Their post-punishment apologies

The herd of baby elephants in the hotel room directly above mine had been practising their gymanstics for far too long, far too late at night. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone to the reception desk, to ask whether they might be able to ask my fellow guests to quieten down.

Silence descended within moments, and I was able to fall asleep at last.

To sleep, perchance to dream… Two girls in the room: best friends, on a trip to London. The father of one, staying further down the corridor, oblivious to the post-lights-out misbehaviour. The hotel manager, knocking on his door to mention the problem, accompanying him to the girls’ room to order them to quieten down.

The door shutting behind the manager, the girls’ apologies too late to save them. They’d be told to bend over the ends of their twin beds, to lower their pyjama bottoms. He’d whip his own daughter first – she’d be used to the taste of his belt. And then to her friend, who’d agree quietly that her own parents had told her that she should behave impeccably during the trip, and that they had asked her friend’s father to punish her soundly if she did not. The same dozen strokes, the same tears.

And the same order at the end of their punishment: to put on their dressing gowns and go downstairs to apologise to the gentlemen below for the disturbance they’d caused; to explain that they had been dealt with; to promise that there’d be no repetition.