Mija’s Room

Category: travel

New Story: The Angel Ruston

Posted on By Mija

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#AdAstraWriMo – November 2025 Progress!

Saint Clare November: 14,539 / 50 000 words

This hastily written story was inspired by a FaceTime conversation. As I sat in my uniform talking about rain and a research plan,  the face on the other side of the screen was illuminated such that it seemed to wear a halo.

Distracting. Because of course I kept thinking of guardian angels… and spanking. Of course.

The Angel of the North

I stood on tiptoe before the angry, red postbox, fighting to shove a stack of letters through the slot as they threatened to slide out of my grasp. One of them, the thick, unwise one I had written in a fit of 1AM tears, pleading, and righteousness, was wedged right in the middle, its edges tearing.

Already I knew it was a mistake. But the postbox was there, the letters already partway in, and, well, inertia is a powerful force.

(I am Entropy Girl, but that’s another story.)

As I shoved harder, someone behind me cleared his throat. The sound was the most polite, academic, schoolmasterly “ahem” I had ever heard.

I didn’t need to turn. I recognized the voice immediately.

But I turned anyway, my heart already thudding with anticipation and dread.

Despite the polite Britishness of Ruston’s gentle “ahem”, the sound always promised tears at bedtime.

Behind me a tall, faintly rumpled man, spectacles perched halfway down his disapproving nose, his greying hair illuminated in the fading light, stood watching me, his expression mild, eyes intense. I could just see his wings, yes, tucked neatly like an afterthought, the feathers in soft parchment colours, almost shadows against his white shirt. He carried his own oddly individual lighting, the sort that reminded me of the way at dusk a hilltop statue glows at embued with quiet, watchful authority. His gaze was that of a don who’d had to step out of a tutorial, now forced to deal with my nonsense personally.

“My dear girl,” he said in a voice low, warm, but unmistakably reproachful, “you cannot possibly intend to post that.”

Too polite to point, he nodded at the incriminating envelope, the one I’d unconsciously tried to hide in the sandwich of more innocent correspondence. It now stood out and glowed, if not red, then sunset pink.

Knowing I was lost I still tried to brazen it out. “It’s already sealed and stamped.”

Ruston sighed, beleaguered as only a male guardian angel who’s shepherded my communication for almost three decades can sigh. “Neither sealing nor stamping an imprudent letter renders it prudent, my dear, only harder to retrieve.”

(more…)

bottoming

Oasis 2025 Day Two: The Envelope Please

Posted on By Mija

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[My first and second Oasis 2025 posts are here and here.]

I’m not going to talk about the dog park today. Suffice to say Sutti and I went out, found a patch of green, she played hard, we came back, she ate, drank, and took a nap while I had a two-hour meeting with my department chair. It went well—we discovered we’re on the same page about where the department goes next, which is always a happy thing.

Afterwards I got coffee and started thinking about detention.

My detention with the Headmaster (Stephen Lewis) wasn’t until the very end of his evening schedule—9:02 p.m.—because I’d told him about my afternoon meetings and he’d kindly shifted me. (Thank you!). The later slot meant I wouldn’t see much of the vendor fair, but that was fine. This house already has more than enough implements, thank you very much. I did, however, pick up a wonderful tin of “Bare Bottom Balm” from the lovely Botany Bitch. She’s based in Southern California, but of course we had to meet in Las Vegas.

I did my first of these Headmaster sessions at last year’s Oasis. Paul walked me over, waited outside (yes, you can hear through the door), and then took me back to our room where school punishments blurred into home ones. This year would be different.

The set-up is remarkable. Each session is only six minutes long. There are chairs outside where the next two or three people wait, nerves jangling, muffled sounds of spanking drifting through the door. Quiet, shared humor in the hallway. The shortness of the appointment is part of the realism—you’re just another unfortunate student slotted into the Head’s busy evening.

Last year with Mr. Lewis, it had been straightforward: missing assignments—both of us playing the roles serious and straight, as though the scene were a page from an actual school register. This year I’d tried for an adventure. With Inez on my mind, I added a twist: tardiness (a perennial), missing work (inevitably linked), and—my favorite—“being cleverer than the teachers.” I hit send.

