Mija’s Room

Category: history

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The MP Visits Saint Clare – Prologue – 11 July 1955

Posted on By Mija

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And we’re back in 1955. Sorry about the time traveling. Context is in Foreword below.

The story of Inez de Vries unfolds through a constellation of documents—some official, drawn from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others more intimate, taken from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font.

Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained. But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here, and promise to respond. Moreover your ideas and reactions also join the archives, where they may quietly shape what comes next..

Saint Clare November: 14,539 / 50 000 words

Foreword

From the archivist:

The Charrington Papers, of which the present collection forms a small but telling part [see also Heard in the Charrington Household, Melodrama by Post, The Secret Letters, and Gladys in Trouble] offer a glimpse into the anxieties of an English household in the mid–twentieth century. The documents gathered here—letters, annotated responses, and private jottings—capture in miniature a struggle over authority and propriety between Gerald H. Charrington, Member of Parliament and self-appointed patriarch, and his sister-in-law, Miss Gladys Williams, a young woman who had the misfortune to combine a lively disposition with a poor instinct for discretion.

This is Gladys’ diary entry from Monday, 11 July, 1955. It’s a short entry but is the start of rather dramatic week. The accounts that follow will unfold a series of documents, files, diaries, and accounts.

If you’re wondering where these documents are coming from and why they were collected, more will be revealed soon.

In the meantime, a wee hint. Look closely at the 1938 Honour’s Game posts and consider where Ned and Honour’s little “game” may have carried Lady Gwen by 1955.

Note: If you’re struggling with the font, here is a plain text version. 

Gladys’s Diary  –  11 July 1955

Diary on nightstand, pen, lipstick

11 July 1955

It’s after 11 PM but I can’t sleep and my head and heart are so full I can hardly stand it. No, I can’t stand it. I’m writing this in the hope of making sense of it. Though it may be I’m just talking to myself.

This morning was Gerald’s humiliation exercise number one: the Institute. He marched me there, hand on my arm like a ward in chancery, and handed me over to the Head as though I were a new pupil. Rather than leave me alone to discuss this, he then stood by while Mrs Perris discussed timetables and subjects as though I’m ten years old. Timetables! For me! And what an utterly wretched timetable it is.

(more…)

The Music of Discipline: Notes Toward a Sonic Saint Clare

Posted on By Mija

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Saint Clare November: 14,539 / 50 000 words

Author’s Note: 

Classroom with piano

This post started in another space as I tried to explain why I’m listening, over and over, to a playlist made especially for the Saint Clare world, how it’s constructed and why having it is important to the way I write and my ability to recapture the story’s moods. I’ve been using some version of this playlist (it started with Appalachian Spring  something I’ve listened to and has been a favorite for as long as I can remember) since I returned to Saint Clare this past summer. For me, specific music creates and guides headspace, especially when it comes to writing.  So this post has become a reflection on how music, for girls historically and for me personally, moves between structure and freedom—discipline as both enclosure and release.

So…

Imagine I’m standing at the gates of Saint Clare looking in. The key to entering is letting go of my academic voice and reclaiming and embracing Mija’s — one that’s curious, playful, and unhurried, that knows this is far more about the journey than the destination. This post is a kind of meta reflection, written as a map as I try to find a path back into the Saint Clare world, imagine it leading to a different sort of writing practice, one that can generate hundreds of thousands of words. Writing fiction at this scale isn’t only about research or structure — I’m terrible at structure. Instead it’s about mood, and sound. For me, that begins with an album or playlist that I play every time I want to be in that headspace. 1That much, the need connect specific music to specific writing, is also true for my larger pieces of academic writing These notes on music and discipline are about creating a state of calm focus, a rhythm — one where research and scholarship become texture for Saint Clare rather than, as they would with academic writing, constructing an argument. In this space, joy and rigor can share the same page — one, ideally, of discipline, structure, and pleasure.

These days when I think about the world of Saint Clare, I don’t begin with geography, plot, or even period. I begin with a sound. Not the bell (though there are bells enough in Saint Clare’s world) but a bow against a violin string — specifically my grandmother’s violin. The two told stories of how, when they first married (in the 1930s) she played for my grandfather in the evenings after dinner. While there was radio available, they didn’t have one yet. Nor any sort of record player. There was only the music she carried from her girlhood. She wasn’t especially musically gifted, though my grandfather claimed otherwise. Her father had been the true amateur musician, trained at Eton and Oxford, an organist and choir director who played faithfully for every parish he served. From him she inherited not virtuosity but devotion: the belief that to play faithfully, however simply, was a kind of gift and prayer.

Less than a hundred years ago that was what one did in the evenings: read aloud,  practice music, keep culture alive by hearing it, playing it, creating it physically, and sonically. The bow against string, the pause before the note — gestures of steadiness, civility, and attention. Then too, in this world, silence still had somewhere to sit. I think of that quiet, live music as a discipline — the same sort that, in my imagination, fills the corridors of Saint Clare’s School for Girls.  These gestures of steadiness, civility, and attention are precisely the point where structure meets possibility: the body obeys, but the mind has freedom and space to wander and imagine.

The Sound of Education

As I’ve said before, I’m not a visual person or thinker.  Saint Clare manifested in my head as voices, music, not by what I imagined seeing, but hearing. The hum of a slightly out-of-tune piano before morning prayers mingled with the crack of hockey sticks on frost. The girls’ school, I realised, wasn’t merely an institution; it was an instrument, an intergenerational sonic landscape.

