.

touch that!” Ruben hobbles in with one hand raised in warning and the other clutching the area in which his fly buttons spend most of their lives.

      “Get out of here, you old stoatnangler!” Seth springs forward.

      “It’s only lemonade,” I explain, trying to make everybody calm down. I take a sip to prove the point and—urgh! I wish I hadn’t. It tastes sharper than any lemon.

      “Now you’ve done it!” scolds Ruben. “You’ve durvilled her divots.”

      “No more than what you were trying to do.”

      “I would never have used girdjuice.”

      “Rubbish! I’ve seen you spattleharness a wench, in my time. And her with only one flobby.”

      I wish I could keep pace with what they are saying but suddenly I am feeling very sleepy. It must be all the fresh air. I just have time to put the glass down before it falls from my fingers. I have not felt like this since I last watched Crossroads. I stagger back and feel my shoulders press against the soft down.

      “She be fainting, poor little mite.”

      “Loosen her crossthwaites.” I am dimly conscious of horny hands tugging down my underclothes.

      “She’s still-trolled, you dummock! We’ll have to mudjer her chuff pennies.” It must be my imagination but I suddenly feel as if my blouse buttons are being popped open.

      “Champfer her cherygourds.” A delicious tingling warmth spreads through my breasts. It is almost as if they are being—

      “Do ’ee fancy first lob of the twatty cudgel?”

      “Age before beauty, father. I know ’ee won’t tarry too long.”

      “Impertinent young cub. I’ll show you that an old thigh-scuffer still has a few tricks up his smock.”

      These strange voices ring in my ears and I hear them as if under an anaesthetic. Ah! Surely that was a booster jab? I feel the drowsy drops sliding into me and my whole system is agitated by the size of the dose. I am being shaken about like a marble on a tin tray. Half asleep yet at the same time, deliciously aware of a hundred strange sensations not unconnected with size and vigour.

      “Unhitch yourself, you old prat strangler. It’s my turn with the maypole.”

      “Hold hard, son!”

      “I’ve tried, father and ’tis not the same.”

      I hear the sound of blows being struck, and a groan as a heavy body slumps to the ground. My distress is heightened by a sudden loss of sensation—as if a drinking straw had been dashed from my lips.

      “Worry ’ee not, little goosey parts. Succour be at hand.”

      The speaker is absolutely right, although I have no idea where he gets his information from. The ecstasy leak is plugged and new waves of sensation bathe me from head to toe.

      “Frap your own father would you, you gruntsnitch!”

      “Stop your pooking and get the camera!”

      “Be we going to need the tripod?”

      “Course we be! Don’t ’ee say it be used for hanging vermin, again, or I’ll smite thee with my thonk! Fine art photography, that’s what those fine city gennilmen say they want and that’s a what they be going to get.”

      I don’t know what they are talking about but it is good to know that someone cares about quality control these days. I keep my eyes tight closed and continue my journey into hitherto uncharted realms of physical ecstasy. It is difficult to be certain of the reasons for my present happy condition but I suspect that the drink I was given contained some mild form of stimulant.

       CHAPTER 5

      Miss Bondage flings down her newspaper. “Bring back the cat!” she snarls.

      “Must we?” says Miss Honeycomb, wearily. “It did do poos all over the place.”

      “I wasn’t referring to Tiddles,” snaps Miss Bondage. “He must have gone to the happy hunting ground terms ago. I was referring to the wave of delinquency that is sweeping through the country. There are no moral standards left. There aren’t even any immoral standards!”

      “Yes, it is sad,” says Miss Honeycomb, adjusting her pince nez and leaning over her petit point.

      “It’s more than sad. It’s disgraceful! I ask myself the question: what are we at St Rodence doing about it?”

      “And what reply do you give yourself?” says Miss Murdstone.

      “‘Not enough!’ The Kung Fu classes were a step in the right direction but since that snivelling little man at the grammar school put a stop to them we have done nothing. I for one am not going to take things lying down.” There is no rush to disagree with her.

      “I’m not so certain that the Oriental Martial Arts were a good idea,” says Miss Murdstone bravely. “Nobody bargained for the number of girls who got samurai swords for Christmas.”

      “Or stole them from museums,” murmurs Miss Honeycomb. “The Wallace Collection was denuded of its Japanese armour. You could hardly hear yourself speak above the clank of breast plates.”

      “It just shows you how much the gels enjoyed it,” says Miss Bondage. “It was the most popular activity we’ve run since ‘The Spottiest Girl In The School’ Competition.”

      “The girls certainly have a violent streak,” murmurs Miss Honeycomb.

      “‘Streak’!?” thundered Miss Murdstone. “They’re steeped in violence from head to toe.”

      “Healthy high spirits, I prefer to call it,” says Miss Bondage, firmly. “All they need is their energy channelled into a public spirited activity.”

      “Such as?” challenges Miss Murdstone.

      “Such as a Combined Cadet Force,” says Miss Bondage triumphantly.

      “You mean, soldiers?”

      “Eventually. I think our proximity to Southmouth dictates that we start off with a naval section. The St Rodence Wrens. It trips off the tongue rather appealingly, doesn’t it?” “Knotty”, as the girls call her, has obviously been giving the idea a lot of thought.

      “‘Trips’ is the right word,” says Miss Murdstone. I like Miss Murdstone. She is the only member of the common room who will stand up to Miss Bondage. Miss Marjoribanks and Miss Wilton run out of the door whimpering every time Knotty appears.

      “The headmistress is enthusiastic about the idea,” steamrollers Miss Bondage. “I have been given authority to take the necessary steps.”

      My heart sinks. Miss Grimshaw has been very over-tired lately and there have been fears about her health. The attacks of hiccupping and falling down in a dead faint have become more frequent. We are all terrified that she may have to retire and be replaced by Miss Bondage.

      “What are you going to do?” says Miss Honeycomb. The hint of hysteria in her voice is not completely hidden.

      “I have already done.” Miss Bondage sits back as smug as a moggy with a small, thin tail hanging out of its mouth. “I have been in touch with Naval Command at Southmouth and organised a trip round one of their destroyers. The Admiralty are enthusiastic about my initiative.”

      “You’re not suggesting we take the girls?” Now Miss Murdstone sounds worried.

      “Of course I am! What better way to fan the sparks of enthusiasm already kindled into a blazing fire?”

      “I don’t think you can kindle sparks,” says Miss Honeycomb.

      “Don’t