Through the first 18 months of my time with Miss. Steptoe, during the close of 81' and all of 82', I turned up at class and gazed endlessly at her without knowing what I was looking at. At 15, female anatomy had not yet taken on the importance in my mind as it would for the next twenty. Occasionally I would be motivated to turn in some half descent course work.

I used to love reading out loud in class; 'Lord of the Flies' was consumed with wide eyed horror as was 'Walkabout' and the concept of kill the young to live. Finally there was the ultimate in Science Fiction, for my mind; Aldous Huxleys 'Brave New World'. Despite being written during the 1930's it is a worryingly accurate depiction of 21st Century life. Not that it meant that at the time to me, it was just an astonishing book.

Miss. Steptoe had voiced her opinion to me on several occasions that she thought I could produce coursework that was a lot better with an imagination like mine, it was a message I had heard on many occasions, by many teachers of many years. I have no idea whether it was the schooling or me but I continued to feel singularly un-motivated to excel, when I could have done, only raising the game when I thought a white envelope might soon be produced.

In April of 1983, Miss. Steptoe did do something quite amazing.

With Spring in the air, a moist ground but the not quite so chill wind whistling around the school buildings, she strolled into the classroom one afternoon, handed out a magazine or newspaper article to each one of us and instructed us to make up a story based on the article. I laboured throughout the class as mine was totally uninteresting, one that I can not even recall now, it had been torn from a Sunday magazine.

The class came to an end and we were instructed to complete the story for homework that week. I tucked my magazine article into my weighty brown adidas school bag and headed out the door.

I am not sure what led me to tug the crumpled article from the bottom of my cluttered bag, the night before the homework was due. I think it was the lack of anything that could credibly be classed as coursework, with my final year exams looming in the near future. Whatever the reason I was imbued with a desire to do this, although my enthusiasm was tempered as I scanned the words for some sort of inspiration. I turned over the page and was greeted with the beaming smile of a man in army uniform. It was one half of a two page article on a 'Mercenary' and was written from the reporters perspective as she approached the mercenary's house. She was commenting that this house looked nothing like she thought a mercenaries house would look.

A thought suddenly struck me, maybe my copyright infringing days weren’t over! I sat down, copied the available page of the article word for word onto my sheets of lined A4 paper, finishing as the reporter walked through the door. I ripped up the article into very fine pieces, stuffed them into my pocket and after a surreptitious trip to the bathroom flushed them down the toilet. If asked to produce the article I would plead 'I lost it'! I then went to sleep that night with an untroubled mind.

The next day I handed in my coursework, sat through the lesson, was given more homework, which I may or may not have completed and then turned up for the following lesson a week later oblivious to the considerable excitement that I had unknowingly been generated in my English Language teacher.

Its not every day that you walk into English Language, sit down and are addressed by an obviously excited teacher that declares she is blessed to be teaching a Shakespeare and that Shakespeare was in this class. As she walked about the classroom, handing out coursework, chirping like a dawns chorus bird, I wondered with some jealousy who this person might be. They had certainly pressed Miss. Steptoes scholastic buttons. Eventually she stood there with one piece of paper in her hand, baring a smile that could have lite a stadium and I was the only person that hadn't received back their homework. Bugger.

I was caught full on like a rabbit in headlights. Despite being consumed by her aurora of fulfilment, her years of hard work paid off, experience had taught me this seldom lasts. A sense of doom and gloom descended on me, a white letter was surely imminent, surely someone would twig.

Miss. Steptoe then announced that she was going to read this Shakespearean piece and explain why it was just so.

That thirty minutes, that Miss Steptoe took to read and explain my essay was probably the most productive lesson I have ever had. Every time something of note occurred in my essay she explained why it was so good. The one example that stands out in my mind to this day was the way the reporter described the garden as she walked to the front door.

Miss Steptoe explained; Rather than simply write;

'I walked up the path to the door passing a pond'

John has written in such a way that allows us to create a picture of the garden in our minds. She then read out loud the words a paid journalist had written and I had copied;

'The gravel path looped its way down the garden, past a large oval pond, covered in lilies and reeds, round two laden crab apple trees and a bench. Judging from the paraphernalia scattered in neat groups on its worn surface it was frequently used during summer months. You could imagine the occupant sitting there during evenings looking out over the water and the trees beyond, watching the small yellow dingy bob gently too the ebb of the pond, that seemed a haven not only for small fish but for sparrows and blackbirds that feverishly sat on the rocks splashing water over their wings'

Miss Steptoe paused and for a moment I thought she was going to cry, this was all a revelation to me. I had of course taken in all the words when I copied them, but they had simply been words that were being copied to achieve a purpose. But as Miss. Steptoe was explaining their full weight was becoming obvious to me and the magic that I had enjoyed in countless books over nearly 6 years was now being revealed, easy! I thought, I am going to become a writer when I leave school.

Of course I didn't, that essay and its revelations did spur me on to a good 'o' level pass, my only one, but I left school and spent two years selling shoes, painting and decorating and working as a drivers assistant. Fortunately I managed to stay out of jail.

I did of course carry on reading and constantly marvel at the craft of well written prose often with some jealousy. These small experiences left a permanent mark on my mind that for many years just meant I read books but always there has been that desire to write and never a shortage of ideas, just of time and I suppose desire. I have written in that time lots of fragments, several short stories but never anything with focus.

Some 6 weeks after the Steptoe Articles I turned sixteen and by complete chance brought my first computer, which was to be a whole new focus and a catalyst that some 19 years later would result in you spending 30 minutes reading something I wrote, but that's another story!