Monday, 27 April 2015
Body Composition Measurement and its Role in Monitoring the Efficacy of Dietary Control for Disciplinary Purposes and the Tailoring of the Female Figure Enforced by Corporal Punishment
Hi all you authoritarian and disciplnarian types out there.
It's over two weeks since my last posting here. It's also a couple of days past my new knee's first birthday – all together now: 'Happy birthday, Mr Toyntanen's right knee' – but that's another story!
But isn't that weird? Consider: In the future - as more and more of us have more and more parts replaced, rebuilt or whatever – more and more often the tentative, hesitant query as to a person's years will likely be met with the counter-query: Which bit?
Sorry! I digress. What I had planned for my net posting was another piece on admission procedures. But then, a few days back, I received an email notification of a comment (actually two left in quick succession) which had been left on a blog entry I'd made way back in 2011 (Friday, 15 April 2011, to be exact).
I must say it's gratifying to see there are those who are willing to trawl through the archive. Especially as last time I looked the search facility didn't seem to be working properly. But, boy, that was a long way back! Although I have to say, it's just scratching the surface; after all, this blog's archive stretches way back to August 2008, to just after INSTITUTIONALISED VOLUME 1: BEYOND THE STANFORD EXPERIMENT, went 'live' on the self publishing site, LULU!
The subject at the time had been enforced weight gain (though I've since become more interested in enforced weight reduction and strictly-supervised dietary restriction – a subject touched upon in the new book, though not in the tightly-regulated, planned clinical / institutional way you might imagine.) The title was - 'WEIGHT GAIN AND THE RECALCITRANT TEENAGER: ENCOURAGED RATHER THAN FORCED –DISCUSS' – and posited the idea that through psychological manipulation it is possible to encourage overeating and that this approach was potentially more rewarding to the true authoritarian, with the application of a little imagination, then the methods often expounded by other authors and published elsewhere (involving force feeding and the like) or even the “clear the plate or get across my lap for a few stripes from my belt” type of approach. Perhaps some of you may remember - but if not; may I suggest a quick read through before going any further (click here or on the blog article tittle, above to visit).
The anonymous commentator was talking about weighing and measuring and awarding penalties and so on, and in reply I found myself extoling the virtues of acquiring body composition data– fat percentage etc - rather than just relying on weighing scales and the tape measure. I pasted up a couple of quick replies – the found myself penning the missive presented below. Far too large for use as a comment, I thought I'd run it up the flagpole here and see who salutes.
BODY COMPOSITION MEASUREMENT
To ascertain the subject's body composition on one of those domestic 'bio-impedance'-measuring bathroom weighing scale type devices merely requires that she be weighed barefoot and standing with her the soles of her feet in contact with two conductive areas or pads – typically footprint-shaped metallic areas.
Obviously there is a requirement for a standard set of stipulations governing the subject's state of undress and so on for the sake of precision and reproducibility of results as regards the recording of her weight, but not the bio-impedance measurement, per se, which will be unchanged. Having said that, it is important to understand that any discrepancy in weight (and height measurement) will be mirrored by a discrepancy in the deduced fat percentage, lean mass and so on based on the impedance measurement. But as most will only be interested in the CHANGE in weight and body composition recorded over time rather than in absolute values, all that is really required is that she should be identically clothed for each weighing. The point is this: Nudity - whether partial or total - is not strictly speaking a requirement, though of course that is open to the discretion of the disciplinarian.
Callipers for assaying or estimating body composition based on the measurement of skin fold thickness are inexpensive, easily available, whether for home or institutional use, but of course need a modicum of skill in use. The latter comes with a little practice – as I said before – but the details can be gleaned from the internet or (at the risk of being branded a Luddite) just about any good dietetics or human nutrition textbook.
The point is, whereas the bio-impedance method – for domestic use – requires only a few moments standing on what amount to glorified bathroom scales, the estimation of body composition by skin fold thickness measurement is far more personally invasive and intrusive, involved and long winded and a little bit tedious to be honest – aspects one might think advantageous, given the context within which our discussion is taking place. Skin fold thickness measurement using callipers - if it is to be a reliable and repeatable indicator of body fat percentage - involves repeated measurements taken at several different sites on the body.
For a quick easy rough and ready estimate the traditional site is sub-scapular, which involves taking a reading of the thickness of what amounts to a pinch of that fleshy bit we all have just below the shoulder blades – thus the term, 'sub-scapular'; below the bloody shoulder blades, you see. Now at the very least, if dressed that is going to entail her holding up her top. But without too much difficulty a compelling case can be made for removing her upper half entirely – and it goes without saying the presence of bra straps etc can seriously hamper obtaining a reliable measurement, especially as the pounds pile on and she becomes a little more fleshier (bountiful?) 'up top'.
Usually – as commonly the case in scientific measurement and data gathering – the average of three independent readings would be taken (and how long the disciplinarian might care to fuss over this processes is completely up to their discretion, and the time they might have on their hands - after all, no responsible 'care-giver' would want to risk errors creeping in where their charge's health is concerned).
This averaging of three readings would ordinarily be the case for each sampling site used where a multi-site assessment regimen is used – and the latter is by far the most reliable and repeatable method. Other sites commonly used in body fat assessment by skin fold thickness measurement include the lower belly and 'supra-iliac crest' (just above the 'horns' forming the outermost part of the upper pelvic region – those bits that protrude in bony-hipped women).
Just three sites and three readings taken per site and already our heroine's weight gain monitoring programme is turning into something of a ritual, with nine painstaking measurements required. And the same approach is equally efficacious for monitoring weight loss of course, or the efficacy of an enforced program of exercise: After all, unless you're one of those whose aim it is to create a flesh monster – not MY kind of thing at ALL – there will be times when switching her over to a reducing diet will be desired.
In addition one must take into account the fact that there are several other sites on the body which are more or less commonly used for body fat percentage assessment by this method. Two such sites are the triceps (rear of the upper arm) and biceps. The latter two sites are of course easily assessable without any special preparation if something short sleaved is worn. But one would hope that within a home schooling environment – for example - setup to cater for the older girl or young woman beyond the legally decreed minimum school leaving age and who has been taken out from mainstream education as a consequence, the private tutor or governess hired to oversee the continuing education process would possess the sense to insist on the wearing of a school uniform, at least for schooling, to encourage the correct pedagogic mindset.
Under such circumstances one might not be surprised to find certain old fashioned values still being held as to what constitutes a ‘traditional’ school uniform, with the resulting styling easily harking back quite a few decades. Thus it wouldn’t be surprising to find her in a long-sleaved starched blouse during the colder months and a long-sleeved variation on the traditional school summer dress as the weather warms. I know this seems a digression from the point of monitoring weight gain (or loss) but there IS a point; and it is this:
If her governess or tutor knows her stuff It will doubtless have been drummed into the girl the importance of maintaining her uniform in an absolutely pristine condition - clean, mark and crease-free - enforced, of course, by frequent uniform inspections and backed up by suitable penalties and repercussions for transgressions, necessitated by the choice of fabrics which crease at the drop of a hat. Razor-sharp knife pleats must remain just that and stiff starched ironed blouses must remain stiff and as blemish-free as if they just left the ironing board.
