Behind the counter in the bookshop. An elderly gentleman - straight back and clear eyes - hands me a book he has found. It's about the fire that destroyed our city in the 19th century. Before I even have time to say hello, he tells me an amusing anecdote about the same fire.
I giggle at the story - no doubt a true one, down to the last detail - too nervous to remember it afterwards but delighted beyond words. My hero, my ultimate authority on history, the best teacher I ever had, the one who turned boring historical facts into breathtaking stories about adventures, heroes, villains and epic emotions and who made bored teenagers gasp with fascination - he is standing here before me again after all these years, telling me another one of these stories. This one for me exclusively.
This history teacher was also the one who always scared us all out of our wits. So here I stand today, adult and independent, and quake in my boots at a mere look from those sharp eyes. With a desperate longing in me to impress, to connect.
But he responds patiently, graciously, to my nervous attempts at conversation. And suddenly, though I feel so inexplicably young I realise that I must have grown up. I am asking questions and telling stories of my own to this man whom I never dared to speak to before except in reply to questions. I smile, bravely. He smiles back. I may be quaking now but after he is gone I will stand proudly, firmly, on my own two feet. Because some people demand so much of you that you find yourself living up to it - despite your own fears.
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