freswith

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-13159315/Sydney-Sweeney-leads-row-glamour-sparkling-silver-underwear-Saturday-Night-Live-sensation-joins-Emma-Corrin-Miu-Miu-Paris-Fashion-Week.html?openWebLoggedIn=true&login&base_fe_url=https%3A%2F%2Fdailymail.co.uk%2F&validation_fe_uri=%2Fregistration%2Fp%2Fapi%2Ffield%2Fvalidation%2F&check_user_fe_uri=registration%2Fp%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Fuser_check%2F&isMobile=false Just read the comments!

https://www.theargus.co.uk/news/24104618.lancing-soft-play-boss-speaks-adult-event-seen-fetish-site/

Be my baby A mother in West Sussex has complained after a children’s soft play centre hosted a special event for grown adults who enjoy dressing as babies. According to the local newspaper, The Argus, “The over-25s event offered a ‘nappy change room’, baby food and ‘a lovely story time’ with milk and biscuits.” It would be easy to mock this sort of thing. But I think we should refrain – for a simple but important reason. Each new generation of progressives needs its own oppressed minority to champion, in order to demonstrate how much kinder and more virtuous they are than the rest of us. Now that all the obvious groups have been taken, however, I have for some time been wondering which marginalised community will be the next to benefit from the Left’s patronage. I see no particular reason why it shouldn’t be the turn of adult babies. None of us knows what the future may hold. But in 10 or 20 years, it’s perfectly possible that righteous young Left-wing activists will be marching in support of adults’ rights to wear romper suits, suck dummies and play with the nice teddies and dollies at their local crèche. If you don’t believe me, it’s worth noting how the soft play centre responded when The Argus inquired about the adults-only event. A spokesman said: “Who are we to judge and discriminate?” By displaying such prejudice against these poor, marginalised, middle-aged infants, the mothers of West Sussex may well find themselves on the wrong side of history.

"May you live in interesting times!" is an old Chinese curse. The modern British version might be "May you live in a listed building!" meaning one of historical interest. It might be a privilege but it results in having council jobsworths inspecting and interfering everywhere to ensure compliance with the regulations. Pembroke, unfortunately, was one such "interesting" building, and deservedly so. Dating from heaven-knows-when, and updated every century since, it was a palimpsest of different constructions. The oldest, and least modified, was the old laundry, which had been the kitchen block for the original house, and was now just a bare shell. I remembered it from my childhood with mixed feelings, full of washing machines and driers, with lots of nappies and plastic pants hanging out to dry. I can't think I used all that many, but it was better than hanging them out on the washing line in the public view. Now, with fewer children around it was still convenient for hanging out nappies, mostly those of my daughters, without attracting public attention. Thankfully the girls preferred disposables, and so there were very few of them. Now that Pembroke itself had been largely restored, including a complete rewiring necessitated after I kept getting electric shocks off the water taps, I had to decide what to do with the old kitchen/laundry. My aged parents were getting more aged by the day, and the idea occurred to me that it might be possible to convert the building into a cottage to house them where I could keep an eye on them. Not a bad idea, until the council inspector found out about it. Eventually he was compromised, persuaded, threatened and bribed into agreeing and work proceeded. I just made sure that all the nappies and plastic pants were taken out first, and let the builders in. I did have a bad moment when their young lad presented me with a nappy pin, found in a crevice in the floor, but hopefully I didn't blush too much. It was in excellent condition and I could reuse it. At least I was getting something back from a very costly conversion job. Problems abounded. Grace, my model agency, was not doing so well, and Julian was planning to retire. It needed a shot in the arm of some sort to revitalise it. Christmas was coming and I had been persuaded to host the family, with everybody anxious to see all the improvements I made to the family seat. I was hoping the laundry conversion would show some progress by then, but the builders were being builders and taking their time. Just before the Christmas break they had only got as far as stripping the old plaster off the huge chimney breast that dated back to the days when it was a kitchen for the big house - safely detached in case of fire. I wanted to keep the fireplace bare ; it would make a lovely centre to the lounge. The family arrived bit by bit, until Uncle Percy's family arrived, complete with grandchildren. They all lived locally so there was no need to put the little ones up in the nursery, although it was still proving its worth when they needed changing. They had to be watched; Percy had wound them up with the old legend about pirate Jack Sinclair's treasure being hidden somewhere inside the house, and they were rampaging around trying to find it. I didn't want the walls of my nicely re-decorated bedrooms being pounded to pieces as they tried to find hollow bits. There were plenty of creaking floorboards available, most of which I had tried in my childhood - without success. I went in to the nursery just before lunch, and found changes in progress. Viola's daughter Alison had obviously been done, and was not too happy at being found there, backing into a corner as I came in. Chloe, Alice's eldest, was running her fingers around the leg elastics, adjusting them for comfort as was allowed. Only little Gina was still on the changing table and completely unabashed. At five years old and the youngest, she had no reason to be embarrassed while the older girls were wearing nappies too, and she greeted me cheerfully. I felt a tiny bit envious of their neatly-fitted nappies and the comfort and sense of security they provided, but I couldn't emulate them here. The big ones were safely locked away in the big cupboard at the end. After the holiday, perhaps, over the New Year, I would indulge myself. I went down to the lounge, where Peter was regaling Matt and Percy with stories of the Belize Confrontation over a rapidly-declining bottle of Sherry. I made a point of topping up Dad's glass before retreating to the kitchen, where sister Juliet and her daughter, the indefatigable Sally, were working on the Christmas lunch. Lunch happened in the same old way, but with Matt at the head of the table and myself at the foot, even though Admiral Sir Peter was present; I was the lady of Pembroke, and I took precedence. Such was my moment of triumph. The children sat at a side table, which allowed them a bit of liberty, although Sally kept a sharp eye on them. At least any serious accidents would be well contained. They were allowed to leave the table whenever they were replete, only us adults had to remain to toast the King. Then we went to listen to his speech. We sat a while before Matt got busy on the computer, and arranged a video call to Vickie and Simon in Washington in which we all partook. Simon's position as Naval attaché meant he was effectively on duty all the time, and they couldn't make it over here. The five-hour time difference meant it was still morning over there, but the generation of feeling was still very strong. After a while, the conversation migrated to my restoration of Pembroke, which met with great approval, and I mentioned the work being done to convert the laundry into a cottage, which was met with some cynicism by Percy and Juliet. They asked me how did I expect our nonagenarian parents to ever cope with the stairs? In fairness, I admitted it hadn't occurred to me. "Let's go and look at it!" said Peter and there was a general stirring. We all migrated to the kitchen door, but as I passed the toilet I felt I needed to go, however, I was pushed along by the crowd. It wasn't too cold outside and soon we were in the shelter of the laundry, lit by the naked bulbs of the building team. That was much brighter than I remember, although it's usual decor of drying nappies was absent. Juliet looked around an sniffed "Not much room here. Are you planning to restore the first floor?" I nodded. We looked at the huge chimney breast that dominated the room, now stripped of its plaster and naked in its brickwork. "What's that?" said Alison. "Well that's where the fireplace was. It was a kitchen, so they had a very big one." I replied. Huge, ugly, but a handsome feature. "No, I meant That!" she protested pointing at the arch of bricks in the side of the fireplace. "Oh, that would have been the bread oven, a big hole where they put the lumps of dough to bake into bread." I replied. It was all bricked up years and years ago, but the bricks were modern, not the thin Tudor bricks like the rest of the chimney breast. Alison, the oldest of the three, walked over with a hammer from the builder's toolbag and hit the bricks. "Sounds hollow!" she said. "Oh Gawd," I thought, "we're back to hunting treasure. I need the toilet!" It was becoming pressing. Little Georgina toddled over and reached up, the hemline of her dress lifted and showed that she had already solved that problem and needed a change. For a moment I was distracted, and envied her such a simple solution. "That would be a terrific feature if we opened it up and put some brass ornaments in there to catch the light!" said Juliet "Let's try!" said Haldane, heretofore unusually quiet, and he stepped over to the builder's bag and picked out a hammer and chisel. Peter did the same. This was going to get dusty, so I used the excuse to pick up Georgina and slip out of the door, nodding to Alice and mentioning that I would give her child a change. Alice nodded, and made a beeline for her elder daughter, doubtless with the same objective. Pleasantly relieved, I expected the girls to stay in the warmth of the nursery, but they would have none of it, so they were allowed to put on their coats and return to the laundry. When I, also coated, made it back, there were several bricks missing from the hole and both Peter and Haldane were hammering vigorously. "There's something in there!" exclaimed Alison, jumping up and down with excitement as two more bricks hit the floor. "Big wooden box!" added Haldane. "Weighs a ton!" said Peter. They both reached in, and muscles strained as they pulled the box forward, grinding on the dirt. It reached beyond the lip of the oven when gravity asserted itself and it overbalanced and fell to the floor with a mighty crash. One corner broke open, and a torrent of coins slipped out, gleaming gold in the light of the single bulb.