Under such circumstances as these, On NO ACCOUNT should she be allowed to crumple the sleaves of her blouse or dress by rolling them up to give access to her upper arm. Nor will she want to, if she has been properly trained. And by properly trained, it is meant to the point at which, other than when focused on written impositions and the like, the majority of her waking moments revolve around checking and rechecking her appearance, from time to time nervously glancing up from the school desk at the floor mirror deliberately angled towards her for exactly that purpose, always the same questions running through her mind as she catches sight of herself:
“Am I slouching? Is my blouse getting crumpled? Is my back straight enough to prevent it? Am I siting on my skirt, creasing the pleats? Did I remember to lift the hem as I sat down so only my knickers are touching the seat? Are my knees and ankles pressed together sufficiently closely?
From this you can take that even for the least personally intrusive measurement sites a substantial level of undress will be required. In the case of the long-sleaved dress, even measurements involving the upper arm will necessitate her stripping right down to her underwear. If she is wearing a gymslip and blouse ensemble then in order to take off her blouse the top half of the gymslip – the shoulder straps - will have to be undone and although the bodice can be folded down fore and aft there is potential for creasing the fabric and thus it might not be surprising to find the girl herself to prefer to step out of the skirt and to take the whole thing off. Of course the blouse would be expected to be neatly folded, in the way it had been when it first arrived in its cellophane wrapper and the gymslip placed on a hanger as neatly as if arrived freshly-pressed from the cleaners. All this adds to the ritual, the tedium serving as a reminder that she is no longer free to do as she pleases, she is not like other girls her own age, that she is under supervision and controlled to an extent that most of her peers wouldn’t think possible.
Just HOW intrusive these body composition investigations need be is up to whoever is making the decisions. There are other sites on the body where skin fold thickness may be measured. Ok, these might not be sites legitimately taken into account in mainstream medicine or dietetics – but the girl herself doesn’t need to know that. Thus measurements might be taken of the fold of flesh where the bottom meets with the top of the thighs or the upper parts of the inside of the thighs.
In terms of underwear, even the legitimate oft-used measurement sites of the lower tummy and at the sides at the top of the pelvis (iliac crest) will involve a bothersome level of disrobing if our chubby young lady is wearing a girdle (as ideally she should be, if being ‘plumped up’) and / or the sort of high-waisted short-legged bloomer-style knickers that somehow in my mind seem to fit the scenario. Taking measurements at the additional sites suggested – the upper inner thigh and that roll of tissue beneath the overhang of the bottom – will involve her having to peel down her knickers, at least in order to reach that latter site.
You’ll note I say ‘peel down’ rather than ‘take off’ or ‘remove’, as I believe there is something to be said for having her keep her knickers at ‘half mast’ rather than have her step out of them completly. A lot of fuss can be made about this, obliging her peel her knickers down to give access to her rear end – which she'll do while trying to keep the gusset in place as much as possible to spare her blushes – and then having her pull them back up again, of course insisting the backseam is pulled up snugly and her whole bottom covered as if by a drum skin, only to have to roll the legs (assuming a short-legged bloomer style) with their flesh-pinching elasticated openings up tight into the groin so the callipers can take a measurement of a pinch of skin taken as high up in the inner thigh as possible.
In an institutional environment how relevent all this ritualistic disciplined removal rearranging and replacing of items of clothing is to the actual procedure depends very much on the nature of the establishment we are talking about.
Given some kind of reformatory, workhouse or psudo-scholastic charity or church-run home for 'ruaways and waifs' the broad outline might be very much as outlined above, though the details will obviously differ somewhat dependent on attire.
Given the background of a secure care home or privately-run mental hospital, our unfortunate detainee might well be permantly in pyjamas, nightdress or other night attire in any case, but one can easily imagine her having to change into one of those brief-hemmed open-backed hospital examination gowns and being marched down the corriddor – or pushed along in a wheelchair – from the locked secure ward to the clinician's room or doctor's office; perhaps on a daily basis.
Actualy, given the ease with which such garments and various bits of medical equipment may be aquired nowadays, a hospital exam gown of the type and design outlined above could just as equally provide the answer in the domestic environment as in the clinical.... Just an idea.
I'm out and about today, working from a couple of coffee bars while moving around, so I hope you'll forgive me for not including illustrations (and also for the spelling / typo errors I KNOW will have slipped through, since the spell checker is not working on this machine; and as those regular visitors among you will know, I am very, VERY dyslexic).
It is my intention to return to this post and updated it with a few relevant pics (particularly as many among you may well be mystified by all this talk of callipers for measuring skinfold thickness) perhaps later today or, failing that, on Wednesday when next I am at home for any length of time... So keep 'em peeled!
Tuesday, 14 April 2015
I originally started work on the missive below as a short additional reply to a comment posted by 'Vlad' and it... well... it sort of expanded somewhat!
I have to admit that what I have written tends towards a sort of 'stream of consciousness' type of thing in style, but bear with me.
In addition; I wrote the vast majority on my 'smart' phone and in a piecemeal manner so my apologies if it is a little disjointed and contains typos, missing words and so on - I have had little free time on my hands recently and can't really justify the time it would take to thoroughly read through and proofread as I would with one of my books or novels or get someone else to do it, what with me being badly dyslexic and all!
I have to admit that what I have written tends towards a sort of 'stream of consciousness' type of thing in style, but bear with me.
In addition; I wrote the vast majority on my 'smart' phone and in a piecemeal manner so my apologies if it is a little disjointed and contains typos, missing words and so on - I have had little free time on my hands recently and can't really justify the time it would take to thoroughly read through and proofread as I would with one of my books or novels or get someone else to do it, what with me being badly dyslexic and all!
By the way, I make no apologies for including yet another view of that wonderful leather-skirted mistress from The English Governess. com (left - found on Tumblr). She looks SO much how I envisage the dominant psychologist or psychotherapist from my INSTITUTIONALISED series looking, once divested of her white coat.
I think the thing to remember about admission procedures is that, within the context we are speaking about here, they serve a dual purpose. The first and most obvious purpose is all about such legitimate tasks as gathering information, registering name and address perhaps gathering baseline data if a medical facility, weighing, taking measurements, blood pressure, perhaps taking a shower and so on. The second and less obvious aspect – though not necessarily purposeful – is all about drawing a sort of psychological line in the sand, a sharp demarcation between the subject's previous and new life and circumstances. Where the desire is to impose some measure of control, discipline and restriction over the individual then this latter aspect may well be quite purposeful, if not carefully calculated and intentional. Perhaps there might be some sort of short sharp shock.
