Wandering around a grand cathedral recently, Smudge and I spied a little stall covered in post-it notes. “Write down your prayer,” the notice urged, “and we’ll read it for you at the next communion at the high altar.”

Am I a bad man? I mean, is it awful to have immediately imagined girls away on some school trip over a weekend, taken on the guided tour? A few girls would see the display, and sneak off to pin up entirely inappropriate messages.

The group would be in church the following morning. They’d snigger as the bishop read out their messages – rude names hidden in the text, cruel comments about their teachers announced to the congregation (“Please pray for Dr Jenkins in his old age”).

The master in charge would turn and glare at them.  After the service, they’d return to their hostel. The culprits would be called in to see him; to line up next to one another, to listen to his lecture, to hold out their hands in turn for the tawse.