For some reason, I found myself thinking of my first maths teacher's arse this morning.
This was the very first maths teacher, the one that made us all chant times-tables in a monotonous dirge.
It was 1959 - I remember that, because I recall standing still in the playground as all the other kids ran around me - screaming and shouting - and thinking, 'Soon, it will be the 1960s. It will never be the 1950s again. I must savour this moment so I remember what the 1950s were like.'
Our maths teacher - I can almost remember her name, it began with 'Miss' - wore a very tight, pale blue, two-piece suit and a pearl necklace. The skirt of this suit was stretched around her massive backside, which looked to me to be about 30 inches in circumference and perfectly hemispherical. There were no delineating shadows to show the position of each cheek, and for all I knew, there was only one bit of flesh with no division. Try as I might, I could not work out what was going on under the baby-blue wool.
As she got up to write something on the blackboard, something unthinkable happened. A boy stood up behind her back and placed a bit of chewing gum on her chair. I watched in horror as she sat back down, then all of the girls howled with laughter. Someone explained what she had just sat in, deliberately too late. I could not believe kids could be that naughty.
At playtime, I acquired my first sweetheart. I remember her well, and she squealed in mock fear as I chased her. All of a sudden, I was joining in with the noisy mayhem of playtime, but I had an ulterior motive.
She was called May Ring. That is a name not easily forgotten, even by a six year-old. I must have gone home and proclaimed my love for May Ring, because my sister continued to rib me about her right up until she died.
"Have you heard from May Ring recently?" she would ask, and the same feeling of mild embarrassment would come over me, 60 years after the event.