Tough, to get into a British university from abroad. So tough that a girl had been sent to a tutor to London to be prepared for her forthcoming entrance examinations.
So tough that her ‘good’ grades at school the previous term – straight As, just two Bs – were dismissed with disdain. “Bs are never ‘good’.”
So tough that her claim to have read the books that she’d been sent in advance had to be put to the test. “When was the Civil War? What dates did Richard III reign? How do you feel Shakespeare’s portrayal fits the historical reality?”
So tough that a girl so proud and confident as she walked through the tutor’s door was made to feel that her approach and diligence were entirely inadequate.
So tough that, to her evident shock, she would be ordered to bend over the desk in the corner. That she would be instructed to take down her jeans. That her knickers would be lowered. That she would be caned. Hard.
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Oh, such a good scene with Olivia when she stayed recently, in a week that featured much naughtiness. (No, I won’t disclose what went on overnight in the hotel room in Reading, for example. I’d hate to make her, or a certain other girl, blush…). Such fun!
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