The Females of Wadi Ya Noh.

"What a peach! Ha ha ha! Oh, that was priceless! Ha ha ha! I bet Claudia would soon put you in your place, David. She would soon whip you into shape - I'll bet!" Miss Susan Smith opined confidently, of her apparently kindred spirit.

And, neither of us could have known, just how prophetic her whimsical words would turn out to be ...

It was just as the two Arabian Airways air hostesses prepared to move on down the aisle with their refreshments trolley, that my boss committed the act that would change my life forever: Miss Susan Smith suddenly leaned across me and, to (even my) amazement and horror, she sharply pinched Claudia's very shapely bottom.

This so startled Claudia, to the extent that she actually jumped; Claudia's bare, brown heels lifted at least an inch off her lilac-coloured mules, in her reflex reaction ... as she loudly squealed: "YOW!"

Claudia was scandalised.

Claudia whirled around and, in believing me - yes, me! - to be the outrageous culprit, she fixed her dark, angry eyes on mine. Her eyes were in 'locked-on' position, firing her laser-guided, high-explosive thoughts ... shooting me down in flames.

Claudia was ready to erupt. There was no doubt about that. Claudia, I could see, was incandescent with rage; seemed barely able to contain herself. Claudia was in the throes of a white hot anger. She was outraged, that ‘the likes' of me should have the towering temerity, should have such incredible impertinence, such appalling audacity - such insolence - as to touch her person in such an inappropriate, disrespectful - highly offensive - manner.

Yes - ME!

For, Miss Susan Smith's demeanour was a perfect picture of pure innocence. Of sweetness and light. Her mildly puzzled-looking ... what's up? facial expression, plainly suggesting - and, convincing anyone who saw it - that she had not the faintest idea at all, not a clue, about the cause of the kerfuffle. Not an inkling, about what could possibly have sparked the sudden commotion.

Claudia glared at me. Her glinting, glowering dark eyes eloquently conveying the great magnitude of her dark anger. Claudia was silently telling me - and, in no uncertain terms, either - that she would like nothing better, at this moment, than to deal my loathsome face not just one, and not two, either ... but a punishing, systematic series of sharp, stinging, tear inducing slaps, as a means of adequately addressing 'my' indefensible display of appalling impropriety and great offence, upon her person. And thereby meting out instant, suitable, satisfactory - proportionate - retribution.

I sensed all of this, just as surely as if Claudia had voiced her thoughts and feelings through a loudhailer. And, I found it to be extremely unpleasant - to say the least - to be subjected to the seething intensity of Claudia's vengeful, implacable gaze.

Such was the unmistakable message of Claudia's furious stare, that her plainly worried colleague - Samira, according to her name tag - hurriedly intervened, in her clearly appearing to sense that Claudia was actually on the brink - the very edge - of launching a violent physical outburst against me. On the very edge, of an ill-considered - reckless - impulsive, foolishly indulgent act. An act, that would be sure to have ... consequences.

Inevitably resulting: not only in Claudia's instant, unappealable dismissal from Arabian Airways, but also making her virtually unemployable, too, by any other Company in the Air Lines industry ... Claudia's flying career would be over.

For long, tension-filled moments, both my own personal safety, and Claudia's flying career, hung precariously in the balance. Only Samira's calm, cooing, soothing words, held Claudia at bay; kept her from going ... too far. Claudia stared at me, wordlessly, venomously. Claudia was clearly frustrated, that she could not - at least, not without ... consequences - unleash her barely restrained wrath upon me.

Claudia wanted to teach me a lesson. A lesson that I would not soon forget. Remember for ever, in fact. I watched her brown fingers; flexing, unflexing. She wanted to slap my face, I knew. She was itching to, yearning to. I could tell. It was so obvious. Claudia wanted to slap, and slap, and slap ... To teach me, teach me, teach me.

While I, for my part, could only helplessly stare back at Claudia, in horrified dismay. For some unknown reason, Claudia had already taken an instant dislike to me, in the first place. And now ... this.

I was appalled, by Claudia's innocent and perfectly understandable misapprehension of the incident. I was sorely aggrieved, by her reaction; her misplaced furious indignation. Not at her, of course. The blame, lay firmly at 'someone else's door.

I perfectly well realised, that trying to place the blame where it rightly belonged - at Miss Susan Smith's door - was not an option. It simply wasn't. It would be futile, and counter-productive.

