Divide by Ten - and Then Some

The e-mail earlier this year was terse.   ‘My son had to write a Maths test today but he tells me that it was on work not done as the teacher had not gone through that section.’  I could just feel the indignation hanging in the air.

It is easy to work out what happened.  And so it proved.  After explaining the work and setting innumerable examples for homework, the teacher had tweaked the numbers for the test and approached the concept from a slightly different angle which clearly threw the boy.  ‘Isn’t that what Maths is really all about?’ the Maths teacher said.  ‘To make our boys think?’

To save face at home, the boy had resorted to the traditional finger-pointing-at-other-people exercise.

I have heard this generation referred to as the ‘Not Me’ generation. A motivational speaker, Bill Price, spoke to the staff and parents some years back and told the story of his own son who, on getting into the family car, slammed the door and the handle came off.  His first reaction when his parents turned round from the front seat, was to shout out – with the handle in his hand – ‘It wasn’t me!’

At some point, I must work out how many of my daily e-mails are from parents who have taken their son’s version as gospel.  I am sure that the House Heads will report a similar situation. A huge amount of management time goes into researching and responding to these e-mails which express outrage and disappointment - most of which could have been headed off, if parents had remembered what I told them when their sons first came into Grade 8.  ‘Remember to divide everything your son tells you what happened at school by ten.’

In my opinion, that should be Rule Number One for parents of teenage boys.

I usually add something facetious in my reply to e-mails which express concern about what has allegedly happened at school: ‘If you divide everything you hear about school by ten, then we will do the same when your son tells us what happens at home.’

One of the sub-paragraphs of Rule Number One is to keep reminding the boys that there is no such name on the School Roll as ‘Everybody’.  ‘Everybody’ seems to be a lucky chap and it is clear that he has a brother at every school.  He seems to be allowed to go to every party, until any hour, whenever he wishes.  He has the latest i-phone, the latest designer gear and even had his ears pierced at fourteen.  You should see his tattoo!

He has a cousin called ‘Nobody’, who, for some reason, never has to do homework, cut his hair neatly or polish his shoes.

When I finally find these two characters, I have promised generations of schoolboys that I have every intention of publishing their photos on Facebook. I am sure that millions of parents of teenage boys the world over are desperate to see who these two spoiled and overindulged brats are as they have been the cause of so many ructions in homes around the country.

It is an irrefutable fact that males exaggerate- especially when they are wanting to impress or when they are in trouble.  In fact, boys and men exaggerate for exactly the same reasons.  The size of the sandcastle built at four years old is no different from the description of the size of a fish caught by a thirty four year old or the length of the drive off the tee by a forty four year old  – all of which increase exponentially by the length of the journey home.

Then we have the excuse-making.  Boys, even as men, never seem to realise that a finger pointed at someone else, always has three pointing backwards.  William Brown had no such qualms.

My generation will all remember reading, as youngsters, the ‘Just William’ stories by Richmal Compton.  William Brown was eleven years old and was the archetypal little boy – dirty face, socks down, shirt out.  Personal  hygiene was not his forte.  One story that has stuck in my memory over the years was about William using his catapult in the garden to aim stones at birds.  The birds were relaxed and unmoved as they unconsciously realised that they were safe as long as he was aiming at them.

I loved that line.  For years, when coaching cricket, I would remark to my players that opposition batsmen were totally safe going for a quick single as long as we were aiming at the stumps. My humour was totally unappreciated by generations of Wynberg cricketers, who, hopefully, have not been emotionally scarred for life.

Of course, if they had read some of the Just William stories as boys they might have understood the humour.

In the meantime, it did not take long for William, while aiming at the birds, to send an errant stone hurtling through one of the windows of the house.  His mother stormed out.  ‘Just wait until your father gets home,’ she threatened.

There is no worse admonishment a mother can give a little boy.  This means that he has to wait the whole day for retribution.  However, being a typical boy, by the time his father came home in the evening, William had convinced himself that it was not his fault. Clearly some evil, divine power had caused the stone to leave the catapult at right angles and go through the window.  Thus it was comparatively easy, some hours later, to look his father in the eye and truthfully say that he did not break the window.  In his mind, he had already rationalised the blame to some third force.

While it is doubtful that any parent would fall for the divine, third force story (well… I hope so…), parents are certainly more open to persuasion if this third force is a teacher, coach, umpire or someone else’s child.  In essence, though, all stories should fall into the same ‘Let’s talk this one through’ category.

All parents of teenage boys will appreciate this apology e-mail which I received recently from a boy.  ‘To be old and wise, you first have to be young and stupid…’

How could I not let him off from whatever heinous misdemeanour he had committed?

I cherish another e-mail which I received two years ago, when a Grade 11 boy had his cell phone, which had rung in class, confiscated.  The boy had spent days trying to persuade me to give him his phone back.  He told his father that he had ‘only been looking at the time.’  Huh!

The following day, the following e-mail arrived from his father:

‘My son wanted me to write to you insisting that he needs his phone back.  Please do not even think about it.  My argument with him is that if he cannot even obey a simple school rule, how is he going to learn to survive in a community one day where he has to obey even bigger rules?  Thank you for sticking steadfastly to the rules and teaching him a vital life lesson.’

I seriously considered making that into a poster and putting it into every classroom.

Casey Augoustides, who matriculated in the late 1980’s, had a father with a sense of humour.  Casey reminded me recently about this.  ‘Do you remember my father’s infamous absentee notes he used to write for me?  The severe case of ‘impending weekenditis’ and the ‘gastric stomach’ were two I remember.  As a schoolboy I was very nervous bringing them in and didn’t really appreciate his sense of humour.  He used to enjoy them so much that he wrote more than one letter for me, sealed them all and told me to pick one at random and take it to the teacher.  I felt like I was in a jeopardy TV show as I never knew what I might have to explain to my teacher!’

Here is one example: 

Dear Mr Richardson

I am sad to confess my son now stays out of school whenever it pleases him and has become a pathological liar.  He comes up with the most fantastic stories to explain his absences and I am afraid that this is spiralling out of control – I need your help to restore law and order.  I am sure that if you ask him why he was absent yesterday he will tell you something absurd like his dog gave birth to 10 puppies in his room last night and that he did not get sufficient sleep.

Yours Sincerely

Nick Augoustides

How does a fifteen year old boy talk his way out of that one – especially as the story of the puppies was true?  I can do business with Nick Augoustides!

I wish one particular mother had a sense of humour like that. Many years ago – when I was still in the teaching trenches – I was discussing William Golding’s  ‘Lord of the Flies’ with a Standard 6 class.  We had spent a wonderful term together debating the pertinent issues which the book  had brought up – all of which are relevant to adolescent boys.

