Sheila Boardman, who wrote matric in 1969, was the guestspeaker at the Senior School prizegiving in 2011. She recalled that she daydreamed her way through the years of prizegiving, “listening with less than half an ear to the speeches. Every year the speaker – who was I seem to remember always a man, and actually nearly always a bishop – would say something like, 'And now for all you girls going out into the world,' and would give a whole pile of advice to the leavers. For years, I didn’t waste my time listening because I wasn’t the one leaving … But then, finally, it was my leaving year, and this was it, the end of 12 long years of school, of which the last five years spent here were the happy ones. At the last prizegiving I sat up and listened the whole time because I was waiting for the magic key, the moment that the bishop would give us the advice about going out in the world. And what do you think happened? The wretched man never said a word. There was no advice, no words of prophesy about our future, just a whole lot of generalised bishop stuff … so that was it. I left school with no advice at all – I had to make it all up myself.”