Introduction

Perhaps because I will be twenty nine next week (and therefore, without a shadow of a doubt, Nearly Thirty), lately I have been thinking a lot about my school days and in particular my prep school, St. Anthony’s. At the time I attended, between 1990 and 1994, St. Anthony’s was rather a unique place, a fact that I was aware of even at the time but that has become more obvious as the years have passed. There were many excellent and likable teachers at St. Anthony’s but this memoir is largely centered on the headmaster of the time, a man named Tim Patton and someone who, I think I can safely say, will never be forgotten by those who knew him. I recently Googled his name and could find no reference to him at all. Despite the fact that the internet was in its infancy when he retired (the same year I left the school) he occupies such an exalted place and is such a legendary figure in my mind that it's inconceivable to me that there isn't some sort of fansite or Facebook group. It seems so wrong that I feel compelled to do something about it, hence this blog.

My memories are likely faulty, riddled with holes, and naturally are completely subjective to my experience. I liked Tim a lot but I know that not everyone felt the same way. I intend to try and get as many of my old schoolmates as possible to read this and I invite them all to correct, fill in gaps, or disagree with my account.

An English teacher by training (or at least that's what I assume, but thinking about it that assumption may be ill-founded) Tim was, as is common in many small private prep schools, both headmaster and an acting form teacher. Like most inspiring teachers he often lacked professionalism. He favoured certain pupils above others and made little attempt to hide his preferences. I had the great fortune to be both in his form in my final year and liked by him. He encouraged me in my creative writing, indulged me in my regular bouts of classroom showing-off, probably underestimated my academic potential but not nearly as much as my parents would have me believe (inasmuch as they probably overestimated it), shouted at me only when I deserved it and always laughed it off afterwards, and called me “Ingy-baby” when he was feeling jocular. He had sideburns of the style favoured by Lemmy from Motorhead (basically a full beard with a one inch stripe shaved down the centre of the chin), wore the remaining hair on his head long and tied in a pony-tail, and made us read Jonathon Livingstone Seagull¹ in English class. He was absolutely a product of the sixties and it was his anachronistic tastes and liberal ethos that made the school what it was.

Next time: The Office

For the record, and to my acute embarrassment, I have to admit that I absolutely loved Jonathon Livingstone Seagull. It was many years before I had an inkling that there was anything remotely naff or mawkish about it, despite my father practically rolling on the floor laughing when he heard what we had been studying.