"headmaster" poems
The forgotten umbrella
Fretted
Did he get wet?
Cry because it was missing?
Would his mother have given him a beating?
Benches and desks
Are cozing
The board still retains
The day’s remnants
Night came,
The umbrella was in tears
Rain rain
Umbrella umbrella
Said the rain outside
Only the umbrella heard
His voice was raining over the shower
“my darling umbrella”
Crying itself to sleep,
Headmaster’s room
Came in a dream
Question papers, canes
Maps, globe, skeleton,
Chalk power,
Fat lady teachers,
Farts and baloney
Startled itself awake
No, it is not light yet
Through the darkness
Nothing other than his embroidered name
Still you forgot me!
Other umbrellas came
And sat on either sides
Didn’t you get wet yesterday?
Didn’t you go home?
How can it be said that he forgot me?
There he is!
Umbrella closed its eyes
Let him come running
Give a hundred kisses
He didn’t come even after the bell rang
On opening the eyes, saw
His new darling umbrella
Hasn’t put it down..
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 8:18 PM UTC
Sixth Mass Extinction
Earth's sixth mass extinction event under way, scientists warn
-The Guardian
The headmaster has shaved his head egg-smooth
Shifted his hair to the point of his chin
And his sunshades to the top of his scalp
His petrol-station SAS sunshades
He often boasts he doesn’t even own a tie
And hasn’t read a book since Upper-Sixth
Something transgender post-colonial
About Guevara (who is on his tee)
Not a form master, but a master of forms
A way-cool disciple of Ofsted norms
Variant for the American Market
Sixth Mass Extinction
Earth's sixth mass extinction event under way, scientists warn
-The Guardian
Like, you know, the principal shaves his head
Like, absolutely, ***
Got him a goatee, like, actually
Cheap gas-station Official USA Navy Seals™® shades, mannnnnnnnnnnnnnn
Not cool, *** actually
I had to help him with the big words in Goodnight, Moon
Absolutely, like
Yosemite Sam™® on his faunky ol’ tee
His office has, like, stuffed fish and, like, football pictures, like, and his Dallas Cowboys™® baseball cap, like, actually
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
I was last on the register, so
as soon as I said
that I was still there
everyone stood up and left.
Katie was still there
and she pointed at me and
asked me if I was coming tonight.
I said that guessed not and she asked me
If I knew that she wasn’t
my girlfriend.
I didn’t answer so she informed me
that I wasn’t allowed to be jealous that
she goes to parties that I don’t.
I asked, ‘what party?’ and she rolled her eyes
and left. I walked out of the classroom alone and
wondering what the hell just happened.
James saw me across the yard
and shouted
if I was coming tonight.
I told him to **** off
and walked quicker
every time he tried to
call me back.
A few kids on the bus
swore at me through
the open window, their
middle fingers and crude words
working together in pitiless tandem.
I turned up the volume
in my ipod
and kept on walking.
It carried on snowing. It had been
three days now and three times
we had been called to assembly
so the headmaster could announce
which schools had been closed for the day.
That morning he was
proud to tell us
that we were the only school
in the area
to still be open.
The snow was four inches deep
and rising and grey and dangerous.
Through the frosted windows
in the front door I could see
my keys. I kicked the wall
and nearly shattered my toes.
I climbed over my gate to the back of my house.
For a while I thought about
breaking a window.
The cat found me and pawed me shins
and I told her I was sorry,
but I couldn’t let her in the house.
I sat in a frozen plastic chair
and looked across the white
and green garden. The cat
joined me, and sat on my lap,
her body as close to me as possible.
I zipped her up inside my jacket
so only her head poked out and
we sat there,
watching cartoon’s on my ipod.
Batman fought The Joker again, and
Gumball finally got to kiss Penny.
The Joker escaped again
and Gumball realised
that it was all a dream.
It got cold and dark and eventually
both the cat and I fell asleep.
My mother shook me awake
and unzipped my jacket to let the cat out.
She asked me if I had a good day at school, and
I rubbed my eyes
and told her that
I couldn’t remember.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
Ice-cold fear has slowly decreased
As my bones have grown, my height increased.
Though I shiver in snow of dreams, I shall never
Freeze again in a noonday terror.
