RELUCTANT PRESS

I have peculiarities of my own, for heaven's sake, but Auntie, seems tuned in with a sensitivity that only the Deity will ever understand. But all will be revealed presently.

"My poor darling baby," she gushed, flouncing towards me as the train ground to a halt.

The 'poor darling' bit was a reference to my recent hernia operation. Generally speaking, hernias are an old man's complaint, but about 8% of hernias are surgically corrected in males under 20 and I had one done only 8 days previously and was still walking around slightly gingerly and slightly stooped.

They had, of course, shaved me 'down there' as clean as a whistle, visual evidence of a return to 'innocence' if ever there was. I had liked that aspect of the operation and had made up my mind to keep myself that way. The nurse who did it was about my age and devastatingly pretty. It was all I could do not to allow the shaving experience to become an embarrassingly erotic interlude, but higher cortical control prevailed, combined no doubt with my nurse's professionalism and my own extreme nervousness at my appointment with ether, scalpel and sutures at dawn the following morning.

All sorts of horrid things traditionally take place at dawn like hangings, appointments with firing squads and colonic lavages (enemas to the uninitiated), ordeals to be embraced on roughly the same emotional level.

But back to platform four and a flouncing, happily excited Auntie Florence; we hugged and bussed each other in mutual joy.

"Ooh, am I going to adore looking after you," trilled Auntie. "We'll get you out of these horrid, restricting clothes and into something really soft and practical."

On a previous holiday at Auntie Flo's, when I was a lot younger, she had persuaded me to dress up as a baby for a children's fancy dress party at the village hall and I had won first prize. I think it was then that the idea of a complete regression to babyhood caught on and filled my mind with pleasure and excitement.

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JOYCE'S GIRLS

BY JOYCE

It is difficult to put one's finger on quite why the prospect of being treated completely as an infant again had such a powerful appeal it involved a whole orchestra of emotions and now part of the furniture of the mind, or syndrome, if you are severely clinical. The hair shirt of responsibility is lifted off, to be replaced with softness, cuddliness, doting affection an exhilarating feeling of complete and utter freedom. But it doesn't do to try to be too cerebral about it all just lie back and enjoy it...

"We'll want a porter," said Auntie importantly, looking about her in a Lady Bracknellish kind of way.

"Excuse me, my good man!" she called.

I winced with embarrassment at her patronizing Victorianism.

The porter seemed not to take umbrage but merely hefted my cases and followed us out to the car park.

Aunt Florence lived in a decidedly up scale residential area called Pemberton Heights. The house was an Edwardian masterpiece of good design.

It's interesting how a piece of good design never seems to date, regardless of its era: take the Parthenon! Anyway, the place had won some sort of architectural award back in 1908 and was called SAXE-COBURG I ask you!

"Oh Auntie!" I enthused, "your place is as lovely as ever. Age hasn't withered it nor custom staled it," misquoting Anthony and Cleopatra but still loaded with 'culture'.

"Just wait until you see your old nursery, because that's where you are going to sleep, darling. I've had it all freshened up with pretty new lace curtains and a fleecy white wool flokati carpet. I think you are going to love it".

I hurried into the house, but not before first peering through the colored glass panes in the front door as I had always done to see first a yellow hallway, then blue, then red, then green.

"And you had better take your shoes off first, before walking on your lovely white wool carpet. I've got something else to cover those little toesies of yours, my love."

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