Mr Samways

A colossus in houndstooth tweed

He’s rubbing his knob on the desk said Carol to Wendy. It was a furtive stage whisper to tickle her friend during their shared boredom with transoms, cruck houses and mullions. It was a Wednesday, which meant a stultifying afternoon of Vernacular Architecture in the sixth form art room.

The classroom was in an upstairs corner of a sixties glass and steel construction that, to my part-tutored eyes, smacked encouragingly of the Bauhaus. Less is more, form follows function etc. It was bright and airy, overlooking a small green hill at the back of the school.

Our ‘A’ level art teacher was the mighty, impressive, Mr Bryn Samways (we named our youngest after him although my wife says it was for the more famous opera singer, Bryn Terfel). Mr Samways had a mad, grey, Don King style haircut, although his complexion was more russet than black. Like John Major, you could never remember whether he had a moustache or just a grey upper lip. He taught us Art, Calligraphy and Architecture from his raised platform in front of the class which he bestrode like a colossus in houndstooth tweed.

Always impeccably dressed, and often sporting a white lab coat, he’d occasionally pop into the room, cover his tie with his hand and ask For those who think they’re observant, what colour is my tie?