I shall never break, my sinews crumble
As God-the-headmaster's fingers fumble
At the other side of unopening doors
Which I watch for a hundred thousand years.
I shall never feel my thin blood leak
While darkness stretches a paw to strike
Or Nothing beats an approaching drum
Behind my back in a silent room.
I shall never, alone, meet the end of my world
At the bend of a path, the turn of a wall:
Never, or once more only, and
That will be once and an end of end.
2.1k
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
If I were firece and bald and short of breath
I'd be the headmaster of a secondary school.
A spotted face boy cries "fight, fight, fight!"
A scrap has begun outside the school.
Greasy adolescents hurry to the scene
To find a boy - bloodied - face down in the gravel.
Instead of showing sympathy,
they portray their callous nature.
The mob-mentality reigns supreme
As he is mocked and jeered by ***** fingers
Of adolescent monkeys.
Meanwhile, in the corridors of the school
A sea of gray sways, as agitated 6th years
Barge their way through piles and piles
Of nervous first years.
Sweaty fingers clutch chewed-on pens,
Taking down their futures from the board.
The vacant stare of the class fool is aimed toward
The blank, unpainted walls.
Were they ever painted?
Or did god create them bland?
The footworn halls of our totalitarian dictatorship
Are kept active only by the zealous actions of our 'noble' teachers.
Every morning they arrive at a job they resent,
And see teachers whose eyes mirror their despair,
Then they feign a smile and proceed
With the monotonous task of teaching
Brain-dead, narcissistic, trogleydtes.
Exciting.
"All in all we're all just bricks in the wall."
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
My father was born in an outport community of 2000
On the Avalon peninsula of Newfoundland
Around 1950, to a school headmaster and a homemaker
Attended Memorial University of Newfoundland (as did I)
Studied English, and eventually Education
He was a brilliant man, often quiet for long periods of time,
Then viscerally eloquent like Occam's Razor when he spoke
Remember him telling me how "taking their maidenheads"
From Romeo and Juliet act one, was about taking virginity
Always had an answer for my million questions
Rarely lost his temper
Taught me to accept others as they were, and to resist the temptation
To judge
A spiritual man, not religious, always taking care to differentiate the two
Without him I would never have access
To the home library in our den, my muse
Or all the gruesome movies he shouldn't have let me watch
Without my father I wouldn't know that
I like Jack Daniel's on the rocks with afternoon paper or
A Farewell to Arms with Spanish Rioja from earthenware cups,
Like Hemingway drank during the Spanish Civil War
I would not have wallowed with the downtrodden and the vilified
I would not have seen the base human weakness
The fundamental vulnerability that dwells within all of us
Had I not seen it in him first
Some four years ago, my father experienced weakness on one side
While on vacation in Europe
Flew back to Canada, diagnosed quickly with brain cancer
By the time I spoke to him, his mind was already rapidly fading
The spark of brilliance snuffed out like so much wick and wax
Died 6 months later in his sleep
We spread his ashes on his father's grave
And in the Bay St. George
Taught me what and how to believe,
Who to be
For better or for worse
Taught me how to ask the right questions
Showed me the books to read
Let me know it was OK
To be me
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
I woke into my perfect day.
Another day.
When the spiders who built castles in my head
Appeared to say..
"You and a perfect day....No way"
So I left myself behind
Bent my bones and walked off to find
The light that shone in burning fingers
And had once touched my face.
But then I lingered and saw a cat atop a crumbling wall
Holding a kangaroo court for one and all
And in Cats eyes
I was surprised to see reflections of recollections of glee.
And again the spiders seemed to say to me
"Go further in your weave of day"
I sailed into a long forgotten bay that I once knew
And sunk into the waters which were oddly red and blue
And down below where only fools and madmen go
I sat upon a turbots knee
Which pleased the turbot but did nothing for me.
I drank the seaweed in my cup of cakes
And hitched a ride into that which make the greatness
Of the greatest lakes.
And there I sat and ate the sky.
By and by on railway signs
I thought of life and life's hard times
And my Headmaster gave me one hundred lines
"I must not get up and go away however perfect seems my day".
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 5:07 PM UTC
It's here! It's here! One of the Best
And Brightest Days
Now's the Time to rev-up our Ways.
That Glazing Star, which spits the
Rays
Shone brightly through Helios, the
Highest Display.
