freswith

Sally's Secret. My forecast was correct; the following morning all four girls had wet their nappies, and Sally in particular was well soaked. Of course, no remarks were made, the humiliation was far too great already. Sally, the eldest and supposed to be dry, got silent sympathy and a kiss. Cassie got nothing more than a cluck from her mother. The three younger girls bounced off, made brief visits to the bathroom, and began to dress. Sally was very downcast and followed them slowly. I realised I had a problem there; I had to bring Sally round, so I waited until after breakfast when Jeri and Cassie had taken their leave, Matt was mowing the lawn, and my two were running riot again in the garden. Sally came to me, and apologised for "making a fool of herself" last night. I forgave her instantly and thanked her for resolving a difficult situation. She still looked troubled. "What's the matter, pet?" "They dumped me!" she said almost in tears. "I wanted to go to Gibraltar and meet Dad, but Mum said she wanted to be together with him alone." Ah! I had got to the bottom of it. Sally, so grown up in some ways, hadn't reached that Rubicon, hadn't felt that imperative tingle, and had no idea of how a sailor and his wife might feel after months of separation. She didn't realise that the presence of a twelve-year-old might put a damper on such things. I tried very carefully to explain. "You mean they're doing it?" she said, with a curl of her lip. "Yes dear. Grown up people..." I replied, "Man and wife..." I added carefully, "still do it." Sally looked up, "Is that why they dumped me?" she said, still obviously hurting. "They didn't dump you, pet, they sent you here where you are loved just as much, and where you have your cousins to play with. Just for a few days while they rebuild their relationship, a bit like a second honeymoon." Then a moment's thought... "It's a part of growing up, you know, becoming independent, having your own life, your own friends. You've reached that stage." I noted again the trainer bra and the incipient curves. I remembered what it is like to be the youngest of the family, to be trailed along behind a much older sister and parents, being on my own and, with that same old problem, rather isolated. "I'm still sorry I wet my nappy last night" she said again. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. My message had certainly gone home, and we were back to trivia. "Better than a wet bed, that's what your nappy was for." I replied, using the ancient mantra, "You had a lot to drink, and were in a strange bed in a strange place, and had a very late night. Not surprising you wet - I would have been too, at your age. What a good thing you had a nappy on." Sally looked up. Another point had gone home. "Mum will be so angry" she said. "I won't tell your mum! I replied. Not least, I thought, because Juliet would blame me for regressing her daughter after so much work and effort had been made to get Sally dry at night. "It'll be our secret!" "Will I have to wear one tonight?" I sucked my teeth for a moment. I thought of the times I had worn nappies, both before and after I had been declared "dry". I thought of the feeling of safety they gave, the chance to relax from the ceaseless vigilance, the fear of that sudden demand, the need to use the toilet urgently at the smallest symptom. I thought of the intimacy I had enjoyed with my mother when she was changing me, how it was the only time of the day when I had her exclusive attention, and I remembered the loss I felt when I was finally allowed to go to bed on my own without that familiar caring ritual. I thought of the warmth, of the padding, and of... the thrill of doing something naughty and how I might be found out. I would have to approach this one with extra care. Very softly I asked: "Did you actually like wearing one last night?" Then a long pause. Sally looked up, her cheeks reddened slightly, the corners of her mouth twitched into a tiny smile, and she gave a timid nod. I returned it with a grin. This was communication above mere words. "I used to enjoy it too!" I confessed. "Would you like to wear one tonight?" "Mum wouldn't like it. She'd be angry if she knew." "She doesn't have to know. I won't tell her." It needed one more thing. The sense of compulsion. Sometimes it's better to have difficult decision made for you; it save a lot of angst, and allows a denial of responsibility. "I think Wicked Aunt Amelia is going to have to insist." I growled, "You're back into nappies at night, Sally, while you are here. I'll put them on you after you've had your bath - like it or not!" Sally grinned. "Oh dear!" was all she said. The day was hot and long, and full of activity. I didn't have much time to muse about my decision, or my treatment of Sally. I had my reservations; to give encouragement to a child at the age of sexual awakening risked imprinting her with a false view of such delights - a fetish, in other words. Just like mine. It wouldn't be fair to exercise my fetish on a young and impressionable girl. Then again, I remembered how I had had a crush on Peter, and how he had changed my nappies on a number of occasions, and once insisted I wore them quite unnecessarily, and in public too. The memory gave me a pleasurable frisson. I did not know if I should thank Peter, or blame him for my fetish, but doing the same to his daughter had a certain touch of justice to it. Still I resolved not to push the matter, to dismiss it as a joke - better that both Sally and I tried to forget about it. All went according to plan until evening. I declared bath-time at the appropriate moment, and the twins reluctantly dropped their toys and headed for the bathroom. To my surprise they were beaten to it by Sally, and they cheerfully allowed her to go first while they extended their playtime. Eventually she re-emerged in her dressing gown and I chivvied Kate and Liz into the bathroom. I left them to it, but when I returned I found Sally standing obediently beside the changing table. I approached her slowly, giving her plenty of opportunity to back out, She remained standing there, arms folded, head down, biting her lip. I waited for a moment; I was sure I knew what she was thinking, but I wanted it to be her own decision. Eventually she looked up "Well?" I said, pretending to have forgotten my threat (or promise) of the morning. "Can I have my nappy on now, please." came the prompt reply. A pause. "Are you sure you want this?" I said. She nodded. "I don't want a wet bed." she said, "And you said I was back in nappies anyway. I would just like to get it done while the other two are in there." I paused for a moment. I was hoist by my own petard. If this was to be done, then best it were done well; I would take my time over it, do it thoroughly, and let Sally savour each moment. I went over to the airing cupboard, and took out the one of the larger terry squares, and slowly kite-folded it, carefully adjusting size and smoothing the folds. It was still warm from the cupboard. I thought that if I made the nappy a bit less comfortable it might put her off repeating the experience, so I took one of the small baby-nappies from the bottom shelf and folded it into a soaker on top of the big nappy - she had certainly wet her nappy very thoroughly last night, and it was a necessary precaution. Then, as a final refinement I added a paper liner, although I knew the chances of getting a dirty nappy were remote; however, it looked the part and would keep the wetness away from her skin. I patted the middle of the stack of nappies and said "Up here then!" Obediently Sally took off her dressing gown, climbed the steps of the changing table and positioned herself in the middle of the nappies and leaned back. After a moment's thought I opened the ointment pot, took a big scoop, and spread it between her legs in the area most vulnerable to rashes. Then I covered her with a cloud of sweet-scented powder; she was going to get the full works tonight. Sally just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to cover her modesty with her hands, until I put my hand down between her clenched legs to reach the front of her nappy which she gratefully seized with both hands and, spreading her legs, drew it up until it reached her navel. That gave me the opportunity to take a large nappy pin from the bar of soap, bring the sides round to cross them over and pin them to the front, being careful not to prick her, then clicking the head down to lock the pin. Sally remained lying down, staring at the ceiling, but now she was smiling slightly. She looked down and started to run her fingers slowly across the soft towelling of her nappy, and gently stroked the pin. It was a new nappy, and very white and fluffy and, with the baby-nappy soaker inside, it bulked out and spread her legs widely. It was normally forbidden to play with your nappy, or even to touch it, but I didn't stop her; I, too, was reliving the sensation of having my night-nappy put on, the intimacy, the care, the attention, and for a moment I envied her. She made no attempt to sit up, so I pulled a pair of plain white plastic pants out of the shelves, put my thumbs through the leg-holes and scrunched them up. Sally obediently lifted her feet and I slipped the pants over them and up her legs. As they reached her thighs she lifted her bottom and I slid the waistband up under her nappy - just like it used to be done when the girls were very little. I tucked the leg elastics up into her nappy, to prevent leaks, and also to give her the authentic baby look. Finally I took her hands and stood her up. She staggered for a moment, surprised at the sheer bulk of her nappies, but made no comment. I checked the waist elastics all round and behind her, and tucked an errant piece of the paper nappy liner inside the waistband. Sally stared down at her baby pants, and ran her hands over the smooth plastic before slipping her fingers under the leg elastics and making a small adjustment. I gave her a pat on her thickly-padded bottom. "Do you like it?" I asked. "Yeah!" she said, her grin widening, "It feels really good!" "Now it's on 'til morning. No taking it off. Doesn't matter if you wet it - that's what it's for. You have a Baby's Licence which means you won't be punished or scolded for wetting it, but you'll be spanked if you take it off in the night, and spanked very hard if you then wet the bed. Those are the Nappy Rules, and you are now officially 'In Nappies'. Understand?" I've never had to spank a child yet and I hope I never have to, but the injunction was usually strong enough to keep nappies on, even with Kate and Liz. I don't think the threat was needed with Sally - it was apparent she really liked wearing nappies, but the injunction was a part of the ritual. She smiled and nodded. "Yes Aunty, I understand. I'll be good, and keep them on. I don't want to wet the bed and I certainly don't want to be spanked. Do I have to wear them tomorrow as well?" She looked at me hopefully. It was almost as if she had said: "I would like to wear them in the day as well." "Not in the day - but if you're wet tomorrow morning, you certainly will tomorrow night." As soon as I said it I regretted it; I meant it to be a threat, but then I realised Sally would see it as an opportunity. I passed her the pale pink smock top of her pyjamas and she lifted her arms for me to put it on her. It barely reached her pants, but as I tried to fit the bottoms over the bulk of her nappy it was plain they weren't going to fit. "Never mind," I said, "In this heat you won't need them," then in a flash of mischief I added: "Besides, it'll make it easier to change you when (not "if"!) you're wet." A look of slight dismay crossed her face. "I'll be checking you in the night, of course." I added gleefully, though the mass of towelling pinned around her would have lasted a weekend. The sounds from the bathroom heralded the return of Liz and Kate. I really didn't want them to see Sally in that state so I told her to go down stairs and wish Uncle Matt goodnight - and she could stay up another hour in recognition of her seniority. She agreed and waddled out of the door as best she could, the well-rounded bottom of her plastic pants wobbling under her smock top. I had a brief worry of her on the stairs, but before I could do anything, Liz and Kate came out of the bathroom chattering. "Where's Sally?" Liz asked. Kate walked over to the changing table and ran her finger along the talcum powder residue. "Has she been done, then?" she asked gleefully, "I'd have liked to have seen that! Did she struggle? Did she wriggle?" Liz demonstrated how a baby would wriggle. She did a fair job of it; she had had plenty of practise over the years. "She was really wet this morning." "Never you mind what she did in her nappy - it doesn't matter as long as it wasn't in her bed. She's downstairs with Daddy." I replied. "She'll be back later, but you have to get to bed." "But she's supposed to be dry," said Kate, "and out of nappies." "We're nearly dry" exclaimed Liz, "Look at all the sticks along the shelf. We shouldn't be in nappies any longer." "You're in nappies now - and until I say otherwise." I reminded her, "Now come here and get yours on!" I pulled another terry nappy out of the shelf. "Oh No! Not those!" Liz protested, "They're so...babyish!" I wasn't having it. My little holiday of nappying a cooperative child had certainly ended, and it was back to business as usual. Disposables cost, not just the price but the environment, and there was always the possibility that some wretched journalist would go through our bin looking for dirt on us, so I normally only used them on the girls for travel. All-in-ones leaked; only terry nappies did the job for night use. Admittedly we ended up with a washing line full of them, but our back garden was very private. I folded the nappy and patted it. "Come on, Kate" I said, "Put your bottom here! No nonsense now!" and with the greatest reluctance Kate climbed the steps, unbelted her dressing gown and flipped it up, before sitting on the proffered nappy. A dollop of ointment, a cloud of talc, two pins, plastic pants, a pat on the bottom, a hug and a kiss and she was done. She dropped her dressing gown and waddled across the floor in just her nappy and pants to get her pyjamas. Devoid of excuses, Liz followed her onto the table. I was not in the mood to linger and soon had them in bed with the curtains drawn. "Sally will be up shortly, when it's her bedtime." I said, and closed the door behind me. I found Sally in the garden with Matt, walking barefoot in the newly-mown grass and enjoying the cool of the evening. One of the priorities for a model is that the garden is private, and ours was surrounded by tall hedges to keep the paparazzi away, so there was no nosey neighbour to see her, and she could walk, or at least waddle, around the garden and sample the scent of the flowerbeds in privacy. Her nappy had relented its fearsome grip and had drooped a little at the back, so she was walking more normally now, but she was still well padded out in a sensible nappy. I hoped this had met her requirement for this evening, and the large glass of orange juice that Matt had given her left me in no doubt that the precaution was a wise one; normally at that stage the rule was no drinks after six o'clock to prevent a wet bed after midnight, but as long as she was in nappies that rule could be relaxed. I slipped off my shoes and joined them, giving Sally's drooping nappy a necessary hitch at the back. Then we walked barefoot in the cool, moist grass, Matt and I hand in hand with Sally, and guiding her towards the night-scented stock that was doing its best to attract our attention.

