The Great Ginger Beer Caper of St. Swithin's

At St. Swithin’s School for Girls, a frightfully posh pile of bricks tucked away in the rolling hills of 1963 England, two fourth-formers, Beatrice "Bumble" Baxter and Clara "Clogs" Clogworthy, were as inseparable as jam and scones. St. Swithin’s was all starched pinafores and hockey sticks, but the tuck shop was meaner than a wasp with a grudge, and the dining hall’s offerings—lumpy porridge and cabbage stew—could make a goat gag. Bumble, with her unruly curls and a grin wider than the Thames, and Clogs, whose plaits were tighter than her logic, decided they’d had their fill of culinary misery. They wanted sweets, ginger beer, and a proper midnight hoot.

It all kicked off one rainy Thursday in the dorm, when Bumble, sprawled on her bed with a contraband copy of Bunty, moaned, “Clogs, old chum, I’d swap my hockey boots for a toffee. This place is positively ghastly for one’s sweet tooth!” Clogs, polishing her specs and munching a stale biscuit she’d hidden in her sock drawer, sat bolt upright. “Bumble! What if we started a secret society? Midnight feasts, like in The Famous Five! Lashings of fun!” Bumble clapped her hands. “Hockey sticks, Clogs, you’re a brick! We’ll call it… the Order of the Midnight Gobble!”

The scheme was bold as brass. Every Saturday, when the moon was high and the snores of St. Swithin’s echoed like a foghorn convention, they’d sneak to the disused potting shed behind the rose garden and feast like duchesses. But first, they needed supplies, and smuggling at St. Swithin’s was trickier than nicking the Crown Jewels.

Bumble, whose auntie Dot ran a sweet shop in the village, cooked up a plan. On weekly outings, when the girls marched to the village under the hawkish gaze of Miss Pimm, Bumble would “trip” near Dot’s shop, dropping her scarf. While Miss Pimm tutted about clumsiness, Auntie Dot would slip a sack of humbugs, lemon drops, and ginger beer bottles into Bumble’s satchel, winking like a pirate. “Gosh, Bumble,” Clogs chortled, “we’re practically smugglers for the Ministry of Munch!”

Clogs, meanwhile, was a genius at concealment. She found an old hockey manual in the library, hollowed it out, and stuffed it with toffees and barley sugars. The ginger beer bottles were a headache—glass clinks louder than a bell—but Clogs, handy with a needle, sewed secret compartments into their gym bags, padding them with old vests to muffle the noise. “Jolly topping, Clogs,” Bumble cheered. “We’re running a fizz empire!”

For weeks, the Order of the Midnight Gobble flourished. Every Saturday, Bumble and Clogs crept past the squeaky third stair, skirted the portrait of St. Swithin (said to frown at rule-breakers), and reached the shed. Under the flicker of a torch, they scoffed treacle tarts, peppermint creams, and guzzled ginger beer, giggling over Miss Pimm’s habit of sneezing during hymns. “To the Gobble!” they’d toast, clinking bottles. “May our tummies never grumble!”

But secrets at St. Swithin’s were as safe as a jelly in a furnace, especially with Matron Mumpsimus on patrol. Matron, a woman built like a wardrobe and twice as stern, had ears sharper than a fox’s and a nose for mischief. One fateful Saturday, the girls got reckless. They’d nabbed a tin of shortbread from Auntie Dot, and Clogs, fizzy on ginger beer, let out a burp so thunderous it could’ve woken a coma patient. In her room, Matron’s eyes pinged open like a sprung trap.

As Bumble and Clogs staggered back, sticky-fingered and sniggering, a torch beam sliced the dark. “BAXTER! CLOGWORTHY!” Matron’s bellow rattled the windows. Caught red-handed with a humbug in Bumble’s cheek and a ginger beer bottle in Clogs’ fist, they froze. “Sleepwalking, Matron?” Bumble tried, but Matron’s glare could’ve melted steel. “To the dorm, you greedy gremlins! You’re for the high jump!”

