As I grew older, I believed I had outgrown the need for having my bottom smacked. My mother had smacked my bottom in the past but seemed to have stopped that form of punishment in the last year or so. That summer, I stayed with my Aunt Janice on her farm in Rural Sussex.

Aunt Janice was a strict but caring woman in her late 50s, with a no-nonsense attitude and a strong sense of discipline. My parents had given her full authority to discipline me if necessary. She set a few strict rules: no breaking curfew and no swearing. Both were non-negotiable.

Aunt Janice’s farm was a sprawling estate with rolling fields, a large barn, and several outbuildings. She had a team of workers who managed the daily chores, from milking cows to tending the crops. Despite her strict demeanor, she was well-respected by everyone on the farm.

It didn’t take long for me to break both rules. Initially, she just sent me to my room with a warning, biting her tongue.

After five or six warnings, she added: “Next time, I will smack your bottom very hard.” I dismissed her, insisting I was too old for such punishment. “Don’t test me Peter,” she warned.

In my final week there, she hosted a Tupperware party. I came home late and, seeing about 20 women, blurted out: “What the hell is going on?”

My aunt immediately told me to go to my room or she’d give my bottom a darn good smacking right there and then. I retorted that I was too old for that. That was the last straw. She quickly fetched a large plastic spatula from the kitchen.

The spatula was bright red, with a long handle and a wide, flat blade. It was the kind of spatula used for flipping pancakes, but much sturdier. The plastic was thick and rigid, designed to withstand high temperatures, and it made a loud, sharp sound when it struck.

She grabbed my arm, sat on a kitchen chair, pulled me right over her lap, and gave me a thorough smacked bottom with the plastic spatula in front of her guests. This was the first time I had ever had my bottom smacked with a plastic spatula and it really did sting. To add to that I had never ever had my bottom smacked in front of an audience before, let alone an audience of frumpy middle-aged women.

The women at the Tupperware party were dressed in floral prints and pastel colors, their hair styled in outdated perms. They watched with a mix of amusement and disapproval, making remarks as the spatula landed across the shorts of my bottom.

“Oh, he’s getting it good!” one woman chuckled, her floral dress swaying as she leaned forward.

“Serves him right for talking back,” another added, adjusting her pastel-colored cardigan.

“I remember when my kids were that age,” a third woman reminisced, shaking her head, her perm bouncing slightly.

“A good smacking never did any harm,” another woman commented, her eyes twinkling with a mix of nostalgia and satisfaction.

The punishment itself felt like an eternity, though it was probably just two minutes. Walking to my room in front of those women was the most humiliating experience of my life.

Turns out, I wasn’t too old for a smacked bottom after all!