Friends, I don’t need to tell you that circumstances surrounding me are not those every 14 year old endures. For a start, having a gargoyle nearly land on your head during dinner is an unsettling thing. But if matters had simply ended there, I would have put it down to good luck and carried on with barely a care in the world. If only.
You’ll find across these pages some of my sketches. I’ve always carried a sketchbook with me since I was a boy and it’s served me well, what with the extraordinary adventures I’ve been swept up in of late. (Read about them here) Naturally enough I wasn’t able to sketch much at the time, but soon afterwards, (often when my heart had stopped racing and my nerves had settled), I’d sit down and capture a little of what I’d seen. I hope you like them.
Let me begin with my history teacher, because he really got me involved in all this mess. Mister Dalton Spigglesworth, is my favourite teacher. I am not – if you believe what he says, at least – his favourite student. (His report is at the bottom of this page, should you care to read it). (And you can read more about Mr Spigglesworth here) History and I are a bad mix. You’ll know that most of it concerns people who are dead, or very nearly dead, and that turns me off from the start. I can appreciate many acts of courage and derring-do, particularly those of Englishmen, but more often I picture myself meeting the individuals concerned, sharing tea with them and inquiring of them of their adventures in their living rooms. Soaking up their atmosphere if you will. Not reading about them in books.
Of course, if you’ve read my tale about the Ark you’ll know my relation to history has irrevocably changed. You’d very quickly find history fascinating too if not understanding it could lead to your being killed simply for not paying attention. Now, I’m so enmeshed in history and seemingly playing such a large part in it, that I’m sure one day countless school boys across England will be reading about me – though I’ve made it easier for them by jotting down my memoirs in my pleasant, easy-to-read style (so I’ve heard it described).
Even Marty, with all his good marks, can’t claim that. It might seem boastful to some, but I believe I’m rather better at making history than reading it.
Oh, and did I mention that I’m (supposedly) a Knight. There doesn’t seem to be consensus on it (you’ll have to read the book to see what I mean by that) but I’m saying I’m more Knight, than not.