The final page had twelve year old Ralph running away from his tormentors  along a beach and falling down in the sand at the feet of a rescuing naval officer.  Now that he was safe, the realisation of the depths of depravity to which the boys had sunk on the island,  sank home to Ralph.  Without adult supervision, they had soon abandoned all vestiges of normal civilised behaviour.  The book ends with the words ‘…Ralph wept for the end of his innocence.’

None of the fourteen-year-old boys in that Standard 6 class had a clue what this meant – and then I had a brain wave.  ‘It is rather like Father Christmas,’ I said. ‘When you are young, you have the idea that the world is perfect, but this innocence is shattered when you find out that life isn’t quite as flawless as you originally thought while growing up. This is epitomised by your eventual discovery that Father Christmas doesn’t really come down the chimney on Christmas Eve.  What is worse, you are told years later that your father ate the mince pie and drank the milk you left out for your nocturnal visitor.’

We spent the rest of the period discussing the moments when they had ‘lost their innocence’ about Father Christmas.  A few of the macho ones  – typical males – said of course they had never really believed in him at any stage but had played along with their parents to ensure a continuous supply of presents.

Yeah, right! But then they are Just Boys.

The next day, I had my own innocence about teaching shattered, when a mother marched in demanding to know why I was talking about sex with her fourteen-year-old son.  I did not have a clue what she was talking about and suggested that she was perhaps thinking of another teacher.  She was adamant.  ‘You asked him yesterday when he lost his innocence.’

The penny dropped.  My immediate reaction was to laugh  – which of course only exacerbated the situation.  My attempts to explain were rebuffed and she stormed out. She never apologised.

I am not always known for my tact, but something at that stage told me that it would be best not to remind her at that point about Rule Number One for parents of teenage boys.

If I had, I might have lost more of my innocence.

"It's Astounding; Time is Fleeting; Madness takes its Toll…"

Michael Jordaan had his audience in the palm of his hands.  The outgoing CEO of First National Bank gave a talk recently at Spier to about two hundred recipients of the Allan Gray Orbis Foundation scholarships.  They were mainly university students or recent graduates from universities around the country who had been brought to Spier for the weekend.  The country’s brightest and sharpest.

‘Unless you are innovative, your company will be going backwards,’ he told the attentive gathering. ‘But to ensure innovation, you must have FAC.’

Everyone started looking at one another.  Had they heard correctly?  One or two started whispering among themselves.

Michael Jordaan steamed on.  ‘It is only when you have FAC that people in your company will feel comfortable to contribute ideas.  F for Fun; A for Alcohol; C for Coffee.’

Ah. So we did hear correctly.

I saw heads perking up.  One could feel the country’s finest young brains churning over.  This was more like it. The discussions started up around me – perhaps a little trip could be organised into Stellenbosch after proceedings to one of the local hostelries. De Akker was a definite favourite. Tollies maybe? The prevailing feeling was that the Dros was always good for discussing innovative ideas. Excited and anticipatory chatter was breaking out everywhere.

‘It is only when folk are relaxed that ideas flow,’ he said. ‘Some of the best ideas which have come out at FNB over the years have been in social settings. People like to work for a cool company where the environment encourages new ideas. The alcohol is not important – but the atmosphere is.’

Julian Taylor

It was with this in mind that I approached Julian Taylor in the Staff Room at the beginning of this term.  ‘It has been a busy year,’ I said to him. ‘Our teachers need some FAC .’

He said nothing. He was far too polite to say anything.  It was clear that he was wondering where this was going. ‘How about organising a Staff Musical?’ I said airily.  ‘We sing songs of the Sixties and then we invite the parents and anyone else who wants to join us to come and dance.’

To his credit, he didn’t hesitate.  ‘Great!’ he said.  ‘When shall we put it on?’

"In three weeks time.’

And so’ Good Vibration’ 2013 was born.

It was a frenetic three weeks.  Justin Wardle, Head of Music at the Junior School was prevailed upon to be the Musical Director.  Although he was in the throes of producing a musical at the Junior School, he was very gung ho about the idea of Good Vibrations.  The concept of FAC was spreading – but in reality, not much coffee was in evidence during rehearsals.

It was opened up to anyone in the High and Junior Staff Rooms. James Buchanan, a Biology teacher who had played his guitar in the initial Good Vibrations show back in 1997, needed no persuasion to return to the Wynberg stage.  With Justin on the piano, Julian on Double Bass and WBJS drum teacher, Luke Kelly on drums, we had our band.  Now it was up to the singers to make the show.

It was not promising at the beginning.  ‘None of your day jobs is under threat,’ said Justin presciently after the first rehearsal in the Junior School music rooms one Sunday.

‘What was that noise this afternoon?’ said Roland Rudd to me as I returned to my car in the Boarding House parking lot.  I ignored him.  I had the feeling it was a serious question.

The anxiety was building up as the dress rehearsal approached.  Chris Merrington, our social media manager, ratcheted up the stress by posting various doctored pictures to Facebook.  Keith Richards (me) strumming his guitar was sent out on the World Wide Web. ‘You look old,’ said my younger brother in an email from New Zealand. ‘Is your job that stressful?’

As falsely advertised on Facebook - this scribe, bottom right, was far better coiffed

Sibling rivalry obviously continues for years after school.  Surely he realises that Keith Richards is a decade older than I am?

This initial advert was followed by ‘Rocking Rod Stewart’ Inglis and Larry ‘Barry Gibbs’ Moser of the Bee Gees.  The coup de grace was Sue ‘Lady Gaga’ Lindsay which evoked the most comments on Facebook.

‘I wish my figure was really like that,’ said Sue enviously when she was shown how to access ‘her’ advert on Facebook.

‘Are they serious?’ was one observation on Facebook.

‘So that is where our school fees go,’ was another caustic comment.

More pressure.

However, the real pressure came as the evening of the Dress Rehearsal approached.  Performing in front of adults was one thing, but pirouetting around in front of critical teenage boys just waiting for you to make a mistake, was added stress.  ‘Not,’ said one parent to me when I mentioned this point later, ’that any pirouetting was evident from you…’

‘I am glad to see that you didn’t attempt any Michael Jackson,’ said another parent after one of the performances. ‘After seeing you attempting the moves of YMCA, clearly the Moonwalk would have been a tester.’

Not to mention the complicated gyrations of The Time Warp!

The dress rehearsal was the first time that the cast had worn costumes.  Ribald and humorous comments in the dressing room flew thick and vast.  I decided that attack was the best form of defence.  ‘Heaven help the first person who asks me if I raided my personal wardrobe…’ I warned.  Those lycra pants (chosen by my wife from a costume shop!) would definitely not ever have seen the light of day on my frame in my teenage years.

Larry 'Manson' Moser

‘You look like Charles Manson,’ I told Larry Moser.

