Why is it that whenever I produced a noisy, noxious, chewable grunt - whether it was in a classroom, corridor, library or examination hall, Mrs Parlett would always have sneaked up behind me just in time to 'receive the goods'? She must still wonder what my parents fed me up on. Even if my trump was just the final note from a great orchestral symphony, the expected laughter would never arrive, and I'd get a nudge or a look from one of my fellow 'musicians', which indicated that she had just turned up in time. By the fourth or fifth occasion, I didn't even bother to turn red or look around. I just knew that it was her.

It was generally a breakfast of steaming chocolate Ready Brek, if you must know.