This was set out in Newcastle the day the uniform arrived. I forgot to take one at the hotel.

Hours before my slot I slowly assembled the uniform: ironed my white shirt, changed into navy knee socks and black Docs, tied my tie, buttoned my kilt. But before any of that I’d already donned the very irregular panties beneath my regulation knickers. At least deciding to wear the Scottish uniform solved my “what to wear” problem. (See photo—not taken in Vegas.)

And in case you’re wondering why I so often overpack for spanking weekends: it’s the possibilities. What if someone wants a safari scene? Or this is finally my chance for T-Rex cosplay discipline? Yes, I’ve packed the dark green blazer—but what if the navy one is the one that matters? It goes on like that, to infinity.

For those of us who do school roleplays that last hours, the idea of a meaningful scene in six minutes seems ridiculous. But Mr. Lewis makes it work.

I was called in, handed over my envelope containing my offenses. He inspected it first for tampering. I hadn’t tampered with it—not even with removable washi tape—but I had unthinkingly jammed it into my backpack, where it migrated to the bottom like a guilty secret. Though I’d ironed it along with my skirt, he declared the envelope and slip only barely passed muster. Already I felt like the careless schoolgirl I’d claimed to be.

You would think an envelope would protect a note a tiny bit better.

He questioned me, sharply but not unkindly. Tardiness. Missing work. Being cleverer than the teachers. My heartrate shot up. I was already regretting the pink-panties gambit. First I was taken OTK, knickers up. For a moment I started to relax—the navy knickers are enormous; surely they could keep the much smaller pink pair safely hidden.

I was then led to a table and told to bend over it for six sharp cane strokes. It was a light-ish cane, delivered over my knickers.

As the cane strokes fell, one by one, each with its signature SWISH, I was reminded of my “cleverer than my teachers” offense by being asked if I thought I was smart. “No, sir,” I answered quickly and meekly.

“You are smart,” he corrected me. “But perhaps not smarter than your teachers.”

I found the cheek to agree: “Not all of them.”

Painful, yes—but perhaps because of the double layers, not unbearable. With each stroke I became more certain I was going to get away with it, that my pink panties would remain a private joke I could tell “Mr. Lewis” about after our scene was over.

Alas, not so. After the final stroke, Mr. Lewis stepped closer, smoothed my knickers, and lifted the leg elastic just a fraction. His voice went severe: “I thought as much.”

I knew better than to rise—no one says that and then sends the culprit on her way. He crossed back to the desk, selected the tawse, and told me to prepare for twelve strokes. It would have been six, he noted, had I not been “too clever.”

The first six bit and were bearable—sharp, stinging, the kind of pain I could take with steady breaths. The second six fell lower, harder. Each one drove me up onto my toes, fingers clamped white-knuckled around the table’s edge as I fought the urge to jump up, to throw my hands back and cover my bottom.

At last he told me that was all, and that better behavior would be expected in the future. I thanked him, as properly as I could manage, and received a brief embrace before being sent on my way.

Then, returning to myself, I asked him how it was going. He said it was fine—lovely, actually—except that he was terribly bored with the sound of his own voice. I left the suite laughing.

When I reclaimed Sutti, her temporary keeper reported that my absence—vanishing into a room she couldn’t see, from which came strange and worrying noises—was, as far as my furry friend was concerned, NOT OKAY.

Sutti’s ruling was clear: no more disappearing into mysterious rooms, thank you very much.

Day three’s post will also involve Stephen Lewis, but in a very different context.

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.
amigas A watercolor sketch of a huge stack of luggage and a small black dog,

Mija and Her Brave Furry Companion in the British Isles OR Five Suitcases, One Dog, and the Case for Simplicity

Posted on By Mija

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Preview — To be read in BBC Radio 4 style

A summer adventure across the British Isles with Mija and her faithful furry Sutti girl: castles and cottages, uniforms and ferries, triumphs, tribulations, and luggage of mythic proportions. Part travelogue, part comeSutti-to-Kings-Crossdy of errors, and wholly a tale of old friends, new discoveries, and the surprising case for simplicity.