Back in the dormitory, with the other girls peeking from their beds like mice at a cat show, Matron produced her weapon: a stout wooden hairbrush, its polished oak gleaming like a headmistress’s wrath. “Over my knee, Baxter!” she barked. Bumble, in pyjamas so tight they creaked like a ship’s rigging, bent over with a theatrical groan, her curls bouncing. Matron raised the hairbrush high, and CRACK!—it landed on Bumble’s taut pyjama seat with a sound like a cricket bat meeting a ball. “Oof!” Bumble yelped, her legs kicking like a startled pony. WHACK! THWACK! The brush danced a merry jig, each wallop flattening the thin cotton stripes, leaving Bumble’s backside stinging like a nettle patch. “Golly, Matron!” she wailed, half-laughing through gritted teeth. “My bum’s hotter than a bonfire!” SMACK! SMACK! Matron kept at it, the brush bouncing off Bumble’s squirming rear with relentless rhythm, each thwack echoing in the dorm. The girls in their beds bit their lips to stifle giggles as Bumble’s cheeks—face and otherwise—reddened. After a dozen or so, Matron plonked her upright, curls askew. “That’ll teach you to raid the tuck, missy!”

Then it was Clogs’ turn. “Clogworthy, you bespectacled bandit!” Matron roared. Clogs, pyjamas snug as a second skin, shuffled forward, plaits swinging like pendulums. Over she went, her glasses sliding down her nose as Matron hoisted the brush. CRACK! The first swat hit Clogs’ tightly clad bottom like a thunderclap, jolting her forward with a squeak. “Crumbs!” she gasped, her feet twitching. WHACK! THWACK! SMACK! Matron wielded the brush like a conductor gone rogue, each meaty wallop flattening Clogs’ pyjama seat, the cotton straining under the onslaught. Clogs wriggled, her plaits flopping, as the spanking built a fiery glow that rivaled a sunset. “Oh, heck!” she cried, voice wobbling between yelps and giggles. “It’s like sitting on a wasps’ nest!” CRACK! CRACK! The brush landed with metronomic precision, each thump drawing a fresh squawk, Clogs’ backside bouncing like a rubber ball. The dorm was a sea of smothered laughter as Clogs’ glasses fogged up, her dignity as scorched as her rear. After what felt like an eternity (but was likely fifteen whacks), Matron set her down, plaits askew and specs crooked.

By breakfast, Bumble and Clogs were the talk of St. Swithin’s, hobbling to their porridge with grins despite their tender seats. “Worth it for the shortbread, eh?” Bumble whispered. The Order of the Midnight Gobble was officially kaput, but knowing winks suggested the hollowed-out hockey manual might yet hide a peppermint cream or two. And as they limped to Latin, the girls swore they’d never burp that loud again—well, probably not

This is taken from a question and answer sesion from an aquaintace that has become a friend who happens to have been a teacher and latterly a Headmistress. I have swapped some detailes and have also changed names. Its an audio interview originally so I have had to transpose it. If its well recieved I will add some more. It is a small part of a fairly long interview

Question 1: Can you tell us about how you began your teaching career and where it took you?

I started teaching in 1966, fresh from teacher training in Cambridge. My first post was at a small girls’ grammar school , just south of London—a lovely place with red-brick buildings and a strict but warm atmosphere. I taught English and history to girls aged eleven to sixteen. After three years, I moved to a larger school near Bromley, still in the southeast, where I took on more responsibility as a form mistress. By 1973, I was in London proper, at a girls’ secondary in south London, and later, in the early 1980's, I became headmistress at a boarding school near Tunbridge Wells in Kent. Those years took me across the bustling streets of London and the quieter corners of the southeast, each school shaping my belief that education was about nurturing character as much as minds.

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Question 2: When were you first told you could administer corporal punishment yourself?

I was twenty-four, in my second year at school. The headmistress, called me to her office one afternoon. She was a formidable woman, but kind beneath it all. She explained that, as a form mistress, I’d have the authority to discipline the girls myself, including using the slipper for minor infractions. For serious matters, the cane was an option, but only with her approval. I remember feeling a bit daunted—it was a big responsibility. She stressed it was about correction, not cruelty, and never to strike the hands, as it could harm their writing or piano practice. She showed me the cane, a thin, flexible stick kept in a cupboard, and a worn gym shoe for slippering. I didn’t have to use either for months, but knowing I could was a reminder of the trust placed in me to guide the girls properly.

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Question 3: What was your philosophy on discipline, particularly corporal punishment?

