Some Interesting (I'm Hoping) Imagination Fodder

 

Just a Little Something I Knocked Up Today for the New Book

Here's just a little something I knocked up today for the new Book. The scene is in an attic room converted into a 'schoolroom' in a country house in the south of England. It's more a scene-setting thing than anything else but give it a try anyway. The pictures are just a couple of things I've found and nothing really to do with the story as such. Oh! And it may well be full of typos, for which my apologies in advance - it is at that kind of stage; please let me know.

The Importance of Keeping Count

She stood resting against the wall at the back of the room. Here she could observe the scene without the girls being certain they were being watched. It was that element of uncertainty that was so important in fostering the sense of being under control she wished to reinforce in her charges; it kept them off balance. Levering herself upright she wandered between the school desks, casually observing the girls’ work as she moved toward the front of the classroom, their twin beribboned heads bent dutifully to their studies in the unnerving silence.

Today she had dressed in her white blouse, the crisp white shirt-collared one that she knew exaggerated her tendency to appear domineering; but that was something of an advantage here. Trim waisted and tailored where it mattered, it emphasised the aggressive thrust her long-line corselet gave to her bust. Finished off with a dark grey tie that tucked in to the waistband of her skirt, it also provided just a hint of intimidating masculinity. This she had teamed with a dark grey worsted pencil skirt having a hemline coming to within a couple of inches of her knees. Her athletically trim legs were encased in perfect dark-tan stockings of the old-style fully-fashioned variety she favoured and showed off calves stretched to their most adventurously shapely extreme by a pair of black stilettos.

Her coloured auburn hair – she’d had it dyed especially for the impact she wished to achieve - she had swept up, pining it behind a half-moon tortoise comb and forming an austerely tight bun. The latter’s rich hue, she knew, threatened to clash with her thin lips and nails - both attributes painted a glaring matching post-box red - but she knew it was a look she could carry off. Even if, against her naturally pale, almost alabaster, complexion, the effect was a little stark, she knew that element of starkness was something she could use to her psychological advantage.

Having reached the front of the classroom she stepped up on the dais, turning on her heel and stepping smartly in front of her desk, her heels clicking noisily on the hollow platform as she did so. Leaning back lightly against the desktop, supporting her weight with her left hand while simultaneously rattling the school cane against one of its legs with her right, she feigned a cough.

“Sit up straight! Now, girls, pick up your pencils – you are going to be taking notes; we’re going to be discussing your futures, your prospects if you will.” The imperious hazel-eyed school mistress surveyed the scene with what she fondly imagined to be a friendly, almost affable smile on her expertly made-up face. Discipline bolstered by punishment, yet tempered with love, even if affected; that was the way to mould the minds of impressionable young women like these two. By the time she was finished with them the two of them wouldn’t know if they were coming or going – but they would know how to obey her, they would want to obey her. In fact they would seek to earn her approval at every turn.

"Tell me, what do you see as the purpose of education?” It was a rhetorical question, as so many were that she posed; smiling, she went on without pausing for an answer. “Well, I’ll tell you – very little in terms of academic subjects as far as girls of your very limited levels of accomplishment are concerned. To be honest, there are very few jobs out there these days suitable for girls, such as your selves, that are… how should I put this? ...somewhat intellectually challenged, as far as I have been able to determine. Those paths that are available are unlikely to be particularly academically challenging.” She smiled condescendingly at the timid pair of young girls seated trembling before her as she spoke, her gaze shifting from one to the other in turn, continuingly gauging the effect her words were having on further quashing their spirits. She went on, leaving a pause for effect.

“…Domestic service, perhaps waitressing? …Shop girl?” She pressed a finger to her lips pensively, as if genuinely actually pondering. “…No, no, not shop girls – too much initiative required. And you, Alice, with your agoraphobia, your fear of the outdoors… Well, I guess waitressing would be out of the question…”

The sour faced school mistress softly laughed at that observation, her hands now in the attitude of prayer, her index fingers tapping together in an expertly affected show of faux consideration. Absentmindedly flicking an errant strand of hair that had somehow had the temerity to have escaped the austere grip of her tightly wound bun, she went on.

“…It would have to be something ‘live-in’ I think… Not children’s nanny - I don’t think you could be considered a responsible enough adult to be trusted with children; not with your history of drug problems. And besides; you’re ‘known’ to the police – that alone should be enough to put most people off!” She gave a knowing little laugh as the target of her belittling reddened prettily, the teenager’s glowing cheeks set off by the diagonal red stripe incorporated into her school tie and hair ribbons. “…No, for you, young Alice Marchment, it would have to be something ‘domestic’, something ‘in service’ as they would have said in the old days, but nothing too intellectually challenging; it would have to be a pretty menial position, I’m afraid, something right down at the bottom of the pile.”

Alice bristled inside, yet rather than the steaming anger that might once have soared up within her there was instead a sort of grumpy ‘acceptance under protest’. It was so unfair, all this constant questioning of her intelligence. She had been doing quite well at school… She had – hadn’t she? But that school report she had been handed… and now that letter, recently arrived, cancelling the university place that had been offered ‘on advice’… What did all that mean? She had become such a ‘muddle-head’ of late, perhaps… No, she was clever than that, she knew she was… If only she didn’t feel so ‘sheepish’, if only she had more self confidence! But she looked like a child, she felt like a child… No…they’d made her look like a child… they’d made her feel like a child.

Whatever the truth, nevertheless Alice sensed her shoulders sag, felt her eyes drop away, heavy with shame and she began to contemplate the Formica top of the school desk she was made to sit at day upon endless day. She knew every inch of its annoyingly finely ruled beige chequer pattern, just as she knew every nuance, every accent, encoded within the insistent, incessant tick, tick, tick of the school clock up on the wall and the fact that, try as she may, it was never possible to hear anything of the world beyond that nerve-twisting sound… The sheer monotony made her want to scream, to the point at which her teacher’s voice, even at its most humiliatingly belittling and bullying extreme, had become something that she mentally begged for – anything to fill in that dreadful silent void between one ‘tick’ and the next…

And every so many ‘ticks’ would come a heavier ‘tock’ - and every so many ‘tocks’ there would be a slightly heavier, more resonant, sort of woody, ‘tock’. Then there was that odd, metallic ‘scrunch’ – that only happened a few times per day; but she knew exactly how many ‘ticks’, ‘tocks’ and ‘woody tocks’ had to pass before a ‘scrunch’ came… It was important! She knew exactly how many ‘ticks’ made up a ‘tock’ and how many ‘tocks’ made up a ‘woody tock’ and exactly how many of those had to pass in turn before one of those metallic ‘scrunches’ would arrive.

