At a Catholic primary school in the sixties and in grade three, we had a mean and cranky elderly lady teacher. She had various methods of discipline. If we were too talkative she’d make you stand at the front of the classroom, both arms outstretched to the side and she‘d place two or three heavy books on each open palm. She made you stand there trembling with aching muscles trying not to drop the books, then when you did, you copped the cane - her green feather duster- across your legs, often resulting in bruises and sometimes even bleeding. Also, for every maths sum or spelling error, you got the cane across your open palms. When she was in a particularly vicious mood, she’d make you turn your palm over and that wooden cane would smash down across the bones in your fingers and fingertips. This brutal behaviour to a seven and eight years of age little girl led me to know I wanted to become a teacher, determined to be fair and understanding to children. Brutal days, which continued throughout primary school and, if you dared to tell your parents, they’d say, “Well, you must have deserved it!” And then you’d get into trouble from them, too. Needless to say, you learned to say nothing.