During the early 70s in London, I was part of a hard-core group of six children who gathered regularly on the edge of the park, though sometimes our numbers swelled to as many as 10. Our ages ranged from 10 through to 12.
One of the regular girls (who, incidentally, is now married to another one of our little gang) arrived one at our hangout one afternoon in some distress. She admitted she had been spanked and after some gentle teasing, she lifted her skirt and pulled her pants to one side so we could see. Her bottom looked like a bad case of sunburn, and this was a while after the event, so she had clearly received a sound spanking.
One by one, the other kids admitted they had suffered the same ordeal at home, and they swapped their stories – all, that is, except me. My dad was a lorry driver, so away from home a lot. Mostly it was just me and Mum at home. She was a nurse and we had a very close, tactile relationship.