Once, in the last term before graduation from my high school in Madrid, I stayed late for a rehearsal of our school play. It was an adaptation of Don Quixote, and we were practicing really hard. I was to play the landlady at an inn the Don stops at. I was hurrying to the drama studio. My route happened to take me past the headmaster’s office and, as I passed it, I couldn’t help but hear that something was going on. There was a strange sound, like a gust of wind whistling through the air followed by a thud. A
A while ago, I had occasion to spank my eldest daughter. When I was young, I was spanked as a child and slippered as an adolescent. I grew up in Barcelona, married at the age of twenty-two and had two children, a boy and a girl. My husband and I decided against using corporal punishment on our children. We’d grown up in the seventies and eighties, we’d both been spanked, but times had changed. At the age of thirteen, just before the Christmas holidays, my daughter brought home a letter from school complaining of her behaviour. She’d been disruptive in
I had been in my apartment building on the third floor about three months when a new neighbor moved in across the hall. She was a 24 year old woman from out of town. She was a red-headed Irish girl, very petite at only about 5’3 tall with flat stomach and weighing only about 120lb or so. I was 6′ and in great shape because I was a personal trainer and nutritional counselor at the local 24 he gym after finishing college as a nutritionist. Her name was Lori and she had gotten a job at the local hospital as