The rest of the school day and the after-school club both dragged, prolonging my dread, and simultaneously flew by, bringing me closer to my painful fate. By the time I got home, I was a ball of nerves. The punishment exercise felt like it was a ticking time bomb in my school bag.
I didn’t know when to tell mum about it and, as with lunch, I barely touched my dinner as I felt rising nausea at the anticipation of the inevitable pain my bum was about to be subjected to. Luckily, in spite of her strictness, Mum not the sort of parent who demanded a clear plate (not once we were over the age of about six or seven, anyway) and when she saw the barely-touched meal, she worriedly held her hand to my forehead, asking if I was ‘coming down with something’. I swallowed hard, realising the same hand that was currently tenderly pressed to my forehead would soon be walloping my backside.