Mr P had told me about a little bar up the coast.

“The town,” he said in his heavy Greek accent, “Well, it isn’t so friendly, but the bar…” he made a gesture with his fingers and kissed them. “Beautiful, you’ll love the food my darling girl.”

This had been a week before after an adventure on his boat. I had a standing invitation to go back, but after my last encounter the emphasis was very much on the standing. So before I went for another voyage, I decided to check out this bar and kick back for a few days.

I hired a moped and at the speed of an overcooked lawnmower I made my way along high cliff roads and beside low rock walls that surrounded the olive groves.

The bar, as I had been forewarned, stood on the edge of town overlooking the sea. Beyond the white two and three storey houses gathered like scattered boxes around a small traditional Orthodox church and were joined by narrow cobbled streets.

The bar, as promised was excellent. The beer was cold and the seafood melted in the mouth like the butter it had been marinated in. There were a few too many olives for my liking, but no one said I had to eat them and by the afternoon I was chilled and sated.

Instead of a nap I decided to take a stroll around town in the afternoon heat and maybe do some shopping. As it turned out shopping was the very worst idea I could have followed.

At first I saw nothing. No people, no shops and no other bars of any kind. The only life was a dejected stray dog and a rather severe looking priest who despite the unrelenting sun was dressed in heavy robes. He glanced disapprovingly at me and then hurried on to the church.

“Okay then,” I might have said as I cast my gaze around.

I reckoned it would take 15 minutes to zig-zag up each street and another five to walk back to the bar for another beer.

I hadn’t gone more than a street when I turned a corner and saw a shop. Not much of a shop, and completely devoid of signage, but all the same it offered some shade under the canvas canopy over the wide doors. Beyond were several shelves with a cornucopia of assorted goods.

“Hello, shop?” I called as I picked my way through the shelves

On one side was some canned food with indecipherable labels. On the other were buckets and spades and other beach goods. The only thing of interest was a wide-brimmed straw beach hat and I put it on.

I was looking around for a mirror when a rather small head-scarfed woman dressed in black emerged to glare at me.

“How much is this?” I asked pleasantly.

That’s when she started yelling. I had no idea what she said, but whatever it was, she was mad. I quickly gathered that the shop might be closed and tried to leave, forgetting of course that I still wore the hat.

In moments I was surrounded by a gang of townsfolk all pointing and yelling at me. The arrival of the largest policeman I have ever seen was initially a relief.

He was calmer but suspicious. He sounded more controlled in his anger, but I still sensed that I was in trouble. When he pointed to the hat I blushed.

“I am so sorry,” I said, reaching for my purse, “How much?” I pulled out a wad of notes and offered them up.

That is when I was arrested.

*

I suppose it is very funny really. It turns out that the shop wasn’t a shop at all, but someone’s home. And when I offered to pay, the policeman thought I was offering a bribe. Of course it wasn’t funny at the time and for a while I thought that I was in serious trouble.

Then I remembered Mr P and after some difficult exchanges I managed to get the large policeman to telephone my friend.

“It seems that you are always getting into trouble,” the police officer said when he finally got off the phone. His tone wasn’t kind and he looked at me as if my problems weren’t over.

He said that Mr Pero-something had made a couple of interesting suggestions if the officer could manage to help make all of this go away. It took me a moment to realise that he was talking about Mr P.

“Oh Good,” I said.

“I hope you think so,” the policeman sighed. “Stealing, trespassing, bribing an officer of the law, disturbing the peace…” he sighed heavily again, “I could go on.”

“Is there a fine?” I said hopefully.

The officer smiled sardonically and shrugged dismissively. “Oh your friend will take care of that,” he said, “But that doesn’t cover it all and by rights I should hold you pending transfer to Atheeny.”

I knew that he meant Athens and my heart sank.

“But…” the man pursed his lips thoughtfully, “They are old-fashioned around here… I might be able to work something out if you agree to let me handle things.”

“Oh,” I said sarcastically, “And what things do you want to handle.”

“You are very funny,” his laugh was genuine. “No, no, nothing like that. Well… your friend suggested that you would be open to an alternative arrangement?”

I sighed. I knew then that this was going to involve my bottom.

This was to prove correct, but I consoled myself with the realisation that this time my bottom was going to get me out of trouble rather than into it.

“Will it hurt?” I asked, meaning would it hurt particularly more than usual.

“Oh yes,” the man shrugged.

He was holding a heavy leather paddle that was about the size of a tennis racket, although narrow like a cricket bat. There was also a thin stiff leather stick on the desk now and I decided it looked like a riding crop.

“Please take down your shorts and anything else,” he coughed, “And bend over the back of the chair.”

I was about to ask what chair when he moved to the wall and pulled a padded wooden seat from beside a filing cabinet and placed it in the middle of the room with its back to me.

My heart was pounding and my mouth dry so I help up one finger, as if that would halt things and asked, “Are you sure there is not another way we can handle this?”

“You want to go to jail?” he said in a serious tone.

“No but I was thinking…”

“I married,” he shrugged and nodded at the chair.

“Ah,” I said and with more casual acceptance than I was feeling slipped down my shorts and being naked under them, bent over the back of the chair so that I was offering the man my bottom.

The paddle landed with a loud crack that rang back off the walls. I noticed this in a detached way before the tang of the impact reached me and began its after burn. I think I yelled.

He set a slow pace but laid on with a heavy arm so that my bottom had a hard time of it. I was put in mind of gravel burn and nettles before my mind strayed to an image of a steel-clad man with a welding torch. I know that I yelled again.

A little bit of slap to my bottom is good for me and it. So it follows that a lot of slap is very good. This is what I kept telling myself all through the spanking blast of the paddle, but my bottom wasn’t buying it and after another minute of two, nor was I.

I was crying hard when I was told it was over, but instead of standing I just flopped sobbing over the back of the chair and tried to get my long lost breath back. When I finally did, I wiped my eyes and glanced at the whip-stick thing on his desk and was suddenly curious.

“If you ever come back here I’ll make you count out 30 with those,” the policeman said with yet another casual shrug.

“Fair enough,” I said, but strangely I was still curious.

When I emerged from the small police station there was a small crowd gathered. They looked happy that I was so sorry looking and when the policeman came out behind me they offered him a ripple of applause.

I took me more than 20 minutes of slow careful steps to reach the bar on the edge of town. But there was no way I could sit on the saddle of a moped so standing at the bar I ordered another drink.

“How was the bar Miss?” the barman asked as he poured it.

“Oh, hot, very hot,” I answered ruefully.