(gap: 2s) In the Britain of my youth, during the 1970s, the air was thick with the scent of coal smoke and the distant echo of children’s laughter, mingling with the ever-present hum of the Mersey buses. Our council estate, with its red-brick tower blocks and washing lines fluttering like banners of domestic pride, was a world unto itself—a place where innocence and discipline walked hand in hand. In those days, the practice of corporal punishment was not merely accepted, but regarded as a moral imperative, a cornerstone of proper upbringing. My mother, a woman of formidable presence and unyielding principles, stood as the very embodiment of this ethos. Her eyes, sharp and clear as the northern wind, missed nothing, and her resolve was as steady as the ticking of the mantel clock in our modest living room.
The approach to discipline in our household was as unambiguous as the lines drawn on the hopscotch squares outside. When my brother or I strayed from the path of good conduct, Mother would issue her warning—a phrase delivered in a voice both gentle and immovable: “Do you wish to receive a smack on your bottom?” The words, though softly spoken, carried the weight of certainty and the authority of generations. Even as we grew, the phrase never lost its power to humble us, reminding us that, in her eyes, we remained her children—still in need of guidance, still deserving of her care.
Mother’s language was always precise, never wavering. The term “smack bottom” was used with a kind of ritual dignity, never as a threat, but as a promise of loving correction. Each instance of discipline unfolded with a solemnity that bordered on ceremony. We would be summoned, our hearts fluttering with a mixture of dread and shame, and Mother would seat herself with quiet composure upon the settee, her back straight, her expression grave yet kind. With a gentle but firm hand, she would draw us across her lap, the fabric of her skirt cool against our skin, the room hushed save for the crackle of the coal fire and the faint tick of the clock.
The atmosphere in the room would shift, the air growing heavy with anticipation and a peculiar sense of inevitability. My heart would pound in my chest, my breath catching as I felt the firmness of her lap beneath me.
Mother also used to discuss child discipline freely in front of us with her friends, which was just awful. “You’ll never guess what he did the other day,” she’d begin, and recount not only our latest misdeed but also – in detail – the punishment we had received for it.
“I gave him a big smack bottom,” Mother would say, and her friends would nod sagely in agreement. “Mine don’t sit down for a week if they cross me,” one would say. “A child’s bottom is the best place for discipline,” another would add. I would slowly sink into the sofa, melting with embarrassment, as I knew they were all picturing me over my mother’s knee ankles and my bottom being soundly smacked.
Even up until our last spankings, Mother took us across her knee for the punishment, and my brother and I spent many hot minutes staring at the carpet, almost breathless with the sting on our backsides that our mother’s bare hand was able to produce. Some of my mates got the slipper, a few even got the cane off their dad. But though my brother and I just got Mother’s hand, it never failed to make us cry, both with the pain and the humiliation.
Mother was a very thorough smacker, and every part of our bottom would be bright red by the time we were allowed to stand up again. Then we would be sent to bed for a while to ‘think about what you’ve done’.
Eventually, she would come up to see you, there would be another big lecture and, provided you were then ready to say sorry, there would be a hug and a kiss, and all would be forgiven and forgotten. Of course, we never dared to anything than say we were sorry, even if we didn’t feel like it at the time. We certainly didn’t want to be turned back over her knee for more smacks.
Looking back, We never got anything we didn’t thoroughly deserve, and it made us respectful and well-behaved. Although I hated them at the time, I’m now grateful to Mother for every ‘smack bottom’ she gave me.