Eh? What Jewish references?

My apologies for the lack of a new instalment - I think I have painted myself into a corner witht the last one. I have an idea for one more, but that would be the end of this particular story. I am quite busy at the moment, with holidays coming up, but I will try to find some time.

Osemeprazole every day. very effective.

‘Serious red flags’ raised as Canadian artist Sophie Labelle set to talk at Sheffield Central Library ByLouisa Clarence-Smith, EDUCATION EDITOR21 February 2023 • 8:00pm Sophie Labelle says people have 'created all sorts of rumours about my work', which she says 'aims to empower trans youth and illustrate trans joy' A council is facing a backlash after agreeing to allow a trans cartoonist with a “kink” for nappy fetish art to speak to children at a library. Sophie Labelle, an artist from Montreal, Canada, is due to speak at Sheffield Central Library on Monday evening about her book, The Best of Assigned Male, her art and activism, and her experience growing up as trans. Ms Labelle, who identifies as a woman, has spoken publicly about her nappy fetish art, known as “diaperfur art”. It has been defined as images related to someone with an interest in anthropomorphic animal characters and an interest in wearing diapers, typically as part of a baby roleplay. She wrote on Twitter in 2021 that she has “made some diaperfur art”. She said: “I have a kink I indulge responsibly and I refuse to be shamed for it.” The Sheffield library event is advertised as being “suitable for adults, teens and families”. Characters in her book include Stephie Bondu, a school pupil who tells her classmates: “I transitioned over the summer and now you have to use ‘she’ to talk about me. It’s mandatory.” 'Serious safeguarding red flags' Miriam Cates, Conservative MP for Penistone and Stocksbridge, has written to Sheffield City Council calling for the event to be cancelled or for an age limit of 18 to be imposed. She wrote: “Even the most cursory background checks on Sophie Labelle throw up serious safeguarding red flags. “In no way can the work or ‘activism’ of this author be considered suitable for children. It is widely agreed by child safeguarding experts, and across society, that it is wrong and deeply damaging to expose children to sexualised material. “No one who seeks to normalise sexual fetish or who associates children with sexual arousal should be allowed anywhere near children, and they certainly would not pass any recognised safeguarding checks. “I strongly urge you to investigate this matter urgently and to act to safeguard children and prevent Sheffield from being brought into disrepute.” Ms Labelle said: “Some people have been busy at work defaming and disparaging me, and they created all sorts of rumours about my work, which aims to empower trans youth and illustrate trans joy, which is more than needed in this anti-trans political climate. “Since 2014, I have created over 1,600 strips with that intent, which don’t feature any nudity or sexuality (besides a high school character having a boyfriend). I have also done several hundreds of talks and public events in youth groups, libraries, schools - from kindergarten to university - without any incident (besides one or two transphobe-hurling insults).” Council refuses to impose restrictions Sheffield City Council has refused to impose restrictions on the event. Richard Williams, chairman of the communities, parks and leisure policy committee at Sheffield City Council, said: “Sheffield Libraries hosts a varied programme of events. One of our speakers is Sophie Labelle, an acclaimed Canadian cartoonist, author and public speaker who visits cities around the world. “In Sheffield, it is a sold-out ticketed event for guests to hear Sophie speak about her art, and growing up trans. “Sheffield is a diverse and inclusive city and it is right that our programme of activity reflects that. The evening event is aimed at teenagers upwards, but we know that some families do attend Sophie’s talks and did not want to exclude them.”

Anastasia Matt was away, so the girls did play. It usually happened at weekend when he was off at a golf tournament, so there were just the three of us in the vastness of Pembroke House. The girls were well into it by now. They had taken over the back bedrooms, a choice which surprised me until I realised that they had easy access to the old servants' stairs and the back door; they could come and go at all hours of the day and night without us parents being disturbed, or even knowing it. That suited us, too. They would arrive on Friday night armed with a load of laundry, a case of Prosecco, and, very discretely, a bag of large disposable nappies, carefully smuggled up the back stairs. The girls had paid their way through college by taking modelling assignments which I organised for them. They used my maiden name - Grace - as a nom de guerre which allowed them some privacy when they were not in front of the camera. The trunk in the attic had been ransacked of all usable items and they had been discretely laundered and packed into the curtained shelves of the changing table. Into the cupboard went th the collection of overpants, nappy covers and rompers which my old friend Helen had made for me, and couple of onesie sleepers which I had acquired myself. This delighted the girls, especially the strapped romper which Spike had portrayed me wearing in his now-notorious mural. Matt never went in there; he was usually playing golf with his friend, a colo-rectal surgeon, who liked to do eighteen holes a day. It happened as it so often does. Percy's daughter Viola had deserted her husband, claiming violent abuse, and needed to get away from him, taking her eight-year-old daughter Anastasia with her. She asked if she could come and stay in Pembroke while she got herself a new place to stay. I agreed readily - Pembroke was always the family refuge, and no sooner had I said it than they arrived. Viola was still bristling, but poor little Stacey was obviously very upset, as the legs of her jeans testified. She, too, suffered from the effects of the rogue genes that ran through the family. Viola took over the third bedroom, while Stacey was ensconced in the nursery. The wet jeans were swiftly consigned to the washing machine and Viola duly informed Stacey that she was subject to Pembroke Rules, which did nothing to raise her morale. Thankfully, even in her haste to pack, Viola had remembered to bring Stacey's night-time essentials, and a little later she ushered her daughter down to the lounge dressed in a T-shirt and bright pink shorts. Unfortunately the shorts were not exactly new, Stacey was growing rapidly, and the edges of a disposable nappy protruded at waist and legs. However, the bright pink matched her face; she looked close to tears. Stacey was unfamiliar with her grown-up cousins, and stood behind the sofa to conceal her infantile state as best she could. Kate and Liz did their best to comfort her, but she was obviously very unhappy. With her parents splitting up, she had much to be unhappy about, and the precaution was well justified - there is just so much a child can take, and a wet patch in the host's nice new carpet was a scene to be avoided. It was unusually warm, and I decided to lay out afternoon tea on the terrace outside the dining room, an idea which was very well received by all except Stacey. Viola helped me set it all up, but even that didn't tempt Stacey out from behind the sofa, until finally Kate and Liz reappeared dressed in very short sundresses, which were not quite long enough to conceal the pillows of their nappies extending below their hemlines. Stacey did a complete double-take, and stared wide eyed as Liz picked her up, sat her astride her hip, and carried her out onto the terrace. Kate seized a large cushion and put it on one of the chairs, and Stacey was plonked on top. The twins sat either side, and Kate answered Stacey's arched eyebrows with a simple "Pembroke Rules - they're for us, too!" and the matter was dropped. I had put on the best tea that I could, given the short notice, and Stacey enjoyed it greatly, her morale visibly improved. Eventually Kate and Liz got up, and went hand in hand with Stacey to the lawn, and kicked off their shoes to walk on the cool grass, down towards the pond, where the fountain was playing. I thought this a high-risk strategy - I knew what the combination of cool feet and tinkling water could do to a weak bladder. I was not surprised to see them returning a bit heavier between the legs, but still smiling and joking. Viola gave a long sigh: "Bath-time, I think." and Kate and Liz promptly offered to do that duty, leaving Viola and myself to clear the dishes. It gave Viola a chance to let her hair down and tell me all her worries, and how glad she was to be back in Pembroke with her daughter safe and sound. Percy and Clare came round, and at first I feared it was to "talk sense" into their daughter, but I found I had underestimated them. They ended up giving Viola a good Listening To, and succeeded in talking her down out of her agitated state. Percy, in his wisdom, withheld judgement and concentrated on the positive help he could provide. Some of the money I had given him for Pembroke was going to be used to buy Viola and Stacey a house, which was ironic - I had just sold two in London. We emptied a couple of bottles of wine between us over supper. No more, Percy had to drive, and I didn't want a mournfully drunk Viola on my hands. Finally I looked in to the nursery to check on our junior guest, and found that the girls had put her in the big cot, where she laid, bedclothes down to her knees in the still-warm room, three-quarters on her front, and one leg bent to accommodate some bulky padding. To add insult to injury the girls had raised the side of the cot and latched it. I looked closer and saw that Stacey was wearing a large terry nappy and white plastic pants and I wondered how they had ever managed to get her to agree to that. Then I saw an almost empty baby's bottle in her hand, part-filled with a pale liquid. In the bin beside the bed was an empty bottle of Prosecco. She was now sleeping very deeply, and didn't stir when I slipped a finger into the leg elastics of her baby pants for a nappy check. She was still dry, so I lifted the bedclothes up to her shoulders, and tucked them in. No wonder the child, who had been so frightened this afternoon, was now sleeping so soundly. That nappy was going to be much needed before morning. I went to check on my own girls. It was a very similar picture. Thankfully they had had enough sense to wear disposables, and were now passed out in their beds. I did the same: checked their nappies and tucked them in.

