A Life in the Day of Rosemary Booker - The Woody Back to School ...

A Life in the Day of Rosemary Booker
practiced by most artistes and the effects are
excruciating. Pain ricocheted around my central
nervous system like a pinball. It is always astonishing
that being whapped on the arse with a stick can
cause the tips of your nose and ears to tingle. I
buried my face in the duvet and concentrated on
taking deep breaths.
Momentarily I turned and looked across at
Debs. Her arms were stretched out along the bed and
she was resting her head on her chin and staring
straight ahead of her. Her features were arranged in
a mask of grim determination. I felt a wave of
sympathy for her and wished that I could reach over
and hold her hand.
At least my torment was over and I could
embark upon the long and painful road to recovery.
Deborah’s torment was about to begin.
She had been bent over the end of her bed for
several minutes, watching and listening to me being
caned. I know from experience how disquieting that
can be. Doubtless her tummy was full of butterflies
and her apprehension heightened by the seemingly
endless wait for it to become her turn to be dealt
with.
Behind her Claire was getting into position and
tapping the cane down to get her measure. Deborah
pursed her lips and continued to stare straight ahead.
The cane whistled and then landed with the familiar
thwack. Deborah’s face barely flinched.
I closed my eyes and preferred not to look. My
bottom was throbbing like a police beacon. I listened
to the methodical swishes and thwacks as my best