The no-nonsense state primary school I went to many years ago in Kent was staffed by teachers for whom delivering occasional corporal punishment was part of the way things were. For we pupils it was just part of life at school and, generally speaking, we knew the rules. Rule one: don't misbehave; rule two: if you do misbehave, don't get caught; rule three: if you do get caught put up with the punishment. I don't know that it did us any harm, although I'm not sure it did us any good, either, it was just the way of the world. Anyway, one of the teachers would warn that if we continued to transgress we would end up as a "Dead End Kid". This was not a reflection on our career prospects, but an accurate prophesy of the walloping he'd give your backside with a big gym slipper (plimsolls or what in North Devon I have learned to call daps). In fact, in North Devon it might be more accurate to say he'd give you a dap with a dap.
Anyway, I haven't been walloped, but my backside is sore because I've been out cycling the Tarka Trail again. Bideford to Fremington Quay and back again all in one go. Now I know many people are not remotely bothered by such distances, but for me, towards the end I was struggling to remember when I had substituted my supposedly comfy saddle for a piece of rough-hewn timber. I find walking and cycling to be activities that allow me to mull things over, but as I neared the end of my ride the only thing I could focus on was my tender nether regions. However, all this was worth it when, not far from Westleigh Cross, a stoat emerged from the tall grass at the side of the Tarka Trail. I think my relatively silent approach took it by surprise. It popped out, skittered around in a tight circle and disappeared back into the grass. Brilliant, in fact so brilliant, I might even be tempted back out on the bike again this weekend. Will I never learn?
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