There was a rook in Lasalle Flight who was very much an odd sort of duck. To protect the guilty, I’ll call him George. Right from the beginning of rook term, there were two things that our barmen were constantly drilling into our heads, the first being, “seniors are not your buds” and the second, perhaps more important one, “don’t biff your buds.” Unfortunately, George never really hoisted in the latter. He seemed blissfully unaware that his actions, or inactions, could have far-reaching, and invariably negative consequences for his fellow rooks. For example, he would leave his cabin unoccupied to run some brief errand, forgetting that the cabin must be inspectable when no one was in it. He would be astonished to find on his return that he and his cabin mate had been awarded an SBR&D (Stand-By Room and Dress [inspection]). His cabin mate would be similarly astonished, and more than a little annoyed. These transgressions were never committed deliberately, or with any sort of malice, but all the same, it made sharing a cabin with George an experience that would try the patience of a saint. As none of us rooks had been beatified, much less canonized, our CFL and DCFL changed George’s berthing arrangements a number of times, to prevent bloodshed. After several less-than-successful pairings, each of which very nearly came to blows, your humble narrator was assigned to George’s cabin. Apparently they assumed that I was sufficiently easy-going to put up with George’s idiosyncrasies. And for a time, their plan did succeed. There were some incidents, but nothing too serious.

One evening, as study hours drew to a close, George announced that he would head to the ironing room to press his uniform for the next day. I agreed to hold the fort in his absence, and set about polishing my shoes until George’s return. I was still polishing away, repairing a toecap graunch, when George came back. Intent on the task at hand, I didn’t look up, but I did hear him fumbling in the closet. The Roadents in the audience will remember that irons were to be placed in tandem in the centre of the closet shelf; the occupants’ polished leather gaiters were arrayed along the sides of the same shelf. The generally accepted practice was to set one’s hot iron on top of the bureau to cool before replacing it in the closet. (Wait for it!) A few minutes later, I noticed the quite distinct odour of molten shoe polish. “George” I said, “did you light a match?” I looked over to where he was sitting, expecting to see him holding a shoe upside down over a lit match, melting shoe polish into the leather. Not seeing this, and also not seeing an iron on the bureau quietly obeying the Second Law of Thermodynamics, I realized what had happened; I leaped across the cabin to the closet, yanked open the door, and saw to my everlasting horror, the sole plate of George’s hot iron in direct contact with one of my gaiters. 

There followed a heated exchange. 

George showed no remorse. Quite the contrary, in fact; he had the temerity to opine that my gaiter must have been out of its prescribed position. He was also quite put out that I had got shoe polish on his iron. 

But the best (or worst) was yet to come. Some weeks later, George was again pressing his uniform. On completion of that task, he exited the ironing room, the hangers of his uniforms hooked over his right hand, and in his left hand, he held the iron at the present (vertical, with the sole plate facing forward). He executed a sharp right turn and marched smartly in the general direction of our cabin. Just a few steps down the hall, on the opposite, was the heads and washplace. Emerging from that doorway was another rook whom I shall call Greg Robertshaw (because that was his name). Greg had just showered, and was thus attired in bathrobe and shower sandals, with bath towel folded neatly over the left arm, as was de rigueur for such excursions. Being something of a rebel, not to mention, immodest, Greg’s bathrobe was not properly secured. Greg also executed a sharp right turn, in the direction of the ironing room, and also, George. Exactly how what happened next came to pass remains something of a mystery. Perhaps George ventured too far out into the hallway before executing his turn. Or maybe it was Greg who inadvertently strayed over the centreline. Regardless, neither Greg nor George noticed that they were closing one another on a steady bearing. A moment later, George’s hot iron made contact with Greg’s bare chest.

There followed a heated exchange. 

As in the previous incident, George showed no remorse. He insisted that Greg was entirely at fault. In fact, George perceived himself as the victim. For his sins, Greg sported an iron-shaped brand for quite some time afterwards. He was the first of us proto-MARS bars to appreciate the import of the lyrics of the naval march, Heart of Oak:

Come cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer, 
To add something new to this wonderful year; 
To honour we call you, not press you like sleeves,
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?