I stood there, facing the wall, and feeling that it was extremely unfair because Paul had been talking too. Eventually the bell went for break and I was left alone in the classroom with my teacher. She was probably quite young, in her mid 20s (though she seemed ancient to a six-year-old, of course!) and had long, shoulder-length hair with a centre parting in a typical 1970s style.
I heard a chair being dragged around, then my name was called. “Andrew, come here to me.” When I turned around, my teacher was sitting in the chair, which she had set out at the front of the classroom.
I went to her side as directed. I remember I didn’t feel frightened, just frustrated. I was expecting a more formal (and much longer) telling off of the sort I’d already experienced earlier.
Well, I got the first bit right. Miss Moore droned on and on about how I was constantly disrupting her lessons and making it difficult for the other children to learn. Then, to my absolute astonishment, she added: “Well, I think we’d better see what a smacked bottom will do.”