Yesterday was one of our last sorting-out days before the moving men descend on us. We turned the radio on, opened the front door for ventilation and got to work.

Suddenly, a song came on air that I really didn’t approve of. Frustrated, I exclaimed:

“I really hate this fucking song!”

“You hate this what?” Abel called back from halfway in a cupboard. “What sort of language is that in the hearing of our neighbours?” He reversed out of the cupboard and said: “Get upstairs.”

Oooh, I thought. What fun.

“So sorry, sir,” I said, giggling.

We walked into the bedroom together, when Abel said: “All the bloody implements are packed!”

I thought: no shit, sir. But didn’t say it.

“This will do,” he announced, snatching up my hairbrush and plopping himself on the bed.

Over his knee I went.

The fact that this was all quite funny didn’t diminish the attrocious sting of the brush one bit. I yelped and wriggled a lot, but thankfully, it was over soon. He let me up, put down the brush and started to walk away.

I rubbed my bottom.

“That really fucking hurt,” I said petulantly.

“It what?”

He spun on his heel, and marched right back, picking up the hairbrush on the way.

Of course, Abel has the filthiest mouth known to humankind, which is why whenever he tries to spank me for swearing, it can’t be anything other than in fun.

It still hurt, though.

I probably didn’t swear again for a whole hour.