So, Karen’s are a thing now.

Or at least they’ve kinda been recognised and popularised thanks to social media. Just about everyone is aware, by now, of what a Karen is; a middle class (typically white) woman who acts in an entitled manner and behaves aggressively towards others. It’s a relatively new term, and not one I’m averse to. It does have a certain ring to it, and there’s no shortage of videos online showcasing Karens; often of them screaming at children simply for being 'loud' or being in their presence.

It’s only now, that there’s a name for this type of person, that I realize that I’ve known many of these Karens in my lifetime. I think most people have; especially when you’re younger. I think every child inevitably has a run-in with a haughty, privileged woman who seems to be offended at your very existence!

I certainly did. Once, I even got spanked as the result of one of them. She must have been so proud of herself.

We were in Edinburgh. It was my first time in that city, and our family had gone there to see the zoo. Edinburgh Zoo is large, famous and respected, and was a huge tourist attraction. I had never been before, and it was a trip for my entire family. It was 1992 and I was 10 years old, and very excited to see some of the large predatory creatures; wolves and tigers especially.

It was relatively rare that my whole family had a chance to do anything together. My mother worked long hours, so often these kind of trips were simply my sister and my dad and me. But this weekend, we were all able to make it along together, making the entire event something of a special occasion.

The one thing I remember most about Edinburgh was how old many of the buildings looked. Naturally they weren’t much older than the ones in my home city, but they appeared older; the people of Edinburgh put a lot more effort into preserving the historical appearance of their brickwork, making sure that every building had the appearance of one that had stood for a century or more. Our car wove through the busy streets until we finally arrived at the zoo.

I don’t remember much of the actual day until we met the Karen. I do remember that I wasn’t able to see much of the tigers; it was warm and they were sheltering in their enclosure just out of sight. I remember that we watched penguins being fed; gulping down fish in one sharp swallow. I also remember laughing at one of the turtles which, evidently having been fed sometime previously, shit across part of its pool. My mother didn’t find that quite as funny as I did.

I think we had spent the better half of the day in the zoo. I seem to remember that we had lunch at the facility’s diner, but can’t remember what we had. Even so, me and my sister had been in agreement that this was a fantastically fun time.

The day gradually wore on, shifting into late afternoon, and we had seen everything there was to be seen. We gradually made our way to the gift shop, eager to pick up any mementos of our visit. That’s where I met the Karen.

I had been hurrying down one of the aisles of the gift shop, having found a soft toy that I thought my sister would like. I wanted to show it to her, thinking she’d find it adorable. My sister was five years younger than me, and at the time still very much into cuddly toys. I was single-minded in showing off my discovery, hoping she’d like it, when I heard a voice snap out from behind me, "Excuse me!"

I genuinely didn’t understand what was going on. I turned, looked up, and saw the scowling face of a middle-aged woman. She had a dirty look on her face, as if I had done something deeply revolting to her. "How dare you!" she barked. "Don’t you have any manners?"

I didn’t know what to say – in fact, I’m willing to bed that most children don’t know how to react when an adult starts to go off on a tirade at them, especially with no preamble. I imagine I stood there, clutching the soft toy, looking at her with eyes wide and mouth open like a fish.

I remember my dad stepping over and saying "What’s the problem?"

"Your daughter!" the woman complained. "He shoved me! Pushed right past me."

At that point, her issue made perfect sense to me – but it was wrong. I had done no such thing. "You’re a liar!" I retorted.

And I think that was kinda where I sealed my fate. Now, it’s entirely possible that in my haste I may have accidently bumped into her. But I had certainly not shoved her. I was, in general, a rather well-mannered girl, and my parents had taught me well. The repeated percussive maintenance applied to my bottom had drilled some basic manners into me over the years. However, one thing I did possess was a strong sense of right and wrong – and this woman was definitely in the wrong. As far as I was concerned, she was lying, right to me and my dad.

"Excuse me!" she replied. "What did you just say to me?"

"You’re lying!" I repeated, "You’re a liar! I didn’t shove you!"

