Before I go any further, let me paint a fuller picture of Rita, Neil’s mother—a woman who was, in every sense, a force of nature. She was rough as houses—everyone in the estate said so, and not without reason. The phrase “council house trash” was whispered behind her back, but Rita wore it like a badge of honour, as if daring anyone to challenge her place in the world. She was a formidable presence, heavy set and strong as an ox, with broad, capable shoulders and arms that looked as if they’d been carved from stone by years of hard work. Her hands were large, calloused, and always busy—scrubbing, cooking, mending, or doling out discipline.
Rita’s clothing was as practical and unpretentious as she was. She favoured sturdy, plain house dresses made from thick cotton or faded calico, the kind that could withstand years of scrubbing and hard work. The colours were always muted—dusty blues, washed-out greens, and the occasional faded floral print, the patterns so subtle they seemed to blend into the background. Her dresses were always buttoned up the front, with deep pockets for handkerchiefs, keys, or the odd bit of string. Over her dress, she wore a well-worn apron, usually off-white or pale gray, sometimes with a faint checkered pattern, always tied tightly around her waist. Her shoes were sensible, brown leather lace-ups, scuffed from years of use, and thick woolen socks peeked out above the ankles. There was nothing fancy about her attire, but it spoke volumes about her—practical, no-nonsense, and built for a life of constant motion. The way she dressed was a reflection of her presence: solid, reliable, and impossible to ignore. Her stern face and piercing eyes could put the fear of God into both myself and Neil. Just the sound of her footsteps in the hallway was enough to make us straighten up and behave.
Rita was also a really tough cookie. She had a grown-up daughter, and in those days, it was almost expected that parents would spank their children—and sometimes, if the situation called for it, other people’s children as well. The estate was a close-knit place, and discipline was everyone’s business. Rita’s reputation for being strict was well-earned, and even the bravest kids thought twice before crossing her.
I was never punished in this way by Neil’s sister, although she did sometimes threaten me with a sore bottom. But I certainly got taken over Rita’s knee along with her son, and, on a handful of occasions, when Neil was not even around. Rita’s discipline was never casual or careless; it was deliberate, almost ritualistic, and always left a lasting impression—physically and emotionally.
Rita used the belt extensively, but the worst spanking I ever got from her was an old-fashioned one, over her knee, with her rubber-soled slipper. That day is burned into my memory, not just for the pain, but for everything it revealed about Rita, about myself, and about the world I was growing up in.
The reason behind the punishment was my stealing from a local store. But here’s the truth: that wasn’t the first time I’d pinched something. In fact, I’d been thieving quite a bit recently—little things here and there, always thinking I could get away with it. I was getting bolder, and it was only a matter of time before I got caught for something much worse. But on that day, it was just the Beano comic I tried to take. At that age, I struggled terribly with reading. Most books and magazines were just a blur of words to me, but the Beano was different. Its bright, silly pictures and simple speech bubbles were the only things I could actually read and understand. I remember standing in front of the rack, heart pounding, desperate to have that comic in my hands. It wasn’t about being greedy or wanting to be naughty—I just wanted to be able to read something, to feel like I wasn’t left behind by everyone else. The owner of the shop caught me red-handed as I tried to slip the Beano under my coat. Because he had seen me before with her, he assumed Rita was also mine and took me to her house to report the attempted theft. I was actually there being babysat, and my friend was away with his father. Looking back, I realize that getting caught for something as small as a comic was actually a blessing in disguise. If I hadn’t been stopped then, who knows how far I might have gone? That moment, painful as it was, probably saved me from much bigger trouble down the line.
The shopkeeper’s face was red with anger and disappointment as he marched me up the path to Rita’s house. I remember the crunch of gravel under his shoes, the way his grip tightened on my arm as if he was afraid I’d bolt. My heart hammered in my chest, and my mind raced with fear—not just of being caught, but of what would happen next. The estate was a place where news travelled fast, and I knew that by the end of the day, everyone would know what I’d done.
When the man had made his case (and been promised that I would be paying for my crime with a sore behind), Rita looked me straight in the eye and said: “John, I am very surprised and disappointed in you! I’m sure you don’t want your mother to find out about your naughtiness, and be ashamed of you?” I shook my head, my cheeks burning with shame and fear. The thought of my own mother finding out was almost worse than the punishment I knew was coming.
“Well, I’m afraid you do need to be punished, so I am going to give you a spanking myself. Come here to me.” Her voice was calm, but there was a steeliness to it that brooked no argument. I felt as if the walls were closing in, the air thick with anticipation and dread.
I was made to go to the drawer where the belt was kept, but she held me firmly by the arm. “No, John,” she said. “I’m so mad at you about this that I might injure you if I whip you with the belt right now. However, you can feel my slipper on that bottom of yours – and don’t think it’s going to be easy!” Her words sent a chill down my spine. There was something almost merciful in her decision, but also a promise of pain that made my stomach twist.
