(gap: 2s) In the days of my youth, when corporal punishment at home was a common and accepted practice, the rhythms of daily life in our Scottish council estate were shaped by a sense of order and discipline. It was not unusual for children to gather in small, conspiratorial groups, their voices lowered as they discussed, in hushed and respectful tones, the degree of strictness exercised by their parents. The subject of discipline, particularly the administration of a sound spanking, was regarded as a matter of moral instruction and family honour—something woven into the very fabric of our upbringing, as familiar as the thistle-patterned wallpaper in our living rooms or the distant echo of shipyard horns at dawn.
(short pause) Some children, perhaps wishing to appear more mature or to distance themselves from the vulnerability of childhood, would claim never to have received a spanking, dismissing it as a punishment reserved for the very young or the particularly unruly. Yet, in truth, such claims were rarely genuine, for most of us had, at one time or another, been the recipients of this corrective measure. I remember the nervous laughter that would ripple through our group when someone boasted of their supposed immunity, and the knowing glances exchanged by those who understood the reality behind closed doors.
(pause) Amongst my peers, the severity of parental discipline was often measured by two principal factors: the implement chosen for the chastisement, and the manner in which the punishment was administered. These details were not shared in a spirit of bravado, but rather as a reflection of the values instilled within each household. The stories we told were tinged with a mixture of fear, respect, and a strange sort of pride, as if the hardships endured were badges of honour that marked our passage through childhood.
(short pause) In the majority of homes, a gentle yet firm smack delivered by mother or father, usually through the fabric of one’s trousers, sufficed to remind a child of the importance of obedience. I can still recall the sharp, startling sound of a hand meeting cloth, the brief sting that faded quickly, leaving behind a sense of order restored. In some families, a slipper was employed, its soft sole imparting a memorable lesson—its presence on the hearth a silent warning to all. Less frequently, a belt or wooden spoon was used, each serving as a symbol of parental resolve and the seriousness of the transgression. The implements themselves seemed to carry a weight of tradition, passed down from one generation to the next.
(pause) In my own family, my parents were regarded as particularly resolute in their approach to discipline. They kept a cane, reserved for myself and my younger brother, to be used when our conduct required a more significant lesson. The cane was a slender, whippy thing, kept high on a pantry shelf, out of reach but never out of mind. Prior to this, my misdeeds had been met with only the occasional, measured spanking by hand, intended to correct minor lapses in behaviour—forgetting to do my chores, answering back, or squabbling with my brother over a toy. But the cane was different; its very existence was a deterrent, a reminder that some boundaries were not to be crossed.
(pause) Years later, my mother confided in me the thoughtful reasoning behind their choice of the cane. Firstly, it mirrored the discipline we might encounter at school, thus preparing us for the expectations of society and the authority of teachers like the stern, no-nonsense schoolmistress who ruled our classroom with a glance. Secondly, it was never necessary to bare the child’s bottom, for the cane’s effect was felt even through clothing, ensuring both modesty and efficacy. Thirdly, as my father’s work often took him away for days at a time, the cane allowed my mother to administer discipline without undue exertion, ensuring that the lesson was imparted with consistency and fairness, regardless of who was at home.
(pause) The customary punishment, should we err gravely, was ‘six of the best’. The ritual was always the same: the child in question would be instructed to bend over the end of the sofa, the faded tartan cushions pressing into our knees, while mother retrieved the cane from its place in the pantry. The anticipation was often worse than the punishment itself—the sound of the pantry door creaking open, the soft swish of the cane as it was brought out, the quiet firmness in my mother’s voice as she explained why the punishment was necessary. The strokes, delivered with measured firmness, would sting even through trousers and undergarments, and though I endeavoured to accept my punishment with dignity, tears were not uncommon. Afterwards, we were sent to our rooms to reflect upon our actions and the moral lesson intended, the muffled sounds of family life continuing beyond the closed door as we lay on our beds, nursing both our pride and our sore behinds.
(long pause) I am convinced that these experiences did us no harm.
