Room 2D

An enhanced version of the YSS story A Matter of Communication from Uniform Girls 32 A big girl in thin football shorts. As the sea wash sprays against her, it is apparent that she is wearing little else, save a simple cotton tee-shirt. She holds a brightly-coloured triangle of fabric in each hand. The offshore wind has ruffled through her hair, but her recent exertions have given her a glowing healthy sheen upon her bare young limbs. The Island Master sits a few feet away, on an old wooden bench. Susanne is undergoing instruction. And she is achieving very little success. As yet. He checks her stance. ‘Feet together, young lady. Stand up straight. Hands by your side. Hold your stomach muscles in. Pull your shoulders back. Come on. Sort yourself out! You will not be slovenly in my presence!’ Susanne jumps to attention. In her hands she grasps the two brightly-coloured triangles of fabric. ‘Now face the sea and send y...

From Janus 95 featuring Jilly Waistrose from  Moral Welfare Edith Hodge is proud to call herself a spinster. Men have never been any good to her, and her two black cats are all the company she keeps. She has her council flat and her job as a cleaning supervisor, and is known for her tough, down-to-earth manner. ‘Muck me about and see what you get!’ could be her motto. But Edith is not a nasty lady, just very practical and strong-willed, and well able to cope with life’s vicissitudes. No respecter of persons, and not afraid to call a spade a bloody shovel. Unintimidated by man or woman, the big boss or her workforce. To her, Jilly Waistrose is a piece of cake. ‘You’re just a waster, girl! You don’t know what day of the week it is. If I’d had a tenth of your privileges, I’d have made something of myself, I can tell you. You’re a ridiculous creature!’ Hard words but thoroughly deserved, as Jilly had been ...

Story by Julie Holmes from Janus 52 Time and time again she stands before me, sometimes her head bowed in mock contrition, at other times her eyes staring defiantly into my own. I hand out another detention or set of lines, desperately wishing I had the power to prescribe a more appropriate punishment, one that would break through that devil-may-care attitude and cause her to acquire some self-discipline and self-esteem… When I was a sixth-former, mini-skirts were  de rigeur , England swung because we were all backing Britain, and peace and love abounded (or tried to). It was a time of hope and plenty and I was a member of the generation that knew it was strong and talented and in control of its destiny. Our big sisters burned their bras — we never started to wear them. Suspenders surrendered to tights, unless knee-socks were being worn to tease and titillate. I knew that my youth gave me power and I exulted in striding the ...