UNDER THE KILT
Dear Miss MacDonald,
When I first wrote to you in 2004 I mentioned that my mother-in-law had
come to live with us and she had views as definite as my lady wife about
female superiority. However, we didn’t think that she shared our views
on petticoating, and restricted our previous activities to private moments
and to my undergarments. But petticoating is a wonderful thing and
I suspect it doesn’t always involve a complete transformation of the hubby
into a housewife.
During a weekend in early October last year all three of us went to a wedding
at a local hotel and to my surprise, (this is Cornwall,) there was a Scottish
Dancing course taking place on the Saturday and Sunday. The participants were
mostly middle-aged couples like ourselves, and of course every one of the
men wore a kilt. The faces of both my ladies lit up at this, and during
a break in the dancing my mother-in-law began chatting with the lady who
was chief of the instructors, all of whom were ladies. She informed
us that she insisted all the men taking part wore kilts. My wonderful
lady gave me a knowing glance and continued the conversation. We learned
that it was the women who showed the initial interest and tended to enrol
and bring their menfolk along.
In the evening we met the chief instructor in the hotel bar and she joined
us for a few drinks, and it wasn’t long before I found that my lady had enrolled
us in the next course and enquired about getting hold of a kilt for me and
a tartan dress for herself. It was clear that my mother-in-law was very
much in favour of me wearing a kilt and my feeble protests were ignored by
both ladies. As the drinks had mellowed us a little, she enquired about
what was most commonly worn underneath. The instructor warmed to this
subject saying that most men wore their normal underwear while it was rumoured
some wore items chosen by their wives. My lady and I guessed what this
meant but at first my mother-in-law didn’t understand until the instructor
explained to her that some husbands wore ladies’ undies.
Mother-in-law’s ample bosom heaved with delighted laughter. The ladies
were now on the edge of their seats wanting to know more. Apparently
sometimes the participating ladies would discuss such matters conspiratorially
amongst themselves asking each other, “What do you make yours wear underneath?”
The answers she’d heard had varied from lacy knickers and bloomers to panty
girdles. The instructor added that the men were as good as gold during
the classes and she felt that the kilts, and in some cases the undergarments,
kept them in their place. On occasions during courses the instructor
had caught a glimpse under the kilt, in fact the breezy coastal weather had
exposed a male bottom clad in frilly white French knickers in the car park
My mother-in-law’s delight showed that my fate was sealed. The question
for me was, what would she expect me to wear underneath? My lady and
I did the course with my lady insisting I wore my usual large frilly panties,
not that mother-in-law enquired about my underwear and I thought the kilt
and the dancing, at which we were quite good, had diverted her interest.
However, one fine winter’s day we all decided to take a walk in the countryside
that surrounds our house. The ladies put on their tweedy skirts because
it was quite cold and then, for some reason, my lady suggested I should wear
my kilt. If the kilt was good enough for the highlands surely it would
be fine for a country ramble whatever the weather.
I could see a twinkle in mother-in-law’s eye. If I was worried about
cold knees and nether regions she had just the answer. Before I had
a chance to say anything she had gone to her room and reappeared with a girdle,
a pink waist slip hemmed with blue lace, stockings and a pair of pink bloomers
with little blue bows around the legs. I was duly informed that there
is nothing warmer than petticoats and stockings under a thick skirt to keep
one warm. The girdle had suspenders to hold up the thick nylons.
There was no question about what I had to do and my lady took me to our room
saying, “Mummy, I’ll make sure he puts them on, after all I made him wear
ladies’ knickers for the dancing.” I was mortified and Mother-in-law
whooped and giggled with glee.
We went for our walk and I could hear them whispering behind me, there were
little giggles and enquiries about the girdle and whether was I warm enough.
After a while the walk proceeded as normal with all of us enjoying the sunshine
and the scenery. I wondered if we would meet anyone and whether they
would see my thick nylon-covered knees. Below the knee I wore thick
woollen stockings and I was wonderfully cosy. When we arrived home the
ladies sat down in front of the fire while I donned my pinnie and made some
tea. I didn’t get changed, and after I prepared dinner and cleared away
we all sat with our shoes off warming our stockinged toes.
Nothing has been said about the above since the incident except that I was
told that I could keep the girdle, knickers and stockings for next time.
I’ve an attached a sketch of our outing.
Thank you for all the work you do at petticoated.com.
