The Spanking Writers

In my dream I was sentenced to corporal punishment. Not sure by whom, or for what misdeeds, but I was. I may have even deserved it.

The detail that turned the dream into a bona fide nightmare was that the implement and the number of strokes were to be decided by gambling.

I was handed a little hemp sack with something clinking inside. These were, I was told, pieces of ivory carved with symbols of implements. I had to put my hand into the sack and draw one. Once the implement was established, I would be handed a platter with ten-sided dice, which I would roll for the number of strokes.

I can still hear the sounds, ominous in the otherwise silent room: the ivory clicking, the dice rattling around the silver platter.

I’m not sure what the result was. I’m quite happy not to know, actually…

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This year apparently marks the hundredth birthday of romantic fiction publisher Mills and Boon. We thought we should pay tribute with a should-be-an-excerpt from one of their novels…

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She fell, breathless, into his strong arms, feeling the soft touch of his velvet cloak. He held her to him, enveloping her in his firm grip. She looked up at his noble face, into his deep  blue eyes, and pressed her damp frame closer to his muscular, hard body.

“I love you,’ she murmured, her heart fluttering like the wings of a caged bird.

“I love you, too, my sweet,” the handsome Prince replied softly. He clicked his fingers twice. Suddenly, the oak door flew open and three uniformed  officers appeared in an instant. “That’s why I cannot let your behaviour this morning go unpunished.”

He released the quivering girl abruptly from his grasp: “Guards! Take her to the dungeon, strip her, and whip her soundly.”

The Prince turned back to her, smiling as he noticed the tears welling up in her pretty eyes. “And when they have finished with you, my sweet, they will bring you to my bedchamber.”

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A series of letters in the Guardian last month discussed collective nouns. There’s a “charm of goldfinches”, a “shrewdness of apes” and a “zeal of zebras”.

And guess what a group of teachers is known as? Why, a “torture”, of course..

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Checking into our London hotel, we saw this notice on the bedside table:

OK, hands up who read that line as ‘Caning for the world we live in’? ‘Cause both of use, independently, saw just that.

Actually, I think it would be a much better note to put in a hotel room.

Cane the world! Canings all ’round! Let’s start with Abel!

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I spied a wonderful new shop last month, about to open just off posh Sloane Square:

Custom belts, indeed? I’ll have one that’s triple thickness, extra wide.

Actually, make that two. The second can have a large buckle, and studs.

Methinks they may end up with a customer base quite unlike the one they predicted in their business plan.

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The Guardian on Saturday has let us know that “September 13, the birthday of the children’s author, has been decreed Roald Dahl Day… and lots of celebrations are planned.”

As we’ve discussed before, the opinion in this household is that Roald Dahl pretty much deserves the title of a patron saint of spanking. Therefore, we’ll be sure to mark his birthday in suitable style. I wonder what all the other people are planning - the ones that the Guardian was referring to?

I suggest public readings from “Galloping Foxley”, followed by re-enactment of the best scenes from “Boy”. There should also be caning competitions, and maybe also a fan-fiction competition.

Any other ideas?

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To some in our party, our inclusion of the Criminal Museum on our recent Viennese itinerary seemed a little odd. “But it sounds gruesome.” “But it’s in the middle of nowhere.” “But there are so many other places to visit.”

We pleaded that Haron needed to visit, to help her legal studies. After all, there could be some fascinating stuff that might help her research. So we won the day.

The real reason’s below (and yes, Haron did get a few odd looks as she snapped the photo):

Yes, dear readers, in the midst of some exceptionally unpleasant displays of murder weapons, skulls of executed villains “and the very cords used to hang them” - there, in the basement, was what our guidebook had enticed us with: a collection of “pieces of equipment from a 19th-century sado-masochist salon”.

Sadly, the display case was firmly locked - but do feel free to email the curators and point out that many museums these days offer historical re-enactments to boost visitor numbers. Only, I suppose, those re-enactments typically involve participants putting on authentic costumes, rather than taking them off…

(Hey, do you think the contents of my study might end up in a museum one day?)

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I should know better by now. I should know that when Abel says, “I need to go into a kitchen shop to replace XYZ”, he actually means “I want to go into the wooden spoon section, to get something to beat you with.” (OK, he probably wants to buy stuff to cook with too, but that motivation is definitely secondary.)

But yesterday I naively followed him into the shop, and stood by as he sorted through measuring jugs and other gizmos, only to see him pick up the thickest, scariest wooden spoon in the world. (Maybe it only seemed that way at the point, of course. The spoon you’re about to get smacked with is always the worst ever.) Protestations were no use: it was clear that the thing was coming home with us.

I’d forgotten all about it by the time I ran my bath this morning, - only to get a nasty surprise when Abel walked into the bathroom, spoon in hand.

“Hands on the edge of the bath,” he said snappily. The bubbles in the tub winked at me as I complied, promising me comfort after it was all over.

As the spoon swung back, I squeaked and twisted out of the way before it came anywhere near me.

“Hey, no moving!” Abel sounded surprised. “You get an extra one for that! I was going to give you four, but it’s five now.”

Now he tells me, I thought. He raised the spoon again, and this time I closed my eyes to keep from seeing it take aim. The swats were quick, crisp and agonising. I couldn’t even tell how many I’d had, by the time it was over.

“Now get into the bath and sit,” said Abel, watching smugly as I writhed around.

Good old kitchen shops. How I don’t love them, let me count the ways.

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From the New Yorker’s list of gigs this week;

“Aug 26: The Asylum Street Spankers, a long-standing free-wheeling music group from Austin, Texas”

Now, how did *they* get their name?!

Intriguingly, the listings either side of this are for an all-girl band, Rasputina, who present their “cheekily maudlin chamber rock while dressed in Victorian finery” - and for a gig featuring Belinda Carlisle (an idol in my University years). I could rather enjoy the prospect of the Asylum Street mob being invited backstage to put their name into practice at both gigs

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Abel and I both had to admit to having a case of kinky hearing when a radio DJ asked somebody what they were doing “on this bank holiday weekend”.

Independently of each other, we heard this as “What are you doing on the spank holiday weekend?”

Hmm, a spank holiday. Sounds like a good plan in itself. If the holiday doesn’t exist, I think it’s worth inventing.

I’m sure we’ll celebrate it in style with a smack or three, a few stripes and a some naughty reading.

I hope you can join us in marking the spank holiday, and tell us all about what you did. And if you can’t, well, tell us what you think should be done in celebration!

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