Phone Conversation

[Sarah Penguin]

Thank you - fortunately it was the other guy's fault and he admitted liability in front of independent witnesses, so, like the good Christian soul I am most certainly not, I am suing him with a savage firm of attack-lawyers.

[freswith]

Devon

I made a several forays to the telephone box and to the newsagent over the next week, and Matt waved his finger at me each time.  I explained that I had to remain in touch with Julian so I knew when it was safe to re-appear.  I read all the reports of the Glastonbury festival with keen interest, and Spike was there, looking a trifle haggard and way off his best, but he was on stage and got a good reception.  This annoyed me - my job involved being seen in public, being famous mostly by being famous, and here I was stuck down in the back end of nowhere while Spike was in the spotlight.  Curiously the journalists said that Glastonbury was lacking a certain something this year, but wouldn't say what it was.  I phoned Julian, and he told me that the police were not showing any interest in finding me, so it would probably be safe to re-surface now.  He also said that the missing element at Glastonbury was the cocaine supply which had failed - the police had caught the main supplier and the prices had become astronomical. Poor Spike, I thought, he would be lacking his main propellant.

I told Matt that evening, and he seemed a little deflated, and I felt sorry for him. He explained how much he had missed me since we broke up before, and now he was afraid that we would break up again.  He said each time he came home he was afraid I would no longer be there, and he had to pluck up the courage to open his own front door.  We spent an hour just talking, and bared our feelings towards each other.  I told him how much I had missed him, how silly I had been, and promised never to let him down again.  Eventually I think I got through, and we went to bed like newlyweds.

The following day I was just crossing the road on my way back from the newsagent when Matt came past in his car, presumably on his rounds, and I was fairly caught.  I awaited his return that evening with trepidation, but he said nothing.  I didn't get a reaction until the following morning when I looked for my jeans.  They were missing.  So were my kickers.  I looked in all the usual places where they might have been kicked or flung, checked out the lampshade on the ceiling, but they were nowhere to be found.  I rounded on Matt and challenged him.  He simply shrugged, then from behind his back he produced the old familiar object with its old familiar rustle.

"Perhaps you might like to wear this instead," he said, "I'm sure it will stop you running round the village where you might be spotted and arrested."  I looked very hard at him.  It certainly would arouse comment if I went out dressed like that - but it was a bloody cheeky way of doing it.  Then I saw the smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "Besides, you said how it made you feel safe and warm and comfortable, and cared-for." He went on, "So I thought..."

I thought about it too.  "Well Daddy," I said as archly as I could, "I am certainly not going to put that on."  There was a pause as we squared up to each other.  Then I continued, "You are just going to have to put it on me....if you can!"

Matt obviously accepted the challenge and picked me up like an infant - God he was strong! - and tossed me back onto the bed.  I wriggled and I kicked, just like I had in the old days, but not too much; I didn't want to tear anything, or worse still to hurt Matt, and so it came to its usual conclusion.  I lay still and good as the tapes were stuck down, and merely pouted my distaste.  In fact, Matt did it just as well as Peter used to do it, and the frisance took me back years and years.  I was now a good little girlie again, and Matt was my father figure.  Matt waved his finger at me again and said I was not to take it off under any circumstances, which was also the injunction Peter had traditionally used.  My pretend sulk didn't prevent me from getting the ritual kiss and pat on the bottom, but he forgot the "Comfy now, dear?" that I remembered so well.  I would soon train him on that, I thought as, dressed only in T-shirt and nappy, I kissed him goodbye at the door.

Once he was out of sight I slipped into the toilet and had a good pee.  Then I did a quick, thorough search and found where my clothes had been hidden.  I would play along with his game, but there was no way I would sit all day in a wet nappy - and the prospect of getting a rash would spoil the fun for both of us.  However, after taking it off a couple more times - including for going over the road to the newsagent - I was still properly and decently nappied when Matt came home - just like a good little girl.

I asked Matt if I could take it off now because there was something I just had to do.  His reply was simple "Make me want to!" he said with a grin.  One of the things I can never refuse is a dare.  Right, Matt, if that's the way you want it, that's the way you are going to get it.  I snaked slowly across the floor towards him, crossing my feet over and  rolling my hips the way I would on a catwalk, and rustling in the way I hoped I never would in such a place, my arms by my side and squeezing gently to maximise my cleavage.  Then I slipped my hands behind his neck, went up on tiptoe, and pulled myself up tight against him, kissing him very lightly on the lips.  His grin spread from ear to ear and his arms slid around my waist and lifted me.  So far, so good. Then, hanging on tightly, I raised my legs, curled them around his back, then crossed them and squeezed long and hard.  I rubbed him hard beside his spine in the small of his back, a trick which Spike said increased the erection.  I didn't really need to.

Matt rolled forward, depositing my backside on the edge of the kitchen table, and I laid back gracefully, running my hands down his arms as I went.  The nappy was promptly torn off me - I've no idea where it went to - and Matt managed to divest himself of his trousers by a similarly rapid and arcane route.  I don't know how - perhaps doctors have special quick-release trousers for situations like this; they would be useful for making house calls, after all.

The poor old table was hardly up to it.  It had been designed to support an honest peasant family with honest peasant meals, perhaps about a hundred years ago, and the violent love-making it had supported on two or three occasions recently had loosened its joints, and now the cutlery drawer at the far end was rattling cheerfully in time with our reciprocating motion.  Eventually things came to a climax signalled by the cutlery draw falling onto the floor with a mighty crash.  After we recovered our breath, I whispered softly in his ear, "Did you have a good day at work, Dear?"

Things became a little calmer after that.  I told Matt that Julian wanted me back at work at the end of the month - The autumn Fashion Weeks were starting soon, and there had to be a lot of preparation, fittings, makeovers, rehearsals and all that trash.  It was my job, and it made me a lot of money.  Spike hadn't been in contact, although Julian's back-door communication with his manager, Solly, implied that I need not fear his erratic emotions.  This was backed up by other reports reaching Julian that Spike had been seen out and about - with Miranda Parkinson, the chat-show host, of all people.  I felt a atrange emotion; the first moment was jealousy, but then I thought how that couple really deserved each other.  Both were talented, but superficial hypocrites, and I wished her the best of luck with Spike's strange sexual peccadilloes.  Presumablt she had some interesting ones of her own to which Spike was attracted. With such charitable thoughts I reassessed my relationship with Matt, and everything checked out.  Matt was as stolid and reliable as an oak tree, but with a wonderfully resilient sense of humour, and that was exactly what I wanted for the long term.  It also meant the dust had settled in London and it should now be safe to reappear.

Matt, in his turn said that he had a week's holiday coming up, and he had originally planned to spend it surfing in Cornwall, touring the beaches in his old camper van, but he had given up the idea because he would prefer to stay here with me.  My response was immediate; we should both go surfing with his camper van, and then I could return to London and get some work done.  I had never forgotten that holiday so long ago, and the prospect of repeating it, without the parental limitations, was irresistible.

I should perhaps have taken a look at Matt's camper first.  It was the authentic thing, its rear covered with stickers, and its prow bearing the powerful surfing rune of VW, but there was precious little room inside for two lengthy adults.  Still, it was fun and it was the thing to do.

