Prodigal Child

It was bedtime, and two of us were writing in our journals, recording the unusual events of the day. It was a treat evening because we had air-conditioning in the 40-degree heat and 88% humidity, and electric light. The other one was reading a book quietly next to us. She said, in her gentle Cambridgeshire accent, and without a trace of exaggerated tone,  "Smack my bitch up"; we laughed and laughed and laughed.