Miss Crawford and the Physics Experiment (Part 1 of the trilogy)
First of all, Miss Crawford, if you are reading this and you recognise yourself, I apologise for the discourtesy of not contacting you to warn you I was discussing some of your past exploits.
I want you to be reassured: you were a good teacher and saw us through to success with care and attention. Yet perhaps a little too much belting!
Though in truth you were gentle for your era. As I hit my 60s I realise you must be almost retired. If you want to reach out, do so.
The Experiment
It was an unusually warm and balmy day in Scotland.
The sun was beating in through the large wall-to-wall windows — designed for heat retention, not escape.
Chalk dust was drifting through the air, scintillating as it was caught by the April sun.
Miss Crawford arrived: 24, in a light blouse, light summer skirt, perennial tan tights and white strappy sandals.
We breathed a sigh of relief as she allowed a major boon.
“You may all remove your blazers, undo your top buttons and roll up your sleeves for our practical today.”
All uniform offences that could easily be sanctioned in our strict zero-tolerance school.
At 15 we were well versed in the mores of the school, and while punishment was relatively common it was not all-intrusive.
Miss Crawford was nice. She cared, listened and smiled — but was not to be taken for granted.
Pretty but not beautiful, marginally heavier than she wanted to be, fuller cheeks, brown hair that could have been styled better. She was a young woman in truth just discovering herself. Her face was sometimes sad, concerned, burdened, but lit up when she smiled.
She announced that the day’s experiment would be around water convection. We were to fold a paper pot, fill it with water and set it on the Bunsen burner. There we would observe and postulate our findings.
Mark and I grouped together as always. I was the whip-smart one. Mark was incredible for our age: mature, already playing professional football, super-smart too. He looked more surfer with his blond curly hair than academic, yet he was to become a veterinary professor. I had the edge intellectually, but hell, Mark had it all — charm above all.
Miss Crawford introduced the lesson. She made it clear that as this was an experiment involving fire she would be exercising the highest behavioural expectations. In short, step out of line and it was the strap. First offence. No first warnings.
We shrugged that off — it was normal SOP.
But next she came over to us, smiled, and said, “Guys, I need you to take Paul. He is on his own. Try to keep him right.”
Paul was a remarkable guy. Skinhead. High Doc Martens. Knocked about with the bad boys. Always getting into mild trouble, but a decent, smart guy. He ultimately ended up an architect.
Our faces fell. She raised her eyebrows.
“Don’t make him feel unwelcome.”
Mark took a deep breath.
“Miss, Paul’s our friend — we knock about — but I’m going to make an impassioned plea to you. Don’t group us together. It’s a bad idea.”
Now this she didn’t like. Her smile faded, frown lines appearing above the nose.
“Mark, I run this class, not you. Now do as you are told.”
Mark acquiesced.
She went to the board, chalked up the steps, and we were to note down our observations and postulates.
“Before we start, class, I will reiterate: if there is carry-on and burning here I will not hesitate to strap the group responsible.”
Mark put his hand up.
“The group, Miss, or the individual?”
“The group, Mark. We must learn teamwork.”
Without a word Mark walked to the front of the class and held his hands out.
Miss Crawford almost laughed. Her eyes and smile gave it away.
“What on earth are you doing, Mark?”
“Please, Miss, I can’t stand the anticipation. Can I just get my belting over and done with now?”
“What…??”
“Miss, you’ve sealed our fate. You’ve put Paul with us. I am going to get belted. Can we get it over and done with?”
She tried to stop her laughter but couldn’t fully. Mark’s easy charm, as always, provoked smiles rather than anger.
She reached in her drawer and took out her black three-tail standard tawse and pointed the folded end at Mark. She was clearly trying to keep a serious face and failing.
“Mark, I’ve already used this strap in form this morning. I’m warmed up. Now sit down, do the experiment, and don’t give me an excuse.”
Mark bowed his head — just the right obeisance — and returned to our bench.
For fifteen minutes all went well. The paper clips created the paper receptacle. We decanted the water in to two-thirds full. We placed it on the burner stage and lit up. No flames. The heat convection taking energy away.
Even at the boil the paper was safe.
Then Paul’s sheer curiosity got the better of him. While we entered our findings and times he took the Bunsen burner and meticulously ran the flame up the side. When it reached the meniscus level the paper took and chaos descended. The paper disintegrated in smoke and the water cascaded over the desk.
Miss Crawford rushed over with the fire blanket and stopped the conflagration.
We now faced a different Miss Crawford. Her face was stern, no hint of amusement.
“Well, it looks as though you were right, Mark. The three of you out front now. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She walked to her desk and removed her tawse, this time in anger.
Mark went first.
Hands out. Cool, even in that submissive pose.
Crawford spoke.
“Let’s make a lesson of this, class — both on the consequences of poor lab behaviour and on angular momentum.”