(pause) The room seemed to shrink as Rita sat down heavily in her old wooden chair, the floorboards creaking beneath her. The air was thick with tension, and I could hear my own heartbeat thudding in my ears. She slipped off her house slipper—a typical late 70s style, navy blue with a thick, flexible rubber sole, the kind every mum seemed to wear back then. The rubber sole made a faint squeak as she flexed it in her hand, testing its weight. Her grip on my arm was unyielding, and I could feel the roughness of her palm as she guided me over her broad lap. The fabric of her dress was scratchy against my skin, and her apron smelled faintly of soap and flour. (short pause)
With her left hand pressed firmly into the small of my back, I was pinned in place, utterly helpless. I could see the determined set of her jaw and the steely glint in her eyes—there was no room for pleading or escape. The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock and my own shallow breathing. Then, with a swift motion, she raised the slipper high. (pause: 0.3s) The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing slap that seemed to reverberate off the walls. The sting was immediate and electric, a hot, biting pain that spread across my backside and made me gasp. The sound was unmistakable—a flat, rubbery crack that filled the room, followed by the involuntary yelp that escaped my lips. (short pause)
Each smack that followed was delivered with unwavering precision, the rubber sole biting into my skin again and again. The pain built with every blow, a fiery, throbbing ache that made my legs kick and my hands clench the fabric of her dress. The slipper was heavier than a hand, and the rubber sole seemed to cling to my skin for a split second before snapping away, leaving a burning trail in its wake. The rhythm was relentless—smack, pause, smack, pause—each one punctuated by Rita’s stern, measured breathing. (short pause)
Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision, and my cheeks burned with shame as much as pain. Rita’s voice cut through my sobs, calm but unyielding: “You might as well save your tears for a while, young man – you’re going to be over my lap for some time.” Her words were like cold water, making the punishment feel endless. (pause)
The room felt smaller and hotter with every passing second, the air thick with the scent of old wood, soap, and the faint tang of rubber. My ears rang with the sound of the slipper, and my own cries seemed to echo back at me, amplifying my humiliation. Rita’s grip never loosened, her presence as solid and immovable as a mountain. There was no comfort, no softness—only the certainty of her discipline and the lesson she meant to teach. (short pause)
I remember the way the sunlight slanted through the window, catching the dust motes in the air, making everything seem both unreal and painfully vivid. The kitchen clock ticked on, indifferent to my suffering. I could hear the distant sounds of children playing outside, their laughter a cruel reminder of the freedom I’d lost, if only for a moment. The world outside went on, oblivious to the drama unfolding in Rita’s kitchen.
By the time she finally let me up, my backside was blazing, every nerve ending alive with pain. I was sobbing uncontrollably, my face wet with tears and my body shaking. The only mercy was that we were alone—no one else to witness my shame, no one to see me clutching my sore bottom and sniffling like a much younger child. The memory of that spanking, the feel and sound of that slipper, and the unyielding presence of Rita—rough as houses, council house trash to some, but unforgettable to me—would stay with me for years to come. It was a lesson I would never forget.
(short pause) But after the slippering, something changed. Rita’s sternness faded, and she sat me down gently at the kitchen table. Her voice, now softer and more caring, explained why she had to be so strict. She told me about family members—her own brothers and cousins—who had spent years in and out of prison because they started stealing small things as children and never stopped. She said she never wanted Neil, or me, to end up like that. Even though it was just a comic, she wanted me to understand that small mistakes can lead to bigger ones, and that the path of stealing only leads to trouble. Rita’s words made me realize her strictness came from a place of care and hard-earned experience. In that moment, I understood that her discipline was meant to protect us, not just punish us. That talk, just as much as the slipper, stayed with me for years.
(pause) I remember the way Rita’s eyes softened as she spoke, her voice trembling just a little as she recounted the stories of her brothers—how they’d started with sweets and comics, just like me, and ended up behind bars. She told me about the heartbreak it brought her mother, the shame it brought the family, and the way it changed the course of their lives forever. There was a deep sadness in her words, a kind of grief that went beyond anger or disappointment. It was as if she was trying to save me from a fate she’d seen too many times before.
Afterward, she made me a cup of tea—milky and sweet, the way I liked it—and set a plate of biscuits in front of me. We sat in silence for a while, the tension slowly ebbing away, replaced by a quiet understanding. I sipped my tea, the warmth soothing my raw throat, and realized that Rita’s kitchen, for all its sternness and discipline, was also a place of safety and care. She had punished me, yes, but she had also forgiven me, and in that forgiveness, I found a kind of peace.
(long pause) Looking back now, I see that day as a turning point. The pain of the slipper faded, but the lesson remained. Rita taught me that actions have consequences, that discipline can be an act of love, and that sometimes the hardest lessons are the ones we need most. Her strength, her honesty, and her unwavering sense of right and wrong shaped me in ways I didn’t understand until much later. I never stole again—not because I was afraid of the slipper, but because I understood, finally, what it meant to be responsible for my choices.
