The Spanking Writers

Location: Washington Dulles Airport, Domestic Arrivals, Luggage Carousel 3

Time: 9pm Friday night, the start of the US holiday weekend

Assorted happy teens, released from the confines of their flight, rush round manically, giggling loudly.

Stern female teacher shouts over the crowds: “[School name deleted!] over here. Now!”. Miss Jean Brodie, with an American lilt. Even the adults in the area stand up straighter, fall quiet.

The group gathers in a flash, suddenly silent. There are 15 of them: a dozen girls, three (lucky?!) Boys.

Their teacher lectures the assembled semi-circle, her voice quiet enough to command their absolute attention (and, sadly, to ensure that nearby pervs like me are unable to hear quite what she says). Chastened young students nod their promises of impeccable behaviour.

One girl mutters a comment under her breath. Dark hair, tied back. Sixteen? Braces, too-tight orange top, designer-looking jeans, red Gap rucksac. (’Allie’, I later overhear).

Second teacher, male. 40ish, joins the lecture. Finger is wagged at Allie. Scolding continues. Finger wags some more. Allie looks satisfyingly downcast.

“You will be soundly paddled for that comment when we get to the hostel, young lady. We will not tolerate insolence on this trip.”

At least, that’s what I imagine he was saying

The group has since claimed their bags, and have been lined up in pairs to walk out to their transport.

Poor Allie. I hope the other girls look after her afterwards.