FLUFFIES FOR STEPHANIE-JANE
I hope that you are still keeping well. It is worth repeating that
PDQ is so important to us ladies and no doubt to our subservient but loved
I wanted to thank Ben (July PDQ) for researching where I could find suitable
marabou- trim socks and a bolero for my husband, Stephanie-Jane. As
a result of his efforts I have ordered pairs of the very socks shown in PDQ.
I have still not been able to find the pink bolero, but again Ben gave me
some good leads and I have ordered a pink maribou shoulder wrap and have been
able to find a white bolero. Stephanie-Jane already has some items:
knickers, bra, mini-skirt, baby doll nightie and negligee with pink maribou
trim, but displaying him just in these is rather risque for a photo in PDQ.
I have told Stephanie-Jane that when his new items have all arrived, we
will have a 'show and display' evening for me, my daughters and their friends.
He pleaded not to be so displayed, but if Lesley can have Penelope in show
uniforms, so can I have Stephanie-Jane in his show maribou clothing for a
mainly young female audience and of course photos for PDQ, if that is your
I should also like to thank Richard who has emailed me separately as he
too is helping in the search to help 'maribou' as well as petticoat my Stephanie-Jane.
All best wishes,
Congratulations on your wonderful website. Long may it continue!
I am very interested in the recent correspondence concerning the wearing
of plimsolls and slippers as a part of petticoat punishment. I am a
44 year old male, sadly not living under a petticoat punishment or a baby
regime (much as I would dearly love to be). However, I am a keen plimsoll
and slipper enthusiast, and wear my plimsolls to work every day. I wear
the old-fashioned school plimsolls, plain black slip-ons with an elasticated
front gusset. I’m fully aware that these are both childish and feminine
in appearance, which is certainly part of the attraction. However, I
also find that when wearing my plimsolls, I feel both embarrassed and humiliated.
I work in an office in a professional capacity, and naturally have had to
endure the bemused looks and comments from colleagues on many occasions. So
I find myself keeping on good behaviour, to avoid drawing un-necessary attention
to myself and my unconventional footwear.
I always wear my plimsolls in (as much as is possible) pristine condition,
and consider them perfectly smart enough to go with my office attire of trousers,
and shirt and tie. I would wear my slippers to work too, if I could get away
with it. For me, carpet slippers are one of the ultimate symbols of
domestication (in particular the old-fashioned ones made of corduroy or tartan;
or ladies’ ones with a lovely fur collar), along with pinnies and dungarees.
The lowly domestic status of anyone wearing these items would be plain for
all to see. Sadly, however, my slippers seem to be just too inappropriate
for the office.
Anyway, I very much enjoyed Susan J’s letter in the May 2007 edition of
PDQ, in which she wrote that black plimsolls should be compulsory for all
men. That’s a lovely thought, but of course, if we all had to wear them,
them then perhaps their effectiveness would be diminished! Better perhaps
that the pleasure and humiliation of plimsoll wearing remains the preserve
of feminized or petticoated males.
With that thought in mind, I began to wonder whether single or unfulfilled
sissies like me should adopt something like the wearing of girlish gusset
plimsolls as a sort of discrete symbol or code of our sexuality? These
sort of plimsolls are widely available (in the UK) via the internet, and many
shops now stock them in adult sizes. Gay people achieved something similar
with the wearing of ear-rings I believe. Perhaps this is simply too
much to hope for, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if even one unfulfilled sissy
like me met their ideal future partner by revealing themselves in this way?
Once again, please keep up all the good work at PDQ.
WEARS PANTY-HOSE ALL THE TIME
Thank you for your interesting and wonderful publication. I'm not sure if
my story is relevant to your publication, but here it is. I'm in my late 30s
and noticed two years ago that I was developing some noticeable veins on
my legs. My legs were also feeling tired at the end of the day. My mother
has experienced some significant leg problems so I was concerned. My doctor
didn't seem very concerned. He told me to get more exercise. My wife and I
already walk regularly. Like many doctors, I think he's only concerned
with treating something when it becomes a problem.
I did some research on the web and decided that support panty-hose might
help. I got up some courage and bought a pair of Leggs Sheer Energy—a brand
I had seen my wife purchase—at a supermarket. I mixed the hose in with some
other groceries. The cashier didn't give my purchase any notice. I didn't
want to freak out my wife so I decided to give the hose a trial run without
telling her. If they helped, I would find a way to tell her.
