Excerpt
Julian Morris was not quite happy in his first year at St. Widifroth's-on-Quinapoxet, the school for the blameworthy rich. He had two obnoxious roommates, whom he had grown somewhat used to; semi-interesting classes, or rather classes he hadn't yet managed to fall asleep in; and two parents who couldn't read a school prospectus properly. Why else would they have sent him to St. Widifroth's? Well, it might have been one D too many on his last report card.

“How did you end up here?” he asked one of his obnoxious roommates, Nigel Higginson, in the hangdog manner of one trustee to another.

“Spliffs,” Nigel answered from his bed, where he was lounging shirtless.

“Spliff,” corrected the other obnoxious roommate, Finn Andrews. “It was singular, you said. Or could it be splive?”

Nigel squinted at Finn. “Only after I've smoked too much.”

“Why were you sent here?” Finn asked Julian.

“Igneous rocks and isosceles triangles. I have trouble with 'i' things.”

“Such as 'information'?” said Nigel with a grin. Finn sniggered. Nigel stood up and plucked a book off a shelf. Uneasily, Julian watched him open it.

“Here's something that's about your intellectual level.” With great sarcasm, Nigel read, “Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.” He looked over the top of his book to gauge the effect.

Julian waited.

“Well?” prompted Nigel.

“It's some sort of fairy tale, isn't it?” said Julian.

Finn howled.

“Holy God,” Nigel exclaimed. “How can you not know what story this is?”

“My parents never read me fairy tales when I was younger,” replied Julian, feeling lost.

Finn let out a deep groan. Nigel's face became one big grimace. Higginson swayed on his feet a moment, like a man hesitating on a diving board, then leapt forwards and downed Julian with a thud. The two boys landed together on Julian's bed with Nigel on top. Winded, Julian gasped, “What's this for?”

“So you can see the pictures,” replied Nigel. He propped himself up on his elbows. “'They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a very big fir-tree.'”

Julian bore this forced fairy-tailing with patience. He thought the story rather thuggish in its crude Victorian way, exactly the sort of thing a parent would read to toughen up a child for St. Widifroth's. He did like the pictures, though.