Victorians would have approved. When writing about education, they treated young girls and young, unmarried women as if they were violins in need of constant tuning to a pitch of virtue writ large. Erasmus Darwin (a less famous Darwin, quite enthusiastic about female education rather than beetles) proposed that girls could be improved through art and music.2 Darwin, Erasmus. A Plan for the Conduct of Female Education, in Boarding Schools. London: Gale and the British Library, 1797. Nearly a hundred years later, his theory is further refined with Isabella Tod, suggesting that a good education should teach girls “self-government.”3 Tod, Isabella M.S. “On the Education of Girls of the Middle Classes (1874).” In The Education Papers, 230–247. London: Routledge, 2013.  An attempt to depict these ideals inspire and resonate in at Saint Clare, where musical and moral instruction have echoed one another across decades. Change comes to Saint Clare slowly.

(more…)

  • 1
    That much, the need connect specific music to specific writing, is also true for my larger pieces of academic writing
  • 2
    Darwin, Erasmus. A Plan for the Conduct of Female Education, in Boarding Schools. London: Gale and the British Library, 1797.
  • 3
    Tod, Isabella M.S. “On the Education of Girls of the Middle Classes (1874).” In The Education Papers, 230–247. London: Routledge, 2013.

Brat 2 Professor: The 2025 Academic Survival Kit

Posted on By Mija

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Paul and I have been busy giving The Treehouse –  our story archive and online home – a fresh coat of paint and a new content management system. Migrating the stories is boring but necessary. Tonight it was the 1997 Brat Kit’s turn. I only meant to polish it up – but instead, I ended up chatting with my 1997 self and writing a 2025 sequel. Now it’s 12:30 AM. Typical.

Background: Back in 1997, brat Mija made her very own “Back to School Survival Kit” for the imaginary Usenet town where everyone was into spanking and we were all in on the joke. In 2025, Professor Mija tried to get serious with her own survival kit… fortunately, 1997 Mija keeps scribbling in the margins. Long may she brat away.

Laptop

  • Professor: Sleek, efficient, full of syllabi and carefully versioned slides.

  • Brat: CHAOS machine. Meme folder primed. Cat-ear filters installed. (Also: accidental ringtone demo file.)

Mug

  • Professor: “World’s Best Professor” – fortified with coffee for committee marathons.

  • Brat: Contents are optional: cocoa & Baileys, kombucha, or something suspiciously green.

Phone / Phantom Assistant

  • Professor: Professional communications hub—email, calendar, student messages.

  • Brat: Pocket chaos engine. Random alarms, timed ringtones, and a hidden audio clip that blurts “Alexa” or “Siri” for maximum confusion. Also for sub texting friends in the room to see who wants to go to lunch, go to drink, hire a hitman for whomever made this dude’s 54 slide presentation. 

Zoom/Teams Background

  • Professor: Bookshelves arranged just so, tasteful framed degrees, neutral warmth.

  • Brat: Headmaster’s study, detention hall, a beach cabana, or outer space. At least we cam pretend the house is clean…

Pens / Dry Erase Markers

  • Professor: Red pen for feedback, fine liners for tidy notes, dry-erase for board diagrams.

  • Brat: Sakura Gelly Rolls, fluorescent highlighters, and the faint marker-fume high one can get while doodling mustaches on Chaucer or administrators. Especially deans.

Stickers

  • Professor: A sticker for the “well-done” paper when appropriate.

  • Brat: Neon smiles, glitter flakes, peel-and-slap tactics.

Chocolate / Edibles

  • Professor: Emergency snack for long meetings (and a private, respectable stash).

  • Brat: Bribes, morale boosters, and COVID-era wisdom: mugs don’t have to contain coffee.

AirTags / Faculty Tracking

  • Professor: Useful for shared equipment and conference swag.

  • Brat: Slip one into a tote and turn faculty life into a scavenger hunt. Why *do* we keep running into each other? 

Portable Charger

  • Professor: Lifesaver between back-to-back classes.

  • Brat: If your phone dies, so do you. Recharge or face the consequences.

Noise Tools (Apps / Devices)

  • Professor: Alerts for class start/stop, timely reminders.

  • Brat: Loop “I’m Too Sexy” during midterms. Walk away slowly.

Ring Light & Filters

  • Professor: Useful for clear, well-lit lectures.

  • Brat: Weaponize with cat ears, anime eyes, and “I teach from a yacht” vibes.

Department Printer / Office Nooks

  • Professor: Workflow engine that sometimes always jams under pressure.

  • Brat: Prime hiding spot for stickers, glitter packets, or chocolate.

Conference Lanyards / Faculty ID

  • Professor: Credentials of scholarship and suffering.

  • Brat: Cat toy. Choker. Laminate “World’s Brattiest Professor.”

Do Not Disturb Tape

  • Professor: “In progress” sign for office hours or recording.

  • Brat: Slap it on the door, claim a Very Important Zoom, and quietly eat your M&Ms.

Sutti the Service Dog

  • Professor: Trusted helper, calm companion, valuable support.

  • Brat: Distraction deluxe. A well-timed whine, shake, or soulful look derails lectures faster than any ringtone.

Glitter & Neon Accessories

  • Professor: Tasteful seasonal flair.

  • Brat: Color-shifting polish, LED laces, eco-friendly glitter.

Margin Verdict (1997 Mija to Professor Mija):

“Girl, you’ve gone WAY too serious. Why you hate us? Your list isn’t survival – it’s detention. Update your brat kit already or your card is getting YANKED.”

Obligatory Warning/Disclaimer: Yes yes, this list is completely irresponsible  and possibly, in places, criminal- it belongs in an imaginary online town where everyone’s into spanking and we’re all in on the joke. Consent is ALL.

…And because history matters, back in 1997, “bratting” was mostly textual – wordplay, sarcasm, little rebellions typed into Usenet threads. In real life, largely verbal talkback. Brat’s a kink identity that grew partly in opposition to the “TREW SUB” culture floating around then – a sort of Gor-inspired submissive ideal where obedience meant wearing metaphorical (and sometimes literal) knee pads with spikes on the inside and never capitalizing your name.

