"I don’t want to return home, I don’t want to return home,” I repeated to myself as I sat with my two bags of luggage at the Cambridge Railway Station. My knocker was filled with thoughts of the petty manners, stifling etiquette, and empty conversation that I would have to endure back home at the Howard Estate in York. Oh, how I despised such trifles! Almost at every turn in Howard one would encounter a stately young lady burning inside with a desire that could only be fulfilled through marriage, at least in those times, the 1920’s. I wanted absolutely nothing to do with those locusts who wanted me for my parents’ extravagant wealth and old name. I wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with the stuffy old buggers anyway: they did not tickle my fancy, one might say.

The gushing young women who often stayed as guests at my family’s estate were not the only reason I so dreadfully loathed the thought of returning to York—the women were only one small part of the stuffiness there. My family followed the old English idea that affluence and stateliness must necessarily lead to behaving overly traditional; or, in other words, to act like complete arses. I have disagreed with them ever since I was a young lad, but of course could never bring myself to vocalize those sentiments. To do so would undoubtedly have lead to any number of unwanted consequences, such as a total loss of my inheritance. I may not have liked the idea of having bundles of money at my disposal, but I was in no hurry to relegate myself to a life of work or soldiery (or, God forbid, a monastery!). Thus I did what any good boy with sense knows to do and I waited until I entered University and took out my frustrations on my classmates by being a voraciously argumentative and ill-tempered chap. Despite my temperament, the boys loved my liveliness and queer manner of dealing with others.

I had always suspected that I was a tad bit different than the rest of my family, or my so-called mates for that matter. One hint of this abnormality was how terribly much I enjoyed wrestling with my mates in primary school, or how I would peek at them in the washroom after an exhaustive morning of fox hunting. It never went beyond such things, however, and still hadn’t gone beyond such things as I sat upon that firm wooden bench pondering my desires and awaiting the steam locomotive that would haul me to London, where I would catch the “Flying Scotsman” to York.

I had always found trains to be terribly dreadful. For that very reason I had nearly decided to abandon the trip back home altogether. Deserting my family for the Christmas holidays did not seem like a very bright idea however, once I considered my inheritance. There was simply too much time in a little cabin by one’s own self! To be honest, however, I found ways to pass the time. I merely had to reflect on when I would watch the rugby matches that occurred in Cambridge between the rugged country boys. The very thought of their flesh pounding against one another while in pursuit of the leather ball caused an unrest in my knickers. I recalled how one man’s hard frame would thrust against another’s, the fleshy meat