More importantly she knew, or thought she knew, how many of those crunchy metallic ‘scrunches’ constituted a ‘school’ day. She had decided they would be hourly, it being a mechanical clock and all. But the trouble was that the roughened metallic quality was not particularly prominent, in reality little more than a subtle change in the character of the clock’s chanting, perhaps some defect in a cog somewhere; it had to be listened out for. She could – and did – count the ‘woody tocks’; but they constituted an even subtler variation in the timepiece’s voice. The basic ‘ticks’ and ‘tocks’ were easier to differentiate, but there were so many to count… so, so many. A cough, a chair scrape – the teacher’s, hers and Angel’s were an integral part of their desks –and the count was gone. Similarly the click of the teacher’s high heels – and she often wore stilettos more suited to a ball than to a classroom – would wreck her counting. She had burst into tears on one occasion simply because her teacher had risen from her desk and strolled across the room, yet still she had counted on.

She’d tried keeping time, surreptitiously tapping a toe when some sound detracted from the school clock’s rhythm, counting the taps rather than the ticking – she was doing it now while the teacher was speaking. Sometimes, if she’d been caned, the throbbing in her bottom would interfere and she’d find herself counting that instead. She’d also tried to stop herself, but that had failed also. Nor could she ignore it; it wouldn’t let her.

If only the hands would turn, as a clock’s hands were supposed to – but she knew they wouldn’t, they never had; it just ticked and ticked and ticked… What was the point of a clock it didn’t tell the time? Ah! But it did, it did! If you could only count the ticks and the tocks and the clicks and the clunks…

She’d lost count again, she was sure of it… It was so easy to lose count… And if she was made to do arithmetic, then how could she concentrate, how could she not lose count then? It was no wonder her school work was so poor…

What was the woman saying now? If she was going to make a good impression… what was that… sewing and cleaning and serving at table… no she’d be too clumsy at that…cleaning and polishing then…and keeping her uniform crisp and her apron starched, yes she could do that, that was important too! Sewing lessons, domestic training – no maths, no sums… it was going to be so much easier to keep count… she wouldn’t lose count… and it was important to keep count. If only that damn clock would stop that incessant ticking! But then she’d lose count, there would be nothing to count… Damn! She’d lost count… She’d have to start again… She was always losing count… Why was she doing it? Losing count or losing her mind? Or was it both?

Why was she thinking about losing her mind? She wasn’t losing her mind – just because her stepmother had her seeing a psychiatrist or psychologist or whatever… just because that woman wanted her in that clinic of hers, in that psychiatric hospital… just because they made her dress in school uniform, bend for the cane and didn’t let her leave the house any more. Why, perhaps that hospital would be a way out, if she went along with it, with what the psychologist woman wanted – she would be out of her stepmother’s grasp there, she could get help there… if only she could keep count…but the teacher’s voice…can’t hear the clock properly…I’ll go out of my mind if I can’t hear the clock…

“…Alice! Alice!… Alice Marchment – are you going out of your mind? Stop tapping your foot this instant… Get yourself out here and get yourself bent over my desk immediately – knickers down, skirt up and arms folded across the small of you back. Six strokes for you my girl – for inattention... and make sure you keep count!”

'Psychological Governance’, Nuns and the 'Wayward Girl'

A series of pieced-together extracts from a series of articles regarding certain religious houses for ‘morally wayward girls’ that existed through the 1950s and even up until the 1970s, offering “shelter and guidance to vulnerable girls and women.”

“The Sisters and courts working together decided when a girl was ready to leave the Home, but since the courts in turn relied on the Mother Supior's recomendations, her word was effectively law" and woe betide the girl who threatened the status quo - or who she took a shine to!
"Security and rehabilitation were big issues. The girls could not be trusted and neither could the outside world. To prevent residents from seeing the outside world and leaving the Home, locked doors and opaque glass had been installed behind barred windows, barbed wire fences, and alarm systems. There was no television, nor radio; listening to music was allowed, though the girls weren’t allowed to listen to male voices. [At mealtimes] the girls [were obliged to maintain] silence as they entered the dining room and sat down. Two nuns supervised lunch from an elevated platform and they frequently used the time to read and censor the girls' mail. In the dormitory, [each girl’s] toiletries [had to be kept] lined up with precision, with each item being assigned a specific placement.

Though these measures appeared harsh for some; for others, it offered protection and safety and enabled to them to concentrate on [rehabilitation]. In the sewing room, the girls and nuns made school uniforms, all clothing being [marked with a number, designating the individual girl.].”

From another source we hear of the “unfortunate necessity” to employ “certain drastic measures and remedies [in order] to control the risk of the introduction and spread of head lice”. And that although “alternatives were available and marketed at very little expense”, a preventative approach was to be preferred and “conferred certain other advantages”. The article goes on to guardedly hint at these ‘advantages’ pertaining to “good order and discipline” and to “the three vows of poverty, chastity and obedience”. We are left in blissful, blameless ignorance as to the details of these ‘unfortunate’ “drastic measures and remedies” and their ramifications – but we might hazard a guess.

Here again there is mention of the importance of an “emphasis on silence as a means of focussing attention on God”, “frugality in all things” and the provision of what is described as a “bare ‘maintenance diet’ – sufficient to keep from losing weight, yet [insufficient] t o risk encouraging the sin of gluttony with its associated unwarranted weight gain”. This particular institution was said to have “embodied regimented discipline”, imposed “extreme restriction on freedom of movement and privacy” and to have “embraced a culture of petty rules and restrictions” that “limited to the extreme [the] opportunities [for] forming personal one to one relationships between inmates”. The emphasis throughout was “one of conformity” with a “reliance on corporal punishment [for the maintenance] of discipline and good order”.