Thank you far all the compliments - yes I am quite well, although I have been very busy with other things.. I have an episode half-complete and will get on with it.

Thank you for the kind remarks; there are a couple more episodes in it before the planned finale. I am not sure which of the girls I will "do" then, perhaps I will have an inspiration. The length is in the same order as "Lord of the Rings" (excluding The Hobbit). It would be nice to match it.

Desperate Zimbabweans are boiling used nappies to get high in a new drug craze as the country struggles to recover from its latest economic crisis. “They scrape [the nappies clean] and then boil them [with a small amount of water] and a thickish white stuff emerges, and this is then put into the bottom of jars and sold,” one user told The Telegraph in the Epworth suburb, a squalid settlement in Harare’s outskirts. Drug users said that the sodium polyacrylate — the absorbent part of a nappy — got them high enough to carry on with their grim daily lives with more confidence. Mirriam, a 23-year-old single mother, said that she took the nappy mixture to give her the courage to do sex work. “I only take a little so as to give me courage to do my work, because it’s not easy to sleep with anyone anytime, especially strangers, but I don't have a choice because the father of my child ran away to South Africa and my parents chased me from home,” she says.

https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/killer-now-identifies-infant-who-26675614?fbclid=IwAR3NGJQTew7CTGj5Zhj6eddSD8R7dhCZZkqek798RKxdfHxxpvoOyCNXNTU

Just Stop Oil protesters..... wearing Nappies and Incontinence pads to stay warm whilst blocking 10 UK oil terminals......................... ....." “We're very cold... some of us will be wearing adult incontinence pants, some of us will be taking Imodium, so it's uncomfortable.” ....... Views???....... Just Stop Oil protesters are wearing nappies and taking Imodium so they can continue their sit out until Boris Johnson signs an agreement that says he will no longer invest in oil and gas. Speaking to GB News spokeswoman for the activist group Laura Norton broke down in tears as she made an impassioned plea to diverge from fossil fuels and invest in renewable energy. Through tears, she said: “I am so frightened and I don’t know how we’re not all panicking. Our children might not live to 30 because there won’t be a habitable planet anymore. “People have to stop oil or we’re going to see the end of human-kind. “We’re going to stay here until the government stop all new licenses and investigations into oil and gas. "As soon as Boris Johnson signs that paper, we will move that instant. But until then, normal people like us, who don’t want to be here, will stay as long as we can." Ms Norton added: “We're very cold... some of us will be wearing adult incontinence pants, some of us will be taking Imodium, so it's uncomfortable.” Just Stop Oil said it blocked “10 critical oil terminals” across the UK today, including Exxon Mobil UK, one of the country’s largest privately-owned underground oil pipeline distribution networks.

Heritage It had been a busy few months. I had finished the redecoration of most of Pembroke. My tour of inspection took me all around the house, but when I was on the landing I heard some giggling coming from the nursery. I opened the door to find Kate sitting cross-legged in the cot, and Liz sitting on the changing table. "What on earth are you two doing there?" I said, taken completely by surprise. My twins were twenty-one now, and about to start their final year at college. Kate is a bit mature to be in a cot, even with the side down; her five-foot-ten frame would hardly fit inside anyway. I knew that because I had already tried my own five-ten frame in there. "Just having some fun!" replied Liz, swinging her long legs beside the table. "We were talking about how it used to be in here. It's the part of Pembroke that we remember most. Lots of nights spent here. Good times. Glad to see you have kept it much the same....But why?" "Well, in case we have children to stay, of course." It was a point I had made with Matt, who had asked which children would that be. Fair enough - we were a bit short of them at the moment, only Percy's grandchildren qualified; Viola had a daughter of eight, and Alice had two of five and seven. Juliet had a grand-daughter who was ten, and just finishing up, but still might need "Pembroke Rules" The family gene had expressed itself in them, and all three were incontinent. They had been frequent visitors to Pembroke, and the nursery had been retained to meet their special needs. I argued that we might find ourselves saddled with them from time to time; indeed, they would be welcome here, as it was their ancestral home as well as ours. That was the official reason - but I had reasons of my own to want to keep it. I planned to relive some of my own memories from time to time. Preferably when there was no-one else around. Liz stopped swinging her feet, and held her legs out straight, toes touching. "Are you sure it is just for them?" she said softly, "Don't you have some affectionate memories of those days? ...We certainly do!" "How do you mean?" I prevaricated. I was now on the defensive, and up against two intelligent minds who knew me so well."Surely you don't want to go back to those days!" Kate pursed her lips and spoke. "Oh, nappies were not so bad. The feeling of security, the knowledge that we wouldn't wake up in a cold wet bed with a long time to go before we would be allowed to get up, and then to face an angry parent." Liz brushed her auburn hair back out of her face. "The comfort, the peaceful feeling... Being wrapped up snug and warm.... and safe. It might have been humiliating, but a wet bed is even more so." "Not having to get out of our nice warm beds and go to the cold lavatory, cold feet on the lino floor, all making it much worse. So much nicer just to lie back, let it go, and get back to sleep in a few moments." added Kate. They had the habit of finishing each other's sentences. "Don't you remember that?" I did, and it was true. There was the knowledge that I would never be chided for having wet my nappy, but I would be in for a very rough time if I wet the bed. It came back to me every time I had to get up in the night. There were so many times I wished I could be wearing a nappy instead, but grown-ups are not supposed to think that way. Grown-ups had to think of washing the nappies afterwards. It's called "responsibility" and you can have all too much of it. "Well, no-one's stopping you" I replied - it was time to go onto the offensive. "You can wear nappies at night if you want to. Or in the day, for that matter. As long as you wash them or use disposables." There was a sudden silence. My counter-attack had been successful. The counter-counter-attack came from a different quarter. "That picture Spike painted..." mused Kate, "I wonder where he got the idea from? It's not an obvious thing to do." "He was the perfect pervert," I replied, "And he knew me very well indeed." Too well, I thought. He had the emotional insight of a true artist, and he'd sussed me out. Pity the woman who has an all-too-perceptive lover. "He knew about you being made to wear nappies, then? Until you were almost a teenager?" came back Liz. I nodded. It was simply true. "Did he put you into nappies again?" said Kate, once again following her twin sister's line of thought. Slowly, I nodded. He really was a demon lover, and could see right through me. "Did he enjoy humiliating you?" Yes, he did. It gave him control of me. But I enjoyed it. The long, slow foreplay, the ritual, the intimacy. I didn't object. "I used to enjoy it when you were putting us to bed." said Liz, "It was the only time we felt really close to you. You were always out at work during the day, on business, travelling. We had just that one hour with you when you put us to bed, the chance to speak our minds and really talk to you." Kate added: "It wasn't so bad in the mornings either. "If I wanted to pee, and my nappy was already wet, I didn't have to get up and go to the nasty cold bathroom, I could just let it all go. If I took my nappy off, I would be in for a scolding. And there was the attention we got in the mornings, too." I was crushed. All those years of being a supermodel, and then a businesswoman, and they had really wanted me there with them all that time. "We had to make a living. To make a home for you." It was the best I could come up with. A pause. "I cherished those moments as well. Having you close to me, warm and soft, feeling the life within you. I would love to be able to re-live that." I felt my tears welling up. Liz slipped down off the changing table and came to my side. Kate arrived a moment later and we wrapped our arms around each other, and I stood there with my daughters' heads on my shoulders. I wished that loving moment could have lasted forever.

