We had a fairly eccentric art teacher at my high school. He was a short, stocky man who spoke in a sort of rasping, gravelly snarl, so it sounded like he was growling when he talked. It was unnerving at first. Rumour had spread that he was an ex-boxer who had taken a particularly vicious jab to the throat in a bout, which had left him with permanent damage to the vocal cords, but of course, there was no proof of this, and it was almost certainly made up.
He had a temper too.
Most of the time we took his little outbursts as a joke because the things he said sounded so ridiculous. On one occasion, he leant over the boy next to me who was working on a painting and growled, “Westwood!” (The kid’s name was “Westmore,” but he always got that wrong.) ...
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