Driving from the north down to London last week, I spied two lambs gambolling in a field beside the motorway. Daffodils are everywhere. Yippee: it feels as though winter’s behind us, and the new spring is here.

And you know what that means, don’t you?

It’s the time of year when Haron starts to tremble. For the birches must be sprouting fresh new shoots: our first forest perambulation of the new season must be drawing close, and with it as a consequence her first birching of the year.

Reformatory girls must have shivered for similar reasons. Birched in February? That’s have been with the last of the previous autumn’s switches: carefully stored, soaked to bring them back to life, and quite excruciating. Yet compared to a flogging a month or so later, with a birch rod made from fresh, supple, springy switches? I’m supposing that there’d have been a fair few confessions of guilt to the Governor around this time of year, so that matters could be dealt with before the new crop arrived.