This morning Renardine is having a bit of a lie-in after a hard night’s work. The maid enters wearing a tiny black satin skirt, white cotton apron, black stockings and stillettos; she is pushing a tea-trolley laden with all the necessary ingredients of a hearty English-style breakfast: fresh coffee in a pot with a jug of cream; Rack of toast, butter dish and pot of course-cut marmalade; ample supply of bacon, fried eggs, sausages, baked beans, mushrooms, mustard and ketchup. Renardine likes to have breakfast in bed, on a tray. The maid moves discreetly, sedately, purposefully, over to the window, carefully draws the curtains bathing the room with soft light. The sun is already up and about its business dispersing the wispy clouds of morning dew. A pleasant breeze plays on the lawn as she opens the window to air the room. Rabbits and squirrels frolic on the lawn. The birds are vying with each other for the sweetest song. How wonderful it is just to be alive, she thinks to herself- or so one would imagine judging from the expression of pleasure on her face. Soon the room will be as clean and fresh and bright as the day is, she thinks, when I am done with it. Turning to see that Lord Renardine is awake, she says in a voice that is all at once respectful, cheerful and confident without affectation, “Good morning sir. Would you like your coffee now?” Renardine makes some kind of inarticulate semi-conscious response which she interprets as a yes. “And shall I serve breakfast?” Similar response. Having ascertained his immediate requirements she falls silent while she busies herself serving the food. That done she leaves the room, only to return shortly with the necessary tools of her trade; mop, bucket, broom, soap, cloths, clean towels and linen; and begins work in the bathroom, reciting to herself meanwhile some fragments of her memorized instructions like a mantra; every day, in every way, striving to attain perfection in every action, something like that. She knows her work well, she has been well taught to scrub the floors, to make the bed, to wash the sheets and towels, to clean the bath and replace the soap, shampoo, toothpaste and toilet paper; above all to ensure that everything is exactly right and in its place, and to serve her master well, to the best of her ability, content with her station in life, which is to serve, as others are appointed to command, and with a willing heart, never shirking her responsibilities, always at his beck and call, obediant, diligent and eager to please, ready to go that extra step to ensure that the job is well done; and this with a cheerful demeanour, absent of any doubt or reproach, habitually deferent, happy when he is pleased, silent and contrite when found wanting, submissive and respectful, never questioning his authority.

Renardine takes his coffee black and strong, as he likes it and lingers over the toast before engaging with the larger challenge of sausage, bacon and beans. His mind drifts back to the events of the previous evening with pleasure and with the anticipation of its renewal. The bacon is good this morning. But the egg a little undercooked- not up to her usual high standard. She has performed well this week so far, he recalls, indeed excelling herself day by day. Something else is wrong- no newspaper! The realisation arrives like a smack on the cheek. There is a limit, Lord Renardine supposes, that each must reach as they approach perfection in the performance of their alloted tasks and duties, beyond which performance must inevitably decline. Lord Renardine is methodical, impartial, precise in his critical evaluation of the maid's work, according to the established precedents and canons laid down from time immemorial in the manuals of discipline. While assessing her objectively within the limitations and constraints imposed on her by her circumstances he bends graciously in the direction of kindness and as an act of selfless generosity offers a gratuity, a statistically acceptable ten percent to be discounted in the final judgement. One point in ten is docked for each offence, but nine out of ten is considered to be as near perfection as this world realistically can attain. Humankindness seasoned with a little divine mercy is a recipe for good housekeeping. From a score of eight downwards a ramp gently ascends to correlate performance with retribution. For two consecutive days now she has achieved the blessed score of nine points in ten; Lord Renardine suspects that the inevitable decline in performance is concomitant upon a growing complacency evolving through imperceptible phases into an arrogent contempt for any sense of deference or decorum. His task, his burden, is to assume the godlike status of impartial judge unmoved by the winds of fashion and taste, and for the benefit of her own moral improvement and education not to stint in the application of a suitable deterrent, a medicinal remedy measured out precisely according to the dictates of historically established precedent.
     A crash is heard in the bathroom, interrupting his thoughts, and the maid emerges flushed and fearful, clutching a broken glass tumbler. "I'm sorry sir, it slipped out of my hand." He stares at her speechless as she fumbles with the dustpan and brush, mop and pail. In his mind the score has now fallen to six. The manuals are precise, he recollects, as to the appropriate punishments that must be delivered for a score of six out of ten. He walks across to the wardrobe and finds amongst an array of straps, paddles, crops, flails and whips a stout birch rod, worn shiny and smooth from years of frequent use. She stands rigid with fright as he raises the rod, bending and twisting it in his hands to test its truth. "Please sir", she gasps, " I never meant...", realising her error she stops mid-sentence but this only serves to confirm her crime. Lord Renardine feels the passion rising in his blood. "Do you dare to question my will?" She makes as if to answer, realises the trap and halts, but now he has her by the hair; dragging her across to the bed he throws her down and unceremoniously rips down her knickers to expose the twin globes of white flesh already throbbing in anticipation of their impending feast of pain.

He drags her to her feet, indicates the precise position and posture he wishes her to maintain, bent forward, her fingers touching her toes, the tendons of her knees pulled taut to maximize the expansion of the buttocks. He takes his time while the inner rage subsides. The sentence is to be performed as an execution of abstract justice, not an expression of anger. Twelve strokes are decreed. She must count each stroke, clearly and precisely, while maintaining the posture, not faltering in her part lest he lose count and be required to start over. The flesh is clean, white, unblemished, like a blank sheet of parchment for him to write upon in the ink of her blood. The rod hovers above as he tests its trajectory and contemplates the burden imposed on him by the duty of responsibility to educate one's domestic staff while she experiences a seeming eternity in anticipatation of the sprouting seed of pain and the flowering of her agony. Methodically with the scientific precision of a swinging pendulum the first stoke falls and the next and the next; he hears the intoxicating music of her screams as the pretty pink and purple wheals rise across her rump. In the garden the rabbits and squirrels frolic and the birds vie for the sweetest song. How wonderful it is just to be alive, she thinks to herself.