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My imagination gives me two head boy options to anticipate. Either he’s tall, handsome and athletic, the captain of the school cricket first eleven and a track and field hero blessed with a magnificent physique, or he’s a geeky nerd, the humourless and pedantic core of the school debating team and only tolerated in it because of his father’s financial investment in St Nick’s.

I imagine option one will enjoy the confidence to command respect and his assertive disposition will demand with a smile that Gittins lets me go because he’s had his fun and enough surely is enough. Angrily I think I’m such a lucky girl because that’s not, predictably, what happens. I get so much option two I almost cry out in my failure to hide my disappointment. That doesn’t help.

Justin (because of his 1” willy I bitterly joke to myself) Hamilton Horseface is everything a cynic would assume a privileged, stuck up son of a baron would be and his superiority and my unguarded disgust clash immediately.

“I’d like you to meet Miss Grindall.” Gittins says brightly. HH looks at my body instead of my face, an insult enough, then complains “Urgh, she’s hairy!” I want to punch him.

“We’ll I suppose we could try her out.” HH says as if he expects me to be inadequate. I call him a bastard under my breath which neither of them hear because, at the same time, Gittins asks if there’s anything which needs doing. Unfortunately there is, of course. A recent five a side football tournament has left the sports hall floor badly scuffed and desperate for a polish. “Lets see if she’s any good at that.” HH sneers.

As HH steps aside to leave the doorway clear, Gittins tells me to leave the office, turn left then right down the corridor. When I get to the third door on the left I’m supposed to walk through it, across the “quad” and into the sports hall entrance opposite. A quad, for those who haven’t been to a posh school, is a square of tarmac surrounded by buildings, and outside. Nobody moves. It takes as second for me to realise they want to follow me, from a distance, as I face their walk of shame alone. Have I used the curse “Bastard!” too much already? Is it fear or rage which has me gritting my teeth and digging my finger nails into my palms? “Well go on then!” Gittins shouts at me. HH chuckles. I flash him a sideways glance as I pass and see my contempt mirrored in his reaction. We already despise each other.

I feel my inadequately supported tits bounce as I walk and the cool draft funnelled by the corridor from the open doors at each end as it blows around my naked thighs. If I look down I can see the useless skirt bounce too. I must look all knickers from the back. The clonk of the heels Gittins made me wear attracts attention ahead of me and groups of boys stop to watch me stumble past. These shoes aren’t mine, they don’t fit, elegance and the grace I long for isn’t possible. Do I appear hairy to these little bastards too? I can’t shake the thought out of my head.

“Left!” Gittins shouts from behind me when I get to the third door, above the laughter and sniggering I’ve caused. God I feel naked. Weather outside adds to humiliation inside and exposed is far too small a word for the withering self consciousness which almost overcomes me. “Don’t cry Kate, please, don’t cry!” I murmur, more desperate still to hold it back. This isn’t just my boyfriend’s game, it’s something else now.

Once inside the hall I find a gleaming parquet floor, acres of it. It’s not scuffed but by now I know it wouldn’t be, that’s not the point. I’m instructed to walk to the middle of the hall and stay there, a floor made impossible to polish further by a professional floor polisher with a machine.

I turn to face Gittins who’s looking at me, watching me understand what’s going to happen with his arms folded. Behind him stand the crowd of boys who followed us in here. They’re giggling, he almost is and he’s brought that bloody cane with him. A few seconds later the initially missing HH approaches me with a bucket and a polishing cloth. I know why he’s grinning from ear to ear, it’s because he’s not going to give me a mop, or anything else with a handle. I’m going to polish the floor on my hands and knees. Yep, bastard!

“Think Kate, think!” I tell myself, struggling to find reason through my fury. I’m so ‘kin angry I can’t think straight and I need to like never before. All that comes to mind is the shame of taking a thrashing from Gittins in front of the poisonous little runt HH is and the rest of his mates. HH puts the bucket down at my feet, stands up straight then steps back, looking at me eye to eye with a mixture of malice and masochistic delight. Escape plan A, or any other, eludes me.

Sniffing back the tears I can no longer stop I kneel before the bucket, dip the cloth into the cleaning fluid in it and learn forward to go through the motions of polishing the floor. I’m trembling in a rage so deep I feel like I’m going to burst. My pointless task makes the wood shine worse, not better and it occurs to me I’ll inevitably be made to do it again. How long is this ordeal going to last?