She adjusted Mark’s hands with her left to her required height and
CRACKED a firm stroke out.
“Note that the hands are at 90 degrees to the point of maximum angular momentum.”
Crackkkk
“That the energy is transferred as both impact and sound. Heat is negligible, though the recipient may dispute that.”
Crackkkk!
Mark yelped at that one.
“That if we add in a flicking action of the wrist — as so — we increase velocity. Did you notice, Mark?”
“Yes, Miss. Most informative!” he added while shaking his hand furiously.
“Very good. We are learning.”
Cracckk!
A normal stroke. Mark gave a “Whoo!” and shook it out.
“Thank you for the lesson, Miss. It was even more informative than the convection experiment.
May I ask: is that why your tawse is split in three? I always thought it was just so you were hit three times with each swing, but now I wonder if it’s about velocity?”
You know, Crawford actually smiled and warmed to the new lesson.
“Yes, Mark — a bit of both. But what does velocity do to energy?”
“It increases by a square factor. And as I’ve just found out, energy here equals pain.”
Mark smiled and she beamed back.
Next I took my four.
Hands out again: three normal and one with the flick.
The three tails accelerating into my palm made me hiss on the third stroke.
I attempted some Mark-like charm, unwisely. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.
“Miss, perhaps we can put in a lower-velocity stroke and I can prove the data point of less pain?”
She dismissed me. “Quiet, lad.”
And she rocketed down a fair stinger to discourage my familiarity. I shook furiously and had to gasp for breath.
Then Paul. He received six as the main protagonist — all with full wrist flick. He took it with the impassivity he had shown to every belting he had ever had witnessed by us. He seemed immune.
“Thank you, Miss.”
Crawford was clearly not pleased.
“The next time, boys, I will be sending for a heavy tawse and we can repeat our observations. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss,” we answered in unison.
Finally Mark put his hand up.
“Miss, I’m confused. The heavy tawse must move slower, so why does it hurt more? After all, a bullet hurts more than a brick.”
“A great assignment for you to speculate on. Whole class: build me a momentum-versus-velocity variable postulate that may explain that!”
It was my one and only assignment on the energy theory of the tawse.
As we were leaving she was back to smiling and engaged.
I worry I publish too many of the severe punishments. Far more were just day-to-day and just get-on-with-it, as today’s was. Often the teachers saw a bit of humour in the situation but they never pulled their strokes. They were capable or at least the good ones of enforcing rules and punishment as stipulated while also preserving relationships with the same pupils. Back then it was impossible to avoid a belting. It wasn’t the life event for either pupil or teacher it was in other systems
I want you to be reassured: you were a good teacher and saw us through to success with care and attention. Yet perhaps a little too much belting!
Though in truth you were gentle for your era. As I hit my 60s I realise you must be almost retired. If you want to reach out, do so.
The Experiment
It was an unusually warm and balmy day in Scotland.
The sun was beating in through the large wall-to-wall windows — designed for heat retention, not escape.
Chalk dust was drifting through the air, scintillating as it was caught by the April sun.
Miss Crawford arrived: 24, in a light blouse, light summer skirt, perennial tan tights and white strappy sandals.
We breathed a sigh of relief as she allowed a major boon.
“You may all remove your blazers, undo your top buttons and roll up your sleeves for our practical today.”
All uniform offences that could easily be sanctioned in our strict zero-tolerance school.
At 15 we were well versed in the mores of the school, and while punishment was relatively common it was not all-intrusive.
Miss Crawford was nice. She cared, listened and smiled — but was not to be taken for granted.
Pretty but not beautiful, marginally heavier than she wanted to be, fuller cheeks, brown hair that could have been styled better. She was a young woman in truth just discovering herself. Her face was sometimes sad, concerned, burdened, but lit up when she smiled.
She announced that the day’s experiment would be around water convection. We were to fold a paper pot, fill it with water and set it on the Bunsen burner. There we would observe and postulate our findings.
Mark and I grouped together as always. I was the whip-smart one. Mark was incredible for our age: mature, already playing professional football, super-smart too. He looked more surfer with his blond curly hair than academic, yet he was to become a veterinary professor. I had the edge intellectually, but hell, Mark had it all — charm above all.
Miss Crawford introduced the lesson. She made it clear that as this was an experiment involving fire she would be exercising the highest behavioural expectations. In short, step out of line and it was the strap. First offence. No first warnings.
We shrugged that off — it was normal SOP.
But next she came over to us, smiled, and said, “Guys, I need you to take Paul. He is on his own. Try to keep him right.”
Paul was a remarkable guy. Skinhead. High Doc Martens. Knocked about with the bad boys. Always getting into mild trouble, but a decent, smart guy. He ultimately ended up an architect.
Our faces fell. She raised her eyebrows.
“Don’t make him feel unwelcome.”
Mark took a deep breath.
“Miss, Paul’s our friend — we knock about — but I’m going to make an impassioned plea to you. Don’t group us together. It’s a bad idea.”
