It is bedtime in the children's home. All of us boys are in the dormitory. We are wearing our pajamas, and we kneel beside our beds waiting for Auntie May, the housemother to say the bedtime prayer.
There is a bit of a delay tonight, and my skinny little knees are hurting on the hard linoleum floor. The cause of the delay is because Auntie May is having a problem with Ronny's boxing gloves. Ronny has been caught playing with himself again, and he must wear the boxing gloves at night until he is cured. He has been cured several times already, but the problem keeps on rearing it's ugly head. Please forgive the unintended pun.
Eventually Auntie May is satisfied that the boxing gloves are on securely, and she says a short prayer asking God to forgive us wicked boys for our sins. As she leaves the room, she gives us all a stern warning that self abuse is a sin, and that there are plenty more pairs of boxing gloves available if she finds anyone else indulging in the filthy practice.
Poor old Ronny. He has a real problem with it. He was even caught doing it at school once. In the classroom! During a lesson! He got the cane for that. He has even had his trouser pockets sewn up, because of his constant fiddling with himself. All to no avail. Nothing, it seems, is going to stop him indulging in his favourite pastime.
In view of Ronny's uncontrollable little habit, it is very unfortunate I feel, that his surname is Handcock. What a cruel irony!