Boys in blue

Fast forward seven years from the preceding post, and here I am again shamelessly parading in public, but watch out - this time I've got a gun.

In line with many boarding schools, ours had a Combined Cadet Force, compulsory, of course.

The boys who were seriously interested in pursuing a military career signed up to the infantry section, while the teckies headed for the Signals platoon.

All the toughs, oiks and alpha males (so it seemed to me at the time) ended up in the naval section.

Which left the RAF squadron to be made up of an assortment of pacifists, misfits, Airfix fans and random boys who had identified it as the least hideous option.

No prizes for guessing my choice.

Actually, though I would never have admitted it at the time, being in the RAF section was terrific fun. Outings to RAF stations (fab food in the mess), flights in training planes ('Take the controls, lad!') and field-day route marches ('We're lost.') more than compensated for the dreary routine of bulling of boots, polishing of brasses and square bashing.

The parade above was for Speech Day 1967, towards the end of my final term at the school.

Days before, the penny finally dropped that if one had to dress up and stomp around like this, then one might as well look as good as possible. At the very least, one owed it to one's fellow conscripts - and, let's face it, to one's audience.

And if that meant mirror-bright boots, knife-edge creases and pin-sharp responses to orders, then I was up for it.

I can't make any pretension to motivation based on military pride. To be frank, from my point of view this was the nearest I was ever going to get to being in a chorus line. And, if I could help it, I wasn't going to be the sad hoofer who was out of step with the rest of the line.

I'm in the centre column. Beret three sizes too big.

The boy yelling the orders (with admirable élan) is Witold Mintowt-Czyz, who is now a distinguished orthopaedic surgeon.

Sporting prowess

A rare image of moi in sportif mode, clearly setting the pace in the finals of the mixed-age standing-around-chatting event. Almost half a century later, this remains my best discipline.

The year must be 1960 and the place is Prior Park Prep School, Cricklade, Wiltshire.

The ladies nearest me are my cousin Ann and my great aunt Marie Louise. Hats were obviously the thing for Sports Day.

I have absolutely no recollection of the sporting events that preceded the tea interlude.

But the prizegiving that followed, I remember vividly.

A massive table was piled with a fabulous selection of merchandise: board games, books, jigsaw puzzles and, unutterably desirable, a paint-by-numbers kit.

It was Santa's sleigh without the inconvenience of wrapping paper. How generous of the Brothers to stump up for so much splendid loot.

Prizes for more or less everyone. And a rather lusciously shiny Victor Ludorum trophy for the day's sporting supremo.

Boys only marginally more robust than me went up for awards. For a few delirious moments I thought there might be a wee something for me.

Needless to say, I came away empty-handed.

Still, the sitting around helped me work out the obvious fact that it was our parents and not the brothers who had funded the goodies.

Reportedly...

Fifty years ago I was Keegan III and a beginner at St Peter's School, near Exmouth in Devon - and I was very, very happy.

This ancient end-of-term report gives a clue as to my contentment.

The teachers were kind and sympathetic to a degree that occasionally makes me wonder: Bless you - but what were you thinking?'

For instance: riding. Our teacher for this extra-curricular activity was the glorious Helen Rhys-Jones, the Head's 21-year-old daughter - Miss Helen to us.

Her comment on my equestrianism reads: 'obviously at ease with ponies. Good position and sympathetic hands.'

How kind - but clearly she was unaware that I spent the two hours before every lesson in the lavatory - that's how at ease I was!

For 'games', I read: 'A sincere little boy who has proved himself a real sport and done jolly well in cricket'.

Again, how generous to mask my total non-ability under the charitable euphmemism of sincerity.

Grumpy music teacher Mrs Powell's 'makes no effort' was a pretty accurate judgement, I am ashamed to say. But, golly gosh, she wasn't the most inspiring of teachers.

Wonderful Miss Rushton says 'good' for Scripture - and awards me 37%. What might the comments have been for pupils who achieved above 70%?

Divine? Numinous? Transcendent?

Happy days.