Survey and Plans "You fell for it!" was Matt's most cutting remark, and I had to admit he was right. Percy had played me like a fish, but I was still determined to have my way. The price Percy demanded was not unreasonable, but Pembroke needed a lot of work. I began to review my assets. I had built up a splendid pension fund from my modelling days, and my business, Grace, the modelling agency, was flourishing, but buying Pembroke from Percy would still make a big hole in my estate. Matt suggested selling my old mews house in Hampstead, and it would certainly help. I had held on to it for good reasons, not only was it a good investment, and had been let out to many of my models in past years (it had seen more action than Harvey Weinstein's casting couch), but the main reason was Spike's mural of me on the wall of the ground floor. Spike's pictures now fetched huge sums, enhanced by his considerately being dead, and the notorious manner of his passing - accidentally hanging himself during a bondage game with Marguerite. The problem was that he had portrayed me as stark naked, lounging on the top of my pink sports car. I had protested vehemently until Spike painted some clothing on me. Unfortunately Spike knew me only too well, and the clothing he chose was a strapped romper bulging over a very obvious nappy. When we broke up, I had put up a studding wall across the picture, and there it still lay concealed from the world. If I sold the house the new owner was bound to make some alterations, and all would be exposed. I had agonised over the problem for a long time, for a generation in fact. Then Matt came up with an idea: brazen it out! Put the blame on Spike's notorious fetishism, say he had done it to humiliate and control me, which everyone would cheerfully believe. So it worked out. The studding wall came down, and the art world was aghast. It was the first major work by Spike to be discovered in decades, and the interest and publicity was intense. The expert from Christies examined it and thought it might be possible to remove it intact, although doing it without demolishing the house would be rather difficult, but he was confident it could be done. He suggested that we sell it together with the mews house - both were valuable and attractive and leave the problem to the new owner. The mews had become very fashionable after a Hollywood star had moved in to the house at the end. We decided to trust Christies, and the result did not disappoint; the house and painting fetched a price rather higher than Pembroke was worth. We could now go ahead with our purchase. I was just a little curious about the Arab oil sheikh who had bought it - there were a lot of rumours about his sexual tastes as well, but it was time to move on. I had plenty to do, even though the sight of me in a nappy and romper had had quite an effect on me - it had triggered feelings I had almost forgotten. I would have to do something about it, and soon. We ran into a problem with my daughters. They were very metropolitan, and the prospect of moving out to the country horrified them - all that grass and mud! All those animals! They objected to me selling the mews house as well, as they had had their own eyes on it as a place beyond parental controls. They were very disparaging about Spike's painting as well, although they were fascinated by the romper and asked if I still had it. I played them along, and said that, as far as I knew, it was in the big chest in that attic at Pembroke. That gave me some thought, and I made sure the contract included all fixtures and fittings and any contents that Percy would leave behind. I also promised the girls that I would convert the old laundry block into a cottage that they could use. I had a fair idea what they had in mind, and at least I would have a few yards - and much double glazing - in between me and the noises off. To add a sting to it I said they could use the nursery as and when they needed a change. I didn't get the reaction I had expected. "Oooh! Really?" exclaimed Kate, "Are you going to change us?" "Bags the big cot!" Liz demanded. "Nappies!" "Pins!" "Plastic pants!" "Frilly ones!" "Bottles!" The ideas battled to and fro, and my bluff was called, I was outnumbered, outflanked and surrounded. "Every night!" was the best I could manage. Following the best traditions, I withdrew under a smoke screen. "You can do all the washing, though..." "Coooool!" said my grinning daughters in unison, exulting in their victory. I paid a visit to Pembroke to make a list of any repairs and redecorations needed. The old house was showing the effects of being owned by old people; there were no signs of recent redecorations. I went into each room in turn, and decided which I would have to do first. In due course I came to the nursery, and lifted the dust sheets. This was going to be a problem, as I didn't really want to change anything; I had been changed so many times there and had fond memories of it. Any real redecoration would have to be done so as not to raise too much suspicion. There were no small children in the immediate family at the moment, and certainly none expected from my two daughters, who were hell-bent on enjoying themselves. I could perhaps "restore" it to the condition in which I remembered it, and keep it for the children of any guests whom I might invite. That would excuse me keeping the big cot, the changing table, and things like the safety bars on the windows. I stood before the big cot, and the memories came back. I saw me, as a child, standing inside it of a morning waiting for someone to come and change my sodden nappy before it slipped down my legs. I knew that eventually Gran would appear, march over to me, seize my pants each side, and slide the whole package rapidly down my legs, two cold wet rings going all the way down. While it stayed up, at least it was warm. I clutched my pants and held them up; if they were still up when Gran came in I could probably get away with just a disposable or even trainer pants for the day. Gran would then direct me to the bathroom with instructions to clean myself up. I did not tarry; I knew that if I was not back out promptly, then Gran would come in and clean me up herself - very thoroughly. When I came out, with just a towel around my loins, my daytime garb would be laid out on the changing table ready for me. Usually that meant a large terry nappy, neatly folded with a liner on top, plastic pants and a romper - the "full house", much as I wore the night before save for the baby nappy folded as a booster. At least the lack of a booster meant I would still be able to walk, but with some difficulty until it all settled down - or was wetted. I would be invited to mount the scaffold and Gran would position me on top of the nappy and then anoint me, and give a puff of sweet-smelling baby powder. I would lie still, no wriggling or kicking at the nappy as it was drawn up between my legs fairly loosely, and then the sides would be pinned around me as tightly as possible to stop it falling down. Gran would then shake out the plastic baby pants, and slipping her hands through the leg holes she would seize my feet and slide the pants up my legs. While she was doing so, I used to run my fingers over the soft towelling of my nappy and over the smooth pin, checking the top had been snapped down and it wouldn't come open and prick me. It was the only time I was ever allowed to touch my nappy, although sometimes at night I would slip my hand inside to check it was still dry. I co-operated in lifting my feet as she slid the rustling pants over my ankles, and then lifted my bottom so she could pull them up underneath to my waist, then that lovely feeling when she tucked the leg elastics up into my nappy. Finally I would be topped off with a romper or onesie . Then I was free to play. I would have to ask, perhaps several times, to be allowed to go to the toilet for a "big job", and everything would be put back afterwards. I would be left to play around the house and garden until lunchtime, then I would be changed again and put down for a nap. My holidays - or dumping - at Pembroke meant nappies or trainer pants all the time, and the best I could hope for was a fresh dry change. Gran said the idea was to take all the strain and shame off me; no having to pay continuous attention to avoid making sudden rushes to the toilet, no accidents, no worries - I could have a break from the daily routine at school and home and relax a little. Perhaps she was right; I was happy not to have the shame of big wet marks down my jeans accusing me of inattention. I could control myself for much of the time, but then, when the impulse came, I had only a few moments to get to the toilet before it all came out anyway. Without some kind of protection I was always on edge, and with good reason. Although trainer pants were more comfortable, I quite enjoyed being nappied; it got me the attention I craved, and I felt so much safer when I was well padded out, warm and dry and care-free, even if it made walking a bit of a chore. If I wanted to go outside the nursery I would normally have to wear a romper over the top - it stopped my nappy from falling down, dry or wet, and looked more respectable. Instead of straps, it was zipped up the back, so I couldn't "accidentally" remove my nappy whilst playing. I never actually tried to take it off, as I knew I would never be chided for wetting my nappy; that was taken for granted, I was expected to wet it, that was what it was there for, and so I wet it whenever I felt the urge. It also saved Gran's carpets from the occasional smelly puddle, too. It might be embarrassing to still be in nappies at eight years old, but Pembroke and its huge garden were very private, and I could have the run of the place without any outsiders knowing. I would be put back into my cot after lunch, nominally for a nap, although I think it was Gran who actually needed the nap. I didn't always sleep, but I nearly always wet; I had to do something to pass the time. After an hour or so, Gran would come in, check my nappy, and then if I was wet she would change me again. I was then free until I had had tea, and my bath. I would come out of the bathroom to see a pile of terry towelling ready for me on the changing table. This time the booster was there, and it was all nearly twice as thick. I found it very difficult to walk, but I would waddle as far as my cot where I would be lifted in, told to lie down and be tucked in. I had to lie with my legs spread to accommodate all that towelling, mostly on my back, but sometimes, to make a change I lay on my front; it didn't seem to make much difference as by morning my nappies would be well soaked anyway. To add a final insult I would be given a bottle of milk, which most times I drank purely out of habit. Then, when I had settled down, the side would be raised with firm click. Such was my daily routine at Pembroke. I came reluctantly back to the present. I noted down: Nursery: Redecorate. Restore. And left it at that. I would also have to overhaul the laundry arrangements to take account of my plans. I stayed in the nursery far longer than was really necessary, wondering if I could ever re-create that feeling. It would be difficult, and washing the nappies afterward would need to be done discretely, but I reckoned I could manage it. I was still thinking of the nursery when I got as far as the laundry. Here it was another story, and where there had once been a big washing machine and lines of nappies hanging out to dry, it was now just a box room. It had originally been the kitchens of the old house, before even the present Georgian house had been built, and separated from it in case it caught fire, as they so often did. Now it was just a big empty space, only the massive chimney-breast remained, covered in peeling plaster. Here my ideas for redecoration would not be sufficient; it would be a job for an architect. Nice little cottage for my daughters or other guests. Preserve some of the character. Keep it alive instead of it becoming ruined. Finally I checked the attic. The big chest was still there, and I opened the lid. There were heaps of neatly folded nappies, plastic pants and clothing. I ran my fingers down inside the layers of towelling. They were still soft and dry. I checked the plastic pants, and found the elastics were sadly perished. No problem. As soon as I was settled in, I would buy some more. In my size.

