I remember the first morning trying to open my starched collar with a nail file so I could breathe. I was crippled by a kind of beauty, which was hell for me, and I got a lot of wrong responses.
I had blondish, long hair, and in a school full of boys that is the nearest thing to a girl you can get. It makes you very self-conscious. I watched other pretty boys do better than me.
I remember walking around holding my mouth differently, and out-staring people, and I cut my hair and poked at my face with a pin, and tried to infect the wound with dirt.
The older boys could send junior boys on errands, and I was sent by one of the top members of my house to take a message to a boy in another house. And when I got there, after a few minutes, I was aware that I had been sent for other reasons, and I began to retreat. He said: ‘I want a picture of you, that’s all.’ But I felt threatened by him, and frightened by the fact I had been set up by the boy in my house.
Jeremy Brett, on his time at Eton (via sam42)
Is it wrong that this is totally hot?