‘You mean Marilyn Manson,’ corrected youngster Christopher Graham.

‘No, Charles Manson, the mass murderer.  Just look at the state of him!’

‘Who is Marilyn Manson?’ said Larry.

Sue Lindsay was clearly determined to shed her Lady Gaga image and came with two lengthy blonde platted pigtails coyly draped down the front of her shoulders.  ‘Hullo, Dorothy,’ I said to her.  ‘Are you singing in the Wizard of Oz today?  Where’s Toto?’

Sue 'Dorothy' Lindsay

‘Oh, you men,’ she said. ‘Always teasing!’

Warren Grobler was standing on the side minding his own business.  ‘This is more nerve-racking than playing a hockey match,’ said the veteran of dozens of provincial hockey games and a current contender for the South African hockey team.

‘Good luck everyone,’ said Justin Wardle, musical director, as he handed every member of the cast a note wishing them well in the upcoming performances.

‘Shouldn’t he be wishing us to break a larynx?’ said Larry Moser to no-one in particular.

Coming on for our first number: ‘We will Rock You’ was clearly too much for Rodney Inglis and me.  How on earth does a normal male stamp his foot twice, clap his hands in rhythm and sing in tune - all at the same time?  We gave up and just walked to our positions on the stage.

It took two minutes for the boys and the teachers in the audience to stop laughing. I must remember to take those boys’ names down.  ‘We have definitely thrown our names away here,’ said someone behind me.

Quite so. I fear discipline will never be the same again at Wynberg.

The next day during the early morning staff meeting, Larry reported back to the teachers that it was quite obvious that many of the cast had promising stage careers severely curtailed by their teaching commitments.  It was mentioned in passing that we should name the hall ‘The Cavern’ for the occasion as that was the venue in Liverpool where the Beatles were discovered.  Who knows what agents might have been lurking in the hall during the performances.

The next two performances flew past.  We had wonderful audiences who joined in the spirit of the occasion by clapping, singing and dancing.  Now I know what the real Keith Richards feels like on stage.  The only difference was that we weren’t mobbed by any screaming teenagers at any point.  I presume laughing ones don’t count.

Everyone's a critic ...

Justin Wardle

‘I am surprised that you sang the songs so well,’ said a tactful Rob Cox, a parent of some years back. ‘The music was obviously well before your time.’

The show finished all too soon with Anthony Sparrow taking the lead in singing ‘We are the Champions’.  With virtually the entire audience singing with us, we concluded what was an amazing three weeks.  ‘I saw you teachers in a totally new light,’ said Tania Robbertze, while waiting for her son to pack away the sound equipment.  As she said it with a little smile on her face, I am still trying to work out whether that was a compliment!

The cast met the following Sunday afternoon for coffee at Constantia Nek restaurant.  Michael Jordaan would have been proud of us. Judging by the chatter, the laughter and the stories, it was quite clear that we had successfully fulfilled all the requirements of FAC.

View our star-studded cast photos here

This is your Head Dog Speaking

Me at Waterpolo, they have a marvelous tuckshop

Friday 25 October 2013 started off in the usual fashion. He had a 7.00am meeting and had His customary early morning cup of Rooibos with Her at the kitchen table. I didn’t bother to stir from my basket – what was the point? Storm, of course, was behaving like an immature border collie and was running around yapping for no reason and demanding that the ball be thrown for her repeatedly down the corridor. Hopefully she will grow up soon. At the moment she is a real challenge.

Everything quietened down when He left for school, but it did not take long for Storm to decide that I was far too comfortable in my basket. Her latest childish and very irritating trick is to get hold of my collar and tug. Sleep was now impossible and I shuffled off to see what was in the breakfast bowl. Good thing for Storm that she was not brought up on the same street in that Stellenbosch township that I was. She would have been taken out permanently before her first birthday.

I always enjoy the morning walk round the Campus with Her as we meet so many of the other 365 dogs. The 365 Club was something He started when He first became Headmaster of Wynberg – neighbours could walk round the campus with their dogs for 365 days a year provided that they paid R365 annually. I constantly hear Him say that it must be the only club in South Africa which hasn’t raised its subscriptions fees for 15 years.

Storm. No-one asked me if I wanted a sibling.
What were He and She thinking?

We normally meet the same old crowd. I do enjoy Max and Percy, who live on Count Labia’s estate. As Head Dog, I always enjoy hobnobbing with those who are in the same social class as I am. I usually try to avoid the over-the-top excited attentions of Bella, a Jack Russell cross, who is clearly very common. I also make a point of studiously ignoring the unsolicited and vulgar advances of Boris, a Rottweiler from the neighbourhood. At times, I feel rather like the Dowager Countess from Downton Abbey – what is the world coming to when we have to rub shoulders (noses?) with the common herd?

The way Storm simpers like a tart round Boris is pathetic. No taste.

By the time we are finishing our morning perambulation around the Campus, it is normally close to first break. I really do feel that I have to play my part in keeping the campus clean (noblesse oblige?) so I consider it my duty to pick up those crusts and sandwiches discarded by so many thoughtless schoolboys. Occasionally, I have to give them a reminder bark that I am on duty.

After break, I do like to pop into the Headmaster’s office to see how He is doing. On this particular Friday, I did notice that Dylan was once again on the bench outside the office. I wonder what he has done this time – even I am not in the dog box as often as he is.

Anyway, I have a far more important assignation in mind. Morning milk. ‘Sandy, you are late this morning,’ admonishes Glenda, His secretary, as she warms up the milk in the microwave. I don’t get attention like this at home – and she seems to know exactly the right temperature for the milk.

Feed Me

It has been a tiring morning and I wander into His office. I usually receive a facetious greeting like ‘On the scrounge again, Fat Dog?’ Doesn’t He know that I have a proper name? Fortunately I do understand that He has a peculiar sense of humour – it must be a Headmaster thing. I once heard Him tell a Grade 8 class that He was leaving me in the classroom while He had to pop back to His office – but that they must behave as there was a camera in my collar which was recording everything.

He can talk such nonsense with a straight face. They weren’t to know that it was only a tape recorder in my collar – but in any event, they were dead quiet while He was out.

Reflecting on my status as Head Dog, hang on? Was that the lunch bell?

Dylan was in the office when I wandered in. He was being admonished in the same tone of voice as He sometimes uses with me back home. I didn’t need to hear any more of that – I have my fair share of that at home myself – and so I wandered into the foyer. The big decision facing me now was whether or not to take a chance and climb up onto one of the sofas which are normally reserved for visitors.

I decided against it. I still have memories of the last time I tried that one. I thought on that occasion that my presence on the couch was acceptable – especially as the secretaries did not seem to mind. Mary even said I looked cute with my head on the arm of the sofa. Never mind about how I looked, it was extremely comfortable.

