The Spanking Writers

I blogged recently about a 1904 volume, “Consider the Children”, packed with anecdotes of the administration of corporal punishment in girls’ schools.

The line that most caught my attention was towards the end of the book:

“The simplest proof of the inefficiency of the cane may be found in any punishment book. The same names occur on every page.”

Cases were found of pupils “being punished as many as twenty times in a year for the same fault.”

Clearly, this would be intolerable in any reformatory that I ran. The girls would be in no doubt as to what would happen to repeat offenders. They’d be caned for their first serious breach of the rules, and again for their second, but a third case of misconduct would be dealt with very differently.

The Governors’ Meetings would take place once a month. Once their business was concluded, their attention would turn to disciplinary matters. It would be rare for a girl to have committed a third offence, but any foolish enough to have done so would be led in before the Govenors.

She’d have been freshy-scrubbed, of course; her hair neatly brushed; she’d have been dressed in a clean uniform. The Chairman would read out a concise summary of her offence, before instructing her to bare her behind and bend over the end of the table.

The thrashing would be harsh: after all, a Govenors’ Birching was designed to be as much a deterrant for the other girls as a punishment for the lass being switched.

Afterwards, the girl would be made to stand and apologise to the Governors. Provided the apology was deemed suitably contrite, she’d be sent on her way.

I found this clipping from a newspaper we read on holiday:

This sounds like an idea for a TV show. “Caning! The fear factor!”

Not sure how the show would go, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to develop: all you need is a few canes and a TV crew – and the queue of willing victims will stretch around the block.

I was rather intrigued the other day to stumble across the following definition, from the “1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue” at the Gutenberg site:

SHAPES. To shew one’s shapes; to be stript, or made peel, at the whipping-post.

(Now there’s a dilemma to ponder: whether ’tis nobler to make the girl strip, or to strip her?)

Needless to say, I’ve been browsing the web for corroboration of the definition. But the only other reference I can find to the phrase, in The Slang Dictionary, gives rather different explanation:

“shew SHAPES,” to exhibit pranks or flightiness.

Now, I can see possible link – the pranks leading to a whipping, or the prospect of punishment leading to flightiness. But I wonder which is the correct definition – or whether the phrase simply evolved over time?

Abel’s parents phoned a few nights ago, very apologetic for not having offered to come and help us unpack in our new home.

Why yes, it would have been a grand idea. Given what we suspect about Abel’s father, I’m sure he would enjoy unboxing the five crates of dubious books. When he was done, he could help us find a home for all the toys, magazines, videos and pictures.

…Or maybe they should just stay well away until we designate a kinky zone, which can be safely locked on any future visits.

The afternoon before we were due to move out, there was a knock at the door. Our landlord – a lovely chap – had decided to be helpful and call round a day early for a cursory inspection, checking we’d not wrecked the place. (We hadn’t. The cat had done a fair amount of damage, mind, but he didn’t notice!)

We embarked on a little tour. Only, we were still in the final stages of packing. We walked into the bedroom: in full view  lay the box with Haron’s school ties and, erm, personal items of the buzzing variety.

Oh look! Here’s the spare bedroom: I dived through the door before him, pushing the freshly-made birch behind the top of a stack of boxes. It didn’t quite make it, the bundle sticking out at an odd angle throughout our conversation.

And yes, that’d be the wallpaper on my computer screen in the office. Indeed, it does appear to be a photograph of two naked girls lying face down on bunk beds in a run-down prison.

I’m not sure he noticed. But as he wished us well, I’m guessing he might have been wondering quite what we’d been up to in his property for these past seven years!

One of the papers last weekend talked about Alan Shearer’s new regime for the footballers of Newcastle FC.*

He has stamped his authority on the place and rightly so… [He] has instilled discipline and professionalism… He has come in and told people what he expected of them… He is very big on punctuality and showing respect to each other. Everyone must eat together to forge team spirit. Ice baths are now compulsory.

…He has told his squad to put any partying on hold. “Do tell me if you see any of them out on the town,” [he] told reporters, only half-joking.

You know, I hope he wasn’t joking.

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* Which is no longer our local club. *Sob!*

So, we’re almost ready to move to our new home. Our belongings are suitably de-kinked: three large sealed crates bear the more pervy of our books; the implements are carefully stashed in a pair of hockey bags and a tightly-taped poster tube.

The long box marked (and full of) “School Canes” lies ready to be transported in my car – deemed too shocking to leave for the guys moving our belongings. So too is our other wooden box – the one containing the tawse, bible and rosary beads, its lid inscribed with a cross and the well-worn words “Holy Trinity Roman Catholic School for Girls. Discipline Records and Correctional Procedure Guidelines”. I may have a fair collection of literature on the, ahem, history of education on the bookshelves for the team to pack, but if they’re religious types, they might not be impressed with our favourite scholastic artefact. (Actually, even if they’re not religious types, they might not be impressed!).

The whole thing’s very exciting – not least, the thought of our first evening in the new place. See, the truck with our stuff won’t arrive until the morning after we move in – and the place we’re renting is unfurnished. Our first night will therefore be spent in a near-empty house – sleeping on an inflatable bed, accompanied by one small suitcase, the boxes of implements that I’ve transported, and not much else.

I shall be the property agent, we’ve decided, responding to reports that a squatter’s been seen inside the supposedly-empty house. I shall catch Haron red-handed, although she may well try to hide. (Hey, it’ll be a good way to explore!).

She won’t want to be taken to the police for breaking in; a sound caning is sure to follow. I’m sure it won’t be the last night she’ll spend sleeping, striped, on her front in our new home!

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.

Furniture-shopping in Tottenham Court Road a week or two back: if we’re not to sit and sleep on the floor of our new place, we needed to need to buy some furniture.

Heals won the prize for the worst shop on the street – quite horrible furniture at ridiculously inflated prices. But as I left, I noticed that they had a huge slogan painted over the exit: “Of course you deserved it!”  

I rather think I might borrow the phrase for our play room, to be viewed ruefully by girls as they rub their bottoms on the way out after being punished.

Further up the street, I walked past a fashionable-looking place. They displayed a large poster in the window:

Book a visit from one of our interior designers. They are not going to talk about BoConcept. They want to talk about you to ensure you get the most out of your furniture.

Oh do they, now? OK, here goes. I need to be able to tie a girl to the bed easily, and it should sleep three comfortably. The sofa must have arms at the right height to bend girls over for their spankings. Now, what do you recommend?

We spent a portion of yesterday packing our insanely large collection of implements into transportation-friendly bags, boxes and poster tubes.

This has proved very, very painful. There were some toys we hadn’t even seen for a while, because they’d been deeply stashed behind all the other toys, and Abel couldn’t resist reminding himself of their power.

It went like this: we’d shove a few toys into a bag, pull out the next armful, and Abel would go: “Oh! Look at this, a paddle/strap/spoon/brush, what fun! Bend over!” And give me a whack with it. Not just a tiny little smack, but a proper stroke. I would howl. He would tell me to keep my voice down, because of the open window. I would tell him not to hit me so hard if he wanted my voice down. Then we’d pack away the toys.

And move on to the next armful. And the next.

I’m starting to think we may not need that many toys: they hurt.