So if one came across a young lady walking along a corridor in T-shirt and shorts, that usually meant only one thing: she was on her way to the heads study and would soon be bending over to receive a sound caning across the tightened seat of those shorts. On more than one occasion I would follow the (rather miserable) girl and loiter outside the heads door waiting for the tell-tale sound of flexible rattan coming down across white cotton, usually accompanied by a few shrill yelps which got louder as the punishment proceeded. Then, when she emerged, there would be the exciting sight of a tearful girl trying hard to retain her dignity as she walked quickly but stiffly back to the changing rooms, holding or rubbing the seat of her shorts, as I imagined the reddened state of the backside beneath them.
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