I grew up in the late 70s and early 80s, in a council estate where the air always seemed tinged with the smell of rain and laundry soap. Our block was a patchwork of families, laughter, and the occasional shouting match echoing up the stairwells. My family, though, was a contradiction in itself. Dad was an unreconstructed hippy—he wore his hair long, played old records, and believed that children should be free to roam and learn from their mistakes. He’d let us run wild in the courtyard, only calling us in when the streetlights flickered on.
Mum, on the other hand, was a force of nature. She had the warmth and nurturing spirit of an earth mother, but her Jamaican upbringing meant she believed in discipline—real discipline. She could be gentle, singing us to sleep or nursing us when we were sick, but she also had a look that could freeze you in your tracks. I remember the way she’d stand in the kitchen, hands on hips, her voice carrying through the flat when we’d pushed things too far.
But nothing could prepare us for the moment when Mum reached for ‘Mr Naughty’—the little wooden spatula that lived in the top drawer. The very sound of that drawer sliding open was enough to make our hearts pound and our mouths go dry. The room would fall silent, the air thick with dread and anticipation. My siblings and I would exchange wide-eyed glances, our stomachs twisting with fear and guilt. The unlucky one—usually the youngest, but sometimes me—would be summoned, the rest of us frozen in the hallway, barely daring to breathe.
The ritual was always the same. Mum would sit on the edge of the bed, her face set and serious, and the chosen child would shuffle forward, cheeks burning, eyes stinging with tears that hadn’t yet fallen. The rest of us would hover just out of sight, peeking through the crack in the door, our own bottoms tingling in sympathy. The room seemed to shrink, the patterned wallpaper closing in, the only sound the rain tapping at the window and the faint, ominous clatter of Mr Naughty being tapped against Mum’s palm.
Then came the moment itself. Over the knee, the cold wood of the spatula pressed against thin pyjamas. The first smack was always the worst—a sharp, echoing crack that seemed to reverberate through the whole flat. The sting would bloom instantly, hot and shocking, and the tears would come, mingled with gasps and muffled sobs. Each smack was punctuated by Mum’s steady, unwavering voice, reminding us why we were there, her words somehow both stern and loving. The rest of us would flinch with every sound, clutching each other, wishing it would end.
When it was over, there was a hush—a heavy, aching silence. The punished child would be left to cry into their pillow, face hot and wet, the rest of us creeping in to offer awkward hugs and whispered comforts. Mum would stand in the doorway, her eyes softening, the spatula returned to its drawer. The atmosphere would shift, the tension slowly dissolving, replaced by a strange sense of relief and closeness. We’d gather together, sniffling, and Mum would eventually pull us all into her arms, humming softly as if to mend what had just been broken.
It wasn’t all fear and punishment. There was a strange comfort in the rituals of our home. In our first years of primary school, Mum would nurse us before school and again at bedtime, humming softly as the rain tapped against the window. Those moments felt safe, even as we dreaded the possibility of Mr Naughty making an appearance later. The duality of tenderness and strictness shaped us, teaching us boundaries but also giving us a sense of being fiercely loved.
Looking back, I realise how much those days shaped who I am. The council estate, the laughter, the tears, the sting of discipline and the balm of a mother’s song—all of it is woven into my memory. Even now, I can almost hear the echo of Mum’s voice, the clatter of Dad’s records, and the distant shouts of children playing in the courtyard as dusk settled over our little world.
