There I was in the local Royal Mail sitting office, waiting while they hunted for a parcel that needed my signature.
Behind the counter, I spied a long, thin cardboard tube, addressed to a Mr Bramley. Picture the sort of thing a poster would be shipped in – only longer than any poster tube.
Yes, dear friends, the conclusion is obvious. The man’s a pervert, having canes shipped internationally to him.
He’d send his girlfriend to pick them up, of course. Instruct her to open the package and to lay the new implements on the bed; to strip and fold her clothes neatly; to kneel on all hours on the bed to await his return home.
Still in his suit, he’d take them in turn, commenting on them and flexing them, cutting practice strokes through the air, before slowly and calmly measuring their efficacy as he applied them to their target.
And after, of course, he’d place them carefully away, as he made her touch herself before he thrust into her from behind.
My reveries were interrupted by the return of the assistant with my package. There are those who are perverts only in my imagination – and then there’s me. For, clearly marked on the outside of the padded bag she handed over was the one word: “Whip”:
She seemed very demure as she handed it over. Not surprising, really…