Killing time in Manchester recently, before catching a train to more civilised haunts*, I wandered into a high-end department store.
Passing through the women’s clothing section as I swapped escalators, a cute shop assistant greeted me cheerily. Only… here she was amidst the designer labels, wearing clothes that looked untidy (if I’m kind) or simply scruffy (if I’m not).
Her manager would notice too, of course. Would call her into his office. Would ask her to remind him of the relevant paragraphs of the staff handbook and, when she couldn’t recall them by heart, would make her read them aloud.
And then would require her to remove the offending garments, and her similarly-inappropriate underwear. Would order her to lean face down across his desk. And would apply six perfect stripes with the cane.
He’d keep a selection of suitable clothes for such occasions, naturally. Once dressed, he’d despatch her to dry her eyes and adjust her make-up, and then to resume her place on the shop floor.
* As a Liverpudlian, hatred of our neighbours at the wrong end of the East Lancs Road is deep-seated!