I had never thought of myself as being a particularly naughty child, just perhaps a little prone to becoming bored – especially during school holidays. So back in July 1959 at the age of 13, it didn’t seem all that terrible a crime to climb over the backyard fence, late one Wednesday morning, and sneak up on the tent in which those two awfully soppy girls Cynthia and Brenda, who lived next door, were playing inside.
It also didn’t seem such so naughty for me to ‘accidentally’ pull out the tent pegs that held it up, leading to it suddenly collapsing on top of them, with lots of girlish screams resulting. Of course, by that time I was well out of the way, having climbed quickly back over the fence before I could be recognised as the perpetrator of the tent collapse.
Or so I thought, because when I reckoned the coast was clear about an hour later for my lunch, I found my mother waiting for me with her arms on her waist, looking decidedly annoyed. “So, Peter, what have you been up to this time?” she said. I tried to look as innocent as I could, but it soon transpired that I had been observed by Mrs Thomson, the mother of Cynthia and Brenda, sneaking away, after letting down their tent.
“I’ve warned you before about picking on those nice girls next door.” said Mother. “This is the last straw, so go up to your room and change into your school uniform right now. I know it’s a week before you have to go back to school again for the new term, but I have an errand for you and I want you looking respectable for it. Off you go, you naughty boy!”
Well, I’d been sprung, so there was nothing to do but carry out Mother’s orders and change into my school uniform, after a quick wash in the bathroom. When I came down the stairs in my school short trousers, shirt, tie and blazer, Mother gave me the usual inspection, and then handed me an envelope. “Peter, you are to deliver this right now.” she said. It was addressed to ‘Edna Bainbridge, c/- Bainbridge Fashions, High Street’ in the local High Street. I knew Mrs. Bainbridge and my mother were old friends from way back, but it did seem a strange sort of errand for a Wednesday afternoon, seeing as it was half-day closing.
“Won’t the shop be shut, Mum?” I asked.
“Edna and her staff are stocktaking this afternoon, so all you have to do is knock at the side-door of the shop and they’ll let you in to take this envelope. You’ll have to wait there for a reply. Now, on your way, and show me you can at least do one thing right!”
So off I headed, without even getting a bite to eat for my lunch. I might have been only 13, but I wasn’t so stupid as to see when obeying Mother’s orders was the most important thing. We only lived about a mile away from the High Street, and I knew quite well where “Bainbridge’s Fashions” were, because my mother and elder sister Wendy often visited it. On occasion, I’d even had to go into the shop myself with them, waiting while they looked at this or that silly frock or bought themselves some new underwear or whatever. Luckily, the shop had a sort of outer waiting-room, with a pile of comics and magazines to look at while Mum and Wendy were checking out their new frillies or frocks. So the shop wasn’t as much of an awesome prospect as it might have been for a 13 year-old schoolboy like me.
I reached the “Bainbridge’s Fashions” shop just after 1 pm, seeing as the local Town Hall clock was striking as I turned the final street corner into the High Street. The shop already was shut, but I knew where the side entrance was and knocked loudly on the door. I heard some clicking footsteps and the door opened. It wasn’t Mrs Bainbridge, but one of her sales staff – a really frightening looking woman called ‘Hilda,’ according to her name badge. “Ah, you must be Peter, with the envelope for Mrs Bainbridge,” she said, with a strange sort of grin. “Well, come in, lad – don’t just stand there!”
I followed the gruesome Hilda into the shop, and was led through the main sales area with all the silly frocks and other stuff on display, into a side waiting room that I’d never noticed before. “Sit down over there, lad” said Hilda. Madame Bainbridge will be here shortly to take control”.
With that, she left, closing the door. There was a sofa to sit on, with a table in front but no comics or anything to read. The only things of interest were some corset and brassiere adverts on the walls. Well, I might have been only 13, but I was already noticing the interesting shapes of young ladies and the ways they achieved such things, courtesy of the magazines that Mum and sister Wendy used to leave lying around our house.
