"Mr Phinn?" he inquired. "Yes," I replied, surprised to be recognised. "The manager would like to see you in his office, sir, if you would like to follow me."

I was at this sumptuous hotel to speak at the Oldie Luncheon for Richard Ingrams along with Barry Cryer and John Julius Norwich and could not for the life of me think what the manager wanted. In his plush office the manager rose from his chair and smiled warmly. He was elegantly dressed in a dark jacket, pin striped trousers, crisp white short and grey silk tie.

"Mr Phinn," he said holding out a hand. "How very good to see you."

"Thank you," I said. "I'm delighted to be here." "You don't remember me, do you?" he continued.

"No," I said. "I'm afraid I don't."

"Stephen Busby. You used to teach me."

"Stephen Busby," I sighed. I saw in the man's face the child I taught some 30 years ago – that small, bright-eyed, good-natured little boy who sat at the front. It's a cliché I know, but I knew he would go far.

"I always enjoyed your lessons," he told me. "My sister Ann is coming down later this morning to see you. You taught her as well." I remembered Ann, my star pupil, whose work was imaginative, beautifully neat and accurate. She went on to get top grades in her examinations. "She works for the BBC World Service now," my former pupil told me.

Teachers always feel that small tingle of pride when meeting former pupils who have done well in life. They feel perhaps they have had some small part in their former pupils' successes. I have to admit that I have not had such a positive influence on some of my other former pupils.

Some weeks later I was shopping in Rotherham when I was approached by a bear of man with a tangle of curls and great bushy beard and sporting a selection of aggressively colourful tattoos on his arms. He was holding the hand of small boy of about eight or nine.

"Hey up, Mester Phinn," he said. "Does tha remember me?"

I remembered this former pupil only too well. He was often in trouble for fighting, answering teachers back, failing to do his homework, truanting and being generally a real nuisance.

"I do, it's Johno isn't it?"

"Aye. That's reight. Does tha remember when I answered thee back and tha went mad and I were sent to t'Deputy Head for t'cane?"

"Oh, dear," I thought, "this might get ugly."

"I don't," I said feebly. "Aye, well I do and it bloody well hurt. Couldn't sit down for rest o' t'day."

"Well, you see –" I began to try and explain. "I deserved it, reight enough," he interrupted. "I were allus in trouble for one thing or t'other and I'll tell thee what, Mester Phinn, if teachers today were like t'ones I 'ad when I were at school, stricter like, then we wunt 'ave all this yobbish behaviour."

"Perhaps you're right," I said. "And who is this young man?" I asked smiling at the glum-faced little boy staring up at me. "Him? This is our Kyle," I was told. "Mi grandson." "Grandson?" I repeated.

"Aye, I've got eight." "Eight," I mouthed. I suddenly felt very old.