Well, you won’t believe the ructions when He came out of his office and saw me on the sofa. I thought that corporal punishment went out years ago in schools! The indignity of it – what with me being Head Dog and all. I wish I knew a good lawyer. That would teach Him. I would love to see Him answer a charge of ‘grievous bodily harm’ in court.

It's been a hard day's night
and I've been working like a dog

Rather than go through all that again, I went back to the corridor and lay down. I sometimes find it more comfortable lying on my back which invariably leads to ribald comments from the passing traffic. Just like Lady Grantham, the Dowager Countess, it would be beneath the dignity of a Head Dog to respond to such ignorant jibes. On this occasion, I was rather tired as I had been attending the nightly Staff rehearsals of ‘Good Vibrations’ – a Song and Dance show for parents which is being produced shortly. My personal favourite, of all the songs which they are singing, is that one from the Beatles repertoire : ‘It’s been a Hard Day’s Night and I have been working like a dog…’



Quite so. Now they know. I hope the audience realise that they are singing about me.

It was difficult to sleep in the corridor on that Friday morning. There was clearly something happening because folk were rushing back and forth and guests were arriving. I eventually picked up that it was the Prefect Inauguration. The Rousseau’s were so keen not to miss it that they arrived at 11.15 for a 13.30 start.

I met some chap called Sakhi Gqeba, who was scheduled to make a speech at the Ceremony. As he sat in His office, many teachers came through to greet him. It turned out he was Head Prefect of the school in 2000 – but that was well before my time. He was also greeted very fondly by Her, when she arrived just before the ceremony. So he must have been a very good Head Prefect.

Then disaster struck. I was summoned into the office and firmly told to stay put and the doors were shut. I could not believe it. He knew how much I love ceremonies and meeting people. Well, I soon got my own back. I jumped up onto His leather couch and curled up on the cushions.

I love the stage,
one has such a good view of People from here

Much later the door opened and someone came in to collect the coffee cups. I took the gap more quickly than Jarryd Sage, that impressive centre whom I used to watch from the bank when he was playing first team rugby this year. I was out of the door in a flash and down the steps to the hall to join in the action.

The hall was packed so I took the direct route down the centre isle – and, after a short exploratory trip round the front of the hall, I saw Him on stage. I heard later that it was a good thing that I did not see his face. I can’t understand why.

Mark Timlin, as outgoing Head Prefect, was calling every prefect up in turn and they were being presented with their blazers. I felt that they needed my involvement – as Head Dog my place was on stage with my team. As I was going up the steps to the stage, I glanced at the audience. They clearly approved of my presence because all I saw was smiles. Encouraged by this, I sat down at the feet of Him. I was not even given the option of turning over and lying on my back, because He then jumped up and – horror of horror – dragged me by the collar in a most undignified way to the back of the stage. At the height of this indignity, I was greatly mollified to hear a collective sympathetic ‘ahh…’ come from the audience. However, it did little to alleviate my embarrassment. As Head Dog, after such treatment, how would I be able to face those hoi polloi braks of the 365 Club?

I bet the Queen would never treat her corgis like that. And I have corgi blood in me too. Come to think of it, the Vet once told Her that I had twenty breeds in me. That wasn’t very nice.

Good grief, these people are forever
photo bombing me ... 

I was summarily and unceremoniously thrown out of the door at the back of the stage. No matter, I scurried round the side and came back into the hall. There was much laughter from the audience. They must have seen His face.

One of the teachers made me sit with him in the front row of the audience. I was thus able to enjoy the proceedings from there. Quite frankly, all I wanted from the very beginning was an opportunity to be part of it all. I thoroughly enjoyed the speech from the incoming Head Prefect, Raythaan Addinall. ‘Let us break down hierarchies,’ he said. ‘We are one brotherhood!’

I wonder if this applies to Head Dogs being dragged ignominiously off the stage.

I enjoyed the tea afterwards in the Fish Bowl. Quite a number of titbits from sympathisers came my way. I even managed to wangle my way into a few photos with the prefects and some of the staff. We leaders have to stick together.

No-one ever promised that the life of a Head Dog would be easy.

Rule Number Six

Perks

There are not many perks in this job of headmastering. One of them, jealously guarded by me, is a parking space outside the front door with an impressive and intimidating ‘HM’ painted in large letters on the tarmac. Various interpretations have been offered over the years suggesting what this might stand for – varying from a pejorative Afrikaans slang term to colonial regal terminology. I much prefer the latter and have been gently encouraging boys over the years to bow respectfully from the waist when I pass.

Unfortunately there is little chance of that which is yet another indication of how standards continue slipping in South African education. However, I did once have the regal bar set for headmasters when I was given a tour round his campus by the Headmaster of Chand Bagh School - which was about an hour’s drive from Lahore in Pakistan. As we drove past staff working on the grounds, they would snap to attention and salute the headmaster’s official car – chauffeured of course. When I returned to the cricket field where the Wynberg team was playing, I mentioned this to our coach, Eric Lefson, and suggested that saluting the Headmaster would be a fine new tradition to take back to Wynberg.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Eric with his accustomed dry wit. ‘You might find that they don’t use all five fingers in their salute.’

Those dozens of families still trying to ensure their son’s entry to Wynberg next year would probably appreciate Eric’s point.

I did enjoy sitting on the couch in the Headmaster’s tent on the side of the Chand Bagh cricket field. The two of us were in splendid isolation on this luxurious Eastern divan watching the cricket in the shade provided by the tent. I momentarily felt sorry for our boys in the sun – but I soon pushed those weak feelings aside. I could become accustomed to this way of headmastering. The only aspect missing from this colonial throwback scene, was someone waving a palm frond over my head.

Watching cricket at Chand Bagh School in 2006

‘Just clap your hands if you want anything,’ said my host. I was (initially) far too embarrassed to try anything like that, but my hospitable host showed me how it was done. He asked me if I would like some tea. I concurred.

He clapped his hands and what can only be described in colonial terms as a Headmaster’s ‘wallah’ emerged from the back of the tent. ‘Two teas please.’

Ten minutes later, he clapped his hands again and the wallah appeared and took away the tea cups.

Later on, the process was continued with delicious home-made lemonade – with the lemons coming from their own estate, the Headmaster informed me. As we were in a Moslem country, I thought it inappropriate to tell him that we grew our own vines on our estate. One-upmanship is so tacky.

I soon learnt to clap my hands. I have never ever drunk so much lemonade in so short a time.

Wynberg's 1st XI: Coach Eric Lefson commandeered the electric fan ...

On my return to Wynberg, I made the mistake of suggesting to my secretary, Glenda Hepworth, that this effective system of clapping hands could be way forward. Her reply was unprintable. I had a similar reaction from my wife. I have had a reasonable amount of success from my dogs who found the clapping amusing and wagged their tails enthusiastically – but as a concept, clapping for service seemed doomed never to take off as business model here at the tip of Africa.