Chapter 1 — Long Beach: Paperwork, Panic, and Packing

(in which bureaucracy meets AuDHD and luggage multiplies like Gremlins)

The days before July 4th were chaos. The house had to be left in order: weeds pulled, rocks shifted, spiders relocated from their Olympic training ground. Errands multiplied — medications, safe deposit box, vaccinations (for Sutti, not me). I was just about keeping up when United rang with the kind of breezy cheer reserved for delivering ruin: “You’re missing a Heathrow Certificate for your service dog. No papers, no entry. Cargo is an option?”

“No, cargo is not an option.”

My voice probably cracked. I’d been so careful about everything to do with Sutti, working on it months in advance, working off a series of lists, paid a veteranery service to make sure her certifications were correct.1Turns out those were for her health. Heathrow needed to document *mine.* This had not been mentioned prior. Sigh.] 

Numbly I stood and listened to the nice woman from United outline what documents needed to be obtained and emailed and what would be required to get them. That they usually took a month or so to process, but I could try and get them done faster if I followed her instructions. These included calling Heathrow. “I can’t” I whispered.

She didn’t hear me.

“Email them to me when you have them. Then call so I know they’re there.” 

I sat staring at the clock. It was late on July 3rd — the Friday before the biggest holiday weekend in the U.S.2Businesses that had opened all had mostly closed by 12PM. — and suddenly I understood the particular horror of being told doing something isn’t impossible, but almost is. Traveling with my dog in the cabin into the UK in 18 hours wasn’t closed off entirely — it could be done, there is a process, but only with Herculean effort, panic, and possibly a pact with Satan. That was, in too many way, worse than an outright “no.” 

Because I was already exhausted and anxious to the point of burnout. I spent most of the previous year feeling stressed and stretched beyond breaking. By the time the semester ended being told I had to resubmit a single form caused tears and a sense of overwhelming despair.

 

I am not cargo.

Soo, not at my best. But this is Sutti. I couldn’t go without her — she needed to be on the plane. And not as cargo.

So began twelve frantic hours of bureaucratic hopscotch: PDFs, rabies certificates, microchip scans, vet letters, panic disorder paperwork, and, I swear, fragments of the Magna Carta. And so many phone calls.3Real calls. Like where I dialed and talked to people. People I didn’t know and weren’t expecting my call. Who were really helpful. At one point I tracked down Sutti’s trainer on his 25th anniversary trip to Paris.4Okay, but I didn’t know that’s where he was. Or why. By dawn, miracle of miracles, Heathrow approved her. When the LHR certificate finally landed in my inbox, ready to forward triumphantly to United, the sense of accomplishment I felt was on par with getting my doctorate. My vet’s office later told me no one they knew had ever flown a dog into the UK in the cabin of a commercial airliner. I credit academic-deadline stamina, indignation, and loyalty to a small dog who is not cargo.5I was also extremely fortunate that my employer had had me document Sutti’s training, skill, and my need for it so I already had letters from my doctors testifying to my CPTSD, severe anxiety, and panic disorder. So I guess I should thank my university’s HR office. Someday. The Heathrow Animal Reception Centre, brisk, friendly, helpful, and sensible (July 4th being just another day to them), were also exacting. (I had to call after each batch to find out what they needed next. Finally they determined that my paperwork was valid, Sutti s a service dog, but since her school isn’t on the official ADI list, I could either prove her training in 47 different ways, none possible from outside the UK, or pay £447 so she could enter with me.

I gave them my credit card number. It was 5AM and I still needed to pack. Yeah, my packing never stood a chance. Executive function is, for me, a single-use tool, and mine was entirely eaten by the paperwork marathon while it was going on. Once that fire was out, nothing was left for choosing clothes. So I defaulted to the only possible strategy: bring everything.6It was pointed out to me, that there was another choice. Bring nothing and buy the things I needed. Sensible in retrospect and would have proved far cheaper in the end, but I’m not lying when I say it never crossed my mind. Surprised? In the end I had two giant 60-pound7To be fair to myself one contained a 20 pound bag of Sutti’s Very Special Food (sold in the UK it turns out) and all her toys and stuff. suitcases, a carry-on roller, and a backpack. The Luggage Hydra Gremlin was born. And had been fed after dark.

