The girl at the next table at lunch in Oxford on Good Friday had stepped straight from one of my stories. Clearly a good girl: chunky hand-knitted cardigan, hemp Oxfam bag, the vegetarian option (of course). Pretty, in an understated way. She smoothed out the map of the university’s colleges, discussing the afternoon’s itinerary with proud parents: I might apply there next year, or there, or there…

Her mobile bleeped; she read the text; her father reached out his hand and took the phone from her. He read the message, smiled.

But what if he’d read a different message, from her closest friend at boarding school:

My Dad got ltr from hdmstr about caning. Intercept yr post!

She’d blush, remembering ruefully back to the final night of term earlier in the week and their painful trip to the Headmaster’s study. “Girls in the Lower Sixth should, quite frankly, know better, and I intend to make an example of you. Now, which of you would like to go first?”

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