The Sleep-Over It was always something I had tried to avoid. Not that my two were antisocial; they loved company, but the thought of them going to bed with other children was horrifying. My two wet themselves almost every night, and I had had some experience of how other children would react to the necessary precautions. When I was at school, and suffering from the same problem, the secret had got out and I was ragged and bullied endlessly, and I think I only survived because I was tall and athletic; a hockey stick in the wrong place can be very persuasive. Now things were a bit different. I had promised to keep in touch with Jeri and Cassie, as my twins had got on very well with Cassie after they found she suffered from the same problem, and I found Jeri was excellent company; it's nice to have friends outside the modelling business - they are less inclined to expect favours. Now, here at last was an opportunity to give the girls a treat. My niece Sally was staying with us, while her mother Juliet had gone to meet Peter in Gibraltar where he was giving his crew a run ashore after a long stint in the Gulf. While Sally had recently become dry at nights, she was "in the know" about the problem and wouldn't cause trouble. She was a sensible child and hopefully could be relied on to keep the other girls in check while leading them in a bit of mischief. I was very fond of Sally; she was a caring child who actually considered other children's feelings, and I was happy that she was staying. Just lately, things had been looking up. There had been some dry mornings, and I had started to reward them with a lollipop. Liz and Kate had been saving the sticks, and lined them up on the pinboard in their bedroom where they looked like a row of teeth, snarling at me for keeping the girls nappied. In my defence, I pointed out that there should be gaps in the row of teeth to show where the morning nappy check had shown the problem to be continuing, although I had to concede there were an increasing number of dry mornings. I was happy to buy more lollipops; they were cheaper than disposable nappies and telling the girls to clean their teeth afterwards was easier than washing all-in-ones. I hoped I had thought of everything. There were the extra beds, games, and sweets, torches, our long-suffering collie dog, a teepee in the corner of the bedroom, the toy shelves were well-stacked and remarkably tidy for once. All was ready. Except for THAT. That was the changing table. In truth, although it was much larger than the normal table, it was rarely used now; The girls had got much bigger and tended to overlap the table at the foot end. At least that made it easier to put the plastic pants onto them, but it was a bit unpopular. I normally nappied the girls on their beds, or on rare occasions stood by while they nappied themselves; that was a rare event, and took a lot of patience, as they worked hard to exploit every chance to distract and delay the process. It normally resulted in me taking over end doing the job myself - so much smaller chance of any leaks. Now I looked at the table and wondered how it would appear to Cassie - as a convenience or as a scaffold? The padded top was removable, and there were curtains which could be drawn across the shelves of nappies and pants, and the accessory drawer wasn't a problem, but the steps remained and it still looked like a big changing table. I did what I could to tidy it up. Just then the doorbell rang and I checked my watch. Our guests had arrived, and dammit, they were early! Sally went to answer the door for me and Jeri and Cassie came in, both carrying small overnight bags, but Jeri was carrying a larger bag made of a waterproof material. I didn't need to ask what it was for. Liz and Kate promptly took Cassie upstairs and their celebrations began. It was the first time that a stranger had been allowed into this inner sanctum, and the twins were making the best of it. The doll's house was opened and the floor became strewn with toys. The changing table remained unmolested and uncommented, which was a sizeable relief. I went to the kitchens with Jeri and we nattered while making tea. I could delay it no longer. We were way past normal bedtime and I had finally got Liz and Kate out of the bathroom. We looked at each other. Convention required the ceremony of the Night Nappy at this point and we all knew it. I looked at the girls and said "Who's first?". (Nothing like closing on a minor point!) and all three girls took a step backwards with a precision that would have pleased the most fastidious drill sergeant. I looked at Jeri, and Jeri looked at me. This was going to be a tough one. Both of us took a step forward. "But, Mum...." Liz started, "We don't really need them now, you know," Kate continued. "Can't we just try a night without them?" chimed in Cassie. I was just contemplating the prospect of three wet beds when Sally came out of the bathroom. She saw the confrontation, and instantly guessed the cause. "Oh Dear!" she said, and then stepped forward. "Can I be the first, then?" Jaws dropped all round with a series of clicks. Finally I managed: "But Sally, dear, I thought you were dry at night?" "Yes, I am," she replied, "But I would like to wear a nappy tonight, if I may. I don't want to be the odd one out, and besides I could still wet the bed - even though Mum told me I could never do it again." She turned to me and winked. I got the message. My opinion of Sally went up about three more notches; she was very much the leader of the gang, and was using that position to help me. I had to respond positively. "Yes of course you can Sally, how sensible of you!" I replied, "What kind would you like?" and I gestured towards the changing table. Sally stepped forward and examined the quite extensive range. "Hmm," she murmured, "Can I try one of the big towelling ones. I haven't had one of those in years, and they're so comfortable! And if I don't wet, it won't need washing, will it?" I agreed with her, selected one of the larger ones, and kite-folded it on the table into what I judged would be the correct size. She sloughed off her dressing gown, then her pyjama trousers, mounted the steps to the table and sat down on the folded nappy. It was evident that time had moved on with her, and she was starting to get her curves. "Would you like some ointment, dear?" I asked, still not quite believing what was happening. "Yes please!" she replied, leaning back and it sounded almost too convincing. I kept my thoughts to myself, took a dollop of ointment from the jar, and then, after a moment's hesitation, spread it around the relevant area. I could see that Sally was actually quite enjoying it. Much had obviously changed since the last time I had done this to her. She spread her legs and I brought the front of the nappy up between them to protect whatever was left of her modesty, and one by one brought the sides around and pinned them. She sat up on the edge of the table and offered her legs. I thought it best to continue the charade. "What kind of pants would you like dear?" I said like a valet, "We've got pink and white and..." "Can I try those frilly ones?" she replied, "I think they might just be big enough?" I reached down to the bottom shelf where the normally-despised garment was folded, and shook them out. I put my hands through the leg-holes, took her feet, and slipped them over, just like I used to do when my daughters were babies. Sally slipped down off the table, and I pulled her pants up over the spotless nappy to her waist, tucking in the loose bits as necessary before she reached down and tucked the leg elastics up into her nappy. "Stops leaks, if I remember." she said, giving me a wink. I turned to see three pairs of wide eyes, and Jeri's were even wider. Triumph! "Right, Who's next?" I said, and Kate bravely pushed Liz forwards. Within minutes all four girls were safely nappied and cast off to play, nominally to go to bed. Jeri and I returned to the lounge to partake of a glass of wine each and celebrate our unlikely victory. By the time we had drained the bottle the noise from the girl's room had abated, and we went up to survey the wreckage. Kate, Liz and Cassie were all in the king-size bed, wrapped around each other. I checked their nappies and adjusted the bedclothes to protect them against the cool of the early hours, and turned my attention toward Sally who had occupied the smaller bed in the corner. She was fast asleep, lying on her tummy with one leg bent, presumably to accommodate the bulk of towelling in her crotch. I was quite surprised she was still wearing it - she had made her point, and the need was over. Then I thought again, remembered the amount of fizzy drink the girls had put away and the late bedtime of the over-tired children; what had started as a bit of virtue-posturing might well end up as a necessary precaution. With that in mind I slipped a finger into her pants at the back, and was pleased that her nappy was still dry. I tucked a bit of towelling back under the waistband of her slightly-too-small baby pants, pulled the duvet back over her, and slipped out quietly. As I wandered - somewhat unsteadily - back downstairs, I mused on Sally's unusual choice. Then my own memories came back to me. The first months of being out of nappies at night, the worry that I might relapse and wet the bed, of sleeping with one eye open, and of missing that feeling, that feeling of safety and security, the knowledge that I could wet my nappy and not be scolded because it was expected of me, that I would be wet in the morning come what may. The number of times I had had to get out of my warm bed to go to the cold toilet in the small hours as against the simple pleasure of just letting go and sleeping on. Then I saw Sally's point of view. Sally, dumped on Aunt Amelia while her parents enjoyed a run ashore, was having her own run ashore. I wasn't going to stop her. If Sally was wet in the morning, as I expected she would be, then she could be in nappies every night for the rest of her stay.

