The one thing that is a virtual certainty with uncomfortable, sleep-deprived nights is that you will be sleeping the sleep of the dead when the alarm goes off in the morning. The horrible bleeping of the clock drags me kicking and screaming back to a world that is still black and uncomfortable. I had originally booked two days off work after my court appearance so I could get a little used to my restraints before having to face my classes, but those have been gobbled up by my extra time in prison. So I’m off to college and classes on day one of my corrective restraint. I’m allowed out of my hood from 0720 and I have to leave the house by 0805 to walk 10 minutes to the tube station, 33 minutes on the tube, and twelve minutes’ walk to the college music block, arriving about 0900. So that gives me 45 minutes in the house to get up, do toilet, make myself presentable, and above all, eat. I am absolutely ravenous having had nothing but a few dubious liquid feeds for three days. With so little time for anything else, Rob and I get our snuggling done before the hood comes off. He feels warm and hunky and there’s no trace of the anger that has plagued our relationship recently. We cuddle up and kiss through the hood and I wrap his arms around me. There is a strangely comforting feeling about being helpless in the arms of a good man whom you know will look after you, even if he can be an angry prick at times. As the clock ticks towards the magic minute the anticipation and tension build in us both. Is it really going to happen? Am I really going to be able to take it off?

 

The hood itself has no locking mechanism, but it extends right down my neck and the collar goes over it, sliding through two loops of material like a trouser belt. The collar traps the slider of the hood’s zip at the bottom, preventing it from being being undone, and they told me that the computer in the collar can tell if the hood is not in place underneath it. So I can’t get the hood off until the electronic lock on the collar releases, which it will do for just five minutes starting at 0720. I have those five minutes to get the hood off, wash my neck if I want to and get the collar back on in time for its lock to re-engage. If it doesn’t think it’s close enough to the chips in my neck when it locks then it will phone the ‘Management Division’ and ask for enforcement.

 

With a minute to go there is suddenly a long beep from my collar. It seems it knows. There are three bleeps at thirty seconds, two at twenty, a countdown of bleeps from ten, and then a click and a quiet whir of some hidden motor. I feel a little vibration in my neck, but that’s all. I raise my hands and pull at the collar and to my surprise it comes open on the left side. Trembling with anticipation I open it further and with Rob’s help we slide it free of the loops on the hood.

 

“Ready?” asks Rob.

 

“Mmmm,” is all I can reply. I’m too excited to say anything more.

 

I feel Rob slide the zip up and the pressure around my head releases, tugging at my skin which has stuck to the inside of the hood. The first flashes of light reach my eyes as he works the hood up off me, followed by the blinding brightness of a small bedside lamp, and then Rob’s face appears as my eyes recover from the glare. I’m overcome with emotion and throw myself at him, wrapping him in my arms and kissing him like he’s a soldier coming home from war. It feels so good to have that thing off my head and I can’t contain my joy. Rob has still got himself under control though and through my barrage of affection he manages to remind me that I’ve only got five minutes before the collar has to be back in place and if I want to wash and massage my neck I’d better get on with it. He’s right of course. If the collar’s not back around my neck when the lock re-engages I’ll be in the shit.

 

I bounce out of bed, rush to the bathroom and get the shower going. Under the deluge of warm water I wiggle my head about like a demented spinning top. The simple joy of movement, something we all take for granted until it is taken from us. But all too soon Rob is leading me from the shower and has a towel around my neck. He’s holding my collar and it bleeps a single, long bleep, lower pitched this time, as if to signify impending doom. He’s got it round my neck and is holding it shut by the time it beeps three times and the wait for the countdown fills me with fear. I’m not scared of wearing the collar, I’ve done it for a day and I know I can bear it, it’s the thought that we’ll screw up, not have it closed properly when the lock engages and I’ll get another six months in it for non-compliance. The ten final beeps pass and the whir of the motor comes again. I feel it vibrate slightly and then nothing. For a while we just stand there, afraid to let go of the collar in case it hasn’t locked properly. But eventually Rob lowers his hands and I do too. The collar remains closed and my brief period of freedom is over.

 

After that it all starts to feel just like a normal morning, except that we’re both running late. Rob works out in Berkshire and has over an hour’s drive to get there, and I’m on a mission to stuff as much food as I can down my throat before I have to go to work too. I’ve eaten nothing but a few bland liquids for three days and I’m absolutely starving. There’s no time to cook anything, but my kitchen is able to provide toast, cereal, melon, more toast and most importantly, coffee. Like freedom to move, food is something else that I never appreciated until it was denied.

