Previously...

‘If you have quite finished, you had better go and have a shower and get dressed in something smart.’

‘Why, Daddy?’

‘The club wants a meeting with you. I think fatted calf and the return of the prodigal daughter were mentioned...’

‘They want me back,’ I squealed.

Daddy winced. He didn’t like me squealing, as it gave him a headache.

‘It looks like it, so go and get ready.’

I kissed him and then kissed Danni and walked daintily off–well I screamed a bit and ran around the gym twice, did a couple of high fives, the occasional whooping noise and then clattered out of the door and was up in my room in a couple of nanoseconds, my aches and pains from my torture training forgotten in the excitement of it all.

They wanted me back!

And now the story continues…

I was wearing a smart, cream suit with a white silk blouse. The skirt went to just below my knees and was tailored with a single pleat to the front. I hoped that I looked in businesslike mode, as I had serious business to attend to.

After kissing Mummy and the twins’ goodbye, and then Mrs Moon, cos she’s a sweetie, I was off with Daddy. Auntie Monica had gone on a hospital visit to a friend in erm, hospital and had dragged a protesting Claire and Andrea with her. When Auntie speaks; you don’t argue!

Daddy was driving his new Merc. He had gone up in the world, and as he was now earning serious pennies, the BMW wasn’t good enough for him. I didn’t mind, as it had a good vanity mirror on the passenger side and I could do some emergency repairs to my face as and when necessary.

My dear father didn’t tell me much, and was as quiet on the subject of my future as one of those nuns in a nunnery who have a vow of silence thingie.

As we approached the club, I could see the vast stadium from a distance. The sight of it always gave me goose pimples, even after being part of the club for a while now.

Being mid week, it wasn’t that busy at the club and as we went through the private entrance, I wondered where we should park. We had lost our parking privileges when Hiram B Crapalot decided to suspend me. I felt a bit guilty for a nanosecond about referring to Hiram like that, but then I remembered what a Class A scumbag he was, and how he had been involved in drugs and no doubt other nasty things, so, alive or dead, he was still not a very nice man.

There was a queue of people outside the club shop and I gave them a little wave and they shouted and clapped for me, making me go hot in the face and all embarrassed. Don’t let anyone say being a well known face is good–well, it is sometimes, but at other times, I just wanted to be an ordinary teenager, with hang-ups and attitude. Okay, I did have hang-ups and also attitude, but it’s really hard being right all the time when so called adults think that they know best and ...

‘We’re here,’ said Daddy rather obviously. Did he think I was blind or something?

I nearly said something witty and to the point, but then I remembered, I was in power suit business mode and it would have been unbecoming of me to be so cutting. Anyway, Daddy was a sweetie and after all he was male, poor lamb, so what do you expect?

You could tell that I was nervous, I always was when something important was about to happen. I used the loo in reception as I didn’t want any distractions when in the boardroom, where we were evidently going to be having the meeting.

After doing my stuff, I spent a few moments touching up my makeup and doing deep breathing exercises in the lotus position– well I would have done the lotus bit, but I didn’t want to ladder my tights–but I was there in theory.

Daddy smiled as I left the loo. I said hello to Mandy and Tammy behind the desk, and Arnold, the security guy with more muscles on his arms than I had on my entire body, and then we were whisked up to the top floor in the lift.

I wasn’t keen on the lift, as it was one of those where you left your tummy behind, but soon we were there and the door pinged open and we exited and turned right.

Alison Smyth-Hamilton was on the desk. Nice girl, but the name was a bit of a mouthful.

‘Hi, Alison.’

‘Hello Susan–Jeff, there’re waiting for you. I’ll get you some drinks. Tea, coffee, something else?’

I asked for gin and tonic and after they both stopped laughing, I ordered a tea and Daddy a coffee.

‘Coming up,’ she said brightly, then she waived an expensively manicured hand in the general direction of the boardroom, giving me a smile.

‘Thanks Alison,’ said Daddy as he motioned me to go on in.

I opened the door, put my brain in neutral and walked in.

Mike Newell, the Chief Exec was inside, and then my jaw dropped as there, sitting in one of the chairs was Sandy McPherson!

‘Hello Susan and Jeff, come in and pull up a chair,’ said Mike.

Sandy was looking through papers and had half moon glasses on. I never knew that he needed glasses.

He looked up, gave me a brief smile and then continued reading while Mike chatted away.

‘Thanks for coming at short notice; we need to sort things out and quickly. We have a game tomorrow and there is a lot to organise...’

