Friday, 17 April 2015

Older boys punished by being made to wear short trousers was a popular theme in PPM in later editions. Matron always had strong opinions on discipline and this exchange showcases that. Interesting too, to see letters from Helen Good, an advocate of pyjama discipline who was once very prominent on sites such as ours.

Dear Matron

I feel I must join in the debate about the merits of short trousers for older boys.
Up until about twenty years ago it was not unusual for me to come across boys in their late teens who still wore short trousers. It is much more difficult today to encourage or indeed enforce such behaviour. Twenty or thirty years ago a community would see an older boy wearing grey flannel schoolboy shorts, or outside play shorts and think it was none of their business. Times have changed, possibly for the better possibly not but with the advent of social media and instant worldwide communications nothing remains "behind closed doors" anymore. Sometimes a boy would continue to wear short trousers merely because his youth was being extended beyond what was considered normal. Today we complain that children grow up too fast and mourn the loss of innocence in the very young, yet now we condemn as if it is some sort of child cruelty, a boy who wears short trousers past toddler age. When I was young, boys who were six foot tall would still be playing games outside wearing their short trousers. Indeed my own brother continued to wear shorts after he started work at the local Co-op for quite a few years. As long as they were presentable and still fitted, my mother saw no reason to purchase him longs. In my own experience I always expected any boy under my tutelage up to the age of at least twenty, to wear short, school boy style trousers during the day, especially when he was outdoors. Ironically, when he was safely ensconced indoors for the day, he would be wearing long trousers in the form of pyjamas. Pyjamas would be donned and worn around the house until the wearers prescribed bedtime. Shorts are a splendid item of boys clothing that are dismissed too quickly by society today I fear.

Helen Good

It would be marvellous if we could return to the good old days, at least as far as older boys wearing short trousers is concerned. But as you say, times have changed and I do not think we shall see this again.
My own brother too, wore short trousers out of school from 15 to 19 at my mother's instruction and generally accepted her decision.  This was 20 years ago and even in those days you did not see many boys over the age of 13 still in short trousers for school (I think several Prep schools still had boys of 13 wearing compulsory shorts as part of their uniform at the time).
You write:-
"I always expected any boy under my tutelage up to the age of at least twenty, to wear short, school boy style trousers during the day,".
What exactly do you mean by "tutelage"? Were you a private tutor? A school mistress? Perhaps you could explain.
I completely agree that children nowadays grow up too fast and if boys were kept in short trousers as part of the school uniform to 15 or 16 that would slow this process down. I remember reading about a school in Scotland where boys wore short trousers until they left at 18. Unfortunately the school closed down in July 2000.

Dear Matron

Obviously I owe a duty of care to past employers and the young boys I have tutored, but I will endeavour to answer your queries as best I can. Over the course of more years than I care to think about I have been witness to more than one instance where a boy, having been home tutored, has worn short trousers beyond seventeen. The mention of the school in Scotland reminded me that one of those instances occurred there but I shall not reveal the exact location even though this was many years ago. This particular boy's mother found it difficult to come to terms with the changing, modern world of the 1970's and sought to protect her son from, as she perceived it, it's immoral ways. Simon was dressed in traditional school uniform when I first encountered him, which included grey flannel shorts. I admit my first impression was that of a younger boy. Simon was sixteen at the time but, wearing shorts, shirt and tie, cap and blazer and grey knee socks I assumed he was a younger brother. However I soon became accustomed to his mother's wishes and it was part of my duties to report to his mother or governess if Simon failed to present himself for lessons correctly attired, although I always felt guilty as he would invariably be punished after my chat with his mother. Simon attended Church, or the Kirk as it was known, on Sunday mornings, wearing his school uniform and not once did I hear adverse comment from any of the congregation or the minister, who was, I believe one of the earliest female ministers of the church, about Simon's appearance. When Simon was not wearing school uniform he continued to wear shorts but these were shorter than his school ones. Made from cotton and usually in beige or brown, they had elasticised waists and he seemed quite happy enough to wear them when outside at the weekends. Although to be fair he was never outside a great deal. After tuition was finished for the day at 5pm, Saturdays at noon, (we began at 7.30), his governess took him away. When I next saw him at supper at 6.30 Simon was already dressed in his pyjamas ready for bed. Indeed, his mother insisted on a 7.30 bedtime for Simon throughout my time with them and I cannot deny that Simon was subject to various punishments including receiving the strap or to be accurate the tawse, on his hands and on his buttocks too. he also was subjected to the childish punishments of  spending time in the corner with hands on head and early bedtimes. Undoubtedly his mother's ability to mostly isolate him from the outside world contributed to her success in delaying his, "entry to hell's inferno," as she so dramatically described the world outside. However I did learn that Simon went on to attend university but after graduating returned to the maternal home and once more became subject to his mother's discipline.

