Thursday 25 September 1863

With an assumed identity – teacher – and a resolve for fresh beginnings I commence my course of study at Manchester Hackademy. As a purveyor of TMPUEBN (Teaching Manners to People Unfortunate Enough to be Born Non-British) perhaps I can circumnavigate the cotton crunch and even do a little good for a change. The world may yet open up for me, and while the dream of Daisy and me opening up a little school in Naples is long gone, there is still no reason why I can’t quiff my hair and travel to Cambodia for a year or two’s misadventure on my own. Four-and-a-half weeks long and as intense as an elevation ride with my half-dozen ex-girlfriends’ future fiancées, it says something for the quality of the TMPUEBN staffing and attitude of my coursemates that the closest I come to catatonic despair is when one tutor tells us that we’re sure to pick up this particular point later in the pub together. Pub?? We are as dry as I feared the Middle-Eastern students would be (nothing could be further from the truth. All our volunteer learners are resolutely charming, only turning to violence during the passive tense, where anger is the only available option). Thirty days later we are exhausted but qualified and the night out, when it comes, is worth the wait. But I can’t give up the day job just yet – I have my team of carriers to support, and Miss Jordan. And Miss Jordan has to support her burgeoning assets. But one day, on the not-too-distant horizon…