... (without a blueprint)

When I went into the third year at school - that's year 9 to you young people - we had a new English teacher, Mr Hooper. He was in his twenties, I guess, and unnecessarily tall; he had to to stoop to get through the door of the 'rabbit hutches' in which we were taught. He was pretty scary, too, and, I think, not much of a fan of us grammar school boys. He seemed to have a preference for the mavericks, those who didn't quite fit the school.

But perhaps they were his kindred spirits; his lessons could be highly unorthodox. There was the time we came in to find a piece of astroturf on his desk, upon which he had a number of clumps of cotton wool, which he was using for an incomprehensible (to me) performance. And then there was the occasion on which he made us all move our desks over to the window, before sending Darren Lodge out with an umbrella and a copy of 'Request Stop' to perform in the pouring rain for forty minutes. The sound of the rain on the roof meant we couldn't hear a word although Mr Hooper went to the door twice to reprimand Lodge for the fact that his pauses weren't long enough.

On the other hand, he helped me to understand 'Death of a Salesman', revealing depths to me that, at the age of fifteen, I hadn't appreciated. I remember him staying behind after school had finished, one afternoon, prompting and subtly guiding me through Willy's relationship with Charley. I might remember that occasion because it was one of the few times when I didn't feel on edge in Mr Hooper's company.

Ultimately, at tellingly, though, he only encouraged my (never realised) ambition to become an English teacher. What scuppered that, I suspect, was the outcome of the long essay that I did for my English Literature 'O' Level. Left to choose our own title, I went for 'The Role of Religion in John Wyndham's 'The Chrysalids''. It's possible that today I could take a fair run at that title and turn out something half decent but in 1982 I was at a loss; I'd simply bitten off more than I could chew. And when I got my result - an appalling 17/30 - I was inconsolable. 

I thought of this, this morning, as I set off up to London to give my talk 'How we built the future (without a blueprint)'. I was beginning to feel the disorienting effects of a cocktail of anxiety and despair as it occurred to me - somewhat belatedly - that I am not at my best with a loose brief, which was the problem with the extended essay. I began to wonder how I was going to feel ten minutes into my talk, knowing there was possibly half an hour left to go. Perhaps, I thought, I might find or improvise the anecdotal equivalents of those secret doors in Ikea that allow you to slip from one department to another without trudging all the way through.

Upon my arrival, Tom was super welcoming and told me about a couple of the people who'd come to speak to them recently, who both sounded alarmingly interesting. I could see my hand shaking as I sipped the coffee he'd given me. I set up in their conference room, bringing up the illustrations that the Minx had prepared for me and resolved to do my best to live up to them, as the fourteen strong audience filed in. Oh Lord.

And yet, from the very start, they were welcoming and engaged, laughing at my jokes and anecdotes. I have watched, horrified, as comedians died on stage for no apparent reason, and this was just the reverse of that; my audience was wonderfully encouraging and within minutes I was surprised to find that I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I was able to savour my anecdotes and I was pleased I'd put some thought into what I wanted to say. I was confident enough to digress and thankfully managed to find my way back to my loose mental narrative each time. At the end, there were even five, six, maybe even seven questions, which were all good and I was very flattered by their attention. 

I set off back to Euston on cloud nine and full of beans. I'd taken myself right out of my comfort zone and I was delighted that I had. I'm grateful to Tom for the opportunity and the Minx for instilling her 'just say yes' philosophy in me. I would do it again (although probably with just as much anxiety).

Here's a picture that Tom posted of me while I was talking. My photo today was supposed to be of the hollyhocks outside my mum's house, which  originated from my grandad's garden. He would have been 100, today. Unfortunately, my previously established lack of horticultural knowledge resulted in me taking pictures of the wrong flowers but, trust me, they were there.