Remember, remember

In the kitchen this morning, I found myself thinking back to a lesson in primary school, where the teacher was talking about Guy Fawkes.

His words painted a vivid picture of how the would-be bomber was tortured before being executed, his body broken and mangled on the rack. My imagination was filled with stomach-churning images of cracking bones and torn flesh.

Maybe the teacher had a point he was making, but if so I've forgotten it. Maybe he just enjoyed terrifying little kids.

I have a distinct memory of coming home from school and looking at the coagulating contents of the ketchup bottle with a shudder.