I remember standing in my bed. Standing at the foot of the bedMother called in my brother and sister to see me. I walked down the length of the bed. I presume they were my first steps. When I reached the end my mother put he hands to my waist and pulled my nappy down. It was very wet, and I remember two wet rings sliding down my legs. Another memory was of being in a pram, outside in the porch. Nanny was leaning over the side of the pram and asked me if I wanted the hood up or down. I chose to have it down. I must have been in nappies then, as I would not have been able to go to the toilet otherwise. All I remember is how very comfortable it was, tucked up in the pram. I remember sitting on the side of my bed. My mother could not find a safety pin, so I was told to stay still while she got one. This suggests that she was uing the triangle fold. I was lying on the rug before the hearth when Nanny asked me if I still wore nappies. I said no, but she replied that there was a clean nappy laid out, so she would put it on me. I remember watching the little boy who lived opposite being nappied for the night. His mother was using cloth nappies, several of them, and he kicked hard at each nappy until she steered them up between his legs and pinned them on. I was fascinated. He was a year younger than me.

Do Welsh nappies take leeks?

https://www.abdlmarketplace.co.uk/ Bolton, Lancs

I think the girls do actually like their nappies, but are playing a game with Mum. Easily done, and perhaps hard to spot - unless mother shares the same feelings and recognises the symptoms. Then, again, maybe she likes keeping the girls nappied; it is a way of controlling what are a pair of rather wild and very determined children - just like their Mum!. Play up and play the game! Lots to explore yet. Thank you for the feedback - it makes it all worthwhile.

While I am a great admirer of Snappies, they are hardly up to adult size or loads. While large elastic bands are easy enough to come by, the gripping heads are not. Is there some expert out there who could 3D-print larger-size grippers, sufficiently unlike Snappies as not to infringe their patents, but capable of securing an adult-size cloth nappy? I have tried simulating them in aluminium sheet, and it works, but there could be a product there for some enterprising person.

