An uncertain knock at the door. This was the bit of the job Dr Helen Wright enjoyed the most - dealing with troublesome pupils. And she felt it was very much her forte, afterall she was the most senior of headmistresses in all of England's private girls' schools.
"Come," she said, her voice sharp and commanding. The girl came in, a pretty girl (in a rather slutty sort of way), but in an ill-fitting uniform. It seemed as though she was wearing the clothes of a girl a year her junior.
"Kardashian, miss," the girl answered nervously. She stood in front of the imposing walnut desk with her hands folded under her bottom and her gaze lowered.
"Ah yes, I've reports here that we need to discuss." Dr Wright moved papers around on the desk in front of her until she came upon a buff-coloured folder.
"Miss Honeybun, domestic science. She tells me that 'the descent of Western civilisation can practically be read into your every curve'. Mr Chips, woodwork, appears to blame you for 'almost everything that is wrong with Western society today'. And Miss Bormann, modern history, suggests you're to blame for your peers 'soaking up a diet of empty celebrity and superficiality'."
Dr Wright paused, looked up and gave the girl her best penetrating look. "Anything to say?"
Kardashian seemded too abashed to say a single word in her defence, but after a moment she did manage to mumble: "Sorry, miss."
"Indeed," said Dr Wright, and she turned to the heavy leather tome to the right of her desk - the one marked 'Punishment Book'. For all that she pretended not to know the girl in front of her, she was actually all too aware of her notable qualities.
Possibly the complaints about her were rather exaggerated, but it would be a delight to deal with her firmly. I expect she has to slave in the gym to keep that posterior in shape, the Head thought to herself. What a pleasure to cane that rather ample backside.