Just before we left I nipped over to the little shop for a few essentials.  I took the usual precaution of grunging up, tucking my hair under a sunhat and wearing sunglasses, but today two of  the papers on the shelves had large pictures of me on the front pages, with stories about me still being missing.  I selected my purchases and slid to the till to pay for them, keeping my head down behind the brim of my sunhat, but it wasn't any use.  The little old lady behind the counter ducked down, looked under the brim, and smiled. "Don't you worry, pet,  We won't tell'em.  If you're a friend of Doctor Matt, then you're safe here with us here in Winkleigh!" 

I felt my face redden; my cover had been blown, but I gave the old dear my Number One Smile and thanked her, then pressed my finger to my lips to beg her silence, and left the shop before any of the other customers might notice me.  Then I looked carefully up and down the street before crossing to where Matt was loading the camper van.  "The old lady who runs the shop has just recognised me!" I told him. 

Matt just grinned. "Inevitable, I suppose; there aren't that many girls round here looking like you..  Never mind - it'll be all round the village in half an hour, but it'll probably take another month to reach London. Climb in, we're ready to go."

Five minutes later we were chugging away from Winkleigh through gin-clear air towards the rolling green hills of Cornwall, and my spirits began to soar. I was free again, and another adventure was coming, another life beginning.

[WBDaddy]

Stellar, my friend, just stellar.

[Sarah Penguin]

Enjoyed it

[D503]

Wonderful.

[freswith]

Thank you for your compliments.

[freswith]

Getting Broody.

I managed to find a little shop in Newquay that sold some reasonable clothes.  I was still living out of the bag I took to Tokyo, and really didn't have anything suitable for a seaside resort, so I had to get a few things.  I felt a pink string bikini was essential for old times' sake, and I managed to get a pair of tiny denim shorts - "Daisy Duke's"  to go over at least the bottom part of it.  A couple of tops, a new pair of jeans. a sundress and some beach sandals completed the deal, and the sales girl didn't even notice the name on my debit card.

Newquay was very crowded, especially with teenagers celebrating the end of their exams, loaded with cans of lager and beach gear, and at times Matt and I seemed to be the only adults in the street.

We spent the afternoon on Fistral Beach, where I managed to blend in as best I could - never easy when you are five-foot ten - but there were lots of other girls there, and frankly, Matt stood out more than I did with his flaming red hair and huge frame.  I sat myself down at the top of the beach where I could shelter from the wind as he took his surfboard down to the sea. 

By and by a little girl hurried past, sunhat, sundress, a pillow of nappy between her legs, clutching a bucket and spade, and heading for the beach with all the intense concentration of a child at play.  I watched at her, and for a moment I envied her; everything in her world was so simple, sun, sand, and a big blue ocean stretching to the horizon, she could play there for hours in safety without a care in the world.  I wished I could be like that again, although if I turned up on the beach with a nappy under my sundress it might attract more attention and comment than I would really like.  Behind her came her mother, holding all the rest of the beach paraphernalia, and as I watched her shepherding her child along the sand I found myself envying her too, and I wondered what it would be like to have a little girl of my own to look after, to care for and protect, and to bring up fit for a big, wide world.  Suddenly I had a different view of my own life, all very glamorous and successful, but at the same time somehow empty and purposeless - another assignment, another catwalk, and when it was all over there was nothing to show for it - except a large cheque, of course.  Suddenly I realised that my careful business plan and my glittering career was somehow leading nowhere; I needed to get a life.

I saw Matt on his way back up from the foreshore, and I found myself looking at him in a new way.  Yes, he was well-built, very well built, but I wanted more than a brute. He was also gentle and sensitive, intelligent and humorous, and those were the qualities that would last.  I pursed my lips and tried to see him as a father. Yes, he would do it well, and he would make lovely babies.  A little Matt boy would be lovely - or even a little Matt girl.  Then I stopped suddenly - A Girl - Oh God! What if I passed on the errant gene that ran through all my family?  Ten years at least of bedwetting, ten years or more of nappies.  Ten years of miserable fights, explanations, promises, disappointments.  Gradually, as he came closer, the dream began to fray at the edges and disappear; Oh Lord give me Motherhood - but not just yet.

I took a swim with Matt - a short one, because the water was a bit cold, and then we strolled along the edge of the sea, hand in hand, and talking about things: important things, such as where we were going to go from here in the long term.  Matt well knew that I had to return to London and my career at some point after our week away, and I was anxious that this wouldn't make any difference to us.  I would have about a month of seriously hard work - and it can be very hard work - before I could take much time off again to get down to Devon.  Something in my own viewpoint had changed - being with Matt was now going to be a priority.  Matt in his turn would come up to London at weekends - there is always an awful lot to do in London, and I wanted to show him my little house in the mews.  I wanted him there.  As I said so, I realised there would have to be some changes; Spike's many paintings would have to go up into the attic room, carefully locked away, and that wretched mural in the garage was going to have an appointment with a thick coat of paint.  As I thought that, a young girl walked past the other was dressed in a pink gingham romper identical to the one in the mural.  I did a double take - someone had been very quick off the mark indeed to spot that - but she wasn't wearing a nappy, and the pants part, although baggy, was nothing like as voluminous as the original.  I pulled my sunhat down a little and walked on.

At the end of the day I was expecting to go to a campsite, and frankly, I was dreading it.  I knew there was a bed on the roof of the camper, under the awning, but the prospect of fitting both of us in that very small space was not attractive, and it would certainly be impossible to make love there, particularly in a campsite full of families and spotty adolescents, but I found Matt had thought of that.  We went on several miles to St Agnes, where Matt had taken a little cottage tucked away in the hedge at Trevaunance Cove, and opposite a lovely old pub called the Driftwood Spars.

The rest of the week passed in something of a haze.  Not only were the days busy - I was either being taught to surf by Matt or taking good long runs along the huge expanse of Perranporth beach, but the nights were a bit busy too.  I was quite glad when the Saturday came with a flat calm and a clear blue sky.  Matt wasn't too pleased about the absence of surf, so he was quite ready to agree to my suggestion that we drop in on Peter and Juliet, just a bit further down the peninsular.  I used his mobile to call Juliet's number, but little Jack answered the phone.  He was all excited because they were having a barbecue and was I coming?  I assured him I would come, and asked him to tell Peter or Juliet, and we set off.

It wasn't until we arrived that I had second thoughts.  As Matt's ancient camper van spluttered into the driveway I was staggered to see masses of people, all rather well dressed, and wondered for a moment if it would not be better to beat a discreet retreat while I changed into something a bit more in tune with the occasion, but it was too late for that.  I thought with desperate speed, but then calmed down.  I was, after all, a supermodel, and as far as fashion went, what I say goes.  If I couldn't carry this off in a pair of Daisy Dukes and an old blouse, then nobody could.  I made a couple of swift adjustments; I knotted the tail of the blouse over my stomach and got Matt to tuck the back up under my bikini top.  I then reached into the back of the van and grabbed the golden sandals with the five-inch heels I had last used in Tokyo.  With my heels on, I am dressed.  More relevant, perhaps, my normal five-ten became six-foot three, plus hair, and from that height I could face anyone down.  Now properly turned-out, I felt I could carry it off.