Percy's Surprise The years passed. My two daughters flowered, and carved a path through the opposite sex, carefully avoiding all commitment. My model agency "Grace" grew and grew, but I rarely modelled these days, specialising in promoting the business while my manager Julian did the donkey work. Matt retired from active medicine and took up the chair of surgery at a London college. Then came a summons from Uncle Percy. He was having a retirement bash, and the family was to attend en masse at Pembroke House. Such an order had to be obeyed. We pulled up beside Pembroke's front door, noting the other cars parked there. Peter and Juliet's big saloon, Haldane's little sports car, Mum & Dad's little runabout - although Mum, who was now 80, did most of the driving. Our two girls had declined the invitation, preferring a ball at college and felt it was too far to come just for Uncle Percy's retirement bash. There was a charging point by the garage door, so we backed up to it. Matt never liked electric cars, but they were much more convenient for nipping in and out of London, and Pembroke was within range, but Matt was not very trusting even of modern batteries. We went inside and met the rest of the family. It was a very warm, humid night and the french doors on the lounge were all open to the terrace, so we drifted in and out as the mood took us. The terrace was still hot from the long summer's day, and so, drinks in hand, we strolled down onto the lawn. Out of respect for Percy's precious grass I kicked my high heels off and walked onto the cool grass in stockinged feet. Suddenly the cool grass bought a memory back to me, of being eight or nine, and staying with Gran while my parents were off elsewhere. Dumped was the word, and I had been in a bit of a sulk that day. Now it was bedtime and still being under Pembroke rules I had been put into my night nappy. I had protested - I had only needed one change of disposable during the day, but my protest had been overruled, and a large terry nappy had been pinned around me. Gran obviously wanted me to go the whole night without another change and it was quite a bit thicker than my normal disposable night-nappy, so walking was going to be difficult. Gran finished off by tucking the leg elastics of my plastic pants up unto the nappy to stop leaks and pulling my short nightie down to cover my humiliation - well, almost. It didn't make walking any easier but I managed a waddle over to the window. The scent of the flowers wafted in - Gran always planted stock near the house, and I had an idea. "Gran? Can I go down to smell the flowers, they are so lovely! Just for a few minutes." Gran came over. A whiff of air drove the scent further in, and she stopped for a moment to savour it. "Please Gran?", My number one cute smile and big eyes looking upward. Usually works. It worked "Alright then, but just ten minutes." I was delighted, all day long I had been good, apart from that one wet nappy, and had managed to get my way on something at last. I managed to make it down the stairs, although Gran was careful to hold my hand, and staggered down the steps from the terrace until my bare feet were on the cool damp grass. There Gran left me and returned to the house to attend to something, and I carefully took one step after another as best as I could with that great pillow of towelling between my thighs, aiming to put as much distance as possible before the inevitable summons came to return to the confined boredom of my cot. I made it to the end of the flowerbed, and checked to see that Gran was still busy, then I set off in the direction of the pond where the fountain was still running. I stood there a while, enjoying the colours of the sunset and the scent of the flowers and the tinkle of water falling into the pond, but then nature called. I looked back up to the house. It was a long way. I started off at the best waddle I could manage, but it wasn't enough. After a dozen steps the call had become a command, and I looked around desperately. There was nowhere to go, and the house looked further away than ever, and I wasn't even sure I could get rid of that huge nappy, have a pee, and get all those folds of towelling back up again. Suddenly I lost my footing on the damp grass, sat down sharply. The warmth flooded in between my legs and the bulk seemed to soften. The sense of urgency vanished so I let it all go, and I waited a few moments until all was done, then rolled onto all fours and got back to my feet. It was much easier now, and I began to move back towards the house. Halfway up the lawn I began to wonder how I was going to explain myself, then I thought that since I wasn't very wet and my nappy was very thick I wouldn't say anything; I knew I could sleep in a wet nappy if I had to - I did it nearly every morning anyway. Gran came out to fetch me and followed me up the stairs to the nursery. There my plans came undone when Gran checked my nappy, and I found myself back on the changing table in short order. She asked me if I even realised I was wet, and I told her no, not really. (Wetting deliberately was a serious offence!) and she just tut-tutted and let it pass. I was relieved of my wet nappy, cleaned up with a wet-wipe and put through the same ritual of large nappy, but now with baby nappy soaker, and muslin sheet. This time there was no problem in walking; I was carried to the cot and plonked inside, tucked in, the side was raised and clicked closed. There would be no more walking in the garden that evening. All was well until morning when Gran was cleaning me up again - I had been very wet - and remarked that I had now got a nappy rash. That was most unusual and she put it down to the very warm weather. I got myself a coating of ointment, but Gran said the best thing for it was lots of fresh air, so she double-nappied me and omitted the plastic pants. I didn't like that at all; it felt so insecure, and was made a hundred times worse when she told me I had to stay on the plastic sheet in the pen, where I wouldn't wet on the carpet. As it was I managed to stay dry for nearly the whole morning - I was too afraid to try taking my nappy off, even when it was wet. I was allowed a visit to the toilet at lunchtime, and then nappied again for an afternoon nap, also on a plastic sheet. By teatime the rash had gone and I was never more pleased to be put back into my plastic pants and allowed the run of the house and garden. I was brought back to the present by the tinkle of ice in my glass as Matt refilled it. We headed back towards the house where lights were now visible in most windows. I noted the nursery light was on, and I wondered who was using it. Once inside I made an excuse and headed for the toilet, but since the downstairs one was busy I went up stairs, and met Juliet's daughter, Holly with her own ten-year-old daughter Jennifer. Time flies, but I had got used to being a great-aunt! Jennifer was looking distinctly bashful, and I was careful not to ask what she had been up to; the slight rustle as she passed me told me all I needed to know. Pembroke Rules were still being applied there. Just for a moment I was envious. Jennifer was secure, comfortable, and without fear of having an accident. I was getting less secure by the minute, so we just gave passing honours and carried on. I used the nursery toilet as it was nearest. On the way out I paused. There were so many memories in this room, although the tatty wallpaper was now showing its age. Percy had not redecorated it in a generation. The changing table was still there, under a dust sheet, as was the oversized cot; the room had seen so many guests over the years, and as many of them had suffered the family curse it made sense to keep the facilities available. I peeked into the changing-table shelves behind the dust sheet, and there were a few of the white towelling squares, neatly folded, still there. I touched them. Still soft - so soft. The sound of the dinner gong broke my reverie. Dinner was being served, and we repaired to the dining room. The dining room was still as splendid, and the long mahogany table was covered with a spotless white sheet and a load of silver. There was a separate table for the children, who could riot at their pleasure without continuous correction. The tablecloth was not quite so white, having been washed so often, and the drinks were soft. That allowed the parents to relax, and riot at their pleasure. It was an old-fashioned custom, but it worked. The dinner was superb, and at the end of it Percy took the floor. I relaxed - he was inclined to be long-winded, and when he dropped his bombshell it took me several seconds to react to what he said. "I have decided to sell Pembroke." he said, "It's just too big and it needs so much work to look after it and neither of us are getting any younger." I sat up sharply. Sell Pembroke? What treachery was this! It had been in our family for three centuries. It WAS us! The others seemed just as much perturbed, and Percy was forced to elaborate. He told us of the work in needed and how he had received a splendid offer from a chain of nursing homes, and how he intended to retire to a much smaller property. His children weren't interested; each had chosen their homes and careers and didn't wish to take on the huge and crumbling property. He was sure the nursing home would be able to restore it properly. I was choking at the idea of it becoming a house for the dying. I didn't feel like lingering after a shock like that, and was still aghast when Matt was driving me home down the motorway. My mind was replaying all my memories of Pembroke, and the loved ones it had held. The thought of it being passed on the strangers was just too much. The answer came to me in a jolt. "Matt, we could buy Pembroke. We deserve a decent house at last! And we need room for the girls." Matt brought the car back under control and after a moment began the case for the defence. We had a really good row all the way home, but I remained adamant. I was not going to let Pembroke be taken out of the family.

My goodness! It took me twenty minutes to find it! Yes, I'm still here, and still too lazy to sign in. Anyway, there's another episode coming soon, just as soon as I've polished it.

The Queen loaned me one of hers many years ago. I don't miss it. I cannot think of any situation I have ever been in where having a gun would have improved anything, indeed it would have made things much worse. I keep a sword handy for unwelcome visitors. They don't like it up 'em, you know.

