When I was a naughty boy, I would usually be sent to fetch Mum’s slipper from her shoe cupboard (unless she happened to be wearing it at the time, of course). Mostly, she would be sat in her favourite chair and I would be ordered to lie over her knee so I could be given a thorough slipper spanking.

If I had really blotted my copybook (told a lie, for example), I would be sent upstairs to wait for Mum outside her bedroom. On those occasions, I knew I really was in for a good thrashing and that I wouldn’t be sitting comfortably for a day or so, already well aware of how much it was going to hurt from past experience.

By the time I heard Mum get up to go and fetch her slipper, my eyes would be brimming with tears. The person who gave birth to you, who was supposed to be your main carer, was going to deliberately come and cause you a tremendous amount of pain.

Mother had herself been brought up on regular slipperings by her own mother and firmly believed that children, and particularly me, had their control panels buried just beneath the surface of their buttocks and that regular, vigorous attention to this part of their anatomy was definitely beneficial to producing desired behavioural outcomes.

When she had collected her weapon, Mum would come upstairs, sweep past me and enter her bedroom. Shortly afterward, she would call me into the room. She would sweep past me and enter her bedroom, glaring at me, and shortly after, would call me into her.

I would go in, by now trembling slightly, and find her sat on the side of my parents’ double bed. Without further ado, I would be ordered to drape myself across her ample lap. Once I was in position,  Mum would talk to me about the reason I was where I was, and what was about to happen to me.

I would usually already be crying by this point, although I dare not cause too much of a fuss, as I would be simply told to be quiet as I would soon have ‘something to cry about. I would promise to be good, but of course, it never helped. “All naughty boys promise to be good when they are over Mummy’s knee getting a good spanking,” she would remark. “It’s Mummy’s job to carrying on warming his bottom until he’s learned his lesson.”

She would sometimes start by smacking me with her hand for a few minutes, to get me properly warmed up. This happened more when I was younger. However, as I got older, and for more serious things, it would be straight to the slipper, which of course hurt a great deal more.

Mum had a very precise way of going about things. First, each bottom cheek would be given around half a dozen good whacks, one after the other. Then she would begin slippering alternate cheeks,  which really hurt.

That rubber-soled slipper made a really good job of her son’s bottom. For those who’ve never had it, let me tell you the slipper can feel quite innocuous at first. However, after the whacking has been going on for a few minutes, you get more and more sensitive to the sting of each spank and the heat building up on your backside becomes unbearable.

It never failed to make me cry, which of course was the idea, and by the time Mum decided to switch her attention to the top of my thighs, I would be roaring the house down. In fact, I made so much noise that the old lady in the adjoining semi would sometimes bang on the dividing wall – though I suspect she was only upset about the din, rather than concerned with the welfare of my buttocks!

After I had been punished,  I would usually be made to face the wall, with my hands on my head. This wasn’t so bad if we were in Mum’s bedroom, but if I’d been spanked downstairs there was always the anxiety of somebody seeing me through the window or, even worse, a surprise caller who would see this naughty boy in all his glory. On other occasions, I was sent straight to bed – usually lying on my tummy as I sobbed myself to sleep.