My primary school teacher’s name was Mrs Boyne.
She once told my mother at a parent interview: “Your son is a complete dreamer. He’ll never amount to anything in this life.”
I still think that was a pretty harsh judgment on a seven-year-old.
I was, and am, a dreamer. She got that bit right.
It was about second or third grade that I first read Jules Verne’s Michael Strogoff. To get my hands on it, I had to endure a slobbery wet kiss from my Aunty Ivy, but I considered it well worth it.
By the end of that first afternoon, I was hooked on classic literature. Continue reading