Growing up in Surrey, England during the 1960s, my childhood unfolded in a world that felt both timeless and quietly magical. Our village was a patchwork of winding lanes, red-brick cottages, and hedgerows bursting with wildflowers. The air always seemed tinged with the scent of cut grass and woodsmoke, and the church bells marked the passing hours with a gentle, reassuring chime. In the early mornings, mist would curl over the playing fields, and by afternoon, sunlight would spill across the cobblestones, warming the faces of children as we played.
Ours was a middle-class family, comfortable but never ostentatious, living in a modest semi-detached house with a tidy garden out back. My parents, both diligent and proud, worked tirelessly to provide for us. My father, a quiet man with a ready smile, commuted by train to London each day, returning home with the evening papers and a tired but contented air. My mother, the heart of our home, balanced her part-time work with the endless tasks of raising children—cooking, cleaning, and keeping us all in line. Their partnership was one of mutual respect and shared sacrifice, and their love for us was woven into every detail of our daily lives.
Family life in our house was a blend of laughter, routine, and the occasional squabble. Mornings were a flurry of activity—my siblings and I jostling for the bathroom, the smell of toast and marmalade drifting from the kitchen, and my mother’s voice calling out reminders about shoes, homework, and combed hair. Evenings were quieter, spent around the dinner table or curled up with books in the living room, the radio murmuring softly in the background. There was a sense of order and predictability, a rhythm that made us feel safe and cherished.
Both my mother and father worked very hard to give all us younger ones the best start in life. Their dedication was constant, whether it meant long hours at work or careful budgeting at home. They wanted us to have opportunities they never had, and their efforts were woven into the fabric of our daily lives. That sense of striving, of wanting better for your children, was a value shared by many families in our village. I remember my father’s hands, rough from years of work, gently patting my head as he wished me goodnight, and my mother’s soft humming as she folded laundry late into the evening.
Because of this tireless effort, my parents expected nothing less than absolute obedience from us. It was as if the sacrifices they made—every late night, every penny saved—demanded a kind of respect that could only be shown through our unquestioning compliance. In their eyes, discipline was not just about correcting misbehavior, but about honoring the hard work that made our lives possible. Any hint of defiance or disobedience felt, to them, like a rejection of all they had given up for us. The emotional atmosphere in our home was one of deep love, but also of clear boundaries and expectations.
The class system in 1960s England was a significant aspect of daily life, influencing social interactions and opportunities. In our village, everyone knew their place, and this hierarchy was reflected in the way we lived and interacted with one another. Our middle-class status afforded us certain comforts, but it also came with expectations and responsibilities. I remember the subtle differences between families—the way some children wore hand-me-downs while others had new shoes, or how certain families sat in the front pews at church while others lingered at the back. These distinctions were never spoken aloud, but they shaped our sense of self and belonging.
I remember how my mother did her utmost to give my siblings and me every happiness she could, whether it was a bag of sweets from the corner shop or a day out cycling through the countryside. The village shop, with its creaky wooden floor and rows of glass jars filled with sherbet lemons and barley sugar, was a place of endless fascination. The kindly shopkeeper always had a smile for us, and the thrill of choosing a treat with a few precious coins was a highlight of many afternoons. But she also believed in discipline, the sort that was common in English homes back then.
Mother herself had grown up under her mother’s hairbrush and strap, and in our family, that tradition continued. Spankings, usually across her lap, were a regular part of our lives. There was a certain ritual to it—the quiet summons, the stern lecture, the familiar armchair in the corner of the living room. It was never done in anger, but with a sense of duty and inevitability.
(short pause) One memory stands out as a perfect example. I must have been about seven, and it was a rainy afternoon in our small, tidy living room. I’d been caught, along with my brother, sneaking biscuits from the tin after we’d been told not to. The moment Mother discovered the crumbs on the carpet, my heart dropped. She called my name, her voice calm but unmistakably serious. I felt a wave of nervousness and embarrassment as I shuffled over, cheeks burning, knowing exactly what was coming. (pause) She sat down on the old floral armchair and gently but firmly guided me across her lap. The familiar scent of her perfume mixed with the scratchy fabric of her skirt. I could feel her left arm wrap securely around my waist, holding me in place. The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself—my stomach knotted, and I squeezed my eyes shut. Then came the sharp, unmistakable sound of her hand meeting my bottom, each smack stinging more than the last. The room seemed to shrink around me, the ticking clock growing louder with every swat. I tried to be brave, but tears welled up and spilled over, my legs kicking helplessly. When it was over, she let me up and I stood there, sniffling, cheeks wet and pride wounded. Mother would always remind me, gently but firmly, why I’d been punished, and sometimes she’d offer a brief hug—sometimes not. The lesson was always clear, and the memory of that afternoon stayed with me long after the sting had faded.
But it was the slipper that truly marked a step up in seriousness. I remember one particular Saturday morning, the kind where the air in the house felt tense even before anything had happened. My brother and I had been bickering all week, and that day, our squabbling finally pushed Mother to her limit. She called us both into the hallway, her voice clipped and resolute. There, on the hall table, sat her old brown carpet slipper—a sight that made my stomach drop. She picked it up with a practiced hand and pointed to the bottom step of the stairs. I was told to bend over, hands on the step, while my brother waited his turn, eyes wide and silent. The slipper was soft in the middle but had a hard, flexible sole, and when it landed, it made a sharp, echoing sound that seemed to fill the whole house. Each smack was quick and stinging, the rubbery slap leaving a hot, prickling sensation that lingered long after the punishment was over. I remember the pattern of the slipper’s sole imprinted on my skin, and the way I tried to hold back tears, not wanting to cry in front of my brother. When it was his turn, I watched him go through the same ordeal, both of us left rubbing our bottoms and sniffling quietly. Mother would always remind us, in her steady voice, that this was for our own good, and that she expected better from us. The memory of that slipper—its weight
There were lighter moments, too—afternoons spent playing hide-and-seek among the hedges, or helping my father plant runner beans in the garden. I remember the thrill of riding my bicycle down the lane, the wind tugging at my hair, and the sense of freedom that came with it. But even in those moments of innocence, the boundaries set by my parents were always present, shaping our adventures and keeping us safe.
Another memory that lingers is of Sunday mornings, when the whole family would walk to church together. The village green would be dotted with children in their best clothes, mothers fussing with collars and fathers exchanging polite nods. After the service, we’d gather outside, the adults chatting while we children played tag among the gravestones. There was a sense of community, of belonging to something larger than ourselves, and yet the rules of behavior were always clear. A sharp word or a stern look from a parent was enough to bring any mischief to a halt.