Helen Good

A very interesting story Helen. I am not surprised that you never heard adverse comment about Simon's appearance. Whether he is 8 or 18, a schoolboy is going to look smarter in short trousers and knee socks than in long trousers. I will also say that whenever I had charge of boys I insisted on an immaculate turn out for church - both cleanliness and smartness.
I also like the sound of the lad's play shorts, though it is a shame that he did not spend more time out of doors, as that is so important for healthy development. Short trousers in the sort of weather we are "enjoying" at the moment help to make a boy hardy and to remind him that the world is not designed around the comfort of schoolboys.
Whenever I have been asked to look at an institutional regime for boys I have, almost invariably, recommended that they be made to get up earlier and be sent to bed earlier. So lessons from 7.30. into pyjamas by 6.30 and bed by 7.30 sounds a very good rule to me.
You were quite right to report Simon if he did not come to your lessons properly dressed. It is up to the adults who have authority over a boy to decide what he shall wear and it is the boy's duty to obey them.
If Simon was not properly dressed he was disobedient and also insolent towards you. I hope that rudeness was properly dealt with.
As for feeling guilty about  Simon's punishments, I have been a school matron and visited many establishments for boys at home and abroad, and I can tell you that corporal punishment is the best way to instil in the boys correct behaviours.


A selection of Sissy Nightwear

Sunday, 12 April 2015

After Eunice wrote about her husband doing housework in his pink winceyette pyjamas and Mrs Jacobson putting in her two penny worth, I hunted out this letter that was sent to PPM by James. I wonder if his wife did return him to pink pyjamas and early bedtimes. I have also added a few, "frilly pink pyjama" images to illustrate what Eunice's husband may look like in his working clothes.

Dear Nanny Smackbottom

Since discovering your publication and reading about the many examples of pyjama and early bedtime discipline, my wife has urged me to recount to you an experience I had when I was a very naïve and immature seventeen- year old.
I was lodging with two sisters in a part of Edinburgh called Morningside, a very sedate and residential area as I am sure you are aware. As a seventeen year old, I imagined the sisters were very old, but in hindsight I would say they were both in their early fifties
After sustaining burns to my hands and damaging ankle ligaments while preventing a small electrical fire in the kitchen from becoming a serious event, I found myself in their care after my discharge from hospital.
Looking back, the sisters, Clara and Sophia, appeared to have exploited my situation to impose a form of pyjama discipline while at each step convincing me that everything they did to me was perfectly logical.
The initial problem was my difficulties in accessing the bathroom facilities up on the top floor of the lodgings  due to my injuries. I was persuaded to agree to their suggestion that it would be far simpler if I were to use a potty to go “wee-wee's.”
As the sisters explained, it was the most sensible solution to the problem and they would of course help me upstairs when absolutely necessary.
They then told me that it would be far easier for them and more comfortable for me if I were permanently attired in nightwear. Constantly being dressed and undressed, they said, would be far too time consuming and unnecessary since I would be confined indoors during my convalescence.
I could see that this made sense, only, as I pointed out, I did not own any pyjamas. Not to worry I was told, they had thoughtfully borrowed some for me from a friend. I should point out that I am only five foot one inch tall but what transpired next caught me totally off guard. It turned out that their friend had provided some of her daughter’s nightwear; she was only fourteen years old and evidently a very girly girl.
Of course first I was told, before I could be dressed in pyjamas I would need a bath, a bed bath. Needless to say a shy seventeen year old was mortified to be stripped naked and sponged in very intimate places by two females. Consequently I was quite happy for Clara to button me into a pink floral winceyette pyjama jacket to cover my nakedness. She insisted upon fastening the Peter Pan collar up to the neck to “keep me cosy.” The pyjama  bottoms really should have been put on first as, much to my embarrassment, the touch of females hands had excited me and my face was as pink as the pyjamas as they finally settled the waistband somewhere just below my ribcage whilst they discussed whether of not it would have been better if I were to wear a nightie instead.
I then started to complain about the floral pattern on my pyjamas and the general girly nature of their appearance. I was told to stop being a baby as they were only caring for me as best they could and they couldn't be expected to produce a pair of male pyjamas when I should have provided them myself.. Ashamed of my carping, I timidly acquiesced as they tucked me into the camp bed they had set up for me in the living room ,
Because my hands were swathed in bandages it was necessary that at mealtimes one of the sisters would patiently feed me, this gave them the opportunity to ensure I ate my vegetables, previously I would leave most of my broccoli on my plate. This had clearly annoyed them, but now I could not escape their predilection for serving mashed turnip and broccoli with every meal.

