The Spanking Writers

To a lovely hotel earlier in the week, where I’ve stayed for work a couple of times before. Unlike the nondescript, albeit comfortable, chain hotels I seem to live in for half of my life, this is family-run and wonderfully friendly: a real home-from-home. The owner was in the reception area as I walked through the door. “Abel,” he said straight away, “how lovely to see you again.”*

Dinner is always excellent: very traditional, with excellent ingredients from local farms. The waitress was lovely – petite, friendly, desperate to please, delightful in her old-fashioned black uniform. Despite there being only five diners, she was rushing from table-to-table with alacrity, to the extent that it was hard for guests to relax. The inevitable happened, and in her haste she dropped a tray of vegetables.

Her subsequent (imagined!) punishment would have served perfectly to illustrate the advantages of taking things nice and slowly. Once the final diner had retired to the lounge, she would have been bent over one of the dining room tables. The owner would have delivered a long, slow caning: plenty of pauses between strokes, allowing the impact of each to tell its full story, each whack plainly audible to the guests next door. He’d have talked to her throughout – calmly, sympathetically, explaining that it was better to take one’s time; that rushing was rarely the most effective way…
*Actually, she used my real first name, rather than “Abel” – it’s not quite that much of a home from home!