(gap: 2s) When I was a child, my world was small and safe, wrapped in the gentle chaos of our council estate. My mother, though she sometimes spanked me, was never truly strict. Her discipline was more of a warning than a punishment, and I knew I could usually charm my way out of trouble. I was a fussy eater, and she would often sigh and prepare a separate meal just for me, her patience stretched but never snapping. I remember the warmth of our living room, the hum of the radio, and the comfort of knowing I was loved, even when I was being difficult.
(short pause) Everything changed the summer my mother had to travel to Australia for a month. She left me in the care of my Aunt Veronica, a woman whose presence seemed to fill every room with a sense of order and expectation. Aunt Veronica was much older than my mother, with silver hair always pulled back tightly, and a voice that brooked no argument. She had looked after me before, but never for so long. I felt a mix of curiosity and dread as I arrived at her flat, clutching my suitcase and watching her sharp eyes take in every detail.
Aunt Veronica’s house was a world apart from my own. There were rules for everything—shoes off at the door, no running in the hallway, and chores that had to be done before any play. She believed in discipline, and her standards were unwavering. If I left a cup in the sink or forgot to tidy my shoes, she would scold me sharply, and sometimes, if I pushed too far, she would spank me. It was never cruel, but it was firm, and it left me feeling both resentful and oddly secure. I remember the sting of her words as much as the sting of her hand, and the way she would watch me with a mixture of disappointment and hope that I would do better next time.
Mealtimes were the strictest of all. Aunt Veronica insisted on perfect manners—no talking with my mouth full, no elbows on the table, and absolutely no leaving the table until every bite was gone. The dining room felt colder than the rest of the house, the clink of cutlery echoing in the silence as I tried to eat food I didn’t like. She would sit across from me, her gaze unwavering, making sure I had eaten every single thing on my plate.
On this particular occasion, , Aunt Veronica called me to say supper was ready. To my horror, she had made me a horrible-looking beetroot salad. I hated salad – especially beetroot! I told her that I didn’t like it and added that I wasn’t hungry.
She give me a stern look and said: “You will sit there and eat every bit of salad on that plate, young lady, or I will take you upstairs to my bedroom and give you a good hiding!”
I turned back to my meal. I managed to eat most of it but really couldn’t stomach the beetroot. I told Aunt Veronica that I was full and anyway, I didn’t like beetroot.
She replied: “You will sit there and eat every bit of it, little lady! I won’t have good food being wasted in this house!” I then had a fit of temper, and said: “I’m not eating it! You can’t make me!” I pushed my plate away in anger, but did it a bit too hard – the plate fell on to the floor and smashed into several pieces.
That was it – Aunt Veronica was furious now. She got up from her seat, dragged me to the staircase and said: “How dare you! You naughty, disobedient girl! Get yourself up those stairs this instant – you are in for the hiding of your life, my girl!”
I was marched up to my aunt’s bedroom, where Aunt Veronica put me over her knee, took off her slipper and spanked my bottom until it must of been the same colour as the beetroot I had refused to eat.