After about five minutes, Hilda returned, with no less than Mrs. Edna Bainbridge herself in tow. The door was ominously shut behind them.
“Peter,” said Mrs Bainbridge with a frown, “I’ve been having some bad reports from your mother that you’ve been very naughty today. You’ve apparently been ignoring all the good advice from your mother about how a 13-year old boy should conduct himself, and disgraced your mother over your bullying behaviour with your next door’s neighbour’s two girls. Is this true, Peter?” Well, what could I say? I could only hang my head and mumble that I was sorry for what I’d done.
There was a silence and then Mrs Bainbridge looked directly at Hilda, ignoring me completely. She just said “OK, Hilda, you know what to do. This young lout needs some strict petticoating to mend his ways. Please give him the full treatment as before, with those other naughty boys. I’ll be back in 15 minutes to check on progress.” She then walked out, with me looking aghast – what was this petticoating and full treatment going to be?
It didn’t take long to find out. That awful Hilda was holding a pair of elastic panties, which she handed to me. “Peter, you have five minutes to undress and put these panties on by yourself. If you don’t, I’ll be back with my assistant Gertrude and we’ll do it for you. I should tell you right now that Gertrude does not like cheeky boys, and she carries a stick that she’ll use on your bottom if you don’t cooperate.” With that, she turned around and left, closing the door behind her.
I just stood there aghast. What could I do? I tried the door, but it was locked. In five minutes the terrible Hilda and the even worse Gertrude with her stick would be there, to check on my progress. I might have been only 13, but I wasn’t stupid – so I stripped off all my schoolboy clothes and put on the elastic panties. Those panties were tighter than they seemed, and compressed my private parts so closely that I actually looked just like a girl – the effect was surprising. There was a mirror in the corner of the room, so I could see just how I looked and it really was a shock to see that I suddenly didn’t look like a 13 year old boy at all. Apart from my flat chest of course, but that was soon to change…
The door opened and there were Hilda and Gertrude, carrying several packages. They came in and shut the door behind them. “Turn around, Peter.” said Hilda. “Yes, that’s a good start – you’re looking nice and girly already in your panties. But now we have to get you into your training brassiere, don’t we? Put your arms out in front of you, there’s a good little sissy boy…”
It was so humiliating, but within barely another five minutes I’d been fitted with a “Berlei Princess Training Bra,” along with some falsies to add additional padding for good measure. Gertrude made sure I knew just what I was being fitted with, whispering in my ear as she adjusted the bra straps, what a cute “Berlei Princess” I would soon be.
Bad as that was, worse was to follow. They made me turn around in front of the mirror now in my training bra and panties, this way and that. I felt so humiliated I wanted to burst out in tears, but I felt that it would just be giving in to them so I didn’t. Maybe I should have, because far worse was to follow…
As I turned around, Hilda whispered to Gertrude that my hips and bottom were far too slim still, and needed some additional “assistance.” They didn’t realise that I could make out what they were saying, but I didn’t have a clue just what that “assistance” might be. Within a couple of minutes I found out only too well, when Gertrude reappeared with a package marked “Playtex Magic Briefs.” The package was handed to me and I was ordered to put them on, over my elastic panties. Those Playtex Briefs were padded around the hips and rear, with a constricting waistband. It was so embarrassing to then have to walk around in front of the mirror yet again, while Hilda and Gertrude ummed and aahed, but they did seem quite satisfied that I now looked more appropriately rounded.
I took a sly look myself at the mirror and I was amazed – I actually looked like a girl, what with my budding breasts and rounded hips and bigger bottom.
Bad as that was, things were to get even worse. Hilda said to Gertrude, “I think Peter’s ready now for his panty-girdle and stockings, don’t you?”
