Dear Susan,

Since it is the period of goodwill, I have given permission for Timmy to present his impression of an evening in the Good household.
I agreed there would be no punishment regarding any revelations and yes, I do know about the radio in the shower, and shall continue to turn a blind eye for the moment.

Of course, I am aware of his little crush on me, indeed, that is one reason why I encourage Miss Tompkins' interest, Timmy does not realise it, but I invite Sarah to come over and participate in his bedtime routine: it is an excellent discipline to occasionally have an ‘outsider’ popping him into his pyjamas.

One must look to the future, and Sarah Tomkins is an ideal candidate to carry forward Timmy’s education. Timmy’s petticoating development must continue into full adulthood, and Sarah has the resources, having made some of his night clothes, to provide a disciplined background as Timmy’s partner. It would do him no harm to spend some time in Sarah’s formidable care. So, yes Timmy, I will be taking up her offer of a weekend visit, and that cot sounds very appealing!

Rest assured, you will learn how he fares. Until then, I shall continue to supervise his progress as best I can.
Last, let me wish everyone involved with PDM, staff and readers, a Happy Christmas and a peaceful New Year.

Miss Helen Good 

Miss Good chides me for my tardiness and impatiently motions me toward her. She sits correctly postured, her hands resting in her lap, clutching my bedtime pyjamas. She is wearing a traditional floral cotton blouse; open necked – with the cuffs buttoned at the wrist. I detect the scent of her perfume, and feel her breath on my face as she leans forward, beckoning me into the pyjama jacket.  Miss Good always leaves the pyjama bottoms until last, causing me great anguish as I try desperately not to let my affection for her show.

I dislike these pyjamas. Mrs Walker’s niece Sarah made them for me; obviously designed from a little girl’s pattern they were fashioned from pink brushed nylon. The jacket's yoke is outlined with lace, while the lacy collar and ruffled frills at the sleeves cause annoying irritation. It was adorned with tiny mother of pearl buttons while the breast pocket was conveniently large enough to hold my dummy. They are so humiliating, although a girl would look very pretty in them.

Miss Good prefers to button from the bottom up, she fusses with the top collar fastening and adjusts the frilly cuffs before being satisfied. Holding the pyjama bottoms open for me, I step quickly into them, waiting obediently as she tucks in the jacket and settles the waistband neatly around my waist.

I still can’t get used to the idea of being ready for bed so soon, Miss Good calls it Pyjama Time. My days are so busy I sometimes struggle to stay awake, and find myself being put to bed before it is dark. When I become upset at being tucked in while it is still daylight, Miss Good reminds me how I used to neglect my education, coming in at two or three in the morning, and not getting up until late into the afternoon. Of course, I realise Miss Goods discipline has prevented me from ruining my life, I also acknowledge that without her strict influence I could easily return to my former ways.

Miss Good is always impeccably attired, choosing feminine blouses and delicate cardigans enhanced by a modest display of jewellery. Her fragrance is never overpowering, merely hinting at its presence. I have never seen her in any state of undress; indeed,
I have never even entered her bedroom, having to be content with brief glimpses through an open door.

Miss Good wakes me at five thirty; I eat breakfast clad in my nighttime pyjamas while we discuss what she has planned for me today. Since I am normally housebound on Saturdays, Miss Good has lain out a girl’s pair of short-sleeved cotton pyjamas for me to wear, and before I begin work for the day she ties a checked frilly pinafore over my pyjamas to keep them clean.

By late afternoon, I have done all my household chores, written the draft of an essay, and started to sew my new 'Thomas the Tank Engine' curtain material.

I have also ironed my white blouse in preparation for tomorrow. Now that I am free from Miss Healy’s regime, Sunday is the only time I have to venture outside wearing my school uniform: Miss Good believes I need to keep the events of the summer fresh in my mind. I secretly enjoy these walks because Miss Good takes my hand as we walk briskly around the park.

