(short pause) Alas, it was not long before I found myself in difficulty. I was a shy, rather anxious child, and I harboured a peculiar fear of using the lavatory away from home. I was embarrassed to ask, and the thought of someone overhearing me filled me with dread.
(short pause) If I needed to use the lavatory at Aunt Janice’s, I would wait until she was occupied in the basement or upstairs. But on the third or fourth day, the first incident occurred. I was playing in the back garden while Aunt Janice watched from the kitchen. I felt a desperate urge to relieve myself, but was too timid to go inside and ask.
(short pause) After nearly an hour of discomfort, I could hold it no longer and wet my trousers. I tried to conceal my accident, but Aunt Janice soon discovered it. She ordered me inside, removed my soiled clothes, and gave me a bath. As she washed me, she informed me, in her no-nonsense tone, that I would be punished for my carelessness.
(short pause) Once I was clean and dressed, she led me to the kitchen and told me to wait. She fetched a small wooden chair from the closet and placed it facing the corner. “This is my naughty chair,” she said. “Whenever you misbehave, you will sit here and face the wall until I say you may get up.” She marched me over and sat me down firmly.
(short pause) Over the next few weeks, I continued to have accidents, once or twice a week. Each time, my stay in the naughty chair grew longer. Aunt Janice also imposed other punishments—no wireless, no toys, no pudding, and no playing outside—in an effort to help me overcome my habit.
(short pause) By the third week, after I had wet my trousers while watching the wireless and left a stain on the sofa, Aunt Janice’s patience was exhausted. She changed me once more, then sat me down at the kitchen table. “Michael,” she said, “I have tried every other punishment I can think of, and none have worked. There is only one option left—a slippering!”
(short pause) At the mention of that word, my heart gave a great leap. My mother had occasionally given me a light smack, but never a formal punishment such as this.
(short pause) My only knowledge of spankings came from books and the wireless—children draped over a grown-up’s lap, receiving a sound smacking with a hairbrush or slipper. The prospect filled me with dread, but also a strange curiosity. What would it be like to be punished in such a manner?
(short pause) Aunt Janice led me into the kitchen, her footsteps brisk and purposeful. She opened a cupboard and withdrew an old, well-worn carpet slipper. It was brown, with a faded pattern, and looked as though it had seen many years of use. She placed a sturdy wooden chair in the centre of the room, sat down, and beckoned me to approach.
(short pause) When I stood before her, she looked at me gravely. “Does your mother spank you?” she asked. I shook my head. “Well, she ought to,” Aunt Janice replied. “Do you know what a spanking is? Do you understand what I am going to do?” I nodded, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
(short pause) Aunt Janice patted her lap, indicating that I was to lie across it. My heart thudded in my chest as I obeyed, draping myself over her knees as I had seen in storybooks. The room seemed very quiet, and I could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall.
(short pause) Then, with a swift, practiced motion, Aunt Janice raised the slipper and brought it down smartly upon my bottom. There was a sharp, echoing smack, and a stinging pain blossomed where the slipper had landed. I gasped, more from surprise than pain. Aunt Janice did not pause; she raised the slipper again and delivered another firm smack, this time eliciting a small whimper from me.
(short pause) The spanking continued, each smack ringing out in the quiet kitchen. The slipper was not heavy, but Aunt Janice wielded it with determination. I received ten or twelve good, hard spanks, each one stinging more than the last. By the end, my eyes were brimming with tears, and I could not help but sob quietly.
(short pause) When it was over, Aunt Janice allowed me to stand and rub my sore bottom for a moment. Then, with gentle firmness, she sent me to the naughty chair to reflect on my behaviour.
(short pause) After that first slippering, I tried very hard to overcome my habit, but it was not easy. I still had accidents about once a week, and each one resulted in another trip over Aunt Janice’s knee and a visit to the naughty chair.
(short pause) Aunt Janice believed in old-fashioned discipline—spankings were always given over the knee, on the bottom. She was also inventive in her choice of implements: sometimes a wooden ruler, a spatula, or even a fly swatter. Once, I was spanked with a plastic toy shovel, the sort one takes to the seaside.
(short pause) Yet my story ends on a happier note. On my last day at Aunt Janice’s that summer, she pointed out that I had managed to go a full two weeks without a single accident. She gave me a warm hug and told me she was proud of me. “I suppose all those spankings did you some good after all!” she said, her eyes twinkling kindly.
