Wednesday 8 June 2016

A Wakefield Detention (Miss Hardcastle)


A Wakefield Detention – a visit to Miss Hardcastle and friends.

I gets around on my travels, always willing to try new experiences in the interests of my blog. Venturing to Wakefield was a journey I never expected to make but well worth it. Age may wither but the spirit remains and a sore behind was a small price for this northern pleasure. They whack bottoms hard in that part of Yorkshire. This report is for Miss Hardcastle but all are welcome to read. Who knows, if she don't like it, I could be baring all near the Pennines again.  Alfred Roy
 

Given that the staff on this visit to the notable Miss Hardcastle’s equally renowned detention class numbered three I suppose I could have called this piece The Wakefield Trinity. An incorrigible threesome of the severe headmistress herself, a delightful matronly watcher christened by me the Ofstead Inspector, and a fun loving head girl who went by the soubriquet of Violet Bubblegum. Or something similar. An awesome trinity indeed. Unlike the motley collection of pupils who them in charge spent a pleasant afternoon dealing with. In a variety of creative and painful ways. Including yours truly, who journeyed 180 miles to accompany a close northern friend to a disciplinary class long desired. By him, if not me. But, given that I have had much fun on occasions at its southern cousin, Whipstock Grange, I ventured on the long travel up the boring A1. 180 miles to have your bottom smacked. I must be mad but if I am, to quote someone else, it is a fine madness.

If I learnt anything at the school detention it was stand up whenever Miss Hardcastle entered the room and don’t, ever, end a sentence with a preposition. So that is something I ain’t about to put my pen to. The other thing I learnt, long ago and continue to do so, is that blogging such shenanigans here needs lashings of descriptive disciplinary antics to capture the reader. A pant lowered and raised gets more hits, so to speak, than any number of examples on the corrective use of a pronoun. Shallow lot, pupils and readers alike.

Fortunately pants and underpants were regularly lowered for a variety of indiscretions. Most deliberate, like my northern friend stating that the King who named a spaniel was called Cocker. Think about it but not too long. If he was dealt with first it was but a brisk flick before my own small shorts and nether garments were around my ankles for a dozen cane strokes from Bubblegum across my bare backside. Raised high in the air as I bent over an accommodating stool. Not sure of the transgression which caused my initial whacking but as said Bubblegum alluded to me as motor mouth it may be something to do with giving her a surfeit of lip. A little later, first visit to headmistress Hardcastle’s private room, more serious thwacks were given to my now warming bottom. First a strap and then a cane and shamefully naked cheeks stung like bees on a bender. That registered, but not as much as the fact that large uncovered windows gave a bird’s eye view to the overlooking offices. They do things differently in Wakefield.

One unexpected difference was a splendid afternoon tea of sumptuous cakes and resumption of proceedings under the control of the Ofstead inspector. Deceptively gentle, kind and cuddly, she transmogrified into a harsh disciplinarian of awesome power. My motormouth is still gobsmacked. She had, from the back of the class, oozed friendly persona. From the front her cane and strap, and her voice, fired venom to both ears and backsides. None escaped. Even if a pupil from the wilds of Berkshire begged, and received, only gentle strokes to his pleasingly rounded naked bottom. By my calculation his journey was even longer than mine. I still wonder if it was really worth it. Mine was, both from her and a final castigation from Miss Hardcastle. She had us all bent and bare over a dividing rail in the large and scholastic hall and a candy striped cane left marks on behinds that will take longer to fade than the memory. Two weeks later, Sudocream profits soaring, I still have mine. They fascinate, like they did in schooldays, a bare bottom violated with scholarly wrath. The fee paid is redeemed in full every time I look. And I still do.

So Miss Hardcastle, Miss Bubblegum, my Northern friend, and all others delivered their promise. I drove home, all 180 miles, very sore in the nether regions. But it was worth it. We into corporal punishment in all its guises may be very odd folks. But dropping your pants, offering your bare behind, and being whacked by enthusiastic mature ladies beats lots of the alternatives for oldies. And with like minded fellows in an old fashioned schoolroom, thoughtfully arranged. And as a bonus that Ofstead lady sent me off with a farewell spanking. My behind glowed like a beacon and, as I left, my smile lit up the streets of Wakefield. Old ladies walking dogs will never know the reason why. Alfred Roy