I could have died right there and then, because my elder sister Wendy wore a panty-girdle to control her flabby bottom and waist and I knew it was not a very comfortable thing to wear, because she always complained when she had to wear it for going out.
Still, there was nothing I could do, locked up in that room while Gertrude went away to find an appropriate undergarment for me. They even measured my waist and hips – now suitably altered by the addition of the Playtex Briefs, of course – so when Gertrude returned with a “Berlei Sarongster Hi-Line Panty-Girdle” – it was a perfect fit. Well, that’s to say a perfect fit after the pair of them tugging and pulling it over my waist and bottom, but finally it was in place. I just had to sneak another look in the mirror, and it was really frightening now, just how feminine my outline looked. My waist was now much thinner, but my hips were wider and of course my bottom was much bigger too, which on top of my boobies, courtesy of my Princess Training Bra, really all added up to make me look like the perfect young teenage fashion queen.
Of course, my legs were still my own – but they had that organised only too well also. “Hmm,” said Hilda to Gertrude, “those suspenders on Peter’s panty-girdle are being wasted, aren’t they? Perhaps we need to fit him with a pair of sheer nylons, just to complete the picture …”
They already had brought a few packets of nylons with them, so it didn’t take too long to have me wearing a pair of size 7 seamed Kayser dark-tan 15 denier stockings. The first pair they tried on were too long, so there was a minor delay while those came off and were replaced by the size 7 nylons, which were a perfect fit and reached the suspenders on my pantie-girdle perfectly. I was only a sort of mannequin while this was going on, because Hilda and Gertrude were doing all the fiddling and fitting. The stocking seams seemed to be the most difficult part for them to get right, and I had to keep turning this way and that until they were satisfied that my seams were indeed straight. “Turn around slowly in front of the mirror, Peter” I was ordered. I could only obey of course, and I was so shocked to see just how feminine my legs now looked, along with of course my boobies, hips and bum.
If it wasn’t for my familiar face, I’d have sworn I was looking at the figure of some pretty girl. It was really quite disconcerting how all those various feminine undergarments had transformed me from a typical 13 year old schoolboy into a schoolgirl princess. However, that also was to change, because the door suddenly opened and there was Mrs Edna Bainbridge herself, carrying a couple of wigs.
“Well done, ladies!” she said in her booming voice. “This naughty lad Peter is really starting to look quite a pretty girl now. All we need is to get his head looking appropriate too… Within a couple of minutes I’d been fitted with a schoolgirl wig complete with plaits dangling down either side of my shoulders. It was just so humiliating, to look like some kind of ‘Heidi’ or “Dorothy’ from the Wizard Of Oz. However, they weren’t wearing a pantie-girdle and seamed stocking like I’d been forced to wear, so my embarrassment was even worse.
I was ordered to turn around while the three of them checked me out from every angle, but they seemed to be satisfied. What was in store for me now, I wondered? I soon found out …
The three ladies had been whispering together, and finally, with a nasty giggle, Edna announced that I no longer was a “Peter,” but more correctly a “Petula.”
“Now,” she boomed in that grating voice, “it’s time for you, Petula, to be petticoated and frocked, ready for your mother and sister to collect you. We only have ten minutes left before they’ll be here, and we want to look nice, don’t we – sweetie?” I could have died, but what could I do? Not only were they bigger and stronger than I, a mere 13 year old boy, but, in a tight pantie-girdle, any thoughts of escape were futile. So I could only follow the three of them out of the changing room in my frillie undies and thank God that the shop was closed, so no lady customers were there to laugh at me.
Mrs Bainbridge led me and the two salesladies out to the ‘Junior Debutante’ area where various frocks were on display, along with petticoats of various degrees of frilliness and lace. I was forced to try on three different frocks until they all agreed a pink brocade one was perfect for me, along with two separate frilly petticoats. It was really the lowest point of the whole day for me, because I had to also put on a pair of low-heel pink open-toe shoes with sling-back straps behind, while the three of them ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ about how pretty I looked.
