To smack or not to smack? What a silly, simplistic debate.

Between the extreme positions of the “don’t lift a finger” brigade and those who say “Getting belted by my father didn’t do me any harm”, an essential ingredient is nowhere to be seen. Common sense, that is.

Of course, no parent should thrash a child to the point of severe pain and/or lasting injury.

Our laws, both common and codified, should be the determinant here. Neither should a parent hit out at a child in rage or frustration.

The need for such restraint, surely, should be hard-wired into parents through their own upbringing or through public education, which, sadly, seems increasingly necessary.

In my superannuated view, an open-handed smack on the bottom, preferably loud, is justifiable when motivated by loving concern for the child’s safety or as an illustration of cause and effect.

But no matter what your position on this, spare a thought for the young mother who, harassed beyond bearing in a crowded shopping mall, smacks a child on the bottom in sheer frustration.

It’s not right, but it’s all too human, and it’s probably nothing that a cuddle at home won’t fix.

Surely a sympathetic smile from a passer-by would do more good than a show of indignation.

Beijing Duck?
My thanks to the AAT readers who pointed out that in last week’s column, I referred to China’s capital as Peking.

In explanation, I can only suggest that after a week of frugal DIY meals, I was fantasising about a slap-up restaurant dinner. Beijing Duck doesn’t have quite the same ring.

This lapse has focused my thoughts on memory loss, a subject which often comes up among those of us who are, if not over the hill, at least plodding towards the summit.

The senior moment is now the accepted explanation for one of those infuriating lapses, but spasmodic forgetfulness is nothing new to me.

My father used to tell me as a child that I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on, and all my life, I’ve been plagued by an inability to remember the names of people I’ve just met

More recently, though, I find myself dealing with more pressing problems, such as where I put my specs only a few minutes ago.

The fact that I have to have three pairs, each for a different purpose, tends to complicate such dilemmas.

(I have, in fact, just realised, after some puzzled peering at the monitor screen while typing these musings, that the specs I should be wearing are on the top of my head.)

On the other side of the coin, though, my long-term memory has been a good and reliable friend.

Peter Allen sang that time is a traveller, but in my experience it’s a telescope.

In writing my memoirs of more than 60 years as a newspaper journalist, I find that the places and the circumstances of my youth come readily to mind in amazing detail, whereas the closer I approach the present, the more I have to research the course of events.
Now, where are my bifocals?

rich.29@bigpond.net.au