The sponsor of the project on which I’m working at the moment has brought his daughter to work today: it’s the start of half term week. She’s sitting at the desk next to mine, beavering away over her textbooks. I’m guessing she’s a sixth-former: history doesn’t get complicated enough at GCSE level to merit the study of tomes that detailed.

But why’s she in the office? She’s certainly well and truly old enough to have been left on her own at home.

My mind drifts… A bad report card at half-term. The serious weekend discussion, the stern warnings: “I’m not prepared to let you throw away your A Level grades.”

The cancellation of a week of planned half-term frivolities: “You’ll come and work in my office instead, where I can keep an eye on you and check you’re working hard.”

“But daddy, that’s not fair…”

“Don’t you ‘but daddy’ me, young lady. Now go upstairs to bed, and count yourself lucky that I’m giving you a second chance rather than putting you over my knee like you deserve.”

And so here she is. Although I’ve just noticed that she’s abandoned her books, and is sending (presumably sulky) text messages to her friends. I happen to know that her father is due back from a meeting any moment: the consequences should he catch her dodging her studies can be readily imagined. I’ll let you know if she’s sitting uncomfortably later in the day.

PS To the lady in the next room at the Heathrow hotel last night: you do realise that everyone passing your door could hear you yelping “Ow, ow, ow” at the top of your voice? I so wanted to knock on the door and invite myself to join in. Sorry, to save her.

-------

Now you can buy a book of the best entries from "The Spanking Writers".