Dear Pyjama Punishment
My wife has insisted I write
to you chronicling an experience I had during my teens.
I was lodging with two
sisters in Edinburgh called in a very sedate and residential area. I found
myself in their care after sustaining burns to my hands and damaging ankle
ligaments while preventing a small electrical fire in the kitchen from turning
into something far more serious.
The sisters, Clara and Sophia, exploited my situation to impose a form of discipline while at each step convincing me that everything was perfectly logical.
Difficulties in accessing the bathroom persuaded me 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 to the facilities when absolutely necessary.
They then told me that it would be 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 was unable to venture outside.
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 twelve years old and evidently not a tomboy.
Consequently, despite my muted protests, I allowed Clara to button me into a pink floral winceyette pyjama jacket. She insisted upon fastening the Peter Pan collar up to the neck to ‘keep me cosy.’ The bottoms, much to my embarrassment were too long and my face was as pink as my pyjamas as they finally settled the waistband somewhere just below my ribcage as they discussed whether of not it would be better if I were to wear a nightie instead.
Moaning about my attire, I was told to stop being a baby as they were only caring for me as best they could. Ashamed of my carping, I timidly acquiesced while they tucked me, ensconced in floral pink pyjamas, into the camp bed they had set up for me in the living room.
At mealtimes one of the sisters would patiently feed me, this gave them the opportunity to ensure I ate all my vegetables; previously I would toy with them and leave them on my plate. This had clearly annoyed them and now I could not escape their predilection for serving mashed turnip and broccoli with every meal.
After the meal I was handed a spouted baby cup to use as a drinking vessel. It was, they said, ‘practical and efficient.’ I was just about able to clasp this between my bandaged hands and once again I could not deny the logic behind their reasoning.
The sisters, Clara and Sophia, exploited my situation to impose a form of discipline while at each step convincing me that everything was perfectly logical.
Difficulties in accessing the bathroom persuaded me 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 to the facilities when absolutely necessary.
They then told me that it would be 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 was unable to venture outside.
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 twelve years old and evidently not a tomboy.
Consequently, despite my muted protests, I allowed Clara to button me into a pink floral winceyette pyjama jacket. She insisted upon fastening the Peter Pan collar up to the neck to ‘keep me cosy.’ The bottoms, much to my embarrassment were too long and my face was as pink as my pyjamas as they finally settled the waistband somewhere just below my ribcage as they discussed whether of not it would be better if I were to wear a nightie instead.
Moaning about my attire, I was told to stop being a baby as they were only caring for me as best they could. Ashamed of my carping, I timidly acquiesced while they tucked me, ensconced in floral pink pyjamas, into the camp bed they had set up for me in the living room.
At mealtimes one of the sisters would patiently feed me, this gave them the opportunity to ensure I ate all my vegetables; previously I would toy with them and leave them on my plate. This had clearly annoyed them and now I could not escape their predilection for serving mashed turnip and broccoli with every meal.
After the meal I was handed a spouted baby cup to use as a drinking vessel. It was, they said, ‘practical and efficient.’ I was just about able to clasp this between my bandaged hands and once again I could not deny the logic behind their reasoning.
Similarly, when I dribbled milk down my pyjamas I did not demur when they produced a baby’s bib and tied it around me. The words used were, ‘It will save us from constantly washing your jim-jams.’
The camp bed was not at all comfortable, and one night I somehow managed to tip it over. Clara and Sophia were most concerned when they discovered me lying helplessly on the floor in the morning. Their solution was not at all to my liking.
This was the perfect answer
they explained, as they showed me the child’s 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 trapped in the cot, being unable to lower the rail myself. 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 it was a genuine problem. But the sisters had the solution.
‘Lift up a little dear. That’s it.’ It was a strange sensation being put into baby-soft nappies by Sophia, and she pinned me into the fleecy white squares with practiced ease. ‘There now, all done. Nothing to get upset about was it?’
Upset was not the word when they first suggested putting me into nappies, but they explained it to me in such a fashion that it all made sense and 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 definitely 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 content to be put to bed 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 dressed in girl’s pink winceyette pyjamas, wearing nappies and lying in a cot. Lurking at the bottom of the cot were a discarded sippy cup and a baby’s bib.
‘Tell me,’ she asked deadpan, ‘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
Needless to say I do not own a copy of the publication in question.
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 I was subject to a form of pyjama punishment discipline. What do you or your readers think? I would be most interested in your professional opinion.
‘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 trapped in the cot, being unable to lower the rail myself. 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 it was a genuine problem. But the sisters had the solution.
‘Lift up a little dear. That’s it.’ It was a strange sensation being put into baby-soft nappies by Sophia, and she pinned me into the fleecy white squares with practiced ease. ‘There now, all done. Nothing to get upset about was it?’
Upset was not the word when they first suggested putting me into nappies, but they explained it to me in such a fashion that it all made sense and 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 definitely 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 content to be put to bed 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 dressed in girl’s pink winceyette pyjamas, wearing nappies and lying in a cot. Lurking at the bottom of the cot were a discarded sippy cup and a baby’s bib.
‘Tell me,’ she asked deadpan, ‘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
Needless to say I do not own a copy of the publication in question.
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 I was subject to a form of pyjama punishment discipline. What do you or your readers think? I would be most interested in your professional opinion.
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