Outside the court

Shortly after 6.30 one sunny morning last week, I found myself strolling through central Manchester. One of the modern buildings, it seemed from a sign on the wall, was the local Crown Court.

Around the side of the building, I imagined, would be a queue of girls standing nervously and silently in line – for it wouldn’t do to be late. Sentences of judicial canings were administered every Tuesday morning from 7, so that the senior judge on duty that day could supervise proceedings before the start of the morning’s court hearings.

Some of the girls, sentenced the previous Wednesday, would have been contemplating this moment for nearly a week. Others, convicted the previous afternoon, would have had less than 24 hours of dread.

But what of the lass who was missing from their number when it came to the roll call? The police would be despatched immediately to her home address, where they’d find her cowering in her bedroom. Handcuffed, she’d be taken at haste to the courtroom, arriving just after the final flogging of her fellows had finished.

The judge would be in stern form: she’d be stripped and inspected before him, and pronounced fit for punishment. He’d glance at the paperwork, remembering her case, before taking out his fountain pen. He’d cross something out on the page, and write new notes: “Twelve strokes seemed appropriate until you caused us so much trouble this morning. That’ll be doubled to twenty-four. Officers: strap her down over the bench and proceed…”