Yesterday morning Abel noticed me as I was going past on my way from the shower, and called me over to read his post about touching toes and bending over chairs. I agreed that it was an interesting entry, and was about to turn around and continue on my way, when he said:
“Wait a minute! I think you should take that towel off, bend over and touch your toes.”
It seemed entirely reasonable, if you understand Abel-logic.
I bent forward, wet hair brushing the carpet. Behind me, I felt an ominous swish of the cane through the air.
“Right,” he said. “I don’t appreciate prefects still being in bed at 8.30, when they should be in chapel.”
I humbly apologised for my laziness.
“Three strokes,” he said.
Down they came, three stinging slashes. I hissed in pain, but didn’t forget to count.
Abel hoped I had learned my lesson, and told me to report to chapel after lessons, to make up for lost prayer time. I promised that I would, and that I would never oversleep again.
“You may go,” he said.
Then we had a good giggle, and I could admire three thin red lines the cane left on my bottom.