(gap: 2s) When the golden afternoon sunlight streams through my window, I am reminded of my own childhood, many years ago in the 1950s. Those were days filled with gentle laughter, the scent of freshly cut grass, and the distant melody of the ice cream van. Life was simple and good, and every day seemed to hold a new adventure.
(short pause) In those days, children were expected to behave properly, and parents were firm but loving. If a child was naughty, a spanking was given—not out of anger, but as a lesson to help the child grow into a good and honest person. It was always done with care, and we all knew it was for our own good.
My parents were kind and gentle, but they believed it was their duty to teach me right from wrong. A smack on the wrist or a sound spanking was never cruel, but always a clear message that I must listen and obey. My mother and father had both grown up in homes where discipline was respected, and they brought those values into our family, always softened by love and understanding.
My father was a tall, quiet man who worked hard at the factory. His hands always smelled faintly of oil and metal. My mother kept our home bright and cheerful, her footsteps echoing on the polished wooden floors, her voice singing softly as she worked. She had learned to care for others from a young age, for her own parents had died when she was just twenty, leaving her to look after her little sister, who was only five.
The house was filled with the ticking of clocks, the scent of lavender polish, and the gentle creak of the stairs at night. My mother became a second mother to her sister, guiding her with patience and warmth. They lived together with their two brothers, and my mother kept the household running until she married my father at thirty-two, after many years apart because of the war and work.
I was born when my mother was thirty-five, and her sister, my aunt, was already a young lady of twenty. The old house was still a place where everyone gathered, and my aunt was always there in my earliest memories. She would sweep me up in her arms, spin me around, and fill the house with laughter. She helped with everything—meals, stories, baths, and bedtime, always gentle and kind.
But when it came to discipline, my mother was in charge. She was patient and loving, but if I was naughty, she would give me a firm spanking to remind me of the rules. I always knew it was because she cared for me and wanted me to grow up to be good and wise.
One evening, when I was about eight or nine, I was full of mischief and would not go to bed, even though I had been put into my pyjamas. The living room was warm and cosy, filled with the scent of tea and the gentle glow of the fire. My aunt was there, laughing as I ran about the room, my bare feet pattering on the rug.
At last, my mother’s patience ran out. “If you do not go to bed this instant,” she said, her voice firm but kind, “I shall have to give you a proper spanking.” My aunt smiled and said, “You should! You used to spank me when I was his age, and it did me a world of good.”
I stopped at once, surprised. I had never imagined that my grown-up aunt had once been spanked just as I was. My mother laughed, and the room was filled with warmth. “Indeed,” she said, “it never did you any harm.”
Before I could move, my mother took hold of me and placed me firmly over her lap. I felt the smoothness of her skirt and the strength of her arms. Then, with a steady hand, she gave me six sharp smacks on my bare bottom. Each smack stung, and I could feel my cheeks growing hot and sore. I wriggled and kicked, but my mother held me fast, making sure I understood the lesson.
“No, Mummy, please!” I cried, promising to be good and go to bed at once. But my mother gave me two more firm smacks, making eight in all, to be certain I would remember. My aunt, meanwhile, was laughing so much she could hardly stand, and her laughter made the whole room feel bright and cheerful, even as I learned my lesson.
Suddenly, my aunt hurried out and returned with an old wooden hairbrush, its handle smooth from years of use. “Here you are,” she said, handing it to my mother. “This is what you used to use on me. See if it helps him remember his manners!” My mother smiled and gave me two more sharp smacks with the hairbrush, making ten in total. The hairbrush stung even more, and I knew I would not forget this lesson.
My mother and aunt both burst out laughing, and my mother gave my aunt a playful swat with the hairbrush as well. The two ladies laughed and laughed, and I could not help but join in, even though my bottom was sore. I ran up the stairs to bed, my heart full of love for my family and a firm resolve to behave better in future.
From that night on, the old hairbrush became a family joke. It was called the ‘shared hairbrush,’ and though it made a few more appearances, it was always used with care and love. It reminded us all of the importance of good behaviour and the gentle lessons that help us grow. Even now, I remember the warmth of that room, the closeness of my family, and the lessons that shaped me into a good and honest person. And so, dear children, remember always to listen to your elders, for their lessons are given with love, and they will help you grow up to be wise and kind.