The crowd of boys form my audience by distributing themselves evenly around the edges of the hall, making my attempts to turn towards them and hide my arse completely futile. I’m going to gift someone somewhere an upskirt view to relish. I dare not look, I dare not even look up as my tears fall off the end of my nose into the mess I’m making. It’s a terrible, living hell.

Out of the corner of my eye I see HH walk towards me, it must be him, he’s head bastard and the only one evil enough to torment me worse. I can only see his shoes and his lower legs with my eyes down and welled up like this but even so I can see he’s carrying something. When he gets close I recognise it as one of those hooks on a pole for opening the high level windows above the wall bars. “Oh god no!” I think out loud, imagining exactly what he’s going to do with it. He’s going to make sure I fail this test however he can.

In panic I drop the polishing cloth and scramble round on my hands and knees to face him but he’s anticipated I’d do that and he’s much closer than I expect. He has the initiative of the aggressor, I’m surprised and confused, I can’t see properly, I don’t notice the pole as he reaches over my head with it. I try to fend off what I think is going to be a frontal attack but it’s an awful mistake. The hook on the end slips under my knickers as he pulls the pole towards him over my back and for the second time I’m bewildered by the speed of my changing circumstances.

HH heaves my knickers up between my arse cheeks and most of the way up my back with all the pathetic, spoilt brat’s strength he can muster. It’s still enough to make me wail in pain before my senses catch up with what’s happening to me.

The audience erupts into enthusiastic cheering as HH tries to cut me in half but above it I can hear my underwear begin to break under the strain, I can feel it give.

Instinctively I grab the pole above my head to try to pull it away from him but to do that I have to abandon the support of my arms and I crash forward onto my breasts with a loud slap. It would have hurt if I’d cared. I might have hit the floor with my face too but the noise of the pole whacking the wood under my weight is louder and both HH and me realise I’ve levered it out of his grip.

Suddenly escape is possible, I realise I could come out of this armed! I roll over onto my back and give the boys on the east side wall a full stretched knicker split bush eyeful but that doesn’t matter now. What matters is HH can’t get his spindly little toff fingers under the pole to grab it back because I’m lying on it. His mates are intrigued to see if he can and enthralled when he gives up. No one tears my pants off without my consent, this is NOT going to happen! HH sees the resolve on my face as I think it. Now who’s scared!

By the time I’m on my feet HH has backed off a good ten yards and he’s just standing there, not knowing what to do. His mates are laughing at both of us. “Go on, rip her pants off!” they’re calling, turning his fragile bravery into a joke. He was surely intending to and the taunt betrays him.

It’s not hatred, that’s a bad thing but looking at the stuck up little shit I feel all the shame and humiliation I’ve been forced to endure turn into an equal measure of…… what? Is it a need for revenge?

I rub my eyes clear and see HH, no longer my persecutor, as him who deserves retribution. Maybe I shouldn’t but I pick up the bucket and throw it at him, fortunately missing him by miles but it bounces off the precious floor, clattering as I’m sure it knocks splinters out of it. “Oooooh,” I hear the audience mumble, “she’s really angry!” as if somehow I wouldn’t be. They have no idea.

The window hook pole becomes the weapon I need. As I pick it up it feels like that. It’s not a thousand year old katana and I’m no ninja but after the last hour of suffering hell, Kate the raging hormone bomb is at least that dangerous. A few of the feint hearted are already creeping out of the hall, turned away as if anxious not to be recognised later, by me, if the imminent confrontation works out badly for St Nicks. The rest are fascinated. What on earth do I look like? They watch stunned, slack jawed in amazement as I take the time to pull my knickers out of my arse, put them on straight and lift my tits back in Miss Poppy’s little vest. I want to be dressed for the occasion! I’ll let them think what they like, I have a more important victim to intimidate back!

Gittins isn’t sure what to do either. He seems to be alone in the fast dissolving crowd of boys he could have relied on for support. He lifts his cane as if to remind me my dissent will cost me severe punishment but with that? How light and flimsy does it look now, compared to a seven foot window hook pole? HH is already outside, disappearing across the quad in a cloud of dust.

Attack is always the best method of defence. That’s a well known military theory and applied to single, one to one combat it means assertiveness and aggression, often mutually exclusive, applied together are invincible.

I’m pleased to see Gittins take an involuntary step back as I march towards him, without the silly shoes but armed with intent. Will it be necessary to mash him? So be it, I don’t care. Now I’m getting out of here!