Alison came in with the drinks, and a few more minutes were taken up with sorting out who was having what. I grabbed a chocolate coated hobnob and started dunking and slurping.

Realising I was being looked at by the management and parental unit, I decided it didn’t look too businesslike to be doing what I was doing, I erm, stopped, and tried to give the impression that I was being more professional.

I do silly things when I’m nervous–you may have noticed. Hey, I think that I’ve just done one of those fourth wall thingies; cool or what?

Daddy coughed suggestively, bringing me back to reality.

I looked at him, mouthed, ‘sorry,’ and then Sandy picked up his cup. He took a sip of tea and looked at me.

‘Ye did well at the England match the other day.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

He looked at me for a moment more and then at Mike. ‘Can ye explain the situation?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he turned to me, ‘your father already knows about this, as does your agent. A statement will be put out to the press and media by 4.00 pm this afternoon.’

I sipped my drink, wondering what was coming next.

‘As of midnight last night, a consortium bought the club and took on the debts. The debts have all been paid, and the club is, at the moment, free from that particular problem. The consortium is owned by a number of businesses and individuals from around the globe. All members are supporters of this club and only want the best for it. I am continuing as chief exec and Sandy here will be on the board, as well as being the team manager. All members of the old management team have been reinstated and those that Mr Atwater brought in, including Neil Price, the manager, have been, erm, let go.’

‘Wow, Sandy–erm, boss, you’re back then?’

He looked at me and smiled. It made him look ten years younger. ‘Aye lass, I’m back and that means I’ll make your life a livin’ hell.’

I giggled there, as I knew that his bite was worse than his bark–no, the other way around–I think.

‘We have a problem though,’ continued Mike, ‘we have lost half our good players and it is going to be a big struggle to get enough good people on the pitch for the game against Stanhope tomorrow.’

The Stanhope game was being played at home. It was an FA cup match against the Championship League leaders. They were a shoo-in for promotion next year as they were 15 points ahead of the others in that league and miles ahead in quality. They had already beaten Teddenham, our arch rivals in the previous round. Everyone knew that it was going to be a tough match, and with our team decimated, it was going to be a hard nut to crack.

‘I have enough players in the squad still ter put up a team that’ll make ‘em sweat a bit.’ said Sandy, ‘but I have you an’ the other quality players we have left te get us some sort o’ result. Even if we only get a draw, that’ll gi’ us time te get some more players in. The transfer window closes in 10 days, an’ we are tryin’ te get more troops in, but we canna work miracles. We’ll do our best an might have te write off this year, but we’ll go down fightin’ if we have te. So are ye with us Susan?’

This was the fighting talk I knew and loved from Sandy. He was a man who inspired loyalty and the will to win. Under Neil Price, we wouldn’t have stood a chance; with Sandy I felt like we could walk on water.

‘Oh yes!’ I said enthusiastically.

After the meeting, Daddy and I made our way out so that we could get to the training ground in time to train with the others.

It was so great to be back at the club and being part of everything. It was as if a cloud had lifted from us and we were, at last, getting it back together again. Everyone was so nice to me, and I lost count of the hugs and kisses I received from men and women alike.

So after Daddy broke a few land speed records getting there–he was lucky not to get caught speeding, and if Mummy knew that he had driven like that, he would have been in heap big trouble! As it was, I was in white knuckle land by the time we arrived and I was glad to get of the car, sprint to the ladies dressing room, strip off the war paint and business suit, put on my Melchester trackies and get out on the pitch. Who said girls can’t be quick getting changed?

I joined the other members of the squad at the training ground an hour later for a gentle bit of erm, training. I was welcomed like a long lost brother, well, sister really–you know what I mean!

Ogsood the captain was still at the club, as were Mike Philber, Ivan Gloshter, Lepe, Turner and Martins. The rest had gone. Several of the old team, Etoo and Schmitt included, had been loaned out and we had hopes of them returning once their loan spell had finished, but for now, we had to make do with the players we had.

Mike Newell had said that there would be funds to buy some players before the transfer window finished, but the problem was that there weren’t many decent players available now. More money would be available at the end of the season, and we would have to bide our time and weather the storm.

We did a bit of stretching; running and stuff that was designed to help with our flexibility and ball skills, and it lasted just an hour. The coaching staff were scared stiff of injuries and therefore there was no practice match. Mind you we rarely did have a practice match so close to a game.

