My friend Andrea and I would often take turns playing the child, while the other would delight in finding the flimsiest excuse to put the ‘naughty’ one over their knee and deliver a few playful smacks. Sometimes, we’d even argue over who got to be the strict teacher or the exasperated mum. The thrill was in the performance – the exaggerated scolding, the dramatic yelps, and the giggles that followed. You had to be careful not to hurt your friend too much, though, or else the other would burst into tears and run off, and the game would be over for a while. I remember once, Andrea smacked me a bit too hard and I sulked behind the garden shed until she came to coax me back with a biscuit.
Andrea had a little brother, Peter, who was always eager to join in these rather illicit games. He was younger, with a mop of blond hair and a mischievous grin, and he idolized us. Sometimes, he’d volunteer to be the ‘naughty’ one just to be included, and we’d let him, though we always went easier on him.
Smacking Andrea or Peter was always exciting, even when I was just whacking their trouser seat or skirt. I particularly liked to smack Peter. As he was younger, he was much smaller and fitted perfectly over my knee, his feet kicking in the air as he squealed with laughter. There was something about the ritual of it all – the mock seriousness, the exaggerated scolding, the way we’d all collapse into giggles afterwards – that made it feel like a secret club.
Of course, I had to take my turn over the other children’s laps, too. I liked being over Andrea’s knee – I used to pretend she was my big sister who had caught me sneaking biscuits or scribbling on the wall, and I was being soundly punished. Sometimes, I’d try to act brave, biting my lip and refusing to cry out, just to prove I could take it. Other times, I’d ham it up, wailing dramatically and clutching my bottom as if I’d been mortally wounded, which always sent everyone into fits of laughter.
I think I had a higher pain threshold than the others, so I would often go home with quite a red bottom, which of course I then had to be careful to hide from my parents. I’d wriggle uncomfortably at the dinner table, hoping no one would notice. If my mum ever caught sight of the telltale marks, I’d have to invent a story about falling off the swing or tripping over in the garden, because if she suspected the truth, I might end up getting the ‘real thing’ – and that was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.
Looking back, those games were a strange mix of fear, excitement, and camaraderie. We were testing boundaries, imitating the adults around us, and learning about consequences in our own childish way. The slipper incident, and all the others like it, are woven into the fabric of my childhood – a reminder of a time when even the threat of a smacked bottom could be turned into a game, and every day was an adventure.
