How Old Are You? By Adsy

I grew up in the 80’s, with bad fashion, funny music & parents that still smacked you when you were naughty. Mum rarely smacked us, but once broke a wooden spoon on the back on my knee, & from that day on mum never used anything other than her hand. Dad was a whole other kettle of fish. Dad had a brown belt. Not in the cool ninja/karate style type, but a brown leather belt that he used to flex & pull together really quickly to make a snapping sound.

Being the eldest of 4 kids, I was always told “You’re the eldest, set the example”. In my mind I thought I was setting the example, of what not to do. To this day I swear I got more smacks than my brother & sisters combined.

One day I decided it would be a great idea & solve all my problems if I got rid of the belt. I snuck into mum & dad’s room, opened the wardrobe, took the belt , & buried it. I had a perfect spot selected under a tree in the back yard. I’d completely forgotten about it by the time came around that I was next due to get the belt.

Dad told me to get in my room, & then I could hear him trying to find the belt. He couldn’t find it. He came in with another belt, a thicker, wider, heavier black belt. I was between a rock & a hard place now. Do I admit I buried the belt & get smacked more with the lighter belt, or grin & cop this new monster of pain?

I admitted I buried the belt. Once I’d retrieved it, dad made me bend over & said to me “How old are you?”

“ffive”

“How old are you?”

“NINE”

1 smack, 2 smack . .


in Brisbane, Queensland, Australia

 984

Small time gal from a country town. Wait, no that isn't right, but what the hell it's more interesting than anything else I have.

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