Room 2D

An article by Julie Holmes from Februs 8. For some time now the glossy monthly women’s magazines (you know the ones I mean) have been waging war against an enemy they claim is greater than Attila the Hun, Adolf Hitler and the VAT-man rolled into one. Panic has spread through the ranks of Womankind and fashion victims throughout the land are taking evasive action against the foe, known colloquially as VPL, or ‘Visible Panty line’. Misguided fashion journalists are convincing their readers that a phenomenon that has brought pleasure to generations from World War One onwards is now to be regarded as a bad thing, totally undesirable and, in fact, pretty naff. They actually produce pages of photographs demonstrating undergarments that will be invisible under clothing. Now, it could be that these people are incredibly naive, or that they have some ulterior motive for their actions that I cannot begin to fathom, or maybe they simply ...

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 ...

Photo-story from Janus 116 Private Saffron James, 19, stands to attention with her bugle under her arm, nervously awaiting the arrival of a superior. When the door opens, the man is a stranger, drafted in from another regiment to conduct her disciplinary interview. Like the clothing, furniture and accommodation she has lived with for the past eight months, he smells of standard-issue army property: functional and unadorned. ‘Your cases are packed?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because Sergeant Morris said I should be prepared for instant discharge, sir. He said I am not shaping up as a soldier and that if I only want to play pretty music, I should go to the Conservatoire, sir.’ Tears sting her eyes but she strives not to shed them. ‘So you want to be a musician?’ ‘Yes, sir. I joined the army to improve my playing and get real experience of life that I wouldn’t get at music college.’ ‘And has this been proven to be th...