I was born into a loving family. As far as I can remember, my parents never smacked me; hardly even raised their voices.

But they were churchgoing Roman Catholics and, a few weeks after my fifth birthday, one summer morning my mother walked me from our home to the local parish school.

Things there were very different. I vividly recall the red carbolic-scrubbed face of the young Irish nun swathed all in black who met us, and the strange gleam in her eye. Within days she was belting us with a cane, and being a left-hander I was singled out for special treatment; my hand beaten hard and often so I could no longer hold my pencil in "the hand of the devil".

Our nun teacher was ever on a slow simmer, hyper-vigilant for the merest mistake we might make in parroting back our lolly-hued religious texts.