We’ve just returned from a weekend at a reformatory (where I was being reformed, and Abel was one of the master’s). My bottom is sensitive to the merest touch, and it’s unusually painful to sit on. I’ll write more about how it got this way as I process my impressions, but I’ll have you know that Abel isn’t in the least sympathetic.

When we came home this morning, I complained about being very sore, particularly after a long drive. Abel’s reaction? He picked up the wooden yardstick that lives in the kitchen.

“Bend over and put your hands on the counter,” he said.

I whimpered and obeyed. Even the motion of bending over was painful, as the seams of my knickers rubbed against my sensitive skin. Abel measured the yardstick against my bottom, and told me to stick it out properly.

I gritted my teeth and whined quietly in anticipation.

The strokes were quick, loud, and smarted a lot. Even though they weren’t that hard. I made no attempt to be brave, and yelped pathetically.

Now I’m sitting on my sore bottom, and wondering how I’m going to take the birching I’ve been promised for tonight…