Brats (very definitely including the submissive ones) said, and still say: Nope. We’ll have our own bratty fun, thank you very much. Wanna play with us? Keep up – and catch me if you can.

Truthfully? I want to submit, I like feeling submissive, being a “good girl.” But, for the most part, you gotta make me. Or, at least, I need to know you can. And like it better when you do.

The 1997 Brat Survival Kit (with 2025 Footnotes)

Posted on By Mija

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Back in the late 1990s, alt.sex.spanking and soc.sexuality.spanking loved making “Back to School ” posts. What follows is my 1997 Brat Kit — faithfully preserved, complete with bubblegum, stickers, and chaos. Only now it comes with a 2025 brat (and professor) scribbling in the margins and leaving footnotes, teasing and blushing about what’s soooo dated and what’s (maybe) still bratting gold.

Update: click here for the 2025 Professor/Academic Kits !

It’s getting to be that time of year again <boo!!! hiss!!!> — thoughts are turning to school and uniforms and teachers and classes <pout/sulk>. Summer is just too darn short (no, not Summer Nicole, I mean the season between spring and fall — like duh!!) and the autumn back-to-school sales are showing up (Pablo recently just happened to notice that everyone is out buying new school uniforms). =:-O

As they get our uniforms in order, sharpen pencils, buy new notebooks and worse yet <gasp! horrors!!> new and improved math books, I feel all constrained and stifled (like my collar is too starchy and tight!!! Help help I’m being oppressed!!!). And so, I think what I need for the start of school is a brand spanking new brat survival kit or two. And maybe you need one too. The basic one should be carried on or near your cute little brat bod at all times. The deluxe one is meant for the well-appointed brat locker.

This list is not exhaustive and could be thought of as the start of a thread BB4B (by brats for brats). I’m sure you all have good ideas of what should go in here. I wanna hear ’em now!!! Hurry, hurry, before school starts!!! Also, I’ve kinda taken the squirt gun/silly string/water balloon stuff as a constant given. <giggling> Let’s try and be original here!

Basic Kit

Beeper. Should go off randomly, especially in study hall and on exam days (a theatrical or musical performance would be another good place for this). This will work best if you’re trying to annoy (not that I would of course) Pablo. Beeping alarm watches set at 15 minute intervals are a good substitute here. Do NOT answer or stop the beeper. The trick is to look around like you’re wondering whose it is too. Advanced brats will want to hide it in the room itself (Heating vents? Ceiling tiles?? The teacher’s briefcase???) <neg>.12025 brat-self: Grandma, what is a beeper? You mean those plastic pagers from ER reruns? Did you carry one in your fanny pack, too?

Gum. Sugary, hot pink (Bazooka is always good or Hubba-Bubba) — the sticky pink stuff is great because it is a kewl color, smells good, tastes sweet and has awesome irritating noise potential (bubble popping, cracking, or just chewing all noisy-like).22025 brat-self: Endorsed. Loud gum still works. Upgrade: neon chewing gum TikTok challenge.

Hershey Kiss. (See larger kit below, under chocolate.)32025 brat-self: Hershey’s still exists, but are you sure you don’t want Trader Joe’s dark chocolate peanut butter cups?

Liquid Paper Bottle. You have to make this. Take a bottle (full, empty, whatever), empty it, then rinse it clean with nail polish remover. You now have an approved-of school supply that can be used to transport a very small item to a knowing fellow brat. I use them to pass notes that are all rolled up around the brush. Almost undetectable!!42025 brat-self: Liquid Paper?! Honey, we just text now. Or send memes. Still, props for spycraft.

Pens. No, I haven’t gone over to the dark (read: top) side here. I mean special pens.

  • Fat fluorescent highlighters for one (great because you could even say you were going to study with them <g>). I like to highlight any spanking-related words myself (note to moderators: Now I’m on topic, right?) <ng>.52025 brat-self: Timeless. Brats highlight “spank” in PDFs now.

  • Permanent markers. Not that I’d use them to draw on a paddle or cane or anything, let alone to write ‘Grow your own dope; plant a top!’ on the bathroom walls (that was Randi, I swear!!) <eg>. But you could!! And you could write on yourself with them too. Almost like a tattoo, the marks take days and days to get off <g>. Marks-A-Lot now makes a ‘brights’ pack that includes a hot pink, bright green, orange and black.62025 brat-self: Writing on bathroom walls replaced by digital graffiti = memes + Slack emojis.

  • Fluorescent roller ball pens. For homework, notes to friends, writing lines, doodling, whatever (these are so kewl!!!!). OK, they aren’t easy to find, but man are they worth it (they are called ‘Gelly Rolls’ by Sakura — I found them at a Carlton Cards). They come in bunches of colors (all obnoxious as heck, but I like the hot pink and fluorescent green best). Pablo has yet to express a preference — he must like them all!! 😛 There is a very bright yellow (Summer?) but it’s even harder to read than the others <grin grin grin>. They are so smooth and easy to write with (I’m thinking about some brat with mucho lines here — surely not me) and stand out beautifully against white. A must have!!!! (IMHO).72025 brat-self: Still rule. Pastel ink supremacy never dies.

Stickers. Whatever kind. Smiley faces (putting a smiley next to a ‘D’ may confuse a dumb top into thinking it’s a ‘B’ — try OVER a ‘D’, get the signature and then peel the sticker back off), frowny faces, whatever (see Tasha or Mija for the limited edition neon orange ‘Power to the Brats’ ones).82025 brat-self: Stickers never die, they just became emojis. Still waiting on a neon orange “Power to the Brats” emoji pack.

Deluxe Locker Kit

Chocolate. In any and all forms. For emergency snacks (remember, there’s no such thing as too much sugar :-P) or quickie bribes (just so the other brats don’t squeal on ya <glancing over at ‘lissa>).92025 brat-self: Upgrade to fair-trade, salted caramel, or THC-infused. Choices matter.

