You can imagine my eye-popping, mouth-gaping shock on walking into the headteacher’s room and seeing Mrs Smith sitting there stiffly, with folded arms and an enigmatic expression. She resembled some great eastern statue.

“Hello, Gervase,” she said, with a mischievous smile appearing on her lips.

“Mrs Smith!” I gasped.

“You can call me Dorothy now, Gervase, if you like,” she replied.

“I c... c... c... couldn’t possibly,” I mouthed. “You were my teacher.”

“My goodness me, Gervase, you did do well. More degrees than a thermometer and a school inspector as well, and all those books. And aren’t you a professor?” I blushed and smiled the sort of self-satisfied smile of the little infant sent to the headteacher for an “I’ve been a good boy!”

sticker.

She reflected for a moment. “It’s a funny old world, isn’t it? I taught you to read and here you are checking if I do it properly.”

I smiled, rather more weakly this time. “It is indeed,” I agreed.

“Well, I hope I come up to muster,” she continued.

“I am sure you will, Mrs Smi... I mean Dorothy. You were a superb teacher. My love of books started with you in the infant classroom, us sitting wide-eyed on the reading cushions, listening to you tell stories.

“I remember well all those lively tales you told us and the fascinating books you read, the fairy tales and adventures and all the lovely poems. You were a wonderful teacher.”

It was now her turn to blush. “Oh, that’s good to hear and it’s just as well, because I haven’t changed my methods.”

I remembered as I approached the school that morning when, as a young child, I used to make my way through the council estate where I lived to a sprawling school of red brick, with a flat roof, tubular metal handrails, brown tiled floors and long, cream-painted corridors. I recalled being summoned to the front of the classroom in the infants on a bright, sunny day and Mrs Smith pinning on my grey jumper the Victoria Cross of the infant school: a round tin badge with the words “I am a Free Reader” emblazoned upon it. I was so proud, and so pleased to be allowed to move from the reading scheme on to the real stories.

I learned to read on a series of books called The Happy Trio. There were a dozen or so stories. I recall that the first one, “We Come and Go” had the text: “Come, Sally, come. Come, Sally, come. Come, Sally, come.” The second story did not have that depth of plot. The young reader was introduced to Sally’s sister, Jane, if my memory serves me right. Then we met Sally’s brother, Dick. Not that much more happened.

“I’ve been though all the reading schemes in my time,” said Mrs Smith, as I reminded her about my first reader. “Dick and Dora, Nip and Fluff, Janet and John. I try to keep up with the modern material.”

“Well, you were an excellent teacher, Mrs Smith - Dorothy,” I told her, “and I am so much looking forward to joining you for some of the lessons.”

The headteacher smiled again. “Yes, Gervase, you did indeed do very, very well.”

There was a pregnant pause before she added: “Because you weren’t on the top table, were you?”

My parents had a great sense of humour, as you may have gathered. After all, they did name a child from a council estate in Rotherham, Gervase.

When my mother died, I discovered the “I am a Free Reader” badge in a box of mementoes. It brought back so many memories. Some time later I spoke at a very prestigious charity dinner, a “decorations will be worn” affair. I sat on the top table with the distinguished guests, all sporting their CBEs, OBEs, MBEs, chains of office, medals and awards.

“A very interesting lapel badge,” said my genial companion, staring at my decoration.

“Yes,” I replied, smiling. “It’s the ‘I am a Free Reader’ award.”

Professor Gervase Phinn was a local authority and Ofsted inspector and is now an author and broadcaster. His recent book, “Head over Heels in the Dales”, was a best-seller