To knot or not to knot. That was the question

I do not wear a tie.

This is undoubtedly an unreasonable and unreasoning prejudice, but I distrust people who wear ties. My antipathy to these bits of rag runs deep, so deep that it probably played a part in my decision to live in Australia’s most remote city - tropical Darwin - where no-one in their right mind would wear a tie.

In recent years politicians, insurance salesman, real estate people and bank johnnies have taken to them, but this only confirms me in my prejudice.

I blame it all on Sister Richard.

Sr Richard, teacher extraordinary, English lit obsessive, disciplinarian: all five feet one of her.

As well as being my personal educator - well she followed me from class to class, wherever I found myself, there she was too - she was the principal of the country town school I attended.

There I learned the rules of cricket and of football, that not all boys read books before breakfast, and that I had no talent for mathematics.
I did though, due to my omnivorous reading, show some ability as a writer, and this was enough for Sr Richard to consider I was not an entirely hopeless case.

But we could find no common ground on the subject of school uniform.

In an effort, I assume, to raise the standard of dress and therefore of scholarship, it was decreed that the tie, always nominally part of the uniform, would in future be worn by all male students - no exceptions.

Now, I was never a rebellious child, and I heard and accepted the new rule without objection. During the winter months I complied. But when the summer came, it became more difficult.

It was usual, this being a country town of years ago, for many students to go home for lunch. So each lunchtime, onto my trusty bike I would leap, and pedal furiously home. Obviously, after such exertion, and in the heat of an inland summer day, the tie would be removed to make eating possible. Meal eaten, back onto the bike, and return. to school.

The first lesson after lunch, and my placidity would be punctured by “Vincent, where is your tie?” My stumbling explanation that I had left it at home, was, on the first occasion accepted with only a minor rebuke. But when, one day later, it happened again, I was dispatched back home to collect it.

As time went by, it became clear I was a recidivist of the worst kind. With regularity I made the hot and tiring trip to collect the tie.
The teacher took my forgetfulness as defiance - a personal affront - a challenge.

In addition to being instructed to return whence I had come, to recover the tie, other punishments, beginning at the low end, and ending up with an appointment with ‘Blackie’, were imposed. Blackie was a thick, black, leather strap, with only one obvious purpose.

It became obvious to both of us that I was learning very little in the afternoon lessons.

She abandoned the frontal attack, and became devious.

One afternoon, oblivious to my bare neck, I was jerked to attention by the usual question: “Vincent, where is your tie?”

The question had long since ceased to require an answer, so I was half way to the door, when I was grasped by the shirt, and a tie was thrust into my hand.

“You may borrow this tie for the afternoon”, said the good Sister.

Which I did, and returned the tie at the end of the day. A slightly smug smile was the response to my words of thanks on returning the loan.

A few days later my forgetfulness recurred, and was met by the same solution.
And a solution it appeared to be.

One afternoon I forgot to return the tie. The following morning, sensibly, I wore the borrowed tie back to school. At lunchtime I went home for lunch. And removed the tie.

Back in the classroom, I was met by what had become a rhetorical question: “Vincent, where is your tie?” The words were followed immediately by the scraping of the drawer, in which the spare tie was kept.

Then, a dumbfounded silence, and at last a further question: “Vincent, where is MY tie?”

The term ended soon after. I think we were both pleased that it did.