I’ve been listening to Sir Ranulph Fiennes read from his book Fear. He has a rather, stiff and careful delivery but its portent is, nonetheless, interesting. He writes about his time at Eton. He was a pretty boy and from the outset branded as a ‘tart’ and suffered endless taunts and verbal abuse. You wonder why his mother didn’t remove him. But I suppose parents didn’t in those days. They didn’t in my day either. Neither my elder sister or myself was happy at LC. Though her misery was more evident than mine. My younger sisters, being more gregarious, fared better. It was an act of survival for me. And the loss of personal and private space the worst of it. Solitary by nature I did not blossom amongst large groups of girls. A torment, mostly, except for brief interludes of escape in the grounds and upstairs in Mrs P’s drama studio. I am sorry for his upset and mine. Though I think he has turned out braver than I.