It was so great to be back at the club and be part of everything. It was as if a cloud had lifted from us and we were, at last, getting it back together again.

As we did our training, more and more people turned up on the touchline. We always had a number of supporters there; indeed, it was encouraged unless we were doing our ultra secret game strategy thingie where we didn’t want the opposition to know our plans.

Well, we did our stuff and I was feeling quite rosy cheeked and breathless by the time we finished. Mike Thomas, the assistant manager was running things as Sandy had places to go and people to see before the match the next day. Mike was a great coach in his own right. An ex-player for the club, he had never really left the club since he joined at sixteen as a boot boy.

He had a few words with us individually before we went to the showers. He came over to me after speaking to Ivan Gloshter, our keeper.

‘How do you feel, Sue?’

‘Knackered.’

‘That’s what I like to hear, but your fitness levels are about 80 percent. I know that you have had illness and injury this past month, and I could see that you weren’t quite on top form fitness wise in the England match, although you did have a great game. We’ll get this match over tomorrow, and then, my girl; you and I are going to have a cosy little chat about training. I have a number of nice, high intensity training schedules lined up for you.

Did I say he was a nice man?

I lied!

After being chewed up and spat out by Mike, I made my way back to the dressing room, but got stopped on the way.

I had notice the TV camera’s as we trained. The club had its own TV channel and often filmed us for the news items on Melchester TV and I was asked to say a few words. I just told the interviewer that I was glad to be back playing at the club and I was looking forward, if picked, to playing tomorrow.

He said a few nice things and I blushed a bit, I think, and then as I was getting cold, I cut the interview off a bit short and carried on.

I didn’t get very far.

There were the inevitable reporters and photographers hanging around with those huge great big lenses on their cameras and they were a bit intrusive, but it was just one of those things that we had to put up with. I was stopped and asked a number of questions, which I answered as sincerely as I could, then I said, sorry I had to go and I ran inside.

They had been around the pitch as we trained and had asked some questions any time I went close to the side line, but I had ignored them, as I was there to do a job, not chat away the short time we had.

Anyway, all that was over now, and as I had my shower, I felt that it was a pity that I was still the only girl in the team. I knew that a few of the girls in the ladies team were great players, and I hoped that sooner rather than later, I wouldn’t be the only one at least training with the first team squad.

We arrived home when it was dark. I hated these winter days when the sun drops just after lunchtime–or so it seems.

Andrea was there and we were able to do some private tonsil tickling training that bucked me up and made me go gooey all over.

After putting Andrea down, so she could come up for air, I went to see Claire. She was, as usual, in her room on my fan club chat site. There were over two hundred people chatting away and it was obvious that the news of my reinstatement had now been made public.

‘It’s like, real ace–too wicked for words. Back playing for Melch–well bad, girl!’

‘Have you taken your pills today?’ I asked innocently, whilst Andrea, painted her toe nails and snickered in the background.

‘Who asked you, bird brain?’ snapped Claire, and then turning back to me, she continued. ‘The like, chat room is so, well up for it. I’ve never like, seen them this excited. One or two cretins have tried to come in and spoil the party, but I have been like, heavy with them and I've blocked them out!’

‘Thanks Claire, you are great.’

‘I know,’ she said modestly, while Andrea started on her finger nails. She is so girly sometimes she makes me feel like Desperate Dan–that reminds me, I could do with a piece of cow pie...¹

I left them bickering as siblings often do and went to my room. I stripped off my business suit and put on a blouse and denim skirt; then lay down on my bed with my cool iPhone, plugged in the ear bud thingies; selected Elgar’s Nimrod ² and chilled out. I so like classical music, it’s my secret vice; that and erm,–well, never mind that!

Anyway, we’re not all misunderstood, teen angst, rebellious, head banging Neanderthals, and some of us do have intelligence. Well I suppose that I am sometimes a teensy weensy bit teen angst-like, if that’s the right word. I definitely am a wee bit rebellious, and often misunderstood when I feel up to it, but that is beside the point.

Anyway, it was a relaxed, chilled; totally mellow me that went downstairs at tea time. Mrs Moon–thankfully without the help of Mummy, who still had issues cooking wise–had made a stupendously fantastic steak (cow) pie, mash, peas and topped with gravy that you could stand your spoon up in.

We fell on the food in a kind of feeding frenzy, and I narrowly avoided being trampled in the rush. Mrs Moon—who never ate with us, as it reminded her of a monkey’s tea party at the zoo—watched on benevol...benevelen...erm, kindly; as she loved to see her cooking being appreciated.

