I was brought up in the early 1970s by my mum on her own – my dad died in an industrial accident when I was just two years old, and I don’t really remember him at all, sadly.
Raising a boisterous boy without a father figure must have been a big challenge for my mother, but she managed it quite well. I did get put across her knee a fair bit, but it didn’t hurt that much. She only ever used her hand on the seat of my trousers and to be honest the main deterrent in any such punishments were the embarrassment they caused me. By the time I was nine years old, I was a bit of a naughty lad and was getting my backside dusted rather more often, but to little effect other than to send me into a sulk afterwards.