gap: 2s) Growing up in the mid 1970s in a Scottish council estate, discipline was woven into the fabric of daily life—at home, at school, everywhere. The sharp crack of a parent’s hand or the stern voice of a teacher was as familiar as the shipyard horns echoing across the rooftops, or the sight of nylon washing snapping on the lines in the wind. The air always seemed tinged with the scent of coal smoke and damp wool, and the world felt both close and vast, bounded by the grey tenements and the endless, restless sky.
(short pause) My first real memory of being spanked at school is still vivid, etched into my bones. The classroom was cold, the high windows letting in a pale, watery light that made the dust motes shimmer like tiny ghosts. The air was thick with the scent of chalk dust and the faint tang of wet wool from our coats, hung on pegs by the door. I’d been chattering away, ignoring the teacher’s warnings, my voice mingling with the clatter of wooden desks and the scratch of pencils. Suddenly, the teacher—a formidable woman with a tight bun and a patterned blouse—fixed me with a look that made my stomach drop. She took me by the arm, her grip firm and unyielding, and led me out of the classroom. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of dread and embarrassment burning in my cheeks as the other children fell silent behind me, their eyes wide and curious.
(pause) In the small, chilly side room, the only sound was the faint hum of the radiators and my own nervous breathing. The walls were lined with faded posters of Scottish poets and multiplication tables, and the floorboards creaked underfoot. She sat on a wooden chair, pulled me over her knee, and with a swift motion, brought her hand down on the seat of my pleated school skirt. The first smack was a sharp, stinging jolt that seemed to echo in the quiet room. Each smack after that sent a hot, prickling pain through the thick polyester, making me squirm and gasp. I tried to hold back tears, but the sting and the humiliation were overwhelming. I remember the way the light caught the dust in the air, the way my hands gripped the edge of her skirt, the way my breath came in short, shuddering bursts. When it was over, she stood me up, her face stern but not unkind, and told me to compose myself before returning to class. My bottom throbbed, and I felt a strange mix of shame and relief as I walked back to my desk, cheeks flushed and eyes stinging. The other children pretended not to look, but I could feel their curiosity, their silent questions.
(short pause) The following year, in another drafty classroom with high windows and the ever-present stack of jotters on the teacher’s desk, I found myself in trouble again for talking. This time, it was a male teacher. His approach was brisk and businesslike—no lectures, just action. He called me to the front, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. My heart hammered as he took me by the arm and led me to a quiet corner. He sat, pulled me over his knee, and delivered a series of firm smacks to the seat of my skirt. The sound of each slap seemed to fill the room, and the sting was sharp and immediate. I bit my lip, determined not to cry, but my eyes watered all the same. When it was done, he sent me back to my seat with a curt nod. The pain lingered, a hot ache that made sitting uncomfortable, but I was grateful that, in those days, such punishments weren’t always reported to parents. I remember sitting at my desk, shifting in my seat, trying to focus on my sums while the world outside the window seemed to go on as if nothing had happened.
(pause) At home, discipline was just as much a part of the landscape. My mother’s voice could cut through any noise, sharp as a gull’s cry over the rooftops. She had a way of looking at you that made you stand up straighter, made you think twice before answering back. My father, when he was home from the docks.
Some years later, , I slipped out of school one Friday afternoon at break time. I wandered around parks and in places where I was fairly sure I would not be recognised or spotted. I stayed out for most of the rest of that day, only sneaking back in 10 minutes before the end of school. However, on entering the school I was spotted and brought to the headmistress.
She told me that what I had done was a serious offence. She said I would be spanked and an entry would go into the punishment book. She duly put me over her knee, then smacked me hard a number of times, once again on the seat of my skirt with her hand.
The number of smacks is difficult to remember now but it was quite a few, and made my bottom really sore. After the smacking, I was tearful and told to go. Unfortunately, my mother was subsequently called (as was the practice) to inform her of the spanking I had received in school.
So while I was walking home, already in some discomfort, I was unaware that my mother had been notified and of the doom which awaited me.
My plan had been to go straight to my room and lie down on my tummy to ease the discomfort of my sore bottom, without mother knowing why.
However, upon arrival at home, I was confronted with the news that school had called. I was told I had disgraced my parents and was taken straight upstairs to my mother’s room.
In this room was a dressing table with a mirror, accompanied by a stool. Mum pulled the latter out from the dressing table and sat down on it, pulling me towards her. I knew I was in for what mother called ‘a damn good hiding’.
The hairbrush was taken off her dressing table and I was pulled across mother’s knee.
She raised the hairbrush and walloped my bottom so many times that the existing soreness from the first spanking became one serious pain once the hairbrush was used, and I was howling very shortly after it started.
I was still sitting very uncomfortably for the whole of the next day. However, the punishments did their job – I never went out of school again