I extracted myself from the confines of the van, and with Matt close behind me, I switched on a dazzling smile and did my catwalk stalk - very carefully - along the paved path.  Thankfully I managed it without twisting my ankle on the uneven stones, and the crowd parted in front of me.  I recognised Gran and Granpa sitting in the arbour, and with due regard for Naval etiquette, I went to make my number with the Admiral.  Out of the corner of my eye I recognised other faces, not only Peter and Juliet, but Mum and Dad were there, and it seemed the whole family was around.  Now I really had to play the situation for all it was worth.  I took Matt by the hand and presented him formally.  "You will remember Matt, won't you?" and my eyes met Gran's She was looking like a cat which had just eaten a huge bowl of cream, and replied that Of Course she remembered Matt.  It was hardly surprising since she had carefully orchestrated his return to my life, and it was obvious that my renewed acquaintance with Matt had met with her full approval.  After a few niceties I looked for Juliet, but at first she was nowhere to be found.  Then I saw her coming out of the house, shooing Holly before her.  Holly had that distinctive just-changed look, scowling slightly and twitching her skirt, and I realised that Juliet had taken advantage of my show-steal to carry out some essential maintenance on her young daughter.  A moment later she was followed by Claire with her two daughters, both scowling and twitching their skirts.  It was obvious that on this big occasion no chances were being taken with the weaker bladders amongst us.

Once again I was careful to introduce Matt, not because they didn't know him - at one time Matt and I had been inseparable - but because I wanted them to accept that we were now an Item, and very much so.  That was accomplished with no difficulty at all in comparison to the awkwardness with which Spike had once been received.

Turning around, I was dazzled by the sunshine reflecting off Vickie's hair as she offered us a tray of drinks.  She was looking so good, and had obviously come into full bloom.  At first I suspected this was due to her having just left school, but I soon realised the real cause was the very handsome young officer she introduced as Simon.  Lucky Simon!  I had to do a double take; it seemed only yesterday that I had been changing her nappies and shooing her off to bed, and yet here she was, all "growed up" and with a boyfriend of her own.  I began to realise that old age had taken its first step towards me, and there was another generation growing up behind.  I glanced back at Matt, and began to think that it was about time I did something with my personal life, something lasting.

[derj]

[Sarah Penguin]

As always lovely

[freswith]

Red Wine

I arrived back in my little mews house in a state of some depression.  Not only was I without Matt - he had waved me goodbye from Exeter station - but it was a bit cold, I felt very lonely, and I was facing a busy few weeks as Julian had made a number of bookings for me for the fashion weeks in New York, Paris, and Rome as well as in London.  There was going to be a busy schedule of rehearsals, fittings and general preparation, and for once I wasn't looking forward to it.  I dropped my bag by the washing machine, took a quick shower to get rid of the grime of travel, opened a bottle of wine, retired to my lounge upstairs and sprawled on the sofa.  Then I phoned Matt.

We had discussed where we were going at some length.  Both of us were very keen to continue, but the problem was about two hundred miles between us, and a vast range of commitments.  I would be happy to take Lucy the Lotus down to Devon whenever I had a few days off, and Matt would take his weekend breaks in London whenever I was in town, but it really wasn't enough.  I wanted to go home to Matt in the evenings, and know he would be there, and he felt the same. It was just that working it out might be difficult.

I had realised that Matt was unhappy in his present job, as he had confided in me one evening.  He had hoped to study surgery, but was told flatly that his hands were too big to make a surgeon, and on the rebound from that he had found a position with a small group practice in the middle of Devon.  Unfortunately some personal differences were arising, particularly with the senior female partner who seemed to have it in for Matt, rubbishing his more up-to-date skills and his private education, and Matt had had enough of it.  He realised there had been a history of junior partners working at the practice, and none of them had stayed for long.

While at the barbecue Matt had been talking to the senior doctor on the base, and had obviously been given the old recruiting pitch; he had been told that the size of his hands didn't matter, how the Navy would sponsor his training in surgery and how he could travel the world, go to interesting places, meet all kinds of interesting people and kill them - sorry, cure them.  I refilled my glass and sat back with quiet amusement, recognising the old, old pitch, and silently thought how lucky he was not to have been knocked over the head only to wake up on a ship outbound to the Cape and fair Australia for the next few years. Granpa had assured me that kind of thing didn't happen anymore, but when drunk he would still describe the Navy life as "Rum, Buggery and the Lash - but if you get tired of that you can always get a book from the ship's library."

I refilled my glass - all this talking had made me dry - and I told him how handsome he would look in Naval uniform, and managed not to laugh. In fact he would look dreadful with his bright red hair against the navy blue uniform with the green trim on the ranking rings, but of course I would never tell him that.  He asked me if he should join the Navy, and I said Why Not? - most of the rest of my family had been in it, and seemed to have a very good time, and I refilled my glass again....dammit...have they made these bottles smaller? This one got empty very fast.

Eventually, reluctantly, I finished my call to Matt after a barrage of endearments, and stood up.....and sat down again as the room went round and round.  I realised I had drunk the whole bottle, which was far more than my usual amount, and way over my safe limit.  I sat there and cursed.  I looked through the door at my bed and began to calculate.  I hadn't touched it since I decamped at speed in the early hours of that day, and it certainly hadn't made itself.  I considered the number of operations required to replace the sheets and pillowcases, and groaned.  Then I thought of the necessary precautions I would have to take after having drunk all that wine, and I groaned again.  There was nothing else for it; I wasn't going to be up in the small hours because I had wet the bed and had to change it all again.  I staggered over to the "cupboard" and made my way up the stairs to the upper floor.  Here I was greeted by my nursery, with all the pretty baby murals and umpteen pictures, mostly of me, all painted by Spike, which was exactly what I didn't want to see at just that moment - or ever again, come to think about it.  I just didn't want to be reminded about him.

I largely felt my way over to the changing table, a copy of the one at Pembroke, and drew back the curtains below it.  There was a good stock there, and I selected one of the thickest disposables.  I knew I really should have used cloth - I prefer to sleep on my side - but I really couldn't be bothered in my present state.  The week ahead was just too busy and there wouldn't be time to get to the launderette to dry it.  I fumbled my jeans to the floor and spread the nappy on the changing table before rolling on top of it.  For some reason it's never quite so easy to do it to yourself - you can never get the fit quite right, or the tapes as tight and it never seems to work as well, but I put what was left of my sobriety into the task and made a fair job of it.  How I missed Matt at that moment, then realised I had thought of Matt nappying me instead of Mum - or Peter.  Times had evidently moved on.  At least I didn't think of Spike; that connection was now completely dead in my mind. 

I fastened the leg tapes tightly, then the waist tapes, taking advantage of the considerable tumblehome of my waist to keep it all tight and snug, and then laid back.  I managed to catch myself just before I fell away into sleep, and remembered there was one more thing to do.  If I was going to sleep on my side I would need a little bit more protection, so I reached under the table to where the plastic pants were stacked, and the first pair that came to hand were the covered ones with the frills on the bottom, so I didn't argue, I rucked them up, hoisted my legs and slipped them through the holes before pulling them up until the elastic gripped my thighs, then I swung my legs over the edge, stood up, and pulled them the rest of the way up to my waist, tucking the legs in carefully.  I was now feeling a little less drunk and tired, and decided to proceed.  My blouse and bra joined my jeans on the floor by the door, and I selected the little short nightdress from the shelf in the cupboard, the one that just came to the bottom of my pants.  As I hauled my hair up from under the collar I caught sight of myself in the long mirror, and for a moment I played with my hair, bunching it and pig-tailing it to enjoy the effect, noticing that with my arms raised the pillow of my baby pants appeared beneath the hem of my little white nightie, framed by my waist-length mane of hair, so I stuck a few poses, giggling out loud at the effect.  I even considered taking a selfie, but realised I had left my camera downstairs, and I couldn't be bothered to go and get it.  I turned, perhaps a bit too rapidly, to go downstairs, and then I thought of my bed down there - unmade since I vacated it so hurriedly all those weeks ago, and stopped.  Never mind, here was my cot, still all made up properly, and with the side down waiting for me.  I climbed in and giggling again, raised the barred side behind me.  I slid down between the sheets and gave the toys hanging on the side a cursory rattle, then I curled up in a foetal position, tucked my hands in between my thighs where I could feel the security of my nappy, and span down into a world of deep, deep sleep.

