The Headmaster, in my day dreams at the back of my conference in Germany last week, was standing at the front of the classroom of twenty or so girls, wearing his gown and flexing a crook-handled cane. “This is your final chance,” he warned. “If the culprit doesn’t own up now, I shall cane you all.”

The girls looked at each other, and slowly one of their number rose to her feet. “It was me, sir,” she confessed. “Then you’ll accompany me to my study,” came the icy reply.

Later in the day, one of the masters would overhear a conversation in the playground that he reported to the Head. The girl who’d been caned hadn’t, it seemed, been the actual offender – rather, she’d admitted guilt to save the whole class from punishment. And the two real miscreants, who’d now confessed to their friends, had escaped scot-free save for the unbearable guilt.

The three girls concerned were quickly called before the Headmaster. The lass he’d punished in the morning was shown in first, to learn the painful way that he took an even dimmer view of lying than he did of the offence for which he’d caned her that morning. And she’d discover that six strokes on the bare would hurt far more than their predecessors over her skirt.

The two real culprits would then be called in in turn. Blazers removed, skirts lifted, knickers lowered, they’d each receive twelve of the very best with his thickest cane, before being sent back to their classroom in utter shame.