Futile: because Claudia already clearly and firmly believed that I was the offending miscreant. And, any attempt now, to try and blame Miss Smith, would surely only be seen as ungallant and ungentlemanly, at best. But, more likely, as unmanly - cowardly.

Counter-productive: because I would most certainly be talking myself out of my job. Oh, I was under no illusions, about that! No sir! And, not only would Miss Susan Smith have no compunction in firing me from my job, but she would also darkly delight in making me carry the can for her own saucy misdeed.

Calmed, to some degree, by the soothing influences of her concerned colleague, Samira - who was urgently whispering, no doubt, balm-laden, sound and sensible advice into Claudia's ear - Claudia at last moved on down the aisle with Samira, with their refreshments trolley.

Miss Susan Smith smiled at me, smugly. Delighted that she had so deftly deflected the blame for her saucy little bottom-pinching prank, so squarely and firmly onto me.

Soon though, Miss Susan Smith would be even more delighted. She would soon be even more thrilled, with her deft, successful shifting of the blame onto the shoulders of her innocent, hapless underling. For, this incident was far from over - it was just starting. The unforeseeable ramifications; the unknowable repercussions, of Miss Susan Smith's cheeky, saucy little bottom-pinch ... about to unfold.

The aircraft landed en route, as scheduled. It was 11 a.m. Local time. We were now in a rather remote part of the Arabian Interior, at the small desert city of Wadi Ya Wan.

This was where the air crew would leave the aircraft, to be replaced by fresh air crew. And, where a small number of passengers would disembark. These de-planing passengers' vacated seats would then be taken by newly embarking passengers, who would then fly on to the aircraft's final destination: Wadi Ya Meen.

It was a pity, I thought, that we were not flying direct to Wadi Ya Meen. This en route stop-off, at Wadi Ya Wan, was something of a nuisance, I felt. Just a delaying, tiresome, pesky hold-up, that was just adding extra travelling time onto the journey. And, somehow, being on the ground seemed even more boring than being airborne.

But, as I was looking out through Mr Pin-Stripe's window, curious to see what was out there (not much, believe me), I became aware of an increase in the low, background hum of the passengers' conversation, and of a sudden tension in the air. What was going on? I wondered.

As I was seated in an aisle seat, I saw the female Captain of our Arabian Airways flight - Captain Jazmin - accompanied by her air crew, briskly striding down the aisle with a distinct air of businesslike, no-nonsense, purposeful intent, about them. Captain Jazmin meant business, I could see. But, what business? I wondered idly. Funny ... but Captain Jazmin seemed to be looking at me. Staring me right in the face. Nah, I thought to myself ... it just seems that way.

Of course, at first I had thought nothing of it. Until the party of air crew halted ... upon reaching my seat.

Then, I was rather taken aback - to say the least, when Captain Jazmin formally - coldly - addressed me. Her manner was decidedly curt. Bereft, in fact, not only of any vestige of natural friendliness, but devoid, even of the more basic courtesy of the professional politeness normally afforded to passengers.

Captain Jazmin's voice carried well. And it rang out; loud and clear, and infused with the stern tones of her official authority. And I was shocked to the core, at what she said to me. It was beyond embarrassment: as nosy, gossip-loving passengers craned their necks to see better; as more than 200 Nosey Parkers looked on, and listened avidly to the scandalous details of the unfolding 'mid-air' drama.

"A very serious charge, of 'Indecent Behaviour', has been formally lodged against you by one of my air crew," Captain Jazmin gravely informed me, as she helpfully but rather needlessly indicated the balefully glaring Claudia as the said molested member of her air crew.

Captain Jazmin continued acidly, "You have committed a very serious offence, aboard my aircraft. This matter will be dealt with immediately. You will now vacate your seat. You will accompany me off this aircraft, and I will personally escort you to the airport Police Station, where you will be arrested, and formally charged ... Didn't you hear me? Did you hear, what I just said ...? You will come with me. Out of your seat! Now!" ordered Captain Jazmin angrily, when I made no discernible move to comply.

I was literally dumbstruck, from my disbelieving shock. I had actually lost the power of speech - I opened my mouth; but the words just wouldn't come out, the way they were supposed to. I was so red-faced (I know I was!), from such humiliating, cringing mortification, at hearing Captain Jazmin's scathingly accusing words (broadcast all over the aircraft!), that I could only wordlessly vacate my seat, as she had so peremptorily ordered.