I dreamed and dreamed all night long, I dreamed of Matt, I dreamed of running with him along the endless beach at Perranporth, I dreamed of being chased by policemen, I dreamed of being chased by something small, dark and evil, and when it got closer I saw it was Spike.  I dreamed of running along the water's edge as the waves broke over my feet, trying to keep up with Matt who was always just out of reach, and the little demon Spike was getting closer and closer and I reached out for Matt and...touched the cool smooth bars on the side of my cot.  I rolled onto my back, and the clamminess around my loins told its own story, so I crooked one foot against the other knee to give my swollen nappy some space.  I lay still for a while, what was done was done, and I was grateful I had taken the necessary precautions.  Now I looked up at the ceiling framed by the rim of my cot as the rest of my body gradually woke up.  Despite the wetness in my nappy I was warm and comfortable and safe, dear old Teddy was close by, and nothing could get at me or frighten me, no-one could surprise me, and nothing could bother me.  I gave Teddy a cuddle and wished he was Matt, and by and by I felt the need to go again, and there was no point in holding it so this time I just let it flow into my already wet nappy, enjoying the fresh warmth as it spread between my legs and under my bottom, and gradually I took stock.  I had to get up, go to work, meet with Julian, and make all kinds of plans for the next month or so.  I had to do some housework, everything needed dusting and vacuuming, and my proper bed needed fresh sheets. I had the laundry to do. I had to go up to Pembroke to retrieve Lucy the Lotus and - most urgent - my mobile phone, which I had missed sorely. 

I laid there waiting for something, and waiting and waiting for it to happen until I realised that I was really waiting for Mum to come and drop the side of my cot, to pick me up and separate me from my sodden nappy and change me into a fresh one, and it just wasn't going to happen.  With a mild sense of disappointment I got up to a kneeling position and dropped the side of the cot myself.  I took my little nightdress off, went downstairs, grabbing my bathrobe as I passed my bedroom, and, waddling a little because my nappy was very full and I didn't want to spill any, reached my bathroom on the ground floor.  There I divested myself of the sodden nappy, rolled it up, stuffed it into a plastic bag, and now fully grown-up again I stepped into the shower.

[WBDaddy]

Poor Amelia, with no one to change her nappy for her...

[derj]

An other great chapter.

[Sarah Penguin]

Awesome chapter!

[LittleAcorn]

This is quite an enjoyable story, and I'm only up to Dec 2009.

I've been reading it on my phone, however - is there any chance of getting a doc/PDF/txt file so I could put it on my kindle? That would make it a lot more pleasant to read.

[freswith]

Can do, if you PM me.

[freswith]

Halloween.

The next few weeks were franticly busy as I hopped about the world living mostly in hotels - although Marguerite did allow me to use her beautiful flat on the Upper East Side, close to Central Park, a special privilege she kept for her favourites.

Julian, my manager, had brushed aside the matter of my knocking Spike out cold, and then going on the run for weeks.  Apparently that kind of thing was rather expected of celebrities, it all helped to keep my face before the public, and that translated into business. He said that the feedback and gossip which had reached him fell into two categories: those who thought it was dreadful to hit their Darling Spike, and those who thought I should have hit him much harder.  Either way, it didn't matter as our paths never crossed.  Spike was highly visible, as always, and was usually seen in the company of that dreadful chat-show hostess, Miranda, and I felt no envy;  it just made me want to have  Matt with me.  However, it seemed that Miranda had an issue with me, and had made a number of remarks about "dim-witted model girls" which seemed to be aimed at me personally.  I would bite my lip in silent anger, although I really couldn't wish her any fate worse than to be screwed by a poxed-up drug addict who had just had his tool up the bottom of a rent-boy.  I would thumb my nose at her whenever she appeared on the box.

There had been bad moments.  When I got up to Pembroke and retrieved Lucy the Lotus and my mobile, I had found some heart-rending messages of apology on it from Spike, and for brief moments my heart had nearly melted, but I had resisted the temptation and phoned Matt instead.  Then I felt much better. 

There had been good moments, too.  On my way out through Heathrow airport, I ran the usual gauntlet of paparazzi.  This was not normally a problem, they publicised me, which made me a celebrity which got me more work, and I provided them with a living, so we had a certain symbiosis, and it paid to keep on the right side of them.  Provided I was sober and decently dressed I was happy to stop and pose for them, and they would photograph me carefully and it would be published with a sympathetic puff.  This time there was something different.  There were Sidney and Charlie as usual, but Sidney was in a wheel chair with his leg in plaster.  Naturally I went over and had a word.  "Oh, Poor Sidney, how did that happen?"

"I was in a motorcycle accident"  he replied with a touch of bitterness in his voice, "At Brent Cross, about a month ago."

I got the message.  That would have been the melange of red and white lights I had seen in my rear-view mirror.  It was too good an opportunity to miss.  "Oh Poor, Pooooor Sidderny, How Howible for You!" followed by "Has anybody got a pen?"

I borrowed a felt-tip pen and autographed Sidney's plaster, high up on the inside thigh, then I bent down and gave it a big kiss, leaving some of my freshly applied lipstick under the autograph..  There was a feeding frenzy of flashguns, and roars of laughter from everyone except Sidney, who was the only photographer who failed to get the picture.

After I reached New York I heard that several websites carrying the pictures had been crashed by the wave of demand.  It did me no harm when I went for the audition with Victoria's Secret; as Julian had briefed me they went for models with humour and personality, and I must have been near the top of that scale; I got the job.

Now I was busy at home.  Matt was coming, and there was a fearful amount of housework to be done in a house which had been neglected for a nearly three months.  Finally, before Matt came, I had the chance to do something about that wretched mural of me in a nappy and romper sitting on Lucy; now that I was on top of my trade, the risk of that kind of picture getting out had increased enormously.  I had brought some really thick white paint and a couple of big brushes and invited Helen around for a drinks-and-painting session.  Unfortunately the drinks had come first, and we were both giggling about something ridiculous as I opened the bucket of paint.  On seeing the mural clearly for the first time, Helen had become a little embarrassed, and had admitted that she was the one who had copied the romper, as seen from a paparazzi's snapshot, and had marketed the result through her own little fashion label.  That explained the girl I had seen wearing one in Newquay a month or so earlier, apparently it had sold very well, although the pants were a bit less commodious on her design than they were on the original, but then they were less padded-out as well.  I readily forgave her, and took comfort in knowing that Helen was one of the very few people who knew that I had worn nappies long after other children had been toilet-trained, and that I would sometimes need to wear them even now after I had been on the wine - just as I had been that evening.  However, Helen was my closest friend, and had never betrayed me, so she was the person I had invited to help me with the desecration of Spike's masterpiece.