Discipline, to me, was about helping girls grow into principled young women. Rules gave them structure—vital in a world that could be so demanding. I preferred encouragement, praise, or a quiet chat to set things right, but some girls needed clearer boundaries. Corporal punishment, when used, was a last resort for repeated misbehaviour or serious wrongs, like lying or bullying. I only ever gave the slipper or cane on the bottom—hands were for learning, and striking them felt unsafe and unkind. It was done calmly, privately in my study, with an explanation beforehand. My aim was to teach accountability, not to shame. I wanted them to leave my office knowing they could start afresh, stronger for it. It was never about power; it was about their future.

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Question 4: Can you describe the first time you administered corporal punishment?

That would’ve been in my school placement near Bromley. A pupil, Jenny, kept disrupting lessons with chatter, despite warnings and detentions. Miss Hargreaves suggested the slipper might help. I called Jenny to my classroom after school, feeling quite nervous myself. I explained why her behaviour wasn’t fair to others, and that she’d get two strokes with the slipper. I had her bend over a desk, gave two quick taps with the gym shoe over her skirt—hardly severe, but enough to make her think. She looked contrite, apologised, and was back to her cheerful self by the next day. It taught me that a brief, fair consequence could reset things without lingering upset. I was careful to be kind afterward, so she knew I still believed in her.

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Question 5: You mentioned giving ‘six of the best’ to older girls. Can you elaborate?

Oh, ‘six of the best’ was a phrase used for the cane, reserved for the gravest matters with senior girls—say, sixteen or seventeen.. Two fifth-formers had been caught sneaking into town during school hours, a serious breach of trust. The headmistress approved caning, and I handled it myself. In my office, I spoke to each girl separately, explaining why their actions endangered themselves and the school’s reputation. They bent over a chair, and I gave six strokes with the cane, firmly but not harshly, over their skirts. It was over quickly, and I offered a glass of water afterward to steady them. Both were subdued but respectful, and later became model students. It wasn’t pleasant, but it showed them the weight of their choices, and I believe it helped them grow.

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Question 6: How did you adapt when school uniforms began allowing trousers?

By the late 1970s, school, uniform rules relaxed, and girls could wear tailored trousers instead of skirts. It didn’t change my approach much—discipline was about consistency. If a girl earned the slipper or cane, trousers made no difference; the punishment was still on the bottom, just as effective through fabric. I recall one girl, about fifteen, who’d been rude to a teacher and faced the slipper while wearing trousers. I gave her five or six strokes, and she took it in stride. The girls knew the rules applied regardless of what they wore. I did ensure privacy was maintained, and I never let modern styles complicate fairness. Trousers or skirts, the lesson was the same: respect and responsibility.

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Question 7: How did you decide between the slipper and the cane?

It came down to the girl’s age and the offence. The slipper—a soft gym shoe—was generally for younger girls, , and lesser missteps, like persistent lateness or not doing homework. It stung briefly but didn’t linger, perfect for a quick reminder. I kept one in my desk drawer, always clean and reserved for discipline. The cane was for older girls and weightier matters—say, cheating or defiance that hurt others. It was kept in a locked cupboard, used rarely but deliberately. For example, a fourteen-year-old might get four with the slipper for giggling in assembly, while a sixteen-year-old might face six with the cane for bullying. I’d weigh the situation carefully, ensuring the punishment fit the deed and the girl’s understanding, always with a talk beforehand to clarify why.

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Question 8: Did you ever worry about the impact of corporal punishment on the girls?

Oh, I worried often. No teacher worth their salt wants to upset a child. I’d lie awake some nights, wondering if I’d been too firm or if a different approach might’ve worked. But I believed I was preparing them for life’s challenges. I took care to be fair—never punishing in anger, always explaining why, and offering kindness after. I remember caning a girl for stealing from a classmate. She got six strokes, and I felt awful seeing her tears, but I sat with her, gave her a cup of tea and biscuit, and talked about honesty. Months later, she thanked me for helping her change. Those moments reassured me. I wanted them to leave my schools resilient, not resentful, and most seemed to understand I acted out of care.

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Question 9: How did the girls react to being slippered or caned, and did it affect your relationship with them?

Reactions varied, as girls do. Younger ones might sniffle after a slippering, while older girls facing the cane often stood stoic, though some trembled. I’d give them a moment to gather themselves, perhaps a handkerchief or a kind word about their potential. Most accepted it as part of school life. I recall a girl s, caned for truancy in trousers, who was quiet but polite after her six strokes. By the next term, she was chatting with me about her exams, no grudge held. Punishment didn’t sour things if you showed you cared. The girls knew I was fair, and many wrote years later, saying those lessons shaped them for the better. That trust meant everything.