Beaches un-roll their sleek-forming sands
As Pools de-frost their blue-tanned waves.
Swimmers do dive, and enjoy the Save
In Iberia's Coast rescue in Grand.
There are many Events in
This Hot-Baste Holiday
Worry not; For it will slowly
Pass Away
About a month-two - quill, quite awhilst
Just enough for me to produce
More Words in-rhyme.
Writing on Holidays must always be fun
For Experiences like these, pressed
Under the Sun
Tram-Tracked Thoughts, which does
Hurt to remember
Will be preserved - thanks to November.
Family, Friends, Extensions and Strangers
There the Bunch starts to get all blokey
Boring Concepts, birth these Megaphone Chaps
You world prefer to dance on their laps.
Maybe what I said meant something else
Those Words of mine touched Heart and felt
Such gradual boredom - in time I agree
For tunnelling Facts, with Evidence plead.
Nevertheless, let the Holidays sing
And let our Lives live that Full Extract.
Be Happy, Gay and Humble in Kind
For once the Headmaster whistles, you'll
Have a Sortie ahead.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
Of course it's all in your head,
But that doesn't mean it
Isn't true; then I am glad
Your head is so clear, my head
Is not, my head doesn't believe
I am good enough, but does that mean
Dear headmaster, that that is true?
I know, you will surely say no.
My head inserts pieces of my
History into my present, and I know
Yours does too, that is
What heads do, and we are still
Both humans. It is not words
That are pretending to be wise
That will help me outrun
My own expectations, because
It is all in my head and I will
Make a change, because my head
Is lying, it's lying, it is
And you cannot possibly want me
This time, to think is isn't.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
We called our maths master *** happy Chappie, Mr Chapman stank to high heaven like an ash tray and smoked like a chimney even while taking class.
We called the English teacher Jesus because he was young, bearded and wore a white suit. One of the lads flicked ink all down his back one day without him noticing as he walked up and down between the desks.
Another English teacher took it on himself to teach *** education. He advised us not to ********** the night before an exam. He doubled up as a career adviser and told everyone to go into banking or insurance.
The history master liked to nod off in lessons when he was supposed to be teaching us and we had to stay completely silent. If anyone made a noise he would yell at us, and he would sometimes hit us with a tennis shoe with a golf ball jammed in it. He wrote Stoke City for the cup in chalk mirror writing on the sole so that it would come out on our backsides when he whacked us.
The first headmaster was nice, we liked him, he was human. But then *** took over. He tightened up the rules about school uniform, no coloured shirts, things like that, but wore luminous green socks himself, the silly ******* He gave me the slipper for sciving off an afternoon once, I hated him. I think if I'd had a gun I might have shot him. Someone said they think he's dead now, and I thought good, I hope he died in agony ha ha.
Then there was Mr Eaton, another English master. He was one of those truly inspiring teachers whose enthusiasm for his subject was infectious.
On the day he introduced us to Chaucer's 'The Prologue ' he gave us the text and proceeded to recite from memory the whole thing. I never forgot that.
It was a mixed experience, Grammar School in the 1970's.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
a.i is already a failure to me: i write one thing, html misspells what i write, dumb robotics ahoy!
at the cashiers', hot topic...
a burning toothpick that illuminated the woods:
headmaster in some school extends his jurisdiction
from children to parents, wants the mothers
to be less sloppy dressed in the english casual: pyjamas.
two cashiers debate, i take my usual three beers and
a bottle of scotch for a walk (i drink the scotch at home),
i side with the liberals... wear the ****
you want... the other side can't decide a line of argument,
conversation turns to my frost bitten hands,
nasty winter mosquitoes bit my hands all red...
i say it's not too bad... she takes them into her hands,
warms them up, she's older than my mother,
but i still would... given girls my age are *******
the legs of hugh hefner for the retirement pay-cheque
and prior to a bosom-spread photoshoot... i walk out patting
the head of a stranger's dog waiting for the hands that
drop food onto the plate and keep the leash stern...
your typical evening at a supermarket.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
This was
This was an inflated Headmaster, of an inflated school
taking to an inflated boy, Whom in his sins, took a pin in to school.
And that inflated master did say!
You have let me down.
You have let your school down.
BUT most of all.
