Mum brings back the birch

I grew up on the mid 1950s (yes, I’m that old!) in Preston, Lancashire, and by the time I was 11 years old, I regret to say that I had gone off the rails somewhat, morally speaking. I was an only child and my father had run off with another woman about five years previously.

Perhaps it was the lack of a father figure which led me to slip into bigger and bigger trouble. My mother had smacked my bottom when I was a young boy but it had been a long time since I had had that done. Had my father been around, I’m sure I would have had the slipper or belt regularly to keep me in line but I think Mum felt it inappropriate for a woman to whip a child of the opposite sex by that age.

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