With spring upon us, one’s mind turns naturally to the abundance of fresh growth on birch trees everywhere. Whereas my springtide thoughts last year were of gambolling lambs and flowering daffodils, this year I’ve been toying with a rather darker scenario.

The setting’s a punishment cell within a prison. A girl – freshly showered – has been stripped and strapped down by two gaolers over the flogging block. Five neatly-tied sprays of freshly-cut birch rods lean ominously against the wall.

But here’s the thing: the officer who’s to inflict her sentence only enters after she’s bound in place. Arched over the wooden frame, wrists and ankles bound tight with leather straps, the offender has no means of looking back to see him – or possibly her. All is silent: no words are spoken. For the remainder of her sentence, the inmate will have no idea whatsoever which of her guards is the one to have administered her thrashing.

Five birches: each used for ten strokes, then discarded in favour of a fresh implement. She’d take the first batch bravely; she’d break on the second. Before the final ten, she’d be begging for forgiveness, vowing never to reoffend, pleading for clemency. But mercy would be in short supply, and the final flurry would be the cruellest of all, before the disciplinarian turned and left the room…