After that first meal, I was presented with a spouted baby cup to use as a drinking vessel. It was, they said, “practical and efficient.” and it meant I could drink at my own pace as I was just about able to clasp the cup between my bandaged hands. Once again, I could not deny the logic behind their reasoning and I used the sippy cup without complaint.
Similarly, when I did dribble milk down the front of my pyjamas, I did not demur when I was tied into a baby's bib that was printed with little lambs and the words, "Mummy's Pet Lamb". The sisters explanation for the bib was, “It will save us from constantly washing your jim-jams.”
The camp bed was not at all comfortable and during the night, as I struggled to find a comfortable position, I somehow managed to tip it over and I ended up sprawled on the floor where I remained until a most concerned Clara and Sophia discovered me lying helplessly on the floor in the morning.
"You silly sausage, you should have cried out for help, we will have to think of another sleeping arrangement for you. Their solution was not at all to my liking.
It was the perfect answer they explained, as they lifted me into the infant cot.
“Now you can’t possibly fall out and injure yourself can you?” Obviously I couldn’t, but that was hardly the point.
When the rail was lifted I was effectively imprisoned in the cot, being unable to lower the rail myself I peered helplessly through the rails. Of course being confined overnight meant I was unable to access the potty and thanks to their insistence that I consumed copious quantities of milk throughout the day this was a genuine problem.
“Lift up a little dear. That’s it.” It was a strange sensation being put into soft nappies by Sophia, she pinned me into the fleecy white squares with practiced ease. “There now, all done. Nothing to get upset about was it?”
When they first suggested putting me into nappies I objected most strenuously but they explained it to me in such a fashion that it all made sense and again, I meekly concurred.
Initially the cot had been set up in the living area; obviously I understood when they said this was inconvenient. So of course I once again agreed that it would be sensible to move it into the box room.

What I was not happy about was being put down for the night at six o’clock.
I was stripped, washed, pinned into my nappies dressed in pyjamas and put into my cot clutching my sippy cup of milk. At six fifteen they would both enter, pull the curtains tightly shut, bid me goodnight and close the door leaving me helpless in the dark with no alternative but to settle down for the night,

When I dared to complain about this treatment, I was told, in a hurtful tone, that they couldn’t be expected to devote the whole day exclusively pandering to my needs. I immediately felt guilty and assured them that it was quite all right and that I was really fine about being put to bed so early.
One of my most humiliating memories was when a young female reporter came to interview me from the local free paper.
I was seventeen, it was only six thirty and I had to be awakened whilst sleeping in a child's cot wearing nappies and a pair of girl’s pink winceyette pyjamas. Lurking at the bottom of the cot were a discarded sippy cup and a baby’s bib.
“Tell me,” the reporter asked me seemingly unconcerned with my appearance, “how do you feel?”
Then the camera flashed. I made the front page with a headline that read.
Grateful Sisters Nurse Fire Hero Back To Health.
 I did not own a copy of the publication in question until my wife contacted them and managed to procure a copy.
Once my injuries had healed, the pyjamas and cot were returned from whence they came and I reverted back to toying with my vegetables.
For many years I assumed I was just rather eccentrically cared for however my wife is convinced that a form of pyjama and early bedtime discipline was used.
I would be most interested in your professional opinion.

James Pyard.