The security team–that is Danni and Charlotte, were doing things to each other and others in the gym. They liked to keep up to date in the eye gouging and death by a thousand cuts department. I tended to stay away when they did that sort of thing as they liked to practice on innocents like me.

I happened to know that another pie had been made for Mrs M, Danni and Charlotte, and spies had told me that they would be eating later, so I thought that I might just pop into the kitchen when it was being served up, as I am a growing girl who needs nourishment...

The next morning started early, as it usually did, and I was awoken by the female parental unit, who didn’t have heart. She only asked me to get up about five times before she plonked a wet flannel on my face. Talk about child cruelty!

In the end, I did as I was asked, and it was a yawny Susan who sat at the breakfast table with her cornflakes and cup of tea.

I am not a morning person, and it take a while to get my brian–I mean brain into gear, but eventually, I realised that I was playing a match that day and I had to extract my digit and get going.

So it was six hours later, I was wide awake, and as bright as a button when the whistle blew and the game started.

It had been great arriving for the game. I always got a kick from seeing the streams of supporters, home and away, walking up the long avenue to the ground, some chanting, others clapping and waving. I won’t say what the opposing fans were doing, cos like, I am a lady and above all that, ya know?

It was wonderful when we walked onto the pitch, gave the crowd a wave and started our warm-ups. Life, for me couldn’t get better, and for once I really felt quite fit, despite what the assistant manager said the day before.

So the whistle blew and the game was on.

They attacked from the start, no doubt thinking that we were easy meat as we had a weakened team, and the club had been in all sorts of trouble the last few months.

Sandy had given us one of his brief, succinct, to the point team talks before we left the dressing room.

‘Beat the bloody crap oot of ‘em.’

He had also spoken to each of us individually, and had told me to go out there, roam about and take my chances. It appeared that he was giving me my head, and wanted me to be creative. I hoped that I was up to his trust.

I was a bit of a spare part for a while, as I was further up the field than most of my team mates, almost a deep centre forward, and all the action was in our half. I simply wasn’t getting a sniff at the ball.

At first we played like a group of individuals, but gradually we improved and started to look more like a team.

Our supporters kept egging us on, and the chants really made us want to do well after what had been a horrific few months. Credit to our opposition though, they played with skill and determination and I wished that they would just get their collective knickers/jockey shorts/jock straps in a twist and give us a chance.

After the third onslaught on our goal, we somehow we managed to get the ball up the field. Ivan, our keeper, booted up field, Ogsood managed to wrestle the ball off Daniels, their disgustingly talented centre half. Then he passed to Lepe, who in turn, slotted it to me. I did a pirouette thing and turned on a sixpence, as my dear old mum used to say. Martins steamed up the middle of the park and was waving his arms, windmill fashion. I sent an inch perfect pass, even though I say so myself, and it landed at his feet. He passed two players and then hit the ball and it went like a rocket past the flailing arms of their keeper.

‘GOAL!’

The crowd went mad, we went mad and all had a kiss and a cuddle. I do wish that the boys weren’t so enthusiastic about that bit of the goal celebration.

The game went on and we had several chances at scoring. I hit the crossbar and the ball came down, I swear, over the line, but the blind ref and myopic assistant ref on the touchline missed it and it was declared a no goal. It reminded me of an England, Germany World Cup Final goal in 1966 where Hurst hit the crossbar and the ball bounced down and it was given as a goal³. I wished that that ref and linesman was on the pitch for us!

Half time and it was still 1-0.

The boss told us to get out there in the second half, use the wings and try to counterattack when Stanhope pushed up too far. They were going to try all out to equalise and that would be our best chance.

We came out onto the pitch to genuine applause. The opposition were already out and they looked far from happy.

I stood in the centre circle with Ogsood. When the whistle blew, he passed to me.

I looked up and couldn’t believe it. Their goalie had his back to us, drinking from a bottle inside the rear of the net.

Without thinking, I kicked the ball as hard as I could and it sailed up in the air towards their goal.

Unfortunately for Ingerson–their keeper–the Stanhope supporters were at the other end of the ground and so couldn’t make themselves loud enough for the keeper to realise something was going on.

This had all taken about five seconds to occur and it wasn’t until the ball bounced once and hit him in the back that he actually realised that he had made one the biggest mistakes of his life.

‘GOAL!’

The crowd went mad, we went mad. Stanhope players were all having a right go at their poor hapless keeper and I felt sorry for him–almost.

