It was years ago at an airshow near Arborfiled, Berkshire, a dusty field turned into a carnival. My job was to manage the 'ghost house' inside one of the old halls ' half the space blacked out, the floor covered in discarded aircraft tyres cut in half so they shifted and sagged under every step. People hated the feeling, especially the girls who came in laughing and left shrieking as the rubber wobbled beneath them. I was supposed to guide them through, keep the line moving, reassure the nervous ones. Instead, I waited until they were deep in the dark and gave them a shove ' not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send them sprawling, hands grabbing at shadows. I enjoyed the shock on their faces. They didn't. With some of the girls I did a lot more than pushing, I poked, I prodded, and I felt the spongieness of it all.