I grew up in a former British colony during the 1940s and 50s. Corporal punishment was a part of everyday life. At home, my sisters were immune. Hidings were strictly male affairs. Dad died during WW2 so my chastiser was an older brother, eight years my senior, who used to joke that he knew the pimples on my backside rather better than those on my face. He laboured in a quarry to put food on our table and was remarkably mature for his age. He did his best to be a father for me.
I attended Boys Brigade, a church version of Scouts and was often spanked on the clothed seat by one of the Leaders. He was a straight-laced older youth – the sort we used to call a ‘Muscular Christian’. During a holiday on a farm, I carelessly left a gate open and the dairy herd all strayed onto the road. My farmer uncle leathered me on the bare bum as though I was his own.