Carbon Paper. If I hafta explain this one you is no brat.102025 brat-self: Please explain anyway, Nana. Was this before or after the dinosaurs?

Dictionary. Yeah right — NOT. (Addition: it was pointed out to me that some work with a penknife would make a dictionary a great place to hide brat objects. I’m not taking a position on this ’cause cutting up any book would put me in the OTK one. Let’s just say that this came as a suggestion from a high office holder in this town. Without naming names it was Jdg Ptrch**.)112025 brat-self: Cute. Now we hide files in the “Taxes 2014” folder on Google Drive. Same vibe.

Musical Card. You know, the ones that play ‘Happy Birthday’ or ‘Jingle Bells’. These would be a mildly bratty thing to send someone; they are rather annoying even the first time through. But an advanced brat will take the button-sized device out of the card, use a piece of tape to permanently secure it on ‘play’ and hide it in the (math) classroom (inside a light fixture or wall socket is a good place!!!). At first no one will hear it, but then there will be a quiet moment. And like a loudly ticking clock, once you hear the tinny music you cannot not hear it. Trust me, your teacher will go NUTS looking for it (practice your innocent and annoyed look NOW). The best thing is, these little musical devices have been known to play for as long as a week. <giggling madly> Oh, and extra kudos to the first brat to find one that plays ‘I’m Too Sexy’ for Petruchio’s class.122025 brat-self: Still genius. Modern equivalent: looped TikTok audio on a Bluetooth speaker hidden in the ceiling.

Nail Polish. I don’t care if you are a het male brat!! <giggle> You don’t just need this stuff, you need this stuff!! The purple, green and chartreuse polishes (let alone the neon yellow called ‘sinful’ I bought Saturday) are another way to make yourself stand out from the crowd and express your individuality. Most schools don’t yet have a policy on nail color. Imagine what good thoughts the headmaster will have of you if you have the school’s orange and green colors expressed on your nails!!! He’s bound to want to personally congratulate you on your individuality.132025 brat-self: Neon nail polish? Timeless. Also: now gender-free. Everyone’s nails get bratty.

Paddle Protectors. Another home-made item. Made from cutting bound magazines in circle shapes. Judge your own size ;). Insert in underwear or knickers prior to visiting the headmaster/mistress’s office. (Important Safety Note: obviously you need to make sure that like the ones in Knax’s stories this is going to be an over the skirt/pants paddling. Otherwise you’ll only get yourself in deeper. And don’t even think I’d be responsible! Mija is never responsible.)142025 brat-self: Sweetie, we have gel inserts now. Or claim “ergonomic accommodation.”

Police Line Tape. You know, that yellow ‘Do Not Cross’ stuff. Steal it from real crime scenes (or maybe your dad is a police officer (???)) and then squirrel it away. If you play your cards right you could close the whole school for a day or two (this might require a chalked outline of a three legged man too)!!!152025 brat-self: In 2025, this prank gets you arrested. Substitute: “Do Not Disturb — Zoom in Progress” tape.

Powerbook. Well, my Mac is bratty, and PC and UNIX people seem to think all Mac owners are brats (though that’s just ’cause we’ve never had to read the dumb manuals :-P). ‘Sides, I waaaaaaannnnnt a Powerbook all my own!!! <stamping foot for emphasis> Um, the one with the active matrix screen and DVD player. Oh, and while I’m dreaming, can I have a pony?162025 brat-self: LOL. “DVD player.” That’s vintage now. Macs still brat-coded, though.

Rayban Wayfarer Sunglasses. For the days you’re just too cool for school.172025 brat-self: Endorsed. No notes. Ray-Bans forever.

Safety Pins. In case you get tired of rolling your skirt. If you use one pin per pleat they are real hard to detect. And if you get sent to the office for the skirt being too short (it will look like it was altered by sewing) you just stop at the restroom and take the pins back out. You can now innocently claim that the teacher is picking on you. 😉182025 brat-self: Still clever. Only now the dress code violation is leggings-as-pants.

Shoe Laces. In neon green, pink or yellow (all three for that ever-so-special day!!). School dress codes rarely specify the color of shoe laces, so this is a legal (at least at present) way to individualize your uniform. A little neon near your toes is bound to lift your mood, lighten your feet, make you dance out of line. It may have the bonus of distracting your classmates and even your teacher!!!!192025 brat-self: Still works. Swap in LED laces and watch your shoes light up faculty meetings.

Closing Note

The 1997 brat kit is a time capsule: beepers, carbon paper, and Powerbooks with DVD drives <g>. Reading it now is a reminder that brat culture has always been about invention, cheek, and refusing to play “TREW SUB” by anyone’s rules.

2025 brat-self to 1997 brat-self: You’re adorable, but carbon paper? Really? Still, the bones of the brat kit hold up — it’s just the tech that changes.

So here’s the invitation: if you were building a brat kit for a period roleplay set in the 1980s or 1990s, what would you pack? Cassette tapes for “accidentally” unspooling in the Walkman? Scratch-and-sniff stickers? Trapper Keeper with a secret stash? A dial-up modem sound effect timed for maximum disruption?

As it says in the original post: This list is not exhaustive and could, no should, be thought of as the start of a thread BB4B (by brats for brats). So add your own artifacts — because brat kits are never finished, and every era deserves its own mischief.

And hey, catch me if you can.

