Mr Chinn was my English teacher at Dormers Wells High School in 1983. I was 13. I honestly don't know if he was a good teacher or not. Teaching was very different in those days: teachers were allowed to indulge themselves. I'm sure Mr Chinn would not recognise the world of teaching that I inhabit - full of targets and objectives. Certainly, I don't remember him having any targets. Actually, I don't remember him doing that much teaching. He told us stories about his days on Corrie, about the man who became incredibly rich by changing the shape of the Heinz ketchup bottle, and the man who made millions by deciding that motorway signs should be big and blue, instead of small and green. Mr Chinn wanted to have a big idea that would make him rich. He hated when it was really hot. "People say, "Isn't it a lovely day?" but I don't think it's a lovely day when I'm dripping with sweat!" It was very hot in the wartime hut that he taught in. None of us ever realised he was gay, even the roughest boy from the nearby estate, who said, "Mr Chinn's the best!". That's how incredibly innocent we were in the early 80s, although, looking back as an adult, it was obvious. He said, "Of course, some people have it all - they're really beautiful and talented, but most of us aren't". And I worried that I would never be beautiful. He advised me to do my O'levels at 13! He loved my stories. He said, "She doesn't need to say anything in class, she can just write it all down!" when my Dad worried that I never spoke in class. Mr Chinn thought I was alright as I was. I looked up Mr Chinn because I have started writing again and he was one of my earliest supporters. I had hoped to show him a story one day. Anyway, I haven't seen him since I was 13 and I'm now 41. I haven't forgotten Mr Chinn. Px