Hands above the desk and arms across the chest, was the order of the day. A narrow sloping desk, the top functioned as a lid for the compartment underneath, you had to hold to your belongings with one arm, while lifting the lid in search for that needed exercise book below. It was such a cramped situation, all designed to make school life as uncomfortable as possible. You’re there to listen and speak only when asked, but the promotion from pencil to pen was an exiting occasion that erupted in some spontaneity.
After filling our inkwells with dark blue ink from a large bottle, we were supplied with a crown nib for our penholder, piece of blotting paper and the cotton penwiper we brought from home. Finely ruled paper helped us to keep the letters at even heights, the teacher at the blackboard showing the strokes, lighter going up, more heavy coming down.
At the end of the day, it left not only a mark in our writing books but also on our index and middle fingers, the result of diving with too much gusto into the white porcelain reservoir, brimful with ink. It had a metal sliding lid to keep the ink free from dust, but that still didn’t stop the contents acquiring a dirty looking coppery scum on the surface, but once again blotting paper soon fixed that problem.
Oh, at home we were only able to read books that past the censor, it had the imprint "Imprimatur" and Nihil obstat ("Nothing observed [objectionable]") that it's some kind of "canonical approval" from the Utrecht or 'sHertogenbosch diocese.