A night of reformatory floggings; I became a Governor in my dreams last night.

First, I found myself showing some distinguished visitor around our facilities. We had stopped outside a door, and were peering through the glass window, watching the scene inside.

A young, uniformed, female officer – in her late twenties? – was circling around the punishment frame. Holding a birch. A pale girl was tied to a frame, quite naked. The upturned U of the frame presented her body to us from the side, perfectly symmetrical; her wrists and ankles were tied tight. It appeared that her flogging was just about to begin.

I turned to my guest, and explained that the officer concerned was one of our best. “You see, she was an inmate here herself when she was younger. I think we helped her to see the error of her ways. I had to whip her when she was here, you know: I’m sure she’s more effective at giving out punishments now having been on the receiving end herself.”

Sadly, the dream faded. But later, another young prison officer was seen waiting in a different punishment room. She was a trainee: the regulations demanded that she must ‘demonstrate her competence in the administration of corporal punishment’ as part of attaining her qualifications. Our system was simple: as the young officers drew near to their graduation, they would therefore be asked to act as the Punishment Officer for a random girl who’d broken the regulations. Under supervision, of course: the examiner stood to the side of the room, with his clipboard.

A prisoner was marched in. The door was bolted shut; her handcuffs unlocked. And a look of panic crossed the young officer’s face. For this was no random prisoner: this was a girl who she knew, who she liked, who she’d comforted and cuddled and helped through her sentence.

The examiner looked at the officer: “Read out the charge sheet.” (Refusing to return to her cell when instructed; lashing out at the guards who had come to take her away).

“And what punishment do the statutes lay down for those offences?”

“Eight to twelve strokes for refusing to return to her cell, sir. Twelve to eighteen for striking an officer, sir.”

“And what is your assessment in this case?”

“It states on the form that it is her first offence, sir. So I would see no reason to administer more than the minimum in each case. Twenty strokes in total, sir.”

“Very good. And what implement should be used?”

The officer looked down at the charge sheet, but knew already. “She’s nineteen, sir. So the senior prison cane.”

“Indeed.” The young officer walked to the corner of the room, unlocked the cupboard, took out the cane. And then looked at the prisoner, whose eyes pleaded for mercy, and ordered her to strip…

(Sadly, this dream too then faded before the administration of the punishment. But I’m sure we can imagine the rest…)