I was amazed at how great the hose felt the first morning I put them on
and at the end of the day, my legs felt great. I wore them to work every
day for the rest of the week. At the end of the week I was sold on support
hose as the answer to my problems. I spent all Saturday thinking about how
to tell her. On Sunday afternoon we had a long talk. I hoped she would suggest
I try hose but she never did. Finally I told her I had found a solution but
it was a bit out of the mainstream. I carefully explained to her that I had
experimented with support hose and found them beneficial.
To my surprise, my wife told me that was a wonderful solution. She asked
me a bunch of questions, wanting to know what I liked about wearing hose and
how much they helped. She then told me I should be wearing them everyday and
not just to work. I was amazed, as I was expecting a negative reaction. She
told me to put them on so she could see how they looked on me. She remarked
that they looked very good on me despite my leg hair. I wore them the rest
of the day and when we went for our walk, she insisted I keep my shorts on
and wear the sandals I normally wear. I was apprehensive but followed her
lead. We drove to the supermarket after our walk and bought several more pairs
A lot of changes have taken place over the past two years. With my wife's
encouragement, I now wear pantyhose every day. I also shave my legs. I've
never been a macho kind of guy. I think most women would say I'm sweet and
kind. My wife has always taken the lead in our marriage, but over the past
two years she has taken even more of a lead. She has taken over our finances
and only rarely cooks. I do most of the cooking now and all the dishes. I'm
also doing more of the housework. The washing machine, vacuum cleaner, and
broom are now mine and mine only.
The change was gradual. My wife started suggesting that I do more of the
household jobs and over time they just became my jobs. If I don't do them,
they don't get done and my wife chastises me. I'm also spending a lot more
time at home, particularly in the summer as it's too hot to wear hose under
jeans and I don't think my male friends would appreciate my fashion choice.
My wife has encouraged this and says she much prefers having me at home.
I've also noticed a change in how other women treat me. My wife told all
her friends and family that I now wear panty-hose. I think some of them find
it odd and just ignore me. Others politely tease me, compliment me on my legs,
and include me in conversations about fashion. The men for the most part
ignore me. At family gatherings, I now find myself helping the women with
the food and sitting with the women and girls while the men and boys play
softball. Some of my wife's friends and female family members have told my
wife—in front of me—that she's done a great job training me. At the last family
gathering, after I had helped to clean up and brought my wife a coke, my
mother-in-law remarked that I was a very good wife to her daughter. Everyone
laughed. I took it in stride though and thanked my mother-in-law for the compliment
then took a seat next to my wife.
Thanks again for your wonderful publication. Let me know if you would like
MY ENFORCED COMING OUT
I’ve been visiting the Petticoat Discipline Quarterly site for a little
while, and it occurs to me that your readers might like to hear of my own
experience, which would definitely come under the category of petticoat punishment.
Let me begin by saying that like many others, I was a closet cross-dresser
ever since I was very young, when I had a strong desire to wear the pretty
party dresses, hair ribbons and dainty clothing that the little girls I knew
wore. I didn’t know why, I just did, and I envied them. Then when I reached
my teenage years during the 1980s, my wish turned into opportunity, thanks
to my sister Jennifer. She was two years younger than me, and being tall for
her age, her dresses fitted me perfectly. Even her feet were the same size
as mine, so footwear was no problem either.
Naturally, I didn’t share my secret fantasy with anyone, and was always
terrified of being discovered. Only when I was sure that everyone else in
my family would be out of the house for some time would I go into Jennifer’s
bedroom and blissfully dress myself in her most demure and childish dresses
and party frocks. With some effort, I even learnt to tie bows of hair ribbon
in my hair, imagining that Jennifer had made me dress up as a sort of punishment.
For some reason, this teasing and humiliation aspect of my fantasy was beginning
to develop, and I’ve read that this isn’t uncommon among cross dressers, since
it implies a lack of responsibility in finding oneself dressed as a girl,
a fate that most boys would regard with horror.
I was always careful to change back into my own clothes well before anyone
returned, and replaced Jennifer’s clothes exactly where I’d found them. Nevertheless,
I always had a secret worry that one day someone would come home unexpectedly
and I would be caught red handed, a possibility I shuddered to contemplate.