I’ve closed half the distance between us when Gittins shouts “I won’t have this!” which I ignore because he bloody will! “Get her boys!” he cheers, brandishing his wimpy cane like he’s an officer urging his soldiers up and at the enemy.

Two or three paces out I hold my pole level in front of me, I can strike with either end, I’m almost running. I choose left first, Gittins’ cane side. He’ll try to parry the blow, his cane will be uselessly occupied when my real, right assault matters. Crack! Then swish, bastard! I miss him as he jumps back.

Boys scatter in all directions to avoid getting trampled as Gittins retreats into their midst. He’s no time to look behind as my second and third double ended attacks force him back. Moments later he’s up against the wall bars. I try once more but this time a thrusting assault aimed at his body as if the pole were a bayonet. I can’t believe I miss him again as he writhes aside. The pole momentarily jams in the wall bars, I’ve carelessly forgotten the hook, giving someone the chance to take the other end. I can’t move it!

Immediately I’m hauled away from my attack, first by my hair and then by the vest. My head is forced back and before I understand I’ve been grabbed from behind my tits are squashed then released as the vest’s buttons ping off in all directions. Not all the boys are cast in the same mould as the cowardly HH.

I have to let go of the pole to attempt to fight off at least three of them at close quarters but as I do the vest is pulled down my arms, trapping them behind me. My knees are kicked out from under me and we fall, a tangle of blazers and flesh, at Gittins’ feet. “OK Smith, get off her, that’ll do.” he says.

Smith has landed to top of me and gropes me pretending that’s necessary to pick himself up. Once he’s satisfied I can look up to watch Gittins adjust his suit back to normal, straighten his tie and point his cane right at my face, the end of it wobbling above my forehead as his hand shakes. “You” he growls “are a bloody menace!” Have I made my point this time?

To get up I have to extricate my arms from the twisted vest, what’s left of it, allowed a small space surrounded by four pillars of masculinity. They watch me stand up without stepping back and remain so close I can smell them. I face Gittins waistcoat to bare heaving breasts, I’m out of breath.

“I’ll never employ you, you fat sow!” he curses, spitting it at me. Smith smirks, loving the imagery of such a perfect insult. “I don’t want your bastard job anyway.” I snap back, peeling tear and sweat soaked hair off my face before pushing both Smith and one of his friends away with a hand flat on both chests. “Why are you here then?” Gittins asks. I’m supposed to admit I wanted it an hour ago but as Smith steps back I see my only and expensive silver hair clasp on the floor. I reach down for it but Smith kicks it away across the floor in an act of blatant provocation.

I can’t face the degradation of being made to scuttle after it and let it skid away without me. This is easily the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Fury makes me swear “I lost a fuckin’ bet!” Gittins’ eyes widen “Really?” he asks. Relief is written all over his face. “I think we need to talk about this.” he says quietly. “Yeah, we do.” I concede but wonder why.

The silent walk back to his office feels more side by side than the herding I endured the other way. The quad’s tarmac is something of a trial in bare feet but once indoors the corridor floor is easy. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Gittins watch my chest but I don’t look up. We're both preoccupied with what we're going to say when we get there. Awe struck boys marvel at her who fought back as we pass them, equal in our single purpose. I feel as confident as a girl stripped to her knickers in a boys school can. Is he going to let me go? Revenge now feels like a determination to prevail.

Once back in Gittins’ office my clothes are unlocked and I’m at last allowed to cover myself up. As I dress Gittins explains that the existence of Miss Poppy, the willing victim of persecution at St Nicks, as a valued school tradition is only allowed to continue by the world outside because to be honest, they don’t know about it! So long as the facts remain clouded by obviously wicked rumours and apparently scandalous speculation, they’ll stay outside the realm of credibility.

“You mean if I keep my mouth shut you’ll give me the job?” I ask, hoping that’s what he’s getting at. “Only on paper.” he confirms, adding “I sincerely hope I never see you again!” I hold the soon to be done up waistband of my trousers up with my left hand and offer him my right across his desk. We shake, I can’t believe I’ve done it! However it seems I haven’t, there’s a problem.

The headmaster’s signature is only one of two necessary on the official job offering letter. The other is that of LairdTarn, the chairman of the board of governors. “So?” I ask. Gittins looks uncomfortable as he tells me that would depend on the outcome of another interview. “Oh Yeah.” I laugh and joke that it’s not going to be another farce like this one was, is it?

He avoids eye contact and answers quietly “Well,…………”