Dear James 

It is obvious that Clara and Sophia did subject you to pyjama and early bedtime discipline and what is more, it is certain that your wife wishes to recreate those experiences for you once again. You may look forward to a return to nappies, early bedtimes and frilly pink pyjamas. Your wife is probably buying you a new cot to sleep in right now.

Nanny Smackbottom. 

Sunday, 5 April 2015

A Pyjama Punishment Monthly letter concerning a problem that has been raised quite often. The images demonstrating the various pyjamaring options were sourced by myself..feel free to voice your own opinion on this subject.

Dear Nanny Smackbottom

Perhaps you could advise on a point of etiquette concerning the correct way for our husbands pyjamas to be worn?

I was about to get my husband ready for bed as normal at seven o'clock for a seven thirty bedtime, when my good friend  and neighbour Mrs Bartholomew paid a visit after settling her own husband down for the night.
We chatted as Henry folded his clothes into a neat pile and I beckoned him toward me so I could get him pyjamaed ready for bed. I buttoned up his pyjama jacket then pulled up his pyjama bottoms, fastening the pyjama cord with the hem of the pyjama jacket tucked inside his pyjama bottoms as I always have done so. Mrs Bartholomew insists I am too generous with my husbands bedtime and she now ventured that she preferred to let her husbands pyjama jacket hang free outside the pyjama bottoms. We had such a discussion on the merits of both options without reaching a conclusion that I decided to write to your good self about the matter. Is there a definitive way ones husband's should wear their pyjamas?
Elizabeth Hardcastle

Elizabeth, I have been asked this question many times over the years and my answer remains the same. The rule is, always have the pyjama jacket tucked inside the pyjama bottoms when the bottoms have a cord fastening. When the pyjama bottoms have an elasticised waist then the choice is optional.
Personally, I would always use the tucked in approach, but I know modern females do prefer to adopt the "hanging out", look that I find untidy but that is just me being old fashioned. The main thing is of course, that you maintain pyjama punishment and I am pleased that your husband has a pyjama and bedtime that you enforce. Well done.
Nanny Smackbottom

Wednesday, 1 April 2015

Another,Write to Matron Letter, about being punished in short trousers, from the archives of Pyjama Punishment Monthly

Dear Matron

Thank you for publishing my previous letter. I would be grateful if you would let me tell you more about my experiences in short trousers.
When I was18 my parents joined a Bridge Club which meant they went out every Friday evening. If I was unlucky enough to be undergoing a punishment weekend in short trousers and uniform they added to my disgrace by insisting I needed a babysitter despite my being legally an adult. I would be dropped off at the house of friends of my parents and put in the charge of their 1fifteen year old daughter Abby whom I had to address as Miss Abigail
She was told to treat me as a naughty little boy which included slapping my legs whenever she felt I deserved it. For this reason, I was always dressed in a pair of very short trousers with barely two inches of inside leg although the trousers were loosely cut allowing each leg to be lifted even higher.
Miss Abigail would make me stand on a low stool with my hands on my head, lifting each trouser leg in turn  she would apply her hand or a short, thick leather tawse which was extremely painful. Initially would inflict two to five strokes per leg leaving my thighs throbbing with pain and me usually in tears despite trying desperately not to cry.
I was rarely babysat without having my legs slapped and on some evenings I would undergo two or even three sessions resulting in very painful red legs which were strikingly obvious to my parents when they collected me later that evening.
Miss Abigail's  parents were present in the house throughout the evening and knew exactly what was happening but were quite content to give their daughter complete freedom to deal with me as she saw fit. She viewed me with undisguised contempt for being such a baby by allowing my parents to dress me as a child and for submitting to her punishments. In her eyes I was a wimp who deserved to be punished.
it is true that I was a timid boy and was far too frightened to stand up to either of my parents. In my twenties I discovered that the reason I was made to wear short trousers at weekends was because Miss Abigail's father had recommended such a punishment and my father thought it an excellent idea. They were good friends and shared similar views including that young boys should be properly controlled and disciplined.
My father's friend was delighted when he found out I was regressed into short trousers as a punishment and he and his wife and daughter saw me attired like this many times, indeed it was he who suggested that his daughter should be my babysitter when my parents attended their bridge evenings.
Miss Abigail only ever punished me as I was punished by my parents, that is by having my legs slapped. She was not allowed to spank or cane me although many was the time she threatened to do so and I am sure she would have done if permitted.
I have no doubt that she enjoyed the authority she exercised over a boy three years older than herself. She was a female bully and my timorous attitude simply encouraged her to take advantage. I suspect that had I stood up to her she would have backed off but I never did because I was scared that I would be reported to my father and an even worse punishment would ensue.


