(gap: 2s) In our household, discipline was as much a part of the furniture as the old sideboard that stood, dignified and solemn, in the hallway. Mother and Father—whom we addressed as Margaret and Harold, in the manner of all well-brought-up children—held firm to the belief that a proper upbringing was the foundation of good character. From our earliest days, when the world was a delightful confusion of knees and laughter, a well-timed smack was as much a part of daily life as a spoonful of cod liver oil. Should we wriggle excessively during a nappy change, a brisk pat would restore order. If we raised our voices in the pram, a gentle tap upon the thigh would remind us that peace and quiet were treasures to be valued. These were not acts of cruelty, but rather the light, matter-of-fact discipline that seemed to pervade every home in our street.
My younger sister, Susan—a sprightly child with golden curls and a mischievous sparkle in her eye—received her first proper smacked bottom at the venerable age of three. It was a morning of sunshine, and the kitchen was filled with the scent of toast and strawberry jam. Temptation proved too much for her, and she plunged her chubby fingers into the jam pot, giggling as she licked them clean. Father, Harold, who possessed the uncanny ability to appear at the very moment of mischief, swept her up and, with a swift motion, placed her over his knee. Five sharp smacks landed upon her plump little seat, each one accompanied by a squeal and a promise never to repeat the offence—promises, naturally, that were forgotten by tea-time.
My own first formal spanking is etched in my memory as clearly as the day I first rode a bicycle. I was four, and bath time was a nightly contest of wills. I would dart from the bathroom, shrieking with laughter, trailing suds and water across the linoleum, while Mother, Margaret, armed with a towel and a look of steely determination, gave chase. On this particular evening, after my third escape, she caught me by the arm and, with a sigh that spoke of both exasperation and affection, sat me upon her knee.
(pause) The room seemed to contract, the air thick with anticipation. I could hear the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway, each second stretching out interminably. My heart thudded in my chest, and my cheeks burned with a mixture of dread and defiance. Mother’s lap was as firm as a park bench, and her grip, though gentle, brooked no argument. I remember the way the lamplight glinted upon the polished brass buttons of her housecoat, and the faint scent of lavender that clung to her sleeves. (short pause)
Then, with a swift, practiced motion, she raised her hand. There was a moment—a heartbeat—when time seemed to stand still. I could see the determined set of her jaw, the slight narrowing of her eyes, and then—crack! Her palm landed smartly across my bare bottom. The sound was sharp and unmistakable, echoing off the tiled walls like the crack of a starter’s pistol. The sting was immediate, a hot, prickling sensation that blossomed across my skin and sent a jolt straight to my toes. I gasped, more in surprise than pain, and the tears sprang to my eyes before I could prevent them. (pause)
Mother did not scold or raise her voice. She delivered each smack with the same measured firmness, her face composed, her voice low and steady as she reminded me, “This is for your own good, my dear.” Each slap was a punctuation mark in a lesson I would not soon forget. The linoleum floor felt cold beneath my dangling feet, and the world seemed to narrow to the circle of her arms and the rhythm of the spanking. (short pause)
I sobbed, the sound mingling with the splashes from the bath and the distant tick-tock of the clock. My indignation was as fierce as the sting, and yet, beneath it all, there was a curious sense of relief—a knowledge that the mischief had been paid for, the slate wiped clean. When it was over, Mother gathered me up, pressing my face to her shoulder, and the warmth of her embrace was almost enough to banish the lingering tingle from my bottom. (pause)
Yet what I recall most vividly is the emotional tempest that raged within me during those moments. The anticipation was almost unbearable, a knot of fear and guilt twisting in my stomach as I awaited the first smack. My small hands gripped the edge of Mother’s housecoat, knuckles white, as I endeavoured to be brave. Each smack was a shock—a sharp, stinging heat that seemed to radiate through my whole body, making my legs kick and my breath catch in my throat. I could feel the tears welling up, hot and insistent, blurring my vision as I tried to hold them back. But the pain was not merely physical; it was a deep, aching embarrassment, a sense of being so small and helpless in the face of Mother’s unwavering resolve.
The spanking seemed to last an eternity, each smack echoing in my ears, each pause between them filled with my own ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart. I remember the way my bottom tingled and burned, the way my face pressed into Mother’s shoulder as I sobbed, and the way her hand, though firm, never lost its gentleness. There was a peculiar comfort in the ritual, a sense that I was being set back upon the right path, that the chaos of my mischief had been tamed by the certainty of her discipline. When it was finally over, I clung to her, my tears soaking her sleeve, and she held me close, whispering soothing words that made the pain and shame ebb away, leaving only the warmth of her love.
Even now, I can recall the peculiar mixture of embarrassment and comfort that followed—a sense that order had been restored, and that I was, for the moment, forgiven. The memory is as vivid as a painting: the lamplight, the scent of soap and lavender, the echo of the smacks, and the gentle, unyielding love that lay beneath it all.