The Journey Praise where it was due, and this was indeed cause for congratulation. A long, long car journey all the way to Verbier and the twins had kept their pull-ups dry. A stop at a service area every couple of hours had worked, and given Matt and me a chance to exchange drivers, but the girls had gone each leg of the journey and stayed dry. Well done girls! Normally that would have been the classic nappy-trip with possibly a couple of changes, but the girls were nine years old now and at last we seemed to be making some progress. Furthermore, they had managed to stay dry overnight as well, although they had been well padded, of course. I had brought enough disposables for the whole fortnight for both girls, and in addition - a major source of contention - enough pull-ups to last both girls for the whole day, every day. I knew from previous experience that the combination of cold, intense activity, and one-piece snowsuits made daytime accidents almost unavoidable and had made provision accordingly. I thought I had been clever in buying bright pink snowsuits for the girls, but had forgotten that almost every other girl on the mountain would have a bright pink snowsuit. At least all the other girls didn't have red hair, so I could still see which ones were mine as they flashed past. I took things more steadily, not that I couldn't ski but I wanted to stay in one piece, and kept myself to the intermediate runs. I let Matt go off down the black runs, but for him it was a matter of pride; I preferred a gentler life. The girls continued to object to having to wear pull-ups under their ski-suits, but I continued to insist - washing a ski-suit wasn't all that easy, and the warm filling suffered, so I stood my ground. I argued that nobody could see and so nobody would ever know. This lasted until the about the fourth day when they were approached by an American girl in the same class, who asked very discretely if they were wearing some form of protection. Both my girls went red, which, like me, they do very easily, but the girl went on that she too wore something just in case. Her mother insisted, blah, blah, blah. That broke the ice, and the three of them went off to discuss the iniquities of Mothers as a class, and to compare notes. After that, they were inseparable. One afternoon after skiing I went to their room to check on them, and found all three together, stripped to T-shirts and pull-ups, lying on the beds and discussing the disposable nappies that my two had to wear at nights. They agreed that it was absolutely outrageous that they should be treated in such a cavalier manner, and how it stopped them from going on sleepovers with their friends. In the following days they checked out the rest of their class, playing spot-the-diaper, which was surprisingly fruitful, especially with the younger children. I got some of my own back when I met Cassie's mother, and we compared notes. Her daughter only wet the bed two or three times a week, and she wore all-in-ones at night, so she could wear the same diaper several nights running until she wet it. That sounded like heaven to me, as my two were wet as often as not, but when they wet, it was copious. We discussed all-in-ones, and I found that she used the brand that Helen marketed, albeit under and entirely different brand-name to her bespoke couture of which I was a such sponsor. I told Jeri about this, and that the all-in-ones had originally been designed for my daughters, but their habit of sleeping on their sides had made them inclined to leak,. Jeri asked if I found that disposable tended to leak if the child slept on their sides, and so I told her that it was a problem, but that I usually put plastic pants over them to minimise it, and at home they still wore traditional terries, although they were now bamboo instead of cotton, and so the conversation rattled on. I didn't tell Jeri that I had Helen run up a couple of pairs in my size for me to try, which gave me some insight into their effectiveness. That is not a subject I want bruited abroad. Jeri told me that the largest problem with her daughter was maintaining her self-confidence, when she was so regularly humiliated by having to wear "diapers" for so much of the time. Fortunately my two had never suffered from that; self-confidence seemed have sprouted in reaction to their problems, and, frankly, it was quite hard work to keep them on the leash at some times. Mother, who had watched the children growing up from a safe distance, said that if you dropped my two into a pool of piranhas they would have the piranhas stripped to the bones within two minutes, and there were times when I thought she was right. We were both delighted that the girls had found kindred spirits with whom to share their woes, and we agreed to stay in touch. Jeri was married to a diplomat who was based at the Embassy in London, so it would be very easy. All went very well for the two weeks of our stay, but on the final day an old adage came to hit us; it is said that an Englishman will break his leg on the first day, or the third day, or the last day. Matt chose the last day. Bless Him! There was something of an irony in having an orthopaedic surgeon with a broken leg, and it wasn't lost on the girls. Having seen Matt being recovered on a stretcher by the ski patrol they clustered around asking a plethora of questions, finally asking that if his leg was broken, could he not fix it himself? This was perhaps, the wrong thing to ask while your father is being carried off on a stretcher, but then it was perhaps the best time to ask him - he couldn't do much about it. That left me with a number of problems; the hotel were very helpful in letting us stay another couple of nights, and the girls managed to enjoy even more skiing, but it meant I would have to do all the driving myself on the way home. That involved leaving before dawn, finding my way down the mountain in the dark on frozen roads, and driving hard for a long day along the French autoroutes. I told the girls to get themselves dressed and ready while I concentrated on manoeuvring my three-legged husband into the front seat and arranging his crutches safely, leaving the girls to grumble their way into their safety seats in the back. A quick check to make sure everything was packed and we started the horrible journey down the mountains. The Range Rover had our skis in a box on top, and was fully loaded inside, and I couldn't trust the handling. Lucy the Lotus it was NOT! As dawn broke we were clear of the worst of it and established on the autoroute. The French autoroutes are toll-paying, which means they are not too busy and we made good time for the first couple of hours. Then the dread cry came from the back: "Mu-uum! can we stop for a minute?" That usually implied urgent business. Fortunately there was a rest area just ahead, and I went for it. There are two types on the autoroutes; rest areas which are frightfully basic with just a toilet block, and often the dreadful stoop-and-poop toilets at that, and the big Service areas with fuel, restaurants, shops and so on. This was a very basic rest area, and I was quietly interested to see how the girls would react to the very basic amenities. The car park was empty, and Matt managed to sort himself out against the hedgerow while I took the girls into the toilet block there the full extent of the problem was revealed. Wet tights, wet skirts, and no pull-ups. Instant row. Protests from the girls that they had run out of pull-ups because of the extra days in the hotel. I took their wet tights off and made them use the toilets, then run back to the car. Once there I told Matt what had happened, and he was furious. My course of action was clear: into the back of the Range Rover, find the disposable nappies, and change the girls on the back seat. Take their skirts and tights and wipe down the child booster seats, which by dint of good design, were waterproof. Follow up with baby wipes in all directions. and reinstall the girls, strapped into their seats, with only nappies on their bottom halves. Ignore all protests and drive on. We made one more stop for fuel and lunch before we reached the Tunnel. I found some leggings for the girls, and their coats covered almost all of their nappies (except when seen from the back), but they still needed a visit to the Baby Changing room, which fortunately was vacant. We were now running very low on disposables, too, and I elected to press on regardless, stocking the girls up with drink and snacks, and leaving them to it. Fortunately, in the Tunnel, you stay with your car, unlike the ferry where you have to leave it in the hold and go up to the passenger decks. That made one more change possible on the back seat, using the last of the disposables and I left the leggings off, the better to keep an eye on those pillows between their legs and spot when they were wet. It was a sensible move. It was only an hour back to home from the ferry to home, but by the time we got there both the girls were soaking wet yet again, and their nappies were sagging as they ran back into the house. I got Matt into the house, and directed the girls to sort out their own baths while I unloaded the luggage. I left the skis and other kit inside; that was just too much for the day. I went to check the girls, and they said they didn't want any supper; they had feasted on snacks and soft drinks all the way to the Tunnel, and had slept thereafter, and were ready for bed. Just one essential ritual remained. There were no disposables left, so I folded terries across the changing table and sat the girls on top, anointing, powdering, pinning and panting in a production line, then both of them were tucked into bed where they fell asleep almost immediately. I made a quick supper for Matt and myself out of the freezer and microwave, and then escorted him on his crutches up the stairs to bed. Then I hit the sheets and passed out to a welcome oblivion. That's the joy of family holidays, they are so relaxing.

Lovely, but alas, the UK shipping kills it stone dead.

