It’s the sight of the bloomers as Sinead opens them and lets them hang from her fingers that pushes the boy much closer to his sexual climax. How emasculating they are. He cringes with shame as Miss Tavistock lifts the kilt above his head and lowers its pale pink satin lining over his blouse until it spreads over his petticoats and slithers into its position. She hooks it together at the back of its waistband, then lifts each of the tartan straps over his shoulders so that they can be buttoned onto the front of his kilt with large, black, shiny buttons.
Maureen claps her gloves together and rests her cheek on them. “Oh I love the pink stripes through the tartan: the Kilt pins in a line of three, and those precious pleats. And it’s so SHORT!”