Captain Jazmin, of course, had no real reason to disbelieve the word of Claudia. And, she seemed to be already convinced of my apparent guilt, by the very damning fact that I did not protest my innocence - whereas, any innocent person surely would have. Wouldn't they? Oh, yes. I was guilty as hell, in Captain Jazmin's eyes.

For, I had decided to 'go quietly'. To take the rap. To pay the fine - as I thought that it surely couldn't be any more serious than that ... just for a pinched bottom.

I turned to Miss Susan Smith, and I saw the look of malicious glee that now positively radiated from her gloating face. She was loving it! Absolutely loving it. Intervening in my behalf, I could see, was clearly not on her agenda. She was over the moon, at my predicament. A predicament, for which she was wholly responsible. A predicament, that she had so carelessly caused, landing me in this trouble with the Arabian authorities.

Oh! That woman!! She was the bane of my life! She really was. She was like a niggling, nagging thorn in my side; pricking away at me, all of the time. Always causing me hassle. Always giving me grief.

As Captain Jazmin personally escorted me to the airport Police Station, I tried to gee-up my spirits, a little, by giving myself something of a morale-boosting, mental pep-talk: 'Come on, David ... Don't worry, you'll soon have this little matter sorted out. No problemo. It's just a little misunderstanding, after all. Easy to sort out. Oh, yes, easy peasy. Ha ha! Then you'll soon be back aboard the plane, with her Ladyship, and laughing off this whole daft thing - this ridiculous pantomime', I assured myself soothingly.

But, at the airport Police Station (which also served as an impromptu Courtroom, on occasions such as these), it was not long, before the actual seriousness: the true, appalling gravity, of my situation, was finally brought home to me - and with about the same subtlety, as half a ton of collapsing builders' scaffolding raining down upon my unsuspecting head - when Claudia formally accused me, before the Court, of committing an act of Indecent Behaviour upon her person.

For, a representative from the British Consulate in Wadi Ya Wan, a Miss Withenshaw - who, just like Captain Jazmin, also seemed readily inclined to believe in my apparent guilt - brought me crashing down to Earth in horrified disillusionment.

Miss Withenshaw, was a shoulder-length, dark-haired woman, perhaps in her late twenties, I thought. She was easy on the eye; I'll give her that. If not exactly a beauty. My first impressions of her, were that, while she was quite attractive: nice face, good figure, great legs, these positive attributes were rather offset, I felt, by what seemed a somewhat strait-laced, overly prim and proper nature.

I listened to Miss Withenshaw and, I was aghast, at what she said. She stonily informed me, that in this, more remote - "rather backward" - part of the Arabian Interior, the prevailing custom was that an accused person was presumed guilty, unless innocence could be proved.

Miss Withenshaw then formally advised me that, as I could not actually prove my innocence, in this matter, I would now be formally charged, convicted ... and sentenced. There would be no question of a fine, she told me. For here, she told me, things were done differently, very differently indeed, than they were back in England.

Then, added the decidedly unsympathetic-sounding, acerbic-tongued female representative of the British Consulate: "After having duly served your sentence, you will be formally deported from Arabia. And, with a criminal record to your name."

My God! I was absolutely aghast. I was incredulous. I could hardly believe what Miss Withenshaw was, so matter-of-factly - coldly - explaining to me. I was a British citizen. Surely, Miss Withenshaw could help me ... couldn't she? Be of some assistance to me, in my wretched predicament?

In the same frosty manner, Miss Withenshaw went on to tell me that the prevailing custom in this, more remote ("rather backward") part of the Arabian Interior - the Province of Wadi Ya Wan - was that the victim of a crime was given, by the Court, a number of choices: Choices, with which to decide as to how, exactly, the perpetrator of the crime against them was to be punished ... To satisfy their own, particular sense of appropriate retribution.

Upon seeing that Claudia was about to formally testify to the Court, Miss Withenshaw told me that she would translate for me everything that was said, pertaining to my 'trial'.

It was rather absently, the way that Claudia perused the Court's ‘menu' of punishment choices that were open to her selection. As if she were already quite familiar, with the contents of the 'menu'. As if the offerings were always the same ... And, as if she always chose the same 'course'.

Claudia formally read aloud, to the Court, the precise nature of the punishment option - the penalty - that she wished me to suffer. The form of 'correctional therapy', that was most appropriate, and that would best serve to ‘rehabilitate' me from my apparent disrespectful and chauvinistic attitude towards females.