More after the jump

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  • 1
    Turns out those were for her health. Heathrow needed to document *mine.* This had not been mentioned prior. Sigh.]
  • 2
    Businesses that had opened all had mostly closed by 12PM.
  • 3
    Real calls. Like where I dialed and talked to people. People I didn’t know and weren’t expecting my call. Who were really helpful.
  • 4
    Okay, but I didn’t know that’s where he was. Or why.
  • 5
    I was also extremely fortunate that my employer had had me document Sutti’s training, skill, and my need for it so I already had letters from my doctors testifying to my CPTSD, severe anxiety, and panic disorder. So I guess I should thank my university’s HR office. Someday.
  • 6
    It was pointed out to me, that there was another choice. Bring nothing and buy the things I needed. Sensible in retrospect and would have proved far cheaper in the end, but I’m not lying when I say it never crossed my mind. Surprised?
  • 7
    To be fair to myself one contained a 20 pound bag of Sutti’s Very Special Food (sold in the UK it turns out) and all her toys and stuff.

(Belated) Round-up – June 2025

Posted on By Mija

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June 2025 has been [okay, was] a surprisingly full month. It’s usually pretty sleepy. For the past four years, Paul and I have spent a least part of it in Mendocino — a wild and beautiful part of Northern California — decompressing from the academic year and getting ready for the summer. This year, of course, is different. With the exception of a weekend in Dallas for TASSP, I spent June living on my own getting ready for spending July-August in the UK.

Like everything else this year, these preparations weren’t as simple as I’d thought they’d be (and I expected them to be hard), partly because this is really the first time I’ve lived alone outside of being in university residence halls. Partly too because of the wildly complex process of getting Sutti certified (health and recognized as a service dog) to come into the UK and fly in the cabin rather than cargo. Most of all though, it was difficult because the situation in Los Angeles, brought about by the federal government’s sending secret police into the city1Even now, writing this, I can hardly believe what’s happening. , was and is, horrible. Living amidst neighbors who are too scared to go to work or even leave their homes so their kids can go to the park is hard to imagine until it happens. Sitting in this lovely cafe in Mumbles, Wales, I’m afraid of what I may be coming back to.

On the positive side, in addition to spending time with Paul, I’m looking forward to the chance to experience Wales, a part of the UK where I’ve never been, and the Republic of Ireland later this month, another place I’ve never been there either. I’ve gotten back in touch with three “old” (as in long-standing, they’re all younger than me) friends, none of whom I’ve seen in more than a decade. Knowing I’m going to see (well, I’ve already seen two) before I go back to California feels good.

Kink:

  • Found a Saint Clare story, “Red Darn,” written many moons ago for a soc.sexuality.spanking short story contest. It’s “new” in that it was never archived on the web via The Treehouse.
  • Flew to Dallas, Texas and went to my first Texas All-State Spanking Party (TASSP). This was the best, most well-organized spanking party I’ve ever been to. Party report to come. Someday.

  • Got an adorable vintage uniform and was/am shocked to find it fits.2This prompted me to weigh myself. Without trying I’ve lost more than thirty pounds since September 2024. Explains why everything fits wrong — I’ve been wearing size 14-16s (US) – should be in size 8-10. Of course, that’s the one size range between 20 and 4 where I don’t have many clothes — right now everything I wear is baggy and  This gymslip fitting has been a singular bright spot.  Thanks to some excellent detective work on the part of Twitter and Bluesky readers, I was able to announce that it’s from a Welsh girls’ school that closed in the 1970s, just shy of its 100th anniversary.
  • Attended a small but mightly spanko munch in Santa Monica. This was great fun and a wonderful way to fight the drop from my first TASSP! I’d say it was a “local” brunch but more than half the people I met were visiting from somewhere else.

