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fiction

MP Visits Saint Clare – Part VIII – Mustn’t Grumble Gladys

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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.

 

Archivist’s Foreword

The following entry was written on the evening of 12 July 1955, after the party from Saint Clare had arrived at Bryn Derwen.

Unlike the previous document, which was composed under some pressure and at speed, this account was written in a place that ought to have been familiar and consoling, but was neither. It does not revisit the events of the Headmaster’s study (those are recorded elsewhere, and at some length), but concerns itself instead with what lingers once the official business is concluded, everyone has been properly seen to, and there is nothing left but supper, accommodation, and, possibly, tears at bedtime.

Former pupils may find the tone uncomfortably recognisable.

The MP Visits Saint Clare – Previously posted

Gladys’s Diary

12 July 1955

Evening (at Bryn Derwen)

The scene in the Head’s study was the worst of it. The rest of the day wasn’t as loud or dramatic, but it sat on me just as heavily. I cannot remember feeling so weary, so empty.

I never did drink the Head’s tea. Even the sandwiches looked poisonous, the bread curling at the edges, the ham shining faintly in the heat. I watched Gerald eat, cool as a cucumber. When the Head returned, he thanked him as if nothing more awkward than a recent school report had been discussed.

(more…)

discipline

NEW STORY – Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack – A Krampus at Saint Clare Story

Posted on By Mija

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Foreword:

Every so often, a Saint Clare story arrives from an unexpected corner—this one came from an offhand comment on Bluesky about how “Arabella” is the name of a girl who is absolutely up to mischief. That joke blossomed into an open challenge to write a story with “Naughty Arabella” somewhere in the title.

https://bsky.app/profile/mija-again.bsky.social/post/3m754wu5vrc2n
This is my offering.

Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack – Winter 1925 at Saint Clare’s takes place firmly within the larger Saint Clare universe, but outside the Inez of the Upper IV arc. It introduces an earlier generation of girls—and a long-standing bit of school folklore involving a seasonal visitor who is, essentially, OFSTED with hooves. Krampus pays annual calls to Saint Clare’s, but this year he meets his match in Arabella Fairchild: blonde, brilliant, catastrophically charming, and overdue for supernatural accountability.

The result is part school-story romp, part institutional mythmaking, and wholly Saint Clare’s.

 STORY – Naughty Arabella Gets the Sack

Chapter I – In Which Saint Clare’s Watches a Drama Unfold

Saint Clare School for Girls slept beneath a frosty moon in the winter of 1925, its chimneys puffing industriously and its corridors stretching away into dim, draughty mystery. Most of the Second Form were fast asleep in their flannel nightgowns—except for those peering nervously from their beds, listening to the unmistakable CLONK—CLONK—CLONK of something decidedly not school-sanctioned approaching.

Arabella Fairchild, however, was not in her nightgown.

Oh no.

Arabella stood at the centre of the corridor, dressed in her full uniform—immaculate gymslip, snowy white shirt, hair ribbons neat at either side of her head—because Arabella firmly believed that if one must face the supernatural, one should at least look as though one were about to captain the lacrosse team.

She was, as the Headmistress had once remarked in a despairingly admiring tone, “the sort of blonde beauty who, in six years, during her first season, will oblige her father to consider hiring armed guards1Borrowed from Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather (I think). in addition to the usual chaperones.”

Arabella knew this.

Arabella relied on this.

But Arabella’s beauty had never yet faced Krampus.

Girls Who Watched

Behind her, in the rows of narrow iron bedsteads, half the Second Form crouched behind blankets, whispering furiously.

“She’s done it again,” hissed Primrose Pembury, who had once taken the blame for Arabella’s practical joke involving a frog in the Latin master’s hat.

“And she’ll get away with it again,” muttered Clara Dawlish, who had written one hundred lines after Arabella persuaded her to switch name-tags on the exam papers.

“I’d like to see her caught. Just once!” whispered Lottie, who had been given detention when Arabella accidentally (on purpose) set off a smoke-bomb during sewing.

Little Sally Billings (who had been framed for the “ink-in-the-cocoa” incident) clutched her hot-water bottle and breathed, “Look at her! Smirking like she owns the place!”

The girls’ resentment simmered in the cold air.

This was the year Arabella Fairchild would receive her comeuppance.

They could feel it.

(more…)

  • 1
    Borrowed from Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather (I think).

New Story: The Angel Ruston

Posted on By Mija

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#AdAstraWriMo – November 2025 Progress!

