Dear Search,

I was thrilled by the letter from J B of Bath, in your Vol. 4, No. 12, in which she describes the ordeals of her petticoated husband; I can well imagine the torments he must suffer. I have long been an advocate of petticoat discipline for boys and can vouch for its effectiveness. Last year my sister came to visit me, bringing her eleven year old son. I soon saw what an unruly monster he was and suggested petticoating. My sister was shocked at first, but admitted she was at her wit's end, and finally agreed.

My two daughters eagerly sorted through the baby girl clothes I had made some years ago to discipline their brother, and even now he is sometimes put into a lace-trimmed pinafore and made to help with the housework. His sisters and their friends tease and laugh at him of course, and this soon deflates his arrogant ego.

The following day we laid tea in the garden, and my daughters brought some of their school friends to join in the fun. While they had tea, my sister and I got my nephew ready. We are both teachers and know how to handle small boys. Although he struggled at first, a good sharp slapping from me soon cured all that. He begged and began to cry as I put him in a pair of frilly baby pants, but he didn’t risk another slapping. Next came a white organdie slip trimmed with lace, and little bows around the hem. Over this went a pink baby dress with sweet little puff sleeves edged with lace. While I tied a huge ribbon in his hair my sister strapped him into a baby harness which had small bells which jingled as he moved. The final touch was a baby’s dummy, pinned to his dress by a length of ribbon. I had purposely left on his heavy boy’s shoes and socks, and the contrast between these and his babified condition made him look absolutely ridiculous.

The girls had finished tea and were playing a game in the garden. He could see them through the window, and when we said we were going to take him outside to show them what a pretty baby he was he nearly had a fit. Even so, he had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, into the garden. Naturally the game stopped immediately as the girls stared at the struggling wretch. Several had never seen a boy in frocks before, but when they saw me holding him firmly by the baby reins they eagerly gathered round, lifting his skirts and giggling at his frilly underclothes.

Each time my scarlet-faced nephew dropped his dummy to protest, it was jammed back in place by one of the laughing girls, who were by now thoroughly enjoying themselves. They stood in a circle and began to chant, ‘Baby, baby, bunting – Baby, baby, bunting,’ until he flew into a rage, but I held him firmly by the reins, just out of reach of his tormentors.

Seeing him helpless in my firm grip gave them confidence. Two would mock and laugh at him while a third would creep up and pinch his bottom, or trip him up. After half an hour of this we were all a bit out of breath, so we sat him in a chair, and while his mother held him I produced a baby’s feeding bottle, and amid squeals of girlish laughter they all took turns feeding him. He rebelled at first at this new indignity, so I put him across my knees, turned his dress back, and gave him the spanking of his life.

I realize it must have been a terrible experience to be made to cry like a baby in front of a circle of jeering girls, but later my sister said it had worked wonders. The mere threat of being brought back to me was enough to make him as docile as a lamb.

Yours truly,

(Mrs) M. C. Leicestershire.