I think I will suggest to the Western Cape Education Department that Pakistan schools know how to do things. If Pakistan was not so volatile today, I would suggest that they send me back there to pick up a few more of these valuable educational tips.

These delusions of grandeur, have caused me to digress from my only perk – my valuable parking space. Its value is that, when there is an event on, I can always arrive knowing that there is a parking space available to me.

A few weeks ago, we had a meeting for matric parents. I returned from attending an earlier function and arrived back at school at the last moment. Cars were parked all along Lovers Walk, but I was able to slip my car into the allotted spot designated by the imposing ‘HM’. A parent walking passed my car, greeted me and we fell into conversation. As we approached the steps at the front of the school, clearly thinking he was addressing a fellow parent, he asked me whether this was my first son doing matric.

I was somewhat taken aback. It brought home to me, yet again, that delusions of grandeur for a Headmaster (except in Pakistan) are just that – mere delusions!

‘Er, no,’ I said thinking furiously how I could make a suitably appropriate response. My rejoinder was lame. ‘No son here – I am a teacher at the school.’

‘Oh,’ he said, the penny still not dropping. ‘Enjoy the evening then,’ and off he went. After a few paces, he stopped and said, ’As you are one of the teachers, perhaps you can show me where the Fish Bowl is?’

Fortunately his son came up to him at that point and was able to help him to the meeting venue. I wondered where he had been for five years. Had he not supported his son at any prize giving? Any Founders’ Day Ceremony? Any play or musical event? Any sports event?

As I did not see him afterwards, I am not sure what he thought when I stood up later to address the gathering. Maybe he didn’t recognise me as the ‘parent’ who walked in with him.

It reminded me of a similar situation fifteen years ago when I was first appointed. I was addressing the beginning-of-year Ladies’ Association AGM. As I was standing there waxing lyrical with what I hoped were witty and droll anecdotes of school life, I noticed a lady come in late and slip into the back row where my wife, Pippa, had seated herself. She listened to me for a few moments before leaning over to Pippa and in a conspiratorial whisper asked her who this speaker was.

Pippa never one to bear cudgels for her husband, said airily, ‘Oh, some chap whom they have just appointed as Headmaster.’

‘Really?’ was the response. ‘What happened to that nice Mr Probyn?’

On thinking about it now, it would have been appropriate back then to have applied for a job at Chand Bagh. Matters did not improve at my first Old Boys’ gathering. It was the 60th reunion of that year group and a number of them had gathered with wives at the Bill Bowden Pavilion. I had been invited to address the gathering about the latest events at their old school and was duly given a label with my name on it.

One of the class wandered over to greet me. After peering at my label, he said loudly, ‘Richardson? Richardson? I don’t remember a Richardson in our class.’

As this would have added a good thirty years to my age, I hastily assured him that I was not at the function as a classmate – but as a teacher.

I saw him furrow his brow and scrutinise my label again – and then examine my face. He then shook his head slowly with resolute conviction. ‘Are you sure? I don’t remember you teaching us.’

For ever the diplomat, I let it rest there. If I had taught that 1950 class, it would have made me about eighty five years old at that re-union. Not bad for a newly appointed Headmaster of Wynberg Boys’ High School.

There are probably many on the teaching staff who are also convinced that I was a teacher in that early era, when I took a staff meeting on exam procedure one June some years back. ‘Don’t forget,’ I exhorted them, ‘that there must be no borrowing at all during exams. No exceptions. If the pupils forget something – tough luck. They must learn to be organised. No borrowing of rulers, pens, calculators, log books. Nothing!’

There was a palpable restlessness through the staff room. I saw a few sidelong glances going around. There was a hint of a smile on some faces. It was quite clear that I had said something that was causing this reaction. Ignoring everything, I ploughed on regardless with all the other exam regulations.

After the meeting, I spoke to Deputy Principal, Larry Moser. ‘Did you pick up something in that staff meeting?’ I asked. ‘I felt that I lost them at one point.’

Larry was as diplomatic as ever. ‘It was your reference to logbooks,’ he said. ‘We haven’t used log books in over twenty years.’

Well! Someone forgot to tell this Latin teacher that little titbit of information. We all had logbooks for Maths when I was at school.

‘Are you thinking of changing your email address?’ said one of the teachers to me the next day without a semblance of a smile. ‘I think it should be krichardson@dinosaur.com.’

I think that they eventually found that teacher a post, somewhere in the country.

The best advice ever for Headmasters - or indeed anyone in leadership positions – was given by Benjamin Zander, conductor of the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, in his inspiring book: The Art of Possibility.

I have continually to remind oneself about Rule Number Six in my daily dealings with schoolboys. During the final week of last term, two Grade 8 boys - about 14 years old - were talking in the corridor outside my office. It was a few minutes before school and they were waiting for their Grandparents to arrive for the annual Grade 8 Grandparents’ Day.

I was drowning in end-of-term reports. 850 comments on 850 reports is a time-consuming business especially as one wants to write meaningful comments which will evoke a reflective response and philosophical discussion between parents and son when the report arrives back home.

‘Come on,’ urged one of the boys. ‘Let’s go and ask him.’ Eventuality they plucked up courage and knocked on my door. ‘Sir, are you busy?’ I usually find that comment about as helpful as the customary, ‘Do you have a minute?’

I did my usual growl, but that did not put them off – they were far too intent on asking their question.

‘Sir, we have been talking. Can you tell us what a headmaster actually does? ‘

Biff at the Bill Bowden

Paul Barichievy manages to pull it off every time.  I don’t know how he does it, but he unfailingly comes up with quality speakers for every Open Microphone event organised every few months under the auspices of the Wynberg Old Boys’ Union.

Graeme Smith & Paul Barichievy

Twenty three speakers, usually renowned sportsmen, have visited the Bill Bowden Pavilion over the last few years and chatted to the assembled company of Old Boys, Parents and Friends.  The evening is finished off with questions from the floor, before the gathering can tuck into eats prepared by the Committee wives.  As any discerning potential girlfriend knows – you involve yourself with a cricketer at your peril.  Before you know it, your relationship will be sorely tested when you are requested:

• to score or
• to prepare lunch or
• to set out teas or
• to wash up.

If the budding relationship is really going places, then all the above might have to come into play.

Captain & Headmaster

For years, the mother of a newly appointed school cricket captain has groaned in horror as she realised the implications when her son arrived home announcing that he has been made captain of the cricket team.  Usually, the proud son – and even more delighted and honoured father – then  closet themselves away in a father-son bonding session to discuss tactics for the next few days.  These sentiments are in no way shared by the mother for whom hours with tea cups and dish cloths loom ahead.  Visions of those Saturday and Sundays in the kitchen of the cricket clubhouse during her courting days come rushing back to haunt her.

