One episode from my childhood stands out more than any other. I remember it so clearly—the way the sunlight filtered through the curtains, the faint scent of flowers in the air, and the nervous flutter in my stomach as I, tiptoed into our neighbour’s garden, drawn by the bright colours and the thrill of doing something I knew I shouldn’t.
I, couldn’t resist the temptation and began pulling up the delicate flowers, feeling a strange sense of excitement and guilt. The truth is, there was no real reason for me to do it—except that I found that particular neighbour especially irritating, and somehow that made the act feel even more tempting. Our neighbour’s garden was the pride of the council estate—every inch carefully tended, with neat rows of colourful blooms, perfectly trimmed hedges, and not a single weed in sight. The neighbours were so proud of their garden, always out watering, pruning, and showing it off to anyone who passed by. But as I was soon to find out, finding the neighbour irritating was no excuse for what I had done.
Suddenly, Mrs. Peegram appeared, her face a mixture of shock and sternness. Without a word, she seized me, by the ear—her grip sharp and unyielding—and, ignoring my protests, literally dragged me across the street to where my mother was standing. The whole way, I stumbled and winced, unable to break free, feeling the eyes of the neighbours on me as she marched me straight to my mother in the street opposite.
When both Mrs. Peegram and Iarrived at my mother, I looked very sheepish indeed, as I knew exactly what the outcome was going to be. My mother opened the door, her expression shifting from surprise to embarrassment as she realised what I had done.
Mrs. Peegram spoke first, her voice tight with anger: “Look what your Peter has done to my garden! He’s pulled up my precious flowers, every last one of them!”
My mother, flustered and embarrassed, replied, “Oh, I am so sorry, Mrs. Peegram. I can’t believe Peter would do such a thing. Please, rest assured, he’ll be getting the smacked bottom of a lifetime for this.”
Mrs. Peegram, her lips curling into a satisfied smile, said, “Well, I hope so. It won’t bring back my dahlias, but at least Peter will learn his lesson.”
Without hesitation, my mother grabbed my wrist and marched me to the foot of the stairs. She sat down, pulled mefirmly across her lap, and with a swift, practiced motion, raised her hand. The first smack landed squarely on my bottom, the sharp crack echoing through the hallway. Each slap stung more than the last, the heat and pain building with every strike. I gasped and squirmed, but she held me in place, her palm falling again and again, leaving my skin tingling and hot. When she finally let me up, my cheeks were wet with tears and my bottom throbbed with a deep, burning ache. Without a word, she pointed upstairs, and I hurried to my bedroom, my pride as bruised as my backside.
After a tense silence, my mother entered my room, her face set with determination. She sat on the edge of the bed, reached for her old rubber slipper—the one reserved for serious mischief—and beckoned meover. My heart pounded as she guided me over her knee, my face pressed into the bedspread. I felt the cool air on my bare skin just before the first blow landed. The slipper struck with a loud, flat smack, sending a jolt of pain through me. She delivered six hard, deliberate swats, each one biting and leaving a vivid, stinging heat that seemed to spread across my bottom. I cried out, unable to hold back the tears, the shame and pain mingling until I was left sobbing quietly. When it was over, she stood me up, her eyes softening as she told me to think about what I had done. Alone in my room, the throbbing pain was a constant reminder of my punishment and my mother’s disappointment.
After what felt like hours, my mother returned and told me to get dressed. She took my hand, her grip still firm but now tinged with sadness, and walked me, , back to the neighbour’s house. My heart pounded as I stood before the neighbour, struggling to find the words to explain why I had pulled up her flowers. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I apologised, realising the full weight of my actions and the trouble I had caused.
Even forty years later, I can still recall the sharp sting of my mother’s slipper on my bottom. I also remember the look on my mother’s face—her own embarrassment at having to discipline me in front of others, and the hope that I would learn from my mistake. That day left a lasting impression on both of us.
