(gap: 2s) This is a story about a rather difficult time in my childhood, a period that seemed as long and dreary as a rainy afternoon, which was made quite special by a kind, warm, and lovely young lady—someone who seemed to have stepped straight out of a storybook and into my life.
At the very moment when I felt I needed her most, Mother gave birth to my sister. For five splendid years, I had been the centre of attention, the apple of everyone’s eye, but in an instant, I became yesterday’s news. The world, which had once revolved around me, now turned on a new axis.
I had just started school, a place that seemed large and mysterious, but Mother was busy with the new baby, her arms always full, her eyes always elsewhere. I was told, with a seriousness that felt far too weighty for my small shoulders, that I must be a ‘big boy’ and walk to school alone. The walk felt endless, the pavement stretching out like a river of uncertainty. Navigating school and making new friends was daunting, a maze of unfamiliar faces and rules. I suppose it is part of life and builds character, as grown-ups say. But at the time, I felt, perhaps without reason, that I had been left behind. I felt invisible, as if I no longer mattered because Mother’s time was entirely taken up with my sister. I suppose, deep down, I became jealous—a green-eyed monster lurking in the corners of my heart.
I did eventually make friends, though the process was slow and awkward, rather like learning to ride a bicycle without anyone to steady the seat. Yet, I never truly overcame the feeling that I was now second-best at home. On one occasion, I overheard my Mother tell family and friends she had always wished for a girl and was delighted—those words stung, and I cried myself to sleep more than once, clutching my pillow as if it could shield me from the world.
All of this coincided with a peculiar realisation: I had a strong, inexplicable desire to have my bottom smacked. I imagine it was a cry for help or attention, a way to feel noticed, even if only for a moment. Whatever the reason, sadly, Mother never answered my silent plea.
(short pause) During that memorable hot summer of 1976, when the air shimmered with heat and the days seemed to last forever, we had a family holiday on the Devon coast. We rented a static caravan for two weeks—a gleaming white box perched on a hill, promising adventure. Upon arrival at the site, Father and I went to the site office to register and collect the keys, while Mother stayed by the car with my sister, fussing over her bonnet and booties.
Inside the office, we were greeted by a vision. An angel. A goddess. Her name was Linda, and I was quite taken with her at first sight! Linda was the daughter of the site owners and in her early twenties. She was beautiful, with long blonde hair that caught the sunlight, wearing a yellow T-shirt and white shorts that made her look as if she belonged on a postcard. I was utterly speechless. Oh, those long suntanned legs! My heart thudded in my chest like a trapped bird.
Father collected the keys and was given directions to our caravan. Linda smiled, her teeth white and even, and said she would check on us in half an hour to make sure we were all settled. Her voice was warm, with a musical lilt that made even the most ordinary words sound like a secret.
We had an almost brand new caravan—it was splendid, with shiny windows and a faint smell of newness. I had a bunk bed, with a little ladder to climb into bed, and I felt like an explorer in my own private ship. As promised, Linda did indeed come to check up on us, and she actually spoke to me. She told me there was a small animal petting enclosure in the far corner of the site, and I was welcome to visit whenever I wished. I managed to stammer out a ‘thank you’ and promised to visit. Nothing could have stopped me!
We spent the next day at the beach. Mother fussed over my sister by the edge of the water, her hands always busy, while I built a sandcastle with Father. I was very proud of my creation—a fortress with turrets and a moat—and wanted to show Mother, but she was not particularly interested. I did receive a ‘that’s nice!’ tossed over her shoulder, but it felt like a crumb when I was longing for a feast.
I believe it was a day or perhaps two later that I first visited the petting enclosure. Linda was there, radiant as ever, and so were three smaller children. The enclosure was a magical place, filled with the soft sounds of animals and the earthy smell of straw. There were chickens and rabbits, long-eared rabbits with twitching noses, hamsters scurrying in their cages, and tortoises moving with ancient dignity. There were also many ducks, two sheep, and an enormous ginger cat who lounged in the sun like a king.
However, by far my favourites were the goats—I adored them. Their mischievous eyes and playful antics made me laugh. After a while, I found myself alone with Linda. She glanced around, then indicated for me to follow her, as if she had a secret to share. In a hut at the back were some baby goats—tiny, wobbly-legged creatures with soft fur and curious eyes. They were so delightful I could hardly breathe.
Now, clearly a young lady in her twenties would not be interested in a boy, but I was convinced that Linda and I had a special understanding. Perhaps she simply recognised that I needed attention, or perhaps she was friendly with all children—I shall never know. She made me feel happy because she took an interest in me, and in that moment, I felt seen.
Linda sat me down on a long wooden bench, gave me a bottle, and placed a baby goat on my lap. The goat’s tiny hooves tickled my legs, and its warm body pressed against me. I was delighted. My host kept an eye on me and busied herself, sorting food and feeding bottles, before coming back to watch over me, her presence a gentle comfort.