Well, I’m only human and I couldn’t help but sneak a glimpse at myself in a big mirror nearby. I could have cried, because I looked so pretty, it was beyond belief. The frock looked fantastic on me, but the really disturbing part was my legs. In those dark seamed stockings and the pink sling-backs, my legs looked like I was some kind of junior Princess glamour model. I must have been in some kind of sissy stupor, because Mrs Bainbridge suddenly said quite loudly: “Well, Peter – or should we say, Petula, it’s time to do your make-up. Your mother and sister will be here in ten minutes to collect you, and we don’t want to disappoint them, do we, dearie?”
All I could do was meekly follow them, trying my best not to fall over in those low-heel sling-backs, with my lacy petticoats rustling as I walked.
By now, I had long given up any ideas of escape, even if it were possible, dressed like that, with the pantie-girdle especially confining my movements. I soon realised why ladies took such small, mincing steps in their frocks and high heels – it was the only thing they could do, with most likely a tight girdle holding their nylons up.
We reached another room which had lots of make-up and such stuff there, and I had to sit down while I had lipstick, mascara and rouge applied to my face. I was also fitted with pink earrings, pink gloves and a double row of fake pink pearls. The final thing was having my fingernails painted a bright pink colour, to match my frock. It was so humiliating, I could have burst into tears, but then things got even worse, when Hilda announced that my mother and sister were there to collect me …
If the ground could have opened up to swallow me, I would have cheerfully jumped in, pink sling-backs and all. But it didn’t, and there were my mother and sister Wendy with such expressions of glee on their face, as Mrs Bainbridge announced that “Petula” was ready for collection.
I said nothing, just looking at the ground, as we headed outside the shop. It was bad enough trying to walk in the pink sling-backs on the pavement compared to how it had been in the shop, on their soft carpet. Worse, the heels made an awfully loud “click-clack” noise as I walked between Mum and Wendy. I felt as if the whole world was watching me …
They weren’t, of course, although it seemed that way. However, I suffered another shock when, as we turned down into our street, there were three of my school chums coming in the other direction. “Oh, no,” I thought – if it isn’t bad enough already, the word will be all around the school soon that I’ve been turned into a sissie … However, I was surprised to hear several “wolf-whistles” from them, indicating that I met with their approval.
My fat sister Wendy whispered in my ear, “Hey, Petula, you’ve already won over some boys’ hearts.” I kept walking in the most feminine way I could do, looking straight ahead, trying not to trip over in those silly shoes …
Pretty soon we were almost home, and my heart skipped as I saw our familiar front door. Surely this charade would soon be over, and I could get out of this girly gear at last? Nooooooooo …!! Mother said in a firm voice to my sister Wendy: “Petula here has been invited to our next door neighbours’ Cynthia and Brenda’s tea-party. Would you kindly escort ‘her’ to their front door?” It was then I almost burst into tears, this being the final turn of the blade after all the other humiliations. Those awful girls from next door, whose tent I had brought down upon them, were going to see me dressed up in my junior feminine finery, and take a terrible revenge. I just knew it would be like that, but what could I do? Run off down the street in my frock, restrained in my girdle, nylons and heels? No, all I could do was meekly accompany my elder sister Wendy as she hit the doorbell of the house next door …
The door opened, and there were Mrs Thomson and her daughters Cynthia and Brenda, giggling away as they saw me doing my best to look composed. “I’ve brought along Petula, who I believe has been invited to your tea-party. Go on in, Petula, there’s a good girl. I’m sure you’re going to all have a wonderful time… She gave me a less than helpful push, and I almost fell over the doorway entrance, thanks to the pink sling-backs which I still hadn’t got accustomed to. The door slammed shut behind me, and there I was, surrounded by not only Cynthia and Brenda, but lots of their girly friends all dressed in party frocks and petticoats, just like me … I wished the earth would swallow me up right there and then, but of course it didn’t. So all I could do was follow Mrs. Thomson into the lounge, trying to ignore all the giggling girls.