Justice. Sunday morning, calm and quiet, no work today, just snuggle down against Matt and let my mind roll on. Grace, my model agency was doing very nicely, and I was mostly involved with promotion. Julian did the administration and I acted as the figurehead. No more catwalk work for me, just go in to London or Paris or New York to, well, socialise and do publicity. A spot on a TV panel show, an occasional magazine column, being seen at all the fashion shows and yakking with the designers and photographers and so on. Fashion line, in partnership with my old friend Helen. Twin daughters growing up apace. Soon be dry, moving on to the next stage of life. Pretty as you can get. Clever, too, sometimes a bit too clever. Husband warm beside me. Consultant surgeon, regular hours, good income, and still quite a bit of a hunk. House. Bit too small now. Need more space for entertainment. Just inside the M25 London ring road. Expensive area, but good schools. Feel warm Feel contented. Snuggle up. What more could I want? How about another baby? Thoughts tumble. A son, perhaps. A little Matt. Easily toilet trained. Red hair. Blue eyes. Little brother for the girls to look after. Patter of little feet. Nice. I reach out to stroke my husband.... "Mum!" Groan. Reach back. Unsnuggle. "Mu-u-umm!" I roll over, open my blurry eyes, and see Kate my younger daughter (by twenty minutes) standing framed in the doorway. At her shoulder, Liz, her "big" sister, almost completely indistinguishable except for a thunderous look. "What is it Kate?" I reply, my voice a growl because of the vocal cords that have relaxed over the night. I start to roll back again. "MUM!" I freeze, and re-open an eye. "I'm dry!" "Oh, jolly good. Well done. Take it off, and I'll see you at breakfast." "But Mum, you said if I was dry for four weeks in a row I could..." "Yes dear. We'll talk about that later, shall we." She didn't move. I waited. She had a point. It had always been one month dry and they were out of nappies, and that was carved in stone somewhere. I looked at Matt for support. He opened his eyes, then winked at me, half smiling. I sat up, slowly and reluctantly and reached for my dressing gown and put on my Kindly Mother mask over my Bloody Livid face. Kate was right, and in the High Court of Parenthood I was obliged to take this plea very seriously. We trooped across to the twin's bedroom in line astern, an excited Kate leading, an unusually quiet Liz trailing. At the great dark wood cupboard that housed the necessary items I opened the left door, on the back of which was fastened a year planner with many boxes, one for each day. From the top each box was filled with large "W"s, but in the middle a number of "D"s began to appear, and by summer the "D"s predominated, until the last "W" appeared in the middle of July. Since then there were twenty-seven "D"s. Kate dropped her nappy, picked up a pen, and wrote a large "D" in the twenty-eighth box. I nodded sagely, lips pursed, and took it all in. Not a full month, but a calendar month, certainly. I thought for a minute, as Kate jumped up and down. Judgement had to be given. "Very well. Let's try a night or two without. Any accidents and it's be another month in nappies, understand? Now for heaven's sake go and use the toilet before you have one." Kate bolted for the bathroom, whooping. I turned and saw Liz glaring at me. I opened the other cupboard door, where Liz's chart was pinned. There stood the cascade of "W"s, but tailing off into a field of "D"s until almost the present. Then two weeks ago, a single "W" stood in mute condemnation. I looked at Liz. She was not a pretty sight. Appealing, slightly trembling, her eyes starting to moisten, and I had to give judgement. "Only two weeks dry!" I said, clucking . "It was only a little one," said poor Liz, on the verge of tears. "I woke up and stopped it. Without that I would have been dry a week ago!" Kate reappeared, and saw the tenseness of the situation. She looked from one of us to the other, and to the damning chart, then straightened her back. "If Liz has to stay in nappies for another week, then so shall I!" she said bravely, and put an arm around her sister. That was the perfect excuse for which I'd been looking. I was now outnumbered and opposed by superior forces. "Very well then. Just this once. Liz, you are out of nappies as well, BUT... one wet bed from either of you and you will BOTH be back in for another month!" Judgement duly given, and dignity preserved, I closed the cupboard doors. Mrs Justice Mother left the courtroom, and the twins embraced. My return to our bedroom was quite slow. I had suggested before that we might have another baby, and had presented it as the chance to have a little boy for Matt. His response had always been: "Let's get the girls out of nappies first", which is not unreasonable. Now I had a fresh card to play. I found Matt in the bathroom, shaving slowly and methodically, his razor ploughing fresh strips of cheek between the foam. The razor stopped halfway down, and he said "What was all that about?", and I told him carefully what I had decided. "But what about the holiday?" was his reply, and the razor continued its journey. I had forgotten about that. Up until now the rule was that any drive or flight that was significantly over the hour required nappies to be worn, and that meant long skirts to conceal them. I put my foot down (daintily of course: I was a model after all) and Matt grudgingly agreed with my judgement. I slept the next couple of nights in the old way; with one eye open and alert for the sounds of trouble emanating from the twins' bedroom. There was only one incident of bed-wetting, a month or so later. It was Kate that time. There was a terrible silence that morning as the twins awaited my judgement. I was caught by my own memories and tried to remember the intensity of my feelings when I had had an accident and was similarly threatened. I had promised to put them both back into nappies for a month if they ever wet the bed again, and the big dark cupboard had been left there to underline the threat. Now it loomed beside me like an executioner waiting eagerly for employment. I was now caught between Loving Mum and Mrs Justice Mother. I realised that it is never a sin to fail to carry out a threat; it might be bad tactics, and set a bad precedent, but as Henry Fielding wrote, "we are all as God made us and most of us much worse". So much for my resolve. I forgave Kate and just gave her a kiss, and told her to take the sheet off the bed, wipe the waterproof sheet down and put all the bits in the laundry basket: just one more load for the washing machine. The girls' self-confidence flowered magnificently over the next few weeks. They were even trusted to go to a sleep-over, a privilege long denied them for obvious reasons I realised once more that our current house really wasn't big enough, and we would have to fill their bedroom with camp beds and heaven knows what; that is the problem with London and its suburbs; property is ridiculously expensive. Despite all that had been in the press about my huge earnings as a model, when it came to the final accounts they were not quite so splendid. My deals with Helen's fashion house did make me money, but I could probably have made much more by working for the bigger firms I wanted a bigger house, but that would mean moving out, and both our jobs meant we worked at some strange hours and needed to commute to and fro. Still, I had to make do with what I had. I set about rearranging the furniture in the girls bedroom, got rid of the changing table, and then I came to the big brown cupboard where the nappies were stored. I looked at it, and felt it looking at me in mute accusation. Then I resolved to empty it; its job had been done. While the kids were at school I went to clear the cupboard. Opening the doors I looked at what would be involved. I started at the top where the old terry nappies were stacked, and worked downwards past the plastic pants to where the disposables were, and onwards to the all-in-ones. Then I stopped for a while. Those all-in-ones had been specially made by Helen's company and were brightly coloured, beautifully made, and had been very expensive. I ran my hands over them, enjoying the warmth and softness, and I realised that I was going to miss them, the intimacy I had enjoyed with my daughters was no longer there. They got themselves to bed now. I wanted to throw everything away and suppress my feelings, but part of me said "No". They might still be needed somewhere else in the family. Juliet's daughter Holly had just moved in with her boyfriend, and although there was nothing yet, it was probably just a matter of time. The rogue genes in our family would probably mean another incontinent child who would appreciate, or more accurately, despise them. The right place would be in the big trunk at Pembroke where such things could be stored until needed somewhere in the family. A trip to Pembroke was called for.

The only trouble with St James Park Lake is the neighbours, always changing guard and things like that.

Don't tempt me!

