I often find myself catching a train to work at around 7.30am. At that time, the opposite platform is packed with commuting schoolgirls.

For a young lady to join the Schoolgirl Express each morning, rather than simply heading to one of the many schools nearer by, suggests that her parents are sending her to a very good school indeed. The neat uniforms re-enforce my view, as does the good behaviour – no rowdiness here. They’re good girls, you see.

I departed for the office somewhat earlier than usual this morning. In place of a gaggle of girls waiting opposite was just one, forlorn soul. Head downcast, avoiding the eyes of her fellow travellers.

I guessed why immediately: that note in her locker the previous evening, neatly typed: “The Headmaster wishes to see you in his office thirty minutes before the start of school tomorrow.”

She’d be there before her friends filled the corridors with chatter this morning. She’d hang up her coat, place her bag in her locker. Take a final look at the letter, lest it had magically reworded itself into a less ominous message overnight. Set off on a long, lonely, nervous walk through the empty corridors.

Acknowledge her wrong-doing; apologise profusely (have pity; be lenient; even though she knew that a caning was inevitable). Take her strokes with as much bravery as she could muster.

Wipe away her tears; wash her face carefully. Pretend when the others arrived that daddy had been en route to a breakfast meeting, so had had to drop her for the earlier train. Hope that no-one saw her wince as she sat down for the first lesson of the day…