Barbara, I saw you today. Rather than face you, I braved speeding traffic to get to the other side of the road. I had scarcely joined the crowd when a kind thief opened my bag and made away with half of the money therein.

I say this particular thief was gracious because the last time I encountered someone of his kind, your kind, I gripped his wrist and he spat in my face. He then shoved me so hard that I fell to the ground. He took to his heels, in his hand holding a phone that I had had the luck to possess for nearly a fortnight.

The first time I caught you stealing, you were helping yourself to Claire’s juice. You turned around, looked at me, and very calmly you said to me, "Would you like some juice?” I was startled. All the nerves connecting my brain to my limbs came undone and I stood there, as stiff as a board. I opened my mouth to speak but my throat grew dry.

You handed me a glass of juice and walked away. When I regained my wit, I cursed myself for being inadequate and I vowed to throw away the glass and its content. But in that moment, I heard Claire’s voice a short distance away and I instantly galloped the juice.

From that moment on, you stole relentlessly on my watch, knowing that I was too afraid to tell on you. We didn’t share the dividends but I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I was just as much of a thief as you were. Watching silently as people cried out (and they often did, on the realisation that their eats were mysteriously reduced by large margins), I knew I was a despicable human being. It would shame my mother if she could see what had become of me.

Needless to say, I wasn’t sleeping well at night; guilt was eating away at my soul every waking moment and it visited me in my dreams when I slept. Soon enough, guilt turned into despair and despair into desperation. As you might have heard, desperation breeds ingenuity. So it was at this point in time that I came up with a plan to relieve myself and everyone of your thieving. When you left for supper, I stayed behind and placed my bread in your suitcase.

Then I made an alarm, "Someone stole my bread! Somebody stole my bread! I am tired of thieves! I am going to check everyone’s suitcase until I find it.” Of course it was found hidden under your clothes, along with Claire’s comb, Penelope’s blue blouse and the dormitory captain’s socks.

I clutched your wrist, Penelope gripped the collar of your shirt, the dormitory captain arranged for your suitcase to be carried and we dragged you to the Headmistress’ home. The procession was nothing less than dramatic; it was full of students screaming and laughing and pointing.

Being the repeat offender that you were, it was decided that you leave the school indefinitely.

You wrote to me telling me that if you ever found out the person who framed you, you would break her arm. Now you know that it was me. And I know this doesn’t help your anger, but I also thought I would let you know that I’m not sorry. This, then, is my unremorseful confession.