(gap: 1s) This is the story of the most mortifying punishment I ever received—a memory etched in my mind, as vivid as the orange tiles of the local council pool in the early 1970s. Back then, my brother and I were just a pair of scruffy kids, hair still damp from swimming lessons, our skin tingling with the sharp scent of chlorine that seemed to cling to everything, even our sandwiches.
The pool itself was a world of its own: the echo of laughter and splashing, the shrill whistle of the lifeguard, and the ever-present hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. My brother and I would linger long after our lessons, our toes wrinkled and lips tinged blue, splashing about in the shallow ‘non-swimmers’ pool. It was our little kingdom, and for those precious minutes, we were free—while Mum, perched on a hard plastic chair, would finally get a moment’s peace, flicking through her magazine or dipping her feet in the cool water.
One grey afternoon, as rain tapped against the high windows, my brother and I hatched what we thought was a brilliant plan. Mischief was in the air, as thick as the steam rising from the showers. We decided to sneak a peek at the women’s changing rooms—driven by nothing more than childish curiosity and the thrill of doing something forbidden. The idea of playing a prank—hiding the ladies’ towels or bathrobes—seemed, in our minds, the height of comedy.
We crept along the cold, tiled corridor, hearts pounding, giggling behind our hands. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of soap, damp hair, and the faint tang of disinfectant. We could hear the women’s voices echoing, laughter bouncing off the walls. With a conspiratorial glance, we snatched a towel, stifling our giggles, and darted behind a row of lockers.
But our triumph was short-lived. The sharp-eyed cleaner—a formidable woman with arms like rolling pins and a stare that could freeze water—caught us red-handed on our very first attempt. Before we could even drop the towel, her voice boomed across the changing room, and within moments, our mum’s name was called over the Tannoy, echoing through the pool hall like a summons from the headmistress herself.
We stood, shivering in our damp trunks, as Mum arrived—her face a mask of disappointment and embarrassment. The cleaner, the lifeguard, and the lady whose towel we’d tried to pinch all gathered round, their voices overlapping in a chorus of stern explanations. My brother and I could barely look up, our cheeks burning hotter than the pool’s boiler.
The anticipation was almost worse than the punishment itself. We could feel the eyes of every adult in the room on us, the air thick with expectation and silent judgment. My heart thudded in my chest, and my hands trembled as I tried to cover myself, wishing I could disappear into the tiles. Mum’s voice was low and sharp, each word slicing through the fog of shame that hung over us. Then, with a swift motion, she turned us around. The cold air prickled against our wet skin, and I could feel the roughness of the towel still clutched in my hand. (short pause) The first smack landed with a sharp, echoing crack—louder than I ever remembered. The sting bloomed instantly, a hot, tingling burn that made my eyes water. My brother yelped beside me, and I bit my lip, determined not to cry. Each smack was punctuated by Mum’s scolding, her words as biting as the slap itself: “You know better than this! What were you thinking?” The sound of her hand meeting skin seemed to bounce off the tiled walls, mingling with the distant splash of water and the muffled giggles of the women watching. The embarrassment was overwhelming—my face burned, my ears rang, and I could feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, not just from the pain but from the humiliation of being punished so publicly. I wanted to shrink away, to hide behind my brother, but there was nowhere to go. The shame settled over us like a heavy towel, and even after the smacks stopped, the sting lingered—on our skin and in our hearts
