I remember walking up the steps to Cambridge for the first time in 1865 like it were yesterday. I'd never been so excited, I was going to a place that would earn me instant respect with my peers. From this place, I would gain enlightenment and precious knowledge. God, how I loved those first few steps into my future. But that's not all that I loved about those first steps into Cambridge, contrary to all I thought possible. It was when I first laid eyes on him. Of course, like any self respecting Catholic, I brushed the feeling off. I knew my sexuality quite well, thank you very much.
When I sat down for my first economics class, there he was. He stood at the back of the room wearing a brown waist coat, looking at us through thin, stylish glasses. Minutes ticked of the classroom clock and several of the students began whispering that the professor had not arrived. With a joyful yell, he yelled "Pretty young to be a professor, right?" He ran to the front of the class and jumped atop his desk, hands in his pockets as if he didn't have a care in the world. He clapped his hands after a quick glance around the room "Age is no guarantee of wisdom. My name is professor David, I'll be teaching macro economics."
David had a certain charm about him that I found irresistable. I felt compelled to speak with him personally. So as class ended and he shook each of our hands individually, asking things about us, I asked if he'd like a cup of tea without thinking. The only thing better about that day than walking up the steps to Cambridge was his nod of approval. When I found myself back in my flat, reading my bible I began to hate myself. So grew two sides of myself, one that found my behaviour abhorent and the other a mindless beast that cared little for the writings of old.