But also when I was very young, our lives were upended once more when my father, a traveling sales rep, died in a road accident. Although I was old enough to help a bit around the house, my mother had to rely heavily on others, especially our next-door neighbor, Aunty Patricia. Back then, children were taught to call adult family friends ‘Aunty’ and ‘Uncle.’
For a while after the tragedy, discipline was the least of my mother’s concerns, and I got away with a lot until it became unavoidable. My mother, unable to administer corporal punishment herself, believed I still needed it. So, it was arranged that when I misbehaved, I would be sent to Aunty Patricia for a spanking.
Some of you might wonder how I went so willingly for these spankings, but despite my naughtiness, I was a sensitive boy who loved his mother. When I misbehaved, I felt more ashamed and upset about deserving punishment than the spanking itself.
That’s not to say these encounters didn’t hurt. Aunty Patricia was a large, muscular woman with short, curly hair, accustomed to manual labor as a cleaner. She had three daughters, all older than me.
Aunty Patricia had a reputation for being an interfering busybody, always sticking her nose into other people’s affairs. She was the type who would offer unsolicited advice and seemed to know everyone’s business. Yet, deep down, she had a heart of gold and genuinely cared about those around her.
In mid-1970s Britain, a ‘good smacked bottom’ was the standard remedy for naughty children. I often heard Aunty Patricia disciplining her daughters, the unmistakable sounds of crying and spanking drifting through open windows.
The routine was always the same. When I misbehaved, my mother would call Aunty Patricia and relay my latest misdeed. I would hang my head in shame as she described my naughtiness.
There were two possible outcomes. Usually, Aunty Patricia would tell my mother to send me over immediately, which was dreadful but at least got it over with. Sometimes, she would be busy and set a later time, leaving me to anticipate my punishment with a knot in my stomach.
When the time came, I would walk slowly to Aunty Patricia’s back door. She would open it with a stern look and say something like, “Who’s been a naughty boy, then?” or “I believe someone needs his bottom smacking?” before ushering me inside.
The back door led straight into her kitchen, where my spankings took place. Unlike her daughters, who were often punished in their rooms, I had to endure the ‘walk of shame’ back home, tear-stained and holding my freshly-smacked bottom.
Aunty Patricia usually wore a flowery housework apron or a blue check nylon house coat. She would pull out a kitchen chair, sit down, and order me to stand next to her.
She didn’t waste words on a lecture, knowing my mother had already spoken to me. Instead, she quickly put me over her knee.
Aunty Patricia never used an implement, but her work-hardened hand stung like a wasp’s nest. The spanking lasted a good long time, usually at least five minutes, leaving my bottom feeling like it had central heating.
The sensation was a mix of sharp stings and a deep, throbbing ache that seemed to radiate through my entire body. Each smack felt like a jolt of electricity, making me squirm and kick involuntarily. The pain was intense, but it was the emotional weight that truly overwhelmed me. I felt a profound sense of guilt and regret, knowing I had disappointed both my mother and Aunty Patricia.
Afterward, I would have a good cry, and Aunty Patricia would cuddle me until I calmed down enough to have my pants pulled up and be sent home. The girls were never present during my spankings, but they knew and sometimes teased me about it.
When I got home, my mother would inspect my smacked bottom and usually send me to bed for an hour to reflect on my behavior.
Despite the pain, Aunty Patricia’s spankings did me a lot of good. I became better behaved and more helpful to my mother as her illness progressed. I loved Aunty Patricia dearly, despite her hard hand, and was devastated when she died young from cancer.
