I REMEMBER FEELING pretty putout when Bill the school woodwork teacher was jailed for a string of unpleasant sex offences. Not just because of the trauma he’d doubtless caused — or because as my friend George joked, it seemed he’d never fancied us — but because Bill had always maintained that I was the wrong’un.
On countless afternoons, I was hauled into my housemaster’s study after Bill had been in to say I’d been at it again. Beyond