Internet: 

House & Garden: 

  • Was able to get my garden into (better) shape, front and back. Hopefully everything won’t die off while I’m away July and August.
  • The house is also slowly getting into shape. While “Busy Mija” has been cleaning and organizing, her alter ego “Entropy Girl” keeps leaving messes.
  • Moved some very heavy things all by myself thereby managing to get some impressive bruises.
  • Had a bumper tap accident. No one was hurt, but the damage to the other car (new Tesla), while not noticeable, includes some broken sensors so is going to be super expensive. Enough so I’ve reported it to my insurance rather than paying for the other driver’s damages. So next year’s insurance is going to be super expensive too. Upside?

Reading:

  • I’ve been celebrating the end of the semester/start of summer vacation AND hiding from reality (as said above, things are weird in Los Angeles/California/USA just now) by reading “cosy mysteries” by the armful. Some of the authors I’ve liked best are:
    • Alan Bradley
    • Rhys Brown
    • Laura Childs
    • Karen Baugh Menuhin
    • P.J. Nelson
    • Lydia Travers
    • Charlotte MacLeod (re-reading after almost 35 years)
  • Currently reading:
    • Cherished Belonging by Gregory Boyle  (audio)
    • Heartbreaker by Mike Campbell (audio)
    • Princess of the Savoy by Ron Base and Prudence Emery

 

….and I’m also reading everything I can get my hands on on girls boarding schools.

Related to that, I’ve got more to say and a larger project going up here soon, but will leave this post here as is and save everything else for later. I’ve got enough internet to post this now and may not in another hour.

So, wela di wedyn my friends. 

 

  • 1
    Even now, writing this, I can hardly believe what’s happening.
  • 2
    This prompted me to weigh myself. Without trying I’ve lost more than thirty pounds since September 2024. Explains why everything fits wrong — I’ve been wearing size 14-16s (US) – should be in size 8-10. Of course, that’s the one size range between 20 and 4 where I don’t have many clothes — right now everything I wear is baggy and  This gymslip fitting has been a singular bright spot.

About Uniforms: When This Schoolgirl Boards

Posted on By Mija

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[I began writing this early in the morning on July 3 planning to finish and post it before my flight to London on July 4th. In keeping with this UK trip having “nothing is easy” issues, when I called the airline at 7PM PDT to make sure that everything was set , I received the unhappy news from United that there was a whole other area of  needed documentation culminating with a permission letter from Heathrow Animal Control required for Sutti to travel with me. They were lovely and helpful. Twelve hours of sifting through medical files for needed paperwork and $70+ worth of international calls and Sutti and I were able to board. 

This, and the consequences of my procrastination/overpacking,1More on this problem later. They’re related derailed my plan to write and post this to my blog before I left, however. London was a whirlwind, meeting up with Paul, making sure Sutti recovered well from the flight… on and on. Now in much quieter Wales (we’re in lovely, delightfully named Mumbles, sort of a coastal suburb of Swansea), I’ve not been able to post or do much of anything on the internet because there are lots of connectivity issues. The owner’s struggling to getting BT to turn the internet on, and there’s basically no cellular service either, even with my UK eSIM. Serves me right for wishing so hard for a digital detox. ]

The question isn’t “should I wear a school blazer for tomorrow’s flight?” but rather “which one?”

Blue, Green, Burgundy,or Navy?
Four blazers hang ready, each with its own story—and its own discreet Latin motto waiting to be sewn on with the patch. By the end of this post you may be able to help me decide which one I should wear tomorrow for my flight from Los Angeles to London.

What? Why does a Fifty‑Something Woman Wear Her School Blazer on Planes?
Short answer? Because school blazers are perfect traveling companions, especially when flying. You may think it’s my kink talking here, but come with me on this. My blazers have been the perfect addition to my wardrobe, in and out of scenes. Longer answer? Wearing a school blazer when I fly is the single smartest travel decision I’ve ever made. Doing so combines fashion, function, and playful rebellion against the tyranny of airplane pajamas. Frankly, they look smart!2As I’m writing this I’m remembering that Olympic athletes often have a travel uniform that includes something very like a school blazer. Indeed, the origins of uniform blazers connect to the history of rowing teams.

This was my flight outfit to and from Dallas for TASSP

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  • 1
    More on this problem later. They’re related
  • 2
    As I’m writing this I’m remembering that Olympic athletes often have a travel uniform that includes something very like a school blazer. Indeed, the origins of uniform blazers connect to the history of rowing teams.

