(gap: 2s) The council estates of Surrey in the 1970s were a world of their own—a patchwork of pebble-dashed terraces, each house with its own story stitched behind mismatched curtains. The air always seemed tinged with the scent of boiled cabbage and damp, and the sound of kids’ laughter echoed off the cracked concrete, mingling with the distant rattle of the Co-op milk float. (short pause) On Sundays, the whole estate felt like it was holding its breath, everyone scrubbing their front steps and hanging out their best shirts, desperate to look respectable for the neighbours, even if the seams were coming apart at home.
My family was no different. Dad worked long hours at the factory, coming home with oil-stained hands and a tired slump in his shoulders. Mum was the general—her word was law, especially on Sundays. She’d bustle about in her polyester skirt and plastic beads, pouring tea from a chipped pot, always keeping one eye on the window to see who was watching. My older brother, always pushing his luck, seemed to attract trouble like a magnet, while my little sister, with her big brown eyes and angelic smile, could do no wrong. I was somewhere in the middle—old enough to know better, young enough to get caught.
I remember the sting of a quick smack, the sharp sound echoing in the cramped hallway with its swirly wallpaper and faded print of Box Hill. It was never meant to be cruel—just a flash of frustration, a way to keep us in line when nerves were frayed and patience was thin as the soles of our shoes. Sometimes it happened after a cold bath, steam rising from the chipped tub, or while Mum was wrestling me into my Sunday best, her hands rough but careful.
There was a kind of unspoken competition on the estate—who could keep their kids the cleanest, their lawns the neatest, their tempers the most in check. But behind closed doors, everyone had their own battles. I remember one winter, the pipes froze and we had to boil kettles just to wash. Mum made a game of it, pretending we were explorers in the Arctic, but I could see the worry in her eyes as she counted out the last of the coins for the meter.
The only time I saw a real, proper spanking was at my best mate James’s house, just a few streets over. Their place always smelled of damp and cabbage, the carpets worn thin, but his mum kept it spotless. James and I would sit on the floor, swapping Panini stickers and listening to the Bay City Rollers on his battered record player, pretending we were somewhere grander.
One afternoon, James’s little brother Robert was tearing about, making a racket, his laughter bouncing off the walls. On these estates, noise was currency—too much, and you’d have the neighbours gossiping at the off-licence, too little, and they’d wonder what you were hiding. That day, Robert burst into the lounge, T-shirt pulled up, holding a plate in front of his face like he was on telly, shouting nonsense and making us all laugh.
Suddenly, their mum stormed in, her voice sharp as vinegar. “Robert!” she snapped, and he jumped, dropping the plate. It shattered on the lino, the sound ringing out like a warning bell. For a moment, everything went still—the kind of silence that makes your heart thump in your ears.
Her patience, already stretched thin from a day of keeping up appearances, finally snapped. She started telling him off, but Robert just screamed louder, fingers jammed in his ears, as if he could block out her words—or the neighbours’ stares pressing in from every side. She grabbed him, shot me an apologetic look—because even in the roughest corners of Surrey, you had to mind your manners—and gave him a proper hiding, about fifteen hard smacks, her face set with a mix of anger and exhaustion. Robert howled, his cries echoing down the hallway, and I remember feeling a strange mix of relief and guilt that it wasn’t me.
That was life on the estate: always trying to look respectable, even when the truth was as plain as the cracks in the pavement. Behind every net curtain, there were stories like ours—of scraped knees and scuffed shoes, of mums doing their best with what little they had, of dads worn down by work and worry. And through it all, we kids learned to keep our heads down, our secrets close, and our eyes on the next Sunday, when maybe, just maybe, things would be a little bit easier.