I decided the paint needed stirring, even though it didn't seem to need it; stirring the paint was a part of the ritual.  I found a piece of stick and we stirred it together.  Helen began to chant:-

 "In the poison'd entrails throw. -

Toad that under cold stone

Days and nights has thirty-one;

Sweltered venom sleeping got,

Boil thou first i' the charmed pot."

We had both done "Macbeth" at school that year, and had performed as two of the witches during our enactment.  Helen's memory was very good, and I felt I had to try and match it.

"Double, Double toil and trouble,

fire burn and cauldron bubble" 

We chanted as we stirred, then I managed to carry on:

"Fillet of the fenny snake

In the cauldron boil and bake

Eye of newt, toe of frog,

Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,

Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,

Lizard's leg and Owlet's wing, -

For a charm of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble."

"Double, Double toil and trouble,

Fire burn and cauldron bubble" 

Then we stopped.  We needed a third witch for the next bit, but we hadn't got one.  At that exact moment, the doorbell rang.  I hung on to the paint stick while Helen went to the door.  It was only Julian so she let him in.  "Come on," she said somewhat drunkenly, "you can be the third witch!"  I took a paintbrush and dipped it into the paint, taking a good large dollop.

Julian came and joined us.  I refilled our glasses, and, for lack of a third glass, passed the bottle to Julian.  He stood there without responding, and didn't look happy at all.  I picked up the paintbrush gestured towards the mural and said, somewhat thickly, "We're going to paint it ...out".  He didn't react.

Then he said quietly, "Have you heard the news?"  I shook my head. He paused.

"Spike's dead."

It took a few moments for it to sink in.  At first I didn't associate "Spike" with "dead"; they seemed to be mutually exclusive.  Spike was full of life - too damn much of it at times.  How could he possibly be dead?  I turned away from Julian towards the mural, and there just where I had planned to slosh the paint, I met my own eyes. Spike was good at doing eyes, and these were undeniably mine.  Where, moments before there had been vitality, now I saw a terrible fear and sadness.  I stayed my hand, and then turned away, back towards Julian.

"How?... When?..."

"Apparently he hanged himself.  Part of a sex game which must have gone wrong." replied Julian. "There was a woman with him, but he had tied her to the bed -  so well that she couldn't get loose to help him.  She had to watch Spike strangle."

A terrible coldness started up from my legs, and I dropped the paintbrush onto the floor.  I could see the whole thing.  Poor stupid Spike, always trying for the new thrill, the new experience, he had tried to tie me up on one occasion, but I had objected so violently that he had backed off;  I was just so frightened of what might have happened - I knew that when Spike got the bit between his teeth he would be completely uncontrollable.  Now some silly woman - it must have been Miranda Parkinson - had let him go ahead, and this had been the result.  It was all so futile, so pointless.  Something inside me snapped, and I burst into tears.

Julian and Helen helped me to a chair in the kitchen and did their best to comfort me, but it was difficult because I really didn't know why I was crying; it just felt so good to let go rather than to try to contain the horror I had just heard.  They put the kettle on  - Julian had quietly fielded the wine bottle, and it was just as well, I was already over my prudent limit, but I was still snuffling and slobbering when the phone rang.  Helen answered it, and it was Matt.  I desperately wanted to hear his voice but I didn't want him to hear mine while I was in that state, but I pulled myself together, blew my nose, wiped my eyes, and spoke thickly to him.  He had rung to tell me the news about Spike, proving that the fastest thing on earth is salacious gossip - it had even reached the wilds of Devon within moments of being released in London. His voice warmed me, and slowly the tide of tears receded, and I began to appreciate my surroundings and make sense of what I was hearing and seeing. The longer he spoke, the more I wanted him to be with me, I wanted his arms around me, his strength protecting me, and his presence shielding me from the strange spirits that seemed to be abroad that night, and I was left still feeling a bit empty when he rang off.

I certainly didn't feel like cooking, so we ordered a Chinese take-away and retired upstairs to my living room where I opened another bottle of wine to replace the one Julian had so wisely confiscated.  I was now well over my personal limit, and confessed it to my intimate friends.  I knew I would have to take the necessary precautions that night.  I hauled myself off the couch and staggered across to the cupboard that concealed the stairway up to my nursery.  I was followed by a rather worried Julian.  I didn't mind, nobody minded Julian, he was so riotously gay that he was allowed behind the stage at fashion shows, amidst the frantic flurry of changing models, because everybody trusted him and nobody feared his motivation; he was a deft hand at helping us into the ridiculous costumes we often had to wear, and never forgot the essential accessories.  He also know all about my little peccadillo, in fact he was my supplier for much of the stuff - I could never dare my name appearing on the accounts no matter how discreet the suppliers said they were.  I showed him the room, and he admired Spike's decorations, and noted the stack of his paintings at one end; "Worth a bit, now." he said, but I took no notice.  It was too early to speak of Spike in the past tense; the wounds were still open.  I tried to find a disposable nappy, but the compartment on the changing table was empty and I cursed myself; I had used the last one the night before I went to New York, and I had forgotten to ask Julian to get me some more.  I would have to think of something else.  As I staggered down the narrow stairs the doorbell rang, and I went to take delivery of the take-away.

By the time the meal was finished Helen had passed out.  Julian tenderly laid her full-length on the couch in the recovery position, and covered her with a rug.  However, I was made of sterner stuff and headed for the shower, hoping the water would wash at least some of the wine out of me.  When I came out dressed in my bathrobe I found that the faithful Julian had done all the washing up, and left everything nice and neat.  It wasn't all that he had done; when I entered my bedroom it was like going back a dozen years or more.  There, on top of my bed, white, fluffy, and neatly folded, was my protection for the night, a large terry nappy, with, laid out beside it, a pair of nappy pins and some plain white plastic pants, just the way my mother used to do it.  I hesitated, taking it all in, here I was freshly bathed, in my bathrobe and heading for the final rituals of the day, to be carefully nappied and then tucked up in bed to sleep, to dream, perchance to wet.  I felt Julian close behind me, and he gently pushed me forward.  I didn't attempt to resist.  I recognised it for what it was.  I really would need that nappy tonight, and I knew I was too far gone to get it on myself, so, as I had done during many catwalk shows, I let Julian guide me.  I laid down on the pure white nappy,  parted my legs, closed my eyes and let Julian do the rest.  It was the first time I had been nappied like this for years and years, and once again I felt the warm soft towelling being drawn up between my legs, felt the security if the pins securing it at each side, following the ancient habit I raised my feet as Julian  scrunched the pants, slipping them over my ankles, the cool smooth plastic being drawn up around my thighs, then I lifted my bottom while the pants were pulled up into their final position and everything was tucked in carefully all around, and there I was, safely and properly nappied for the night.  The final and binding responsibility of holding my bladder tight had passed from me and I began to relax , and the relaxation spread outwards to my whole body, sweeping all the stress of the day before it.  Finally, with my pyjama top on, I turned and crawled up the bed on all fours, and let Julian tuck me in.  Curled up, and with no further worries, I let the world spin away.  One final thought went through my mind....where had Julian learned to do all that?

[Sarah Penguin]

Enjoyed your update

[fyunch]

A lovely addition, and it seems to remove Spike from the threat radar for good.

But how could you write "the only photographer who failed to get the picture?" Why, a writer who would do that might do anything. He might even, I don't know, make a pun!