Y OU H A V E let yourself D O W N.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
Benedict
Christina called
as I got off
the school bus
I went over
to her
standing by
the wire fence
surrounding
the girls' playground
she took my arm
and walked me
along the fence
out of earshot
of others
I dreamed
of you last night
she said
did you now
I said
watching a prefect
looking over
what was I up to?
that would be telling
she said
that's the point
I said
some girls
were playing skip rope
singing a rhyming song
she looked at me
with her brown eyes
you kissed me
she said
is that all?
I said
the prefect was walking
over towards us
his lanky frame
moving
at a steady pace
it was a long kiss
she said
how long?
I asked
I didn't time it
she said
but it was good
made me feel
all unnecessary
as I heard
my cousin say
when she stayed
with us
what are you two
up to?
the prefect asked
you
he said to me
should be making
your way
to the boys' playground
not here
chatting up girls
Christina
looked at him
then at me
she dreamed of me
last night
I said
she was just
telling me
I bet no one
dreams of you
I added
looking at
the lanky prat
do you want to go
to the headmaster?
he said
giving me
the stern eye
Christina
was looking at me
her eyes like
melted chocolate
got to go
I said to her
see you lunch time
at recess
on the field
I walked off
the prefect stared
after me
Christina stood
with her hands
in front of her
her thumbs playing
with each other
I turned before
I went out of sight
and blew
her a kiss
which she pretended
to catch and put in
her school skirt pocket
the prefect scowled at her
as she walked away
patting my blown kiss
next to her thigh
easing out
a school girl sigh.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
I’ve been called to see the ‘Head Master’
It makes my stomach churn
I somehow thought I’d outgrown this
But perhaps I haven’t after all
I want to get it over with
Will I be told off? Expelled?
Or is there good news just for me?
Who can tell? Who can tell?
I have a clear conscience
I hold my head up high
I’ve done the very best I can
I’ve tried and tried
Someone’s got it in for me
I really think they have
I think they want to kick me hard
And beat me to the ground
Get up again and carry on
Get up and face the storm
I really need a victory
To prove the mystic law
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
I hate order, order it gets in the way like a bad odour its conscientious all in one.
One for the master one for the dame and one for the little boy who was ordered down the lane.
Order! Order! I can do without sense and discover that's what's all about. Compared pomp parade twisted display in ceremony in their little cars of today.
Like a spanner in the works I replay
Order! Order! I can smell it I can sense it like at primary headmaster face mask he wears it! So anguish to a play learn to love and written for every day. I can't say sway like the order of the day.
Order! Order! He cries gentlemen in every Bethlehem same sugar coated wheat display. So men with everyone if I can't finish what I've begun then as order comes along like a single shot to obey.
Order! Order! Your lyrical power gives off a speechless tremor from a pointed out finger so delay me your order rescue me a wonder like a freedom ride and stop been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
O'Reily 03062014
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
A young lad only fifteen, lived a hard life, grew up to be mean.
One day the lad being hard, got into a scrap in the schoolyard.
He was taken at once to the Headmasters room.
He was left alone to sit and reflect, awaiting his doom.
He began to ponder and wonder about his behaviour.
He thought, If I am always getting into fights, will anything ever come right.?
Will everyone I meet, walking down the street, stare and pass me by, too scared to even say 'Hi'
The Headmaster took his seat and told the boy to stand.
He asked the boy why he was always so mean? Did he think it made him a man?
The boy took a while to think, took a breath and replied "i'm sorry for the trouble I cause, I've had a hard life but I can turn it around, if you can take a chance, find it in your heart to give me a new start".
The Headmaster was taken by surprise, looked into the boys eyes and replied
"if as you say you will change your ways from today, then I will let you go on your way"
"should I hear any reports of you being mean and unkind, any reports of you crossing the line then you will be expelled, feel sure it's the truth that I tell"
"now be on your way don't let me see you again today"
The boy relieved ran out the room and went to every class until every exam he did pass.
His life turned out pretty good
, he got a job as a mechanic working under the hood.
His reputation grew far and wide, he worked hard and with lots of pride.
Then one night working late, a beautiful young girl brought in her car, and plucking up courage he asked her on a date.
Two months later down on one knee he asked her to be his wife, thankful for the second chance he was given to turn around his life.
Five years further down the line, now Father himself to two.