It was now 2-0.

Afterwards, I remembered that I had done something like that in a previous match, and I suppose that it was in the back of my mind as I kicked the ball.

After that farcical goal, they were a spent force. Oh, they tried to score and managed to get close on several occasions, but we just went into defensive mode and didn’t allow anything through.

It wasn’t all sweetness and light for me though, and the game reminded me that I wasn’t truly accepted by some of my peers.

Throughout the match, I had received snide comments from Stanhope players, including the captain who should have shown an good example to the other players, or is that me being naive?

Then there were the tackles, nudges and pushes that seemed to be missed by the ref, and that made me wonder if the referee and his assistants were against me too. I could have been getting paranoid though, as in the last minute of extra time, I broke out of defence, ran up the pitch, did a one-two with Lepe–his return ball was glorious– and then I was in the box and shaping up to shoot, when the keeper came out and took my legs away from me.

The ref, bless him, had his eyes open.

It was a penalty and the keeper was sent off. A fine ending to a fine day for him–not.

I was limping a bit after the tackle and although I was offered the penalty, I said that Lepe should take it, as he made the goal attempt in the first place.

He stepped up and shot past the reserve keeper who had no chance.

‘GOAL!’

3-0 and shortly after that, the game ended.

I hobbled off with the others after giving our cheering fans a clap.

‘Well Dave, it was like this...’

I was doing the post game interview, something I don’t like to do because:

1. I was still in my smelly kit:

2. My hair looked a mess;

And 3. I didn’t like to blow my own trumpet and genuinely get embarrassed when people are telling me how wonderful I am.

Eventually I managed to get to the dressing room, had a welcome shower and washed my hair. It took ages to dry, using the far from perfect dryer supplied by the club. Then I scrunchified my brushed hair, changed into the trackies I always wore going to and from home matches, applied some understated makeup; not much, as I tended to be a bit hot and bothered after the game, and I glow (perspire) far too much for my liking. It was okay for men to sweat, but no woman in her right mind wants to look like a wet dish rag. Eventually I was ready and went to find Daddy-Dear.

Most of the others had gone, the stadium had cleared and the cleaners were erm, cleaning.

I knew that up in the executive club the board and management teams of both clubs would be there discussing the match, blow by blow and dissecting every element. Some of the players would be there too, but that wasn’t my scene. For me, football is like a drug. I have a high when I’m playing, particularly when I am playing well. After the match I start coming down as the adrenalin or whatever stops making my heart pound and I am a bit like a deflated ball–not much good for anything.

Daddy was in reception waiting for me as he always was, and I smiled as I saw him, ear glued to his phone and making notes as he went. I was so pleased that Daddy now worked at something he really loved. I think that he had liked running the cafe, but I don’t think anyone could actually get that excited about sausages and chips with optional baked beans.

Now he was a partner with my agent, John Prentiss, and he specialised in new, young and up and coming talent, not only footballers, but all sports.

He put his phone down and came over. Giving me a hug, he said, ‘Susan, great game, love. I was proud of you.’

‘Oh Daddy, more fluky goals. I bet that last goal of mine will be all over YouTube before the end of the day.’

‘Don’t keep putting yourself down. You saw the opportunity and took it,’

‘Maybe; anyway, can we get home? The physio has strapped up my foot. I twisted it a bit when I was taken down in the box. He wants me to keep my foot up and put some cold compression on it tonight.’

‘Okay, let’s go, Wondergirl.’

‘Oh Daddy!’

We said goodbye to the few people left in reception and made our way to the car.

I sat in the back seat and stretched out as much as I could with the seatbelt on. I was asleep in minutes and only woke up as we crunched up the drive to the house.

Mummy came out to meet us with the twins, and we had a sort of a group hug. It was great to come home and be greeted like this!

Later, Andrea was sitting with me on my bed, holding hands. I was lying down with a cold compress on my foot. She was pleased about the game, but was sorry that she hadn’t been able to come and watch it. She had been to see her trick cyclist and was a bit upset.

‘She seems to turn me inside out and get me to talk about things like the attack on me–I really lost it there–and how much of a girl I was. Then she asked if I want to go all the way and I said yes, so then she asked why, and I got angry, because we had been through all that before. It seems like she has to ask the same questions again and again to see if I have somehow changed my mind.’

Andrea and I, and for that matter, the whole family had discussed this at length. I knew that Andrea was here to stay, and Andrew was effectively gone. She had been taking blockers for quite some time now, and shortly she would be having the full hormone thing.