Claire's Day I never refused an invitation to Pembroke, and this one was a bit special; it was Aunty Claire's fiftieth birthday, and a family gathering had been arranged. I cheerfully announced the news to my twins, and was met with a very mixed response. "Does that mean..." said Kate. "....Pembroke Rules?" completed Liz. I had to think for a moment. Both were now dry during the day - except for the occasional small accident - and went unprotected to school on the strict understanding that they went between each lesson. The journey to Pembroke was usually under the hour, and they could manage to stay dry as long as there wasn't a traffic jam; that could cause problems. However, the tradition of Pembroke Rules still held firm. I had been subjected to it up to the age of eleven, and sister Juliet until she was thirteen. My two were not far short of ten, but still a long way short on bladder control. I had to think of the expensive carpets and furnishings in Pembroke, and Aunty Claire's manic house-pride. I sucked my teeth for a moment, and then gave Judgement. "Pembroke Rules," I said, "but pull-ups. Even then, you've got to be very careful!", and I made a mental note to tell them to take the changing bag. The journey up was without incident, and we arrived to see Juliet and Sally had already arrived, along with Vickie and Simon with their children Caroline and Nicholas. Peter was with them, driving a smaller vessel than usual, and Holly busy at university with her Finals. The children greeted each other cheerfully and began a wild game of tag in the garden, while the adults enjoyed a glass of sherry. The conversation amongst us mothers devolved to the usual thing. "No. we're not there yet, although they are improving. They can manage school quite okay, but unless they are watched at home, there is sometimes the possibility of an accident. They still wear at night, of course, but they're not always wet." That was a bit of an understatement. If we went to the park or out for a walk they were always protected, and although this was mostly just a precaution, there was always the likelihood of a crisis. Juliet asked if they were in nappies now. "Pull-ups." I was able to reply. I looked at Juliet and raised an eyebrow. "How's Sally doing?" I asked, and although I knew the official answer, I wanted to pass the onus on to Juliet to reply. Juliet sucked her teeth."Well, I thought we had licked it, but we still get the occasional relapse. It's almost as if she likes to wear them. She wanted a nappy on today, and I know it's a long drive with almost no service areas, but I said No." She paused a moment. "...but then we settled on pull-ups." I nodded sympathetically. I knew Sally, and had a shrewd idea of her affection for nappies. It never pays to underestimate the cunning of a child, particularly Sally, whose angelic appearance covered the stubbornness of a warrior. We both turned to Vickie who buried her nose into her sherry glass, a gambit which saved her a few moments. "Caroline's mostly dry at night, but she wears those Underjams just in case, Nicholas does the same, but mostly to stop him from teasing the life out Caroline. He doesn't often wet. I lost the argument for the drive up here, and we had an emergency, but fortunately we made it to a service area in time. I made sure they both went as soon as we arrived." Lunch was served in due course, and the children were herded into the dining room under the stewardship of Claire's daughter Alice, who was now between school and university, and acting as Leading Child for the day, and apparently not too pleased with it. There are some advantages to Pembroke Rules, for one thing I wouldn't have to chase my children to do to the toilet every damned hour, which can get tedious. With that in mind I could relax. Luncheon went very well, and the children were excused from their table after the third course and allowed to amuse themselves in the garden, after the mandatory toilet break. The adults continued in their steady consumption until the port was passed, the Queen's health was drunk, Aunt Clare was toasted and the ladies retired to the drawing room. Then the gossip really began and all the latest scandal was retailed and elaborated. It wasn't until much later that I realised Alice was with us. Well, no matter, she was nearly grown up now and able to understand the more salacious bits. The it occurred to me that there was not enough noise coming from the garden, and a slight niggling doubt entered my mind. I opened the French windows and walked out onto the terrace followed by Alice. No sign of any children. Then there was a thumping noise from the old laundry building on the end of the terrace. As I walked along the memories came flooding back. When I was small it was in very active use as a laundry, with big noisy old machines churning away washing my nappies. And Juliet's nappies too; they were the big ones. There would be more nappies outside on the line, drying in full view of the neighbours, with two sizes of plastic pants alongside. Nobody could doubt their usage, and all the neighbours would know that the grandchildren were at home. The laundry was separated from the house by a few yards, and was the older building. It had originally been the kitchen for the big house, and separated by those yards to reduce the fire risk. I clicked the Suffolk latch and pushed the ancient door open, and was struck by a familiar scent - it was Gran's perfume. Suddenly I had memories of her dressing me for bed, standing me up, pulling my baby pants up over my nappy, and I would shift from foot to foot as she tucked in the elastics, Then she would hold me close and hug me. It was that smell which came back to me. Suddenly I longed to be small again, and to have Gran around me again, to feel the soft, safe nappy, but all was gone in the gulf of years. The children were inside doing something beside the huge chimney breast. Sally was wielding a big piece of wood and hitting the breast. The old plaster wouldn't stand much of that. I told her "Enough! Whatever are you doing." "Looking for the treasure!" came the reply. The legend of Black Jack Sinclair's ill-gotten gains lingered on. "Don't be silly! It's just a legend! You'll get that plaster all over yourself!" "But Mum! There's a hollow sound here!" protested Kate. "Well there would be, wouldn't there, it's a chimney after all." "But Mum..." "Come away. Have you used the toilet?" No response. Caroline nodded. Sally said: "I'm dry!" I looked at my two twins. They were looking elsewhere, and beginning to redden. I knew the signs all too well, and released a sigh. "Come over here, and let's see!" I commanded. The girls dragged their feet, each trying to get behind the other. I stepped forward and checked each in turn. Both were sodden and Liz's had actually leaked on to her skirt. "Didn't want to miss it." she said. "It was such fun until you came." "Oh, we'll have to do something before you are allowed back into the house. Kate, go and get the changing bag, will you?" Kate didn't move. "It's not there." she said, "We left it at home because we didn't think we'd need it. It's so... babyish." There was a brief silence while we all took in the implications. Two small girls with saturated pull-ups, one with a wet dress. An hour or more from home as long as we left early and there were no traffic hold-ups. I was livid; this was going to take some handling. I asked Carolyn and Sally, but they both replied that they had no spare pull-ups. In despair I turned round and met Alice, who had finally come to look after her charges. She shrugged. "The only thing I can think of is the big chest in the attic. I haven't seen it open in years, but I think all of mine were put in there after I stopped..." she said, avoiding the explicit mention of what it was she had finally stopped doing. We smuggled the twins up the back stairs and reached the attic without any further leaks or, worse still, having a couple of wet pull-ups subside onto the carpet. The great big chest was still there where it had always been, its lid covered in dust. It was full to the brim with all kinds of clothes, smelling slightly of camphor, but there were no disposable nappies there, or anything modern at all. There were, however, lots of the old traditional terry nappies. in several sizes. Expensive things, they had been stored for another generation. Slightly further down there was a box containing safety pins, and at one end a cache of plastic pants. It was all there. There were even some muslin liners. Right! Now I would give them a lesson about leaving this vital things behind! I took two of the largest nappies out passed them to Alice, and gave my attention to the plastic pants. The elastic seemed to be in fair condition and I found a snap-on pair which looked like a good fit, so I gave them to Liz, who took them reluctantly, tried them against her waist, and sniffed contemptuously. Delving further I came to a tissue-paper package, and looking inside, found a pair of the old-style frilly pants that looked sickeningly familiar. I had worn them on family occasions over my nappy and had hated them. They would do nicely. I gave them to Kate who was suitably horrified, but also fascinated. I looked briefly around the chest before closing it, and a piece of pink cloth caught my eye. I reached down and pulled, the piece became a strap, and on the end of the strap was the rest of the romper I recognised it. Peter had once put it on me and I had hated that babyish thing too, but the fact that Peter had put it on me made me keep it on all day until bath time. "What's that? said Liz leaning over, and I thought quickly. I needed something for Liz to replace her wet skirt, and the romper would do it nicely. It would be interesting to see if Peter recognised it, and I would be able to tease him. I held it up on her front and replied "It's called a romper. The pants go on over your nappy and the straps go over your shoulders and fasten to the bib. It keeps your nappy from falling down -especially when it's wet." Liz's lip curled. "It's for little babies. Did you ever have to wear it?" I hesitated. "Well..." It's got "Amelia" embroidered on the bib" piped up Kate. Thank you Kate, I didn't need that. "They are very comfortable, and saves you from having you mum keep having to hitch your nappy up. Very practical too. Now come along." I said, retrieving the romper from my daughter. Alice led the way down to the old nursery, where they had kept the big changing table. Kate and Liz followed, and I noticed that they were walking uncomfortably from the wetness of the pull-ups. Well, I could fix the wetness, but they would be walking even more awkwardly when I put the bulky terries on them. I stripped the pull-ups straight off them and herded them into the bathroom to clean themselves up and told them to make full use of the toilet. I had had just about enough of toilet training for the day and determined that once I had got the girls into proper nappies they were going to stay in them, come what may, until bath time, so as to teach them the alternative to making regular trips to the loo. Kate was the first to come out, and I led her to the changing table where the first of the nappies had been neatly folded and positioned together with a muslin liner, pins and the frilly pants. She scowled at me, but I wasn't having it. She climbed the steps onto the table as though ascending the gallows. Before she sat down I peeled her leggings down to her ankles, but I didn't take them off. It wasn't necessary, and it had one other advantage; I had learned that it would limit the child's ability to wriggle, to kick out or, worse still, to run away. It also made it easier to replace them after a change. Kate decided to be cooperative, lifted her skirt and sat down onto the nappy with legs akimbo, and arms raised clear of her sides. There was still some powder in the drawers and I made full use of it, before lifting the side of the nappy up around her waist and positioning it precisely. I then pulled the front of the kitefold up, almost to her navel, and bought each side around in turn to pin them to the front. She even rocked side to side to allow me to adjust it neatly. She obviously remembered how to do it. With the difficult bit over I finally removed her leggings, took the pants, slipped my hands through the leg holes, seized her feet and slipped them up to her thighs. She put her feet down and helpfully lifted her bottom. I slipped the waistband of the pants up over the nappy and tucked in the elastics. She lay there saying nothing, just staring at the ceiling; I was getting the sullen, silent treatment. Once I had finished she sat up and I gave her a hug before setting her down onto her feet again, adjusting her skirt to cover most of the pants. She shifted from foot to foot as she ran her fingers around the leg elastics to make them more comfortable. She then waddled cautiously off to make room for her sister. Liz was not happy. She stood there in just a T-shirt and bath towel, having discarded her wet dress, and viewed the changing table with loathing, her lower lip protruding under her scowl. Without further ado I unwound her bath towel, picked her up, and sat her down onto the table. She was not going to cooperate, so a gentle push in the stomach was necessary to get her to lie back. I folded the other nappy on the open snap pants at the end of the table, added a muslin liner, and lifted her feet. Alice moved the nappy and pants up and I lifted Liz's feet still further, allowing Alice to slide the nappy up under Liz's bottom to her waist. I then brought the front up and pinned the sides. Liz remained sullen, but reached down to examine one of the locked-down pins. I pulled the front of the snap-on pants up and pushed her hand out of the way, and she just watched silently as Alice and I snapped the pants closed over the nappy. Finally I put the pants of the pink romper over her feet, stood her up, tucked any stray bits of nappy into her pants all round and fastened the romper straps onto the bib over her shoulders. A kiss , a pat on the bottom, and she was free to go. We all trooped downstairs. I was amused by the waddles and the big round bottoms - they took me back to the days of Gran, when I had to do the same waddle. We went back into the lounge to join the others. Liz held back a little, reluctant to be seen in her new garb, as everyone would know what had happened. She needn't have worried as the conversation was in full swing, and the arrival of two small children made no impact. Eventually Peter turned round, and seeing Liz beckoned her over with a smile. Bending down he whispered something into her ear, and pointed to the "Amelia" embroidered on her romper, and she laughed. He then picked her up and sat her on his knee, a great honour for Liz as both the girls worshipped him. Kate looked a trifle disconcerted for a moment, but was deftly fielded by Matt, and so was able to keep up with her sister. There was good reason for this; from long experience of the children no-one would take them onto a lap unless they were clearly well padded, as the cost might be a wet lap. Liz was well up to the situation, and turned on about a kilowatt of cuteness as she gazed up at her hero. My slight concern that there might be a scene evaporated and I was able to rejoin the party with no concerns. The return journey was horrendous, as all the weekend traffic was converging on London, and was moving very slowly through a section of roadworks. The moans of "are we nearly there yet" started from the back seats. I couldn't really answer it, as the length of a traffic jam is like the length of a piece of string - there was just no way to tell. I understood the reason; it had been several hours since they last had an opportunity to use the toilet, and it must have been telling. There was no way they could get behind the bushes in the slowly-moving traffic and so there was no real alternative. I told them that their nappies were "free ones", a term often used but never really defined, and they went quiet. That would mean two very wet nappies to change when we finally got back, but at least there wouldn't be any wet seats. I just hoped that it wasn't anything worse - such as might make the muslin liners perform their duty - and that the ancient plastic pants were still up to it.