On the other hand perhaps there might be a carefully engineered series of steps, a series of psychological barriers crossed one at a time. I can imagine each one of these steps as being in itself minor, perhaps each not counting all that much in of itself but each stripping away a little more of what keeps her connected her to the outside world. Each procedure would take from the girl a little more of makes the her the girl she is; self-confidence, self-respect, even aspects of her personality, being systematically stripped away from like the layers of an onion skin as her processing progresses, letting more and more of the repressive atmosphere of the institution seep in, culminating with her entering some sort of inner sanctum of the institution, some final entry point, dressed in whatever regulation manner the institution demands, already deeply steeped in institutional culture, the outside world seeming to her as far away and as out of reach as deep space.
So, whether becoming resident in the reformatory, coming under the protective wing of the Church-run 'Charity Home for Wayward Young Girls and Women in Peril of Moral Corruption' or having been tricked and manipulated into placing herself (or being placed) under psychiatric care, the irony is that in many ways it is that aspect which ordinarily might be considered secondary and minor which not only comes to assume major importance but is actually the raison d'etre for many of the procedures our nubile young candidate finds herself being put through.
And this is particularly the case in the third of these three exemplar scenarios, wherein, hopelessly out of her depth, our pretty bright young thing finds herself being inexorably led deeper and deeper into the workings of the mental hospital.
After all, having her valuables, all jewellery, her watch etc, placed in a safe, her suitcase stored away somewhere, even having to leave her phone outside at the reception desk along with her bank cards – all this wouldn't be questioned; its only the sort of everyday procedure she will have encountered at airports and so on, all very easily legitimised. OK, perhaps the offhanded way she has been greeted and spoken to will have come as something of a surprise – but that will have knocked her off balance. And they'll make sure she'll be kept off balance, moved along briskly with no time allowed for her to pause to question, to gather her thoughts and reconsider what is happening to her, the way in which the way she is being treated and spoken to is gradually changing as her processing continues, the staff's attitude to her gradually hardening. It's no surprise to be offered the chance to take a shower, not that surprising to find a laundry basket to deposit her clothes in, not entirely surprising to find waiting for her when she gets out one of those open-back hospital examination gowns and a pair of disposable paper knickers - but it is somewhat more disconcerting to find the laundry basket has been removed.
But she's hurried along further down the corridor, away from the way she came in and through a locked iron security screen and off to her first psychiatric appraisal with the doctor she's been told is running the project, her objections met only with an irritated tut from one of the two uniformed women escorting her... And even now it all seems understandable – surely her clothes will be waiting for her when she's brought back?
There will follow all the usual medical tests one would imagine, and all legitimately understandable, if a little more intrusive than she will have expected. But then there comes the first of a series of steps not so easy to legitimise. Why for example does she need a thorough intimate internal exam. Why does she need to be intimately shaved beforehand, put through a long drawn out virginal douche procedure and have to accept a series of three suppositories in her bottom?
In that latter scenario - especially if, as in the INSTITUTIONALISED series, she has been led to believe she is surrendering herself to some sort of residential psychology experiment without fully understanding its nature – I would imagine the procedural steps continuing on for days.
In terms of the longevity of admittance procedures; I think a lot depends on what point you consider her having been admitted. Given the latter scenario I think some might put forth the argument that it would be the stage whereat our heroine is issued with her regulation hospital pyjamas. Beyond that point I would imagine that as she progresses further through the system there would also be a shift in the staff set in charge of her.
Gone will be the two women she's initially been shepherded around by, the two nurses who seemed to know all about the clinical study she's enrolled herself in, replaced by nurses and orderlies who seem to know nothing of any of this. They treat her like a real mental patient – and unsurprisingly so, since she's now clothed in an outfit that not only makes her look no different from any other psychiatric case they have to deal with but which actually explicitly states her diagnosis for all to see. Perhaps it's unsurprising therefore that these hard-pressed staff members' only response to her constant insistence of there having been some sort of mistake is to dish out a sharp slap to the face. The only person she now gets to see who knows that she is supposed to be a clinical trial candidate is the stern female psychiatrist she'd initially seen, who had dealt with the paper work and administered her initial psychological appraisal.
On the other hand it could be argued that admission is the point at which she is first taken to the secure psychiatric ward where a bed is waiting for her. If that is the case, then the likelihood is that several days if not a week or more will have passed by since she first walked into the lobby of the main hospital. She'll have been fobbed off with promises and excuses and delays, finding herself continuously shuttling between the doctor's interview room and office for psychometric testing and so on and the secluded quiet little room she's been allocated to sleep in, all the time keeping herself going anticipating meeting the other volunteers, girls like herself who she fondly imagines she's bound to get on with; undoubtedly a lively, gregarious vivacious chatty fun-loving bunch.
By the time she is taken to the ward itself she'll have lost all track of time and largely been browbeaten into submission already. Perhaps she's even received her first caning by this point. Then again, perhaps she's yet to taste corporal punishment; perhaps her first introduction to the ward and the small group she desperately wants to believe are her fellow clinical study candidates is to coincide with her first experience of the kiss of the plaited leather riding switch, rattan cane, leather strap or folded belt across her delectably plump, weighty, full rounded bottom.
If the latter is to be the case, I prefer these days to imagine a highly ritualised affair rather than a straightforward scene of her being flung across a desk, table, couch or bed, held down and thrashed to the point of begging for mercy.
There may have been a time back in my book-buying past when I would have found such a scene presented in a similar manner satisfying enough – exciting even (to a point) – but where does one go from there? Two or three such thrashings down the line and one becomes desensitised – and the only path most authors can offer the reader from that point on in terms of punitive measures is to continually up the ante with ever more ferocious beatings, ever escalating numbers of strokes or lashes or whatever awarded utilising increasingly heavy-handed and sadistically vicious implements wielded under ever more stringent and inhuman circumstances.
Thus it is, in the hands of Victor Bruno (an author I respect and have enjoyed very much over the years) et al we find ourselves ending up being treated to accounts of rhino skin whip beatings and one hundred stroke canings and so on, to the point of smelling salts being called upon in order to revive the hapless victim so that, having been beaten insensible, she can be brought around to continue to suffer. But any fool, given the right circumstances and resources, can chain or strap their victim down or otherwise restrain her (or him – each to their own) and beat them into insensibility; it takes no brain nor skill; there is no finesse, and ultimately little lasting excitement; when it's done, it's done. It is quite another matter to arrange for a girl - perhaps an early school-leaver (though of marriageable age) if considering a home-schooling / governess-type scenario, or in her late teens or even early twenties given the type of institutional storyline being considered here – bend and touch her toes for the cane on command and to stay in position with no physical restraint of any kind.
You'll note I make a point of stipulating no PHYSICAL restraint in the paragraph above. I make no mention of the restraining effects of the psychological pressure to conform which will have been brought to bear, something which will have been building throughout the long drawn-out series of admission procedures the girl or young woman (I commonly use the terms freely and interchangeably) will have been put through up to this point and which has been partially the aim throughout.
So the sort of inaugural or induction caning I envisage – in addition to being witnessed by the assembled group she is about to join – would be embedded within a rigidly stipulated ritual. This would be chock full of pointless, tedious rules and demands designed to heighten the newcomer's sense of humiliation and sharpen and highlight that feeling of utter powerlessness which can develop when punishment is handed out for no good reason other than to inculcate the need for utter unquestioning obedience.