The 'Flu What has it come to when the best a mother can do for her daughter is to give her a well-stuffed nappy? I looked down at Kate. She was not a happy child, her temperature was way up and her eyes were dull. All the kids at her school had gone down with it, and I had taken time off from the office to look after her. Julian was more than competent to fill in for me, and Grace Models would carry on without their figurehead for a while, so I could give my full attention to my sick daughter. Kate had had a bad night, and it wasn't just a wet one. Matt had assured me that it was just the 'flu that was going around, but I still didn't quite trust it. Changing my daughter gave me a good chance to examine her, looking for a rash. A tumbler stood on the table beside the bed ready for instant action if one was detected, and I had heard enough stories about kids getting meningitis to make me terrified of the smallest red mark. I reached for the ointment - a four-finger load this time, as I wasn't going to risk nappy rash for a moment. Kate didn't object; the ointment must have been blessedly cool as I spread it between her legs. This was just routine, if she was sick in bed, then she wore a nappy, she was expected to use it and there would never be any penalty or repercussions. There would be no deterrent to her taking a nap, and no need to make the usual precautionary trek to the toilet every hour. It was a concession, the least I could do. I was using a terry square on her. Not the normal 'sposie or pull-up that she would wear in the daytime if we were going on a journey somewhere, this was the Full House; kite-fold, booster, and even a liner. I didn't expect her to need the liner, but I had heard that diarrhoea was a common side-effect of this type of 'flu, and I wasn't taking any chances. The result of a big accident leaking was really more than I could contemplate at the moment, so she was effectively going to be double-nappied for a while. If Kate noticed the unusual thickness of her new nappy, she didn't object, but just spread her legs a little wider as I pulled the front of it up between them and spread it on her tummy. This was one of the new ones - we had recently gone up a size, and although they looked enormous, the bamboo terry was not as thick as the old cotton towelling. I shook out her plastic pants and she obligingly raised her feet for them. I slipped them over without delay and pulled them up to her thighs. These were also new, and a size larger than before, so there was plenty of room inside. They had the advantage that they were Euroflex and breathed well, so she wouldn't get too hot in there. She put her feet down and lifted her bottom so I could slip the waistband under her. Enclosed elastics - another thing I had insisted on: there is no point in nappying the child if you still get wicking or leaks, and these nappies were meant for use, serious use, rather than as a simple precaution. I tucked the leg elastics well up into her nappies as another precaution against leaks. I had learned how to do it from my mother, as she had learned it from Gran and so on back to heaven-knows-when. The result was a huge bulge between her legs, which were spread so far apart that she would obviously have difficulty walking. That was not the point. Stay in bed was the order of the day, and the implication was that if she needed to go, she could do it in her nappy, so there would be no excuse for her to get out to play or wander around the house. I pulled her pyjama top down to partly cover her pants, pushed a pillow under her knees, and plumped the pillows behind her head to allow her to recline before drawing up the bedclothes and tucking her in. Her teddy and a bottle of orange squash completed the picture and she lay there with legs akimbo below the mountain of nappy in the middle of her. That should last her the whole morning. I discussed breakfast, checked that the TV remote was within reach and left her to it for a while. It was the best I could do. Downstairs I found my other daughter, Liz, busy laying the breakfast table. I told her that Kate would not be joining us this morning and she expressed the necessary sorrow. I then told her that she would be sleeping in the guest bedroom from now on in the hope, probably the vain hope, that she would dodge the infection. She shrugged, and I made a mental note that I would have to fit a waterproof sheet to that bed - a double bed - at some point during the day. Liz was no more continent than her twin sister, and such precautions were necessary. I told her to stay away from her sister at the moment which got me a frown and wrinkled lip, so I pointed out that I didn't want her to catch the same thing Kate had. "I'll probably get it anyway." was her retort, eminently practical as always, "Then you'll have both of us in bed." "I hope not," I replied, "I don't want to spend the whole of my life washing nappies." "I won't need one." she replied. "You did last night," I retorted, "you were well soaked, and the night before." "But I don't need them in the daytime," she persisted, "I'm careful to go every hour." I nodded. It had been drilled into them. Very necessary when going to school. Long car journeys were another matter, and that was acknowledged by all of us. "Kate will probably take a number of naps during the day," I replied, "and she might well forget to go every hour. I've told her to stay in bed. I think it's for the best.... Erm... you put the forks on the left." With Liz packed off to school, I was able to devote more time to my sick child. As expected, she spent quite a lot of time asleep, and when it came to a nappy check before lunch it appeared that my foresight was vindicated. One very wet nappy hit the pail, and one rueful child was duly changed and returned to bed. One very patient parent carried the heavy pail downstairs with a feeling of a job well done. During the afternoon I remembered to sort out the guest bedroom, and laid out fresh pyjamas, pants and nappy from the linen cupboard for Liz that night; I would try to keep the chances of cross-infection to a minimum. I didn't actually hold out much hope, but I would go through the motions with due diligence. I looked in on Kate, and she was napping again, as Matt said she would. I retrieved her lunch tray and tiptoed out. Liz came bouncing in the door as I was making tea, dumped her backpack on the floor, and before I could stop her, she had bounded up the stairs to their bedroom. I followed to find her half inside the door, and chatting to Kate, who was sitting up in bed and looking a bit less flushed. I put the tray down on the side table and tried to shoo Liz out, but she slipped around me and went over to Kate. I gave up. On her own head be it. Kate said she was feeling much better, and swung her legs out of the bed, and waddled over towards the table. One look at her drooping pants and I could see that action was required once more. Never mind - that's what they were for. I despatched Liz down to the kitchen to fetch her favourite biscuits that I had forgotten, and as she left the room I grabbed Kate and slipping my thumbs in the waistband of her pants slid the entire sodden package down her legs and onto the floor, where she stepped out of it. I scooped it up and flicked it into the pail, then I grabbed a handful of baby wipes from the changing table and told her to wipe herself down and be quick about it. While she was doing so I took a fresh nappy from the shelf, flicked it into a kite-fold, then I lifted Kate and sat her down in the middle of it. A dollop of ointment, and I pinned her up quite brusquely. By the time Liz came in the door I was pulling Kate's plastic pants up over her nappy. Practice makes perfect. The only change noticeable was that she was now wearing frilly pants where before there had been plain ones. Liz, while she must have noticed the change, made no comment and we got on with tea. Kate, however looked distinctly embarrassed. There was a long silence, then to my amazement Liz looked up at me and said, "Mum, can I have a nappy on like Kate's?" For once I was caught wordless. "I mean," she went on "it isn't fair that she has to be in nappies and I am allowed to be out of them. Please, I just want to be like Kate, I won't wet it, well, not deliberately anyway." I felt my lips moving. I wanted to reply but words didn't come. Liz got up, went over to the changing table and pulled out one of the diminishing supply of nappies. "It won't hurt, and Kate will feel much easier if we are both in nappies." I couldn't argue. We'd had our fair share of sibling rivalry, of one-upmanship, and some bitter, envious arguments. To find such compassion was not just rare, it was unprecedented. As Liz folded the nappy I regrouped my thoughts and became the caring mother again. Part of me said that it was very much the WRONG thing to do, but another part of me said that I should foster Liz's sense of compassion for her sister. Yet again part of me hid darker thoughts. I remembered how nice it felt to be in nappies, the feeling of warmth, softness, and above all, safety. That nagging fear that I might have an accident at any moment, that I might disgrace myself, all evaporated when I could feel the cushion between my legs. I remembered the pleasure I took in being nappied, to be the centre of attention even though I was the smallest and most insignificant person in the room. I remembered manipulating Peter into nappying me; the ointment, the strong hands, dreadful, embarrassing thoughts but so very good. I remembered the vicarious thrill of being outside in a nappy where people might see me - the danger of being exposed. It all came back to me in the few moments it took Liz to drop her pants and climb into the centre of the folded nappy. My paralysis departed, and my voice returned. "No, don't do that, you'll prick yourself!" and I took the pin from her, "Let me do it." and I did it, slowly and carefully. I looked into my daughter's eyes, and I saw her looking back. She was delighted, for once she was controlling me, and she was loving being nappied, and I was loving pinning her nappy onto her. I searched through the heap of plastic pants and found the other pair of frillies, normally reserved for formal occasions such as trips to Pembroke or family weddings, where I wanted to show the rest of the family that the girls were well padded out, and assure them there would be no accidents to mar the day. I wrung them between my hands slipped them over Liz's ankles and drew them slowly and deliberately up her legs. I watched her eyes. There was real delight there. I stood her up, and slipped them over her nappy with a soft rustle. Then I tucked in the leg elastics, and gave her the obligatory pat on the bottom and kiss on the forehead. She was done, and safe now, and I released her to rejoin her sister, equals again and reunited.

Just outside Dunstable

Six years old. My mother had Munchausen's Syndrome by Proxy, and I was the proxy. I was down the hospital every week, and off school perhaps 50 times a term. My adenoids were removed. Then my father died and mother became insanely domineering. Suddenly I started bedwetting, and after several days she said if I wet the bed again she would go down to a certain shop, and buy oversized nappies and put them on me. My elder brother overheard her, and, being intensely envious of the extra attention I received, was exultant. He made a point of telling all my friends what was happening, and humiliating me. I rushed back to mother and complained bitterly. I never wet the bed again, but the experience had got to me. I was fascinated by nappies ever after. Mother remarried, a stepfather with whom I never got on, but mother's MSBP subsided for many years until he died suddenly. Then her MSBP returned in trumps. Egged on by a truly horrifiying do-gooder neighbour, she attempted to dominate me utterly - screaming nags twenty hours a day - until I came within an ace of strangling her. then, acutely depressed, I went out on my salesman's job intending to by some large-diameter tubing from a garden-pond shop, retiring to a remote picnic site, and attach one end to the exhaust pipe. As it happened I went past my brother's workshop on the way out I decided to go in and ask for some help in handling my insane mother. As it happened he was out, and I poured out my soul to my sister-in-law. Much relieved I did not buy the hosepipe. When I went home I found my mother unusually quiet and respectful - my sister-in-law had called on her and Read the Riot Act. After that things got easier for a time. In her old age, I happened to mention the neighbour and how she had mistreated her own grandson - I had heard the shrieking rows from my bedroom - mother's bedroom was on the other side of the house, and she hadn't heard them. Mother was terribly distraught; she finally realised how seriously the neighbour had misled her, and a day or two later the neighbour came round and apologised. Some years later, I happened to be at a dinner opposite our parish priest and his wife. I mentioned the neighbour and they both fell over laughing. The neighbour, a "devout" Christian, had pestered the life out of him and had eventually made her confession. My relationship with my mother never recovered. I could never trust her again, and was always watching for the bear trap under the carpet. One night I found her lying on the kitchen floor, cold and stiff. In the midst of my grief, I was exultant. With hindsight, her MSBP had some distinctive features. There would be a series of ploys, following a sawtooth pattern. They would rise to a peak in intensity until some third party found out what she was up to, then they would stop suddenly and she would be as good as gold for a few weeks. Then another ploy would start. I have often wondered if it was madness, or whether there was malice in it. Generally I think it was a malicious compulsion. While in the RAF I had been trained to recognise and resist North-Korean-style brainwashing. I was horrified to recognise Mother trying to use all those techniques on me; the isolation ( if I took a girl home and she met mother, that would be the end of the affair.), the suppression of humour (she always asked for an explanation of my jokes, them sneered) - the sleep deprivation (she would come crashing into my room in the small hours with a screaming nag on her lips), the endless, nasty, pointed criticism, and the resentment of my going to work. (she once drugged my breakfast tea. I detected a taste, but under her nagging I chug-a-lugged it and ran for the door. I drove down the road and just managed to get the car into a lay-by, and the next thing I knew was that it was late afternoon. I returned to find her standing in the driveway, wringing her hands and looking like death. She never tried that again.) With these experiences in mind, I feel that the bedwetting episode was one of her Munchausens ploys; she was a pharmacists daughter, and had served in the shop. She was a highly intelligent woman - when she wanted to be - and a great medicine hoarder. It must be very easy to give a six-year-old a mild sedative, a diuretic, and a bellyful of orange juice just before bedtime. The idea had been to get me back into nappies, and utterly under her control. When my brother blurted it out around the neighbourhood, she was discovered and dropped the ploy immediately. This is classic MSBP. I loathe her memory. I understand that about six percent of Munchausens' children are murdered by their mothers, so I suppose I was the lucky one. It has left me with a fetish, and a delight in being alone, independent, and not under some woman's control. As such, I can enjoy my fetish - it is small compensation. I hope I haven't bored you, but that is how I got my fetish. I wonder what other harm she did to me.

