mightily short book, or perhaps a mightily long book with multiple pages devoid of ink, words, story, emotion, grammar, spelling misteaks and autobiographical anecdotage. Indeed, the last words of it would not be ‘Alas, we died in the attempt’ but instead ‘No, look out— Eurrggh!’ followed by acre upon voidy acre of this:
Trees would have been felled and paperized for naught, horses would have been boiled into book-glue for fun, not purpose, and print-setters would have lost their jobs through lack of print to set – though the publisher might have made a goodly saving on ink and, indeed, simultaneously created a new product, part book, part blank notebook, a literary-stationery hybrid that would surely have been both financially viable and vinancially fiable. 1
I may have digressed a little. Let me now return to my life story. 2
Trapped as I was in Britain’s cruellest school, the question of how to escape was one with no easy answer, as opposed to questions such as ‘Would you like a brandy?’ or ‘What is the capital of France?’ to which the answers are clearly ‘Yes, please’ and ‘Who cares?’
Then how lucky it was that my new-found best friend and chum-us maximus Harry Biscuit should have had plans for an escape, indeed plans he had already planned.
‘I have two plans, Pip Bin. Three if you count the third one as well, which I do.’
‘Four plans? But, Harry, that is brilliant!’ This announcement filled me with cheer, excitement and a funny giddy feeling I recognized as hope. Or an incipient inner-ear infection.
‘My first plan is for a new method of transportation, using highly trained geese and compressed air. 3 Look, here is my blueprint . . .’ He unfolded a sheet of paper with the word ‘Geese?????’ scribbled in blue crayon, followed by the word ‘air’.
I began to leak cheer, excitement and hope, like a sad balloon or cracked joy-bottle, and it started to form a large puddle of disappointment at my feet. Yet Harry happily ploughed plannily on.
‘My second plan is for a new restaurant where you dine on raw fish brought to your table by a system of continuously moving belts. 4 Good, eh?’
He said this with such delighted aplomb that I felt guilty at the strong desire arising within me to punch him for his plan-uselessness. Somehow I punched him not and merely asked, ‘But, Harry, how will these plans help us escape?’
‘Well, I reckon either of them could make us enough money to bribe our
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