[derj]

[freswith]

Micawber

Cogito Ergo Sum.  I think therefore I am.  I swam back to consciousness from the deepest sleep I can remember.  Dreaming, I had wandered far and wide.  I had been a little girl again, being led from the bathroom with just a towel around me to see my nappy laid out on the bed ready for me, and, after making my protests, being lifted by Mum's hands under my armpits and sat firmly onto the middle of it.  Despite my feeble wriggle, my legs were parted and I had been anointed and powdered, then the front, still warm from the airing cupboard, had been brought up between them and pinned, one side and then the other.  One half of me had been objecting to the indignity of it, while the other half had been revelling in the warmth, the softness and the bulk.  Then Mum had shaken out my plastic pants and slipped them over my ankles before taking my hands, standing me up, and pulling my pants up to my waist.  I stood quietly while she ran her hands around the elastics, tucking them in before telling me it was all done and I was a good girl and I must try to keep my nappy dry this night.  I was so tired and so grateful to be properly nappied and safe and warm that I made no protests as Mum tucked me in, the last thing I remember is reaching down over the soft plastic, slipping a finger inside the legs, and feeling the towelling that wrapped me so closely.  The sense of security, that Mum had shown how she loved me and that I was safe and could do no wrong, carried me spinning down into sleep.

Now I awoke, and lay there for a while, still not quite sure if I was a little girl or a grown woman.  The warmth was there, the bulk was there, and also there was the wetness.  I groaned, and stirred slightly, straightening my back.  Yes, the wetness was certainly there, all between my legs, round the back and along one side.  I was well soaked.  I stirred again in discomfort and part of my mind wondered when Mum would appear to lift me up, and slide my sodden bundle down my legs so I could step out of it and make my way to the bathroom.  Then reality dawned.  I was a grown woman, lying in my own bed, in my own house, and in a wet nappy.  And it hadn't been Mum who had nappied me, it had been Julian. 

I snapped into full wakefulness as the memory struck into me.  Julian?  Why the Hell had I allowed him to do that?  Close friend he may have been, but not that close, at least not until now.  He was only my "father" professionally, and I realised, raving pooftah - whoops! - "gay" that he was he had been no sexual threat to me, but even so! 

I sat up sharply, and then waited until the room stopped swimming around me.  Last night's memories returned.  Poor Spike, what a hell of the thing to do to yourself.  He was hugely creative, but quite mad, and his madness had go the better of him.  And what of poor Miranda? - my feelings tumbled.  Part of me hated her for taking Spike and flaunting him, part of me thanked her for taking the depraved little punk off my hands, but no hatred could justify the horror of being tied firmly to the bed while he slowly strangled in front of her.  I shuddered at the very thought.  Then to have to wait there all alone - a large soft paw placed itself on the edge of my thought - except of course for Micawber, Spike's huge Maine Coon tomcat.  What had he seen? What had he done? And then what had happened to him.  Apparently Miranda had been carried off to hospital raving about "That ruddy cat", but what had become of him?  Was he still locked in the flat, starving and thirsty?  I stood up, and my nappy reaffirmed its wetness.  Time to get rid of it, time to get going, things to do.  I waddled to the door, slung my bathrobe around my shoulders, and headed for the bathroom downstairs.  On my way I crept past the sleeping Helen, still stretched out on the sofa amidst the empty glasses and bottles, and, holding my drooping nappy to prevent it from sliding down my legs, tackled the stairs.

Half an hour later I was in the kitchen, kettle boiling, nappy in the washer, pants washed and hung out to dry discretely in one corner, when Helen reappeared, red eyed and bumbling to claim the other cup gratefully.  We both swore by the Nine Gods of Clusium that we would drink wine no more, but both of us knew we would partake this evening or soon after.

I went into Marguerites that morning.  Everybody was very sympathetic to me, probably mistaking my reddened eyes for the result of weeping for Spike.  I didn't try to correct them, but was anxious to pick up whatever gossip and information I could.  Eventually I rang Solly, Spike's agent and manager, officially to commiserate, but also to remind him about Micawber.  He was a little reserved at first, which was unusual for him, but quite understandable - Spike had been his friend, protégé and a very good money earner.  Solly had never quite forgiven me for renegotiating Spike's contract on more favourable terms, but that was water under the bridge now.  We said all the usual nice things about Spike, and then I mentioned Micawber.  Solly was startled.  "How did you find out about that?" he spluttered.  "It was all supposed to be secret!"  I caught my own surprise and merely said it was all over London by now.  Little by little I teased the story out of him.  After Spike died, Miranda had been left tied to the bed for nearly two days without food or water, and was going crazy with fear.  The only thing free in the flat had been the cat, Micawber, and in between her screams for help (screams from Spike's flat were taken as the norm by his neighbours) Micawber had started to turn his attention to her.  She had tried talking to the cat, but he took his time, and his opportunity, and began to explore those parts of the human female form that had long been forbidden to him, but were now easily available and on display.  He had gone beyond the normal limits of careful sniffing, and had began to lick.  I knew that Micawber had a very rough tongue, but could barely imagine what it must have felt like.  Fortunately, at the moment he tried a little nibble, Miranda's production assistant who had been detailed to track her down, had arrived at the door and heard her scream.  Rescue had swiftly followed, but when the police had released Miranda, and the ambulance crew were carrying her away, she was raving about that cat and what should be done with him.  However Micawber had managed to escape both the emergency services and her wrath, and nobody could find him.  This was not unexpected or unusual - Micawber had a number of hiding places, and led a night-life all of his own.  Solly, who didn't like Miranda in the same way he had mistrusted me, agreed that some attempt should be made to find Micawber, and that food and water should be left out for him.

The story had wings.  Within ten minutes it was all round the office, by that afternoon it was all over London, and Matt phoned me from deepest Devon to tell me about it that evening, proving that salacious gossip really is the fastest thing on Earth.

We discussed a few things about the Victoria's Secret contract, and Miranda said that I could have full use of her flat when I was in New York.  All the time, in the back of my mind, burning like a pilot light was the thought that Matt was coming, Matt was coming, and the thought warmed and comforted me.  Then I realised that when I was in New York, Matt would be three thousand miles away, and out of weekend reach.  The thought hurt too much, and I realised I would have to start planning the rest of my life more methodically.  I would have to set my priorities; Matt, my house, my family, my career all jostled for primacy.  I wanted Matt all the more now, just so I could sort things out with him.  Then I realised that Matt would have his priorities, too, and his life plan.  We needed to talk, and to see how we could reconcile them.  Our business concluded, I had a quiet word with Julian about ordering some essential supplies; I knew I would have a glass too many at some point and I didn't want to be reliant on cloth again.  It was good for a backup, but the washing and - even worse - drying meant it was only for emergency use....such as last night, although neither of us mentioned it.

When everything was organised, I took myself off to the gym.  What people don't seem to realise is the amount of sweat it takes to keep in trim; my contracts required that I should be bikini-fit all the time, and that, even for me, means regular exercise,  Models are a form of athlete, and have to be in continuous training; it's a bit of a drag, but at school I was quite athletic and was even on the county team for a time.  I had to work off last-night's indulgence as well, and I wanted to be in top form for my next big assignment - entertaining Matt for the weekend.  Fortunately I have a very good personal trainer in Ian, who cheerfully runs me ragged, and I depend on him to keep me in shape.