  • 1
    2025 brat-self: Grandma, what is a beeper? You mean those plastic pagers from ER reruns? Did you carry one in your fanny pack, too?
  • 2
    2025 brat-self: Endorsed. Loud gum still works. Upgrade: neon chewing gum TikTok challenge.
  • 3
    2025 brat-self: Hershey’s still exists, but are you sure you don’t want Trader Joe’s dark chocolate peanut butter cups?
  • 4
    2025 brat-self: Liquid Paper?! Honey, we just text now. Or send memes. Still, props for spycraft.
  • 5
    2025 brat-self: Timeless. Brats highlight “spank” in PDFs now.
  • 6
    2025 brat-self: Writing on bathroom walls replaced by digital graffiti = memes + Slack emojis.
  • 7
    2025 brat-self: Still rule. Pastel ink supremacy never dies.
  • 8
    2025 brat-self: Stickers never die, they just became emojis. Still waiting on a neon orange “Power to the Brats” emoji pack.
  • 9
    2025 brat-self: Upgrade to fair-trade, salted caramel, or THC-infused. Choices matter.
  • 10
    2025 brat-self: Please explain anyway, Nana. Was this before or after the dinosaurs?
  • 11
    2025 brat-self: Cute. Now we hide files in the “Taxes 2014” folder on Google Drive. Same vibe.
  • 12
    2025 brat-self: Still genius. Modern equivalent: looped TikTok audio on a Bluetooth speaker hidden in the ceiling.
  • 13
    2025 brat-self: Neon nail polish? Timeless. Also: now gender-free. Everyone’s nails get bratty.
  • 14
    2025 brat-self: Sweetie, we have gel inserts now. Or claim “ergonomic accommodation.”
  • 15
    2025 brat-self: In 2025, this prank gets you arrested. Substitute: “Do Not Disturb — Zoom in Progress” tape.
  • 16
    2025 brat-self: LOL. “DVD player.” That’s vintage now. Macs still brat-coded, though.
  • 17
    2025 brat-self: Endorsed. No notes. Ray-Bans forever.
  • 18
    2025 brat-self: Still clever. Only now the dress code violation is leggings-as-pants.
  • 19
    2025 brat-self: Still works. Swap in LED laces and watch your shoes light up faculty meetings.
discipline

Honour’s Game, Part 3 – December 1938 – January 1939

Posted on By Mija

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The story of Inez de Vries’s experiences in the summer of 1955 unfolds through a series of documents – some official, pulled from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others are more intimate, drawn from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others will retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font. Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained.

But Inez watches. And remembers.

This story takes readers back to 1938 and tells the story of Inez’s parents, especially Lady Gwendolyn “Honour” de Vries, a St. Clare Old Girl who notices far more than most people realize.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here and promise to respond. Moreover your responses and ideas are included in the archives and may shift and change the story’s evolution. Also, the observant reader may notice Honour has a new font. I hope it’s more readable. 

Having trouble with the handwriting? Try the plain text version. 

Greystone Abbey, January 1939

If you’ve followed Honour this far – through her first lesson, her first report, and her first taste of consequence – you’ll know how easily a game of observation can become something else.
The new year finds her far from Belgravia, shut in by rain and flooded fields, testing both her wit and her husband’s patience. The guests have gone; Darlington’s lessons continue.

This story follows:

Honour’s Lesson

Honour’s Game – Prologue

Honour’s Game – Part 1

Honour’s Game – Part 2

You might want to read them first. 

Part Three

From the Archivist

From the Lady de Vries Collection, Blue Room Archives, Saint Clare’s School for Girls

The papers presented here form part of what is now known as the Lady de Vries Collection. Though the correspondence was originally preserved among the private files of her husband, Edmund Alexander de Vries, 9th Earl of Darlington, its preservation and eventual deposit at Saint Clare’s are due to Lady Gwendolyn Randolph de Vries herself.

The exchange of initials — D. and H. — occurs throughout. Their precise origins are unclear; however, internal evidence suggests that these letters were both a private correspondence between husband and wife and, increasingly, a record of informal “exercises” undertaken by Lady de Vries during the late 1930s.

The editors have retained the original orthography and punctuation. A few later pencil notes in Lord Darlington’s hand are reproduced in grey type. Where the line between affection and assignment blurs, readers are invited to remember that the world beyond these pages was also shifting — toward war, secrecy, and a very different kind of education.

Recovered documents: December 1938 – January 1939

The following entries belong to that first winter at Greystone Abbey, when the young Countess was learning that discipline can be an intimacy of its own. The surviving pages are marked in her hand and his — neat pencil corrections threading through her typed reports. Both of them writing in their fountain penned script. What began in London drawing rooms now turns domestic, quieter and more perilous.

In these documents, the young Lady Honour de Vries continues working to master her husband’s “exercises”—tasks meant to discipline her curiosity and temper her impulsiveness. Yet what began as a private game of observation now reaches beyond the drawing room. A tea in Chester Square leads to the American Embassy at Grosvenor Square, and the world of polite conversation begins to tremble with rumours of the coming war.

Through reports, annotations, and private diaries, we see the gradual shaping of a partnership: his precision against her wit, his restraint against her appetite for understanding. Honour still writes to please him—but she is also beginning to see, to listen, and to turn the rules of his game to her own advantage.

The tone remains domestic, almost playful. Yet under its surface, something colder and more intricate begins to form.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I enjoy seeing them on Twitter and Bluesky, I especially love receiving them here and promise to respond. Your observations and ideas are entered into the Saint Clare archives and may subtly shift the story’s evolution.

(more…)

discipline

Honour’s Game – Part 2 – November – December 1938

Posted on By Mija

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The story of Inez de Vries’s experiences in the summer of 1955 unfolds through a series of documents—some official, pulled from the prim and unforgiving files of Saint Clare’s School for Girls; others are more intimate, drawn from the journals, letters, and scribbled notes of the girls themselves. Some will appear typed and orderly; others will retain the texture of handwriting, rendered in a cursive-style font. Readers are invited to step into the role of archivist, assembling the story from these traces, and imagining the lives that fill the gaps between pages—the tensions, the alliances, the secrets too dangerous to write down. Not everything will be explained.

