It was a golden autumn many years ago. I had taken my books to the river bank behind King's - a quiet spot in those days. The afternoon crocodile of choristers in pairs, smallest at the front, tallest at the rear, approached from across the bridge and turned left to follow the path to the Chapel. A gardener had left a barrow of fallen leaves by the path.
As the dignified procession passed, two older boys stepped out of line, upturned the barrow and tipped its contents into the river. Just as quickly, they resumed their places and made their way to Evensong. I wonder if any of the angels reads the Independent and remembers that diversion?
15 DecemberReuse content