At primary school back in the very old days, I upset the latin master, a florid faced man with an evil streak.
One warm and sunny afternoon while he was slashing at the black board with a piece of chalk, laying out the Imperfect tense of the verb Amo, my friend Stephen sitting behind me, tapped me on the back and passed me a note. Taking great care not to be seen, I open the folded piece of paper and read:
‘Latin is a language as dead as dead can be.
It killed the ancient Romans and now it’s killing me.’
Of course I laughed, was heard. He asked me what I was laughing at and naturally I told him "nothing." I was summoned to the front of the class and was made to "bend over." I leaned forward and felt a hand on my neck forcing me over until I was staring at my feet. There followed the rending air as his heavy rattan cane accelerated towards my backside. When it hit, a firework display appeared before my eyes and an explosion of pain shot through my whole body. Two more blinding slashes and I was sent back to my desk. I was told after class that ‘P J’ went easy on me, only giving me three hits with that awful instrument. Happy days.