To a Victorian workhouse as I slept last night. A benefactor was visiting – a youngish gentleman, who’d recently inherited his father’s title and estate and was therefore on the lookout for new staff.

Six of the best girls were lined up for him to inspect; they’d been scrubbed and dressed in clean clothes before his arrival, and ordered to be on their very best behaviour. He talked kindly to them – asking how long they’d been in the establishment, whether they’d been well-treated, what they wanted to do with their lives.

Each girl answered politely, save for the last. She initially refused to answer, then – when pressed – spoke up vehemently. “What do you care? You know nothing of what life’s really like. You swan in here in your fine clothes, looking for cheap labour to exploit. And in return you expect us to bow down and worship you?”

The governor, of course, sent an underling to fetch a birch; the girl was tied over a chair, and six smart strokes applied. After she’d been punished, she was told apologise to the visitor – but refused.

“It appears, governor, that you may not have punished her with sufficient vigour. May I?” And the young gentleman removed his jacket, rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and took the birch. The girl was tied down once more; her second flogging, incomparably harder, soon had her pleading for forgiveness and mercy.

Afterwards, she stood before him, attempting not to let him see her cry, trying to avoid his eyes. “I’ll take this one, governor, if I may,” the gentleman requested. “I like a girl with spirit – and she can be taught good manners.”

(The dream then degenerated into a Mills and Boon romance: master and servant became close; a check through the workhouse paperwork revealed that she’d been abandoned as a baby by a rich family fallen on hard times; they were therefore able to marry. All extremely improbable – whereas the birching scene, of course, was entirely realistic!)