He is not
tall. His thick grey hair, once blonde,
shows no sign of receding and although the colour has changed, he styles it in
the same way he has for years. He still maintains that his mother gave him the
best haircuts. His eyes are bright blue,
the wrinkles that surround them a testament to the years of pleasure and
happiness he has enjoyed. He has a deep
dimple on one cheek, which sits determinedly there even when he is not
smiling. He wears his clothes well;
well-fitting and well looked after.
He looks
out over the lecturn at the students and wonders, as he does every year, how
they could be so young. As he unpacks
his briefcase and prepares to begin, that familiar feeling of nervous
excitement rushes through him. He now
thrives on it although it has taken him a long time to realise the difference
between fear and anticipation.
The lecture
hall din turns to a subdued hush as he begins to speak. His voice is clear and strong, a voice of
experience and confidence. Although it
fills every corner of the room, it is not invasive, and the students settle
down in their chairs to absorb his words. There is the slightest hint of an
accent and many have tried and failed to place it. He enjoys the speculation and the air of
mystery it affords him.
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