Pre Internet, mobile phones, and any device which disconnects human beings, we lived by connection and what we called making our own fun. All manner of social activities were the norm. Playing in bands. Singing in choirs. Weekend dances. Debating and musical societies. All towns and villages as part of their civic pride, afforded all manner and means to be culturally educated across all social classes.

When I went to my secondary school aged eleven years, my English teacher Alun Rees, was not only the school drama teacher but also the leader of the local operatic society. I had a crush on him immediately. Welsh with grey hair and a moustache, he had lived in South Africa and spoke Swahili, and exuded a sort of Graham Greene charm my mother did not find attractive. I thought him exotic and urbane. He was my hero.

Noticing my aptitude for poetry and prose, he cast me in school plays. From being Alice in Wonderland to a saucy barmaid in Half a Sixpence, I graduated to helping with costumes and props in South Pacific and Carousel. My first ever glass of wine was drunk at an end of performance party. I studied Orwell and Lawrence with him as well as the First World War poets.

When I was 15 my time on the stage ended when my father put a stop to my extra curricula activities. I was the lead in a play called ‘Brave’. It was an account of the Native American way of life and its destruction by the white man. I had to dye my hair jet black, and put it in plaits. I was called ‘Broken Willow’ and probably over acted. At least that’s what my father said.

I hung up my costumes and focused on my academic studies. I never saw Alun Rees again. But think of him each time I sing songs from Roger’s and Hammerstein musicals and quote Wilfred Own.

A great teacher lives on way past their lifetime. Because we fructify them in our memories, and the cards we play in the life deck we get given. I think he would be smiling at where that skinny girl from class 3A ended up. Cheers to you Alun Rees.

Julia - a singing pilgrim in Portugal.