Matt's visit that weekend passed in a blur - I don't think either of us got much sleep.  I had arranged only one formal occasion, the premier of a film, purely for the pleasure of taking Matt along the red carpet and showing this mystery man off as my new item, establishing that I was in a new relationship and had left Spike miles behind me.  It seemed to work, and the Papps were very busy photographing the two of us.  I was quite proud to introduce him as "Doctor Matt Johnson" - it certainly was a step up from the inherently scruffy Spike, who usually had to be led into such events on a collar and lead.  I got away quite lightly.  Poor Miranda, who came along next, was greeted with a number of feline noises - real cat-calls - and how she stood it I do not know.  When we got inside to the reception she was almost in tears, and I tried to comfort her, but she was absolutely seething with rage.  "If I ever get my hands on that cat," she said, "I'll take it to the vet and have its bollocks, then I'll take a shotgun to it."  I think she was serious - she even said that she had offered a thousand pounds to anybody who would turn Micawber in.  I suspect that once that got out she would find herself neck-deep in stray cats, but I kept my silence.  I thought of telling her that Micawber would probably need both barrels, but I didn't want to be quoted on that.

I had my long talk with Matt.  We both realised it wasn't going to be easy to reconcile our widely differing lifestyles, but we were determined to try.  Matt's relationship with the woman doctor who managed the practice was not getting any better and he was really thinking of moving on, and even toying with the idea of joining the navy - Doctor Marten's bit of recruiting had certainly paid dividends, and the prospect of training in surgery appealed to him, but I realised that could well mean long separations when I would be left at home - and my contract meant I would have to spend time in New York.  It seemed to take the gloss off things a bit, but there was nothing we couldn't overcome; even so, it all seemed a bit airy-fairy.  I wanted it to go somewhere; I wanted something to happen.  Looking at my empty wineglass, I said something that I actually meant, instead of something which prudence might have kept unspoken.  "If you join the Navy, I'll marry you."

I felt I wanted to put my hand in my mouth.  I didn't necessarily mean to propose to him, and realised how it could rebound.  As it was, Matt was silent for a moment, and then said "O.K.  - you're on!" and it was as simple as that.

There was one place in my world that I didn't show Matt.  Not there, not yet.  The little cupboard door that concealed the stairs up to my attic remained firmly locked all that weekend.  I wasn't ready to let Matt quite that much into my secret world, and not least because it was half full of Spike's paintings of me in various states of déshabillé, but also because I wasn't quite sure how he would take the revelation of just how far I was into the fetish.  I wanted to save that for later.

[WBDaddy]

Love the little

[derj]

[Eliah]

Man, how have i not read this story before!

[freswith]

The Cat Came Back.

I was busier than ever that autumn; and it was not just with work.  Those weekends when Matt didn't come up to see me in London, I would go down and stay with him in Devon, and Lucy racked up the miles at the cost to my bum - she wasn't the most comfortable car for long-distance driving and I began to think quite seriously of replacing her with something more comfortable, something more responsible, staid, comfortable, middle aged... Oh Stop!  Those words put me off so much!  I don't want to start growing old when I feel I haven't yet grown up.

I spent more time - midweek only - in my nursery.  The days were hectic and prolonged, and I needed some earnest chilling-out time.  Other people might manage with booze, and to be honest I did a lot of social drinking, but I knew it came with a cost; if I had too much I would have to take the necessary precautions, and that meant a trip upstairs to the nursery, and my choice of protection.  Sometimes I lingered, the feeling of being pampered helped to unwind the stress of the day and slow me down enough to sleep, and the sleep that came was deep and unworried.

I went to Spike's funeral, of course.  His death had healed all the hurt I had felt, and the underlying affection had resurfaced; no longer was he a lover, but a lost friend and I wanted to say goodbye to him.  It was also expected of me, and part of my job involved being seen in all the right places, and Spike's funeral had turned out a large proportion of London's A-listers who thought they also had to be seen to be there.  I wore a respectful and decent black suit, but on the Mae West principle I teamed it with a frilly white blouse - nothing shows up better on a colour picture than that combination.  I spent some time talking to Spike's old mum, whom I had met previously on a few occasions, unlike most of the Glitterati present who had largely ignored her, being more comfortable with the society of their own kind than with the reality of bereavement.  Poor old thing, she was very sweet to me, and had forgiven me for thumping Spike that time.  She looked askance at Miranda Parkinson, who was also being careful to avoid her; I understood that Spike's mum blamed Miranda for leading her son astray.  She must have been  blissfully unaware of the kind of things Spike liked to get up to in private.  I asked if anybody had seen Micawber, but nobody had, and Spike's mum was worried that Miranda had got hold of him and secretly carried out her threat.  I just hoped that Micawber had managed to get away and was living freely somewhere, perhaps with a new home.  Spike's mum said she would have loved to have him, but she was allergic to cat hair, and came out in a rash if they even came near her.  I had a brief vision of what might happen if that vast mass of cat hair which was Micawber ever came near her, and shuddered.

Late one November afternoon I returned home in Lucy with the last of the light, a new package of nappies was in the boot, courtesy of Julian, and a case of wine was next to them courtesy of the off-licence.  I had an evening entirely free, and I planned to sample both.  However, as I pressed the button to lower the garage door there was a mighty thump on the deck of Lucy and I looked in the mirror to see four huge paws had landed on the back of the car. I leapt out to confront the intruder, and I then I recognised him -  the mighty Micawber, Destroyer of Rats, was Come.  We stared at each other in mutual trepidation until eventually Micawber sat down, wrapped his tail around his paws, and put on his "little pussy" act, staring up at me with big eyes and mewling pitifully.  I am not much of a cat person, having owned a dog, but the message was unmistakeable and I knew I couldn't ignore it.  I reached out and stroked him, ending with a scratch behind his ears, which I knew he loved.  Outside the first angry flurry of rain lashed against the garage door, and I knew I could never send any poor creature out into that dark night, so I gave a sigh; like it or not I had become a cat owner.

Micawber followed me obediently when I went into the house; he apparently sensed the position of the kitchen, and I found a tin of tuna for him which was obviously very welcome indeed.  I stroked him, and found that under the thickness of his coat he was a very thin cat; fending for himself had not gone particularly well, and he wouldn't survive much longer on the street.  How he had found me I do not know, but it was his lucky day.  I made up a bed for him in the kitchen, but somehow when morning came I found he was curled up on the rug beneath mine.  I wondered for a while why he wasn't actually on my bed, until it struck me that he had had experience of that, and it had not ended well at all for him.  He had learned.  It didn't worry me - the thickness of my nappy would have been more than enough to protect me if he had tried that trick again. 

