There seemed to be no call for me to leave, and I was not going to miss the fun of watching Sarah’s bright red bottom on display if I could help it. After about twenty minutes, when Sarah’s tears had subsided, her mother told her to go to her room. But as she reached out for her dress, her mother sharply told her to leave it where it was and not to get dressed. I could hardly believe my ears! Could this mean…? Surely not! And yet… Mrs Hibbard chattered away to as if nothing unusual had occurred—and perhaps for her, it hadn’t—while I, still tongue-tied even beyond my normal shyness, did my best to appear at ease. But of course, my mind was in turmoil and when Mrs Hibbard ran the water to wash up the mixing bowl, I realised that I was desperate to pee. I ran upstairs and past Sarah’s closed bedroom door. From inside I could hear Sarah loudly complaining to herself about the hatefulness of life in general and her of her mother and me in particular. At the same time, she seemed to be flinging anything loose around the room. I used the lavatory and returned to the kitchen. “How was Sarah behaving?” Mrs Hibbard asked conversationally. “Having a tantrum, I suppose.” “Um, I couldn’t say,” I replied, trying to appear nobly loyal while sneakily indicating that was just what she was doing. “Hm,” said Sarah’s mother, and then rather disappointingly said, “Let’s go into the sitting room and play a game of draughts.” So we played several games, all of which I lost, while Mrs Hibbard’ cake cooked and was removed from the oven to cool. As the time moved on to when I had to return home for my lunch, I resigned myself to that being the end of the day’s entertainment. “Ah well, said Sarah’s mother after she chalked up yet another victory, “I suppose I had better have that naughty girl back downstairs.” My heart raced. But was this just Sarah returning to normal family life—or more punishment? Whichever, she did not appear at her mother’s first summons, but stamped back downstairs at the third time of calling. She stood scowling in the middle of the room while her mother lectured her on her shortcomings, including “… and you were having a temper tantrum upstairs…” “No I wasn’t!” “Yes you were because…” “…Peter told me,” was what I guiltily expected to hear and my face flushed as hot. “…I heard you,” is what Sarah’s mother actually said. Sarah pushed out her lower lip. He mother looked annoyed. “Sarah, take off your plimsolls and socks and put them next to my chair.” Sullenly, Sarah did as she was told. I was curious. “Mummy, no!” came Sarah’s anguished answer. “Now!” “No!” “Do it Sarah, or I shall do it for you, and you know what that will mean.” “Mummy, please tell Peter to go home first,” said Sarah abruptly switching from open defiance to whining cajolery. “I shall not wait much longer, Sarah.” “Please, Mummy, you can spank me twice as much, but send Peter home.” “Don’t be impertinent, Sarah, I don’t need your permission. I shall spank you as much as I see fit.” “Pleeease,” yelled Sarah, stamping her foot. Her mother began to make a threatening move towards her and Sarah hurriedly hopped back. Clearly, the threat of being undressed by her mother indicated more than the words expressed. Looking daggers at me, she hastily began to pull off her underwear. “Hands on head, “ Sarah’s mother insisted heartlessly. “Now, you naughty girl, you can face the fireplace and bend over and touch your toes. And keep those legs straight.” This time Sarah obeyed without argument and bent herself double, sticking out her already warmed bottom. I now discovered why she had been made to take off her footwear as her mother picked up one of the discarded plimsolls and approached her. “I am going to slipper you soundly, Sarah, and if you bend those knees or try to dodge you’ll get extra—understood?” “Yes—Ow.” “Yes what?” demanded Sarah’s mother striking her unexpectedly on the left cheek with the slipper. “Yes, Mummy. Sorry.” “You will be.” Sarah’s mother hefted the plimsoll in her hand. Sarah’s bottom flinched in anticipation. Mrs Hibbard drew back her arm and swung the slipper swiftly through an arc that ended as the rubber sole slapped hard against the left cheek. There was a pause. The manoeuvre was repeated, this time against the right buttock. Another twenty second wait. The slipper met the centre of Sarah’s bottom and she yelled “Ouch!” After that Sarah yelled ever louder as the slipper repeatedly slammed against her unprotected rear. On the seventh whack, Sarah’s knees buckled and she clapped her hands to her flaming bottom. “Oouwowaiieeu,” she wailed. “Straighten those legs! And that is one extra.” Sobbing, Sarah returned to position and although she howled heartily, she did not bend her legs again and despite the fact that she could not help jerking her bottom before each whack, her mother chose not to count this as dodging. She got thirteen swats in all—a baker’s dozen.“For goodness sake, Sarah, get out. You are giving me a headache with all that silly noise—Wait…” she added as the crying girl fled to the door, “…take your dirty laundry with you.” And poor Sarah had to return to pick up socks and plimsolls before finally escaping to her bedroom. Sarah’s mother said, “Now, Peter, I expect you’d like a piece of that cake I made earlier.” So ended the momentous morning of my life.