"I, Claudia, hereby pronounce to the Court, my rightful and righteous sentence, upon my vile transgressor ... the convicted criminal - David," intoned Claudia, in a clear and confident voice. As if she had been here, and done this many times before; as if she were no stranger, to these proceedings. And I waited with bated breath, to hear the details of my fate: a fate, of Claudia's very own choosing.

"I, Claudia, decree that the convicted criminal - David, shall return with me to my home village: To suffer the time-honoured, traditional chastisement, of ‘A Thousand Suns'."

'A Thousand Suns'. What the ...? Was this for real? I wondered incredulously.

"I, Claudia, decree that my foul assailant shall serve out his sentence in my home village, of Wadi Ya Noh. In the village square, in Humility Hole.

"I decree that: I, Claudia, and my village sisters, shall be this criminal's chastisers.

"I decree, that my vile transgressor; my foul assailant, the convicted criminal - David, shall learn repentance, at our hands, and humility, at our feet ... This is the chosen chastisement, of I, Claudia."

I couldn't believe my own ears! Humility Hole ... village sisters ... chastisers ... learn repentance at their hands; humility at their feet ...? This was surreal. No! This was more than surreal - it was plain, stark raving bonkers! I would certainly be having words with Miss Withenshaw. What a farce! You couldn't make it up!

Upon having formally passed upon me the punishment sentence of her choice, Claudia gave way to the Court official - who was not an actual Judge: A Judge was only called for, I learned from Miss Withenshaw, when an accused prisoner claimed that he/she could actually prove their innocence. Otherwise, it was routinely the Court official: a sort of local Governmental multi-functional handyman, who was the arbiter presiding over such ... cut-and-dried, summary prosecution proceedings as these.

"The chosen sentence of Claudia, upon the convicted criminal - David, is hereby formally and officially recognised, sanctioned, and passed by this Court," declared the Court official.

"Upon due completion of his 'A Thousand Suns' sentence, the convicted prisoner will be formally deported from Arabia. And, with a criminal record to his name. That is all ... the Court is dismissed," announced the Court official, in tones as blithe and as carelessly delivered, as a bored railway station announcer advising of the imminent arrival of the 15:30 from Liverpool Lime Street.

Oh, I was definitely going to have words with Miss Withenshaw, about this! This was going too far. It was a ridiculous state of affairs. Simply preposterous.

I vehemently demanded, of the representative from the British Consulate, "Just what, exactly, is going on here, Miss Withenshaw? I know what you said - but what does it all actually mean? What the hell is: 'A Thousand Suns', exactly? And all of that other ... gibberish? What is happening?"

To which, Miss Withenshaw replied, to my absolute horror and dismay, "‘A Thousand Suns', means a thousand days, David. Your sentence is to last for a thousand days."

"What!" I cried with shocked incredulity. "But ... that's, that's ...â" I stammered, as I frantically tried to calculate. "But ... My God! Miss Withenshaw, that is about equal to two years and nine months! You've ... please, you've got to stop this ... this farce! This whole thing is nuts! You've got to help me! Can't you do something, Miss Withenshaw ...?" I pleaded hysterically.

When Miss Withenshaw made no reply, to my increasingly frantic pleas, I yelled at her, in a sort of last-throw-of-the-dice desperation: "You've got to help me ... it's your job!"

"It is not my job! I am not here, to help the likes of you to wriggle off the hook!" Miss Withenshaw yelled back at me, in high indignation. "Now, give me your Passport, David. I'll take it back to the Consulate with me. You will be able to reclaim it, in ... due course." I didn't like the way she said: "... due course."

Miss Withenshaw then went on, rather more calmly; as if she was rather soothed, by what she was about to say to me. "Anyway, David, in case you haven't noticed ... you are in Arabia now. The Law of the Land has been applied, and your sentence has been passed. And ... that's it," said Miss Withenshaw, in a rather flippant, off-handed manner that made my blood boil.

She went on, in the same careless-sounding tone. "The Court has spoken, David. And ... that's all there is to it, I'm afraid. The decision of the Court is final. And the customs of the land have been duly observed. There is nothing further that I can do for you, at this moment, other than to advise your boss, Miss Susan Smith, as to the salient details of the outcome of your trial," said the British Consulate representative, nonchalantly.