Matron replies

I suspect that you really enjoyed your sessions with Miss Abigail and hanker after those days Robert. If that is the case, I suggest that you avail yourself of someone who will satisfy your needs.


Saturday, 28 March 2015

Pyjama and Early Bedtime Punishment becomes permanent for this office worker

Philip had thought himself very lucky when Gertrude Hinkle began taking an interest in him. The thirty two year old virgin was flattered that an attractive twenty four year old female actually spoke to him about anything other than work. He was the office manager but the other women laughed at him, and not only behind his back. Gertrude was different, she would listen and listen until eventually she knew all his secrets. He just couldn't help telling her about his trips to a special lady who once a month would spank him and tell him he was a naughty boy. Of course it was never quite what he anticipated, quite what he imagined,  quite what he looked forward too, but it was the best he could ever hope for wasn't it? Then he told Gertrude how he paid for his excursions. He had been smart, Head Office had never suspected a thing. He wanted marriage, no, that had been Gertrude's idea, he didn't really have much choice did he? Not if she did what she said she would do. She had chosen his suit and arranged everything, even chose his Best Man, since he had no friends.
At first it had been heavenly for him, she ordered him about, told him exactly what to do and how to behave and took him across her knee and smacked his bottom. Then one day she smacked and smacked and smacked until he was wriggling and bucking and writhing on her lap but still she continued. He screamed and cried real tears of pain. She had hugged him, kissed him and tucked him into bed. She comforted him and told him she would look after him. And now she does.
Philip is now a thirty three year old virgin who is treated like a toddler. Gertrude is his mummy and he is never allowed to  act his age. You would think Philip would be grateful, ecstatic to have fulfilled his fantasy. But no, now he cannot choose when he will get his bottom smacked, he cannot choose when he will go to bed, he cannot choose which clothes he will wear. Ever.    

Wednesday, 25 March 2015

Nanny Susan concluded. To be honest I got confused about how to finish the story. This is the version I intended to post to Betty's story Board site to finish it off. It is a re-write of the end to Philips Treatment, but it seemed a bit harsh and not in keeping with the mood of the earlier parts. I cut short the ending on the story site to maintain the cosier feel. Anyway, it is finished with now.