 

I’ve used my unable-to-sleep time in the night to work out what I’m going to wear and how I’m going to do my hair. It is ironic that I got into all this by protesting about being banned form wearing trousers, and now I can’t wear them because of the chain linking my thighs. And of course knickers and tights are rather off the menu now as well. I don’t know if stockings will work with the thigh bands, but I’m going to avoid the issue by going for knee length black boots below a plain black dress that will only leave my knees exposed. I haven’t worked out what colours will go with a shiny, chrome plated collar yet, but black goes with everything and seems like a safe option. I’m forbidden to wear anything that obscures the collar, but I do have my most luxurious feature to help me. My hair. A dense and long mass of red curls and if it happens to hang down the back and sides of my neck then I don’t think they can call that ‘wearing anything’. I could easily pull my hair in at the front and cover the collar completely but I don’t think they’d let me get away with that, especially if they can’t see through the camera.

 

The short time in my house has been so rushed that I never got round to considering how walking to the tube station in a convict’s collar would feel. It’s not until I’m out on the pavement and I see a man walking towards me that it hits home. Everyone’s going to see it and I have no idea how they’re going to react. I feel really self-conscious as the man gets closer and I see the point when he notices the collar. He obviously pretends to look away and says nothing as we pass, but I could see his gaze come back and fix itself to my neck as he approached. It gets busier as I walk from my residential street and closer to the tube station. I curse the loud tapping of my boots’ heels on the pavement which seems to shout out to everyone that there’s something to look at here. Normally that’s the point of course, but today I wish I’d worn soft, flat, sensible boots, even though I don’t actually have any.

 

After a while I find the reactions of people to my collar seem to fall into three main categories. Most people pretend not to notice and pretend they’re not staring even though they are. Some people tut or make a disapproving gesture, but a surprisingly large proportion seem to approve. They nod and smile, some even say something like ‘good on you’ as they pass. I’m not too sure whether they’re expressing approval that I have presumably tried to fight against the government, or approval of seeing a woman being punished in a collar. Perhaps they just think it looks ‘good on me’.  I try to do the London thing of zoning out from everyone else and avoiding eye contact as much as possible, but that gets rather difficult once I’m on the train because I can’t lower my head and look downwards at the floor or even turn enough to gaze out of the window. It is a very embarrassing and difficult journey even though no-one really hassles me much.

 

It doesn’t get any easier once I finally arrive at work. I’m straight into my first class and I have to stand in front of fourteen students and try to teach them about the evolution of the riff and its effect on modern guitar-based rock music, but I know my words will be drowned out by the silent elephant in the room. I decide to have it all out first and clear the air so we can get on with the day, but I have to be careful what I say. That microphone in my collar will no doubt be listening out for any feminist filth that I might try to corrupt my students with.

 

“Well as you can all no doubt see, I have this lovely chunk of metal round my neck. No, I haven’t broken my neck and it’s not because I’m into S+M either. I’ve had a bit of a dispute with the law of our fine country and as a result I’m in this for the next few months. And I would strongly advise you all to make sure you don’t get yourselves into a similar situation. So can we just concentrate on the work now please?”

 

There’s an awkward silence for a few moments and then one of the four boys in my class pipes up.

 

“We all know what you did Miss Melstrom. And I say well done. If only everybody stood up to the government like you did, things would be different.”

 

A general murmur of agreement ripples around the classroom but I can see that it is by no means unanimous. I find it interesting that while I seem to receive universal support from the boys, the girls seem much more varied in their reactions. Several of their faces speak of ambivalence, of confusion and a few of disapproval. I wonder if I have another Suzanna Black or two in my class.

 

“Well thank you for that Tim, but we’re not here to do politics, we’re here to do music so let’s just concentrate on that.”

 

The rest of the morning class passes without incident and I manage to do some useful teaching and play the riffs my students have written, despite the fact that I’m not very good on a guitar at the best of times and I’m particularly not good when I can’t look down to see what my fingers are doing. I also find that I can’t stop myself looking out of the window a lot, across the grass to the history block to see if I can see Sarah. I got Rob to operate my phone last night and spoke to her for quite a while. It seemed she was coping with her restraints and was in good spirits, on the surface at least. I dismiss my class a few minutes before morning break so I can walk over to see her, but when I go to pick up my handbag from our little staffroom I find that she has made the trip to me and is waiting for me there. And she looks rather incredible.

 

“Sarah! My partner in crime.”

 

“Hello Jem. Are you impressed I came all the way over to see you in these?” Sarah gestures to the chains linking her ankles.

 

I rush over to her and give her a rather bigger and friendlier hug than is perhaps appropriate in the workplace but I don’t care. There’s a bond between us now and we are more than just friends. Then I get on with making some coffee and toast. Despite my huge breakfast I’m still hungry, and possibly for something more than just food. I keep looking at Sarah. I see her in a different light now.

 

“Still no glasses I see,” I say. “But you look great, considering… all those.”

 

I gesture to her chains, of which there are rather a lot. She has a solid-looking metal cuff around each wrist with a little under a foot of chain linking them. From the centre of this chain, another one runs down her front to her ankles where it loops back and forth between two more metal cuffs. It all looks horrible, unfair, cruel, stupid, unjust, but yet it stirs something other than just revulsion in me. I hate myself for even wondering if it might be just a tiny bit sexy.

