But there was another even more memorable day to be had in Mr Demetre’s class—the one when we entered and found standing before us not the fearful piratic monster of the past but instead a rather dumpy frail man with chubby cheeks and a rather sad and downtrodden expression. And yet familiar, for he too wore one of those green suits that Mr Demetre favoured. The bodgies took their seats in quiet bemusement but still the realisation came only slowly, as this new fresh faced weedy individual set about laying the green covered Everyman editions of The Poetry of Alexander Pope on their desks. The manner... the style... impossible as it seemed, there was no doubt. It was him, even though it wasn’t. Mr Demetre had, for reasons that were never specified, shaved off his beard.

…The peer now spreads the glittering fortex wide,
To inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide.
Even then, before the fatal engine closed,
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed;
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain,
(But airy substance soon unites again)
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever
From the fair head, for ever, and forever!…

    It was like a turtle without its shell, a rabbit stripped of its fur, with all the vulnerability of sliced peaches in syrup once tipped from the safety of the can. Still, it was only when we heard the voice that we really knew it to be true. This foolish cherubic jelly was what had been hiding behind that fearsome black beard for all these years. It was the revelation of the deception that did the damage. What bodgies hate most of all are people who are too smart for them.
“We begin reading from the top of page two hundred and sixty seven—Pope’s The Rape of the Lock,” the voice but not the substance of Mr Demetre commanded.
“Like fuck we do,” someone said, very loudly.