Petticoat Discipline Quarterly
 ~ updated frequently ~

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Please read 'Hints for Contributors' at the bottom of the page.
Readers should note that there is no paper copy of this magazine, and I do not have time to give personal advice.

Sunday July 15 2007


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 that afternoon. 
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



Dear Susan, 

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 menfolk.

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 wish.

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,



Dear Susan,

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.
Yours sincerely,



Hello Susan,

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 for me.

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 more detail.



Dear Susan,

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 uniform on.

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 short hair.

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.
Yours sincerely,   

Timothy Carter.


Dear Susan,

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.

Maid Angela


London 1967
London, 1967