Dear Writer, another fine mess! 
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Perhaps we should have a thread entitled ' The day I went commando."
My no-knickers event was far less exciting than yours and, thankfully did not involve much discomfort or contortions on my part.
When I was very young (ah yes, Shirley Hughes and her wonderful 'My Naughty Little Sister' stories come to mind) my mother decided that I should have a studio portrait photograph taken. Looking back, the decision seems pretty remarkable to me because money was tight in our family and this was an unnecessary and unusual luxury.
No doubt, my mother wanted to capture something of my early innocence and what she cherished as my 'little-giryl splendour' before I began primary school. I had arrived after four brothers and, fortunately for her, had put an end to my father's aspirations for a family football team! Notably, none of said brothers had ever had a studio photograph taken - this was a rare moment of preferential treatment for me!
I do remember some fragments of the preparations for this illustrious occasion. I had worn curly rags to bed the night before, my long gold locks were brushed and fussed over until my scalp felt as if it were on fire that following morning, I was dressed in my finest: a cute corduroy dress, complete with embroidered motif of a little teddy, beating a drum and no doubt my mother would have walked out with some pride that sunny autumnal morning.
Boisterous, noisy, bothersome brothers were duly discarded dropped off at the school gate and we made our way to the very upmarket, guilt-fronted, double-barrelled-named high street photographers where my apparent beauty was to be captured for posterity.
Now, my mother had an awful lot to do every morning. Five of us had arrived within a five and half year period. Father was always out to work early and she had to get us up, washed, breakfasted and dressed single-handed every school day. She was a very good mother - we were always clean and tidy and taught all our manners well.
But on this particular day, something must have gone awry at the planning / dressing stage. We must have been two steps away from the sophisticated jingle of the doorbell and the hushed tones and plushed velvet seating of the photographer's waiting room when my mother suddenly - and without warning, seemed to recollect something. She ground to a halt, tugging me to her side, lifted my skirt in full public view and exclaimed - in loud tones that I can still feel resonating today - "No knickers! I forgot your knickers!"
We had to make a hasty and rather panicked retreat to the nearby "Wool shop," which thankfully stocked little girl 'necessities', so as to reclaim my modesty before our more demure entrance for the photo-shoot!
Needless to say, when I look upon that 'sweet' portrait photo now, some fifty years later, and often before I take in the cherubic grin, the tumbling curls, the cutesy dress and my 'elegant' pose, with bare legs tucked up to the side of me, my eyes are invariably drawn to the slightly hitched up hemline and I fall to wondering again if 'something' would have shown that should not show had it not been for that quick trip to buy another pair of 'unmentionables!
Your teacher sounded like a truly formidable woman! I am left wondering if your dad got any help with bringing you up? It must have been hard all round! My dear mum was often ill and away in hospital and I know my dad found it a struggle to look after me and my 4 brothers. But he stayed and got on with it.