Now, she was witnessing my own humiliating loss of privacy. If I had any grasp of the concept at the time, I probably would have viewed it as karma for the pleasure I had since derived from remembering her in that position. As it was, all my 11-year-old brain could feel was primarily the fire in my bum and legs, and a tiny awareness of my bared lower body, even more on display than during a usual smacking. I self-consciously crossed my legs over each other, in an attempt to keep them together and protect my modesty.
Amazingly, I managed to maintain this cross-legged position for the remainder of the hairbrush smacking. After the final few swats with her hairbrush, Mum sighed and placed it back on the table. “Oh – now you’re still,” she said with exasperation, as I firmly pressed myself into the couch and wept violently.