 

“I’ve gone back to contacts for now,” she says. The trouble with this lot is I can’t reach my face unless I’m sitting down and if my glasses slip a bit it’s a real problem.”

 

“It makes that much difference to sit down?”

 

“Well I hate to admit it but it’s all quite clever. This chain hanging down my legs slides through these little rings on my ankle cuffs, from one to the other and then back again. So there’s always two lengths of chain between my ankles. As long as I keep my hands down below my waist I can get about a 30cm stride, and so I have to be careful walking and stairs can be a real hoot if they’re steep, especially going down. But if I stand with my ankles together I can pull all the chain through the rings and get enough slack to reach my chin. Or annoyingly, enough slack to do the washing up according to Jack. If I need to reach any higher than my chin I have to bend over or sit down.”

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry Sarah. It must be horrible.”

 

“Well you know… It’s only day three for me and I’m starting to get used to it already. I think I can manage most things with a bit of wiggling about. And err, well you know me now. It’s not all bad.”

 

“Better than prison?”

 

“Oh god yes. Although I have to admit, not everything in prison was bad either.”

 

“Hmmm. Maybe these belts are good idea after all.”

 

“Maybe they are.”

 

“Rob thinks it’s sexy you know.”

 

“Good for Rob. There’s hope for him after all. How are things between you two?”

 

“Getting better I think. I had it out with him last night. He’s promised not be angry and he was helpful and supportive this morning. See waiting for that hood to come off, it was like nothing I’ve ever known.”

 

“Exciting?”

 

“Yes, but more than just that. Something else too.”

 

“Was it sexy? Come on Jem, admit it. It was sexy wasn’t it.”

 

“In a very odd sort of way, yes I suppose it was sexy.”

 

“Yeah, there’s hope for you too.”

 

“You seem to be very cheerful Sarah. All things considered.”

 

“Well it’s a bit of a front I suppose. Sexiness aside, the chains aren’t really that bad. It’s the humiliation that’s hard to bear. Everybody staring at me all the time. The only way to deal with it is to look happy and undefeated, and to try and feel that way too. I’m trying to pretend it’s all just a sexy adventure.”

 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you yesterday. I promised to help.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault.”

 

“Yes it was. I wound that little witch up and got my comeuppance. It was stupid of me and I feel like I let you down.”

 

“Oh, you shouldn’t feel like that Jem.”

 

“Well I do. I’m so sorry Sarah.”

 

“Don’t be sorry. Although if you’re feeling guilty I seem to remember there was a promise about my living room floor you could make it up to me by fulfilling.”

 

“What? Was that actually a promise?”

 

“Well if it wasn’t, you could upgrade it to one now.”

 

I look at Sarah and wonder how she can make so light of our situation. We’re both at the start of an ordeal that is going to go on for months and she’s treating it like it’s just a little game. She’s looking back at me with a naughty smile on her face, a face that sits above a shiny metal collar and a strange looking dress with a too many zips. And suddenly her ‘I’m not going to let it get me down’ attitude infects me and I smile back at her.

 

“Okay, it’s a promise,” I say.

 

“And you have to bring Rob.”

 

“Well, err, I can’t promise that he’ll come, but I’ll try to bring him. Of course my love making abilities are rather limited outside of working hours at the moment, and I remember there were supposed to be chains involved. I haven’t actually got any.”

 

“Well we can keep it until after we’re done with our sentences. It’ll be something to look forward to. And I’ll provide you with chains if you haven’t got your own.”

 

“Oh. You’ve got plenty of spares I suppose.”

 

Our sexy conversation is interrupted when Joan comes into the staffroom to make herself coffee. Joan is the music department secretary and clerical assistant, and she’s a quiet woman in her late twenties who keeps herself very much to herself. She never speaks to anyone beyond what is required to do her job or to avoid being rude, and none of us know anything about her except that we don’t like her. And that’s because she is a certified lady. She has signed up to a code of conduct dictated by the government to dress and behave in a ladylike manner at all times. She has volunteered herself to always wear a hat and gloves outside in public, to always wear high heels and a dress, a full-length one in the evenings, to never run or shout, to always be clean and smart, to address men as ‘Sir’, as well as a load of other ‘ladylike’ stuff, and in return the taxpayer subsidises her life and a lot of what she buys. And that all makes her something of a collaborator. While I can see the attraction of much of what being a certified lady involves, to sign up for it when the government seems to have declared war on women is surely an act of treachery. Joan has sided with the enemy and everybody despises her for it, although I suppose she is the first person I’ve met today who hasn’t stared at my collar and she doesn’t seem to notice Sarah’s chains either. She just makes her coffee and heads back to her office. But her presence has spoiled the veneer of light-hearted sexiness that Sarah and I were painting over our situations. All too soon, coffee break is over and it’s back to work. Another class, another batch of students and another elephant in the room to be overcome. Roll on lunchtime, I’m still hungry.

 
Continued in The Accidental Feminist, Part Nine