I was a misfit growing up — an old codger in young skin.
I pestered and harried my instructors from Martley to Malvern,
including Prof. Harry, a hands-off composition master who,
likely as not, grew up listening to the bells of St Mary-le-Bow.
Harry assigned essays and expected us to think and write our own way through them.
I once asked the professor about Cicero’s De Senectute, and he replied,
“Well, it’s all in the dialogue, ain’t it?”
