One of those small squares
close to The Inns of Court.
A place for lunch, I'd thought,
and here we were --
though somewhat earlier than planned.
We'd visited the Building Centre --
and been thrown out.
Correction: politely asked to leave.
The pupils, armed with questionaires
had been set loose. Simple research
tasks prepared by John. It was John's show,
but I'd been sent along -- well, just in case!
John was new to pupils such as ours
and not quite on their wavelength, yet.
For Malcolm and his friends, research had been
interpreted as commandeering lifts
and flying up and down between the floors.
John was incensed: In all my life, I've never
been thrown out of anywhere! he'd moaned
(inaudibly) as we'd trecked to the square.
We sat the boys along the low wall
of a fountain -- dry, as fate would have it.
Then as I cleared my throat to launch
into my homily, Malcolm, in an act of
unadulterated nonchalance, leaned back
and placed his left foot on the wall.
John was a stream in spate that burst its banks.
Take your foot off that wall and sit up straight!
he yelled. Malcolm, six feet something of Jamaican
manhood, considered. Decided. Rose to his full height.
Dat's maaaaaaaaa foot. Maaaaaaaaaa foot! he roared.
Da Gude Lawd, He gave me Maaaaaaaaaa foot, man!
Da Gude Lawd and Da Gude Lawd alone. And only
da Gude Lawd alone can tell me wat to do
wid dat dere foot o'mine. So no one else
aint'a gonna tell me what to do with maaaaaa foot
save The gude, gude Lawd Hisself! Hallelujah!
And he punched the air.
The passing public rather appreciated the
unexpected street performance - or so I thought.
John did not. He resigned soon after the event.
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