The Headmasters car had broken down. The boy now a man, towed his car into the garage.
He told the Headmaster of his marriage, how he owned his own home and ran his own garage.
The Headmaster puffed full of pride, glad the lad had turned his life around, and was living a life that was now sound.
You see that day Five years past was to be the Headmasters very last, he was feeling happy and carefree.
Between you and me, he did relate to the boys state, having lived a hard life too.
In his early days the Headmaster's life had been saved when someone gave him a chance.
With this in mind and feeling generous of spirit he gave the boy a chance to prove, the boy took it as he had nothing to lose.
Doesn't everyone deserves a second chance?
©jackiemm158
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 6:01 PM UTC
No kidding.
Someone,
under cover of night
or another invisibility cloak
or thanks to those goblins in Gringotts,
sneaked into Bellatrix’s bank vault
and stole the sword of Gryffindor.
What do you do with
a sword of that caliber?
Do you use it to help
the house elves in the kitchen?
Slicing bread, chopping vegetables, and cutting meat while they stare at you in awe?
Or set it on the shelf in the headmaster’s office
the same shelf above the beautiful fire Phoenix
you watched explode.
Place it next to the snapshot of Dumbledore,
smiling and winking at you
and make tiresome jokes about how it belonged to
Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.
Or do you tuck it in the bottom of the sorting hat that placed you into Gryffindor in the first place,
wrapped in the scarf Fawkes brought you from
Dumbledore’s office?
Do you take it out when you need to defeat the basilisk or stab some horcruxes and you don’t have a venomous fang to use instead?
And do you think there in your common room,
with the dementors circling around the school, and
He Who Shall Not Be Named back again, that you could wield the sword and think you’re the
Chosen One?
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
Under most Circumstances keep Offense
Fearful which Foreign Voices tend to Betray
Whichever Dame or Diver licks your Defense
There your Potent Training roots them at-bay
Perhaps your Person, skinned yet strawed by Choice
Placed chosen Parapets enter the Few
And where my Rawlish Spirit blows out a Voice
The Wax does cop; Or Heaters blend a Stew
To Rally then, a Sickness born indeed
Makes Brisk Conversions programmed to Despair
Yet allow your Vices for Virtues to Bleed
Risks the Common Hand - the Headmaster's there.
To place one's Treasury far from your own
Betrays the Heart's Consent and my Cover blown.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 9:40 PM UTC
We barged hard against the old door and managed to get in
Dark corridors led to a back alley where fantasy met reality
There they were, hundreds a shiny boxed small windows waiting for us
Richard picked up a stone, pulled his home made catapult and released.
Bam, a broken window now more broken
You have a go
I took it and hit a window, amazing sound and joy
The windows were in our sights
Left a bit, right a bit...
Patang, reload, hutchuck, dut, snnuuuck,
Missed
Adjust scope a little to the right
This time a hit, no movement from the crow
A small troop are marching up towards our house
Door bell rings
dad looks concerned
'There's a report of a youngster with a rifle?'
It's the UDR
dad looks very nervous
'Its just my son with an air rifle'
dad brings the rifle to the door and the gun licence he had
Firkin wee Duffie the headmaster has seen me with his binoculars
The wee sneak ..I rumble under my breath
'No problem sir, we're on our way out of here'
Wee Duffie had me in his sights
Returning from England the green walk up the Dungannon road is a fresh change from the hustle and bustle
Passing a bungalow on the right a man stares out at me, hands by his side
I take a left up a hill past Derek's place
We rode his white horse bare back in that field
Suddenly a car pulls up with the man and he winds the window down
'What's the name?' he growls
'What do you mean what's the name, I'm just out for a walk?' I retort
He reaches for the glove box, I stop
'What's the name?' he shouts again
I ignore him and continue walking
He accelerates quickly forwards stops and manages to make a U turn
Walking back home I'm confronted a small troop of soldiers marching the other way
A car pulls up
'What's the name?'
'Turner' I say
"It's the bank manager's son, stand down'
On reflection I processed this situation years later
The big man Stewart had thought I was a 'spotter' from the IRA spotting him an off duty policeman in his home so that a shooter could take him out
He had his hand on his pistol in his glove box with a view to pull the trigger
He had me in his sights
Feb 2, 2024
Feb 2, 2024 at 4:28 AM UTC