My apologies - the link doesn't seem to work, but if you google "well padded T shirt" and check the images you will get there. Someone is taking the piss.

A bit equivocal until you look at the logo! https://www.redbubble.com/people/sheriffbear/works/16413377-keep-calm-im-well-padded?p=womens-fitted-scoop

Thank you Fyunch - I've been busy. The Laundry Room A party at Pembroke with Percy and Clare was always a pleasure - and for Matt and me at least - it was a chance to get out of suburbia and make an easy journey up the motorway in time for lunch. Today was a bit special; it was Mum's birthday and her delight was to see her grandchildren scrubbed up and looking their best and hopefully on their best behaviour. My twin daughters were less enthusiastic; although the journey took less than an hour, it was still classed as a nappy trip, mostly in order to avoid having our very civilised afternoon spoilt by an avoidable accident - or two. To be fair, they were making some progress on that front. They could get through the school day without problems provided they remembered to go between each class, their bladders had learned to reflect the gentle rhythm of the school day, and I wondered if they now had a Pavlovian reaction to the sound of the electric bell. Weekends were another matter. I had given our nanny the weekend off in order to visit her parents and had looked forward to reconnecting with my daughters. So much for my motherly virtue signalling, they had lost no opportunity to play me up. Normally weekends were liberty hall, and the girls were expected to use the toilet like any other child; I didn't want to have to keep on at them to go, they were as entitled to relax just as we were. The cost might be the occasional accident, and they were usually wet in the mornings, but I felt it was worthwhile to see if they could control their bladders at least at weekends. As we were getting ready to leave, Kate and Liz made themselves scarce. I knew the ritual, they were hoping that we would end up in too much of a hurry to see they had their nappies on, it was a game they played quite regularly. I wasn't having it. Liz had had an accident while playing in the garden yesterday afternoon, and, as usual, Kate had "come out in sympathy". They had been in the doghouse ever since, and I was not in the mood to take any nonsense from them. I found them in their bedroom, on the floor on the far side of their beds, and keeping very quiet. They were indeed dressed ready to go; Parties at Pembroke always had a whiff of formality about them and so they were wearing summer dresses. I wasn't fooled for a moment. Although they could usually be trusted to put their own nappies on when needed, which had been Matt's innovation, it was a custom that was often honoured in the breach when they were in a fractious mood. A pat on Kate's bottom revealed the omission, and I didn't need to confirm it by lifting the hem of her dress. "All Right! Come On!" I ordered, and moved to the cupboard in corner where such things were stored out of sight of the casual guest. It was time for that old salesman's trick: the Alternative Close. "Which kind would you like this afternoon?" Liz rolled over her bed, heading for the door. I fielded her and led the reluctant child back to the cupboard. Kate took the hint. It was an old game, and it had its rituals. It had been used on me, too, in my time, and I never quite worked out if it was a privilege or a humiliation; it was a bit like choosing the method of your own execution, in the certain knowledge that, unless you were quick, the choice would be made for you and it would always be the least satisfactory option. I upped the ante. I drew out one of the large terry nappies which were usually reserved for night-time, and long winter nights at that. "Frilly pants?" I offered, and saw both the girls recoil. I couldn't blame them. Cute as hell under a short summer dress, but bulky and sweaty and impossible to conceal, the pillow dangling under the skirt hem and the frills at the back shouting "Baby in Nappies" to all around. Difficult to walk in, forcing a stagger and waddle which underlined the point, they were the safest option, and could take several wettings before the Dreaded Droop required the indignity and inconvenience of a change. Kate stepped forward, and indicated the pull-ups. I considered for a moment. Yes, they were easily concealed, which may or may not be a good thing. I knew that when we got there, if the eagle-eyed Aunt Clare couldn't see the girls were safely nappied, would ask the awkward question in fear of damage to her precious carpets and soft furnishings. A bit of a rustle or a waddle at the right moment could save a lot of embarrassment. Alas, pull-ups were only good for one small accident, and Clare's generosity with the lemonade was legendary, especially on warm summer afternoons in the garden. I pursed my lips and frowned - an expression which the photographers should never see, and mitigated my demand slightly. I put the terry nappy back and moved my hand to the disposable nappies. These were the bulkiest I could get - my girls were heavy wetters at night - but still covered with a babyish print of cuddly bunnies and teddy bears. It was the girls turn to frown. They were very bulky and they knew they would be waddling and have to sit with their legs splayed - not very grown up. There was also the custom that they stayed on until wet: waste not, want not. Although the tapes could be resealed, they were still not very satisfactory. They, too could be seen very clearly between the legs and if the girls bent down. It was their turn. Kate leaned over and indicated the PUL one-piece nappies that Helen had made. I gave what appeared to be a moment's consideration, then nodded. They were the closest thing to normal underwear, apart from the pull-ups, and were plain coloured, comfortable, and could be removed and replaced in the rare event that the girls remembered to go to the lavatory in time. They were also washable, which chimed with Aunt Clare's pronounced Greenie views. Then I played my hand. I fitted each one with two booster pads. I knew from experience that they would normally go the distance of the five or six hours that would pass before we returned home, and the need for changes would be minimised. There was also the point that they would be visible to Clare's trained eye and so no awkward questions would be asked. The girls frowned, but shrugged - it was too late now to object to the additional bulkiness, and I laid one open on each bed. Reluctantly the girls removed their underpants, hitched up their dresses and sat down in the appropriate places. I pulled the front up between Liz's legs and began to fasten the snaps. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Kate was putting her own nappy on, but I still made a point of checking it once she had finished; I wasn't going to risk any leaks. These were of course, "free ones"; I insisted they wear them, they agreed without demur, and if they wetted them there would be no repercussions, no scolding and above all, no sarcasm. Such was the Common Law of the family, set by long precedent and recognised by both sides as fair and just. As I ushered the girls out of the room, I scooped up a handful of PUL covers and pads, and slipped them in the changing bag - just in case. I knew my daughters, and it was going to be a long afternoon with plenty of refreshments. With the two girls' carrying the presents we walked out to the car, and I left it up to them to get into the back seats and strap themselves in safely. As we joined the motorway I looked back to check the girls were secure. They were both sitting splay legged in their seats, and their dresses had ridden up to show the pillow of nappies between their legs. Liz had her hand there, so I asked her if she needed the lavatory or if she was wet. She replied that she was all right but that these PUL nappies felt very nice - much better than plastic pants or disposables. She said she did mind wearing them and wished she could wear them at night too. I answered noncommittally; the girls were both inclined to sleep on their sides and unlike the traditional terries and pants they wore, there was almost no side protection against leakage. There was also the effect that the terry nappies were very bulky between their legs and encouraged them to sleep on their backs, in fact I knew that if they were on their sides it meant they had already wet their nappies and thus could close their legs more easily. Our welcome at Pembroke was, as usual kept fairly brief. The girls were ushered into the downstairs loo for the obligatory nappy check, which they both - sort of - passed. I found that the two boosters in each had somehow been transformed into one each. I couldn't blame them, but I couldn't figure out how it had been done. Then I remembered; getting out of Mother's sight and doing you own thing was one of the basic skills of childhood, and it was so much easier if you had a twin sister to provide a diversion for you. I tut-tutted and shrugged; this was not a moment to make a big thing of it. We rejoined the throng. Juliet and Peter were there with their youngest, Sally. Her two elder children, Holly and Jack, were both at college now and so eleven-year-old Sally was the only one at home to keep Juliet company when Peter was off somewhere on his duties. Fortunately that was a bit less often now - he had four rings on his sleeve and was tipped for a flag any day soon. Once the first flurry of gossip and news-swopping had died down and the men had drifted away to talk man-things, Juliet broached the perennial problem, beating me to it by a few seconds. Sally, it appeared was drying up nicely, although she was till subjected to Pembroke Rules, and resented it sharply. Juliet had expressed the hope this would be the last occasion, and Sally had tried to believe her. That would explain the long dress Sally was wearing, which was a bit too much for the heat of the day. My two were in short dresses, at nine years old they were getting a bit long in the tooth for them, but they were more appropriate for the weather, and made nappy-checks and changes that much easier. Juliet admired Liz's and Kate's all-in-ones which could occasionally be seen beneath the hems of their skirts, but confessed to me that she didn't think Sally would be needing them long enough for them to be a worthwhile investment. She was in pull-ups today, and damn Aunt Claire's Greenie views, but they were all that was needed to catch the small chance of an accident. Mum joined the conversation with the observation that nappies today were not what they had been when Juliet and I were small. Our sudden mutual silence didn't stop her, and she continued. She told us how they needed so much washing, but that it was worth it to see us safely nappied in thick, soft terry-towelling with white plastic pants giving us nice rounded bottoms and making us waddle so cutely, while ensuring we were going to be safe and dry and comfortable for the whole long night. Well, safe and comfortable anyway. I thought back for a moment. Yes, safe and sometimes difficult to realise I was wet until Mum pulled them down in the morning and the cold air hit my wet loins. Sometimes I still yearned for the soft bulk between my legs, the smooth plastic, and the knowledge that I wouldn't be in trouble if I wet my nappy. That was a part of the unspoken deal; I wouldn't object (very much) to having to wear them and in return she would never scold me for wetting them. Such are the little privileges of childhood that we give up in exchange for the imperative of growing up. I might sound a little crazy that two sisters should meet for the first time in months, and their subject of conversation should be their daughter's nappies, but then it was a rare problem, and we seldom had the chance to discuss it with someone "in the know", and it was good to get the general frustrations off our chests. At that moment Sally came wandering back in with Percy's son Haldane in tow. Hal was now thirteen, and just beginning to realise what girls were really for, a subject that was not yet entirely clear to Sally, but she was enjoying the attention just the same. Juliet rather abruptly asked if she had remembered to use the toilet, which got a frown from Sally and a slight smirk from Hal, who should have known better. I saw his mouth open to make some sarcastic comment to the fact that Sally's nappy was still dry, but I managed to silence him with a Number Three Frown, a useful attribute that I had learned in business. Sally didn't miss the exchange, and went on her way grinning. At that moment luncheon was called, so I called after Sally and asked her where my two had got to. She told me they were in the laundry room searching for Black Jack Sinclair's hidden treasure, a legend which had kept the children of the household enthralled for generations. That was not good news - the laundry room conjured memories - memories of heaps of terry nappies to wash, washed or drying, and all intended ultimately for my own bottom, not to mention rows of plastic pants pegged out where everybody could see them and not doubt their purpose. They would all be my intimate companions in the long watches of the night, spreading my legs and wrapping my bottom close and tight, giving me deep unworried sleep at the cost of a brief discomfort and humiliation when they were removed in the morning. The thought warmed me, and I went to recover my twins before they knocked the laundry room down. The Laundry room was separate from the main building, as it had been the original kitchen for the ancient house. It had long been used as a laundry room and store room, but the huge chimneybreast was still there at one end. It was there that I found my offspring. No dollies for them today, no princess dresses, no bows - they were up a stepladder thumping the walls of the chimneybreast. I called to them to come down immediately - they were getting dusty and dirty and would need cleaning up - and possibly changing - before they would be presentable at the luncheon table. "Mum!" We've found a hollow bit!" Liz protested, "It might be the treasure!" "Chimneys do tend to be hollow, dear, it helps the smoke go up!" "But Muuum!..." I wasn't having it. "Come on, lunchtime!" "But Muuuuum, It might be Black Jack's Treasure!" "Did you remember to go? Come on, let's have a look at you!" "They went." I hadn't noticed Alice, Claire's younger daughter, standing in the corner, arms folded and obviously enjoying the scene. "I made them. On the hour. Every hour." The ancient formula still held true. It kept them dry at school, but at weekends or playtime there was sometimes a lapse. I thanked Alice, and took a look at her. At eighteen she was the quiet sensible one, and in her quiet way, a beauty.. She had been through all of this, and was part of our sisterhood, and knew the hazards of concentrating too much on a really good game. I spared my daughters the indignity of a nappy check, and shepherded them out of the half-door and back up to the house. This was their grandmother's treat, and they were part of it.