When Jennifer and I became teenagers, I attended Portsmouth Grammar school,
while my sister went to nearby Selden Hall Girls’ School, named after John
Selden, a sixteenth century antiquarian. And that was when I first became
attracted to the Selden Hall school uniform. It hadn’t changed since the early
1950s, and Jennifer hated it. But the headmistress was a stickler for tradition,
and adamantly resisted all the efforts of the girls to change their school
uniform to something more stylish.
No wonder Jennifer didn’t like wearing it. The winter uniform consisted
of a pair of itchy maroon school knickers, elasticated at the legs and waist,
a plain ‘teen first’ bra, a crisp white cotton blouse, a maroon and silver
striped tie, and horror of horrors, a grey gym tunic with a square cut satin
lined yoke. The tunic had a row of buttons to fasten it up the back, and was
fitted with a belt which fastened with a plain plastic buckle. It had a button
fastening at the end to prevent it from slipping loose, and was held in place
by being threaded through two keepers sewn onto it at the sides of the waist.
On top of this restrictive garment went a maroon school blazer, and the
crowning glory was a white panama school hat with a maroon hatband, decorated
with the school crest on the front. In winter, the girls had to wear a grey
velour hat in the same style. On their feet went something equally distasteful
as far as the girls were concerned. They wore white cotton ankle socks and
very childish looking brown leather T bar shoes that buckled on securely
at the side of the foot.
Then there was the regulation school raincoat, a single-breasted girl’s
mackintosh made of unlined light grey rubberised cotton. It was fitted with
a buckle belt supported by two keepers attached to the mac, one on either
side of the waist. From the shoulders hung an attached hood with a square
top, a common style on girl’s school raincoat hoods. The hood had a maroon
lining, and tie tapes to secure it under the chin. It was almost identical
to a raincoat Jennifer had worn as a little girl, and she wasn’t impressed.
Like the raincoat, Jennifer felt that the school uniform made her look like
an eight year old, and to some degree she was right.
Her summer uniform wasn’t much better either. The gym tunic was replaced
with a maroon and white candy striped dress with white peter pan collar and
a long back zip. Around the waist went a belt with a white plastic buckle,
and once again, the style seemed much more suitable for a primary school girl
rather than a strapping teenager.
Nevertheless, despite her utter distaste for what she considered to be her
humiliating school uniform, Jennifer had to resign herself to wearing it five
days a week, and that was that. There was no choice in the matter.
I on the other hand, found that the situation suited me admirably. The fantasy
of being forced to wear such a demure girl’s school uniform that even my sister
found humiliating soon dominated my thoughts, and I spent many blissful hours
wearing it, pretending that Jennifer and her school friends had made me put
it on before teasing me unmercifully.
And that’s the way things might have remained, but for one memorable October
day in 1982. I’d left school by then, and was a student at university. On
this particular Tuesday afternoon, I was at home supposedly studying, while
Jennifer was at school, just up the road from our house. Mum and Dad had gone
out for the day, and unable to resist the opportunity while alone in the
house, I went up to Jennifer’s bedroom, opened the wardrobe door, and looked
at her spare school uniform hanging there. I took out the gym tunic that
she hated wearing so much, and with a wry smile, decided to put the complete
I assembled all the items, and after stripping off my clothes, I dressed
myself in Jennifer’s entire winter school uniform from top to toe. Knickers,
blouse, tie, gym tunic (that I fastened up the back with difficulty, hoping
that I’d be able to unfasten it!), blazer, and her white panama summer hat,
since she was wearing her winter hat to school. And on my feet went her childish
ankle socks and strap shoes. I looked at myself in the mirror, grinning with
pleasure as I fantasised that Jennifer and her friends were putting me through
a horrendous bout of teasing.
Then I noticed her wig sitting on a stand on her dressing table. It was
a mid brown pageboy wig, typical of the hairstyle seen on many schoolgirls.
Jennifer had bought it after having her hair cut much shorter than she really
wanted, and she wore it when she didn’t want people to notice her boyishly
Taking off the school hat and put it down on the dressing table, I was curious
to see what the effect would be if I put on the wig. Combing my hair flat,
I placed the wig carefully onto my head just as I’d seen Jennifer doing it,
and after pulling the wig down firmly in place, I brushed it neatly down,
framing my face.
I looked at myself in the mirror and grinned with pleasure. The transformation
was startling. While I could of course see that I was a boy, I began to wonder
if I could fool others who didn’t know me. Suddenly a delicious thought entered
my head. Why not go outside and find out? My heart began to race wildly as
I replaced the school hat on by head, and I stood in front of the wardrobe’s
full-length mirror, daring myself to go out into the street in full view of
passers-by. I was well aware of the old adage that people only see what they
think they see, and emboldened by the effect of the wig combined with the
girl’s school uniform I was wearing, I had no difficulty in convincing myself
to risk it.