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 sunset, 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 bills and correspondence. It now stood out, glowing, 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…)

Announcing 2025 Michealmas Term at Saint Clare

Posted on By Mija

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It’s Michaelmas Term at Saint Clare: #AdAstraWriMo begins at midnight.

Once again, the gates of Saint Clare School for Girls creak open.

The crest still gleams with its public motto: Ad Astra, To the Stars, but those who know the place remember the stitched-in version, the one learned by heart and not by rote:

Per Disciplinam et Lacrimas, Ad Astra – Through discipline and tears, to the stars.

Tomorrow, November, the eleventh month begins and, with it, writers globally again attempt the 50 000-word challenge. This year, I’m returning to Saint Clare not to start something new, but to bring everything home: the stories, the notes, the fragments that have accumulated since the first tale was written back in 1999.

At last, my new Scrivener project now holds the entire school – the dormitories, the prefects’ room, the staff meetings that go on far too long, and, most importantly, the archives. Throughout the month of November I’ll be migrating, revising, and writing new pages for Inez of the Upper IV (Summer Term 1955) – and, in another wing of the imagination, finishing the Honour and Ned series, their stories set some twenty years earlier.

It’s not exactly NaNoWriMo, and not quite rebellion either.
Think of it as a special Michaelmas term: attendance required, results to be determined.

Fifty thousand words will (hopefully) follow – some new, some rediscovered, all part of the same ledger.

The Old Girls return and the inkpots are full once more.

The term begins tomorrow. I’ll be in my study, writing, counting words, and organizing, and in the school’s library, procrastinating via exhaustive research.

If you want to follow along: everything will be filed under#AdAstraWriMo.

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.
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.

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.
discipline sketch of a folder and pen on top of a skirt and blazer

The Elwood Files – Inez of the Upper IV

Posted on By Mija

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How to Read “Inez of the Upper IV”

Banner of "How to Read Inez of the Upper iV"The story of Inez de Vries 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.

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.

Forward to the Elwood Files

It is one of the consolations of life in a girls’ boarding school that, although hairbrushes vanish before prayers only to reappear at bedtime, knee socks sag at inspections, and knicker elastic betrays its wearers at the worst possible moments, one may always rely upon the ingenuity of the pupils. The present dossier — christened in pencil The Elwood File — began with a folded scrap of green ink and a doodled key, and swelled, in due course, to the proportions of a minor parliamentary scandal. Or so it felt to Ronnie Elwood at any rate.

decorativeThe dramatis personae require only the briefest introduction. Veronica (Ronnie) Elwood (Upper V) is amiable and obliging, with a handwriting that proclaims every secret long before she intends it. Inez de Vries (Upper IV) is armed with both daring and design, seldom without a plan calculated to vex her elders. Keeping them under ceaseless watch is Georgina Fairfax, Senior Prefect, whose close supervision might well recommend her to the quietly vigilant MI5. Among the staff, Matron persists with her infallible spoonfuls of of cod-liver oil, Miss Kelley keeps a close eye on her house with rather sharper judgement than some expect, and the Headmaster, from his lofty perch, maintains that martyrs are not to be manufactured at any cost.

The scheme itself — to smuggle a page of prose through the mighty bulwark of school protocol, hidden inside another girl’s letter home — did not succeed. Prefects pounced, staff rummaged, and the mail-bag emerged none the wiser. And yet — here is the rub — Lady de Vries, many miles away, somehow contrived to receive the very intelligence intended for her, and with remarkable promptness.

How Lady de Vries came by her intelligence is not disclosed in these pages. That she had it — and was corresponding about her daughter with the Headmaster before the week was out – is beyond dispute. The archivist can only remark that Saint Clare’s leadership is already discovering how very little control remains within its grasp.

Having trouble with the handwriting? Try the simple font version.

Notes Found

[Folded small; tiny key inked at the top.]

 


Strictly Between Us — Dispose Wisely
Do you have space in your letter home for a stowaway?
Thought you might add something for me next time you send yours — nothing shocking, just something better not left in the St. Clare’s pigeonholes. I’d owe you a favour (real currency, not just toffee).
Your mum wouldn’t mind a stowaway page, would she?
P.S. Your hair looks like it’s plotting mutiny today. In the best way.


Margin (G. Fairfax): 11/6 — confiscated, folded tw

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Waiting for Inez – It’s your own time you’re wasting…

Posted on By Mija

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This bit should go without saying, but just in case. Saint Clare stories contain corporal punishment of fictional children. School girls. Fictional children are the only sorts of children who should be spanked. This is porn/erotica, not parenting advice or possible pedagogy. You’re welcome to start any comment with “I don’t believe in spanking children,” though I assume that’s the case. Me neither.

