I have two enduring memories of Junior School. The first is of Day One when Mr. Stucky, our teacher, introduced his students to a display case mounted on the wall behind him. It contained an array of canes, each of which had a name which he gleefully recited as he lovingly flexed them, one by one. I don’t remember their names, but I do remember a fervent desire not to come into physical contact with any of them. Happily, I didn’t, nor do I recall anyone else suffering that misfortune; his class was very orderly.

My second memory is of my last year of Junior School under the gentle ministrations of Miss George, a young lady who, my mother informed me, was soon to marry and become Mrs. Something Else. Miss George had no canes. She did have hands, though, and when she thought a student deserved their application, she would slap him repeatedly on the thigh.

I had at an early age adopted an air of studied insouciance towards matters that others told me were of great import but which I found of little interest; hence, I sat at the back of the class and tended not to listen to her. One thing does stick in my mind: after waxing eloquent on the conquering of Mount Everest by Edmund Hillary,  she looked at me and said: “Look at Jenkins in the back, there – he is in a constant state of Everest.” I couldn’t argue with the observation.

At one point my curiosity overcame my desire to be left alone in peace. Miss George had a special inkwell. We all had inkwells, but hers, so rumour had it, was immune to spills: no matter how far you tipped it, the ink would not come out. I had to test this. One day, when Miss George was out of the room, I boldly went to her desk and tipped the inkwell upside down: red ink spilled everywhere. When she returned, I experienced for the first time the sensation of being a Sinner in the Hands of an Angry God.

“The person who did it Must Own Up”, she said. “But I don’t want anyone Telling Stories.” We all knew that being a snitch was Bad.

I owned up. She made me clean it up. I spilled more ink trying to clean it, but Miss George was merciful, and I was spared The Hand.

Things are different now. We are all encouraged to tell stories and no one particularly cares whether they bear any relation to what is true: all that matters is that is that we experience them as true. Objective reality is irrelevant.

I think I prefer Miss George’s version of Telling Stories, Hand and all.