In September 1991, I had just been thrown into the meat-grinder of a Midlands boarding school. In this bear pit, there were predators and there was prey. You were either the swaggering rugby alpha, whipping a wet towel at pale bodies in the eight-boy dormitory; or the homesick ghost, keeping your guard up, endlessly braced for your toilet cubicle to be kicked open or your washbag chucked off the fire escape.
My mind had always been loud, racing with opinions, stories, jokes. But by the time I adequately considered a thought, the conversation had raced on without me. Suddenly, under 24/7 social scrutiny in a world where bullhorn confidence is king, I felt dismissed.