Linda wore a T-shirt and shorts and a pair of sandals. I was also in shorts, and her smooth, warm, long leg touched mine. She watched as I fed the baby goat, her eyes kind and encouraging, and I felt a strange fluttering in my chest. When the baby goat had finished its milk, she swapped him over—I was given another baby and a new bottle, and Linda sat beside me, our thighs touching, and she started to feed another. My heart fluttered with excitement.
Linda told me I was very good at feeding—a natural, she said. The goats lay perfectly still on my lap as I fed them, their eyes half-closed in contentment. I was overjoyed; I wanted to stay there forever, basking in Linda’s approval. I felt appreciated, as if I had finally found my place in the world.
Meanwhile, the baby goat Linda was feeding began wriggling and struggling. Linda tut-tutted, her lips pursed in mock sternness. She scolded the goat and warned it that if it did not keep still she would smack its bottom! That was so thrilling to hear, my ears tingling with anticipation.
I began to giggle, unable to contain myself. Linda asked me what was amusing. I replied, “You cannot smack a goat’s bottom!” We had a little laugh, then Linda said, “Well, just you wait and see, young man. If this naughty little goat does not keep still, you shall see me smack a goat’s bottom, any minute now!” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
So there we were. This wonderful, young lady was threatening a baby goat with something I had wished for years—a smacked bottom. The world seemed to tilt, and I felt as if I were standing on the edge of something marvellous and rather frightening.
It was like a cue. I said, “You can smack a boy’s bottom, but not a baby goat—that is quite silly!” No sooner had the words left my mouth when Linda gave the baby goat a light tap on its rear end—the animal settled down to drink its milk, as if it understood the rules of the game.
“There!” said Linda. “A smacked bottom always works—and you are not too big to be put across my knee either, young man!” Her words sent a shiver down my spine, equal parts fear and delight.
How could she have known? Those words—the threat that I had so wanted to hear from my Mother, right there in a little shed on a caravan park in Devon. Thank you, Linda, thank you! I, of course, replied, “You would not dare!” Meaning, naturally, please, please do it! Linda replied, “We shall see about that when these two have been fed!” Her tone was playful, but there was a glint in her eye that made me hope.
I cannot tell you how excited I was. The two baby goats were fed and the bottles were washed and put away. I sat there, hopeful, expectant, waiting. My heart pounded in my chest, and I suppose it was the first time I had ever ‘flirted’, though I did not know the word for it then.
“Right,” said Linda, slapping her hands together and rubbing them on her shorts, “that is the goats sorted. I think we ought to sort you out now!” I felt the butterflies in my stomach, and my head was spinning. “You would not dare!” I repeated, a wide grin on my face. I was more or less begging her to carry out her threat, my cheeks flushed with anticipation.
(pause) “Oh yes, I would!” Linda replied. She sat down and said, “Come along, you are not too big for a smacked bottom, not by a long way!” Her voice was firm but kind, and I felt both nervous and thrilled. (short pause) The air in the little shed seemed to thicken, golden with dust motes and sunlight, as if the world itself was holding its breath. My heart hammered so loudly I was sure she could hear it.
I half stood, my knees trembling, and placed a tentative hand on her thigh for balance. Linda’s hand, warm and gentle, guided me across her lap. The bench creaked beneath us, and the scent of straw and sun-warmed wood filled my nose. I settled, face down, my cheek pressed against the soft fabric of her shorts, the world shrinking to that small, sunlit space. (pause) Then, with a theatrical flourish, Linda raised her hand and brought it down in a slow, deliberate arc. The first smack landed with a soft, almost musical sound—a mere pat, really, but to me it was a thunderclap. (short pause) She continued, each smack spaced out, gentle but unmistakable, a dozen or so in all. Each one sent a tiny jolt through me, a fizzing spark of attention and delight. I felt the warmth of her palm through my shorts, the playful sting, the wonderful sense of being noticed, of being the centre of her world, if only for a moment.
“How does that feel?” she asked, her voice low and teasing. I twisted my head to look up at her, trying to sound brave. “I did not feel a thing,” I said, though my face was burning and my heart was leaping about like a frog in a bucket. In truth, I wanted more—I wanted the moment to last forever, to be the object of her playful affection, to be seen and known and cherished.
Linda smiled, her eyes dancing. “Oh, did you not?” she said, and with a wink, she delivered two slightly firmer, quicker smacks, the sound echoing in the little shed. I gasped, more from surprise than pain, and she laughed—a bright, musical sound that made the goats look up in curiosity. “Up you get, rascal,” she said, helping me to my feet. I stood, a little unsteady, my cheeks flushed with excitement and something like pride.
In a last, desperate bid to prolong the magic, I blurted, “Did not feel a thing!” Linda’s eyes narrowed in mock warning. “Careful, next time I shall smack your bottom! And I promise you will feel that!” Her words sent a delightful shiver down my spine, a mixture of dread and hope, as if I had been let in on a marvellous secret.
I was exceedingly happy and gave my by now usual answer of ‘you would not dare!’ It was the best I could manage as a ten-year-old boy whose feelings had just been awakened in a new way. My mind whirled with possibilities, each more thrilling than the last.
Linda simply replied, “You know I can, and I will if you are not careful. Now
