All in a name

Phone call from Oliver last night. I had had a letter from him the other morning which had a lot of brown scribble on the bottom. When I quizzed him about it he said that he hadn’t been able to think of anything to write, so the master had suggested that he draw a picture, but he hadn’t been able to think of anything to draw either, but fortuitously he had remembered all the mud on the cross country run, and had drawn some of that for me. Then he drew in his breath and whispered (several times, because it isn’t easy to understand a whispering nine year old with a cold) “Can I tell you a very, very, very, very secret?”

I gulped, because of course one’s blood runs cold at the thought of horrible secrets that might possibly happen in single-sex prep-schools: but he whispered sibilantly: “I’ve become a spy.”

I was surprised about this, because if the tabloids are to be believed you don’t usually get recruited for this until you start your course on Politics at Oxford: but made some encouraging noises, and he continued: “If the boys in the dormitory are being horrid to people, when Matron comes in and says: “Is everything all right?” if I say: “Yes, thank you,” then it is all right, but if I say: “All right, I think, Matron,” then she knows it isn’t and listens outside the door to make sure nobody is horrid and then gets them if they are.”

I was impressed, and congratulated him, and he carried on cheerfully:

“The other word for it is Snitch. But I like spy better.”

It’s all in a name.