Paul Costa wasn’t much of a Latin scholar.  But he knew what “sine die” meant because, when he was eight years old, his favorite soccer player had been suspended “sine die” for head-butting a referee.  His father had pronounced the words  “SIN DIE” which had given them a dreadful, resonant finality.

And Paul also knew what “Respice, Adspice, Prospice” meant because that had been the motto of his secondary school.  He’d spent six years walking about in a navy-blue blazer with those words embroidered on the breast pocket beneath a badge featuring a lamp of learning and an open book on a shield of green.  The green was supposed to represent a field in which talent could grow and flourish.

As well as a badge and a Latin motto, Croom Academy had a school song - a stirring piece of nonsense, urging pupils to be staunch to the school, “bring life what it may” – and something called “The Code of Conduct”.  “The Code of Conduct” was a sort of local version of the Ten Commandments, listing things that you should and shouldn’t do.  It was hopelessly optimistic.  Imagine asking teenagers to be “pure in thought, word and deed”!    Nevertheless Paul Costa knew the Code of Conduct off by heart.  He could have written it backwards – or sideways.  This was because it often featured in punishment exercises.
“Costa, you will write out the Code of Conduct six times for me, by tomorrow morning.”
“Yes sir”
”And none of that nonsense with your father’s word processor this time, either.”
”No sir”

It was always his mouth that got him into trouble, even then.  
Not that the teachers heard much of what he said.  
They didn’t need to.  
There would just be a sudden outbreak of laughter in class and the teacher would spot that Paul was located at the epicentre of the disturbance.  
She or he would then assume that young Costa had made some witticism that was (a) rude, (b) obscene or (c) disrespectful to the teacher.  
Or (d), where (d) stood for “all of the above”. 

©  David Gray