But Inez is watching. And she remembers.

This story goes back to 1938 and tells the story of Inez’s parents, especially Lady Gwendolyn “Honour” deVries, a St. Clare Old Girl who notices far more than most people realize.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I like reading them on Twitter and Bluesky, I love getting them here and promise to respond. Moreover your responses and ideas are included in the archives and may shift and change the story’s evolution.

Having trouble with the handwriting? Try the plain text version.

This story follows:

Honour’s Lesson

Honour’s Game – Prologue

Honour’s Game – Part 1

You might want to read them first. 

From The Archivist: 

From the Lady de Vries Collection, Blue Room Archives, Saint Clare’s School for Girls

The papers presented here form part of what is now known as the Lady de Vries Collection. Though the correspondence was originally preserved among the private files of her husband, Edmund Alexander de Vries, 9th Earl of Darlington, its preservation and eventual deposit at Saint Clare’s are due to Lady Gwendolyn Randolph de Vries herself.

The exchange of initials — D. and H. — occurs throughout. Their precise origins are unclear; however, internal evidence suggests that these letters were both a private correspondence between husband and wife and, increasingly, a record of informal “exercises” undertaken by Lady de Vries during the late 1930s.

The editors have retained the original orthography and punctuation. A few later pencil notes in Lord Darlington’s hand are reproduced in grey type. Where the line between affection and assignment blurs, readers are invited to remember that the world beyond these pages was also shifting — toward war, secrecy, and a very different kind of education.

Introduction

The archive continues.

In these documents, the young Lady Honour de Vries begins to master her husband’s “exercises”—tasks meant to discipline her curiosity and temper her impulsiveness. Yet what began as a private game of observation now reaches beyond the drawing room. A tea in Chester Square leads to the American Embassy at Grosvenor Square, and the world of polite conversation begins to tremble with rumours of the coming war.

Through reports, annotations, and private diaries, we see the gradual shaping of a partnership: his precision against her wit, his restraint against her appetite for understanding. Honour still writes to please him—but she is also beginning to see, to listen, and to turn the rules of his game to her own advantage.

The tone remains domestic, almost playful. Yet under its surface, something colder and more intricate begins to form.

Note: Comments are read and much appreciated. Much as I enjoy seeing them on Twitter and Bluesky, I especially love receiving them here and promise to respond. Your observations and ideas are entered into the Saint Clare archives and may subtly shift the story’s evolution.

Having trouble with the handwriting? Try the plain-text version below.

Part Two

From: The Blue Room Collection, Saint Clare’s School for Girls
Recovered documents: November–December 1938

 

Exercise — 20 November 1938

You are to attend Mrs. Allerton’s tea tomorrow afternoon. Treat it as a continuation of your previous exercise.

Instructions:

    • Keep your gloves on at all times.
    • Decline the cakes; they are dreadful, and you think better on an empty stomach.
    • Smile when spoken to, but answer only when asked. Listen for what is not said. Women talk freely when they believe you bored.
    • Write it afterwards, while the voices are still fresh.
    • Keep the tone measured, not arch.
    • Distinguish what you know from what you think you know.

Deliver your report to Darlington on the same evening. Late papers will be penalised.

You do not want to be a naughty girl, my Honour.

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amigas Card reading September Summarized in orange script

September Summarized (2025)

Posted on By Mija

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In Southern California September is a peculiar season. That felt especially true this year after a summer spent in the British Isles. September’s the month when the calendar insists autumn has arrived, Pumpkin Spiced Everything starts to appear, the days grow noticeably shorter — and yet here the thermometer climbs higher than in July.1Good grief. Clearly I’m in my 50s — I’m writing about the weather. It’s not the heat that bothers me though — mostly I dislike watching the daylight dwindle; from here to (almost) January I’m counting down to the Winter Solstice, and looking forward to when the days begin to stretch again.

The luggage is still missing, but at least I’ve replaced some of the books.

Still, I’ve always loved the back-to-school feeling — even as a teacher. There’s something magical about new notebooks, fresh pens, and a stack of books waiting to be opened. This September brought plenty of that “new term” spirit, research and writing. Here’s September’s report:

Oasis
The Las Vegas party. Not a bad way to open the month. Thanks to Sutti’s accompanying me to the party, I was able to spend time in the suites — something I hadn’t managed in years. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the first scene party in a very long while where I didn’t suffer a panic attack. That in itself is a small triumph. I have two more posts begun about the experience, but (in true school girl2At least me as a school girl… fashion) I can’t promise when I’ll be able to get back to them.

Sips and Smacks logoSips and Smacks
A thrilling highlight of the month was being a guest on Sips and Smacks Episode 125. Rex and Adalia, the hosts, are engaging and fun. This made talking with them more like a brunch chatting poolside than an interview. We spoke about the way the scene has changed, what’s very much the same, differences between Paul’s and my uniform kinks — how his lean toward discipline and precise presentation, while mine are bound up with the belonging and community that uniform uniformity represents. They were sweet and let me enthuse about Inez of the Upper IV, and we looked back at the history of The Treehouse and its links to the Usenet days of alt.sex.spanking and soc.sexuality.spanking.

[Long-time readers will recall I first wrote about Sips and Smacks in December 2024 It feels like a full circle: from discovering the podcast to sitting down with the hosts as friends.]

Inez of the Upper IV
The Saint Clare’s/Inez stories continue to occupy much of my brain space — and I’m delighted they do. Readers have joined in: writing their own pieces, sending suggestions, even sharing memories of their schooldays. When I first began offering these “documents” as building blocks for stories, I wasn’t sure anyone would care to take part. Every comment since I began posting them has mattered enormously.

