Day 62: The Honorable Lady Samantha
Etherington-Smyth-Hope - a minor title somewhat less important than it sounds
despite the double hyphenation, the pseudo-noble nomenclature based on a
dubious bought peerage – has succumbed to temptation, tongue lashing her first
ever visitor, her husband’s glamorous trophy-blond ‘personal secretary’. But it isn’t fair. The little tart had just come to gloat -
under orders from her husband, she wouldn’t be surprised – come to compare her
Donna Karan stretch lambskin pencil skirt against the dowdy bottle green prison
uniform dress, her Dior fragrance against the perpetual odor of disinfectant
and perspiration that infuses the place and her beautiful professionally
applied makeup juxtaposed against her pallid sun-starved carbolic soap-scrubbed
complexion.
The dirty gold-digging cow had got her claws in her husband’s naïve hide,
undoubtedly had been directly instrumental in setting up this whole situation –
she’d provided the alibi which had drawn the finger of blame off her husband
and pointed it squarely at herself. And now
she was supposed to politely curtsy, gratefully thank her husband through her
visitor for his generosity in funding her incarceration here…
And then there was that sheaf of papers, the documents, the woman had
brought with her, and what they stood for, the implications of their contents
had she set pen to paper, validated them with her signature as she had been ordered… Those papers would be coming back, the smug
smiling blond with them – not her husband though; he would never sully himself…
Or did he even know? Really know? She’d be in no hurry, perhaps two months,
maybe three – and meanwhile the cane, three strokes repeated three times a day,
every day… Yes THREE months, it would be
another THREE months – THREE months of THREE strokes of the prison-weight cane
repeated THREE times per day; morning, noon and night. Three by three by three
– it was a Masonic thing.
She didn’t doubt she’d sign next time…
But as for the rest, the curtsy, the greeting, the offering of
heart-felt gratitude… Of these stipulations she still wasn’t sure.
Absolutely nothing really to do with any of my books - at least not directly - either those already out there and any I might (or might not) have in the pipeline. It is just the result of the stream of consciousness that poured out when casting my fevered gaze over this picture which I came across on Tumblr earlier today. I often annotate stuff in this manner when I re-blog images to my Tumblr blog. Why not pay me a visit there? And don't forget to follow me on Tumblr!
If you missed the new book (which I was a bit dubious about publishing) it is now available as a PDF on LULU and at Amazon (which is cheaper) here:
A gloriously sunny day here in London and I am going to treat myself to a day at the pub, although I will be taking a laptop and will be working. If you are in North London you are cordially invited to join me for a pint: I'll be starting at The Tolgate in North London's Turnpike Lane (Wettherspoons) and then moving on to Hampstead (The Holly Bush) or the West End (And Possibly the Southgate or Palmers Green Wetherspoons later). Follow me on twitter and find out where I pitch up... Seee y'all!!!
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2 comments:
The brevity of the sentence is to be lamented. Three years minimum, extentable, is more like.
Hi Garth. Not to do with this post, but a while back you talked about how you had an idea for a scenario where an inmate/'patient' would be administered shock therapy in her sleep as part of her conditioning/therapy/brainwashing. Could you elaborate a bit on how that would go for the unlucky girl, and how that would fit in with your other more gradual methods in your books?
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