There is an old saying that goes, "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me," but when I was in second grade I learned a slightly different version that goes, "sticks and stones may break my bones but words can also hurt me".
They normally teach people in smaller groups, and I'm sure we might have learned slightly more that way, but we weren't fussed at all.
In becoming a digital Donald Trump, I learned some interesting, if slightly depressing lessons.
I learned to dress these slightly bitter greens assertively with a bit of garlic, anchovy, lemon juice and fruity olive oil.
Having been slightly ill, as I learned later, he had spent the day in his room, and now seemed restive.
I was their age when I learned my planets poorly and only slightly older when I learned that sound is movement and now the air and I are moved not only by the knell itself but by the quiet commentary, as a footnote in a smaller font, of rust on chains.
I learned to hold my head bent slightly forward and, bizarrely, seemed to feel my legs get longer, but that was as I nodded off on the couch, so it may have been a dream.
It might be pushing it slightly to say that everything I learned about life I learned at that World Cup, but if all Italia 90 kids don't admit that month was transformative, I will consider eating my Ciao hat.
What I learned was both encouraging and, given my past complacency, slightly disturbing.
There's brewer Rod Jones, who sports a slightly Teutonic twirly tache-and-beard combo (I learned later that he is half-German, which explains things).
