My life in a boys' school - and why I can do press-ups

I was born in a school. Literally. A boys' boarding school. And thus began a strange childhood spent entirely in all-boys' schools, in the depths of various parts of the country, with my father as my headmaster and both my parents teaching me English, maths, French, science, cricket and hockey. One day I'll write about it properly but not yet.

Let's just say I learnt to be tough. Let's also say that now I cherish the strangeness of those times, and think that it was, genuinely, character-building, and I'm actually not entirely dissatisfied with the character that it built. I spent a lot of time alone (but never lonely) and am now very good at that. In fact, I need a lot of space and time to myself. I do love being with my friends and family but I also like being with myself only. Despite what I'm about to say, I wouldn't wish to have had a different childhood and there were huge benefits, particularly in the holidays. Well, OK, only in the holidays!

There is one teacher I'd like to tell you about. He's dead now, and for that I'm not sorry. He was a brutal man. I've no idea what went into his childhood to make him so, but he certainly got great pleasure from tormenting me. He picked on me as the only girl, and he knew that I would never complain to my parents because he knew that I knew what would happen if I did. You didn't complain about a teacher in those days. Besides, for me that would be "running to daddy" and I certainly wasn't going to do that. It was unwritten but certain that I would not.

This man - we'll call him the captain, because he had been an army captain and still used the title - was cruel. His eyes were small and button-beady, his shape rotund and solid and chest-puffed, his face apple-cheeked, his nose bulbous and threaded and pitted with veins and pores, and he wore an ancient kilt that smelt of cigarettes and tweed. (Yes, he was Scottish but this school was in Yorkshire.) He taught history and geography. I was bad at both but never understood why. I just knew that for other subjects (well, apart from maths) I'd get high marks and praise, while for his subjects I was getting 20-30%. Every time I handed in the best work I could do, every time I hoped it would be a decent mark, and every time it came back with his acid, diminishing remarks and a mean grade.

I remember his hand-writing now - it was small, whip-tight and poisonous. Red, of course, and I even remember the kind of orange redness of it.

But there's something I remember more clearly. The PE lessons, because as an army captain wasn't he just the obvious person to be teaching PE to some boys and one girl? Brutal circuits we had to do and whoever came last or committed some invisible misdemeanour had the punishment of doing more. And press-ups and windmills. As many as he could make us do. You did them till you could do no more. And when you stopped, exhausted or with arm-muscles paralysed with pain, you felt a failure for not doing more.

That is not all I remember of the PE lessons. But all I will say about the rest is that I did learn to fight. And I don't mean verbally.

He was a cruel man and probably a sad one.

I have only one thing to thank him for: I can - and do - still do press-ups. Oh, and if anyone got me in a head-lock, I'd certainly know what to do.