(gap: 2s) Growing up in the 1960s, discipline was woven into the very fabric of daily life—at home, at school, and everywhere in between. The air itself seemed to hum with a sense of order and expectation. Spanking wasn’t just accepted, it was a ritual, a rite of passage that every child knew was waiting just around the corner. (short pause) I can still remember the sharp, bracing chill of the Scottish wind as we played outside, the sting of it on our cheeks not so different from the sting of a well-deserved smack. It was as routine as brushing your teeth or doing your homework. If you misbehaved, you could count on a smack or two, whether it was from your mum, your dad, or even a teacher. (pause) There was nothing unusual or controversial about it—spankings were seen as a normal, even necessary, way to teach children right from wrong. The world felt smaller then, and the rules were clear.
(gap: 1s) It didn’t matter if you were at home or at school—everyone understood that discipline meant consequences, and those consequences often came in the form of a quick, sharp spanking. (short pause) We all expected it, and in a strange way, it made us feel secure, knowing exactly where the boundaries were. (pause) Parents, teachers, and even neighbours wouldn’t hesitate to step in if a child stepped out of line. I remember once, when I was about eight, I was caught pinching apples from Mrs. McGregor’s garden. She marched me straight home, her hand firm on my shoulder, and told my mother exactly what I’d done. I got a scolding from Mrs. McGregor, a spanking from my mum, and a lecture from my dad when he got home from the late shift. It was simply the way things were done, and nobody questioned it. The sting faded, but the lesson stuck.
(gap: 1s) I remember when, as I was nearing the end of my school years, my mother gave me my first spanking from her in three years. It all started with a spanking I received at school, from the school librarian—a common enough occurrence in those days. The memory is as vivid as if it happened yesterday: the echo of footsteps in the corridor, the faint scent of floor polish and old books, and the nervous flutter in my stomach as I realised I was in real trouble.
The librarian had spanked me earlier that week for not returning a book that was three months overdue, despite her repeated reminders. In the 1960s, teachers and staff were quick to enforce discipline, and it was perfectly normal for a child to be taken aside for a sound spanking. She finally had enough of my ignoring her, so she met me at my locker at dismissal and told me to come to her office—she said we had some business to settle. I remember the way her voice was calm but firm, and how the other students glanced at me with a mix of sympathy and relief that it wasn’t them.
In her office, she explained that the business was to take me over her knee for a proper spanking. I was surprised, being as old as I was, but in those days, you didn’t question authority. She sat down, pulled out a sturdy wooden ruler from her desk drawer, and told me to bend over her knee. I did as I was told, feeling a mix of embarrassment and dread. The room was cold, the radiator clanking in the corner, and I could hear the muffled sounds of children playing outside. She raised the ruler and delivered six sharp, stinging smacks right across the seat of my trousers. Each one landed with a crisp crack, and by the third, my eyes were watering. The sting of that ruler was unforgettable—far worse than a hand, and meant to make an impression. When she finished, she told me I’d get another every day until I returned the overdue book. Unsurprisingly, I brought it back the very next day. Even now, the sound of a wooden ruler tapping on a desk makes me wince.
(gap: 1s) Unfortunately for me, the librarian ran into my mother later that week and told her about the spanking. In our house, there was a strict rule—if you got a spanking at school, you got another at home. My mother was especially cross that I hadn’t told her myself, as honesty was just as important as obedience in those days. I remember the look on her face—disappointment more than anger—and the heavy silence that filled the room before she spoke.
That evening, after dinner, my mother called me into the living room. She sat down on the edge of the settee and reached for her old wooden hairbrush—the same one she’d used when I was small.
