Ruskin Reunion 2012: The Name of the Rose

As I sit here in my dotage, memories of my youth come to mind; fragments from a time when the sap ran strong and, in season, a young man’s thoughts turned to tender matters of the heart. Those who know me now, a grey-haired elder of sober mien, and have never seen the sparkle that was once in my now tired eyes, would, doubtless, struggle to recognise the ardent and vulnerable stripling who crossed the threshold of the Rookery in 1989.

I soon found myself to be enthralled by a woman of the female persuasion: Helen the Warden. Do you remember her, Dear Reader? She combined the unbending authority of a regimental sergeant-major with the scrupulous cleanliness of an Edwardian nursing sister. Her approach was heralded by the slap of sensible shoes hitting the floor, was announced by the swish of tweed & carried with it the heady whiff of carbolic soap & Dettol as she made her efficient & stately way along the corridor to chivvy the cleaners along or chastise some hapless student who’d dropped a sweet wrapper.

Male Tory M.P.s, of course, are brought up with this sort of thing; Nanny at home, and Matron at Public School. Indeed, in adulthood, they pay considerable sums of money in Soho in order to relive the experience. I fully expect that they add such "services" to their parliamentary expenses tabs. It was, however, completely new to me & I was overwhelmed.

My heart would thrill at the sound made by that bunch of keys which she used to carry on a chain, slung from her belt in the manner of the Head Warder in “Cell Block H”. On some errand or other, I once had the privilege of walking with her down the corridor (at a respectful two paces behind, of course); It was as if a voice spoke from Heaven, saying “Prisoner and Escort! Quick..... MARCH!”. Ah.....

She used to hate it when people put their hands on the windows & left marks. It was guaranteed to earn a scolding. Sometimes she’d appear in the dining hall during meals to cast a supervisory eye over proceedings. I was highly tempted to put my mitts on the window glass to get her attention & the contact – however fleeting - of a telling-off. Unfortunately, I never quite worked up the courage. Probably just as well: if it had worked, I'd probably have spent most of my time star-fished across the glass like one of those Garfield puppets you see stuck on the inside of car windows. That wouldn't have been good for my studies.