Room 2D

No less than four of Uncle George’s discoveries this week. To quote George himself: "These four, all from one edition, suggest to me an elderly chap enjoying his domestic guardianship of two nubile teens." Or (my suggestion) could this be the Rev Tristram Smithers with two of his Young Adventurers? Either way, it’s crying out for a story to explain what’s going on if anyone feels like getting creative… First up, The Punishment Begins : Secondly Sometimes More Intense Than Others : Thirdly Those Faithful Footsteps on the Stairs :   Finally After a Bath and Off to Bed : Some thorough drying with talc and towel before the hiker's friend, vasaline (sic), comes into use …

Story from Uniform Girls 4 The evening sun dipping behind a row of trees, the distant sound of a dog barking in a farmyard, and no-one within a mile to stumble upon the little tent pitched in a secluded copse. ‘Right, where is it?’ asked Mr Shilton. ‘The Camper’s and Hiker’s Friend. Has anyone seen it?’ Susan who hadn’t been on a camp with Mr Shilton before, who indeed hadn’t done any camping, looked blank. Julie giggled. ‘Wha…what?’ said Susan. ‘The Vaseline, Susan dear. The soother of chafed parts; the protector of potentially sore orifices.’ Susan went bright red. This time both Julie and Angela giggled. Mr Shilton, smiling, stepped closer to Susan. ‘Yes, orifices, Susan darling. You know what orifices are, I presume?’ Her cheeks went even redder. Yes she did know what orifices were. Mr Shilton’s hand reached out and his finger gently rubbed across Susan’s full lips. ‘Lips can get quite sore on a camping trip, Susan. We don’t want pretty Susan to come home with her lips al...

A special post of a story requested via comments on The Village Hall . From Uniform Girls 17 ‘Mr Stimford,’ her mother said reading from Aunt Clare’s letter and the name immediately set up a response, alarm bells jangling in her daughter’s head. A forgotten name but not really, just lying dormant in her mind and covered with layers of other things, other experiences, pleasant ones mostly, so that ‘Stimford’ was almost dead and buried. But it wasn’t dead and it now came back, rolling up to the surface. At first vague and unrecognised, just the alarm bell, and then, oh yes, of course. She saw him, pictured him. And that place: the village hall. And in particular the loft, up the stepladder. That dusty, dimly-lit triangular roof space. ‘Eileen! Are you listening? Or day-dreaming?’ She shook her head, bobbing the soft, short, medium blonde curls. Her cheeks were flushing, she could feel. As if her mother might know what she was pict...