Mrs Gregg, my second-grade primary school teacher, shouted too much. All the other teachers were kind, but she never let a smile break her wrinkled face. I didn't trust her, and I got the impression that she didn't like me.

At six or seven years old, I sat alone on a solitary table in the assembly hall. Perhaps I had to draw a picture, perhaps I had to write something, I really can't remember.

She didn't like me daydreaming: I used to a lot in those days. My mind would wander into new places, exploring adventurous concepts and revolutionary ideas. My parents and teachers told me that daydreaming was bad. What was daydreaming anyway? Surely all I was doing was thinking, trying to understand the world in which I lived. My vision would blur as I gazed off into the distance. Only a sharp clap of hands and Mrs Gregg’s bawling voice would bring me back again. I didn’t understand why she behaved this way, I wasn't doing anything wrong.

I must have been sitting there for fifteen minutes. My pen was hovering over a piece of paper on my desk. Who knows what I was thinking about: Life? The universe? The habitats of the woodlice in the school playground? The tarantulas that hunted them and how my friend had told me to keep an eye out for those hairy legs that had broken from the spider’s bodies? There was so much to discover. How could this piece of paper possibly be so important? Clearly it was to Mrs Gregg. She stood in front of me, hands on her hips and jaw low. Her voice bellowed like a foghorn.

“Why haven’t you written anything?”

Tears welled in the corners of my eyes. I hated loud noises. I hated her shouting. She sent me to the headmistress; into the foyer then down the corridor that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Although stern, the headmistress was kinder than Mrs Gregg. An aura of wisdom seemed to emanate from her face to gather in her red, curly hair.

I wasn’t there to receive advice; I was there to be reprimanded. The punishment: three taps on my extended hands with a ruler, alternating between each one. The punishment didn't hurt physically, but it hurt deep inside. I didn't hate her. I hated Mrs Gregg for sending me there.

I wish they hadn't condemned me so much for daydreaming. My teachers used to tell my parents that I had an 'overactive imagination'. You can’t develop one of those without being allowed to use your mind. Today, I don’t have the time to explore my imagination as I used to. It often got me into trouble, but what fun is an adventure that doesn’t?