![]() ![]() I printed it off, pleased with myself, yet sure Mr Moss - one of those sarcastic, nit-picking teachers - would find plenty of flaws in my work.Ī week later, when he was returning the assignment, Moss did something I’d never seen a teacher do before. After two or three drafts, the Dickens imitation was done. I used it for typing out essays and writing fiction, though my efforts so far had been pitiful, deleted the next day. ![]() When I’d written enough, I typed it up, using the Amstrad word processor my mother had bought for me, second hand, from an ad in the evening paper. In my bedroom, I scribbled away, losing track of time. Read it first, if you like.Yours must be different.You have carte blanche to do what you like, plot-wise, but it must be in the style of Dickens.’ Then he went on about Style for a while. ‘I’d like you,’ he said, ‘to pretend you are Dickens. We’d got to the end of chapter twelve when Mr Moss gave us a different kind of assignment. I had already decided that I would live in London one day. I joined in, but, secretly, I was enjoying myself, especially when Mr Moss told us about Victorian London, a place bursting with invention and energy yet, at the same time, squalid, even depraved. The rest of the class complained that it was too long. In English, we were reading David Copperfield. ![]() The first thing you need to hear about happened when I was fourteen. ![]()
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