Now this she didn’t like. Her smile faded, frown lines appearing above the nose.
“Mark, I run this class, not you. Now do as you are told.”
Mark acquiesced.
She went to the board, chalked up the steps, and we were to note down our observations and postulates.
“Before we start, class, I will reiterate: if there is carry-on and burning here I will not hesitate to strap the group responsible.”
Mark put his hand up.
“The group, Miss, or the individual?”
“The group, Mark. We must learn teamwork.”
Without a word Mark walked to the front of the class and held his hands out.
Miss Crawford almost laughed. Her eyes and smile gave it away.
“What on earth are you doing, Mark?”
“Please, Miss, I can’t stand the anticipation. Can I just get my belting over and done with now?”
“What…??”
“Miss, you’ve sealed our fate. You’ve put Paul with us. I am going to get belted. Can we get it over and done with?”
She tried to stop her laughter but couldn’t fully. Mark’s easy charm, as always, provoked smiles rather than anger.
She reached in her drawer and took out her black three-tail standard tawse and pointed the folded end at Mark. She was clearly trying to keep a serious face and failing.
“Mark, I’ve already used this strap in form this morning. I’m warmed up. Now sit down, do the experiment, and don’t give me an excuse.”
Mark bowed his head — just the right obeisance — and returned to our bench.
For fifteen minutes all went well. The paper clips created the paper receptacle. We decanted the water in to two-thirds full. We placed it on the burner stage and lit up. No flames. The heat convection taking energy away.
Even at the boil the paper was safe.
Then Paul’s sheer curiosity got the better of him. While we entered our findings and times he took the Bunsen burner and meticulously ran the flame up the side. When it reached the meniscus level the paper took and chaos descended. The paper disintegrated in smoke and the water cascaded over the desk.
Miss Crawford rushed over with the fire blanket and stopped the conflagration.
We now faced a different Miss Crawford. Her face was stern, no hint of amusement.
“Well, it looks as though you were right, Mark. The three of you out front now. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She walked to her desk and removed her tawse, this time in anger.
Mark went first.
Hands out. Cool, even in that submissive pose.
Crawford spoke.
“Let’s make a lesson of this, class — both on the consequences of poor lab behaviour and on angular momentum.”
She adjusted Mark’s hands with her left to her required height and
CRACKED a firm stroke out.
“Note that the hands are at 90 degrees to the point of maximum angular momentum.”
Crackkkk
“That the energy is transferred as both impact and sound. Heat is negligible, though the recipient may dispute that.”
Crackkkk!
Mark yelped at that one.
“That if we add in a flicking action of the wrist — as so — we increase velocity. Did you notice, Mark?”
“Yes, Miss. Most informative!” he added while shaking his hand furiously.
“Very good. We are learning.”
Cracckk!
A normal stroke. Mark gave a “Whoo!” and shook it out.
“Thank you for the lesson, Miss. It was even more informative than the convection experiment.
May I ask: is that why your tawse is split in three? I always thought it was just so you were hit three times with each swing, but now I wonder if it’s about velocity?”
You know, Crawford actually smiled and warmed to the new lesson.
“Yes, Mark — a bit of both. But what does velocity do to energy?”
“It increases by a square factor. And as I’ve just found out, energy here equals pain.”
Mark smiled and she beamed back.
Next I took my four.
Hands out again: three normal and one with the flick.
The three tails accelerating into my palm made me hiss on the third stroke.
I attempted some Mark-like charm, unwisely. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.
“Miss, perhaps we can put in a lower-velocity stroke and I can prove the data point of less pain?”
She dismissed me. “Quiet, lad.”
And she rocketed down a fair stinger to discourage my familiarity. I shook furiously and had to gasp for breath.
Then Paul. He received six as the main protagonist — all with full wrist flick. He took it with the impassivity he had shown to every belting he had ever had witnessed by us. He seemed immune.
“Thank you, Miss.”
Crawford was clearly not pleased.
“The next time, boys, I will be sending for a heavy tawse and we can repeat our observations. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss,” we answered in unison.
Finally Mark put his hand up.
“Miss, I’m confused. The heavy tawse must move slower, so why does it hurt more? After all, a bullet hurts more than a brick.”
“A great assignment for you to speculate on. Whole class: build me a momentum-versus-velocity variable postulate that may explain that!”
It was my one and only assignment on the energy theory of the tawse.
As we were leaving she was back to smiling and engaged.
I worry I publish too many of the severe punishments. Far more were just day-to-day and just get-on-with-it, as today’s was. Often the teachers saw a bit of humour in the situation but they never pulled their strokes. They were capable or at least the good ones of enforcing rules and punishment as stipulated while also preserving relationships with the same pupils. Back then it was impossible to avoid a belting. It wasn’t the life event for either pupil or teacher it was in other systems
61-69, M