Bad as things had been so far, the next two hours were far worse. I had to assist Mrs. Thomson in the kitchen, getting sandwiches, cakes and buns onto trays, ready to be taken out into the lounge. Then I had to help with the washing up, and she insisted I wear a really humiliating white apron with lots of frilly lace around the edges for it. It wasn’t one of those short ones that just fasten around the waist, either. This one was a full apron that went over my head, and was secured behind with two wide bands that Mrs Thomson tied in a large bow at the back. My embarrassment was getting worse every moment, because once the washing up was finished, I’d hoped she’d undo that soppy apron – but no.
Apparently it was to stay on, and I couldn’t reach behind my back to undo the tight bows.
“Petula, darling – you really look such a sweetie in that apron, I think you should leave it on while you serve the girls their food,” said Mrs. Thomson. “The only thing is, those pretty sandals you’re wearing don’t really look very practical for serving food, do they? Would you like to change out of them, perhaps?”
I jumped at the chance to get out of them, but maybe I should have kept my mouth shut instead. “Oh, yes please, Mrs Thomson,” I said as coyly as I could.
“Come with me upstairs then, darling” she ordered. So I followed her upstairs …
It soon turned out that what she had in mind to replace the open pink sandals with their silly two-inch heels was even worse. She’d clearly observed I was wearing nylons, and she got out a pair of black closed-in court shoes with even higher heels for me to try on! Worse, these had narrow stiletto heels. What had I talked myself into, now?
She slipped the black court shoes over my feet and to my surprise – and dismay – they seemed to be a perfect fit. Of course, being a perfect fit, and me being able to walk in them were quite separate matters. “Well, come on, Petula – walk around, let’s see how you get on. Are these the first really high heels you’ve ever worn, darling?” she said. All I could do was nod, while I wondered just how I was going to get back down those steps wearing them. Mrs. Thomson told me to walk around the bedroom for a bit, and turn round several times to test my abilities in high heels. Surprisingly, I didn’t fall over, even turning around.
“My, you are doing well” she said. “Those shoes really match your frock so much better, don’t you think? Besides, I always think fully fashioned nylons like those you’re wearing don’t look so good with sandals. They really look best with a closed in shoe with a heel, like those you’re wearing now”.
“Yes, Mrs. Thomson” was all I could manage in reply.
Then it was time for the real test of walking back down those steep stairs in my new high heels. Walking up had been bad enough in the sandals, but now I was an inch higher. Worse, I could barely see my feet, because of my padded bra pushing out the front of my pink frock. Mrs. Thomson offered some assistance by advising me to walk down sideways, and somehow I managed it. Of course, the tight Berlei pantie girdle and the nylons didn’t help, restricting my movements along with petticoats rustling with every step. However, somehow, I managed it without falling down the steps, and I followed Mrs Thomson into the lounge, trying to avoid the stares of all the giggling girls. Of course it would have to be Brenda who noticed I was now wearing high heel court shoes in place of the lower pink sandals, and she just had to exclaim, “Look, girls – Petula is at least an inch taller now – she’s wearing grown-up high heels, isn’t she!” All I could do was wish I could strangle her, but it was hardly the time or place for it, at her tea-party.
I joined Mrs Thomson in the kitchen and she handed me the first tray of sandwiches to take out to the girls. I was still wearing the full apron, of course, along with my new closed-in shoes. Well, I managed to complete my waitress duties without falling over or dropping anything, taking in several plates of food of various types for those voracious giggling girls to attack. I also had to take out bottles of lemonade to fill up their glasses, and the little minxes were up to all sorts of tricks.
“Hey, Petula” said one. “Do you know your seams aren’t straight?”
