I was confronted with a bit of a dilemma at the outset of the Summer half in that there was some reluctance, amongst the other members of the Library, to elect my good friend Adam (who had now came to mess with Richard and myself,) to join our number. Jeremy Thomas, Roger Cunliffe and John Mander had all departed at the end of the previous half - leaving Iain Graham-Wigan, John Wood and myself in the Library. We were all in full accord about the election of Richard Timpson, but there was no such agreement to be found on the question of Adam Fergusson and John Ganzoni.

My own wish was to elect the two of them simultaneously, which would have entailed that the chores of being Junior Member fell upon Ganzoni's shoulders. But the others disliked Adam, and were only prepared to accept him if he were to be elected a fortnight later than Ganzoni, whom all four greatly preferred: in which case the Junior Member would be Fergusson. I knew - and Adam knew - that I was in a position to assert my will by refusing anything other than a simultaneous election. But Adam never took into account just how unpopular he was in their esteem, so took it badly when I decided that I should bend to the majority demand. He took this demotion as a loss of face, from which I could have saved him. But my own feeling was that, much as I preferred him to John Ganzoni as a friend, he should accept that the demotion resulted from his own negligence to woo the regard of his peer group over these past years.

In point of fact, once this crisis had been weathered, an entente in friendly relations all round emerged. Jeremy's departure from the scene entailed that a different atmosphere now prevailed; and a far cruder atmosphere it has to be admitted - with much wrestling, and general horse play, including sexual assaults to grab each other unexpectedly by the genitals. But I found that my own best tactics were to keep myself slightly aloof from all these antics. I had seen how Jeremy had established himself as the dominant spirit within the previous Library, by retaining a position slightly aloof from the rest of us. And I knew that my prestige in the boxing ring entailed that the others more or less knew who was liable to vanquish, if the going got really tough. By refraining from such combat play, I was aware that my aura of invincibility remained curiously intact.

I also refrained from the obsession for betting on the horses, which brought several of my colleagues to the brink of bankruptcy before the half was out. David Middleton had set himself up as the school punter, in the tutor's just across the road from us; and my friends' faces were truly glum the afternoon when they had all attempted to recoup their losses by doubling up, to win or go bust, on the possibility of Prince Simon (the "dead cert" favourite) coming first past the post in one particular race. But he failed to match up to their expectations. My restraint from indulging in the hope for such quick profits somehow fortified my standing in the Library, and I was aware how I was beginning to assume Jeremy's mantle as the dominant personality.

Iain's tenure of the House Captaincy may have been a bit shaky at this particular juncture. I have never discovered the exact reason why he had fallen out with Jaques, but he intimated to me later that he had been urged to leave at the end of this half, which would have made way for my own appointment as Captain of the House. While the uncertainty existed, Iain merely suggested that he might be going to leave of his own volition. But once the crisis had been weathered, he admitted that the pressure on him had been greater than that, although I was never told just what he had done, or been discovered doing, to incur Jaques's displeasure.

I think it is true to say that Jaques had always held me in high regard. But my standing within his tutor's at large was also high, and it was enhanced perhaps by the fact that Iain was not exactly a popular House Captain - which I put down to the sadistic streak in his personality. He was apt to deliver down-putting remarks to the miscreants who came before him for punishment, priding himself on his ability to reduce them to tears before any strokes had actually been delivered. This resulted in them departing from the scene of their humiliation with a dislike for the person who had administered any such beating up. There were occasions when it was a task which Iain delegated to myself, or to others. But I think that my own words of reproof were less acid perhaps, and more in keeping with a spirit of it all being a necessary ritual for the maintenance of house discipline, with a degree of sympathy for the culprit, and which we could all afford to take in good humour, as part and parcel of a system to which we all subscribed.

Having said this however, it is interesting to note the tone that I adopted in a letter home where I describe the first occasion when I had such a beating up to perform. It was for quite a serious offence, where a gang of three Lower boys, namely Tubbs, Davison and Reed minor, who had systematically been terrorising those junior to them; a case of bullying, in effect. The one whom I had been assigned to castigate was Davison.

It is evident however, that those I was beating bore me no resentment, as was revealed during the last few days of the half when I called for volunteers, from amongst the Lower boys, to perform a perilous commando mission on my behalf. And it was Tubbs, Davison and Marsh who offered their services.