I realize, of course, that outright calling her a 'liar' was a bad idea. One of the worst things we, as a culture, teach children is that it’s rude to tell people that they’re liars. It’s so clear that our society is based on the words of liars, but for a child to call an adult a liar is seen as rude. And that’s a terrible lesson for any child to learn, because it allows adults who lie to get away without being held accountable. Children, you see, can tell when people are lying just as easily as anyone else can; this woman was lying, and I had caught her in the lie – and because I had called her out on it, I was RUDE.

I remember that she said to my father as much; that I was a very, very rude and ill-mannered girl. She told him that I was vile to speak to an adult that way – how dare I! Had I no manners? Was I raised to just shove adults aside and spit insults at them?

Utterly not. She was simply a Karen, I understand now. I had offended her by simply being a child, existing near her, possibly bumping into her by accident, and for not holding my tongue at her lies.

My dad, however, didn’t see it like this at all. He was very apologetic. And shocked that I was calling this aggrieved stranger a liar – which, remember, she was.

I was marched out of the gift shop in a hurry, told to wait outside while the rest of the family finished. They were quick. My dad, however, was not particularly happy with me. When the family were done, he marched me to the car and told me "Get in, and behave yourself. Not another word out of you for the rest of the trip home!"

Actually, no, first he said "When we get home, you’re getting a smacking you won’t soon forget." Then he said that I would be grounded. And I felt the bottom of my stomach drop out, hearing him put into words so easily what I knew was about to happen.

The entire car ride seemed to last an eternity, but when we started to pull into the road to our house I felt like it was going in slow motion, because I genuinely didn’t want to get to the house and face my punishment. Neither my mother nor my sister seemed to care one whit for my imminent suffering; they both chatted about their favoured animals they’d seen, compared notes, seemingly had a great time all the way back home, while I sat in a cold fear over what would happen.

My dad stopped the car, pulled open my door, and grasped me by the wrist. "Come along now" he said, hurrying me along. I suppose he could see that I didn’t want to leave the car. His grip was tight, very tight. And he marched me up the door, and I hurried along after him, struggling to keep up, wincing because his grip on my wrist was so tight. I don’t think I said anything, but for all I can remember I may have been mumbling apologies all the way.

Dad unlocked the door and hurried into the living room. He brought me into the living room, while my mother and sister lingered in the hall with a few bags of gifts they’d bought from the zoo. As soon as he got into the living room, he let go of my wrist, and started to tell me off once again.

Dad set himself heavily down in the middle of the sofa and placed me in front of him. Already my mother and sister were in the living room; my mother said something about making a cup of tea, and my sister, well, I knew she wanted to see what was about to happen to me.

In an instant, he had reached for my tracksuit bottoms and yanked them heavily down to my ankles. He then reached towards my underpants. "Oh no," I thought, as my eyes widened in horror. We had barely been in the house for more than a minute – he hadn’t been exaggerating when he said I’d get it as soon as I got home! The sheer, radiant humiliation filled me!

My brain had finally caught up with the reality of my predicament, and I realised what he was about to do. Now while I had never known a spanking that hadn’t been on my bare bottom, I couldn’t quite believe that this was going to happen now, in front of the rest of the family. In front of my sister. While I tended to be compliant when it came to being punished, I instinctively found my hands reaching out and gripping his wrists to try and stop him. With what seemed an almost animalistic growl, he shook off one of hands and smacked the other so I released my grip, before then roughly sliding my underpants down to join my tracksuit bottoms.

"No, dad. Dad, dad, no, dad!" I whined in desperation.

"There!" he said, almost triumphantly, as much to the room as myself, as my then plumpish white bottom was exposed to everyone present.

I began to reach for the hem of my t-shirt in order to tug it down to provide me with as much modesty as possible, but before I knew it, my dad literally picked me up from the ground and placed me across his lap. I was surprised by his strength and more than a little scared. My spankings at that point tended towards the more methodical and almost ritualised, yet the speed and physicality involved was unusual to me, and suggested an anger in my dad that I rarely saw, despite the many times he had expressed displeasure with me in the past.

Almost immediately, and without the usual careful positioning, he brought his hand down heavily across one of my bare buttocks. I gasped. I could tell he was using the full force of his arm and intended to give me a very sore bottom. Another hard smack against my other cheek and I began to worry how I would manage to take this. I decided to bury my face in the sofa cushion, as at least that way I could pretend we were alone.

