In Reception (pre-school for you yanks) when I was about four I had a really awful teacher who seemed to hate kids and was basically a bully. We’d done paintings and I was proud of mine and wanted to show my Mum so asked to take it home.

She said I couldn’t.

I asked why.

She said because she said so and they weren’t for taking home.

I asked if they were going to be hung up in the classroom then.

She said no.

I told her I was taking mine home then and took it off the desk.

She snatched it out if my hand and ripped it.

I threw the still half full pots of paints at her, turning her into a living Jackson Pollock painting.

When my Mum showed up to collect me the teacher kept us behind to give us a big lecture about how she’d never known such a rude child as to dare ask questions and that my outburst might be proof of some mental imbalance. My Mum was silent and I was sure I was in big trouble.

We got in the car to go home and my Mum burst into hysterical laughter and said that she deserved it.

That was the first time I was outraged by injustice and the first time I found out my Mum was based.