Nanny Susan lowered the cot rail and gently ushered Robert toward the waiting bunny rabbit motif covered bedding. He was slightly reluctant at first but her firm hand placed strategically on his backside guided him as he climbed on the mattress.
The base of the cot was only a few inches from the floor, yet the rail extended to the level of the alcove.
 "Into beddy-byes, there's a good Baby Bobbykins, time to go sleepy byes, snuggle down now." She cooed. Instead, Robert stood defiantly on the cot mattress.
"It's vewy erwee fo beddy-byes Nanny Thusan, too erwee, me no thleepy." Nanny Susan didn't argue, instead she raised the cot rail, secured it in place, opened the skylight window and went to fetch another bottle of sleepy time milk.
Robert felt a bit silly, standing there in the cot in his babyish pyjamas, wearing nappies, so he grabbed hold of the metal bars of the cot and gave, what he imagined was a firm rattle. Instead of course he hardly disturbed them. Next he turned his attention to climbing out. Disturbingly though, he discovered, that due to the incline of the alcove the widest gap available was far too small to climb through. He was effectively imprisoned  in the cot. His thoughts clouded once again and he sat down with a plonk.
Nanny Susan returned with a large bottle of sleepy time milk, passing it to Baby Bobbykins through the bars of his cot he eagerly took it. He liked sleepy time milk.
"That's a good boy, all gone." Time for night-nights, Nanny will see you in the morning when we will be extra loving to Aunty won't we?"
Robert nodded, the chill from the open window encouraged him to snuggle under his blanket and he sleepily took his dummy from Nanny Susan and settled down to a very early bedtime for a seventeen year old.
The next morning Robert was taken downstairs and put into his high chair. Nanny Susan was feeding him detestable milky pudding and his bib was once again encrusted with the spillage. he was still wearing his yellow, footed bunny rabbit pyjamas  and underneath his thick fluffy nappies and rubber baby pants which, up until ten minutes ago had been quite dry. He had begged Nanny Susan to let him go to the bathroom but se had been insistent  that he had to wait until after breakfast, of course the inevitable had occurred and he now sat uncomfortably in flooded nappies and having to swallow semolina pudding for breakfast.
"Here comes the choo-choo train." Nanny Susan's spoon was poised to insert the yuckiest mouthful of semolina yet into Baby Bobbykins reluctant mouth, when Aunty walked in the kitchen.
It is difficult to convey Roberts reaction to seeing Aunty. Nanny Susan's spoon was swept aside as he bobbed up and down in his high chair, clapping his mittened hands together in a frenzy of delirium as semolina was sent cascading around the kitchen.
"Well, well what a welcome. It has been a long time since anyone has been that pleased to see me."
Aunty took Robert under the arms and lifted him out of the high chair and sat her seventeen year old nephew on her lap, just as she used to.
"Oh Baby Bobbykins, how sweet you look wearing your bunny rabbit jim-jams, you told me you didn’t want to wear them any more, you said they were far too babyish for a big boy of seventeen like you, remember?"
Robert blushed. He did recall the big argument  they had.
"Me sowwy Aunty. Baby Bobbykwins wuvs his bunny wunny jim-jams. Me weally sowwy for being a naughty boy and making you sad. Pwease fogive mi. Pweeeese?" 
Aunty stroked his hair.
"Do you promise to be a good boy and obey Aunty and Nanny Susan without question?
"Oh yeth Aunty, I do, I do."
Aunty directed a smile toward Nanny Susan.
"Well then, let's get you cleaned up and ready for a new start to a new day shall we."
Every time Aunty entered the room, Robert would gleefully run toward her and hug her tightly. He clapped excitedly when she spoke to him and he snuggled into her and chatted happily to her in baby talk as she sat him on her knee. Baby Bobbykins had indeed embraced Nanny Susan's recommendation.
What's more, he had come to accept his daily routine of trips out to the park in his pushchair, a walk around the duck pond holding Nanny's or Aunty's hand dressed in his little boy outfits for all the world to see. Indeed he was now so well known in town that hardly anyone took notice of them any more.
The young man who regressed almost to babyhood. A sad case but still, he was well looked after, and you never know, he may snap out of it one day.
Then home again, a bath, nappies pinned on, rubbers, jim-jams and an early bedtime in his snug little cot, of which there is no escape. And all really achieved with the help of daily doses of sleepy time milk.

One afternoon as Robert had been put to bed particularly early after happily consuming a second bottle of sleepy time milk, he was hazily aware of Aunty and Nanny Susan staring down at the seventeen-year-old youth as he lay in his cot.
He woke up to find he was lying naked on a blanket downstairs. Where was Nanny? Where was Aunty? Sitting himself up his hand brushed against on object. It was a traditional baby’s dummy. He placed it straight into his mouth and happily began to suck upon it.
Objects were strewn about the floor, he attempted to stand up but was unsteady and quickly sat down before he fell. Sucking on his dummy he crawled forward and was happy to discover his nappy, loosely pinned and a pair of his rubber pants. Knowing he should be in bed he attempted to pull on the nappy himself before he also came across his bunny rabbit pyjamas, at finding them he cuddled them to his body before pulling on the footed pyjama bottoms before buttoning on the top.
“Hmm. I see.” Said a strange female figure carrying a briefcase, alongside her stood another strange female.
Roberts lower lip began to quiver before the comforting arms of Nanny Susan sat him upon her lap. Apparently they both wanted to talk to Baby Bobbykins but he was much more interested in being entertained by her gently bouncing him up and down. He always seemed to enjoy those sessions and she had to shush him quiet as he started to giggle and laugh and wanted to talk to her.
“It’s very unusual regressive behaviour indeed.” Said the strange female as she copiously made notes.
“Yes it was a quite rapid regression over quite a short period." Aunty proclaimed.
"As you saw for yourself, his urge to act in an infantile manner is still well established.”
Robert began to take more notice of the conversation.
“This behaviour was witnessed at its onset you say?” Asked the briefcase lady who was taking notes.
“Oh yes.” It was Nanny Susan speaking now.
"He was seen outdoors by the girls from the local  school here in his babyish pyjamas acting as if he was a little boy. Then he insisted we buy him a pushchair and take him into town sucking on a baby’s dummy dressed as a child in short trousers."
Aunty continued. "It was soon after that I discovered the nappy and the bunny rabbit pyjamas in his bedclothes, soiled, I am afraid to say.”
She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief as she spoke. 
Roberts head was losing its haziness and the meaning of the conversation was penetrating his rapidly clearing mind.
“Wait a minute, not baby.. baby…boy.."
 He murmured. Unfortunately for Robert, Nanny Susan quickly popped the baby’s dummy into his mouth and held it firmly in place.
“Is he trying to say something?” Asked the note taking female.
Robert's hand reached up onto Nanny Susan's but hers was the stronger she held the dummy firm.
“Oh dear, he was telling me he needs a drink, will you excuse us please?”
“Of course young lady, we have seen enough. Off you go and look after Robert. I do so admire you for standing by him. A lot of girls your age would have been reluctant to help. Goodbye and goodbye to you too Robert I hope you get better soon.”
The female tousled his hair; Robert widened his eyes in a desperate, plaintiff cry for help and started to flail his arms about wildly. Nanny Susan held the dummy tightly and rapidly exited the room.

