Boys will be boys

Miss Green did not have a forename. Not even an initial.

At least not as far as I knew. 

She was always just "Miss Green", and she was my headteacher when I was an infant.

Miss Green and I saw a lot of each other.  She was pretty stern and I was pretty awful, so we spent a lot of time together, tete-a-tete, as it were. Hers was one of only two rooms upstairs, the other being the staffroom. I got to know the inside of her office well.

Miss Green ran a Tight Ship, and if any loose cannons needed nailing to the deck, she would see to it personally.

Miss Green had once caned me for talking to Mary in the school nativity play, against instructions. I was Joseph, and had a strictly silent role. But I was always a talker and couldn't resist. It was only later than I realised that I was giving girls called Mary a very wide berth indeed.

And only very much later than I realised that 'infant' meant 'not talking', as in small children as yet unable to talk. It was a sentiment Miss Green would have agreed with.

On one occasion I was explaining my part in some misdemeanour to Miss Green, and her unblinking gaze told me that it was not working.

She was standing in front of her desk when I came in, and it was there that we talked. Miss Green was a small woman, but a lot larger than me, and she tended to loom over me, rather like a cliff. 

My explanation was not going well, and Miss Green was losing interest. The storm was gathering. She did not paw the ground, but it would have been no surprise if she had done.

I had one last strategy.

"Well," I said, in desperation, aged 6. "Boys will be boys."

Miss Green paused, turning to select something from her desk.

"Yes," she said. "And teachers will be teachers."

I had lost the argument again.