Childhood, for me, was a patchwork of vivid moments—some stitched with laughter, others with the sharp thread of discipline. My mother was the centre of my small universe: a woman of quiet strength, her love as steady as the ticking of the kitchen clock in our hamstead heath flat. She was not one for grand gestures, but her presence was a constant comfort, and her rules, though sometimes strict, were always clear.
(short pause) I remember the trip to France as if it were yesterday. The air on the ferry crossing was briny and cold, the sky a pale, endless blue. My mother’s hand was warm in mine, her grip reassuring as we navigated the unfamiliar bustle of a foreign country. I was giddy with anticipation, my mind spinning with images of croissants, cobbled streets, and—most of all—Disneyland Paris. The thought of meeting Mickey Mouse, of seeing Sleeping Beauty’s castle, made my heart race with a joy so fierce it was almost painful.
(pause) The first few days in France were a blur of new sights and sounds. I remember the scent of fresh bread wafting from corner bakeries, the clatter of trams, the way my mother’s laughter echoed in our tiny hotel room as she tried to decipher the French TV. But the night before our Disneyland adventure, my excitement reached a fever pitch. I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, my mind replaying every possibility the next day might hold. My mother, ever patient but never indulgent, finally sat on the edge of my bed. Her voice was calm, but there was a steeliness in her eyes as she warned me: if I didn’t settle down, there would be consequences. The word “spanking” hung in the air, heavy and real. I remember the way my stomach dropped, the way I curled beneath the covers, trying to will myself into stillness. I knew she meant it—her discipline was never empty threat, but always measured, always fair. That night, I managed to drift off, the warning lingering like a shadow at the edge of my dreams.
(pause) Morning arrived with a golden spill of sunlight through the curtains. My excitement returned, bubbling up as I dressed in my favourite jumper and clutched my mother’s hand. She moved with brisk efficiency, packing our bag with snacks, tissues, and a small bottle of water. Her reminders to stay close, to hold her hand, were gentle but firm. I could sense her tension beneath the surface—a mother’s worry, sharpened by the chaos of a foreign city and the unpredictability of a child’s enthusiasm.
(short pause) The city outside was alive with sound: the honk of horns, the chatter of strangers, the distant chime of church bells. As we approached a busy crossing, my excitement got the better of me. I darted forward, heedless of the red light, my small feet barely touching the pavement. In an instant, my mother’s hand clamped around mine, yanking me back with a force that startled me. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear and anger. Her voice, when it came, was sharp as a slap: “Never do that again!” And then, right there on the pavement, she delivered a hard, stinging smack to the seat of my pants.
Mother told me I would also be getting a spanking at bedtime.
I was on my best behaviour for the rest of the day, hoping against hope that Mother wouldn’t smack my bottom again.
However, after dinner she told me it was bedtime and once I was in my pyjamas, Mother came into my room holding her slipper.
Mother told me how scared and worried she had been when she lost me, then with a loving but stern look in her eyes, she told me to bend over her knee.
I didn’t really have much choice about such things at that age. I lay over her knee obediently and Mother gave me 10 smacks with the slipper.
After I had had a little cry, Mother put me into bed. She kissed me on the forehead, told me that she loved me and said I was forgiven.