At the Open Microphone events, the realities of phase three of the Cursus Honorum of Cricketing Spouses hit home.  By marrying a Committee Member of the Wynberg Old Boys’ Union, they are now expected to prepare plates of eats for over a hundred expectant sport lovers.

Presumably they make a mental note to advise their daughters to write something into ante-nuptial contracts in case they are even vaguely considering involving themselves with a cricketer!

Brendan Venter

If it is any consolation for the catering brigade, the quality of the speakers organised by Paul  is worth every minute spent in the kitchen.  Once he decides on a speaker, he does not let go.  In his opening few lines in his talk, rugby Springbok, Brendan Venter,  bemoaned the fact that Paul did not know how to take a hint.  For months, Brendan told Paul that he was not prepared to travel out from Somerset West to speak to Wynberg Old Boys and Friends. Bulldog Barichievy was not prepared to let go and eventually, tired of the incessant phone calls, Brendan succumbed and gave us an excellent address.

This seems to be Paul’s modus operandi and it works for him.  The impressive list of celebrity speakers, who have been prevailed upon to grace the Bill Bowden Pavilion, bears testament to his doggedness.

Over the years, we have marvelled at the cerebral speakers such as Dr Tim Noakes, Morne du Plessis and Vincent van der Bijl.  We have celebrated the passion of Rassie Erasmus, Gary Kirsten and Alastair Coetzee.  We have laughed along with Allan Lamb, Andre Watson and Rob Louw.

Ali Bacher
& Dave Williams' book

Many of the speakers encompass all these attributes – and current SA cricket captain, Graeme Smith, was one of these.  He won the entire audience over with his sincerity and his obvious love of his profession.  He was the third old boy of King Edward V11 School in Johannesburg (KES) to speak  superbly in the Bill Bowden Pavilion that week.   He followed his KES fellow old boys, Dr Ali Bacher and Dave Williams, onto the podium.  They were co-authors of ‘Jacques Kallis and Twelve other Great South African Allrounders ‘ who had launched their new book  to much acclaim a few days before.

Graeme took no nonsense from Brad Bing, the MC for the evening,  easily managing to steer his way round the seemingly innocent  traps into which Brad was trying try to lure him.

I still have a semblance of guilt about a question I asked Graeme  eleven years ago when he took over the captaincy of the Proteas at the impossible early age of 22.  I found myself invited to a breakfast marking the occasion which was hosted by the Cape Times.  The squad to tour England had just been announced and Lance Klusener had been left out.  The headlines were all provocative. 

‘Smith is threatened by me,’ lamented Klusener later in one article.  ‘He got rid of me.’

So, in all innocence, I asked Graeme whether Klusener had a future under a Smith captaincy.  The newly-appointed 22 year old South African captain did not hold back.  I am not quite sure who was more flabbergasted  - Smith, Klusener or me – when the reply was reported in full in the press over the next few days:  

‘Lance Klusener is a disruptive force who can ruin a team…..  We decided Lance as a team man can only cause hassles and we want to move forward in SA cricket. To be honest Lance, as fantastic as he is . . . can sometimes infect a team and bring down the youth.’

Whew!   Sorry I asked.

Brad Bing

After eleven years and 101 tests as captain of South Africa, Graham Smith has now learnt a few tricks of the trade and was easily able to nudge Brad’s questions to the boundary.  He would have done the same to Brad’s gentle left arm looping spinners in the old days.

‘You have a cheek, Brad, asking about Jacques’ hair when you hardly have any….’

Wonderful.

Brad was not put off.  ‘Tell us about Minky van der Westhuizen,’ he asked, referring to a voluptuous model who had been frequently seen on the arm of the national captain.  ‘Were her natural assets as impressive as we were led to believe?’

Graham hit it for a one-bounce four over square leg.  ‘How do you think I became such a good slip fielder?’ he replied, while cupping his hands to imitate taking a slip catch.

U14s caught in the slips

I glanced at the door where two U14 cricketers were coming straight from practice to listen to one of their heroes.  I could just hear what was going through their minds.

‘Excuse me, Sir,’ they would be saying to their cricket coach, Shaun Hewett, at their next practice. ‘We really do not think that our slip catching is up to scratch.  Graeme Smith has recommended this new method of mastering the art of slip catching.’

As a practical-thinking headmaster, I was just wondering who was going to do the quality testing of these new slip-catching machines.

Sensibly, Brad then decided to take discussions to serious cricket matters.  I did notice, though, that  the two U14 boys spent the rest of the evening day-dreaming - presumably of double hundreds at Lords.

During the course of the discussions, Brad asked Graeme when it was that he had finally realised that he could make it as an international player.  He replied that it was after his first two hundred at Lords.  He recounted how the England skipper, Nasser Hussain, had tried to rattle him at the toss by deliberately calling him Greg.  However, that did not put him off the marathon innings which followed which was one of guts, character and concentration.

Personally, I think that the defining moment of Graeme’s career came on 7th January 2009 at the Sydney Cricket Ground when he went out to bat at no. 11 with a broken hand, to face an Australian attack in full cry.  Wearing Paul Harris’ hamburger stained cricket pullover, the protective cast removed from his broken finger  and with the advice of Jacques Kallis ringing in his ears (‘remember that chicks dig scars’),  he went out for the only time in his life to be the junior batting partner of Mkaya Ntini.  They needed to survive 37 balls to secure an improbable draw.  He fell 10 balls short.

‘The Bravest Man in World Cricket’.

That they nearly pulled it off was a credit to both batsmen.  One Australian headline the next day said:  ‘The Bravest Man in World Cricket’.

Ricky Ponting said that the character traits displayed by Smith were what everyone looked for in a leader.

I wonder if Graeme Smith, or indeed any of the speakers at our Open Mike evenings, realises how inspirational they are.  For an hour or two every few months, we receive a glimpse of the tenacity, determination and drive which sportsmen at the top of their professions invariably display.

He also knows how to impress the locals.  As a new neighbour of the school, he remarked during his talk that he would love to send his young son, Carter (born July 2013) to Wynberg Boys’ High School one day.

Good move, Biff.  Imagine how good a cricketer you may have become if you, too, like your mate Jacques Kallis, had gone to Wynberg Boys’ High.

Step Aside, Spud

‘You would definitely not have enjoyed being Headmaster in our day,’ said Andre Badenhorst to me as he started off his speech to the assembled gathering. ‘Those teachers of ours would have tested you…’

Andre Badenhorst

The occasion was a re-union lunch for the Wynberg matric class of 1963.  Andre, a well-known Western Cape winemaker, had offered to host the occasion at his beautiful wine farm, Doran Wines, situated on the road between Wellington and Malmesbury.  The setting of the meal, in the wine tasting room, was spectacular with Red Aberdeen Angus cattle grazing next to a lake in the near distance and vineyards stretching as far as the eye could see. 