Suddenly I thought it might be fun to have a photograph of myself as a Selden
Hall girl, so I went to fetch the family camera and a tripod. I went downstairs
and out into the garden, and placing the camera on the tripod, I set the camera
on its delayed action self timer setting. I pushed the button, and then stood
in front of the camera with a smile on my face while the camera whirred for
a few seconds before going click. I just took the one photo, and made a mental
note to make sure that it was me who picked up the film when it was developed,
so that I could extract the incriminating negative and print before anybody
else could see it. Once I’d taken the photo, I put the camera and tripod
back, and prepared for my little outdoor excursion.
Taking a deep breath and a last look at myself in Jennifer’s wardrobe mirror,
I made my way downstairs. I decided that I’d rather walk down the quiet footpath
at the back of our house instead of the busier street at the front, so making
my way to the kitchen door, I stepped out into the garden. I walked down the
path, and opening the back gate, went out onto a narrow paved path and looked
right. Down the right hand side of the path ran the high walls at the
back of the houses, while on the left side of the path was a high hedge which
ran for several hundred yards, so the walls combined with the hedge hemmed
in the path for that distance. I hesitated for a brief moment, and then with
my heart pounding, I began walking down the path with the most girlish step
I could muster.
I suddenly noticed a group of girls walking along the path in front of me,
fortunately with their backs towards me. I recognised the Selden Hall school
uniforms they were wearing, and grinned under my wig and school hat as I kept
my distance from them.
Then it happened. After I’d walked about a hundred yards or so, I began
to lose my nerve, and decided to retreat to the safety of home. I turned
around, but was horrified to see half a dozen more Selden Hall girls walking
straight towards me. Not only that, they were only a short distance away,
and had already passed the back gate of my house, cutting off my retreat.
I was trapped between the two groups of girls, with no possible way of getting
off the path to avoid them.
I realised that my timing couldn’t have been worse. Selden Hall was only
a few minute’s walk up the path, and I should have remembered that many of
the girls walked down the path on their way to and from school. I should also
have realised what time it was, and that school had just finished. Jennifer
would almost certainly arrive home within the next few minutes.
\I stood there in a panic, not knowing which way to turn, and in that moment
of doubt, one of the approaching girls looked at me with a slightly puzzled
expression before her face creased into a broad grin and she burst out laughing.
Now the cat was really out of the bag!
The girls surrounded me as I stood there blushing crimson with humiliation.
They instantly realised that I was really a boy, and all my confidence in
my appearance evaporated. They were particularly curious as to why I was wearing
their particular school uniform, and I miserably confessed that Jennifer was
my sister, and that I was simply curious to know what it was like to wear
it. I was relieved to find that they seemed to swallow that reply. To have
told them the truth would have been devastating.
But that didn’t save me from my humiliating fate. I tried to make a move
in the direction of my house and safety, but I wasn’t to be let off so lightly.
The girls had a wicked sense of humour, and determined not to give up this
golden opportunity of having some fun at the expense of a mere male, they
blocked my path, saying that since I wanted to dress up as a Selden Hall girl,
I would be treated as one of them, and that meant going into the Portsmouth
town centre on the bus with them.
I was horrified at the idea, and desperate to avoid such a fate, I pleaded
with them to let me go. But they were adamant, and still chuckling with glee,
two of the largest girls took my arms and began to march me along the path
with them in the direction of the bus stop. There was nothing I could do to
stop them. These girls were tall and athletic, and I was no match for them.
We reached the bus stop where several other Selden Hall girls were waiting,
and I had to suffer a plethora of teasing taunts while we waited for the
bus. It finally arrived, and I was bundled onto the bus. The driver didn’t
really notice me among all the other Selden Hall school uniforms, and probably
assumed that I had a student season ticket.
The journey was a humiliating nightmare for me, and by the time we reached
the town centre I was nearly in tears with embarrassment. But the girls weren’t
finished with me yet. We got off the bus, and they began walking with me along
the shopping precinct. Suddenly, one of them pulled my school hat and
wig off my head to make it obvious to every onlooker that I was indeed a
boy dressed up as a sweet little school girl. Almost immediately the grins
and chuckles on the faces of passers by increased as the girl put the wig
and hat out of my reach into her school bag, saying that she would give them
to Jennifer at school the next day. I was devastated. Suddenly my harmless
little fantasy had been turned into reality, and my humiliation knew no bounds.
