Wednes­day 24 November

A depress­ing day, at every lev­el. I came home ear­ly from my lunch-break and caught my trust­ed sec­re­tary , Celia, red-hand­ed, going through my draw­ers. She insist­ed that she was just look­ing for some blot­ting-paper, but one look at her face told me that was a lie. My first instinct was to sack her on the spot but, for bet­ter or worse, I decid­ed on an alter­na­tive strat­e­gy. If the cane con­cen­trates boysí minds, there is no rea­son why it should not con­cen­trate the mind of a mar­ried woman of thirty-five!

I made her wait around after school, then informed her of my ver­dict, non-nego­tiable: she was to receive ten strokes of the senior cane, hav­ing first removed her under­wear. She found the sec­ond ele­ment of the pun­ish­ment even more objec­tion­able than the first and begged me to let retain her knick­ers to pro­tect her mod­esty. ëMod­esty be damned!í I said, reach­ing for my cane. It felt odd flog­ging a woman ñ hope­ful­ly, for the first and last time. Celi­aís but­tocks were much fleshi­er than those of a teenage boy, and the can­ing made a ter­ri­ble rack­et. But she took it sto­ical­ly and, as she rubbed her bot­tom after­wards, thanked me for giv­ing her a sec­ond chance. But it was a dispir­it­ing inci­dent. I did­nít become a teacher to whack grown wom­enís bottoms.

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