Douglas Hey, Class of '63

On the left, was the Paardeberg Mountain  and when I flippantly remarked that the mountain looked nothing like a zebra and clearly the person who named it thus had partaken far too liberally of the fruits of the valley,  Andre soon corrected me saying that the name had come from the zebras which had once roamed the valley.

Pippa and I arrived at Doran Wines to be greeted by a relaxed 1963 reunion group sampling the local wines with professional interest, clearly  not a particularly far cry from their pupil days – if the stories they were telling and retelling were correct - when they illicitly poured SAB products  down their throats on Friday nights at Cogill’s Hotel in Wynberg Main Road!  Classics from the hit-parade of 1963 provided the background music which was proving a great attraction for about twenty  Aberdeen Angus cattle, congregating at the fence near the festivities.  I told everyone that  they obviously recognised Rod Steward’s music , but they seemed to savour the Beach Boys with equal enthusiasm.

Visiting from Germany for the event:
Henry Aikman (left) and Mike Barrett

The cattle only dispersed once the speeches started which said volumes either for the quality of the music of the 1960’s or for the lack of quality of the speeches.

Prof Keith Gottschalk

Reminiscing began in earnest once the impressive lunch was over.  Prof.  Keith Gottschalk, of the University of the Western Cape, started the ball rolling by reminding everyone about the school newspaper which Rob Sladen (now a Professor of Medicine in New York) edited.  Boys wrote stories of school life and articles of interest.  Surprisingly no-one seemed to recollect, fifty years later, the article Keith wrote on rocket powered aeroplanes!

Most of the stories revolved around their memories of teachers.  It seems that post-lunch periods were a breeze at school as some of the teachers were erratic in their attendance having popped down to the Old Standard Pub for some lunch time fare that was not provided in the school tuckshop.

Many spoke of one teacher who fancied his prowess at pool. Most teachers took responsibility for their own discipline in class – normally involving a flagellatory weapon of some sort, like the back slat of a desk.  One however, decided to make an entertaining challenge of it.  ‘Double or quits,’ he used to say to miscreants in the class.  ‘If you beat me at pool at the Palace Hotel after school, we will call it quits.’

The memory, fifty years later, was that not many pupils had had the expertise or the proficiency to beat this veteran pool player. ‘Or the stupidity,’ remarked one of the class wryly.

Clearly, the newspapers of the day had far more pressing issues on which to focus their minds.  Today’s lot would have a field-day with stories like this. I can just see the headlines in Die Son: ‘Champion Wynberg Teacher remains unbeaten at Pool.’ No wonder teachers of 2013 look so harassed – the opportunities to pop out for a lunch-time stress reliever at the local are so much more limited.

Anyway, the tuckshop lunches are better.

Cliff Smit maintained that the teachers of ’63 were Real Men.  He told the story of Doc Wood whose responsibility it was to prepare the cricket pitches – so he did not teach first period every day.  Apparently some P.T. boys were congregated round the pitch while he was mowing and one of them slipped – which, knowing boys, is a euphemism for ‘was pushed’.  The mower went over the boy’s foot and two toes were cut off.

Doc Wood’s response was a classic.  ‘Now get away from him, you boys, and find those toes before the seagulls take off with them.’

Only at a boys’ school.

‘Talking about Doc Wood,’ someone else piped up. ‘Do you remember the time we found the trapdoor open under Doc Wood’s lab?  We went down and swopped the hoses between the gas tap and the water tap to the teacher’s desk?’  Apparently when Doc Wood came back in and switched on the Bunsen burner, water splashed onto his face and suit.

The class, now approaching 70, rocked with laughter.  It proves the point that men, whatever their age, do not really lose their youthful mischievous nature.  However, it did give me cause to wonder what they would say to their Grandsons today if they came home with similar stories and escapades.

Legends of Wynberg:
the late Jimmy Mathew

A Wynberg legendary teacher and cricket coach was Jimmy Matthew who, when he didn’t know an answer to a biology question, very sensibly used to say that he would get back to the pupil with an answer the next day.  He was (apparently) less than amused when the tables were turned  by one of the boys who gave the same response when asked by Jimmy where his homework was. ‘I will get back to you tomorrow with an answer to that one, Sir.’

Knowing Jimmy Matthew as I did, I suspect that he was secretly laughing at that reposte.

Arthur McKey, Class '63

Arthur McKey had us all in stitches when he recounted a story of two boys, Hanley and Apsey, who hung a willing conspirator, Malcolm Bell, out of a top story window.   They had tied a rope underneath his arms and put his blazer on to conceal the rope which appeared to be hanging him by the neck.  Malcolm played the part to perfection and lolled his head realistically with his tongue hanging out.

The ‘body’ was then dangled in front of the classroom window below where Mr Hopkins was teaching.  The boys were in on the escapade.  They pointed dramatically and vocally to the dangling body of Bell.  ‘Look, Sir, Look!  Bell has hanged himself. Do something, Sir.’

With the class calling him to action, the distraught teacher ran from the classroom and out of the building, to find ‘habeat nullum corpus’.  Bell had long since been winched up and was safely out of sight in the upstairs classroom.  No doubt shaking his head, he went back to his classroom to find the virtuous boys all sitting innocently at their desks.  That alone should have warned any experienced teacher that something was amiss!

Inevitably, the boys upstairs decided to try their luck one more time and the scenario was repeated.  This time there was an unexpected development.  Just as Bell was being lowered from the upstairs window, a lady, who was driving down Oxford Road in her Morris Minor, saw the hanging ‘body’ with the lolling neck.  In her fright and alarm, she lost control of the car which went careering into the school fence.   Startled by the crash, ringleaders Hanley and Apsey dropped the body unceremoniously and scrambled back from the upstairs ledge into the classroom window.

Bell’s neck was intact, but he suffered a broken leg.

One can only picture the scene when Mr Hopkins made his second foray outside his classroom.  Boy writhing with broken leg on the ground, Morris Minor stuck in the fence with steam coming from the engine, hysterical old lady wailing loudly, boys cheering out of windows…..

More like a scene from ‘Faulty Towers’ than ‘Spud’.

The newspaper article makes it clear that it was an internal exam not the Matric Science paper.   But then, what schoolboy  - even 50 years later – ever let facts get in the way of a good story?

