Mon­day 22 Sep­tem­ber 1952

I am still shak­ing with fury after an unpleas­ant episode with an obnox­ious boy called Hoskins, the son of the local green­gro­cer. He had been sent to me for throw­ing a piece of chalk at anoth­er boy ñ the kind of infan­tile behav­iour that absolute­ly infu­ri­ates me. I prob­a­bly strapped Hoskins a bit hard­er than usu­al in con­se­quence. The ten strokes hurt and they were meant to hurt, but that is no excuse for what hap­pened next. As the last stroke land­ed, Hoskins let out a four-let­ter word of the vilest kind. I was flab­ber­gast­ed ñ and so angry that I put him over my knee, pulled down his trousers and pants and gave him a good wal­lop­ing with a wood­en hair brush which I hap­pened to have to hand. He was cry­ing like a baby by the end.

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