A slashed seat? How terribly oiky

The prep school I went to in the 1970s had changed little since the 1940s. Lumpy mattresses, barely edible food, harsh discipline. It’s why we spent our every day there dreaming of escape; and why we nicknamed it Colditz. Not that I’m complaining. Though no mother now would dream of sending her eight-year old boy to such an establishment, I feel quite privileged to have been there. It was horrible but it was endurable and it was very, very memorable. Experience with a capital ‘E’.

One thing you notice under such conditions is how incredibly appreciative you become of every creature comfort. On the rare occasions when they accidentally gave us butter instead of marge, it tasted better than ambrosia; as for the time when they couldn’t find any tracing paper for us to use as bog roll and had to substitute some soft tissue instead — well, it felt gentler than ermine and thistledown.