That afternoon, he handed out a poem with no title, date or author's name, gave us ten minutes to study it, then asked for our responses. 'Shall we start with you, Finn? Put simply, what would you say this poem is about?' Adrian looked up from his desk. 'Eros and Thanatos, sir.' 'Hmm. Go on.' 'Sex and death,' Finn continued, as if it might not just be the thickies in the back row who didn't understand Greek. 'Or love and death, if you prefer. The erotic principle, in any case, coming into conflict with the death principle. And what ensues from that conflict. Sir.' I was probably looking more impressed than Dixon thought healthy. 'Webster, enlighten us further.' 'I just thought it was a poem about a barn owl, sir.' This was one of the differences between the three of us and our new friend. We were essentially taking the piss, except when we were serious. He was essentially serious, except when he was taking the piss. It took us a while to work that out.