In the past we had discussed having sex, and we had also, quite a while back, nearly succumbed. But for a while now, we had both uncomfortable with the thought of having male-female type sex and we had decided that we would wait until a time when we hoped we would be married before having sex– as two girls. Andrea and I had also decided that she would have some sperm put in one of those sperm banks, so that we could still have babies and we hoped that the little wiggly thingies would be strong enough for us as we had read that insemination was a hit and miss affair.

But neither of us wanted to even think about babies yet, and there are silly age restrictions regarding sperm banks. Normally you have to be 18 or over, but we had hopes that Andrea could have a medical dispensation, in that as after she starts hormones, she would find it difficult to donate viable sperm. We spoke quietly for a while about psychiatrists, wondering if they were the same everywhere–nutty as a fruitcake–and then Monica wanted to talk to her, so after a quick hug and a kiss, she went off.

I wanted to see what Claire was doing and then remembered that she was at a Guides meeting, so that option was out.

I got my laptop from the bedside table and fired her up.

Going to my emails, I noticed several ones suggesting that my penis needed enlarging, several advocated the use of Viagra; a couple said that I had won millions, and all I need to do was send them my bank details and the money would be transferred.

Yea, right.

After that bit of cleaning, I went to my spam junk folder. I did this if I had nothing else to do, just in case something important had slipped through.

I had a quick look down the list and deleted about a hundred, then I got to the second hundred and was just about to delete the lot when I saw one that looked a bit different.

It was to my old Mark Hurst email address. I had made arrangements to have emails from that address transferred to my new Susan type address. To be honest, I rarely had stuff go through that account anyway, and I would have eventually just closed it.

The heading simply said Susan, help.

There was no attachment so that was okay. I clicked on the email.

Hi Susan,

Sorry to bother you. I didn’t know your new email address so I used your old one.

You may remember me. We went to the same school and played football together — Paul Ryan.

I remembered Paul. He had been in the year below me at school and he did play with us on a Sunday. He was smallish, with two left feet, not much talent. He was a tryer though, and always got stuck in on the football pitch. He was a quiet boy and didn’t really mix well with any of us. I carried on.

You may be wondering why I’m writing to you. I read about your change to Susan and it kind of made sense, as you had something about you that was slightly different.

I know that it was discovered that you was a girl after all, physically I mean.
The thing is, I’m different too; not quite the same “different” as you, but not normal, I suppose.

Here goes.

The thing is, I’m a girl inside and I always have been. This is difficult to talk about as I have been hiding this all my life. I live with my mum, as Dad went off with someone else when I was tiny.

Mum doesn’t know about me and I’m too scared to tell her as I know that she would never accept me as a girl.

I’ve seen her watching those chat shows where people go dressed as women and she laughs and sneers at them. She thinks that men are men, and women are women and that is that–no argument.

I cringe when I hear her and I just want to go somewhere and cry my eyes out. All I want to be is a girl. I have always been a girl inside. It’s not just the clothes, it’s how I am. I see other girls able to be who they really are and I envy them so much.

I have thought about just jumping off a bridge or taking pills, then all the pain would go away. I wouldn’t be a girl, but at least I would have peace. But I’m a coward and frightened to do it, so I haven’t even got that way out.

Susan, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t have any idea what to do. You are such a strong person, and you have shown that you can get over what you were and become the person you really are.

Have you any idea what I can do? I don’t expect us to meet or anything, you are far too important and busy for me to hope for that, but could you give me any ideas about how I can cope with all this without going mad?

I will understand if you are too busy to help though, and I really think that you are a very pretty and talented person.

Hugs and kisses

Joanne
(Paul)
XXXXX

I had tears running down my face as I read the email. I could feel for her and the pain she was suffering. I had to do something.

I got up from the bed, hopped over to the door and shouted, ‘Mummy!’

She would know what to do.

To be continued...

¹ http://www.comicvine.com/desperate-dan/29-21479/ (Desperate Dan)
² http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sUgoBb8m1eE (Elgars Nimrod)
³ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__MJV11nRqU (1966 World Cup)

To Be Continued...

My thanks go to the lovely and talented Holly Hart for editing, and pulling the story into shape.

Please leave comments and kudo thingies...thanks! ~Sue

If you are enjoying this story, The original Penmarris story - Changes Book 1 is now available on Kindle:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006NZFWG8 (US)
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Changes-ebook/dp/B006NZFWG8/ref=sr_1... (UK)