My Santiago

of that ramshackle very ‘common room’ Where, With its rattan armchairs, Whitewashed walls and iron - barred windows, We imagined this torture was spawned - By his distinct wobble - walk, Whippy cane in hand, Slapping soft, fat flanks, Licking spitty lips.

Ebert, however, never quite got it!

Geoffrey, with his boyish looks, His thick bifocals,

And the smell of fear; Would get hit every Kavi infested post - lunch Wednesday, In our Upper Fourth private school education, And Ebert would cry, As we looked on Stoney - faced, Struck dumb with fear, Just thankful that it was him, Not us!

All too human; we were.

We were 14, And girls, Any age, any shape, any form, Real or from the intimate centre folds of our father’s magazines, Were our leanings and learning.

Not Kavi!

Those sweat - infused Wednesdays, That Mount Lavinia (late sixties) time, (No liberation or love - ins here), That adolescent year, That singular man with his pock marked, florid face, His wobble hips, His whippy, bendy cane, And Sinhala Kavi; Are etched in my mind.

I still don’t know any Kavi, But Wednesdays post - lunch, these days, Are fine.