THE SPANKING WRITERS

Sitting in the bar at Palm Springs airport at the weekend, killing time before my much-delayed flight, watching the highly-entertaining Women’s College World Series baseball. (That’d be “World” as in “US”, of course. And I confess to having been rather more interested in the Women’s College part of the equation that the baseball).

An ad appeared on the TV: a middle-aged man, wandering from car to car in some lovers’ lane, peering through the steamed-up windows like some peeping tom. His family, we were told, had chosen the wrong cellphone network. His teenage daughter’s SMS telling him that she was staying the night at Stacey’s house hadn’t made it through because of poor phone reception.

“Come Monday,” the advertiser explained, “you’re going to be the girl with the crazy father who no-one wants to date.”

Now, why anyone would want to date her father was quite beyond me – although the fact that he’d have been fine with his daughter staying over to shag her girlfriend all night long, provided she’d sent him a text, made him sound remarkably tolerant. (Err, I’m not sure that’s quite what they meant, mind).

But, of course, my mind had completed the sentence in an entirely different way, well before the voiceover finished:

“Come Monday you’re going to be the girl with the very sore backside.”

(“But daddy, I swear, I did send you a message…”)

I was quite disappointed, to be honest.

Last night was the final night when it was allowed to drink on the London Underground. According to the BBC, a great mob showed up at Liverpool Street Station yesterday to party to the last day of drinking away – a big enough crowd that they had to shut the station.

Oh, dear. What a pair of the partying girls didn’t realise was that their father would watch the news, just as the event was being reported, and would spot two familiar laughing faces, two heads of curly blonde hair, the hands clutched around bottles of beer.

When they returned home – on the bus, because they’d stopped the Tube, how cool! – he would be waiting for them in the hallway, hands folded on his chest. And as soon as they saw his face, their giggly smiles would melt away – they would know that he knew.

He wouldn’t spank his girls just then: who knew how much beer they’d drunk. He would want them sober, alert and contrite. He would dispatch them to their bedrooms at once, and inform them they were grounded for the whole of the following week. And that he would deal with them in the morning.

In fact, he might be punishing them right now: one girl in the corner of the living room with her hands on her head, the other – over daddy’s lap, kicking and squealing as the smooth-backed hairbrush descends.

The Headmaster’s was evidently furious, as he lectured the hastily-assembled sixth-formers from the stage. “In all of my years as a schoolmaster, I have never encountered such wilful misconduct by such a large group of girls.”

“I am minded to give each and every one of you six of the best.” Stunned silence: girls winced, threw scared glances at their friends, reached for neighbours’ hands.

He paused, as if for effect. “But I fear that the time involved in punishing so many of you would prove unacceptably disruptive to the school day, so intend to adapt the Roman approach to quelling insubordination in the ranks. I shall therefore select one girl in every ten at random; each of those chosen will find a letter in their pigeonhole before chapel tomorrow morning, asking them to report to my study before lunch to be caned.”

—

Amazing the kinky concepts one dreams up with ten hours to kill on a transatlantic flight. No idea what they’d done – mass truancy, a brawl with a neighbouring school, boycotting a session with an eminent visiting speaker?   But I rather enjoyed the idea, even if it’s entirely impractical for a play scene – after all, the nine girls left out would be distraught!

One of my work responsibilities is to act as an examiner for candidates hoping to achieve a particular, respected professional qualification. And whilst I don’t know the questions they’ll receive, I’m allowed to run a revision course for them in the day or days leading up to their test. I’m leading one such event out here in California, before this week’s conference.At the same time, a few of our friends here at The Spanking Writers are preparing to sit exams, of a different nature. Cue a different cut on the same theme, in my jetlagged I’ve-just-been- travelling-for 23.5-hours-non-stop slumbers a few nights ago.

The dream-exam was especially demanding: my preparation course lasted a whole month. Moreover, those attending (carefully hand-picked by their bosses) would have been expected to have to have studied extensively even before their arrival on the first day.

It was a small group – eight young ladies, locked away in a country house for the duration. Classes lasted from breakfast to late afternoon; “Evening study is expected and required.”

Each morning, I would pass a bag containing each of the girl’s names to one of the participants. She’d reach in, take out a rolled-up piece of paper: everyone would crane forward as she read out the name, and the chosen girl would be invited to the front of the class.

I’d pull round a wooden chair and position it in the centre of the room, its high back nearest the audience. The girl concerned would position herself behind the chair, facing away from the group, as I stood before her and posed my first question of that day’s twenty (drawn from past test papers).

She’d answer nervously, hesitantly, understanding the consequences of an incorrect response. Perhaps she’d get the first few right, but eventually a look of panic would cross her face. She’d mutter a guess, a look of panic crossing her face.

“No, young lady. Does anyone else know?” Some bright spark would inevitably call out the correct reply as I picked up the cane. “Bend over.”

She’d know that punishments were always on the bare, that there was no point in protesting. She’d lift her skirt, pull down her knickers, stretch forward into position and brace herself for the stroke that would follow. She’d hope to be brave; a yelp or a sob might inevitably be forthcoming as the rattan cut home. And there she’d stay for the remainder of her test, each wrong answer a further red stripe.

At the start of the course, it would not be unusual for a girl to get ten or more wrong: it would be a good check as to whether they’d revised with due diligence. As the course progressed, a girl might get away with three, four strokes. And by the eve of the exam, one would hope not to have to wield the cane at all. Job done, girls prepared, ready to pass.

The bookshop chain Waterstones has launched a contest called “What’s your story?” It’s essentially a story competition, in which you write your story on the back of a card you pick up in any shop.

Like so:

I’m enormously tempted to launch my own competition, for those who are tempted to subvert a Waterstones story card. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can afford the subsequent lawsuit…

The girls walking through the town centre in front of me were weighed down with textbooks. A Level students, I guessed, exams looming, in the midst of a mutually-supportive “shall we go and revise together in the coffee shop” trip.Only when they sat down, one would turn to the other: “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You remember… when you got the cane last term. What – what happened? How does he do it? Was it really awful?”

Her best friend would blush, then go pale, glancing round to make sure that none of the other customers had heard. With tears welling up: “I… I’d rather not talk about it.”

“It’s just that…” She gulped: “The Headmaster’s secretary caught me as I was leaving school on Friday afternoon, and told me to report to him after assembly on Monday morning. And I’m really worried that he’s found out that I forged my sicknote when I stayed at home on Wednesday…”