I was part of the last generation for whom the Eleven Plus Exam was a traditional part of childhood.

One spring day, aged ten and a half, I trotted apprehensively up Dickleburgh Street to my primary school, along with my peers, to sit the exam which would decide, if not my future, at least where I would spend the rest of my school life. Mum’s parting words echo down the years as one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever received: ‘Just do your best – no one can ask more of you than that.’

Wise words indeed, but it didn’t help my nerves at the time. I knew I was expected to pass – by my parents and teachers, and I didn’t want to disappoint.

For those who have never sat the exam, it was a prescient forerunner of modern CAT (Cognitive Ability Tests) which are now, ironically in these days of common education for all, administered and used to assess child’s potential.

There was a language reasoning test – which word belongs in this group and so on; a maths test and a ‘logic’ test – what would now be called a reasoning test, using shapes to allow those with dyslexic tendencies to show their abilities.

After what seemed like an interminable wait but was probably about four weeks, a brown envelope arrived announcing that I had passed and offering me a place at the local grammar school.

I hardly had time to assimilate this delightful but scary news before the preparations began. The letter specified exactly what equipment I would need to have in order to survive at Diss Grammar School, and it was a formidable list.

First of course was the uniform. No vague requirement for a navy skirt and white top – the list included everything from a navy gaberdine raincoat to brown gym knickers, and it all had to be bought from the recognised supplier, Joshua Taylor of Norwich.

A shopping trip was duly undertaken, and with my parents’ bank balance severely shrunk – a detail I of course overlooked at the time – I arrived home with five blouses, blue and white check; navy skirt, fawn jumper, navy blazer with the school emblem; navy gaberdine coat; white PE tops; white skirt for tennis and brown for hockey and of course the gym knickers.

The school thought itself very modern for not requiring girls to wear ties. I seem to recall that there was a school beret but we were assured, correctly as I discovered, that no one wore it, and about four years later, in the seventies, the school populace voted in favour of changing to a ‘Donovan cap’ – which again no one wore.

Add to the above new socks, shoes, plimsolls and hockey boots, along with a hockey stick and tennis racquet, and my parents’ pockets must have been almost empty.

But it didn’t end there – oh no. I also needed a school satchel – brown leather of the kind now sold for about £250 as handbags – which had to contain fountain pen, pencil, ruler, rubber and a Maths Set which came in a tin marked “Oxford’ – the brand name, but I always wondered whether it was a subliminal message about where we were expected to be heading. The tin contained another ruler, set square, protractor, compasses and divider – all packed so neatly that once taken out it was a puzzle rivalling Rubiks Cube to get them all back in and the lid shut.

There was no chance, as there is nowadays, of seeing your prospective school before entry, much less attending for a couple of familiarisation days in the summer term as is routine now: so it was that at the start of September 1969 I put on the brand new, slightly too big uniform and for the every first time boarded the school coach taking me to the school I would be attending for the next seven years.