Gymslip Mystery Solved – An “About Uniforms” Extra Dispatch

Posted on By Mija

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A Special Bulletin from:

The Bell Rings Out

Proudly misprinted every third Thursday since 1914

For Immediate Release (Despite No Authority Granting It)

Though this report falls outside our customary publication schedule (and indeed outside Matron’s good graces), the Editorial Committee has resolved, unanimously and with much thumping of fountain pens, to issue this special edition.

We are compelled to interrupt our regular editorial schedule to bring you this hastily penned, but no less vital, communique, one that has left even the most senior prefects momentarily lost for words (a rare occasion indeed), upset our (admittedly non-existent) posting plans, played havoc with our study schedules, and caused considerable disruption to our indexing of tuck boxes and biscuit crumbs, this paper is pleased — nay, obliged — to issue an unscheduled dispatch.

The circumstance are further news to report on the mysterious gymslip featured in yesterday’s #DailyUniform communiqué (Twitter and BlueSky editions both). Though I wore the gymslip, complete with crest and motto, I didn’t know what school the uniform came from, an embarrassing fact for this reporter. Was it a boarding school? Coed or girls only? Was the  school even still open? Thanks to our loyal readers and their strange encyclopedic knowledge of school uniforms and girl’s boarding schools, the truth is now known!

Word arrived at precisely 3:47 p.m. — carried not by pigeon, but by Trevor Bell  whose dashing entrance through the common room window has already entered local legend. Breathless and biscuit-crumbed, he delivered a parcel of information so curious, so delightfully unplanned, that it demanded immediate attention.

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My June is about…

Posted on By Mija

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… Re-Organization

April and May 2025 were something to survive. Along with the ordinary end-of-the-semester stuff, April was all about Paul getting ready to leave in early May. It was an odd sort of leaving. He was packing right up until the day he left. I was in the craziness that is finals week at any university, especially Spring term.1Spring is always the worst because everyone panics realizing that faculty will be gone over summer and so all of the things that have been put off all semester have to be done now. On the day he left I took him to pick up his rental car,2He drove across country, from LA to NYC, stopping to visit friends and Giant Landmarks on the way. planning to come back and take a Zoom meeting. But then I decided I didn’t want to be left. So I grabbed my bag and Sutti and basically said a “see ya!” kind of wave and drove to campus. When I got home, Paul was already on the road.

I’ve spent the last few weeks working in the garden, reading and listening to cozy mysteries, making playlists, playing with Sutti, going to doctors, and trying to clear out the house. While this isn’t exactly the first time I’ve lived alone, the other places were in university housing so it also kind of is. Except I’m not alone because Sutti, having completed service dog training and able to come with me everywhere, is my constant companion. Since we’re both missing Paul, her for pats and me for smacks, we’ve been doing our best to comfort each other. Someone on Twitter suggested I make a point of posting #smallvictories every day. It’s a good practice and is making me be aware of the good things that I make happen each day.

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    Spring is always the worst because everyone panics realizing that faculty will be gone over summer and so all of the things that have been put off all semester have to be done now.
  • 2
    He drove across country, from LA to NYC, stopping to visit friends and Giant Landmarks on the way.

March 2025 Update

Posted on By Mija

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Things that have happened this month, so far:

February Raffle:

The drawing notice finally went out – the winner is Natty!

Spanking Startles and Such: 

Reading: Earlier this month I read The Weed that Strings the Hangman’s Bag by Alan Bradley, the second in his Flavia de Luce mystery series. They’re set  1950s (?) England, and about Flavia, an 11-year-old girl who solves murder mysteries.  In the midst of it all, I came across this startling passage where our protagonist mentions getting spanked in the church by the vicar’s wife, who used a sort of hymnal. Young Flavia, a chemistry fiend, had taken a scraping from a stained glass window to do a chemical test on:

Hymns Ancient and Modern (image adapted from Wikipedia)