I lay there a while and began a life-assessment.  The problem was that life never seemed to get simpler; like my hair it was always growing longer and finding new ways to tangle.  Now I had a super job, but it probably wouldn't last long after I was thirty - six years from now, a terrible thought.  By that time I would have made a shed load of money, but I would have to find something else to keep me for the rest of my life.  I had a boyfriend, a man whom I loved and with whom I wanted to spend my life, but he was two hundred miles away, and on a divergent career path.  I had a house, and I had paid off the mortgage, but it was in London and most of my work was going to be elsewhere - mainly New York.  It was a very valuable house, not least because of that mural - Spike's pictures were fetching silly prices now - but if I sold the house I would have to destroy the mural, because I simply couldn't have a picture of me in nappies entering the public sphere, and even if I blamed it on Spike's fantasies, the truth would come out sometime and ruin my reputation.  Moreover, the attic nursery was becoming essential to me as a very private place where I could go and unwind from the tortuous demands that had stressed me out.  I thought that a husband might be even better, but that was some way off.  Thinking of the nursery, and the stash of nappies and baby clothes made me reach down to check my own nappy.  I had wet - just a little.  Almost inevitable after the wine I had drunk last night.  Even though I now knew my capacity to the nearest drop, there were times when I went over the limit intentionally, both to unwind and to have an excuse to wear a nappy to bed.  When Matt was around I was a bit more careful, although the problem never seemed to occur then - to put it crudely I was otherwise occupied down there, and slept much less deeply.  Now without Matt being here, I could indulge myself and, relaxing every muscle, I did.  There was still plenty of spare capacity inside, and little or no danger of a leak.  I would have to level up with Matt about all this sometime.  He knew I had a problem, and suspected I had a fetish, but had remained tactfully silent.  I wanted to have him on board, to be level with him. I wanted no secrets from Matt, nothing that might blow up I my face at some future date.  There was also, dangling temptingly in the background, the possibility that we could exploit the matter in our love-making - we had already experimented with good results - but it would still be better if it was an open secret between us.  There was some way to go yet.

Micawber woke and stretched, and I reached down to stroke him.  As I scratched him behind the ears I realised that I had opened up a whole can of new problems;  I spent much of my time away from my little mews house, and there would be nobody to care for him while I was away.  I wondered if my parents could take him in, then I thought of the very aged Asbo, who now spent most of his time in his basket beside the boiler, and thought that the arrival of Micawber would probably give him a heart attack.  Spike's mum was a no-no, and that really left Matt, my grandparents, and Percy at Pembroke.  I was going "home" to my parents for my birthday that weekend.  Matt would be coming up from Devon too, and it would be a chance for him to see his parents - he hadn't done much of that since I had met up with him again.  I wondered if I could board Micawber at Pembroke for the weekend.

I phoned Claire and asked her if she could look after my cat.  It was news to her that I had one, and I carefully avoided saying that it was news to me as well, but she agreed; the idea of putting Micawber into a cattery for the weekend was as abhorrent to her as it was to me and I was invited to stay for supper.  Matt was not due to arrive from Devon until very late, so I accepted.  I deftly avoided her remark about how she was pleased to see I was settling down at last - that might too easily lead onto the subject of my oddly-formed and still secret engagement to Matt, and that was a subject which would need a lot more discussion between us before we announced it.

With the arrangements made I got out of bed, and made for the bathroom.  My nappy was now very wet, which was not surprising considering I had drunk almost a bottle of wine last night, but when I removed it in the bathroom, I just took a little more care about rolling it up than usual - I didn't want to put any temptation in Micawber's way.

During the day I bought a supply of cat food, and - to Micawber's intense disgust - a flea collar for him, which I thought was a sound investment before I felt the need for one myself.  That evening I loaded Lucy with my weekend bag, and scooped Micawber into the passenger seat with strong direction to sit still, which of course he immediately disobeyed.  As soon as we set off he decided that he did not like sports cars, and he retreated into the depths of the passenger footwell, and stayed there.  No problem - at least he didn't interfere with my driving.

At Pembroke I was greeted like royalty by Percy and Claire, but with indifference by six-year-old Alice, their middle child.  I realised I had made a serious mistake by abandoning her hero, poor Spike, and she was into a deep sulk over the whole matter.  Apparently the kids at her school had given her a hard time over it, and where before she had been much envied about being related to me and thus getting to meet Spike, it had all evaporated, and a reaction had set in amongst the envious.  Her attitude changed abruptly when she met Micawber, and learned that he had been Spike's cat and his closest companion.  She took him to her heart, and to my great surprise Micawber responded, returning her caresses and purring in obvious contentment. 

When Alice's bedtime came Micawber followed her up to the nursery, and I tagged along to make sure that he wasn't going to make mischief.  I needn't have bothered.  While Alice was in her bath Micawber scouted the nursery thoroughly, sniffing briefly at little Hal in his cot, and finally chose himself a warm spot by the radiator where he settled with every sign of contentment.  I left him in peace there - he looked very much at home.

Eventually Alice came out of the bathroom with Claire behind her, and walked over to the changing table.  This was in keeping with Alice, who was a gentle, well-behaved child, so well-behaved in fact that I sometimes thought she was letting the family down; there was no sign of the rebellious spirit that distinguished the rest of us.  She was still wet most nights - the family curse - and had never gone a night without the ritual of being thoroughly and copiously nappied.  She waited obediently beside the table while Claire folded her nappy on the top of it, and it wasn't until she turned round and saw Micawber curled up beside the radiator that she showed any reaction at all.  Claire gently fielded her daughter before she could reach Micawber, and slipped her bathrobe down before picking her up and positioning her on top of her nappy.  Claire obediently laid back with her legs parted while Claire anointed her, but kept lifting her head to try to see Micawber, and asked me if he was still there.  I assured her he still was, and she laid back again as Claire pinned her nappy and then folded the legs in, just like I had been nappied so many times on that very table.  The thought made me quite envious of Alice, although at that point I would certainly have been wriggling and protesting, and probably even trying to kick my nappy away before it was inevitably drawn up between my legs and pinned.  Once the nappy was on, there seemed to be no point in further resistance.  Oddly, I never remember objecting to my baby pants being put on; they covered the nappy and made it all look respectable again, and to be truthful, I enjoyed the feel of the cool smooth plastic between my thighs.  Alice sat up again as Claire crumpled the plastic pants up and slipped them over her ankles, and then stood up for them to be pulled up to her waist, never taking her eyes off the cat.  As soon as her pyjama top was on and she was allowed her freedom, she made a beeline for Micawber to fuss and pet him yet again.  Once again Micawber responded to her caresses, and began to purr deeply.

Claire went to pick Micawber up, but for once Alice protested, and very loudly.  She wanted Micawber to stay with her to keep her company, and Claire hesitated.  It was most unusual to see Alice upset, and very hard not to react to her.  It occurred to me that she had all the advantage; sitting there in her nappy she triggered all the love-and-protect emotions that a baby could produce, while adding the articulation of a growing child to an inherited ability to plead a case.  Claire, who was a lawyer by profession,  plainly felt obliged to listen to her daughter's argument.  Nonplussed, she looked to me for help, but what she received was judgement.  I remembered how I had felt at much the same age when Juliet was off to college and I was left alone, and how delighted I had been when Asbo was given to me as a companion.  I could do no less for Alice.  "Let her keep the cat, please, I know he'll be safe here, and that he'll be loved, and Alice will be happy.  He'll do no harm, and let no harm come to her, of that I'm sure."  Claire thought for a moment, and then nodded.  Alice hugged Micawber, who, with a self control I never knew he had, put up with it.  Alice had got herself a pet, and in exchange I had gained a certain amount of respect for Alice, who had raised herself from the commonality of infancy into a distinct character.

As we left the nursery, I turned to take a last look at Alice, now tucked up in bed, and Micawber curled up obediently on the rug beneath her.  I knew that within five minutes he would be on her bed, to their mutual delight.  He had found what he wanted; a cushy billet and a secure future, far from the cold and hostile streets of London in a style which he obviously felt to be his due, and he was going to stay there.

[D503]

Very lovely - thanks.