Really, though, his time-keeping skills (or lack thereof) are the least worrying aspect of my son's disciplinary record this term. I received a concerned call from his guidance teacher last week, informing me that enough was enough. I needed to be informed of his repeated bad behaviour; behaviour that is threatening to tip the entire class into chaos.

His crime was not, you'll be relieved to hear, selling the S1s crack cocaine from the toilets at lunchtime, scrawling slanderous comments about teachers on the whiteboard (they don't seem to have the black variety any more) or setting fire to the paper-towel dispenser. He hasn't been educating the French class on the more colourful use of the language, nor has he been playing flame-throwers with the Bunsen burners or even turning the chemistry lab into a crystal meth factory.

What he has done, in fact, is burped. Rather a lot, actually. Yes, I know it's a disgusting habit (though, as he is rather fond of reminding me, in some cultures it is considered the height of good manners). It has reached the stage where every belch is met with much hilarity from his classmates. Hence the repetition. Hence the call from the teacher.

There are schools in the UK where the staff take their lives in their hands daily in their mission to bring knowledge to the next generation; racism is common, assault a reality. So my query is this: can modern educators really not handle a little excess eructation in a pupil without resorting to the dreaded call home?

It wasn't like that in my youth, when detention had to be taken on the day of the misdemeanour (now it must be booked in advance) and teachers could threaten wrongdoers with all manner of physical deterrents. Okay, so I'm not quite old enough to remember the tawse, but old Mr Dewar, our Latin teacher, was famed for his collection of belts, which he kept lined up in a desk drawer (I believe there may have been a slipper or two in there too). And Mr Gallagher (RE) was another fine, upstanding soul who didn't believe in sparing the rod (his favourite weapon of choice was actually the cane, which he would wield after placing a book on the victim's outstretched forearm to ensure they didn't pull their hand away at the last minute).

I received lines as a punishment more times than I can remember (the nickname Ruth Talker might give you a clue as to why), but I was given the belt only once (and it wasn't my fault, officer, honest). It was approaching the end of a school day, and Mrs Meadows had left us to work quietly while she was presumably off somewhere pulling the wings off defenceless insects or maybe setting fire to kittens' tails. Five minutes before the bell, two or three of us decided we might as well put our chairs up on our desks and go home. What difference would it make?

Quite a lot, as it turned out, because sadly she chose that precise moment to reappear. Belt administered, our palms burned with pain and our faces with shame, but we never nipped out of class early again.

Not, heaven forbid, that I'm suggesting schools should go back to ruling through a combination of violence, fear and loathing. But, hey, it didn't do me any harm. Did it?