I got out of bed at my normal weekday hour of 7am, except it was Sunday, so I didn’t have to actually be properly up. I padded to the bathroom, waving good morning to Abel (who gets up at the crack of dawn no matter what day it is), and then, coming back, I told him that I wasn’t, in fact, up: I was still in bed.

“Why are you not in the dormitory in the middle of the night?” he demanded, getting up from his chair. “Wandering around the corridors like that is not acceptable. Come with me.”

He escorted me to the bedroom, where he picked up a conveniently available cane. “Over the bed,” he said.

I leaned over the edge of the bed, bit on my lip, not wishing to wake the neighbourhood, and winced through a swift, stingy caning. “Ow, sir,” I said meekly when it was over.

“Don’t let it happen again,” he said. “Get back into bed, young lady.”

And so I did. The rest of that morning’s dreams were very pleasant.