"If I were you, I'd shut the fuck up, Crumbles," said Squonky. "Matron is on her rounds and there'll be Hades to pay if she catches you jabbering." 

"Follow your own advice," I muttered. 

We were tucked up in the elite dormitory, along with the third member of our select band, Pipsqueak Kelleghan. Like the nickname suggested, he piped up only occasionally and a little nervously. How he'd become the base of our isosceles triangle of future governmental power was a complete mystery. 

Here came Matron. First you'd hear her shoes clip-clopping towards the dorm like a sound effect on the wireless. Then her scent - somewhere in the channel between Chanel and Brasso. Finally, her full presence. 

"Goodnight, boys," she hissed, tapping a bamboo cane against her callused palms. Corporal punishment never went out of fashion around these parts. "And if you need to use the facilities during the night," she continued, "please remember to flush. We are not plebeians." 

A chorus of : "Yes, ma'am." Count to ten. Count another twenty for good luck. I wriggled out from beneath the blankets, located a small Tupperware container secreted behind the bedpost. An extra helping of treacle pudding from the generous canteen cook. 

"You'll end up fatter than Friar Tuck," Squonky Duquesne said. 

"Keep your own noise down," I answered. "You're making me sound like a tape loop." 

"You're always repeating yourself, Crumbles. It'll find you out in the end." 

I ignored him. Brown syrup, yellow sponge still slightly warm. Yummy. 

*

I was aware that there were at least three variations of Matron. I wasn't stupid; in fact, I was excessively smart. This current iteration - Matron Two - had much darker skin and a confident stance that brooked no nonsense. 

Today's module was: "Culpability and How to Avoid it". 

"I'm very sorry for what I've done," mumbled Pipsqueak, "and you have my oath that it will not happen again." 

"I? I?" Matron stared him down, chalk crumbling in her left hand, wood and felt board rubber quaking in her right. "How many times must I tell you, Kelleghan, never use the personal pronoun in politics. OK, Smythe, your turn." 

"It is most regrettable that this has happened," I began. "A full and thorough investigation will be launched." 

"Better. But rather passive. Duquesne, you have the floor." 

Squonky gave her his most obsequious smile, ruffled his untidy blond hair a little more before blustering, "Thank you, Matron. Whilst it is a concern that this should have happened, let us move on quickly from what is a mere distraction, barely a setback, and instead celebrate what we have achieved already and what we can hope for and expect in our future -" 

"He used personal pronouns," I interrupted. 

Matron pulled the leather whip from her thigh-length boot, cracked it once close enough to my nose to make me step back a little. "We trumps I. Duquesne has remembered the cloak of inclusivity." 

"He's as inclusive as a billionaires' yacht club," I responded. 

Matron smiled and that was worse than her ire. "You find your flame now, Smythe. You need to be pre-emptive, not reactive." 

"Like a missile strike," Squonky simpered. 

*

The forthcoming debating session with the top swotty girls from Sophie's Tree Political School for Females was uppermost in all our minds. Pipsqueak Kelleghan assured us he was keen to listen to what the young ladies had to say and that he was all ears. 

"Well you certainly aren't mouth and trousers," Squonky commented. 

"You seem very sure of yourself, Duquesne," I told him. 

"Whyever not? They can yap all they like and maybe have something worth saying that I can borrow from these babes, but sooner or later they'll all be off to daub some lipstick or slap on another sanitary towel and moan about pelvic aches." 

We had reached the far edge of the quadrangle. We turned through the gateway and out towards the playing fields. 

"You're the pelvic ache, Squonky. Prehistoric, in fact, with the attitudes you hold." 

He offered what he considered to be his best boyish future election winning smile. "I'm just pulling your leg, chaps," he said. 

"Well my legs are getting tired with all this perambulating," Pipsqueak muttered. 

"You really are a big girl's blouse, Kelleghan. Lucky for you we all got excused games this term." Squonky gestured over to where one group of mud-spattered youths in lavender hooped jerseys were chasing relentlessly at a group of youths in harlequin get-up. "All right, you rugger buggers?" he shouted. 

A couple of the guys catcalled in return, the rest continued to engage each other in medieval fashion, the oval ball presumably somewhere in the midst of the skirmish. 

"Your language is a bit unreconstructed, Squonky," I offered. 

"It's just banter, that's all. If you're not man enough to take it, well, you're not man enough." 

We were close to the school orchard by now. Another thirty yards would bring us to the picnic clearing. 

"The rugby chaps will be fine about it. Anyhow, I've invited them all to a BYOBUD tomorrow." 

"A bio-bud?" 

"A party. Bring Your Own Blow Up Doll. Should be a lark. There's still time to get to Ann Summers in town. Just slip out of the uniform before you head to the bus stop, haha!" 