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Question 10: Looking back, do you think corporal punishment was the right approach?

Looking back, I believe it was right for the time and place. The world was different then—girls faced strict expectations, and we had to equip them with discipline and strength. The slipper and cane, used sparingly and fairly, helped many find their way when softer methods failed. I never enjoyed it; it was a duty, done with their futures in mind. I remember a girl I caned for bullying—she got six of the best, and years later, she became a nurse, thanking me for teaching her compassion. That said, I’m glad schools have moved on—new methods suit new times. But I’ll always believe in clear boundaries, however they’re set, to help young women shine.

TBC (Please comment here or on X)

My sister first week

THis is a true story as written by my sister, names and places have been changed. It was her first brush with "CP" but not her last

My name is Kate, and I’d only been at a St. Alban’s Secondary for a week when it all happened. Moving to a new school near St. Albans was daunting, but I’d settled in surprisingly well. The other girls were friendly, the teachers seemed nice enough, and I’d even started to feel like I belonged. That was until Thursday afternoon, when everything changed.

I’d stayed late after school, chatting with a couple of girls I’d hit it off with—Jess and Mia. By the time I left, the autumn sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the quiet lanes. I lived about a mile away, an easy walk through the winding streets lined with old stone walls and overhanging trees. I liked the solitude of it, the chance to unwind after a day of pretending to be the perfect new girl. That day, though, I was feeling restless. I reached into my blazer pocket, pulled out the pack of cigarettes ginen to me by a neighbour, and fished one out.

I stopped under a big oak tree, its leaves just starting to turn gold, and lit up. The first drag was sharp, bitter, catching at the back of my throat. I coughed a little, then steadied myself, letting the smoke curl out of my mouth in thin wisps. I wasn’t a proper smoker—not really. I’d only tried it a few times, mostly to see what the fuss was about. But there was something about the way it felt, standing there in my grey school trousers and blazer, the tie loosened around my neck, that made me feel older, tougher. The cigarette was slim between my fingers, the paper crinkling faintly as I tapped off the ash. I took another drag, deeper this time, and watched the smoke twist upward into the chilly air. My lips tasted faintly of tobacco, and my chest felt warm despite the bite of the wind.

That’s when I saw her—Mrs. Hargreaves, the stern Year 9 maths teacher with the pinched face and hawk-like eyes. She was coming around the bend in her little blue car, and for a split second, our gazes locked. I froze, the cigarette halfway to my mouth, a thin trail of smoke still rising from the tip. Her eyes narrowed, and I swear I saw her lips tighten even through the car window. My stomach dropped like a stone. I flicked the cigarette to the ground, grinding it under my shoe as if that could erase what she’d seen, but it was too late. The car slowed for a moment, then sped up and disappeared around the corner. My heart was hammering, my palms sweaty despite the cold. I yanked my bag higher on my shoulder and started walking again, faster now, my mind racing. Had she really seen me? Would she tell? Oh God, what if she told?

That night, I barely slept. I kept replaying it in my head—the way the cigarette had felt, so casual and rebellious in my hand, and then the gut-wrenching moment I’d been caught. I tossed and turned, imagining the head of year’s office, the lectures, the punishments. I’d heard rumors about St. Alban’s—old-school discipline, they called it. Slipperings weren’t unheard of, though I’d laughed it off as some exaggerated tale the older girls told to scare us. Now, it didn’t seem so funny. My thin grey trousers, part of the uniform, suddenly felt flimsier in my mind, offering no protection at all. I pressed my hands against my backside as I lay in bed, wondering how it would feel, my nerves twisting tighter with every hour that ticked by.

The next morning, Friday, I dragged myself to school, my stomach a knot of dread. I barely heard a word in my first two lessons, my eyes darting to the classroom door every time someone passed by. Then, just before break, it happened. A prefect poked her head in and said, “Kate, Mrs. Lawson wants you in her office. Now.” Mrs. Lawson was the head of year, a tall woman with steel-grey hair and a voice that could cut glass. My legs felt like jelly as I grabbed my bag and followed the prefect down the corridor, the other girls whispering behind me.