And that latter aim is most important off all. Despite my possibly misleading use of the term 'punishment' above, I see it as vital that throughout the proceedings the point is repeatedly made – and reiterated at every opportunity – that this is NOT a punishment in the classical definition of the word, in that the indignity and physical suffering she is experiencing is not a consequence of anything she has said or done. Indeed she has done nothing to deserve it - just as she keeps insisting - nor is there anything she could have done to have avoided it. It is just a procedural thing, part of the ritual of being inducted into the group and designed to undermine her status or standing within that group before she even gets started.
To the onlookers - forced to watch, each cringing inside, wincing at each whooping whistling crack of the cane or hiss and smack of the riding crop across the newcomers bottom - it is something each and every one of them will instantly recognise; each will have been through it. Not only that, but if those placed in a position of authority over this corralled group of nubile girl-flesh are worth their salt they'll have instigated a regimen of 'divide and conquer'. A major aspect of any such policy will undoubtedly incorporate some method of fermenting distrust between the individual members of the group; a secondary aim might well include measures designed to induce neurosis and thus further encourage distrust between peers.
One way to meet this secondary aim might well be the random allocation of 'punishment' similar to that being witnessed. Thus it is likely that more than one of the small group of teenagers making up the audience will be nursing a burning, bee-stung behind herself, while completely at a loss to explain what it was she was supposed to have done to have earned it, knowing only that it had to have been SOMETHING she'd done.. Otherwise, why else would she have been punished?
If you try, perhaps you can imagine the questions running through such an onlooker's mind as she struggles with the urge to massage her scorched bottom cheeks through the seat of her pyjamas and the rubbery plastic knickers she has on beneath, the fire reignited by the sight she is being forced to witness ...
What could she have done to have avoided it? What can she do in the future to avoid such a thrashing? How can she best please the carers, nurses and others in authority over her?
If convinced she'd done nothing, had been blameless, then perhaps a different type of question might be popping up in her mind as she looks on. Had having her bottom practically skinned by a riding crop wielded by one of the nurses been a consequence of one of the other girls 'telling tales' about her in order to gain favour, to earn herself some sort of 'privilege'? If so, who? Which girl?
If you could see in to her head perhaps then you could read her thought patterns – then what? What might be running through her poor little confused and professionally deluded mind?
“What about that girl the doctor gave chocolate to the other day, the blond girl designated 'patient 16A'? Six squares she got! True, she'd looked surprised right enough. But she'd been happy enough to nuzzle them out the doctor's hand like a pony fed half a dozen sugar cubes – and there'd been no lack of enthusiasm; she'd been grinning ear to ear with unbridled childish gratitude, like a toddler rewarded by a parent for good behaviour... Yeah... but it says 'delusional psychosis' on her bib and the signboard up on the wall behind her bed...
I KNOW I'm normal, but that girl is one of the REAL mental patients – I'm sure of it. Otherwise why would she rock like that, back and forth all day, grinning like an idiot? They said there'd be SOME real patients, a couple or so. And if she's delusional, all those smiles and nuzzling chocolate pieces out that woman's hand could mean anything... Yeah, but why would SHE be given chocolate in the FIRST place? You didn't get treats like that for nothing. Surely she must have done something to please someone, somewhere? Telling tales? But who would be stupid enough to believe anything she said if she were delusional? So... Was she a stooge? Was she some sort of plant, someone employed to act out the role of a mental patient – or perhaps a real mental case, but one trusted to be the ears and eyes of the institution?
And what about that other girl, a while further back still; the brunette? The poor thing was supposed to have dementia – that's what it said on her bib, and on the top pocket of her pyjama jacket; she even had her hands locked in stiffened mittens to prevent self harming; the nurses had to do everything for her, absolutely everything. And yet... A while back they took her mittens off and for quite a long time she had her toilet privileges restored – they'd take her to the loo and back a couple of times a day instead of having her use a bed pan like everyone else or – worse – use her knickers... Why was that? Surely it was SOME sort of reward, for SOMETHING – but what? Was SHE a stooge? Surely not – surely SHE was the real thing. She has these ugly great metal braces on her teeth (what for, who knows?) that push out her lips like a pouting trout and make her drool all the time – and with her mittens on and her arms fastened across her chest under her plastic bib there's nothing she can do about it and it all trickles down her front... No she couldn't be a stooge, she had to be the real thing. But then again – why did she suddenly seem to be everybody's favourite at the moment? Could she trust anyone? Did anyone trust her?”
Yes – in the régime I envisage it wouldn't only be 'punishments' and 'corrections' that would be handed out randomly. Indeed, our 'new girl' might not be inducted in to the group by way of some sort of ritualised punishment at all. Instead she might be required to watch one of the 'old guard', one of the pre-existing members of the group, being put through her paces in a similar manner to that outlined above, as an example of what comes of defiance.
Any such a demonstration will be of particular value in terms of its psychological impact if, as some component of the admission procedures thus far, our newcomer has been shown something of one or two members of the group she is being introduced to in their previous incarnations prior to their own admission: Imagine for instance she has been shown a couple of dossiers - complete with photographs - by way of encouragement, a couple of examples of recent recruits she'll be meeting and staying with. Of course the fact that the term, 'recent', as applied to the fun-loving leather-jacketed gum-chewing 'trendy' and the smiling vivacious-looking designer blonde she has been shown refers to some twelve months or more back will have been somewhat glossed over.
Perhaps in addition to witnessing – but not participating in – this ritualistic caning, the newcomer being spared the actual pain of the rod itself, she might be given some sort of 'treat', great show being made of her being rewarded with some kind of privilege or favour, anything from a smiling pat on the head (or bottom) to a sizable hunky bar of chocolate:
“Now you run along and pop into bed... And don't forget to let me know if you see anything untoward.”
The leather-skirted psychiatrist's enigmatic parting words might well leave our newcomer puzzled. But although quietly and conspirationally spoken - reinforced with a reassuring nod and knowing smile – in the quiet of the ward five other pairs of ears will have pricked up, and the inference will not be lost on any one of them. Even in the absence of the strictly enforced 'no talking' rule our newcomer's isolation will have been doubly ensured from the outset. And in her own mind – looking around at the assembled pyjama-clad group - she'll have that remark she's overheard beforehand running through her head, the woman psychiatrist to some unnamed individual on the other end of a phone line:
“... I have my eyes and ears everywhere...”
And what if, instead of just passively witnessing this ritual, our newcomer is instead made to actively participate, acting as the glamorous psychotherapist's proxy and wielding the cane herself, under instruction? Or if it is our newcomer who is to taste the cane or the riding crop – what if it is one of the assembled group of onlookers who is handed the length of thin pliant bamboo or plaited leather switch?