Another girl actually tried to squeeze my false boobies as I leant over to fill up her drink, but I managed to fend off her hand. Then it was time to remove the empty plates and glasses, by which time I was really starting to hate those high heel shoes I’d now been wearing for almost an hour. My ankles, especially, were starting to ache from the unnatural angle they were at. I mean, it might be OK for women to wear high heels all day, but they’ve had years of practice. I was just a 13 year-old boy being punished for my naughtiness, after all.
How long is this damn tea-party going on for, I thought to myself, as I carried the plates into the kitchen and started the washing up at the sink, trying to ease the strain on my ankles from those shoes at the same time.
Mrs. Thomson came back in from the lounge and gave me some even worse news. The girls wanted to know all about make-up, so she was going to demonstrate – and would I mind being the model for it? I could have screamed and ran out there and then, but I’d managed to last so far without doing anything to offend my mother’s ears. So what the hell, I thought – what’s the worst they can do? Just put some more silly lipstick on my lips and rouge on my face? “Yes, Mrs. Thomson, of course I’d be only too pleased to be your model,” I said in my best girly voice.
She said, “That’s a good girl, Petula,” and headed back into the lounge, leaving me to stack the plates and cutlery I’d just washed and dried. I was dreading going back into the lounge, but Mrs. Thomson called out, “We’re ready now for you, Petula,” so I could only take those few steps in my high heels into the lounge to face the next stage of my humiliation. It would turn out to be even worse than I’d expected, because not only was there a chair waiting for me with a table full of make-up stuff, there were also several wigs of different styles.
“Oh, no,” I thought – “I’m going to have to change my wig in front of all those horrible little giggling girls!”
I slowly walked out to the table, and sat down next to Mrs Thomson. “Gather round, girls,” she said to those awful minxes, who needed no encouragement to get as close as possible while I was progressively given coats of lipstick of all different shades, my face blotted with powder and rouge – and finally, the worst of all – a pair of false eyelashes! Mrs. Thomson stood back to admire her handiwork, and the throng of little giggling girls actually started to clap. “Well, Petula,” she said. Shouldn’t you be acknowledging that applause in the correct manner for a well-brought up young lady – with a nice curtsey, perhaps?”
Oh dear. If you think doing a curtsey is all that simple, try it some time. Then try it wearing high heels, a frock, girdle and nylons, and see how you get on! It’s really quite difficult, especially because the high heels have you off-balance already. Here’s hoping, I thought to myself, as I held on to the left and right sides of my frock, pushed my left foot as far forward as that awfully tight pantie-girdle would allow me, and slowly bent at the knees like I’d seen all those princesses doing on TV. Amazingly, I didn’t actually fall over, but it must have been a close call.
“Well done, Petula,” said Mrs Thomson. “You really are getting into the spirit of this, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Thomson” I replied in my best debutante voice.
“Well, sit down again, because we’re going to try you out in some different wigs. That one you’re wearing is a little, well, “young” for you now, in your nice make-up and those high heels.” So, in full view of the giggling throng, she removed my ‘Dorothy’ wig with the long plaits, and replaced it with a beehive back-combed one just like Helen Shapiro used to wear on TV. I could have died while this was going on. At least while I was wearing the silly ‘Dorothy” wig, I was sort of playing out a role. Once it came off and they could see I was actually a 13 year-old boy with short hair, even though wearing a lot of make-up and false eyelashes, it made me feel that much more silly sitting there in a girly frock, with a padded bra and pantie-girdle holding up my nylons. However, even worse was to come …
“Sit there, Petula,” said Mrs. Thomson. You really look so grown up now in that beehive wig, we need one final touch, don’t we, girls?” That bunch of giggling horrors all cheered, of course, as off went Mrs Thomson in search of something else to humiliate me. She wasn’t away long. My heart died when I saw what she was carrying – it was a pair of black patent leather high heel shoes, with stiletto heels at least four inches high! I mean, the three inch ones I’d been wearing for an hour were sheer hell, but she intended me to walk around now in those sky-scrapers, in full view of those girls. It just wasn’t fair. There was no stopping Mrs. Thomson, though, because she knew my feet were the same size as hers, so fitting those really high heeled shoes wouldn’t be a problem. It would just be a matter if I could manage to walk in them, or fall over …
It was only a matter of sliding the three-inched heel court shoes off my nyloned feet, and replacing them with the new really high ones. “How do those feel, Petula?” she asked. Well, I had to admit they did look very elegant on my feet, far more elegant, to be honest, than the pair I’d been wearing. But looks are one thing, and walking in really high heels is another totally different kettle of fish.
