When we were growing up, in the late seventies and eighties, our parents were in charge. Well, Dad was anyway. If my younger sister Karen and I pushed our luck with our mum, we’d soon be silenced when she coolly delivered the killer line: “Just you wait until your father gets home.” The thought of incurring the wrath of our riled-up dad, bone-tired after a long day at work and a stressful commute, was enough to send us quietly retreating to our respective bedrooms without another word. Depending on the crime, we knew we’d be sternly reprimanded for our bad behaviour – both verbally and physically. It wasn’t uncommon for our dad – or anyone’s dad in those days – to dish out a beating if we so deserved it.<\/p>\n
The same rules applied at school. I can clearly remember being held up by one arm in front of my baby-faced classmates aged five whilst my teacher smacked me hard on the backside with her free hand. The crime? Holding two stubby fingers aloft in a reverse V to indicate I had two of something in my possession – misinterpreted as swearing by another child, who duly reported my misdemeanour to ‘Miss.’ I had no idea what I’d done wrong at the time – but whatever it was, I wouldn’t be doing it again in a hurry. Being swatted with a wooden ruler was a regular occurrence for most of my classmates and I; I wasn’t an especially naughty child – it was a deterrent as much as anything. When the ruler was brought down hard on the desk next to your hand with a loud thwack, you certainly learnt to sit up straight and listen. Teachers would continuously dream up new and resourceful ways to keep unruly pupils in line – from slinging board rubbers at heads to launching students’ rucksacks from second-floor windows, which would land on the playground below with an ominous crunch. If your belongings inside were damaged, tough. A Jiff lemon squeezy bottle administered to the earhole was one particularly innovative technique adopted by our English teacher.<\/p>\n