Room 2D

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 ...

From Uniform Girls 51 Eric Crossley Hanfield glanced round his study and sniffed the smell of fresh furniture polish. The school had been empty during the summer recess but that was now almost over and the cleaners had been in and it seemed done a good job. Yes just a week to the start of the new autumn term and there was inevitably a lot to be done, much of it routine and boring — but not all. This morning for instance he had the most stimulating task of caning a girl. Eric Hanfield walked over to look out of the mullioned window. St Margaret’s Private School for Girls was situated on the edge of the town in an acre of mature ornamental trees and shrubs, many of which across the immaculate lawn were now resplendent in their autumn reds and golds. The school had been owned and founded by Eric’s father, Dr James Crossley Hanfield, who had bought the property and named his school for his mother, adding the “Saint” with hi...