Elsewhere, albeit regarding an entirely separate establishment, it is somewhat enigmatically stated that “…the more closely [the institution] is modelled on the judicious application of the principle of psychological governance, the more salutary will be its discipline, and the fewer occasions will arise for resort to actual [physical] punishment”.

What this cryptic ‘principle of psychological governance’ might have consisted of is not expanded upon. However, it is noteworthy that in the same pamphlet it goes on to state that: “…any physical chastisement [may] consist of moderate childish punishment with the hand or punishments with the cane, strap, or birch” and that “only a light cane or rod [should] be used for the purpose of corporal punishment inflicted on an open palm”. Certain orders of nuns had experience of setting up and governing correctional facilities for women stretching back three hundred years or more, so one may assume that they knew what they were doing when it came to exercising control – psychological or otherwise – and that any young woman, however blameless, once delivered in to their hands would have quickly come to the conclusion that defiance was not an option. Nor was the likelihood of absconding particularly buoying, as I am given to understand it – after all the nuns had had time aplenty to refine the security precautions surrounding their ‘sanctuary for wayward young women’. And security was essential if they were to protect a young woman from further sin – even if (particularly if, some would say) that ‘sin’ or ‘moral infraction’ amounted to little more than having run from a craftily manipulative stepparent, an intolerably overbearing governess or a cruelly exploitative and equally manipulative guardian or indeed just having foolhardily rejected certain amorous advances.

One should never lose sight of that old “Victorian propensity to commit errant wives and stepdaughters to the asylum at the drop of a hat (or at the hint of an inheritance)”. And often a charitable donation made to such an institution spoke volumes, certainly carrying as much weight, if not more, than a learned doctor’s opinion (although the latter could be easily enough swayed if one had sufficient influence). There seems little doubt that certain of these ecclesiastical ‘shelters’ may well have fulfilled a similar purpose, a simple statement attesting to the poor thing’s ‘hysterical instability’, propensity to ‘overwrought imaginings’ and ‘delusion and derangement’ being enough to ensure that none would pay heed to any objections, accusations or entreaties the pretty, doe-eyed teenager might voice. Some mention of sexual impropriety included in the documentation, and a ‘well appointed’ buxom teenager could be assured a very hard time indeed under the reforming hand of the Mother Superior. And of course there was the added attraction of the possibility of visitation and the knowledge that any complaints, especially as such became - as they were sure to over time - more insistent and hysterical, would simply be recorded as yet more evidence of “the poor thing’s mental aberration”; more evidence to be recounted to the governors of the local asylum when the time came, should that be her guardian’s or stepmother’s wish.

The nun’s own isolation was sacrosanct and they had not been averse to adopting new modern ways over time to ensure it remained so. Similarly, it seems they had not been fazed when it came to applying modern methods to wielding the rigid control over their charges they deemed necessary in order to protect the more defiant, incorrigible and diffident of their young inmates ‘from themselves’ and once again one’s imagination is stimulated to muse over the cryptic use of that term; ‘psychological governance’.

Now, That is What I Call Domination! Or is it? Discuss! (Part 1)

See last post for explanation (but read this bit first as the last posting follows on from it)

In the comments section a couple of posts ago 'imreadonl2' wrote something interesting that caught my attention, whetted my appetite and got the ball rolling - now lets see where it rolls to:

'imreadonl2' wrote “The wonder of "institutionalization" is the way that it quickly destroys a girl's identity and sense of self.

Attending classes, eating with the other girls in the mess hall, sleeping next to them in the dorm, wearing your smart uniform, with the tie knotted tightly and your white socks straight, toeing the line. Guilty-or-not, it is soon impossible think of yourself as anything but "one of the girls."

And then there are the little indignities, which taken together, add up to a crushing weight: being addressed by your last name, being scolded for slouching, or being swatted across the behind and accused of "dallying" when you pause to chatter with your friends.

Relentlessly belittled and corrected, your self-esteem rapidly erodes. You come to think of yourself as "incorrigible" and "delinquent", the memory of your past accomplishments and accolades fading as rapidly as a forgotten dream.

You hate it when the Headmaster brings tour groups thru while you're in the shower, and feel humiliated as you feel the male visitor's eye's roam freely up and down your naked body. You comfort yourself that they don't you, or, to be more accurate, who you once were, and now see you only as what you (in your heart) now know that you are, just another naked delinquent justly and properly sentenced to an indefinite term of strict reformatory discipline.

I reply:

"Hi, 'imreadonly2'! That's an interesting analysis of the concept of the destruction (I prefer 'erosion' for some reason) of “a girl's identity and sense of self.” But it does bring up a couple of issues. For example, take the phrase; '...pause to chatter with [her] friends.'

This partial phrase in itself raises two questions in my mind. (1) Should a detainee be allowed sufficient latitude to form close relationships in the first place and (2) should inter-detainee 'chatter' be allowed under any circumstances, whatever form it might take? Imagine the sense of isolation suffered by the poor thing if surrounded by a cohort of others yet disallowed from communicating directly with any of them in any manner, under the continual threat of the cane or the strap for any slip – or indeed one of several subtle psychological punishments of even greater corrective efficacy. Surely far more psychologically stressful – if lovingly instigated, supervised, and with sufficient attention to detail - than simple solitary confinement?

The part about a subject “relentlessly belittled and corrected” resulting in rapid erosion of self-esteem and the subject coming to think of herself as "incorrigible" and "delinquent" is interesting, although I'm not fond of the terms “incorrigible" and "delinquent" in this context – 'inferior' or 'inept' might be more apt terms. As for “...the [the subject's] memory of past accomplishments and accolades fading as rapidly as a forgotten dream.” Yes, this would seem a worthwhile outcome to be expected of such a regimen. I seem to think that both aspects have been explored - both social isolation and continual belittling and correction - have been employed in a psychological research context in the past. The latter belittling and correction approach could indeed be applied quite subtly given the right context, so subtly and gradually that the subject herself might not be consciously aware of what is happening to her even as her personality is being remodeled according to someone else's template.

Now that. I think, is real domination!

