Looking up from my coffee in the lounge of a rather nice hotel, my gaze happened to fall on the lift opposite. Or more precisely, on its occupants: five smartly-dressed young women, eyes downcast, studiously avoiding each other’s glance.
The duty officer at the punishment centre would have a similar view, no doubt. The girls for the 3 p.m. birchings would arrive in dribs and drabs over the preceding quarter hour or so. (After all, it really wouldn’t do to be late).
They’d be shown into the special lift – programmed to take them not up to the higher floors of the building, but directly down to the basement and the punishment rooms.
The doors of the lift would remain open until all of the day’s batch of offenders had arrived. Open, so that the world passing by en route to their offices could look in and see them, and reflect on the punishments that were about to befall such badly-behaved girls.