It is common enough, all things being equal, for a father to send his sons to the prep school he attended as a boy himself. My father, however, had been a chorister at St Paul’s Cathedral and attended its choir school. My brother and I were unlikely to follow in his footsteps. The sound of Roger and Stephen Fry singing, even before Dame Nature had her impertinent pubic way with us, could cause people to stab themselves in the throat with sharpened pencils, jump from high windows, claw out their own inner ears, electrocute their genitals, put on a Jim Reeves record, throw themselves cackling hysterically into the path of moving buses... anything, anything to take away the pain. The cathedral choir school of St Paul’s with its fussy, outworn emphasis on tunefulness and harmony was never going to be an option.
the geniuses,
the perfect antidepressant.
the world is too absurd a place to lack absurdity
meanwhile, I'm half-frozen with fear, as things, as usual, follow a very premeditated way I always find out about too late. should have expected this, I can never be prepared, I can never stop being utterly embarassed.
'oh, look at you, you must be e x c e l l e n t. I'm quite sure there will be no problem next time, it must have been your lack of time.'
actually, it's my lack of brains. but I'm too disappointed to confess it to anyone, including myself.
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