Another memoir, another caning episode – this time from the screenwriter Jimmy Perry’s “A Stupid Boy”, which we happened upon in a local second-hand bookstore. He’d been caught bunking off school to go to the local theatre, and failed with his attempts to extricate himself from the situation:

The next morning I presented myself at his study for the obligatory six strokes of the cane. I waited outside with three other boys. They were pale and frightened, but I was determined that no trace of fear would appear on my face. I heard my name shouted from inside… one of the boys whispered, “Good luck, Perry.”

I went in. The assistant headmaster just pointed to the chair and I bent over it.

It’s difficult to describe the searing pain of the first stroke and you think you cannot possibly stand another five, but not a sound came out of me, though my whole being wanted to scream and plead for him to stop.

When it was over I could hardly straighten up for a searing, red-hot pain that racked me from head to toe.

His twisted face growled, “You, Perry, are a liar and a cheat. I’m only allowed to give you six strokes, but if I had my way I’d thrash you until you couldn’t stand… I’m giving you a note to take to your parents, and don’t entertain any thoughts of destroying it: I’ve said I want an acknowledgement.”

Reading this sort of account sparks some interesting questions.

I find myself mentally swap genders for the recipient of the caning, substituting ‘girl’ in place of ‘boy’ throughout as I read. I wonder whether other readers whose interests are confined to anecdotes of females on the receiving end do the same.

And then there’s the fantasy versus real-life debate. This is long enough ago, and the author seems to have survived the experience without any deep psychological damage, that I can somehow park that too as I read. Again, I wonder whether others have that nagging guilt of “should I be finding this hot” – and whether some just simply don’t find that real-life accounts spark any spanko interest.