One episode clearly sticks in my mind when I was eight years old. I had gone into a neighbour’s garden and pulled up some flowers, and she, quite rightly, dragged me home and complained to my father, who happened to answer the door.
I was summarily taken upstairs and had my bare bottom thoroughly smacked by my mother. Then I was put to bed in disgrace.
Some time later, I had to get up and dressed, and my mother took me round to the neighbour so that I could explain why I had pulled up her flowers, and apologise.
Forty years later, I can still recall the stinging of my mother’s hand on my bare bottom, and the embarrassment I felt.
I wonder how parents today would deal with such an incident? At least my parents cared enough to show their displeasure at my behaviour, even if it seems somewhat heavy-handed, looking back.