When I stepped into her office, Mrs. Lawson was sitting behind her desk, her glasses perched on her nose, a file open in front of her. She didn’t look up right away, just pointed to the chair across from her. I sat, my hands clasped tight in my lap, the rough fabric of my trousers rubbing against my thighs. Finally, she spoke.

“Kate, I had an interesting report from Mrs. Hargreaves yesterday. She says she saw you smoking on your way home from school. Is that true?”

My mouth went dry. I thought about lying, but the way she was looking at me—like she already knew—made it pointless. “Yes, miss,” I mumbled, staring at the floor.

She leaned back in her chair, her voice icy. “Smoking is a filthy habit, Kate. It’s bad for your health, it’s against school rules, and it sets a terrible example. I’m disappointed, especially since you’ve only just started here. I’d hoped you’d make a better impression.”

The lecture went on for what felt like forever. She talked about lung cancer, addiction, the dangers of nicotine—every word sinking into me like lead. I nodded when she paused, my face burning with shame, but all I could think about was what came next. She stood up, walked to a cupboard in the corner, and pulled out an old black plimsoll. It was worn, the rubber sole cracked at the edges, the canvas faded. My breath caught in my throat.

“Stand up,” she said, her tone clipped. “Bend over the desk.”

I wanted to argue, to beg, but my legs moved on their own. I shuffled to the desk, my hands trembling as I pressed them against the cool wood, bending forward until my chest was nearly flat against it. My grey trousers stretched tight across my backside, the thin wool offering no cushion at all. I could feel every seam, every thread against my skin, and I knew it wouldn’t help one bit. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst.

Mrs. Lawson stepped behind me, and I heard the faint creak of the floorboards. “Six strokes,” she said. “And I hope this teaches you a lesson.”

The first whack landed without warning, a sharp, stinging crack that echoed in the small room. The plimsoll was heavier than I’d expected, the rubber sole flattening against my trousers with a force that drove the breath out of me. Pain bloomed across my left cheek, hot and immediate, spreading outward like wildfire. I gasped, gripping the edge of the desk, my knuckles white. The thin fabric did nothing—it might as well have been bare skin for all the protection it gave. The second stroke came fast, overlapping the first, and I yelped, my legs twitching involuntarily. The sting was unbearable, a deep, throbbing heat that made my eyes water.

She didn’t pause. The third whack hit my right cheek, the plimsoll’s edge catching the tender spot where my thigh met my backside. I bit my lip hard, tasting blood, trying not to cry out. My trousers clung to me, the wool trapping the heat, making every smack feel worse than the last. The fourth stroke was lower, a brutal thud that sent a jolt up my spine, and I couldn’t hold it in anymore—a sob broke free, loud and humiliating. My bottom felt like it was on fire, the pain pulsing with every heartbeat, sharp and raw.

The fifth and sixth came in quick succession, each one a searing explosion across my already tender skin. I was crying openly now, tears dripping onto the desk, my whole body shaking. When she finally stepped back, I stayed bent over for a moment, too stunned to move, the heat radiating through my trousers like a furnace. My backside throbbed, each cheek swollen and sore, the thin fabric rubbing against the welts with every tiny shift.

“Stand up,” she said, her voice calm again. I straightened slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at my punished skin. “I trust I won’t see you here for this again, Kate. You’re dismissed.”

I stumbled out of the office, my face streaked with tears, my hands hovering uselessly near my hips. The walk back to class was torture—every step jostled my bottom, sending fresh stabs of pain through me. My trousers, so flimsy before, now felt like sandpaper against the rawness. Sitting down for the rest of the day was worse. In history, I lowered myself onto the hard wooden chair, and the pressure was agony—a deep, aching burn that wouldn’t let up. I shifted constantly, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt, but there wasn’t one. Every time I moved, the fabric tugged at my skin, reigniting the sting. I could feel the welts under my trousers, raised and hot, a constant reminder of the plimsoll’s bite.

By the time I got home, I was exhausted, humiliated, and sore beyond belief. I stood in front of my mirror, easing my trousers down just enough to see—my bottom was a mess of red and purple, the marks stark against my pale skin. Sitting was out of the question that night; I ate dinner standing at the counter, and slept on my stomach, the cool sheets a small relief against the lingering heat. The lecture about smoking echoed in my head, mingling with the shame and the pain.