When I was younger, smacking was still a very common punishment for Britain’s younger generation. In fact, it sometimes felt as though parents were almost competing with each other over who could be the strictest. If one parent mentioned smacking their child, another would chime in about using the slipper or the wooden spoon, and someone else would proudly declare that their child had experienced the belt. My parents were no exception—they would join in these conversations, swapping stories about discipline as if it were a badge of honour.
It wasn’t just parents, either. Back then, it was perfectly normal for aunts, teachers, and even older siblings to be allowed to administer punishment. The authority to discipline seemed to extend to almost any adult in your life, and sometimes even to those just a few years older than you.
There are two specific memories I have of receiving Corporal Punishment that stand out in my mind.
Like many English Youngsters of the time, I went on the train for a seaside holiday. If you are of the same generation as me, you’ll probably remember travelling in those carriages with old-fashioned slam doors, which had no corridors but instead small, separate compartments with long, plump bench-type seating.
But I wonder who else, like me, also remembers having their bottoms smacked on the return journey home?
My personal memory begins with me going to a popular northern resort with mother’s sister and her two offspring. I remember whining for much of the day of our return because I was either cold, very hungry or needed to go to toilet.
My aunt was already irritated by her own girls consistently squabbling on the train journey back, but she finally snapped when I spilled lemonade down my cheap, pattern-printed polyester dress. Safe in the privacy of the compartment, my aunt promptly took off my dress to attempt to dry it out before we reached our destination.
My aunt always did her best to act well-to-do, but she never quite made the grade. Her common traits would occasionally slip out, especially when she became angry, which was quite often. The air inside the compartment was thick with tension, the faint scent of lemonade mingling with the musty upholstery. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as my aunt, her lips pressed into a thin, determined line, yanked my dress over my head. The cold air prickled my skin, and I could feel the sticky dampness of the spilled lemonade clinging to my legs. My cousins fell silent, their eyes wide as they watched the scene unfold, the usual bickering replaced by a heavy, expectant hush.
Without further warning, my aunt sat down, pulled me firmly across her lap, and raised her hand. The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing crack, the sting blooming instantly across my bottom. I gasped, the pain hot and immediate, and squeezed my eyes shut as another smack followed, and then another. Each strike was deliberate, her palm connecting with my bottom in a steady, punishing rhythm. The sound of each slap seemed to fill the compartment, mingling with my own yelps and the muffled sniffles of my cousins, who watched in shocked silence.
Tears sprang to my eyes, blurring my vision as the pain built with each smack. My legs kicked involuntarily, my toes curling inside my sandals, but my aunt’s grip was ironclad, holding me firmly in place. The humiliation was almost as intense as the pain itself—being punished so thoroughly, with my cousins as witnesses, made my cheeks burn with shame. I could feel the heat radiating from my bottom, the skin growing sore beneath her relentless hand.
When it was finally over, my aunt released me with a huff, her own face flushed with frustration. I scrambled upright, sniffling and rubbing at my stinging backside, my knickers still tangled around my ankles. The compartment felt smaller, the air heavy with the aftermath of the punishment. My cousins avoided my gaze, their faces pale and uncertain, unsure whether to comfort me or keep their distance.
I clumsily tried to smooth my damp dress, my hands trembling. The pain lingered, a throbbing reminder of my misbehavior, and I could feel the sticky residue of lemonade still clinging to my skin.
For the rest of the journey, I sat quietly, my bottom aching and my pride wounded. The rhythmic clatter of the train seemed louder than before, and I stared out the window, blinking away tears and wishing the journey would end. The lesson was clear, etched into my memory as sharply as the sting on my skin—a vivid reminder of the consequences of childish carelessness and the swift, unyielding discipline of the adults in my life.
I have an older sister, and she occasionally ended up babysitting me when I was little. She was, on the surface, a pleasant girl, but terribly bossy—always trying to present herself as better than she really was. She was the apple of our parents’ eye, could do no wrong in their eyes, and seemed to excel at everything at school, while I struggled to keep up. She had a knack for telling on me, often causing trouble and making sure I got the blame for any mischief. Her dress sense was usually sensible and practical, but every now and then she’d make an effort to be fashionable, trying to impress others or stand out just a little more. Despite her pleasant exterior, her bossiness and constant need to be seen as perfect made life with her a challenge.
When she did, she was allowed to smack my bottom if I played up.
I have to say that my sister rarely took advantage of this privilege and even when she did, I never usually cried. However, one exception was the day when she accused me of playing with matches while we were at our grandmother’s house. I was guilty as charged, although I tried to deny it.
My sister decided that as I had both played with the matches and told a fib about doing so, a smacked bottom was in order. She ordered me across her knee. I pulled up my white knee socks and timidly laid myself face down in the classic punishment position. The room was dimly lit, with the soft hum of the old grandfather clock in the background, each tick amplifying my growing dread.
With rising terror, I watched as my sister reached behind the settee cushion and pulled out her own school plimsoll. The plimsoll was well-worn, its black canvas faded from countless days of use at school. The white rubber sole, once bright, was now dulled and scuffed, bearing the marks of playground games and hurried walks home. The edges were frayed, and the fabric bore the faint outline of her toes. As she gripped it in her hand, the plimsoll seemed to fit perfectly, her fingers curling around the soft, pliable canvas, the faded sole flexing slightly as she tested its weight. In that moment, the plimsoll looked both ordinary and menacing, transformed from a simple piece of school kit into an instrument of discipline.
Her face was stern, her eyes narrowed with a mix of disappointment and determination. The anticipation was almost unbearable; my heart pounded in my chest, and my palms grew sweaty.
Then I was thoroughly smacked, wriggling on my sister’s lap as she slippered me efficiently. Each strike of the plimsoll sent a sharp sting through my skin, the sound of the rubber sole meeting my flesh echoing in the small room. It really hurt and for once there were genuine tears. I could feel the heat rising on my bottom, the pain intensifying with each smack. My sister’s grip was firm, her demeanor unyielding, and I could sense her resolve in every movement.
Afterwards, I was left with a runny nose and a red, sore bum, which I rubbed vigorously to try to get rid of the slipper’s sting. The room seemed quieter, the ticking of the clock more pronounced. I felt a mix of relief that it was over and a lingering shame for my actions. My sister’s expression softened as she handed me a tissue, and in that moment, I understood the lesson she intended to impart.
