I sat and waited; and watched. An elongated male strode past me, stopping suddenly to exercise his power over a plump adolescent forced to look up when addressed. He played the role of ‘Master’ – a private school caricature towering above his charge in the entrance of a newly refurbished state academy, which was situated slap bang in the middle of a South London estate. Had he been wearing a mortar board and cloak I’d not have been surprised. It seemed as if he was trying to evoke something from his own past, or perhaps a film, or several, all about boys and masters. I don’t recall what he said to the child, whose collar was too tight, whose tie was badly constructed, whose grey trousers didn’t quite reach his shoes, and who seemed utterly bewildered by the adult’s charade. I do recall wondering why the man was giving this performance, and whether it was for his sake, the boys’ or mine.
Eventually, another man, apparently in a similar role appeared. He was accompanied by a woman in a tracksuit. Both were stern but cordial. I stood up, shook hands and followed them up a stairwell.