Lazing under the duvet the other afternoon (OK, OK, I’d had an early start, right?), it struck me that my usual view of girls bending over the end of our bed is from behind. However, I realised, it might be rather lovely to watch from the bed itself as three young ladies bent over to be caned, observing their facial reactions to each stroke. (Nudity would be optional, but might add a certain je ne sais quoi to the view).

I toyed with the idea, and before long I was a Duke in my grand country house, sitting comfortably in a silk dressing gown under luxurious bedspreads, propped up by pillows. My neatly-ironed copy of the Times would rest beside me; a coffee would sit on a side table next to my morning toast and marmalade.

And over the bottom end of my four-poster bed would be three uniformed maids, facing me, as my butler whipped them soundly on their bare bottoms.