When the gales of laughter had subsided after the telling of this tale, Mike Lamb followed with his story.  He told of the occasion when Wynberg DID make the newspapers – not a local rag, but in style on the front page of a Sunday paper.  A number of Wynberg boys, who for the purpose of this blog should remain nameless, had prevailed on the janitor to let them into the school safe where the papers for the upcoming matric exams were stored.  They took a Science paper and then proceeded to make copies which they sold to Wynberg, SACS and Rondebosch boys.  Sensibly, he upped the price for the Bishops boys – which proved to be his undoing.  Mike steadfastly maintained that one of the Bishops mothers – he was unsure whether she was incensed by the economic unfairness of the transaction or the lack of ethics involved - reported the matter to the Education Department and deed duly made headlines in the national press.

What really upset the ‘entrepreneur’ though, was that the Wynberg boys forced him to hand their money back.  He could not remember whether the boys from the other schools received pecuniary satisfaction.

The upshot (coincidentally?) was that exactly fifty years later, in 2013, the Western Cape Education Department made the decision that Principals must collect exams papers daily from WCED offices.

Jeff Sternslow leads the toast to
' the School & Absent Friends'

There is no need for the Class of 63 to feel guilty when they hear that I now have to fight my way daily through the early morning traffic for the six weeks of the matric exam period this year to collect exam papers.  A study of the actual newspaper  concerned  reveals that time has enhanced their factual recollection of the event….

Thankfully, Bishops’ name remains unsullied.

Towards the end of the enormously entertaining afternoon, Mike Lamb leant across to me and said conspiratorially, ‘You know, we really were the naughtiest class that Wynberg has ever known.’

I am not sure what his youngest brother, Allan, Class of ’73, would have thought of that comment.  The stories of his exploits, both on and off the field, with Western Province, Northants and England (with Ian Botham) have graced the pages of many cricket books.  No doubt his ’73 class would also rise to the challenge of claiming the mantle of the ‘naughtiest class ever’.

So would the matriculants of the other 171 years of Wynberg history. 

It was ever thus.

The Real Meaning of 'Brothers in an Endless Chain'

'So,' I said to all my Grade 8 classes last week, 'are we really the friendly school that we say we are?'

All six Grade 8 classes are taken by me once a week and the topic recently was 'The Wynberg Brand'. I was keen to find out whether they thought that our brand was really 'burnt' into our boys as the name implies. 'Friendliness' is a key point of the Brand and we like to think that it really is the first feature which strikes the visitor to Wynberg.

The Wynberg Brand

'Oh, yes!' was the unanimous verdict of all the classes - all of whom have only been at the school for a mere eight months. There seemed to be no doubt in their minds that no other school could beat us in this department. This was validated recently by a neighbour who was walking her dog around the fields one evening. Groups of boys all stood up and greeted her as she walked passed with her aged Labrador trailing some distance behind.

'Your boys are really friendly and well-mannered,' she remarked as she passed me later while I was watching a cricket match. “However, I had to laugh at one of them who said to the group around him as my dog trundled past: ‘They will be making us stand up for the dogs next!'”

Definitely - but only if it is wearing a dog-jacket in Wynberg colours.

I decided to throw some controversial thoughts at my classes.  'What about between Grades?'  I said. 'Is there friendliness between the different age-groups?'

They were not so quick to affirm this answer and various incidents came out in which they felt that older boys should be respecting their feelings more.

'You mean like you respect the feelings of your younger brother?' I said helpfully to the boy who had made this point so determinedly.

'Oh, no - that doesn't count,' he retorted scornfully. 'He is a total pain.'

So began a wonderful discussion.

It was not long before the discussion in every class turned to relations between races in the school with the issue of racial name-calling coming up. A recent incident in a school rugby match, when a Wynberg rugby player was called a 'kaffir' by an opposition player, was vigorously and energetically debated. (Why do the press insist on sanitising it by calling it the 'K- word?)

This is probably the most evocative and emotive word possible to use in South Africa at the moment.  There is a wealth of history behind this word. In the end, it is not about the person who uttered it, as it goes way beyond him. It has to be understood in the context of his family, his community and the history of our country.

This of course was all lost on the Grades 8's who launched into this topic with youthful, feisty and innocent vigour.

They did not really understand that these six letters hold immense power and are highly charged with historical passion and a depth of meaning.  This means that holding this particular class debate with anyone older than 14 year olds would be akin to walking in a mine field as prejudices take more and more of a grip on the adolescent mind.

The comments ranged back and forth in all those Grade 8 classes.

'I don't mind if you call me a whitey,' declared one of the boys, 'so why can't we call you a ...' and his voice tailed away as (to his credit) his upbringing wouldn't allow him to say the word.  There were nods of approval from others in the class who agreed with his sentiment.

Showing a depth of thought and a perspicacity way in advance of his years, one black boy responded. 'It is a venomous word,' he said. 'People who use it intend to insult and to hurt us. I find it degrading. There is no other word as bad as that.'

The white lobby was not quite ready to throw in the towel yet. 'I have heard the K-word and the N-word used plenty of times by black singers in rap songs. So if they themselves can say it, then it can't be all that bad.'

More vigorous nods of approval were evident.

His protagonist was not phased. 'Just because he chooses to demean his heritage, it doesn't mean you are allowed to.  Isn't it the same as you running down your mother when you are cross with her? That doesn't mean anyone else can.'

There were a few half- hearted come-back attempts, but the killer punch had been landed.

Personally I think that these words are so racially charged and explosive that no-one should use them. Anywhere.  Ever. All of us who are involved in the bringing up of boys know how easily they blurt things out without thinking - be it swearing (but, Sir, you hear it all the time on television);  inappropriate comments at inappropriate times; an insulting epithet thoughtlessly uttered.

We adults, can never let these moments of fine learning opportunities pass without making a suitable admonishing remark.  If we choose to ignore the comments and allow them to continue uncensored and unchecked, then we give unconscious consent for youngsters to persist in uttering them.  Often we are being tested to see if there will be a reaction.  The old-fashioned soap-and-water treatment to wash out the mouth is not necessarily the  best solution in this instance as it is far preferable to use these moments as springboards to further fruitful discussion.

'Until we started talking about it in class, I never realized what that word really meant,' said another boy in another Grade 8 class having just experienced a light-bulb moment.  One of his black classmates had just made the observation that the K- word was the only word he knew which could not be taken back afterwards with an apology once uttered.

I suspect light bulbs were coming on in every Grade 8 class during our discussions over that week.

'Why are you smiling?' asked Business Manager, Emilio Titus, as he met me in the corridor returning to my office after a particularly vigorous debate with one of the classes.

'It has just been affirmed to me yet again why I am in teaching,' I said, 'when I see genuine and meaningful learning taking place. I have just experienced a class where there has been a major shift in boys’ thinking. What a privilege.'

In fact when I think about it, these class debates give real understanding to our boys about the true meaning behind the words of the school song: Brothers in an Endless Chain.