On the right: The Finished Article? (Actually, just how right is this pic? Fantastic? Certainly got me thinking! If only her hands were in the prayer position it would be perfection - it's that close! Taken, or re-blogged or whatever you'd like to call it, from Cornertime for naughty girls, just click pic to visit - highly recommended!)

'Wringing' Out the Inspiration

Hi folks. I was going to put up a few views of post-'riot' Wood Green North London but I have just had a change of heart. I have now worked out how to download the photo's off of my phone (took all of two minutes) but while reorganising the various folders on the desktop computer I came across an archive of 'Wringer's' photoshots that I had gathered together for my own enjoyment from various sources.

No matter what has been stamped across one of them, these are - to my knowlege at least - all the work of 'Wringer'. My first inclination was to load these on to a memory stick and upload them from my holiday hotel (WiFI extra but 'reasonable' I have been assured). On second thoughts there is always the chance of said memory stick falling into 'judgemental' hands while passing through customs or what ever, by being stolen or indeed lost and so I decided to quickly upload now and to take the riot pics (not very exciting, frankly) and a couple of pics from my last holiday (Pompeii, Herculaneum, Mount Vesuvius - that sort of thing) and upload them later in the week from the island of Koss. Some of these Wringer pics you will have seen before, perhaps here, and other's you will have not.

They are also widely variable in terms of resolution etc - but this reflects their various sources; all now lost in the mist of time but including several Yahoo Groups I seem to remember. The thing is how one almost automatically tends to weave a multitude of tales around them, individually or as a set - I think it has a lot to do with the ambiguity of the background (especially in those atmospheric black and white shots) along with the institutional appearance of the bed, leaving one's imagination to fill in the gaps as to whether one is being made privy to a domestic or an institutional scenario. Wonderful stuff!
I have to be off now. Gym first (if it ain't been burnt!) then off to Gatwick, leaving North London around 4 o'clock this afternoon. The flight is not until tomorrow, but it is at 4 o'clock in the morning!!! and so, I am staying in Gatwick for the night. I guess in theory I need not leave London until late this evening, but I want to miss the rush hour (about four hours these days) and also preempt some genius coming up with the idea of burning the stations... Just a matter of time!!!

Hi to 'Orage' there! Good to hear from you too! Hi, too, to anyone who has emailed and still waiting for a reply or who has not heard from me for some time (especialy 'Snooze' and 'Miha')- I hope to catch up on my emails while away, along with completing my commissioned piece (which I must say has down much to reawaken me!), and so you should hear from me in the next week.

Oh! And I forgot to say: INSTITUTIONALISED volume 3 is now available in the Ebook format through Andrews UK LTD at Amazon Kindle (click to visit). I be setting up a direct link in the right hand sidebar sometime in the near future.

That Old School Summer Dress

Just came across the blog 'Discipline Her' being "Tiffany Scarlet's spanking musings" on Wordpress.co (click to visit or check out the blog link list in the right hand sidebar). And I am jolly glad that I did, too as one of the first entries I happened to blunder upon – not necessarily the latest – featured this brace of charming shots taken from Blushes (I think it was – certainly one of that stable; though it might just be from Roue I suppose) that I did have in my collection at one time but that seems to been mislaid over the years; I have been looking for a replacement for some time in fact. The photo set this is taken from dates back to the mid to late 1980s though the room setting might almost suggest the 1970s.

.....

The dress design itself possibly dates from the late 1960s. Why I think this is that I once uncovered an old woman's magazine dating back to that period featuring a pattern for a near identical dress while taking up some lino in a house I was involved in renovating. It is the modest high collar that I think makes the thing work and though not perfect I still think it goes a long way towards forming the design basis for a school uniform summer-dress suitable for the older teen being educated at home or indeed held in a strict privately run institution.

.....

Any thoughts or suggestions? What improvements /changes might you make, if any?

Locking Cots and Early to Bed

Hi Chaps

I have been in contact again with my digital illustrator chum in the 'States (remember I spent quite a time telling you all about the ideas hovering out of sight behind an illustrated version of the new book and this guy – Snooze – and his input). Anyway, as well as producing illustrations for a possible pictorial version of my upcoming book he accepts commissions from others and was recently commissioned to produce a series of images interpreting some ideas sent to him that, while now unlikely for various reasons to see the light of day, nonetheless make for a nice showcase of his talents.

As the artist himself says: “The main subject of the picture [to the artist's way of thinking] was the gruesome looking, [quite] terrifying cots. Not the girl. So thick and sturdy that [one immediately recognizes their] terrible purpose and that once [a girl was placed in one] there would be absolutely no escape from its cold confines until who ever it was put [her in ] there decided [she] be released.”

The rubber mattress and pillow “subtly implies that [she] will not be let out for the [purposes of visiting the bathroom].”

The girl on the far side is only noticed as an afterthought. You only notice her later. [Only then] does one discern the rubber suit she is dressed in; which once again implies the lack of bathroom breaks. She is diapered and waterproofed because she is not coming out until release time.”

The illustrator believes – and I agree – that “the image works [not so much due to] what is emphasized [but rather due to] what is understated; because as you look at it you see more and more.”

He sees the scene as “a special dorm for bed wetters in an institutional setting; an asylum? school or prison, perhaps. The first image is set just before 7:00 pm as it is beginning to go dark. Two inmates have been placed in their rubber nightwear and made to lie in their cots. A Dorm Matron has placed a rubber sheet/blanket over her first charge, has lifted the side rail of her cot and already secured one padlock in place and is in the process for locking the second padlock.”

He goes on to point out that:

“The dormitory Matron's second charge is already in position in her cot and is passively lying there while her [compatriot or fellow miscreant] is being [secured]. She could get up, out of the cot - she is not restrained. However, the image tries to show that such an action would be foolish. The locked bars over the window suggest that the room is in any case secure. She would not get far if she attempted to escape. Also positioned strategically in the foreground of the image is Matron's desk with a heavy punishment cane prominently on display along with a leather spanking paddle.

Less prominent, but still ominously visible on the far wall, is a board displaying three additional canes, two tawses and a pair of handcuffs and leg irons. The implication made is that the facility is well able to handle an inmate who tries to create a disturbance.