Of the many phrases that came to mind to describe Cynthia Richardson, “good sport” was not among them; “ogress,” however, was. It was after all Cynthia, with her rodent features, who had once caught me teetering tiptoe on the altar of St. Tancred’s, using one of Father’s straight razors to scrape a sample of blue zafre from a medieval stained-glass window. Zafre was an impure basic arsenate of cobalt, prepared by roasting, which the craftsmen of the Middle Ages had used for painting on glass, and I was simply dying to analyze the stuff in my laboratory to determine how successful its makers had been in the essential step of freeing it of iron. Cynthia had seized me, upended me, and spanked me on the spot, making what I thought to be unfair use of a nearby copy of Hymns Ancient and Modern (Standard Edition).

“What you have done, Flavia, is not worthy of congratulation,” Father said when I reported this outrage to him. “You have ruined a perfectly good Thiers-Issard hollow-ground blade.”

OMG! Promo image of Expelled!

Gaming: Speaking of stained glass, I’m playing Expelled! on my Nintendo Switch. The game is set at a girls’ school in 1922. The player’s character is Verity, a scholarship girl who is being framed for pushing another student out of an ancient stained glass window.

My current status is “Extremely Naughty” so no surprises there.

After I posted about this game on the Sips and Smacks Discord server, someone told me the game company Inkle has an earlier game, Overboard, that also has spanking-friendly content.

Swan Song Update: 

I’m getting spanked a lot—like a lot a lot. I’m also wearing uniforms pretty often, for me, for Paul, or for me and Paul. I haven’t taken many daily uniform pictures, mostly because I’ve tended to forget until I’ve already changed out of it. I’ve also been gardening most days, which is something I obviously don’t do in my uniform. Speaking of gardening, I’ve been wearing overalls a lot. As I mentioned on Twitter and BlueSky, I find them pretty vibe-y and am surprised there aren’t more spanking pictures with people wearing them. Also, garden-related, I got switched by Paul for the first time.

Currently, I walk by this school desk, chair, and a small (!!!) hairbrush paddle (made by Adam and Gillian) every time I pass through the dining room.

On a more practical level, we both agree that if I can, I should keep the house after Paul goes to the UK, though given that our mortgage payment+taxes is about 90% of my current pay, this is going to be tricky. There are no raises in sight, at least not until I can go up for promotion in a few years, because I work for the government (state university). But given how much rent is in the Los Angeles area and the severity of the housing shortage in Southern California, worse than ever since so many people lost their homes during the fire, I couldn’t rent a place for much less. I’m exploring finding a housemate… we’ll see how this goes.

Paul and I are trying to get The Treehouse back up before he goes. There’s a lot of sorting out to do, though. On this blog, I’ve added a “6 of the Best” page to the top menu, pointing to six blog posts I currently like. This page will be updated1In theory anyway. as time goes on and I write more. We’ll see how it goes.

 

House and Puppy Stuff:

The garden is getting cleaned up — my newfound love of gardening has been so much fun. It’s involved me getting switched2Inside thankfully! and fulfilling a fantasy of having overalls taken down for a spanking. The feeling of going from fully dressed to standing in knickers and a tee-shirt, so quickly, is, as we all say now,3I suspect someday use of the word “vibe” will date this post. “vibe-y.”

Having completed two-thirds of her training, Sutti is now officially designated as a “service dog in training.” Her paperwork is currently in progress to get permission for her to come to campus with me. She is such a joy and such a brat—definitely brattier than I’ve ever been, but also far cuter.

Summer Plans:

Academic year 2025-2026 cannot be over soon enough as far as I’m concerned. After classes end, I’m planning to go to TASSP in June and then spend most of July and (perhaps) August in the UK and Ireland. Sutti is traveling with me, assuming we can get her passport sorted. So far, I think we’ll be in London, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Limerick, and various places in the North of England. This should get nailed down a bit more in the next couple of months. A lot depends on whether or not I get sabbatical time for the Fall 2025 term. While I’m slow to play with new people, I’m always happy to meet up for coffee or other beverages, especially if there might be cake. Let me know if you’d like to try and connect.

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    In theory anyway.
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    Inside thankfully!
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    I suspect someday use of the word “vibe” will date this post.
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