While You Wait for Inez…

Wouldn’t you know it? The bell has gone but Inez isn’t quite ready. She’s gathering her notes, straightening collar and tie, and revising her opinions, always a painful process.

While you wait, this is your chance to explore the Saint Clare back catalogue. Saint Clare’s School for Girls stories don’t begin with Inez — she’s only the latest bright spark to walk its drafty halls. Many of these earlier tales date back more than 25 years, and span the decades between the late 19th to late 20th centuries. Some are tidy and well-edited. Others are not. But they all belong.

From Pablo and Mija’s Treehouse on Saint Clare stories:

The fictional St. Clare School is a place very near and dear to Mija’s heart. It part of a space she’s had since childhood and exists largely in her mind. Prior to these stories, most of it hadn’t ever been shared with anyone. It has a long history, however, and the stories in this collection aren’t written in any sort of serial fashion. Characters change and time moves forward and backward so only the school itself is a constant.

Mija’s vision of St. Clare is roughly drawn from both her Catholic girls’ school in the United States and her imaginary vision of a British girls’ school – though the setting will seem more British than American. It also comes from her reading about schools in Britain and visits to Scottish museums and uniform shops.

Most of all it is an imaginary female space, so the stories will revolve around schoolgirls and their relationships with each other. And spanking too, of course. St. Clare School is nothing if not traditional.

I’ve cleaned the ink off a few blotters, pressed my kilts, and opened the archive. They’re not meant to be read in any special order.

 

Here they are:

Tessa’s Summer Uniform

The first of the St. Clare stories, inspired by a trip to Aitken and Niven in Edinburgh. A daughter’s transfer to St. Clare and the shopping trip for her new uniform becomes a lesson in the discipline her mother ‘felt’ at both home and school.

Can’t Buy Me Love

The second of the St. Clare stories. A new girl’s attempt to win friends at St. Clare through gifts of sweets lands her in painful trouble as she painfully learns that true friendship must be earned.

The Comfort of Small Things

The third of the St. Clare stories, co-written with my dear friend, the ever-bratty MollyB. It’s a tale of friendships between girls and women as two field hockey players  are made to pay OTK for an intimate transgression.

Red Darn

It’s wartime, complete with rationing, and someone’s not taking care of her knickers! How wasteful. Poor Fiona wants to curl up with a novel and takes a few short cuts to get more reading time. Unfortunately, this doesn’t end well for her. Written for one of the last SSCs.

A Meeting With Our Headmaster 

Mariana writes to her friend Vera about a visit to their headmaster’s study and a very painful waking up!

Emily’s Report

This is more parental (or at least paternal) than the other St. Clare stories, but the school is still there (though maybe in not-so-central a fashion). It reflects my daddy/daughter-ish vein of stories

Overdue 

A short St. Clare story written for the 2001 SSC. I’ve always been fascinated at the power that prefects and the like were given over other girls at school – including the power to punish their peers

Not a timeline. Not a canon. And the curriculum is always in flux.

Some of these stories contradict each other. Some characters have changed their names. One or two staff members appear in two places at once. No one agrees on the colour of the prefects’ blazer. And frankly, some of the punctuation and spelling is shameful.

I’m calling it “curriculum reform.” Because continuity is for boys’ schools.

One more note…

Yesterday I posted a short companion piece — “Saint Clare School Justifications or A Few Explanations for the Inconsistencies That Are Absolutely Not My Fault“on just this topic.  It offers excuses, background, mixed in with a bit of girls’ and women’s education (Written in best handwriting, naturally.)
Post TitleDate Posted
Teaser – “Inez of the Upper Fourth” – a Saint Clare Summer Saga21 July 2025
Saint Clare School Justifications or A Few Explanations for the Inconsistencies That Are Absolutely Not My Fault)22 July 2025
Waiting for Inez – It’s your own time you’re wasting…23 July 2025
Start HERE: Inez’s Detention Essay24 July 2025
Inez of the Upper IV – Cast of Characters25 July 2025
The Real Motto of Saint Clare’s School for Girls27 July 2025
The Staffroom Files Part 1: Inez of the Upper Fourth29 July 2025
Notations from Matron’s Logbook: Inez of the Upper 4th30 July 2025
Staff Meeting Transcript – Inez of the Upper IV2 August 2025
Inez’s Diary, 19 June 19553 August 2025
Clarissa’s Letters Home or The Jelly Baby Files11 August 2025
The Elwood Files – Inez of the Upper IV17 August 2025
The Lady and the Headmaster23 August 2025
The Secret Letters – Part 15 September 2025
Melodrama by Post: Aunt Gladys, Lady de Vries, and Other Disasters7 September 2025
Heard in the Charrington Household, OR,The Day Miss Gladys Came Home12 September 2025
Gladys in Trouble15 September 2025
Honour’s Lesson, Autumn 193816 September 2025
Honor's Game - Prologue - Autumn 19383 October 2025
Honor's Game - Part 1 - November 19383 October 2025
Honour’s Game – Part 2 – November – December 19384 October 2025
Honour’s Game, Part 3 – December 1938 – January 193924 October 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare – Prologue – 11 July 195516 November 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare: Part 1 – 8 – 12 July 195519 November 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare Part II – The Road to Saint Clare22 November 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare Part III – Gladys Williams’ Return23 November 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare Part IV – Heard From the Outer Office24 November 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare Part V – Clarissa in the Infirmary 11 December 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare Part VI - Inez’s Diary, 13 July 195526 December 2025
MP Visits Saint Clare – Part VII – Ghastly Gladys29 December 2025
MP Visits Saint Clare – Part VIII – Mustn’t Grumble Gladys30 December 2025