There had been quite a lot of larking about, between myself and friends who happened to be in Pop, in terms of the practical jokes that we played upon each other, through the medium of fagging errands. Robin Douglas-Home was responsible for sending a group of his fags to kick me on the shins. I cannot remember how I had retaliated to this. But when Jocelyn Stevens sent his fags to upturn a large tin of peanut butter in my bed, I asked for these volunteers who might effect my revenge.

My instruction was that they should wait until I had departed, a couple of days before the official end of the half, to attend the officers' training corps camp - something from which Jocelyn was excused, as he was leaving. My commando group were to take what remained in the can of peanut butter, and return it to Jocelyn in his Library at Petersham's, and to bombard him with handfuls of it before making their escape. They fulfilled my instructions to the letter. But Jocelyn unfortunately lost his temper with them, and chased them from the house - swiping at their buttocks with a pop-cane. The point of this story is that I could hardly have counted upon the co-operation of these Lower boys if I had in fact been disliked. It was only because I was a bit of a hero in their eyes that they were willing to run the risks in such a perilous errand.

The fact is that I now had quite a considerable number of good friends who were in Pop. Francis Hoare had departed at the end of the Easter half, and Robin managed to get himself sacked - for flouting school rules - during the course of this half. But my activities on the river had brought me into contact with others, like Jocelyn Stevens and Adrian Swire. And there was Clive Hardcastle from the Praed Society, and David Tankard and John Wheeler who were both members of the Eton boxing team. Although there were areas amongst the school's elite where I still hadn't made any significant acquaintances, I was aware how my chances of getting elected into Pop at the end of this half had been rising steadily all the while.

The idea of getting into Pop was the secret ambition of so many Etonians that I found myself in a state of nervous tension when the morning of the elections arrived. Nobody at Jaques's had been chosen for this honour since my second half at Eton, so I felt that even more than usual was at stake. And when lunchtime came round, without any messages having been received, I assumed that I must have been rejected. It was horrible having to pretend that nothing was wrong when I was feeling so sadly disappointed.

After lunch I went to the drawing-schools, to immerse myself in a painting and thus to forget my cares. And it was while I was there that the good tidings were brought to me. It was Clive Hardcastle and David Tankard who were the first to arrive, bursting into the studio cheering merrily - more to the bewilderment of others than to myself, who at least understood what their good humour signified. And during the following half hour a relay of my friends in Pop came running in to heighten the sound of congratulatory rejoicing. And needless to say, I was feeling on top of the world.

A gushing salubrious relief floods my blood,
rushing to a palpitating heart, when I hear
the fear of failure was unreal: that I've actually made
the grade for Eton's highest accolade.
Swathed in coloured silk, with chequered bags,
my bragging port has caught the peacock's image;
trimly iridescent in sizzling finery,
I'm mindful of august tradition in standing and renown.
Town faces turn towards me, gaudily
lording commands with finger-snapping ease,
receiving evident respect and adulation
for my gracious presence and bold unquestioned authority.
Such popularity, for ever more
should open for me every single door.

I learnt later that I had been put up three times; on the first occasion by Clive, when I had received quite a large number of black-balls: something around seven I think. On the second occasion, I was put up - quite surprisingly - by Wilkinson, to whom I had barely ever spoken. (He was the son of the beak, the inmates of whose house had been responsible for my persecution during the [F] crisis.) But he was a good friend of Clive's, which probably explains the matter. This time I received about five black-balls. And it was only when I was put up for the third time - by David Tankard on this occasion - that I was finally elected, although still obtaining two black-balls against my name. I was able to make a shrewd guess as to the identity of those who had blackballed me to the last, in that there were only two members of Pop who neglected to congratulate me at all upon my election. And these were Coleridge and Metaxa.

As soon as the results in the election had been spread abroad, I could sense an appreciable difference in people's attitude towards me. My friends tended to speak to me with a touch of deference, whilst those who didn't know me very well regarded me with a new curiosity. And it was almost laughable how the most notorious of the pop-oilers started to work on me immediately: namely [K] and [L]. Both of them were senior to me on the school list, and had never deigned to speak to me before. It may be that my election took them by surprise, but in any case they were now very quick to offer me their personal congratulations - in that my support for their own candidature would be required at the start of the Michaelmas half. And the awful part is that I couldn't help feeling flattered at such antics, which had struck me as disgusting when I had observed them wooing the favour of others.

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