*

Matron Three had recently suffered  a serious skiing accident. She had tried crutches for a while but had lately upgraded to a turbo-charged wheelchair. This meant she could easily outpace our nonchalant strolling and even give the school sprinters a run for their money. Now she was patrolling the perimeter as our year group cohort convened for a boisterous alfresco evening. I had lately been studying distillation techniques and had smuggled in a small bottle of spirit derived from fruit filling concentrates, which I hid in the undergrowth surrounding a horse chestnut tree. I had done my best but would have liked to check the technique and details on Google. Our phones, however, were kept under lock and key throughout term time, with supervised calls home to close family at the weekend the only acceptable exceptions. 

All the boys were in high spirits and the rolling cast of on-duty masters and matrons maintained a discreet distance as the boasts of holiday antics and invented romps became ever more lurid. Culminating in Squonky Duquesne's account of how his supposedly huge phallus caused irreparable damage to a chicken carcass. Who really wanted to hear such tall tales? We'd been served fowl platter at lunchtime so, as you can imagine, my stomach felt a bit queasy at that point. Honestly, such language would not have been permitted inside the classroom, even with the smokescreen of studious use of Latin terminology. But Squonky got away with everything. Then and now. 

"Enjoy your evening, lads, but it's lights out in half an hour," Matron Two announced. 

"Cheers, miss," Squonky replied, raising his fluted glass. "It's just fizzy apple juice," he added, to much merriment. 

Later, Pipsqueak called the two of us aside and said, "I've been told that Minority Party Leader will be the limit for me. So it's a two horse race now." 

"And I'm the white stallion," Squonky beamed "Which makes you, Crumbles Smythe, the old nag or the mare." 

I punched him in the arm just lightly enough to be seen as boisterous but hard enough to hurt. 

*

We're taught not to see females as sex objects but… fuck me, they wear their skirts short at Sophie's Tree School. 

And while our brains are addled, they get on with outstudying and outlearning and outperforming the rest of us, I suppose. 

The school had sent over a dozen lovelies to discuss economics, politics and social policy with our unholy trinity. Of course, nearly all of them congregated around apparent alpha male Squonky. Ahead of the official announcement, it was already clear who was destined to become top dog. 

But there was just one girl who took a shine to me. With the suspiciously old-fashioned name of Glenda. 

"I hear you've got a sweet tooth, Crumbles Smythe," she said. I wanted to reply with something like, I think I could be sweet on you, or even to tell her that my name was Geoff, not Crumbles but she was already speaking again: "We get cheesecake once a week, special treat. Here, try some." It was delicious and I told her so. She laughed. "My mother says she'd rather have a slice of beefcake. Maybe I've found one. I'll give you my number." 

I liked that she was forward and straight-talking. I explained the problem and how they treated us as… well, boys. "OK, look, next time you're calling your folks, just slip me a little text. And we'll take it from there." 

She was already destined for great things. I hoped I qualified in that grouping. "Oh dear," she said, "only one small portion left. Maybe we should bite it in half together?..." 

*

I had just finished a seminar on "Gladhanding" and was on my way to a "Filibuster" refresher when Matron Three sped past me like a Formula One contender. I leaned against the red wall for support as she passed; then I heard, "Psst!" from close by. It was everybody's favourite errant schoolboy Squonky Duquesne, crouched in a mezzanine alcove next to a broom cupboard. 

"It's a good job that Dalek can't climb stairs," he stated. 

"Why are you skulking here?" 

"They said I was drunk at spin class this morning. They're trying to do a breath test on me. Me? A future Prime Minister." 

"Couldn't you just bluster it out in your usual fashion, Squonky? Deny everything, blame someone else?"  

"Yes, but you weren't around to carry the can for my misdemeanours this time, were you, Crumbles? If there's one thing I hate, it's breaking the Eleventh Commandment." 

"Which is?" 

"Thou shalt not get caught, stupid. Anyway, I've got some of this stashed to keep me busy 'til lunchtime." 

He held up a bottle which I recognised as my missing hooch. 

"Shift over, pal," I told him, "I'd quite like a taste of that." 

*

There were concurrent movements at work: specifically, what was reported to the parents and what was actually going on. The school liked to make a pretence of democracy and some no-mark called Carabin had been elected to the post of "Head Boy". With zero executive powers. And no future pathway to greatness, either. 

Here in the Principal's office, with said father of the house flanked by all three Matrons, was where the real decisions were made. I had been summoned for interview. I knew what was coming. 

"Duquesne has excelled in all sectors, as I'm sure you'll agree, Smythe." 

"Yes, sir. But what of me?" 

"We find you reactive. Not reactionary." A small smile, a fake laugh. "Duquesne is a true leader born; or at least thinks he is, which will carry him that far. You are better suited to responding. Intelligently, mind. We have you down for a future Leader of the Opposition." 

It was as I'd anticipated. Not as I'd hoped. I suspected Glenda had already guessed this much. Later, I would call mater and pater with the development; and text my possible love interest. 

"Thank you, sir. I shall be honoured to be an honourable member in that role." 

I could hear the sounds of a rugby match outside. The future of the country was being decided on the playing fields and in the classrooms of this feted, fee-paying school. 

The sun was pouring through the window. I hoped that it gave me at least a temporary halo. I was going to need one.