But with all that said and done; I have to say, I still find it difficult to conceive of any situation able to provide greater psychological impact than for a nubile, perhaps naturally shy, young thing to be systematically reduced to tears in front of a small cohort of girls of similar age to herself she imagines are soon to become her comrades, as a means of welcoming her into the fold! And I do think a good hard caning to be best under such circumstances, rather than an over-the-knee strapping, paddling, hand spanking or similar. The point is; after such an experience and being made such an exhibition of, it will be well nigh impossible for her to cut any sort of figure in front of her new peers.
In actuality, the caning doesn't have to be all that severe in terms of out-and-out force to produce the desired psychological effect in this situation. There is no need to really slash in the strokes, as one might for the purposes of behavioural correction and modification or to break through some stubborn streak the girl might have. Rather it is more a symbolic procedure than anything else, one designed to start her off in her new life with the correct mindset, so that in her own eyes - and those of the girls and young women comprising the group into which she is being inducted - the image is formed and brought in to sharp focus of a girl already surrendered to authority. As such she is less likely to be able to inspire others to insurrection and since those she is about to join are so browbeaten already – as she will discover – she is unlikely to find the peer support and strength to rebel herself; indeed, mixing with those already broken to the system will tend to further undermine her own sense of self worth, individuality and defiant independent spirit still further.
All that is really required of this procedure then is to foster in the girl's mind and those of the onlookers the requisite image; and for that, all that is necessary is that she submits to the ritualised caning, that it stings enough to bring home to her the shame of it, and that it is witnessed by the group of her peers. Carried out correctly, with all ritualistic elements observed as outlined, and even though not agonising – in the classical sense that a caning is so often depicted as agonizing in main-stream spanking literature (all those smelling salts and so on) – nevertheless it will be indelibly imprinted in her psyche forever.
The type of ritualistic caning I like to imagine is best embodied by the type of 'knickers down, knickers up' form of ritual mentioned in a sort of oblique way on a couple of occasions back in the day in Janus magazine (I think they once marketed a film based around this idea). Sketchy and oblique the reference may have been, but it stuck in my mind over the years, was nurtured and expanded upon in my imagination to emerge in the form I imagine today.
Given the situation I have outlined above the girl will of course be bare-footed and in hospital-issue pyjamas, a thick transparent polythene tabard, something approximating a very large baby feeding bib, over the top of her upper half, the two halves buckled together at the sides at her waist.
The idea of the plastic tabard is something of a new innovation in terms of this happy little scene I like to conjure up in my imagination and does not feature in any of my presently published books. There are versions marketed by medical suppliers which are easily obtainable and intended for dentia sufferers and others of restricted mental acuity to protect nightwear from food spillages, drooling and so on. Modified versions can double as part of a restraint system where it is necessary to confine the wearer to a chair, wheelchair or bed. The form I imagine would allow the girl's regulation hospital green and white striped pyjama jacket to be seen beneath it, complete with hospital crest embroidered on its top pocket – albeit the thick rubbery polythene introducing a greyish cast – but would have the hospital name, the words 'secure psychiatric wing' or perhaps 'psychiatric patient' or something similar and some sort of suitable 'diagnosis' such as DEMENTIA or DELUSIONAL PSYCHOSIS printed across the front in bold black lettering, thus ensuring the wearer tends to be viewed and treated accordingly.
All-in-one 'tamper proof' pyjamas are also commercially available – intended for the same kind of patient - and are easily procurable, even for home use if wanted, and can be obtained in a form with sewn-in anchor points to allow for various forms of restriction where self-harming is an issue or tampering with dressings, cannulas, incontinence precautions and catheters and so on is a danger. I have toyed with the idea of a recalcitrant young charge dressed in such a manner with her arms crossed over her bust, a brass ring or eye at her left wrist clipped to a ring sewn into a tab at the right shoulder and similarly her right wrist secured to her left shoulder and then the polythene tabard secured over the top, its front and back halves buckled together tightly around her waist just below her elbows and thus further securing her arms. I have toyed, too, with the idea of 'special' pyjamas for home use having a more conventional appearance but with similar anchor points sewn in, and again designed to be worn with a tabard or restrictive quilted bed jacket over the top.
More recently I have been tinkering with the idea of a restrictive corset with laced channels or open-sided sleeves capable of securing a girl's arms down by her sides over which would be worn special pyjamas or even especially manufactured outdoor wear designed and tailored without sleeves or arm holes – in terms of hospital issue pyjamas with one of those tabards worn over the top I imagine it would produce a pleasingly clean line, as if she had been born without arms. Very sweet, very helpless and – importantly given the current context of this discussion – very dependent.
For now though it's probably best we put those thoughts and possibilities on hold and keep things simple (though your comments, criticisms and further ideas are always welcome).
So our newcomer will have on a pair of hospital issue pyjamas such have been described and outlined in the INSTITUTIONALISED series. Doubtless she'll have on underneath a pair of 'tamper proof' polythene bloomer-style knickers, as designed for dementia sufferers, with a locking waistband secured at the rear by a small padlock, which will have to be released first by the smartly uniformed nurse accompanying her.
You have to imagine our new girl has just been led in. She finds herself standing at the front of a narrow hospital ward, three hospital beds lined up to either side – giving six in all – separated by a gangway just large enough for a hospital trolley to pass – perhaps the width of a bed – and each bed separated from the next by a green plastic curtain which can be drawn around if and as required. The quiet is extraordinary, just the shuffling of five pairs of bare feet – five well-developed big breasted teenaged girls, all identically dressed in hospital pyjamas and polythene tabards, two marked up with the words 'delusional psychosis' and three with the single word 'dementia'.
There is a desk at the front of the room at which a stern-faced woman in a tightly belted navy blue uniform dress sits, a starched white nurse's cap on her tightly pinned raven hair. There is a full length mirror screwed to the wall behind the desk, reflecting the rear view of the seated woman, the entire length of the room, the assembled group of bowed-headed pyjama-clad girls and the newcomer with her nurse escort, a girl not all that much older than herself dressed in a fitted blue and white check dress, a white cap perched on her blonde hair and a tight elasticated crepe belt around her trim waist. And above the mirror, the reason for the deadly quiet – or part of the reason at any rate – a large sign in bold black letter spells out what will soon become apparent to her is the cardinal stipulation: “NO TALKING AT ANY TIME”. It is actually the second highest ranking of several cardinal rules, as she will discover – the first and highest principle is simply 'obedience'.
She is made to turn, face the assembled group of girls, her cheeks burning bright as embers, disquieted by the cowed, downtrodden atmosphere hanging over them all, the way they stand with hands crossed in front, heads lowered, eyes averted and how each pointedly avoids eye contact. She's seen the metronome on front of the nurse's station desk – and now, behind her back, she hears it started up... TOCK, TOCK, TOCK, TOCK...