Robert was in the nursery; lying on the changing table his hands and feet encased in mittens and bootees. He was tightly pinned into nappies and plastic pants and resplendently buttoned into a pair of Thomas the Tank Engine, flannel footed pyjamas. The quieter was firmly positioned in his mouth and a dribble of saliva was already wending its way down his chin toward his, “Baby Bobbykins” bib. His peek-a-boo bonnet was in place and tied neatly under his chin.  

His Aunty, Nanny Susan and Miss Bracegirdle stared at the helpless Baby Bobbykins .
Nanny Susan tweaked the brim of his bonnet “He took me by surprise at how quickly the medication wore off, I will have to increase the dosage.”
“Well,” Aunty said, looking down at Robert, “thanks to you Nanny, it worked to our advantage. In a short while, once the committee’s recommendation is confirmed I will legally have jurisdiction over Roberts affairs.
Robert looked up at his mother with puzzlement.
She tickled his chin, as she spoke.
“My dear when your parents died their assets were left in trust for you. I had to make do with a limited amount each year.

When you turn eighteen in a few months time you will have access to a substantial amount of wealth. Far too much for a boy like you to be entrusted with. I couldn’t possibly have allowed you to have control of all that money."

Aunt Harriet paused to fussily adjust the frills on his bonnet.
“Fortunately, I now have power of attorney over your financial affairs, thanks to your awful regressive illness. No one would let a little boy have access to all that money would they Baby Bobbykins?”

Robert tried to sit up, his head quite clear and his anger manifest, but surrounded by three women he was quickly pushed back down and his wrists and ankles were quickly secured in the restraint cuffs on the changing table.
“Now, now Robert,” his Aunt went on.
“Miss Bracegirdle has kindly agreed to join our little team. he so enjoyed meeting you she will be designing and making some delightfully infantile outfits for you to wear that will confirm your regressive natures to the good people of this little town of ours.
Susan will continue in the role of Nanny, she and her mother will be joining Miss Bracegirdle in living with us in our lovely new house in the country. There is a big garden where you will be able to sit in your pushchair and have lots of naps; I may even buy you a special baby’s pram so we can take you out for a stroll, won’t that be nice? No need to thank me I can easily afford it.
Your days will be short. Up at nine, plenty of exercise, walks in the garden and into town to show off your new little boy outfits then back for bath time and jim-jams at three and beddy byes by three thirty.
Robert struggled against his restraints as the teat of the bottle was forced into his mouth.
 “Of you go to sleepy-byes Baby Bobbykins,” his Aunts voice was saying from a long way off.
“Only three more years as a little boy until you are twenty-one, then we must persuade the authorities all over again to renew my jurisdiction. But don’t worry, by then you will be used to your nappies and jim-jams and you won’t ever remember being anything other than an obedient little Baby Bobbykins.”