Four decades back, I helped raise the literacy levels of the House of Windsor. It was the winter of 1975-76. My wife and I – both New Zealanders – were halfway through a working holiday in the UK, and I’d landed a job teaching at Bedales School, Hampshire. One of my pupils was a 14-year-old boy: nothing exceptional about him – apart from the fact that when the headmaster mentioned him at my interview, he also mentioned the on-site bodyguard. The boy was called David, and since staff and students at Bedales addressed one another by first names, he and I soon got into a jokey morning routine. Me: ‘G’day, David.’ Him: ‘Hello, David.’ I taught him English. Tried to, anyway; his spelling was rotten and his punctuation atrocious. Even at his age, he had official letters to write and presentations to make, because of his family. Could I help...
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