As we grew older, the arsenal of discipline expanded. The most formidable implement in our household was a wooden stick, about a foot in length, which had once been part of the loft hatch before it met its fate at the hands of a careless uncle. It was not a cane, nor a switch, but a plain, unremarkable stick—yet in our imaginations, it loomed as large as any pirate’s cutlass. When the stick was produced, we knew we were in for a proper reckoning. It was never wielded with cruelty, but with a sort of solemn ceremony: over the knee we went, and the stick would descend with a series of crisp smacks, leaving our bottoms red and tingling, but never marked or bruised.
The stick was not the only tool in our parents’ collection. There were occasions when a hand, a belt, a slipper, a ruler, or even the back of a hairbrush would be pressed into service. Each had its own particular sting, its own place in the hierarchy of punishments. But the stick was the most regular visitor, and we developed a wary respect for it. Its reign ended abruptly when, during a particularly spirited session, it snapped clean in two across my backside. My elder brother, Peter, who had suffered its attentions more than most, was so delighted that he purchased for me a comic and a bag of sweets as a token of gratitude. To this day, the memory of his conspiratorial wink and the taste of those sweets makes me smile.
School, too, was a place where discipline was dispensed with a firm hand and little ceremony. At my primary school, the slipper was a constant companion, its rubber sole leaving a warm glow on the backsides of the unruly. The ruler was reserved for palms and, on occasion, knuckles, while a sharp slap to the legs or a quick smack to the bottom was meted out for lesser offences. I was slippered once or twice a year, and though the ritual was intended to instil fear, I found it rather less daunting than the spankings at home. The sting faded quickly, and the sense of camaraderie among the punished was almost worth the price.
High school brought with it the threat of the cane, though it was reserved for boys. The closest I came to corporal punishment there was the day a teacher, driven to distraction by our antics, hurled his keys in my direction. I ducked, and the unfortunate boy behind me, David, caught them square in the face—a mishap that caused more laughter than injury, and which became the stuff of legend in our year.
The most serious predicament I ever encountered was during a summer stay with my grandmother—Nanny, as we called her, a formidable woman with a heart of gold and a tongue as sharp as her knitting needles. In a moment of temper, I uttered a word I had picked up from the older boys on the street, foolishly believing it would make me appear grown-up. Nanny’s response was swift and uncompromising: she marched me to the bathroom and washed my mouth out with soap. The taste was vile, far worse than anything Mother had ever used, and I gagged and spluttered, my bravado dissolving in a froth of bubbles and shame.
After the soaping, Nanny telephoned my parents, her voice clipped and businesslike. My siblings were scattered with other relatives, so I had the dubious privilege of stewing in solitary anticipation. The hours crawled by, each tick of the clock a reminder of the reckoning to come. I imagined all manner of dreadful punishments, my mind conjuring up scenes worthy of a Victorian novel.
At last, Nanny appeared in my room, her face set in a mask of stern resolve. She informed me that she would be administering the punishment herself, and that I could expect another smacked bottom when I returned home. My heart sank, but I knew better than to protest. With trembling hands, I stacked pillows in the centre of the bed and lay over them, my bottom raised in the air like a flag of surrender.
(pause) The room was hushed, save for the faint rustle of Nanny’s skirts and the distant clatter of teacups from the kitchen below. I could feel the cool air prickling my skin, and the anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself. Nanny’s hand, broad and unyielding, hovered for a moment above its target. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself. (short pause)
The first smack landed with a resounding clap, sharp as the crack of a whip. The sound seemed to fill the room, bouncing off the wallpaper and making the very bed tremble beneath me. Each slap was delivered with the precision of a metronome, firm and unhurried, and the sting built with every blow until my bottom felt as though it were ablaze. I yelped and squirmed, but Nanny’s grip was ironclad, and her resolve unshakable. (pause)
My pride stung as fiercely as my backside, and yet, beneath the tears and the heat, there was a strange comfort in the ritual—a sense that the world was being set to rights, that the boundaries of childhood were being redrawn with every smack. When at last it was over, Nanny released me with a nod of satisfaction, and I was sent to bed without supper, my stomach rumbling and my heart heavy, but my conscience, curiously, at peace.
The next day, Father delivered his own brand of justice with the belt, and I was grounded for a fortnight—a punishment that tested the patience of everyone in the house, not least my own.
The last time I received a proper smacking was at the age of fifteen, a fact that still makes me blush to recall. By then, I fancied myself practically an adult, and the idea of being treated as a naughty child was mortifying. The offence was a serious one: Mother had discovered my friends and me experimenting with a small amount of tobacco, a crime that sent her into a fury. She telephoned the other girls’ parents, and they were promptly dispatched home to face their own fates. I was sent to my room, my heart pounding with dread.
Mother appeared a few minutes later, hairbrush in hand, her face set in grim determination. She wrestled me over the end of the bed and delivered a thrashing that left me breathless and sore. The other girls fared no better—one had her legs strapped by her father, another had her palms caned, and the rest, if they escaped, never admitted it. We compared notes later, our shared misery forging a bond that lasted long after.