Then comes the order: The psychiatrist has entered and its her voice, syrupy, plummy, educated and self-satisfied. She is the only one not wearing some sort of uniform. Even the girls, even the new girl herself, can be thought of as wearing some sort of uniform; theirs mark them out as mental patients; it practically says as much on the rubbery plastic tabards over their pyjamas. Right at this minute she doesn't even have her customary white coat on. Instead she is dressed in a tight knee length black leather skirt, tailored and close-fitted white satin blouse and high heels, her face made up as if going out for the evening, her glossy black hair up in a tight no-nonsense bun. Big busted and broad hipped she nevertheless has a remarkably trim waist and looks a good ten years younger than her actual age which is nearer forty five. It is she who is going to administer the punishment – and it is not the cane the girl has spied resting against the nurse's chair she is going to be putting to use; she has just strolled in carrying a thin plaited riding crop, is running it through her fingers, toying with it, flexing it experimentally:
“Right, six strokes – jump up, rise before you're told to, forget to count the stroke out loud or refuse to bend and it starts again from the beginning. Refuse point blank to accept your introductory caning and... Well you KNOW what to expect! Ok... let's have those pyjama bottoms down... knickers down... touch your toes... knees locked out... legs wider apart than that, girl!”
Swisssh - crrracck !!!
You can, I'm sure, imagine the thin red line developing across the pure lily-white skin of her well-formed naked behind.... and the wail of dismay as the heat of the stroke sinks in... Somehow she hasn't sprung up – this time!
“Stay in position, listen to the metronome, count thirty-six beats... and... now straighten up. Pull up your knickers, pull up your pyjama bottoms and turn to face the mirror, hands on head. Thank me for the stroke...”
Somehow she manages a strangled-sounding “thank you, doctor”.
The woman holds out the switch to the girl's lips.
“Kiss the switch...”
Red faced the girl kisses the supple leather.
“Now look at yourself in the mirror, and as you count sixty-four beats of the metronome I want you to think about how you look, what your friends would think of you if they could see you – a mental patient in a psychiatric hospital... count the beats... count out loud...”
“sixty two, sixty three, sixty-four...” The girl's voice is shaky, breaking, already becoming interrupted by sobbing laboured breaths as she struggles to deal with the spreading pain radiating out across her backside... and the fear of the impending next stroke builds within her as the metronome beats pile up. Her face begins to burn brighter still as she catches sight of the smile spreading across the face of the young nurse standing alongside her in her neat blue and white uniform dress.
“Keeping your hands on your head, turn, face the other patients, count thirty six beats of the metronome, then lower your hands, drop your pyjama trousers, pull down your knickers and touch your toes like before...”
SSSSwwwwwissh – cccraaack!!!
“No you don’t – don't you DARE get up! Listen to the metronome – thirty-six beats; THEN you can straighten up!!”
And so it goes on, each position regulated by the unvarying, unrelenting rhythm of the metronome.
On the other hand, perhaps the newcomer might have to watch as one of the more established inmates, chosen at random, is caned, perhaps put through a similar regimented routine while she watches. Either way, you can bet she'll be quiet and contrite as she is led over to her bed.
I sometimes think such a ritualised procedure as this works even better where some kind of school uniform is involved – the fussier the better. Perhaps carried out by a newly appointed governess-cum-tutor figure by way of introduction to a newly-introduced home-schooling régime, and in front of her guardian or stepmother or whoever has had the inspired imagination to have employed such a woman.
Monday, 30 March 2015
This just sprung to mind when working through a contribution by Chris (who developed the character Miss Frobisher and having come across this pic on my hard drive while searching for the gymslip pics I pasted up last time.
While her old school chums were entering their final year in preparation for university or leaving to get jobs, get married, perhaps go travelling, she’d found herself trapped in the most stifling home schooling régime imaginable, dressed from head to toe and from the skin outwards in the fussiest of school uniforms and under the tutelage of a woman who seemed intent on taking control of every tiny little aspect of her life. Just like the tiny little speck of a stain Miss Frobisher had just detected on her heavily starched white school blouse – THAT would be two strokes of the cane, just for starters – and Miss Frobisher had already indicated that one of the seams of her fully-fashioned lisle stockings wasn’t sufficiently straight; that would be another two strokes for sure.
She turned eighteen some time back and under the terms of the will she could have inherited then. But she’s a level-headed girl, fully aware of her shortcomings - intellectual and otherwise - ,her lack of maturity and inability at present to shoulder the responsibility of dealing with such a large inheritance. When it was explained to her she could accept the alternative and more traditional legal interpretation of the term ‘age of majority’ as in ‘upon reaching the age of majority’ as meaning upon reaching age twenty-one she seemed happy enough to sign the relevant papers. She’d seemed happy enough as well to accept the idea of staying under home education rather than leaving to try to finish her schooling and go on to university like her old school chums. Mind you, she’d find that very difficult. With university places at a premium these days the entry requirements are becoming higher and higher – and she has nothing like the minimum qualifications.
Home Schooling for the Would-Be Under-Grad Applicant, the Reintroduction of School Uniform and Dealing with the Bustline - to Bind or not to Bind? Is THAT the Question?
The following probably contains so many spelling errors it isn't true, but I am away from home using my daughter's laptop and can't get the spell checker to work on this thing - bear with me, I'm sure you can work it out. I've just discovered a hell of a lot of the content from the BEYOND THE BARRED WINDOW website didn't make it when I migrated the site to an area of Graham's THE ORIGINAL INSTITUTE site. So this is in a way a bit of an excuse for me to post up some of my fave gymslip pics that some how got lost in the move, although to be honest I was looking for one of 'em when I made this horrifying (because it had taken so long originally and had some pics not available elsewhere) discovery.
I sometimes think we should be greatful for the modern world – from several diferent perspectives. Consider this scenario – stick with me and you'll see it's quite plausable; been there, done that... sort of anyway:
Imagine if you will it is back in the day. You are faced with a recent school leaver, some recalcitrant pouty, yet attractive, teenager determined to make her own way in the world. Ok, she's only recalcitrant up to a point – deep down inside she's a fairly quiet type; if she digs her heels in her objections are fairly easily overcome with a determined jut of the jaw, a stern attitude and sheer power of will. In other words, she's easily intimidated, she's pleasantly maluable - but perhaps not that bright.
Perhaps she left school at the first opertunity not so much because of her defiant individulistic streak, her determination to be independent and a conviction to break away, as to escape bullying, say, or because of an inability to perform well academicaly, despite not being TOTTALY dumb. Perhaps there is some sort of educational deficiency present, perhaps something easily overcome, like yours truly suffers from – dyslexia – or somewhat more difficult to deal with but still manageable, such as mild attention deficit disorder. Perhaps she is somewhat psychologicaly immature for her age, struggles with her own new-found independence, wrestles constantly with decision making, can't make up her own mind. Perhaps deep down in her heart of hearts – though she may not realise it herself – she actualy hankers for dependance, to be told what to do and when to do it.
Again, imagine if you will the decission has been made to wrest control of her life from her, for her own good, to return her to full-time education while there is still time to turn her around, pedagogicaly speaking. Now, it of course goes without saying she is above the legal age below which atendance in some sort of educational establishment or education by an acredited tutor following a state ratified sylabus is mandatory and in the eyes of the law is an adult for all intents and purposes, old enough to marry – as the hackneyed saying goes – but not old enough to know her own mind.