Tonight I must help make the evening a success; I start by setting up the card table and fetching enough cups and saucers for the whist ladies' refreshments. Miss Patterson is already ensconced in her usual seat, one of Miss Good’s oldest friends, she is a plump, myopic woman with thick spectacles; who enjoys hauling me onto her lap and nursing me as if I was a toddler. I greet her politely and continue to lay the table. Unfortunately, as I squeeze past, she, playfully tugging at my pyjama waistband, causes me to trip and break the crockery I am carrying.

Miss Good is very proud of her tea service and I am banished at once to the corner, dummy firmly in place, to serve my punishment. The frilly collar of the pyjama jacket irritates my neck but I must stand perfectly still, hands by my side. I can hear the women chatting, but know from experience that Miss Good will detect any movement on my behalf and punish me further. Time moves very slowly in the corner. Sucking hard on my pink baby’s dummy, the mantelpiece clock taunts me, although I can hear it’s tick; it stands tantalisingly out of my field of vision. How much longer, I wonder, will Miss Good make me stand here smartly to attention?

Thankfully more guests arrive, I am reprieved and despatched to hang up coats.  Two of the new arrivals are Mrs Walker and her niece. Sarah, who is not a regular participant of the whist drive, and I suddenly realise why I am wearing these embarrassingly girlish  pyjamas. Tall and bespectacled, she bubbles with enthusiasm at seeing me dressed in her handiwork, and I suffer the indignity of being sat upon her lap while she explains the intricacy of her stitching to everyone.

While the women play their card game I make myself generally useful, clearing plates and pouring tea before I too, am allowed refreshment. Beforehand however, Miss Good insists I wear a towelling bib. I find it difficult to drink from a spouted baby cup without dribbling milk down my pyjamas, this is particularly embarrassing, and there is usually a clamour about who chooses the bib and ties it on me. Miss Good takes the task upon herself on this occasion, disappointing her friends but sparing me the ordeal of further humiliation.

Earlier today, I was studying Keynesian economic theory; as the evening progresses, I find myself seated at Miss Good’s feet with my colouring book. I am allowed only two crayons, blue and red, which I must use left-handed. When I’m finished I’ve to show my childish effort to the assembled company for their approval and general amusement. Unfortunately my sense of humour deserts me as I’m told for the umpteenth time that trees aren’t blue. I petulantly snatch the book away from Sarah, accidentally knocking her spectacles off and causing her to spill tea all over my pyjamas.

Miss Good is not amused by my behaviour; I’m taken across her knee, receiving two hard smacks on my bottom. The spanking doesn’t hurt; it’s the humiliation of being punished like a small child in front of everyone that upsets me. Miss Good doesn’t spank me regularly, preferring more subtle punishments, so I know this time I have genuinely annoyed her.

Miss Tompkins is unruffled, and to my horror, Miss Good allows her to supervise my change into clean pyjamas, the baby blue winceyette pair, sporting the Winnie the Pooh print. Agonisingly I must wait while the pyjamas warm on the lounge radiator. Peering at me through her black-framed spectacles, she takes great delight in bustling me into the babyish garments as I squirm with frustration.

Sarah will have enjoyed watching me being spanked, believing Miss Good too lenient with me; she thinks I should be subject to more intense dummy discipline, entailing nappies and even earlier bedtimes. If she had her way, I would be packed off to bed at teatime.

I am suspicious of Sarah Tompkins' motives; it is no coincidence that her visits coincide with my pyjama time. She appear wearing a prim school-teacher's blouse with a cameo neck fastening, a cardigan draped loosely over her shoulders; she attempts to imitate Miss Good - but without her style and poise. She drops heavy hints to Miss Good about wanting me to visit one weekend for a sleepover, and boasts of having a cot all prepared for me, and pretty baby clothes that I would look adorable in.

What worries me most is that Miss Good does little to discourage these suggestions, merely smiling at my obvious discomfort at the thought of being in her care for a weekend.

While I sit uncomfortably on Sarah’s lap, her Aunt announces that it would be fitting if I were to sing the 'Teapot' song, actions included. There is a general murmuring of approval and I look imploringly across at Miss Good for salvation, but to no avail. She nods her agreement and I step uncertainly into the centre of the assembled women.