There are additional furnishings that also suggest resistance is fraught with peril: In the far corner of the room is a wardrobe containing what appear to be straitjackets. It is unclear whether [a straitjacket might be pressed into service to punish a] girl by placing her in it on top of her rubber suit, so that she would be uncomfortably restrained throughout the night] or whether perhaps [these girls] have been [routinely] incarcerated in them during the day and they have now been removed while they are locked in their cots for sleeping.

Another potential jeopardy is the half seen cage on the far left of the image. Presumably if the girls try to create a fuss, instead of being left for the night in their comfy, if very secure cots, they might be confined to the cage, which is too small for them to relax comfortably and has a bare metal floor. The implications of both the cage and straitjackets is that no matter how awful life is, it can always get much worse. And so the second girl realizes that resistance is futile and merely waits patiently for the nurse to cover her with the rubber blanket which is strategically lying on the cot, raise the rail and secure it with the two padlocks that are waiting for her.

To enhance the overall atmosphere, these girls are adults and yet the clock on the wall says it isn't quite seven o'clock. It is light outside still, yet they are doomed to go to bed so early and spend the night in very secure confinement. The lighting isn't bright but, together with the depth of field of the camera, the idea is to focus the [observer's eye] on the girl in the cot, waiting to be put to bed for the night.

The second image of the two lower is meant to capture the scene just over a half an hour later. It is now almost dark outside. The second girl has had her blanket placed on her and the side of her cot raised and secured. The lights have been turned down to allow them to sleep but it is not completely dark. The focus is now shifted on to the Dorm Matron. Her shift isn't up till 8:00 pm, when she will be relieved by a junior night nurse who will keep watch over the girls throughout the night. No talking is allowed of course, which is why the heavy cane on the desk, now well lit up, is prominently on display so that the girls know what will happen if they break the rules.

The [inclusion of the] bed pans [is intended to be] suggestive of the incontinence theme.”

There you have it! Though nothing to do with my storyline, I find the images that have resulted to be most evocative, as I think you'll find too if you look carefully! The idea of the girls just waiting without need of restraint, the no-talking rule – all this I love. But, If I were to be asked to put forward one proviso or criticism, I think it would be that I would dispense with the rubber suits. I guess another would be that I am not so keen on the depicted scenario taking place within “a special unit for 'bed wetters'”... unless it turns out that this is a unit devised to create bed wetters or enforce the behavior in some way – then all of a sudden it becomes delicious! But – hey - that's my taste; what do you think?

A Yuletide Exultation? Yeah! Why Not?

Hi Chaps and chap-eses. Greetings from a largely snowed-in / snowed-under Brit-land. Snowed under is an apt term for me right now: It's the 19th December and I have just woken up and sniffed the coffee – trouble is; more often than not of late it has been more likely the barmaid's apron sniffed (a popular British saying ) than a pungent arabica bean. What am I on about? Well just as we Brits have once again been caught with our pants down as regards the weather with nary a gritting lorry (or truck, for you poor misguided USA types) nor sprinkling of salt to be seen (well...who would guess it might get cold in winter? In Northern Europe? What a bloody shock that was!) so I have been caught napping. Of course it happens every year and I am always caught by surprise by the proximity of the dreaded 'day', but bloody hell I haven't even as much as bought a Christmas card yet. I get all excited about it then hit the pubs and bars and a those great intentions I have harbored about 'being ahead of the game' this year and not getting caught on the hop go sailing straight out the window. It's at this time of the year that I most gravitate towards those older establishments that populate the backstreets of Hampstead. Of course there is the famous 'The Flask' of flask walk, Hampstead but if you know where you're going and venture up into the hills you might come across 'The Holly Bush' – think low timbers and a roaring log fire; how traditional can you get? Then a little further afield – this particular establishment claiming a rather optimistically short 15 minute walk across the heath from Hampstead tube (subway) - there awaits 'The Spaniards Inn', also boasting a log fire if not quite so 'roaring' the last time I visited. Now, if you were to just throw in a suitably 18th century flurry of snow and... well, it's just heaven, isn't it. Actually, even my local and fairly dire branch of 'Wetherspoons' looked appealing given a dusting of snow and the obligatory snowball fight that had spontaneously ignited outside. It's amazing what snow is capable of here in the UK – otherwise fairly sensible (if terminally alcoholic) 50-somethings opening up a massed barrage of snow-orientated artillery against the pub windows in second-childhood rapture is a sight to behold! No I wasn't involved – I bloody hate the cold, me!

As for the rest: today I am ostensibly out to catch up on all those Christmas tasks that have been thrown to the wayside. But guess what? Yes, I've landed in a pub... one look at that snow and what choice did I have. A tankard of ale and an open fire!!!! And in a sense I am ahead of the game – many's the year when I have been out shopping late Christmas eve (no kidding) and with enough 'Christmas cheer' in me too... well, lets just say that I'd be unlikely to later recall quite what I'd bought or who for. Yet somehow I'd get it all wrapped – just without labels or recipient names or anything as mundane as that. All a bit of a guessing game come Christmas morn!

Right, well I felt I just had to add a pic and I chose this one which I happened across on Flikr among some unnamed person's photo set, which gave the impression that that owner of the set was the photographer – unlikely given that I have myself posted another of this same set here sometime ago and I can tell you it originated from a scan taken from a copy of 'Men Only' or 'Penthouse' – I forget which – dated between 1978 and 1980-ish. Unless of course it is indeed from an impoverished photographer now reduced to publishing his work on social network sites! Forget all that though; the question is would you allow such a lackadaisical attitude to discipline and wanton display in the institution of your choice? I have to say that I do approve of the uniforms though.

The New Book - A Short Clip

Hi Folks! Bright and sunny today (but cold-ish)... so I am bright and sunny - hurrah! I have been making good progress filling in the gaps and reorganising the story flow of the new book (I've still not got a sensible title though!). I thought you might like a short clip, so here we go. The whole thing will need proofreading at some stage so there may well be typos, but see if it whets your appetite - or not (don't be shy!).

.....
An Extract

.....