For the next couple of hours I had to endure the taunts and teasing of both
the girls and nearly everyone who saw me as I was taken into many of the shops
and around the precinct. But at last, the shops began to close, and the girls
decided to leave me to my fate. I was almost reluctant to see them go. Somehow,
being on my own seemed worse, and with a small moan of despair, I started
on the long walk home. I kept staring at the ground, trying to ignore the
continuing laughter and teasing cat calls of those who saw me, frequently
referring to me as a sweet little schoolgirl.
It took me nearly two hours to walk back to the village where I lived, and
as I approached my home I knew that by now, Mum, Dad and Jennifer would be
home, wondering where I was, and I nervously contemplated what sort of reception
I was in for. I tried to think up some sort of plausible lie to explain why
I was out dressed in Jennifer’s school uniform, but my imagination failed
me, and with a sigh of resignation, I decided to tell them the truth.
I reached my house, and if I’d had my key with me, I might have been able
to creep up to my room unseen to change and avoid the confrontation I now
dreaded. But I didn’t have my key, and with my heart in my mouth, I knocked
on the front door.
Jennifer opened it, and taking one look at me, burst out laughing and grabbed
my arm tightly. Closing the door, she pulled me vigorously down the hallway
and into the dining room, where Mum and Dad were just finishing their diner.
The look on their faces was a mixture of amusement and puzzlement, and then
they realised that this was something more serious than a mere prank. They
sat me down, and the interrogation began.
Now that I was committed to tell them about my fantasy, it was easier to
tell them than I’d thought. Somehow I expected to be condemned as being a
pervert or something, but I’d forgotten that their love for me made them more
concerned than angry. Jennifer and Mum almost seemed to sympathise with me,
but Dad suggested that I should see a psychiatrist. In the end, they took
me to see a specialist in gender anomalies such as my cross-dressing, and
that was the best thing they could have done.
He explained to them that there was no such thing as a ‘cure’ for my condition,
because I would never be able to deny my true feelings, and if forced to stop
dressing as a girl, my frustration could damage my mental health. He advised
my family to simply accept me for what I was, and better still, be supportive
to someone who was so vulnerable.
And you know what? They took his advice. Far from condemning me, Mum and
Jennifer supported me in a positive way. Dad wasn’t so sure, and like many
fathers in the same situation, probably blamed himself in some way.
My mother and sister were another matter though, and as time passed, they
grew to accept me for what I am, and even began to give me advice on how to
be more convincing when I was dressed as a girl. They taught me how to walk,
sit, and adopt a girlish posture. They taught me the finer points of dress
and make-up, and finally, I was able to go out with them totally undetected
as a boy. It was wonderful.
The final pleasure came the day that Jennifer left school. With a broad
smile on her face, she hung her school uniform in my wardrobe along with
my by now extensive collection of dresses. She said that she was glad to
see the back of it, and that from then on, the only person who would be wearing
it would be me. And I did. I still looked young enough to look convincingly
like a Selden Hall girl, and from time to time, Jennifer took me into Portsmouth
in her old school uniform as if I was her kid sister. It was our little secret,
and we both enjoyed the deception. What had begun as a nightmare on that October
day long ago turned out to be a blessing, but then, I suppose that’s true
of many things in life.
ADVICE FROM MAID ANGELA
I do hope you are fully recovered and I am so pleased that the magazine
is going so well. I would like to comment to Janet about her situation.
Her letter did not make it quite clear as to her husband's exact status. I
am not sure if he is her maid full or part time, but if he is then when he
is on ‘duty’ and it is desirable or necessary for him to go out in public
just tell him to do so. I am not particularly ‘passable’ but my experience
is that if you go about your business outside the house with confidence, people
seldom take a lot of notice.
If the maid is going any distance it may be advisable for her to remove
her cap and apron as maids these days do not normally go shopping wearing
those. Also a coat or cape may be a good idea. If she is just cleaning
the car or the front windows then I don't think it is necessary to alter
anything. Passers-by hardly give you a second look
Simply accept that he is the maid and treat him as you would any maid that
you had employed.
A NEW IMAGE FROM JOEY