Laughter fills the room, as I try to deliver the song desperately holding on to my pyjama pants. They are oversized, and as a result have begun to fall down during the performance. I finish sans pyjama bottoms, arms akimbo while blushing profusely. Mustering what little dignity I have left, I shuffle toward Miss Good clutching my pyjamas, to the accompaniment of amused applause.

Thankfully, she has decided I have provided enough entertainment for one evening, and instructs me to prepare for bed.

As I have been taught, I toddle around saying night-night to everybody, holding up Pluto, my stuffed toy, for a goodnight kiss as well as myself. Miss Good fastens on my nighttime mittens; a punishment I am currently enduring because Miss Good unexpectedly checked up on me one warm night and I was caught with my pyjamas unbuttoned. The finger-constricting mittens prevent any repeat of such an act of defiance.

Finally, she removes my bunny slippers and swings my legs into bed before tucking me in. Miss Good gently kisses my forehead, and urges me to sleep.

I snuggle happily down, warm and content.
Written and signed by -

Timmy

I trust that Timmy does not take too much notice of Keynsian economic theory - I fear it has not done the world much good over the last fifty years or so. I am a reader of the Austrian school of economics, as it seems to offer a much greater commitment to individual liberty, and limited government.

Pink brushed nylon with plenty of lace would be adorable for Timmy to wear, and it is no wonder that the ladies were so delighted with him. Woollen mittens tying with satin ribbons at the wrist are an excellent corrective for naughty boys like Timmy who fiddle with the buttons of their pyjamas. Might I suggest to Helen a pretty cotton nightdress with matching bloomers for warmer nights. I am sure that Sarah would be only too happy to oblige!
Susan

...Miss Good has also written a note regarding bedtimes discipline, and I will reproduce it here:

Dear Susan,

'Baby Barefoot' (No bunny slippers?) alludes to daytime bed punishment being neglected. This is not the case. I admit that I have used this form of discipline myself, however I do not consider it an efficient punishment. I am sure Baby Barefoot would love to be tucked up for long periods during the day, but after all we are not here to pander to Baby’s wishes. When, may I ask, would his household chores be done?

It is far better to ensure Baby has an evening bedtime routine that he dreads, being undressed or bathed in front of your friends before the donning of your particular choice of nightwear for him. Of course, there are always exceptions. Timmy used to try the old trick of annoying me deliberately so that I would put him to bed before guests arrived. This was merely a device on his behalf to avoid having to serve snacks and pour tea to the whist ladies while he was wearing his childish pyjamas. Consequently, he would spend the evening sitting on Miss Patterson’s lap, reciting nursery rhymes. The next day I would put him to bed early when he least expected it and soon cured him of his little tricks.

At the risk of repeating myself, I cannot emphasise enough how important it is to have a set routine for Baby. Irene needs to be more decisive and decide on a bedtime for her husband, enforcing it as thoroughly as possible. She should forgo the bloomers, and put him into his nightdress at least an hour before bedtime. Here though I must declare my preference for pyjamas over nighties.  I know I may be in a minority here, but I think Baby looks much more childish and humbled dressed in an oversized pair of cosy, nursery print pyjamas than he does wearing a Marks and Sparks nightie. The looks of anguish on Timmy’s face as he spots his baby pyjamas warming on a radiator as I undress him are priceless. Perhaps we should have a nightdress versus pyjamas poll!

In my opinion, the application of early bedtimes, and infantile or feminine pyjamas, is extremely efficient as a form of petticoat discipline. It cannot be bettered if you looking for an inexpensive way to baby or petticoat a male. What could be simpler than to drag your unwilling son or hubby to a department store and make him select a couple of pairs of extra large, woman’s winceyette pyjamas in a feminine floral pattern. Make sure the sales assistant knows they are for sissy and when back home, and order him to prepare tea wearing his new pyjamas before despatching him off early to bed.
I look forward to the views of others on the subject.

Miss Helen Good

I think both soft wincyette pyjamas and nightgowns of a similar material both have their place in petticoat discipline and beddie-byes discipline. I really think that baby should have a teddy bear or rag doll to take to bed with him, and perhaps should wear lambswool knitted bed socks as well. I would certainly not presume to argue with Miss Good, who has definitely established herself as the PDM expert in this area.
Susan