Through a painstaking programe of interviews, background checks and vetting you've found just the tutor you need to reintroduce a home schooling regeime, a thin-lipped young woman with just the right attitude and belief system. A suitable space in the home is easily enough found and put aside for educational purposes – and this is easily enough furnished from highstreet shops; as easily then as now; with no questions asked.
Even if it is desired to introduce corporal punishment at some point there is little problem. Bamboo canes can be plucked from the garden – you can leave the roses to fend for themselves for a while; I know I have, in the log distant past – or bamboo canes can be purchased from the local garden centre without the slightest HINT of a raised eyebrow, or you can simply fold over your belt or use your hand. And such has always been the case.
But now the stumbling block: With all going to plan thus far the decision is made to return her to school uniform. Doesn't sound too much of a problem? But imagine she is a little on the plump side; big hips, big bum; and buxom with it. In other words a very mature figure which we're setting out to try and package in a decidedly immature way. But this is where the modern world may actualy come to the rescue. Even without the advent of the internet the uncomfortable fact of the increasing prevalance of obesity in the young has meant even traditional school outfitters, supermarkets and chain stores now stock suitable items ranging up well into adult sizes. There was a time when only a good seamstress was the solution if you wanted to take her much beyond a basic skirt and blouse type of thing. Now summer dresses and even more juvanile styles such as zip-fronted pinafore dresses can be aquired from out in what we might term the main-stream marketplace. Even simple gymslip-like styles can sometimes be secured in sufficiently large sizes from such sources.
OK if you would prefer to see her in something a little more idiosyncratic like the crossover top style of gymslip I prefer to see (see illustation) you might still need it made to meassure. And there is a lot to be said for bespoke tailoring if you can afford it and you are willing to go through the trouble of having her measured and perhaps two or more fitting sessions with alterations where nessesary and so on. But that troublesome aspect might almost be worth the cost in its own right; the opertunities to extend girl's embaressment in such a situation are almost endless and only limited by one's imagination.
In the right hands her blushes will be frequent, deep and long lasting. One only has to revisit 'the fitting session' in a back issue of Janus from back in the 1980s to appreciate the possibilities. In that article it was a bespoke pair of shorts being modeled and fitted but exactly the same considerations and detailing could be applied to something as ordinarily intimate as a pair of knickers, achieving an extrodinarily snug and revealing fit without actualy being tight as such. It is only when one realises that in home schooling, if the wearing of a uniform is required for lessons and so on, the usual considerations need no longer nessesarily apply that one would have to take into account if designing a school uniform for public appearance that the possibilities really begin to present themselves.
Thus – if expense is not an issue – I can envisage two complete sets of uniform being made up. One for when out in public – because why shouldn't she have to retain school uniform on her, rare, escorted trips outdoors? And the crossover-top gymslip with the plain skirt exactly as shown is eminatly suitable Ok if you wanted to make it less unusal and likely to raise comment you could allow the wearing of a buttoned cardigan of a suitably subdued shade over the top, though this should always be V-necked to show the school tie and should incorporate contrasing piping in school colours to make it clear to onlookers that she is in some sort of school uniform – a matching berret with a school badge can make this statement clearer still.
For home wear the modified version would be worn – and this is where the tailored school knickers come into their own. At home the skirt can be made extrodinarily brief. The knickers, high-wasted short-legged bloomer stlye, would terminate with beribboned leg cuffs perhaps a little way below midthigh and fit her bottom like a glossy white second skin of thin acetate or nylon, the backseam tucked away invisibly between two bulging cheeks that rarely go one day to the next without feeling the kiss of thin resiliant bamboo or rattan. The gymslip skirt would fan out like a skater's dress might above glossy sheeved globes more like a pelmet than a skirt, its purpose to draw the eye and frame rather than cover. Similarly the open-sided gymslip bodice extending and angleing outwards to accomadate the bossom serves to exagerate and draw the eye to the prodigious deveopment she is becoming so self-consious over and that, when juxtaposed against the obviously juvanile styling of the outfit as a whole, becomes so bugiling to the viewer.
But when all is said and done regarding bepoke tailoring and the advantages to be gleened therefrom, if you can't – or wont – pay out for made-to-measure, the glorious internet comes to the rescue every time. Even that rarer cross-over bodice gymslip can be aquired, no questions asked, in sizes up to adult (see pic).
But on a different but related subject; it is obvious (though it may take time for the girl herself to come to terms with this) that it is less embarresing for the young lady if she is accepted in public as within the age range she appears to be and is dressed as rather than a much older specimen who should really be attending college who has been put back in school uniform and who is regualy having her rear end warmed (and bottom used for other pleasures one would hope – there is nothing quite like telling a girl to pull up her knickers and sit back down when she has been used in that way; and a jar of vasiline left in plain view on her tutor's desk or her own can be most salitary in reminding her of the continuous need for obediance).
In connection with this is the question of bust minimizing or breast binding, mentioned recently by someone in feedback to this blog via email. I have thought about this a hell of a lot over my years of writing this stuff and am yet to reach a fixed opinion – it changes like the weather.
On the one hand there is the satisfaction to be derived from the sheer level of control it implies. On the other hand there is the increased level of embaressement suffered by the amply-blessed young lady of her obviously grown-up biological mature figure crammed in a childish young girl's outfit.
The latter consideration brings me to sometimes feel the need to think about the diametricaly oposite approach, of deliberatly augmenting the bustline by insisting on corsetry of various forms.
A plump busty young thing with her bustlined raised and thrust out, her waist squeezed to the point of barely being able to breathe, and her bottom thrust out behind her can present a sight indeed or squeezed into a school uniform – especialy with her waist-lengh hair in braids tied of by ribbon bows.
My feeling nowadays, with the benefit of much thought and fantisising, tends towards somewhere in the middle of all this. I like the idea of the mature figure juxtaposed with the childish demeaning dress. But on the other hand I like the idea of closely controling and disciplining her, perhaps through dietary measures, which I would imagine as quite stringent (an idea which is explored in the new book to quite an extreme extent – in both directions).
So my gut feeling right now is that the girl herself should have to take the decission. Almost dying with emabaressment, her plump cheeks like beetroot every time there is a visitor or she is allowed out, she herself should ask to wear a bust reducer or binder, she herself should choose to make herself seem younger than her years by the language she uses, the way she carries herself, her submissiveness in the way she behaves and acts and so on. She should stop complaining at having her hair plaited, learn to do it herself, tie her own ribbons in. She should cease worrying over aplying makeup – banned from day one in any case - and the latest styles in the shops and what is happening in the club scene and submit to what she is becoming, to having the clock turned back, to becoming ever more dependent on her implacably dominant governess-cum-tutor, to having her sexulality re-writen and remoulded to suit and fufil that woman's needs... Oh dear – I've got carried away again, gone all breathlesss.