“Er, they do look very nice and glamourous, Mrs. Thomson,” I said.
“Well, what are you waiting for then, Petula, darling – we’re all dying to see how you get on walking in them, now you’ve got your nice grown-up looking wig on!”
It was really show-time now, with all those girls, and, of course, Mrs. Thomson waiting for me to strut my stuff around the lounge. To be honest, I wasn’t feeling so humiliated now I had the Helen Shapiro wig on and looked like a young lady again. The challenge was now to either manage to walk around the room in those towering heels, or fall over and have all those brattish girls laugh at me. I stood up and slowly began to walk around the room …
Somewhat surprisingly, it turned out to be easier than I’d expected, although being another inch higher than before took some getting used to. The high heels fit my feet perfectly, so there was no pinching or cramping of my toes to suffer – all I had to do was manage to stay on my feet, and not fall over in front of everybody. Well, I managed to reach the other end of the room and turn around, then walk back to my chair. To be fair to all those awful little girls, they did at least cheer and applaud, which meant I had to get up and do the curtseying thing again. This time, of course, it was more difficult than ever in those really high heel shoes, and I almost lost my balance, as I was coming back up from the low point of the curtsey. Somehow I managed to stay upright though. I sat down again with a sigh of relief that I’d passed my final test – or was it? Did Mrs Thomson have something else in mind to humiliate me with, in front of those girls?
Well, yes and no, as things turned out. The tea-party was now over and the girls were heading home, but I had to do hostess thing at the front door alongside Mrs. Thomson, curtseying as each one left. I was still wearing those towering shoes, but, strangely, I was now familiar with them, and I didn’t have any trouble with any of the curtseys.
Finally, Mrs. Thomson turned to me and said “Well, Petula, or should I say, Peter, I hope this has been a lesson for you this afternoon and there’ll be no more repeats of your bullying behaviour with my girls, like letting down their tent this morning. Now you go home in those heels and that wig, and tell your mother and sister that I’ve been very satisfied with the “New You.” However, if there are any repeats of the “Old You” …
I couldn’t get out of her house quick enough, even wearing her high heels. I was soon knocking madly at the door of our house, and there was my mother and sister Wendy – carrying a camera! She’d taken a couple of pictures of me before I had a chance to do anything about it.
“Come in and sit down at the kitchen table, Peter,” said my mother. “My, you do walk quite well in those shoes, I must admit! Mrs. Thomson has clearly been training you well. However, here’s my warning to you. I’m going to be keeping the frock, petticoats, bra, girdle, stockings and so on, all ready for you to have to wear again – if you misbehave like this morning. The choice is totally yours, whether you have to become Petula again or stay as you are, as my well-behaved son Peter. Which is it to be?”
I quietly said I’d much prefer to be a Peter than a Petula.
“OK,” said Mum. “Off you go up the stairs then – get out of that girly stuff and have a bath, and then come down and have your supper. Or are you full of sandwiches and cakes from the tea party?” Actually, I hadn’t eaten a single thing at next door’s tea-party, because my mind had been on other things like not falling over in Mrs Thomson’s high heels. So I said “that’d be great, mum!” and off up the stairs I headed. It was only when I got to the top I realised I was still wearing those really high heel shoes, which I’d barely noticed as I climbed the stairs. Some things you just don’t forget …