I’m currently trying to decide whether Scrivener3This is my third attempt to find the right use case for the software. It’s so visually elegant. Fingers crossed. might help me manage the sprawl (the red strings, pins, and sealing wax proving inadequate), I discovered I’ve already written more than 100,000 words of notes, timelines, and background. More flows out every time I open the “Mija” profile on my MacBook. This is, without a doubt, the most sustained burst of creativity I’ve had since my early days on alt.sex.spanking and soc.sexuality.spanking. I couldn’t be more delighted to find I am still Mija, with or without Pablo, something I’d doubted was possible when this blog began.

Recently, Inez’s story has stepped back into the 1930s to sketch the story of Inez’s parents,  Honour and Ned, prompted at least in part by Brigitte’s observation that Saint Clare has some of the same atmosphere as the boarding school in Rosamund Pilcher’s novel Coming Home.

The Treehouse Returns
Even with getting to hand out with Rex and Adalia, my biggest September news is <cue trumpets>:  after being abruptly shuttered five years ago, Pablo and Mija’s Treehouse will be back online in the next couple of months. Here in my room I’ve even made a little news page here.  But, of course, after being away so long we’re renovating. The original site was hand coded by Paul in 1999 — twenty-five years later Treehouse 2.0 will have a more sophisticated back end (like me). Paul and I are currently both uploading the individual stories and other texts.  This process reminds me just how much we lived there – not just us, but some of our oldest friends. It is more than a website; it is our time capsule of 1990s-2000s Usenet, when spankos (or whatever we call ourselves) first began finding one another online. My hope is that it still carries the spirit of alt.sex.spanking and soc.sexuality.spanking — a lively space where stories and friendships grew. That space meant the world to me in its day — something I’ve discussed in posts throughout this blog — I’m so glad our little piece will soon be back.

Closing Notes
So ends September’s chronicle: one part personal challenge, one part conversation, one part creative ferment, and one part community rediscovered. If you’d like to listen in, I’ll report back soon with more on Inez, and — like everyone else in the common room — I’m waiting eagerly for the day The Treehouse reopens its doors.I’ll report back soon with more on Inez, and — like everyone else in the common room — I’m eagerly anticipating the day Pablo and Mija’s Treehouse drops its rope ladder and welcomes everyone back in.

  • 1
    Good grief. Clearly I’m in my 50s — I’m writing about the weather.
  • 2
    At least me as a school girl…
  • 3
    This is my third attempt to find the right use case for the software. It’s so visually elegant. Fingers crossed.
discipline

Honour’s Lesson, Autumn 1938

Posted on By Mija

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The brief tale that follows is not of Saint Clares’ in the 1950s, nor yet of the Upper IV. It comes from an earlier generation, set long before Inez first entered the school gates. In the unsettled autumn of 1938, Ned and Honour de Vries were newly wed. Told not through documents, but in the style of Regency romance, this story offers not a school record but a portrait of love, discipline, and loyalty in a world tilting toward war. Attentive readers may recognise here the same threads: secrecy, obedience, defiance, so important to Inez’s own story.

It was a London drawing room, heavy with smoke and restless laughter, late in the autumn of 1938. The newspapers still proclaimed peace, yet every sensible man felt the ground quiver beneath the headlines. Ned stood aloof, a whisky glass untouched in his hand, his eyes fixed on Honour, his young bride—radiant as a flame in pale silk, perilously bright.

The pale gown softened her beauty but betrayed her youth, making her seem more the debutante she had been months before than the worldly wife she fancied herself. Her laugh – pitched a shade too high, lingering a breath too long – drew the eager attention of every young man in the room. They mistook her inexperience for daring, her girlishness for sophistication.

When she mimicked the Prime Minister, tilting an imaginary umbrella and wobbling her voice in his plummy tones, the circle of young men roared with delight. She flushed with triumph, careless of the older women’s sharp glances and of the attaché in the corner whose eyes saw her not as a beauty but as a lever to be pulled.

Ned’s jaw tightened. To the others, she was a charming bride showing off her sparkle. To him, she was a bright flame catching against dry kindling. He saw the peril of innocence mistaken for invitation, the danger of brilliance wielded without care. He sensed gossip already clinging to her like sickly perfume, a risk that could be stored, repeated, used. He admired her wit – how could he not? – yet threaded through the gaiety he heard something else: the false brightness of a society pretending it was not on the verge of war.

Once they left the party, he let his mask slip, stopped hiding his displeasure. They rode home in near silence, the hum of the motor car the only sound between them. Honour was still flushed with triumph, replaying her witticisms, humming, smiling as though she had carried the evening herself. To her, it had been another drawing room lark, a stage on which she sparkled. To Ned, it was a reminder that he was already driving headlong into a war declared in whispers, a phantom that would end only when the real one began.

At last she noticed his tension. “You’re cross with me,” she said, light as champagne bubbles. “Were you jealous, my husband? I did not think you insecure. It was but a bit of fun to pass the time.”

“You enjoy being noticed,” Ned replied flatly.

She smiled, careless. “Is that a crime, my Darlington?”

He did not turn his head. His gloved hands rested steady on his knees, his gaze fixed ahead.

“You enjoyed yourself,” he said finally, his voice level. “Too much.”

(more…)

books

Saint Clare Prehistory, Part One – In which The Luggage steals my sources

Posted on By Mija

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This post will (hopefully) evolve. It’s intended to be a living bibliography of boarding school books, stitched together while my brick-red school trunk goes off into an alternative universe to have adventures without me… because every great school story begins with a missing kit and misplaced books.

There are still several days of Oasis Party posts (first and second) waiting in the wings, and more than a few Inez entries stranded halfway through editing. In theory, finishing those should have my full attention for this Friday morning’s blogging. In practice, however, my AuDHD brain—already juggling post-COVID fog, the occasional energy crash, ridiculous Southern California late-summer humidity and heat, unanswered emails, and an overwhelming number of personal and professional to-do lists—has staged a coup. It looked at the careful queue of half-finished projects, waved politely, and declared: what we really need right now is to get a boarding school bibliography posted.