Even with the soft vinyl inner layer of the hospital-issue pyjama bottoms, and the close-fitting plastic incontinence underpants she had on beneath, the thin flannelette did little to ameliorate the discomfort of the hard wooden seat – already her buttocks were going numb, which ironically only served to make the griddle pattern of thin cane wheals crisscrossing her bottom throb all the more. No longer in contact with the ground, the naked soles of her feet now throbbed too, in the simple rhythm of her pulse. It was another irony; whilst her feet bore her weight, the aftermath of the doctor’s martinet consisted of little more than a fiery, overall burning sensation. Once seated, with her legs swept back beneath the chair and her hobbled ankles fastened by way of their leather restraint cuffs to two short lengths of chain that hung down from beneath the seat, it felt as if dozens of red-hot hooks were embedded in the undersides of her feet and were tugging rhythmically downwards in unison. Taken together these reminiscences of the cane and of the martinet were what had been responsible for the girl cutting herself off in mid-flow and also for the sudden contrite, apologetic retraction that had so quickly followed.
It was humiliating, but it was better than suffering a repeat performance. Besides, it was fear of humiliation, in a manner of speaking, that had earned her the six cuts of the cane across her bare behind and the twelve slashes of the multi-tongued martinet across the sole of each foot in the first place. Indeed, in a way the retribution, correction - call it what you will - had not been entirely unrelated to her tirade; it never was. The very best way to ensure receiving the attention of the doctor's supple length of rattan was to speak of being a volunteer behavioural research subject or to protest against the validity of any part of the doctor's diagnosis. But that hadn't been the cause on this occasion, not directly at any rate.
The doctor was fond of setting impositions to fill her time when confined to the tiny anteroom that had now become her home - to keep her mind active, the doctor said. In some ways she almost felt as though she should be grateful, after all, there was no window and once the heavy, padded, outer door had been shut, closing off the doctor's office from the prison-cell-like floor-to-ceiling hinged array of vertical steel bars that kept her secure, the silence was very nearly perfect. In fact the only thing that tarnished that perfection was the rushing-hiss of white noise - and that, she knew, was only there to make absolutely certain that her isolation was complete. Even that, though, was not entirely the truth; there were times, if she had been perhaps particularly stubborn, when that background mush would be accompanied by an insistent and repetitive beeping. It was not particularly loud, just an irritating little bleep that would constantly interrupt a her train of thought and that seemed to come at irregular intervals like a sort of modern electronic take on the Chinese water torture until she would find herself incapable of concentrating on anything other than trying to predict the next bleep.
On this occasion she had been set the imposition of writing an essay; 'How I Benefit from Being Kept in Long-term Residential Psychiatric Care '. But how was she supposed to write something like that, how could she? And then there was that adjective included in the title - 'Long-term' - that was surely there purely to increase her feeling of hopelessness. And it worked - she had put pen to paper, carefully copied out the title in the copperplate hand that was always demanded, then she had simply sat staring at it while weeping uncontrollably until the time allocated had run out.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, at least one thing the doctor had just said rang true to the girl, the part about her looking like a prison-camp waif. The double chin was anything but waiflike, and the pyjamas she was dressed in were definitely not quite as baggy as they had once been - but with their broad green and white stripes and soulless, shapeless design, what else did they look like other than a prison-camp uniform? Crestfallen, she looked away, tears welling.

The Girl in the Striped Pyjamas - A Good Reforming Spank and a Blog

Since I have been going on at length in recent weeks (or has it been months) about humiliating baggy institutional pyjamas, can you imagine my joy at coming across a blog featuring a continuing reform-school style storyline including exactly that. The approach is somewhat different to my own and the scenario is entirely different of course, but the addition of
matching elasticated cotton mop (sometimes, mob) caps is inspired - although those of you who have read the first two volumes of my INSTITUTIONALISED series (see sidebar) (there are only two at present - but with a third on the way) will have come across the concept of the wearing of bonnets as part of an institutional uniform, although not with pyjamas and not at all of that style. But as part of institutional nightwear it makes perfect sense, somehow. I pinched the pic from the section that deals exactly with that - simply click on the photo to go read. To read the latest instalment from The Girl in the Striped Pyjamas.blogspot.com - click blog name here, or see the link I have posted in the right-hand sidebar blog list (err... over on the right?). By the way: I don't know where this pic originated - I have never seen it before - but notice how each seems as if obliged to permanently utilise one hand to keep hitched up her pyjama bottoms. A hugely demoralising feature - and a concept I have recently been exploring in my writing, although in what I would imagine to be a completely different context.

Badges of Shame and Other Summer Madness – With or Without Bars, Though?

Yesterday was a bit of a lost day at this end, I'm afraid - but that has been too often the case recently. First of all there were personal problems at home, necessitating going out quite early on and not having the space to boot up the machine even for a glance at my emails - it would all have caused too many more problems! Then I had to scoot up to Enfield to help my mother with something... Then finally I sat down at the Enfield Costa-packet coffee house - from where I can ordinarily get a good fast WiFi connnection - only to find that I couldn't log on. Next I went to the nearest pub, The George in Enfield Town, which, I happen know, has a free WiFi setup - but it was full of football supporters waiting for the England v someone-or-other match. So I cycled back down to Woodgreen, to the Wetherspoons there, as I know that branch is not showing the matches. It quickly became apparent that their WiFi was down and I couldn't get a signal from the local library WiFi box while sitting at a table outside either, as I usually can (probably because there was a huge mobile unit lorry (truck) thing parked directly outside it, blocking the signal path. Next I wandered down to the Turnpike Lane wetherspoons branch where they were showing the match but where I also knew I could sit outside away from the row. So I got a beer, as you do; I got a seat - great - I even found I was getting a good WiFi signal - even better! But before I could even begin to log on, let alone get anything done, a guy who knows me and who sometimes chats to me sat down and...well, chatted to me. ...And chatted and chatted and chatted... Beers were bought and downed, the sun fell low in the sky...well, I'm sure you get the picture. Then it was morning and I found myself back home, with not a single word or idea or thought to show for it.

