(short pause) My childhood unfolded in the heart of a small Irish town during the 1960s, a place where the air was always tinged with the scent of peat fires and the laughter of children echoed down narrow, cobblestone streets. In those days, discipline was as much a part of daily life as the morning tea, and my mother firmly believed that a good spanking—or, as she would say, “six of the best”—was simply part of growing up. (pause)
The world I knew was painted in the soft pastels of our sitting room wallpaper, the hum of the transistor radio, and the ever-present sense of order my mother maintained. It wasn’t until my early teens that the rules of discipline shifted. Spanking, she decided, was no longer suitable for a boy my age. Instead, she introduced the cane—a traditional school cane, about three feet long, with a crook handle and a whippy, almost menacing flexibility.
The cane lived in the cloaks cupboard, tucked behind coats and scarves, but its presence was always felt. It was a silent threat, a constant reminder that boundaries were not to be crossed. My mother never hesitated to remind me it was there, her voice calm but resolute, her eyes unwavering. (pause)
My first encounter with the cane is etched in my memory with vivid clarity. It was a grey Saturday morning, the kind where rain tapped gently against the windowpanes and the world outside seemed wrapped in a damp hush. We were preparing to go shopping with my mother’s friend and her daughter, who arrived in a flurry of umbrellas and laughter. I was told to get ready, but as I stood in the hallway, my mother’s voice cut through the bustle—she instructed me, in front of our guests, to put on my nylon mac. (pause)
I despised that mac. It was stiff, shiny, and made me feel childish, especially in front of the friend’s daughter, who smirked at my predicament. At that age, I longed for independence, for the right to choose my own clothes, and her amusement only deepened my embarrassment. I refused, my cheeks burning, and made a scene—loud, stubborn, and desperate to assert myself. (pause)
My mother’s patience wore thin. She threatened me with the cane, her words sharp and public, and I felt a wave of humiliation crash over me. Instead of backing down, I dug in my heels, my pride outweighing my fear. The tension in the room was palpable; my mother’s friend exchanged a knowing glance with her daughter, both of them watching the drama unfold with a mix of curiosity and, I thought, a hint of satisfaction. (pause)
That was the breaking point. My mother’s face hardened, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and disappointment. She strode to the cloaks cupboard, returning with the cane in one hand and the dreaded mac in the other. I was ordered to the front room to await my punishment. (pause) As I walked down the hallway, the world seemed to narrow to the sound of my own footsteps on the linoleum, each one echoing with dread. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it in my ears, and my hands trembled as I reached the door. The air in the front room was thick and still, heavy with anticipation. I could hear the faint murmur of voices from the hallway, the occasional clink of teacups, and the distant patter of rain against the glass. (pause) I stood by the window, staring out at the grey sky, my stomach twisting with anxiety. Every second stretched out, my mind racing with what was to come. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself—a cold, prickling fear that crept up my spine and made my skin tingle. (pause) When my mother finally entered, the cane gripped tightly in her hand, I felt a strange mix of fear, shame, and a desperate hope that she might change her mind. But her voice was steady, her jaw set. She ordered me to bend over the back of the chair. The fabric of the chair was rough beneath my hands, and I could smell the faint scent of furniture polish and old upholstery. (pause) I closed my eyes, bracing myself. The first stroke landed with a sharp, whistling crack—a line of fire that seared across my skin. I gasped, the pain immediate and shocking, a hot sting that seemed to burn deeper with each passing second. My knuckles whitened as I gripped the chair, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts. (pause) The next stroke followed, and then another, each one building on the last, the pain blooming in overlapping waves. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I bit my lip, determined not to cry out. The room seemed to shrink around me, the world reduced to the sound of the cane, the ache in my body, and the pounding of my heart. (pause) When it was over, my mother’s hand lingered on my shoulder for a moment—an awkward, silent gesture that spoke of both love and regret. My bottom throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache, and I could feel the raised welts beneath my clothes. I stood, blinking back tears, my face hot with shame and my body trembling. (pause) The aftermath was a blur of muffled voices and the distant clatter of teacups. I retreated to my room, lying face down on the bed, the pain still sharp but slowly fading to a dull, persistent ache. I pressed my face into the pillow, the fabric cool against my flushed cheeks, and let the tears come at last—quiet, hidden, mingled with a strange sense of relief that it was over. (pause) In the hours that followed, the sting lingered, a physical reminder of boundaries crossed and lessons learned. But even as the pain faded, the memory remained—etched into the fabric of my childhood, a lesson in discipline, love, and the complicated ties that bound us together. (pause)