I stil have no internet at home, by the way. My phone line is STILL completely dead and an engineer can't come 'till Wednessday. So I'm falling further behind with my work for Roger Benson – though at present he is only asking for speech bubbles and I can clear my backlog in around an hour or two, tops.
Mind you, there has been a 'sleep over' in Toyntanen Towers and back home is presently full of sourcepan lids (kids, for you un educated non-believers) and thus I have had to migrate to a pub (again) which I can ill afford unless I can get a book out soon, so I am reduced to scrounging beers off anyon I think owes me one, which luckily is quite a few.
The other techniquie I have seen other drunks use is to move in on the dreggs left behind by others before the bar staff remove the glasses. It never fails to amaze me how often folk get up and calmly leave behind half a pint, or even more! Oh God... Have I tumbled SO far???
Friday, 27 March 2015
Yeah I know those of you who regularly peruse my Tumblr blog will have seen this already but it is difficult to produce something specifically for this blog at the moment as I am having to up date it out in public and so have to use preformed content to get it done quickly and discretely. Besides, I have two or three others lined up along the same lines I want to share with you.
This one has little to do with the real storyline it depicts - which comes from the delicious Bars and Stripes site (if you want to see more - and it IS recommended - link to the site from the banner right down at the bottom of the page; I get some much needed cash that way).
What it represents is my interpretation of what MIGHT be going on, in light of one of my favourite subject areas inspired by the reader's letters section of the 1980s editions of Janus magazine... Admission procedures.
And what I love about admission procedures in terms of fantasy and institutional-scene story writing (obviously it cannot work in domestic discipline scenarios - generally at least) is the way it opens the way to the inclusion of all manner of things beyond simple caning and spanking. Hair cutting / shaving, gynaecological inspections, enemas, suppositories, edging, cold showers and all manner of humiliations can be woven in and piled on the unfortunate heroine's pretty head.
This is not an exhaustive list, and I'm sure you can think of more. It is all about creating a sharply delineating and contrasting break - psychologically speaking - between the girls previous life and this new existence she is entering into.
Those of you who visit here frequently enough will know I sometimes get a 'kick' from re-evaluating and re-interpreting what are often perfectly innocent images. And often those images can be a fruitful source of inspiration for my own storylines - even old adverts from mainstream publications have given birth to interesting avenues to explore in the past, especial those old girdle adds. Well this one is not so innocent, but it is still fun weaving various alternative storylines around it and putting one's own spin on it. Don't you think? Take a look around you as you walk through life and let your imagination out to play and see what happens.
The reason I am working away from home is simply that my home phone line is down and has been for a week and a half now, thus no home internet connection either... I am livid!!! It is messing up everything - including the artwork I am still doing for Roger Benson.
On the other hand, as I have had to escort my aged mother to a hospital appointment in Edgware today; and as she doesn't mind funding me for a few pints (coz I'm broke); and as there is a Wetherspoons beer festival on and it is always interesting to visit a new (to me) branch of my favourite pub chain; and as I require a fast WiFi connection (which they provide - gratis); it is a good excuse to explore and so today finds me in the Kingsbury (North West London) branch with a pint of 'Old Peculiar' in my mitt...
Cheers - n - beers!
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
Hi folks! I've just updated the new book cover design. Not sure how well it works as it is so your opinions, thoughts and ideas are most welcome.
As you can see, it features several elements from Roger Benson's artwork which he kindly gave me permission to use, ie the girl, stool and camera as well as a ransom note that was made in the traditional way with letters cut out of newspapers and magazines which I then scanned in to the computer and distorted to make look crumpled by being held in a hand.
The cane is one of my creations. Anyway, see what you think.
By the way, I am trying to contact 'Chris' who wrote a piece for this blog back in january about another piece he has written and I have been working on editing. I have tried a couple of times to contact him by email, but to no avail. So if 'Chris' is reading this, please email me. Ta!
Monday, 16 March 2015
Yeah! Your favourite scribe has just passed the 300 follower mark on Tumblr (actually that particular milestone I passed last week - but I was too modest to say). So (I so hate folk who start off their sentences with 'so' - it is something becoming ever more prevalent here in the UK, even on the BBC - ESPECIALY on the BBC!)... Sorry! Where was I? Ah, yes! So, does imbibing real ale and spanking mix? Well, certainly one should not spank when inebriated, just as one should never punish when angry... But someone seems to think so (left), seen on a bar in a wetherspoons pub (The Rochester Castle, Stoke Newington, North London N16 - I think) during that company's last UK-wide beer festival back in October last.
The 'implement' is actually a handy device designed to aid in carrying three one third of a pint glasses in one hand and nothing at all to do with corporal punishment, unless of course one has tasked one's prettier 'other half' (prettier than me? Ha!) to fetch and carry the afternoon's refreshment and she's...and she's.... and she's (I can't quite bring myself to say it!)... and she's SPILLED some of the precious nectar!!!! Oh my God - I've just come over all cold!
It is kind of interesting that someone behind that bar (presumably) recognized the passing resemblance the thing has to a well known variation on the so-called 'paddle', innit? (as they say around here).
Anyway; as you'll know, I'm pretty much broke and doing my best to keep going until I can get my next book out (not that the proceeds from THAT will make much difference) thanks to my bank misinforming me as to how much I am worth - and me going mental and blowing a load on 'essentials' such as booze and sun (in my own defence, I WAS deeply depressed and heading off down self-destruction ally - again!), but a friend had stood me to a day of drinkies. Well that same friend is standing me to another day of drinkies today, and there's another one of those beer festivals on - the Wetherspoons spring festival. Can you believe this lavish interior is actually the inside of a British pub? Well it is - The Hamilton Hall, at Liverpool Street station, London; it looks more like the Hermitage or something, paintings, ornate plaster mouldings, chandeliers, the works! What an amazing place! And I'm full of amazing ideas at the moment too, so I'm waiting for my mate to go so as to get on with a little writing (hope he leaves me with a bit of cash to buy a few more beers with!!).
For what it's worth I've just changed the working title to THE SHAM CONJECTURE and my poor unfortunate hapless heroine has just had a damn good caning and has been fed a few squares of chocolate.
What is so bad about THAT? I hear you ask. Well, you see, it all depends on your viewpoint, whether she actually LIKES chocolate and how hungry she is!.
Presently she is having her waist length hair (spoiler alert - so now you know she hasn't had her head shaved) combed... With a nit comb.
Hmmm, interesting possibilities!
SHAM of course, in this usage (as well as obliquely referring to a plot device - of which more another time; if you're lucky) is an acronym developed from the initial letters of Subjugation, Husbandry And Management (of wayward young women).
Oh... Just before you go. Did I mention that comb is none too clean? No? Well it seems it's been through a few other heads first and not too well disinfected afterwards either - oh well! And there is a shower cap involved - I can tell you that much.
Now; on a different tack; I wonder if any of you ladies out there (and I KNOW there are some) can imagine horse hair knickers or perhaps polythene knickers with a woven horse hair lining worn under a coarse hessian prison dress? Just an idea!