It's a difficult thing to deal with and I am trying not too beat myself up about it. If I am working and get a lot done - as is often the case on a bender - then I can justify it in some way in my mind. But if all I am doing is sitting getting drunk? It's just that everything and everybody seemed to be conspiring against me. As it is there are constant rows over the time I spend writing, both with the other half and my mother, both of whom keep coming up with things that need doing, the argument being that I am not working so I must have plenty of time. Writing a book is not seen as 'work'. I should have lied and said I'd found a modestly-paid 9 till 5 job some place and then gone out every morning as if off to work. Sounds crazy but I have heard of folks doing exactly that!

Right, enough of my babbling sorrows! I have managed to do a fair bit of writing over the last week or so, despite these and similar tribulations and think a complete first draft of the new book should be about completed in three weeks. Meanwhile my arty collaborator in the 'States continues to throw up new ideas and to explore new directions and of course I have a contribution or two to make (I hope). Actually I am looking forward to starting work on designing the new cover soon - one of my favorite bits of all this - and in preparation I have today be putting together some ideas for how the badge might look on the regulation hospital-issue patient uniforms in the institutional discipline scenes depicted. Actually most of the illustration work has thus far focused on the institutional discipline aspect but ideas have simultaneously been emerging as regards the domestic discipline scenarios - and there are plenty of those - so some effort will, I expect, soon be expended in that direction. Meanwhile here are two variations of the uniform badge I have come up with, this version being intended for patient 30, quite obviously, who those of you who have read the first two volumes will recognize instantly as a young lady who is never far from the controlling, grasping hands of her guardian - even if safely behind the locked doors of a secure institution. By the way; the textual appearance is deliberate and supposed to make it look as if painstakingly embroidered on fabric.

A Tiny Bit of What I Have Been Writing

The choice was stark, but even having the notion of a choice was a form of subtle psychological torture. She could sit quietly and dwelling more and more inwards, turning it on herself and sending herself quite mad in the process or let herself be gently led by the hand deeper and deeper into mental illness by her sweetly smiling guardian angle rustling and bustling around her in her blue-checked uniform dress. For what else could this be but some form of mental illness? Head swimming in swirling sedative fog, hands thrust down the front of her hospital issue asylum pyjamas masturbating furiously, fingers plucking and twitching under stickily-humid plastic mental-home incontinence knickers and worrying at a sutured rubber thimble cap device who’s sole purpose was to rob her of the one thing she desired more than anything else in the world at that moment – sexual release.
“Stop that, now – it’s time to get you back into bed and I’m going to have to draw back the curtain”.
The command bit deep into Lavinia’s psyche; shame and humiliation shared equal billing with hot-cheeked heavy-breathed, tear-wrenching frustration. She felt her hands being physically tugged from their private fumbling and being placed forcefully in her lap, the musky pungency of her unrelinquished arousal rising accusingly from fingertips left tacky with bodily lubrication. She was only half aware of the head and shoulders pressing thorough the opening in the plastic curtains surrounding the bed and the chair in which she was presently seated, wriggling uncomfortably in her sweat-soaked pyjamas.
“I’m so sorry, Sister – I just didn’t know what to do to stop her”.
“A quite disgusting display! I want her put back in full restraint immediately and she is to be confined to bed at all times for the foreseeable future. Meanwhile, you are to make out a full report of this behaviour for the doctor under the heading of ‘evidence of pathological sexual obsession and obsessive-compulsive behaviour’.

.....

Now, I bet you're wondering what the pony-girl illustration is all about - hmmm? Not really my thing as such - and nothing to do with anything in the new book - it's just that I recently came across a couple of great pony-girl sites which I have now added to the 'Useful Resources' list that can be found in the right hand sidebar (listed under pony girls, amazingly enough!).

Institutional and Domestic Discipline: An Illustrated Collaboration 3 – Further Evolution

I have to rush out today – I am off to Eastbourne on the sunny Sussex coast where my mother is enjoying a few days in a guest house. I am going to be there later today and will probably (hopefully) spend the afternoon outside a bar at the end of Eastbourne pier writing in the sun - and it is blazingly sunny here in London at the moment, so I’m quite optimistic. This evening, I hope, will find me ensconced in the Eastbourne Wetherspoons pub; come and say hello if you are an Eastbourne type, appreciate a good ale and happen to be in the vicinity. Tomorrow I may visit Brighton or Hastings. I am taking my trusty bike and hope to tour around a bit up and down the south coast, visiting Wetherspoons branches and of course writing if and when inspired – I am taking my netbook computer with me. I next expect to be back home at my desk on Tuesday 8th June (next Tuesday) but WiFi internet connections willing, I may update the blog while on the move and hopefully I will still be able to view my emails – so don’t be shy, write today.

Talking off inspiration: if you remember the piece I posted recently regarding my collaboration with the Stateside computer artist, ‘Snooze’ and the evolution of a particular illustration I demonstrated as an example of the sort of thing we have been developing you will probably be interested with this, the latest incarnation of that art work - compare and contrast with the earlier renditions posted elsewhere. There are many more scenes we are working on – some far more complex and detailed - but it would spoil the fun to give any further inkling of these – you’ll just have to wait until the new book gets finished, or more specifically, the illustrated version of it.

In the present illustration the girl has just failed a written imposition set by the section psychiatrist – a most formidable, yet exceedingly clever - woman and has had her institutional pyjama bottoms taken of her in preparation for correction. The view through the door tells the viewer that this private little prison is in fact a tiny secure anteroom leading directly off of a more conventionally furnished consultation room - the regulation hospital bed provided for the inmate with its integral restraints is behind the view and so not in evidence. The white outer door beyond the bars both provides the psychiatrist’s office with the appearance one might expect, when closed, while also increasing the hapless girl’s isolation by removing from her the stimulation of the external view and providing for a high degree of soundproofing. The thick but supple leather belt carried, doubled-over, in the hospital sister’s hand, has a special relevance to the poor girl – it is something destined to make the up-coming correction all the more intolerable for the girl once the realisation sinks in! As always - all comments, ideas and what have you, will be gratefully received - bye for now!

Victorian Straitjacketed Cruelty: You Couldn’t Make It Up - Well I could...