I didn't much like the traditional onesie, partly because the snaps in the crotch dug into my thighs, and partly because they always seemed too tight. I created my own idea for a onesie by making some snap-side pants and attaching them to a T-shirt, like this:-

Oh Dear! A storm in a sippy cup! Students do this kind of theing. They are not to be taken seriously.

If they are being shipped directly from China to the UK, then its a good price because they ship very cheaply, otherwise US shipping to the UK will kill it.

Thank you. The intention was to show that the girls were developing a DL streak as well. I think the next episode should show Amelia getting a bit worried about it. Being twins, the girls will be inclined to conspire, but Amelia has been there and knows what can happen. She might wish to try to counter the developing fetish. Now I just have to put it into words!

The drum on my washing machine jammed almost solid, so I called a repairman. While waiting, I got the machine out, and also cleared the house of anything which might be embarrassing. I was missing one pair of Euroflex panties, and realised they might have got in the wash, which had been unusually full that week. I pulled the washing machine out, and found the belt had come off the back. On working the drum to and fro a bit I heard a distinctive noise. My missing panties had got themselves between the drum and the casing. I promptly cancelled the repairman - I wasn't going to have him extract a large pair of plastic pants followed by a very awkward silence. Better to scrap the washing machine, but before I did I had one last try. I laid the machine on its face, and wiggled the drum to and fro for some time, then I delved into the front and saw a little bit of waist elastic. I managed to pull it out a bit with a screwdriver, get a hold of it and gently pull the remainder of the pants out. Amazingly they were undamaged. I even managed to get the machine back together. Moral: Handwash your plastic pants!

It's the same shipping from the US to the UK. Staggeringly expensive, and yet from China they seem to be able to ship for free. I wonder how much business they are getting from us because of it. I would like to buy some Euroflex pants from Plastic Pants. Their prices are high, but their postage is ridiculous. We used to have a UK supplier who handled them, but he has given up. There's a market opening there for someone.

Agreed - they are very for chilling out. How do you manage to keep your cloth nappies a secret? Do your parents know or suspect?

