"Yes, sir," I replied weakly. I figured we were talking at cross purposes — he was referring to real flutes, whereas all I knew how to play was a tin-whistle — but I didn't know whether it was the time for me to point this out. In the end I kept my mouth shut and hoped he'd forget about my supposed flute-playing talents.

He told me each lesson lasted forty minutes. There was a ten-minute break at eleven o'clock; fifty minutes for lunch at ten past one; school finished at four. "Detention runs from four-thirty to six," he informed me, "but hopefully that won't concern you, eh?"

"I hope not, sir," I replied meekly.

The tour concluded back at his office, where he furnished me with my timetable. It was a frightening list — English, history, geography, science, maths, mechanical drawing, two modern languages, computer studies. A double dose of PE on Wednesdays. I had three free periods, one on Monday, one on Tuesday, one on Thursday. Mr. Chivers said these were for extra-curricular activities, such as music or extra languages, or they could be used as study classes.

He shook my hand again, wished me the best of luck and told me to call on him if I ran into difficulty. After warning me not to break any windows or give my teachers grief he showed me out into the corridor, where he left me. It was 9.40 A bell rang. Time for my first class of the day — geography.

The lesson went reasonably well. I'd spent the last six years poring over maps and keeping abreast of the War of the Scars, so I had a better idea of the shape of the world than most of my classmates. But I knew nothing about human geography — a lot of the lesson revolved around economies and culture, and how humans shaped their environments — and I was at a loss every time talk switched from mountain ranges and rivers to political systems and population statistics.