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There was a physical education teacher who taught at my school, a certain Tony Phillips. He had a pal, John Norton. I thought about them today on my hike up this Chilean mountain. Or is it a hill? Phillips and Norton damaged my confidence at a young age. Granted, I received praise in other subjects. I was strong at history. But feeling rubbish at sport affected my self-image. For years. I dismissed myself as clumsy and impractical, and certainly not physical.
Norton told me I would pass away from a heart attack by the age of thirty-five. That leaves me with just under a year to go. I climbed 1, metres along a route of 6. At every break in the path, I felt an ache that stretched from my lungs to my throat. Who am I kidding? I am the big-nosed gay kid who flounced when everyone else was doing a Fosbury Flop for the high jump!
Phillips sported a sandy moustache. I mistook it for being a sign of his authority. Now I prefer to think of it as compensation for multiple inadequacies or a perversion peculiar to PE teachers who teach boys at single-sex grammar schools. He was fond of wearing a lime green sweatshirt: from memory, every single day. PE teachers at my school in Barnet were peripatetic, so every now-and-again, they were drafted in to teach Geography or pretend they knew something about Supply-side economics.
One morning, Phillips substituted for our form teacher and took the register. Dressed in his usual outfit, when he reached my name, he briefly scanned the class and trained his eyes on me with the deliberate stare of an orchestra conductor. My classmates were surprised. John Norton meanwhile was a water-hog of a man, formed to play rugby or to chop down trees. He had a snout for a nose and furious, darting eyes. I often felt his gaze in the refectory. I would race through lunch or else wait for the inevitable moment when Norton would pass me and imitate me as a hunchback.