The Shoot. The big day came. Kate and Liz were up before me, which was unusual, and were chattering nineteen to the dozen when I went into their room. They were already half-dressed and in deep discussion about the other halves. I managed to add some professional advice; it didn't matter how fashionable you looked when arriving at the studio, as long as it was clean. Better to take things that could be taken off and replaced easily, because you would be changing as soon as you got there, and have to dress before you returned. Better to take something that would withstand the various cosmetics which would be applied, although as I said it I bit my lip - I wasn't going to have my kids sexualised with a load of make-up, they were too young for that. Underwear must be plain, and spotlessly clean. Shoes should be slip-on, and quickly removable. The twins listened avidly; they didn't appreciate just how much hard work they were letting themselves in for. I checked the nappy pail before I left, but made no comment - if the girls had been dry, they would have wasted no time in telling me, and if they had been wet then I wouldn't remark on it. It was just part of the deal. For a moment I assessed the distance we had to drive, but concluded it was much too short to qualify as a Nappy Trip, and so made no demands in that respect. It was to be the girls' day. I had told Julian about Helen's offer and his eyes had gleamed. I managed to keep him from applying the full contractual arrangements, but an exchange of letters had laid out the ground rules, and avoided a few pitfalls. The girls were going to model Helen's creations for advertising purposes, and were to receive some payment and a few clothes in return. I didn't want the girls to be commercialised or sexualised, I just wanted to help my friend and let the girls have some fun. With the girls safely in their seats, and chattering away, I navigated the early morning London traffic to the studio. It was only when I got there that I realised I had forgotten the changing bag - usually an essential for a long day out. Never mind - the girls could manage school without accidents, and I would just have to remind them to go every hour or so. Not a problem. Not having had all that much to do with Helen's firm for some years, I was expecting a semi-amateurish back-street studio with an informal make-do-and-mend approach, but I was mistaken; Helen had prospered in those years and now demanded a high standard, so the studio was large, well equipped and professionally staffed. The girls were swept away by hairdressers and makeup artists and duly returned looking exactly like my daughters - only much more so. I fluttered uselessly behind the camera as the photographer gave them his expert direction and the girls lapped it up. I would have liked to assume that they had got it from me, but then realised that they had studied me much more intensely than I ever thought possible. The day went with a swing, and Helen's new range of children's clothing was modelled and photographed from every angle and in every way possible. There's nothing like a pair of identical twins, and twovery pretty girls at that, to make a good product photograph. In late afternoon the photography backup staff began to disappear, and it was up to a handful of us to get to the final set of clothing. This was the bit I had been dreading, and I suspect Helen had known it might be so and had left to the last - if there was a scene, then it was best had at the end of the day than at the beginning. Helen, an enthusiastic Greenie, had spotted a hole in the market for older children who suffered from the same problem as my daughters did, and had developed a range of PUL washable nappies to fill that hole. I had argued that the market sector was very small, but she said she though tit was worth exploiting, and small runs of specialist clothes were where she made her money. I shrugged and agreed. I was fearing a strong reaction from my girls, who were easy to reason with, but sheer hell in an argument. They would stand up for each other and defend their ground to the bitter end, in a manner which would have won the approval of their piratical Sinclair ancestors, but could be a bit much in the family home. It was with great trepidation when Helen produced the nappies and explained what they were and why she was producing them. I braced myself for the explosion, but was amazed when the girls examined the garments with enthusiasm, and began to ask technical questions. Helen had to explain that treating the nappies in a tumble drier could seal the needle holes from the stitching, and that the cloth outers were just that - real cloth, and could be made in bright colours and patterns. I was further astonished when Liz and Kate both changed themselves into them without help or prompting and began to parade and pose in them with hoots of laughter. Helen certainly hadn't spared the soakers and there was obviously plenty of absorbency there to pad them out. I felt a twinge of nostalgia for the well-rounded bottoms, so different from the clinical squares of disposable nappies, and my feelings were reinforced by the pronounced waddle which was induced by the thickness of the soakers between their legs. I admit that from time to time, when I had put the girls to bed well padded-out in terry nappies, I had found the sight of the big thickly-nappied bottoms had been quite delightful. The difficulty of walking when so thickly nappied had the additional advantage of keeping them abed when necessary. Now, it seemed, Kate and Liz were actively playing it up, striking "Grecian bend" poses and even doing a certain amount of twerking - although where they had learned that I shuddered to think. As I watched my daughters playing in their nappies without a care in the world, I began to envy them. I recalled the days when I was in nappies, and playing in the garden at Pembroke, feeling the pillow between my legs and grateful for the security it offered. I no longer had to fear the sudden urgent pangs that would come uninvited, I no longer had to remember the quick route to the toilet, or make sudden excuses; I was in nappies, and was expected to wet them at some point during the afternoon, and I knew nothing would be said. When it came, it came, and I would carry on playing without interruption, enjoying the relief as the warm wetness trickled down between my legs and puddled underneath me. My nappy would be checked from time to time, and if it was wet, I would be changed then and there on the lawn; clean dry nappies and pants were always to hand in the laundry room. No one minded that I was still in nappies at eight years old and should have known better, no one commented on the fact that I went to school without nappies and had to visit the toilets between each class. This was the weekend, it was summer, and I was allowed to relax and enjoy myself in Granma's very private garden, wearing just a T-shirt to cover my top, and a nappy and pants on my bottom, although Granma preferred me to wear sundress with frilly over pants, or at least a romper, which allowed me to play on the slide or swing without any fear of my nappy coming down or my plastic pants wearing through. Sometimes I would wake from an afternoon nap on the garden sofa to find a clean dry nappy laying ready-folded beside me in mute accusation. I didn't even realise I was wet, but Granma had just expected it. I would lie there, yawning and stretching while my nappy was changed; I would lift my bottom on command, but I was not supposed to meddle with my nappy as she wrapped it around me and pinned it. Once changed I was free to run - as best as I could - and play freely again. Tea-time would be heralded by Granma appearing with a fresh nappy and pants for me so I would be comfortable at the meal. I never told her that I was quite comfortable in my wet nappy and, even if I protested there was no real need, she would change me anyway, so I would be comfortable during the meal and able to enjoy the cakes that she had cooked. Those were the days! The photographer was obviously enjoying having two pretty kids who were keen to pose and preen for him - they had certainly got the hang of it, and the session overran by a good hour. When we finally finished I took a look out of the studio's only window and was horrified to see that it had started to snow heavily. It wasn't such a problem for me, as we had the big Range Rover and it could cope, but the rush hour was upon us and that would mean traffic chaos as so many inexperienced drivers would grind though the snow at the lowest possible speed and hold everybody up. I shooed the girls back the changing room and told them to be as quick as possible. Once their overcoats were on, I shepherded the girls out of the studio and through the thin snow back to the car. I let them strap themselves into their seats in the back while I involved myself with the heating and demisting, not even listening to their chatter as they replayed every scene and every outfit. The traffic was as dreadful as I had feared it would be; snow is quite rare in England, and we never seem to be prepared, although I was well experienced in driving on it from our skiing trips, and had little patience for the exaggerated timidity of the other drivers. We managed, after much creeping and crawling, to get onto the motorway and pick up some speed, but suddenly there was a flare of brake lights ahead, and all the lanes rapidly came to a stop. I sat there, muttering at the traffic, and watching the blue lights coming up the hard shoulder from behind. Police, Ambulance, Fire Brigade, it was obvious that somebody had seriously lost it up ahead, and I switched the engine off. We might be here for some time. I checked the girls. They were enjoying the snow, and tackling one of the great philosophical questions of the time; "How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" I left them to it, and tried to plot a diversion that would take me around the jam. There were simply no options. The motorway was banked and ditched, and we were boxed in by traffic, so we had no option but to wait and watch the snow getting deeper and deeper. Something was missing. It had gone very quiet in the car. Then a still small voice came from behind me. "Muumm?" "Yes Liz." I replied, dreading the next words, "What do you want?" "Muuumm, is there a toilet anywhere near?" I looked around. Nothing. Just a snowy embankment leading down to a water-filled ditch, then a hawthorn hedge and empty, snow covered fields stretching as far as I could see in the blizzard. About a hundred yards. The rest was a solid bank of cars, full of people looking out miserably. No toilet, no hope. "No dear, I don't think so. Can't you hold it?" No reply. I thought it through. An accident on the leather upholstery of our new car. Those child seats wouldn't contain it. Matt would be livid. We would have a major cleaning job, and would probably never get rid of the smell. Worse still, the thought had set something off in me, and I wanted to go. It had always been my weakness, and now it was asserting itself. I looked out again. There was nowhere, and if I went in public everybody would see and they all had mobiles with cameras. It would be all over the internet. Either that, or all over the car. I was getting desperate. I looked in the side pocket to see if there were any plastic bags tucked in there, but the car was new and none had accumulated. This was getting desperate. On the brink of panic I saw brake lights coming on again ahead, and car exhausts began emitting smoke. The traffic was beginning to move again, and there was just a chance of some kind of relief ahead. We crept past the wrecks of two cars and a lorry, and began to accelerate again. I glanced in the mirror and spoke to the girls. "Can you hold on a bit longer, we'll soon be there!". Silence. "Are you alright back there, we'll soon find a toilet!" Finally a reply came, quietly, from Kate. "Don't worry Mum, it doesn't matter any more." "Oh God! Have you had an accident in the seat." "No, Mum. I did it in my nappy." "What nappy?" "The ones we were wearing at the shoot. I asked Helen if we could keep them, and she said Yes, so we kept them on." I felt my jaw drop. It was quite improper to take the clothes home. Even if it was allowed it was quite ridiculous for the girls to select the nappies to take; there had been so many beautiful clothes there that they had modelled. It made no sense. With trepidation I asked Liz. "And what have you done, Liz?" "I've wet my nappy too, Mum, it seemed like the best thing to do." That left me. I found that the sense of urgency had declined sharply, but when I thought of the girls and their solution I couldn't help thinking I would have liked to be able to do the same. As it was, I gritted my teeth and headed for home. Matt was waiting at the door. Unusually he had got home first and had been quite worried by the weather and the radio reporting the crash on the motorway. I gave him a brief kiss, and brushed quickly past to the toilet. He had known me long enough to understand. My next job should have been to change the twins, but I decided to call Helen first. I was worried that the girls had taken the nappies without permission. I managed to get through on her mobile, and found she too was stuck in a traffic jam. She out my mind at rest by telling me she had indeed given the girls permission to keep the nappies, but had been surprised when they decided to wear them home. I told her they had been useful, if not to say essential, and we both had a good laugh over it. I told her that I could have done with one myself , and she laughed again and then said "Why not?". I thought for a moment. She knew me very well indeed, and she was right - the temptation was severe. There was an awkward silence. Oscar Wilde said that he only way to get rid of a temptation was to give in to it. "Why not indeed?" I replied, "I really liked that maroon colour..."