Weekends aren’t supposed to be like this. Weekends are supposed to be for lazing in bed, rolling over to cuddle girls. For wake-up spankings, leading to quickly-improvised scenes.

Unlike this past Sunday, then: to our local airport at an ungodly hour, to spend the morning flying to Brussels, via the delights of Heathrow,  ready for a Monday morning meeting.

Escaping with hand luggage only (for, after all, there’ll be a girl to spank when I arrive back in London, and I don’t want to delay her thrashing), I had to stop in the airport chemist’s to buy a tube of toothpaste small enough to fit into one of the ghastly clear plastic bags that have taken over our travelling world. (How many hands do they think we have: ‘Before arriving at the scanner, please take off your coat, shoes and belt, and take out your toiletries and laptop’?).

As I queued, I noticed a sweet young thing at the make-up counter, trying on as many of the samples as she could. Before long, her father appeared - irate even in his relief at finding her at last, and whisked her swiftly away to rejoin the rest of the family.

They’d have missed the flight, of course. There are no quiet corners at the airport where a daddy could put a girl over the knee, so “I shall deal with you when we arrive at the hotel.” Their wait for the next one would be long, silent, apprehensive; not even her sister’s hugs could make things better nor help her to forget the not-quite-imminent-enough punishment.

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