Teaser – “Inez of the Upper Fourth” – a Saint Clare Summer Saga

Posted on By Mija

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This summer in Mija’s Room, I’ve come back to to Saint Clare’s School for Girls. Here’s a teaser of what’s to come, starting, hopefully, later this week. 

Saint Clare’s School for Girls. 

Where you eat what you’re given.
Where the prefects are as sharp as their pens.
Where the staff only agree on one thing: a clever girl is dangerous —and must be managed.

Yet Saint Clare’s School is for clever girls.

 

Enter Inez de Vries.

At fourteen, she is a strategist in a gym-slip—a third-generation legacy.
She’s read the rules.
She understands the masters’ and mistresses’s expectations.
What she hasn’t learned—yet—is the code the girls keep among themselves.

This isn’t a redemption arc.
Not a story of downfall or triumph.
This is an end-of-term report. Inez’s portfolio. Her folder.

Inside are the essays no one wanted to mark.
The memos no one was meant to read.
And a perfect curtsy, well-timed, and offered not to the Headmaster,
but to the young woman wielding the Head Girl’s hairbrush.

 

Bring your best pen.

Press your shirt.
Straighten your collar.
Check your tie.
And wear your badge properly.

You are seen. Always. Even the silences.

…That, at Saint Clare’s School, is and eternally has been the final word.
Post TitleDate Posted
Teaser – “Inez of the Upper Fourth” – a Saint Clare Summer Saga21 July 2025
Saint Clare School Justifications or A Few Explanations for the Inconsistencies That Are Absolutely Not My Fault)22 July 2025
Waiting for Inez – It’s your own time you’re wasting…23 July 2025
Start HERE: Inez’s Detention Essay24 July 2025
Inez of the Upper IV – Cast of Characters25 July 2025
The Real Motto of Saint Clare’s School for Girls27 July 2025
The Staffroom Files Part 1: Inez of the Upper Fourth29 July 2025
Notations from Matron’s Logbook: Inez of the Upper 4th30 July 2025
Staff Meeting Transcript – Inez of the Upper IV2 August 2025
Inez’s Diary, 19 June 19553 August 2025
Clarissa’s Letters Home or The Jelly Baby Files11 August 2025
The Elwood Files – Inez of the Upper IV17 August 2025
The Lady and the Headmaster23 August 2025
The Secret Letters – Part 15 September 2025
Melodrama by Post: Aunt Gladys, Lady de Vries, and Other Disasters7 September 2025
Heard in the Charrington Household, OR,The Day Miss Gladys Came Home12 September 2025
Gladys in Trouble15 September 2025
Honour’s Lesson, Autumn 193816 September 2025
Honor's Game - Prologue - Autumn 19383 October 2025
Honor's Game - Part 1 - November 19383 October 2025
Honour’s Game – Part 2 – November – December 19384 October 2025
Honour’s Game, Part 3 – December 1938 – January 193924 October 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare – Prologue – 11 July 195516 November 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare: Part 1 – 8 – 12 July 195519 November 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare Part II – The Road to Saint Clare22 November 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare Part III – Gladys Williams’ Return23 November 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare Part IV – Heard From the Outer Office24 November 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare Part V – Clarissa in the Infirmary 11 December 2025
The MP Visits Saint Clare Part VI - Inez’s Diary, 13 July 195526 December 2025
MP Visits Saint Clare – Part VII – Ghastly Gladys29 December 2025
MP Visits Saint Clare – Part VIII – Mustn’t Grumble Gladys30 December 2025
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