IN the comments in today's Telegraph :- https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2020/07/16/uk-may-already-have-enough-herd-immunity-prevent-second-coronavirus/ 8.45/8.54 am A Vix17 Jul 2020 8:54AM Face nappies, dirty, humid and on your face. (And I thought my fetish was a strange one!)

The Return Home. Juliet was due home that afternoon, and we were preparing to take Sally back to her mother. The journey not entirely straightforward; Juliet lived on the far side of London and the route was a bit convoluted, including the dreadful turgid parking lot that is the M25 motorway. Getting there could take an hour...or two...or three. No service areas - an oversight when it was constructed, and there was just nowhere to go if nature called. "It's a nappy trip, I'm afraid, girls." Groans and "Aaawww, Mu-ums!" "Fraid so." "Does that include me?" said Sally. I looked at her. She looked back at me. She was wanting something, but I wasn't sure what it was. "That's up to you, Sally." I replied, neatly dodging the issue. Sally had actually asked if she could go back to wearing nappies at night, a request that was difficult to refuse. I had really felt for her, as I remembered the first few months of doing without them all too well, and I let her have her way. The result had been five straight nights of being wet - and not just a little bit - Sally had appeared to enjoy soaking her nappies every night. I had hoped that the presence of a dry Sally would inspire my outrageous daughters to try a bit harder to get dry, but it had worked the other way. Now she was suggesting wearing a nappy in the daytime, and going home to her mother thus attired. I could see an explosion coming. I checked my two girls were still wearing their nappies before we left, lifting their skirts and making sure those bottoms were properly padded. I looked at Sally, but didn't humiliate her with a check. I didn't need to; she was wearing jeans and I could see that she was going without. So be it. The M25 lived up to its reputation; it was crammed with slow moving traffic and I kept my temper with the greatest difficulty. By the time we passed Heathrow, the pleas of "Are we there yet" had started. By the time we got to the exit road they had, ominously, stopped. I knew the pattern. I just hoped the nappies had done their job and there were no leaks. I glanced sideways at Sally. She too was very quiet, and biting her lip, her hands squeezed between her legs. I did my best, and pressed on as hard as I could. We reached Peter's and Juliet's house about an hour late. The door was opened by a surprised Holly, Juliet's elder daughter, now a student in London. Behind her loomed the presence of her boyfriend, a callow youth just finishing a master's degree in arrogance. We went in. My business was now urgent too, but in the rush to the toilet I deferred to Sally; her need was even greater than mine. Then I looked again. It was too late, and the wetness was spreading down between her legs. I have never seen anyone look so crestfallen. Kate and Liz drew close to her, and wrapped her in their arms in a sign of sodden solidarity. Only Holly seemed unmoved, and stood there with arms akimbo, clucking gently at her little sister. "You should have made her wear a nappy." she accused me, "Mum always does." My blood boiled. "Like I used to put your nappies on you, Holly, when you were her age, and you never failed to wet them!" Holly bit her lip and backed off, into the arms of her grinning boyfriend. It had not gone well. I followed Sally upstairs. I thought it better not to leave her alone at that moment. I sent Liz out to fetch the changing bag from the back of our car, and told Kate to fetch Sally's bag at the same time. I comforted Sally and nudged her into the toilet to clean herself up. Then I started to change my girls into fresh nappies from the stock in the bag, being careful not to chide them or make pointless comments, either of which would just have made it more difficult to persuade them to wear nappies on the next trip. By the time I was done Sally had come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, bearing her wet jeans and underpants to put them in the basket. Then she came over to me, took a disposable nappy from the bag, gave it to me and said; "Would you mind, Aunty? I'm not really much good at it and they always leak." Sadly, and in silence, I complied. Then I hugged her tight and felt her tears dampen my shoulder. Holly reappeared, looking a little bit chastened, and told me that Juliet had been delayed, the aircraft had "gone techie" on the apron at Gibraltar and she would be a few hours late. In contrition she took Sally, and gave her a hug and a kiss. Sally stopped crying and snuffled a little, gradually regaining her composure. She took a little yellow sundress from the wardrobe and put it on. The skirt was long enough to conceal her nappy, but only just. The danger and the indignity past, Sally began to cheer up a little and we repaired downstairs to await Juliet. I had just realised that it might have been advantageous to be somewhere else when Juliet returned to find her youngest child wearing a nappy when the taxi arrived, and we all turned out to greet her. Sally took a place at the end of the line, and half a pace backward, but it didn't stop Juliet doing something of a double-take when she saw the distinctive bulge of a nappy under her dress. Juliet said nothing, but there would obviously be a board of enquiry later and I mentally shuffled my cards to deal with it. Juliet waited until after tea when the children were playing in the garden, and Holly was off somewhere canoodling with her boyfriend. Then the questions started. Why was Sally wearing a nappy, had she been wetting the bed, had she been having accidents, had there been any tantrums and so on. There is nothing more dangerous than the whole truth about anything, so I was very guarded in my replies. No, she hadn't wet the bed at all. I didn't say it was because she had been very well padded-out at night, and had wet her nappies quite freely, because that would have caused an explosion of further questions. Thank heaven for plastic pants! I said how good she had been, and how lovely it was to have her, and how the only accident she had had was due to the terrible traffic jams we had gone through on the M25. Thankfully my experiences as a model had taught me how to lie effectively, and use body language to reinforce my words, but I am not sure that Juliet bought my story completely; she knew me much too well. I had told her that I had put Sally in her nappy, and she had kept it on as an act of contrition, which was almost true. Either way, Juliet bought my story whether she believed it or not. It plainly suited her not to arrive home to a family row. Juliet called Sally in from the garden. The child came in slowly, obviously in trepidation about what her mother wanted. Juliet turned to her and asked her how her stay had gone. Sally said she enjoyed it very much, the Juliet asked her if she had been dry. Sally blushed, then looked at me where I sat behind Juliet. I nodded desperately. Sally said that she had. Then Juliet dropped the bombshell and asked her why she was wearing a nappy now. Sally, sweet as a nut, told her that she didn't want to be left out when my two girls were put in nappies as it made them embarrassed and jealous. It was a great answer. It was true, too. At least half of it, but then half-truths are better in arguments because, like half-bricks, they carry further. Juliet smiled, turned towards me and gave me surreptitious wink - it was apparent she didn't believe a word of it, but couldn't prove it wasn't true - then she turned back to Sally. "You are getting just like your aunt, you know." And followed that beautifully double-edged compliment with her judgement: "Well, Sally, you had better stay dry tonight, because as far as I am concerned, this is the last time you will ever wear a nappy." Sally looked a little less than happy, but there wasn't much she could say. Tea over, I herded my daughters back into the car. They were carefully instructed to use the toilet (thank heaven for resealable tapes!) checked, and strapped into the back. Sally came out to wish them goodbye; she was still wearing her nappy, the tail of it protruding beneath her sundress as she bent to speak through the car window. I overheard Liz whisper to her "Never mind! You can wear whatever you like when you come to us!" and I pretended I didn't hear it. The drive back was just as appalling as the drive down had been, and it was no surprise that they needed changing again when they got back.