It may be March and a Spring morning, but the air feels like an Arctic wind wafting Melvyn Stewart’s ankles, swirling under his petticoat and kilt, between his knees and thighs, and fluttering round the feminine thinness of his full-cut panties in white silk. It’s fine for his mother, striding through the main shopping mall in Stirling centre in her beaver fur coat and boots. Not so comfortable for her son since she purchased his full highland costume yesterday of Scottish girls’ blouse and Stewart kilt and blazer, with the most embarrassing under-trimmings imaginable.
“More swing in your arms, Melvyn. Keep them straight, wrists turned outwards beside your kilt, but with more swing.” Maureen Stewart has the voice of a drill sergeant, drawing the attention of every passer-by. “I don’t want a robot walking beside me: I want a well-dressed and properly poised obedient boy. I’ve told you before – ”