He rained down the smacks across my bottom, making clear his frustration with me. My bottom was smarting much sooner than it usually was, and I prayed it meant that the spanking would be over soon. I was conscious that there was no sound in the room save for the loud cracks filling the room and my gasps in response, and an image came into my mind of what I must look like to my mother, my sister. I tried to block it out.

Again and again his hand came down across my bottom, and my gasps turned into groans and the occasional yelp. The sting in my bottom became sharper and more uncomfortable, and I began to shift across my dad’ lap. He increased the pacing and in response I almost turned on my side to avoid the blows.

Grasping my waist tightly with his other arm, I guess he knew then he was getting through to me. "SORRY!" I managed to spit out, my mouth still firmly against the sofa cushion, muffling the sound.

My dad resumed spanking, as firmly as before. Multitasking, he told my sister to go to her room and fetch him one of her hairbrushes. He had to repeat to her what was clearly to both of us a strange request. He continued the spanking whilst she did what she was told.

On returning to the room, he told her to give him the hairbrush. There was a slight pause, and I was wondering what on earth was about to happen. Up until this point, all of my spankings had been by hand, and I don’t think I was really aware of the whole world of implements that could be used to punish naughty girls.

I soon became aware. With a loud crack, he brought the brush down upon my bottom. I squealed in surprise and dismay. Already this felt worse than his hand, experiencing a sharper and yet deeper sting. I would become familiar enough with this surprisingly small and soon to be despised piece of blue plastic. Few would expect how something like that could make a girl so thoroughly miserable.

It only took a few well placed smacks to get what my dad was after and an apology to the room was forthcoming. As I had anticipated/feared, so too were the tears. Unable to contain myself, I yelled as the tears started to flow in response to the increasing burn that the brush was causing to my defenceless bare bottom.

This was undoubtedly the worst spanking I had had to date, and I became increasingly desperate for dad to stop. I think this was perhaps the first time I had experienced that sensation where you feel you cannot carry on taking it, yet having to find some way to do so. Finally, after my dad peppering some hard swats to my upper thighs (also new, and also very unwelcome), he stopped.

Before I had even had the chance to catch my breath, and the tears flowing freely, he hauled me off his lap, stood up, then pushed me towards the corner of the living room. Normally I would be given instructions to comply with, but not this time. Instead it was as if every move was controlled by him. I stumbled towards the corner, my tracksuit bottoms and undies getting in the way of a dignified walk, and felt him roughly pull up my hands, one by one, and place them firmly on my head.

The spanking over, the corner offered the opportunity to reflect on what had happened. I became overwhelmed with embarrassment. I wanted the ground to swallow me up. I was at that key age when a spanking wasn’t just bad because of the pain it caused; it was bad because it conflicted with my sense of self-image. My ideal version of myself was not the one who got his bare backside spanked and put in the corner. And yet that’s undoubtedly what had happened. My dad sat himself down on the sofa and turned on the TV. I thought it best not to ask how long I had to stay there for, although I was dying to retreat to the safety of my room, not least so I could give my poor bottom a good rub.

Eventually I was allowed out and instructed to go to my room. I raced upstairs and got myself ready for bed. Whilst undressing I took the opportunity to check out the damage done to my bottom and was both horrified and amazed to see a darker crimson colour across my cheeks than I had been used to previously. I winced as I pulled on my pyjama bottoms and could only speculate how long I would be feeling the effects.

After a while, the door opened and my dad walked in and sat down on the end of my bed. I was relieved to see that he was notably calmer than before. He asked me how I was. I mumbled that I was ok, even if I felt a long way from ok.

"I know that was rough for you, my lass, but you deserved it. This isn’t who we’ve raising you to be," he complained. "And hopefully you’ll remember this experience for next time."

My unasked question as to what was meant by next time was answered more than soon enough for my liking, as for the next two or so years, before we upgraded to the wooden hairbrush, my sister’s plastic hairbrush made all too frequent visits to my bottom.

And y’know, I still don’t like Karens, even to this day.