And so here we are.

I’ve been meaning for ages to pull together a proper list of books and studies—especially those centered on British girls’ schools. Partly as a research tool, part a nostalgia trip, and, of course, partly an excuse for muttering, “Can you believe this was actually published… for children!?” As a research resource, it’s also slowly taking shape in Zotero, where I no longer have to depend on memory (unreliable), BBEdit, my favorite writing space, on random pages of notebooks, or on the chaotic space that I call my desk.

FedEx account of The Luggage’s journey. Clearly there is a portal somewhere in the LA sorting facility.

(more…)

Oasis 2025 – Day (-1) – Arrival.

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Some things are over, some things go on.
Part of me you carry, part of me is gone.” — T.P

Wednesday, August 27, 2025

Day -1: Arrival

I left the house at 5:00 AM this morning to catch an eight o’clock flight from L.A. to Las Vegas. Landed just after 9:00 AM, hotel by eleven, dog park stop for Sutti tucked in before my 2:00-5:00 meeting, oodles of emails and then quick walkies before straight into teaching a Zoom class from 7:00-10:00 PM that’s only just finished. Tomorrow morning brings more meetings before the official start of Oasis tomorrow night. As ever the weekend feels like a braid of obligations: academic, domestic, and canine, with an added kink.

This is only my second Oasis—my first on my own. Last year Paul and I were in Vegas together, as we had been for decades of parties before. Onks ago, before he moved to Los Angeles, before we married, there were two long-ago Shadow Lane Labor Day parties I’d attended without him, but those were in Palm Springs, and I’d driven. No dog, no flight, no juggling of suitcases and expired licences. Flying makes traveling different, heavier somehow,  though I’d been careful—lesson learned from the UK trip—to pack light: just two bags, each under twenty-five pounds. Neither heavy nor hard to handle on their own,  but even packing light is heavy with the knowledge of how often and how much I’d taken for granted Paul’s quiet labor as bearer. Without him, every minor thing looms far larger.

Today it was the luggage hydra: deplane, doggie relief, train to baggage claim (blue line? red line? I never remember—this airport feels like it was designed as a riddle). Then the slow parade: bus to central car rentals, another bus to the off-site car rentals—only to discover my driver’s licence had expired last month. Back on July 28, my birthday, while I was in the UK, no less. Exactly the sort of stressful AuDHD slip that drove Paul quietly nuts and that he would have noticed, prevented, and made sure I fixed before I even clocked it was a problem.

Sutti and my much-smaller luggage watch me try and solve the Expired Driver’s License Problem.

Left to myself, I still made it through. Solved the license issue in twenty minutes via California’s DMV online renewal –a minor miracle—but not without the sense of carrying two bags that grew heavier with every transfer, multiplying like gremlins despite each being small enough to carry-on.1Though I’d checked them because, well, Sutti. And then, of course, my discomfort at navigating the casino: all flashing lights and noise, a disorienting labyrinth that seems custom-designed to trip every sensory wire I have. Paul’s guided me through such spaces so many times (I realized today I’ve never even been to Vegas without him), steady and unbothered while I flinched at the clamor, blindly following the thread of his presence like it was the only map that mattered. Alone, it was another gauntlet in a day full of them.

Still, I managed, and I am managing. Day-by-day. There’s a quiet pride in that, a sense of #smallvictories—getting the licence renewed, finding the right bus, shepherding the luggage and the dog and myself through the day. But the victories don’t lessen the losses. Friends like Tony, gone. And Paul: his absence both sharp and constant—so much so it blurs into the texture of everything, distorting, making it harder to name, and still harder to breathe. Not impossible—just hard. Everything is harder without being satisfying..

Tonight, beneath it all—the meetings, the luggage, the dog walks—runs the quieter anticipation: what it would mean to play here, or anywhere, without him. For years, Paul has been both my anchor and boundary: the one who made it possible to for me play, however rarely, with others, because I knew he would be there afterwards to carry the physical side of aftercare, to give the touch I otherwise find so impossible to accept. Even before he began attending these parties with me, he called every night whether I was away or home. Bedtime check-ins, his voice steady in my ear, the reassurance at each day’s end that no matter what I did or didn’t do at the party or elsewhere, he would be there to come back to, to gather me in, make sure I made it back to him and to myself. That’s always been my real aftercare—the spine of it.

Once he could come to parties with me, he was never far away. We didn’t play together much, but he watched me play with others, his presence making that play possible, his aftercare grounding me through some deep and dark scenes. He watched and helped me say “no” when I froze, carried me out of scenes that might otherwise have left me stranded. Care that was the invisible net beneath the visible play.

In June I went to TASSP in Dallas, my first time at that gathering, first party without Paul in more than twenty-five years. I stayed only a couple of days, and I made the conscious choice not to play much at all, apart from the group detention scene. It wasn’t abstinence so much as reconnaissance: watching, listening, reminding myself I could be present without having to prove anything by throwing myself into play. Oasis will test that same edge. Do I play? With whom? Why? And if I do, what scaffolding will I need to make it feel safe, meaningful, shared, and mine?

I haven’t really seen anyone yet—just a few quick waves across the lobby this afternoon. The anticipation is still in my head, untempered by coffee or dinners or catching up. Today his absence showed itself in the unglamorous practicalities: luggage straps biting into my hands, the absurd relay of trains and buses, the birthday licence expired in the desert heat. Tomorrow, I know, it will surface in quieter ways—less visible, more tender.

For now, I’ll go down to dinner, alone. Later, at least, I will not be entirely alone in the king-sized bed. Sutti will be there, breathing steady beside me. A small comfort. But a comfort all the same.

  • 1
    Though I’d checked them because, well, Sutti.
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