THE SPANKING WRITERS

When we came back to our hotel room last night, and picked up the “do not disturb” sign to put on our door, Abel got an evil glint in his eye.

“I could do something very bad,” he said. “Shall I?”

“What is it?”

He waved the second sign at me, the “please clean my room” one. Then he tiptoed across the hotel corridor and hang it on the door of the room opposite, where the inhabitants were, presumably, peacefully asleep.

In fairness, he took it off right away. But the naughtiness, the naughtiness! What would have happened to me if I’d so much as suggested it?

In the fine tradition of the spanking blogs everywhere, I’d like to take some suggestions on what punishment Abel deserves.

(No, he’s not going to accept it. Ah, well, we can dream.)

We’ve been doing the touristy thing all week. Forget the grand Habsburg buildings and great museums: the baby panda in the zoo rates as the highlight so far.

Food here’s interesting. We stumbled into the hotel’s restaurant on the first night in jeans and T-shirts, sat outside on the terrace, ordered beers – and then discovered that the chef who created the menu has two Michelin stars! The following evening took us to a more traditional place, recommended by a business acquaintance of mine who lives in the city.

Figlmüller has been serving Viennese specialities since 1905. It’s an old-fashioned, serious place: the staff are professional, but somewhat formal and scary. The queues outside are daunting – we were lucky, getting in within a mere half-hour’s wait.

As we arrived, a cute young American woman and her mother were finishing their food at the next table. The daughter turned to a passing waiter and asked for the cheque. A few moments later, he reappeared at our table with the menus and she leant over to ask again – a little irritably.

“But of course, madam,” he replied, reaching into his pocket and taking out the bill that he’d been away preparing.

I rather thought he should have kept the slip in his pocket. “Indeed, young lady. Would you care to follow me to the cashier’s office?”

Through a back door, into a dark room. “Now, perhaps you would care to explain why you felt it necessary to be so rude?”

She would apologise, beg their forgiveness.

The strap hanging on the wall would have been used countless times over the past century. He’d take it down, flex it. “You see, young lady, we take a traditional view here. As you’re about to learn.”

She’d protest, but he’d be stronger than her: she’d quickly find herself tossed over his knee, skirt lifted for a thrashing…

…and then he’d allow her to pay the bill.

Back in reality, somewhat later – whilst we ate our much-renowned Schnitzels – we became aware of a slight kerfuffle at the door. A young lady had pushed to the front of the queue: “We made a reservation for 8pm.”

The maitre d’ checked his lists. Arched eyebrows: “Did you?”

She fell silent, then shame-facedly confessed that she had not. He sent the blushing girl scurrying away, her tail between her legs. Only I rather wished that he’d invited her in: shown her too through to that back room, taken down the strap again before revealing that he knew she was being dishonest, and giving her the choice: “I can either call the police and report you for deception, or you can bend over the chair and we will deal with this here and now.”

With our head-sized ice-creams, we stopped in the middle of a busy square to lick them down to manageable dimensions. A few paces away, two street fiddlers were playing: a girl my age, and a slightly older man. They were pretty good, but they were also plain pretty in a wild, hippy way: a treat for both ears and eyes.

“I hope she doesn’t miss any notes,” Abel mumbled through a mountain of chocolate.

I hoped so too, for her sake. Because if she did, her partner wouldn’t skip a beat, but would give her a significant look over his fiddle. When they finished for the night, he would wait until she finished packing away her instrument.

“Come along. You know we have something to discuss.”

They live in an artists’ commune, with people coming and going, and sleeping spaces separated with no more than a gauze sheets criss-crossing an abandoned, draughty hall.

People pretend that they don’t notice or care. Still, when it’s time for the girl to go over her partner’s lap, paying for the skipped notes and mangled songs, she knows that several pairs of ears are following her misfortune.

Yesterday I had to go down to London on my own; Abel is due to join me this afternoon. He teased me on the phone about being in trouble for running away from home, and I can’t get the idea out of my head.

I would be a new bride, freshly delivered to her husband’s estate. I had no wish to marry him, I hardly know him! But my parents insisted. Well, I have a better idea: I steal a boy’s suit from a page, and set off to London: to audition for a theatre troupe, perhaps, or even to join a convent. Anything is better than being married off against my will!

However, I haven’t reckoned on my husband’s connections, or on his determination. He has me followed, and comes after me personally, austere and magnificent, cutting across my way on his horse, as I run along an unfamiliar London lane. Oh no! he is clutching a riding whip. Whatever will happen to me now?

The herd of baby elephants in the hotel room directly above mine had been practising their gymanstics for far too long, far too late at night. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone to the reception desk, to ask whether they might be able to ask my fellow guests to quieten down.

Silence descended within moments, and I was able to fall asleep at last.

To sleep, perchance to dream… Two girls in the room: best friends, on a trip to London. The father of one, staying further down the corridor, oblivious to the post-lights-out misbehaviour. The hotel manager, knocking on his door to mention the problem, accompanying him to the girls’ room to order them to quieten down.

The door shutting behind the manager, the girls’ apologies too late to save them. They’d be told to bend over the ends of their twin beds, to lower their pyjama bottoms. He’d whip his own daughter first – she’d be used to the taste of his belt. And then to her friend, who’d agree quietly that her own parents had told her that she should behave impeccably during the trip, and that they had asked her friend’s father to punish her soundly if she did not. The same dozen strokes, the same tears.

And the same order at the end of their punishment: to put on their dressing gowns and go downstairs to apologise to the gentlemen below for the disturbance they’d caused; to explain that they had been dealt with; to promise that there’d be no repetition.

Long Acre is one of my favourite London streets – the road from Leicester Square to Covent Garden full of lovely shops, like the quite wonderful Stanford’s (the travel bookshop), Muji or – a stone’s throw to the side – the London Graphic Centre. It’s also perhaps that I associate the walk with heading towards the delights of Belgo, to top up on mussels and frites, or the soon-to-be-gone CCK.I now have quite a different image in my mind, after walking back late-ish the other night from the aforementioned hostelries. Passing one of the clothes stores – Next, maybe? – we noticed a young shop assistant inside the door. On the floor before her were two huge bags, from which spilled garments galore. And, sifting suspiciouly through the garments, receipt in hand, was the uniformed security guard.

It didn’t take much to imagine where this was heading. “You’ll need to accompany me to the security office” would follow the discovery that her late-night working had seen a few extra items slip into her bag. There, they’d discuss the options: “I should call the police, but they’re awfully busy at this time of the evening. And then the management would need to know in the morning, of course – assuming you’re out of the cells by then.”

She’d readily agree to the alternative. A dash round the shop would see the almost-stolen items returned to the racks. By the time she returned, a chair would be positioned in the middle of the room, a cane on the desk.

“Lift your skirt and bend over.”

She’d comply. He’d tug down her knickers.

He wouldn’t offer her the solace of knowing the number of strokes in advance, so that she could find comfort from the nearing end of the caning. Rather, he’d punish her until he was sure that she was suitably repentent. And then he’d stripe her more, to be doubly-assured of her penitance.

She’d stand on the tube journey home, of course. Other passengers would notice her discomfort: observing her smudged make-up, watching sympathetically as she wiped away her tears.

And the following morning, after a painful and restless night, it’d be back into the store – where the security guard would be waiting, barely acknowledging her as she walked in, keeping true to his word that the incident would never again be mentioned.