Coming firmly under the general category of ‘you couldn't make it up’ I came across this (slightly edited) newspaper article while pondering the thorny subject of how one might have ‘put away’ a troublesome young ward or heiress. Of course one might, as Elizabeth Jane Cochran wrote way back in 1887 “…take a perfectly sane and healthy woman, shut her up and make her sit from 6 a.m. until 8 p.m. on straight-back benches, do not allow her to talk or move during these hours, give her no reading [matter] and let her know nothing of the world or its doings, give her bad food and harsh treatment, and see how long it will take to make her insane. Two months would make her a mental and physical wreck”. But how to get her there in the first place? Hmmm… But then way back, there were all those possibilities embodied in the marvelous Magdalene Laundries (left) and as has been said, once even young girls who were considered too promiscuous and flirtatious were sometimes sent to such an asylum. And they knew a thing or two about dealing with the recalcitrant young miss in those places.

"A sullen temper, often shown by refusing food, is best dealt with by silence. When a girl wakes up to the fact that no one takes any notice, nor is troubled (apparently at least) by her self-starvation, she gets weary of her self-imposed martyrdom and learns sense." [Arthur J. S. Maddison, Hints on Rescue Work, A Handbook for Missionaries and Superintendents of Homes (1898).

Talking of asylums and straitjacketed bondage: I have just signed up to the affiliate program run by ‘The Girl Asylum', another site filled with content I would think eminently suitable for my readership and of course relevant (which I consider important) to at least part of the story arc of the INSTITUTIONALISED series – click the banner pic (top) to visit or check out the sidebar and the foot of the page.

.....

PS: I have also added a brand spanking (Ho, Ho, Ha, Ha!) new search facility which you can find at the top of the right-hand sidebar and that you can use to search the blog content, blog links etc. I have just tried it and it works a treat!

Institutional and Domestic Discipline: An Illustrative Collaboration 2 - Evolution of an Image

Those of you who have been following this blog over the last few weeks will now that I'm now involved in a collaboration with a digital artist or illustrator the aim being to provide an illustrated version of the new volume (see Institutional and Domestic Discipline: An Illustrative Collaboration, Wednesday, 28 April 2010 - just click to view). I was just thinking the other day that some of you may be interested as to how things were progressing on the illustration front so I thought I would put together an example of the evolution of such an illustration. Of course you will understand that this particular piece of art work is presently very much a work in progress but it should be sufficient for you to get the idea without giving too much away as regards the storyline. In the context of the latter, one thing I can tell you - so as to set the scene without providing too much of a spoiler (I hope) is that one of our three hapless heroines, having now come under the personal care of an institution’s somewhat domineering section psychiatrist - a rather overbearing woman with questionable ethics and even more questionable aims - finds herself incarcerated in a claustrophobic, secure and isolated little cell-like anteroom leading directly off from the good doctor’s consultation room, dressed 24/7 in institutional green striped pyjamas, denied any human contact other than with the doctor herself and subject to stringent discipline and corporal punishment for the slightest fault.

Generally speaking I have been restricting myself to writing the text and generating ideas (although of course ideas flow both ways thus nurturing yet more branches and avenues to explore). In the development of this particular image, my collaborator has sent me the three-dimensional artwork shown in the first couple of examples but then I've taken the liberty of attempting to change the background colour to better fit the narrative - which to be honest I cocked up to some extent, obliging me to digitally repair the kneeling nurses hairdo (badly) - and added in the girl’s room’s barred security door and her nemesis, Matron, approaching outside in the doctor's consultation room, purely as an experiment to see how it might add atmosphere. In the first image the girl is of course naked and unblemished, free from any evidence of prior correction. In the second and third images she has on her institutional shapeless and baggy pyjama jacket and a healthy red blush is apparent colouring her behind.

The nurse came from an old scanned catalogue illustration and is supposed to represent the stern hospital matron placed in charge of the hapless young subject. Although in this version she is carrying a cane, in the storyline it is a folded leather belt that is put to use; but I didn't have a suitable strap / belt picture to hand and has always being full of enthusiasm and having little patience I was in a hurry to try the idea out. The final version, if it indeed it is decided to go ahead and include the bars and Matron approaching from outside, will have her carrying the leather belt or strap. The idea is that the nurses outside the girl's cell in the doctors consultation room (obviously) and as she is more distant she does not have to have such a high degree of 3D-ism. In the storyline the bars of course painted white but are not too sure how well this will appear in the final image and is something I have yet to experiment with.

.....

The image of the nurse is actually a horizontally-mirrored version of the original photograph for reasons of perspective and so I first of all shifted the nurses’ fob watch in the original to her right hand side so that it would actually appear on her left in the final shot, as it should. I was especially keen to allow her belt buckle, trim around the collar and fob watch to be seen as I think these details all add to the sense of authority I intended her image to engender. In the final version, if used as a concept a freshly constructed nurse image will be used

The bars themselves came from the original version of those that I used on the book covers of INSTITUTIONALISED volume 1 and INSTITUTIONALISED volume 2 and I used an image shearing facility on a Linux-based image processing application called ‘The Gimp’ called to simply pull them into shape to fit the perspective of the 3-D image as judged by eye (there is also a 'perspective' tool available on ‘The Gimp’ but that doesn't seem to work so well - at least not in my hands, LOL).

I have since fed back the results of my manipulation to my collaborator who has now sent me a version re-coloured to suit the narrative but minus the mess that I made of it. This latter modification is of course based on the original art work, so next one or the other of us will add in the extra detail as in my experimental changes, such as the external view and matron outside (always assuming of course that we decide to continue down that route). Any opinions / comments will as always be gratefully received. With external nurse / bars or without? Which should it be - that sort of thing. One thing that I should point out - and that I have pointed out before - is that the institutional aspect is balanced by the domestic discipline aspect in the final work and even a little ecclesiastical discipline: It turns out that one of my characters may - or may not (depending on who you believe - and even the subject herself is uncertain as to how much is memory how much is delusion) have suffered expiation (both sexual and otherwise )and physical chastisement under the guise of ecclesiastical care in a church-run home for wayward young women. This of course came to light during the events unfolding in INSTITUTIONALISED volume 2 but in the new volume we learn more of her trials and tribulations and perhaps discover the truth.