The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1160 by Angharad Copyright © 2010 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I’d been so involved with life, especially the dormouse survey and then Phoebe’s visit and collapse, that I hadn’t been paying much notice to the news. Then on the Monday morning as I was getting the girls ready for school, Danny was about somewhere, possibly trying to get Julie up for college, and the news on the radio mentioned something about a transsexual winning some Scrabble championship. Naturally my ears pricked up, and I had to shush squabbling schoolgirls whilst I listened to it. Trish also became suddenly alert as well on the longer report given about someone besporting a pink wig and PVC dress had won the national Scrabble contest, and who claimed they were transsexual.

Oh well, I’m sure they got some fun out of it from their choice of clothing and because it’s a one off thing, doesn’t do us much harm–by us I mean transgendered or more specifically transsexuals as a whole.

Perhaps it could be turned against us, as fetishistic clothing, and I couldn’t really argue that one, although lots of girls wear it too, to parties and so on. Can’t be very comfortable, like wearing a bin liner I should think.

On the other hand, just as we’re called names for that, we could argue back that in which case the defamers would have to accept we’re all a bit clever too, because not just any old Scrabble player can win national contests. I can play it, and have beaten Simon and Stella whenever we’ve played it, but I could no more play at that level than I could fly the next space shuttle–given the choice, I’d go for the shuttle every time.

Anyway, the tabloids could have their fun with someone who waved two fingers at them and still won the contest, so I didn’t take too much notice of it.

The rest of the day was spent doing chores and entering data as it came to me from the other survey groups–we had another four babies and mother to take into the university, so we’d feed her up and delay her hibernation by a few days to give her offspring a chance to survive, then they could all hibernate to their heart’s content.
At lunchtime, Stella was home, and we dined on some rice with cold chopped turkey and salad. “Did you see that thing on the internet?” she asked me.

“What’s that?”

“You know that lawyer character who got pushed under a train last week.”

“Lawyer? No, I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“You must, headlines of crossdresser pushed under train by woman, or man in women’s clothes pushed under train.”

“No, I didn’t see or hear it.” I was obviously busier than I thought last week.

“I dunno, Cathy, you’re sometimes on a different planet.”

“Sometimes I wish I was, one where people were a bit kinder to each other and less cruel and greedy than they are here.”

“Watch out Mother Theresa, St Catherine is here.” Stella enjoyed her little jokes.

“I am no saint, as you well know, far from it.”

“Dunno, you tend to act in such a responsible way, so God might like you for a sunbeam.” She laughed as I made a silly face at her.

“Anyway, what about this person who was run over by the train?” I asked.

“He or she was a top immigration lawyer who had done all sorts of good things, challenged the government several times and so on.”

“Well somebody needs to at times, what else?”

“They were seen being pushed under a tube train, by some woman. It was captured on CCTV as well.”

“That’s an unusual thing for a woman to do.” I wondered what the point of all this was going to be.

“Exactly, and it turns out the woman is a transsexual.”

“She doesn’t play Scrabble does she?”

“What? Scrabble? How would I know–but I guess she’ll have plenty of time to find out.”

I felt rather flat after being told all this–it would appear that the tabloids would have a field day with all this going on. I wish no one had mentioned any of it–why does the gender problem have to be highlighted in the headlines as I’m sure it was? I may not even be a factor in the case. I mean, I cut my toenails this morning and my being a woman had no effect whatsoever, well apart from having difficulty seeing beyond my boobs which were dripping milk.

“So I suppose you’re not going to want to be near me, Trish Julie or Billie if there are trains about?”

“Why?”

“Well, we might push you under one?”

“What for?”

“To kill you, why else?”

“Why would you want to kill me?”

“It’s what transsexuals do, apparently.”

“But women don’t, so why would you or any of you wish to do it?”

“None of us would, we’re more likely to jump under one than kill someone else.”

“Yeah, that’s what women do.” Stella declared crossing her arms across her chest.

Somehow the discussion had got away from me and I was becoming bored with it. Part of me wanted to say, but I’m not transsexual any more, I’m female, see my birth certificate if you don’t believe me. Then part of me knew I couldn’t deny my past anymore than I could pretend that with three children undergoing their own transitions, I couldn’t ignore the topic even if I felt it no longer directly applied to me.

I felt sick for the person whose life had been ended because someone else decided it had to; and for whom the last seconds must have been terrifying, not to mention the poor driver who was involved but not through his or her own making. It was a dreadful act, and in my humble opinion probably the work of someone who was just a tad crazy.

Thankfully the day got in the way of anymore discussions about Scrabble winning murderous gender benders, though I was about to leave to collect the girls from school when Simon rang.

“Hi Babes, get your glad rags on for seven–we have to go to a dinner.”

“Simon, it’s half past three, three hours isn’t sufficient notice for me to arrange babysitters.”

“I’ve done that, Jenny and Stella will do that, and I’ll pay for them to get in a takeaway of their choosing.”

“Where are we going to dinner?”

“A posh hotel.”

“Do I wear long or short?”

“How do I know?”

“Are you wearing a dinner suit?”

“Natch.”

“Okay, it’s long then.”

“Have you got one?”

“Yes I have.”

“Good, well dust it off and get yer arse in gear.”

“I’m going to collect the girls–next time I want a couple of days notice.”

“Blame my dad, he pulled out and we have to be present at this one.”

“I’ve got to go–the girls will be out of school.”

“Good girl.”

“Patronising twit,” I said to the disconnected phone.

I was a bit quiet driving home with the children and they noticed. “Are you okay, Mummy?” asked Livvie–Billie and Trish were arguing about something in the back.

“Yes, I was busy thinking. I have to go out tonight with Daddy, he’s going to pay for a takeaway, so I hope you’ll all behave for Jenny and Stella.”

“Can we have pizza?” called Billie.

“Nah, I’m fed up with pizza, let’s have a Chinese,” argued Trish.

“That’d be nice, a Chinese,” agreed Livvie.

“Yay,” shouted Trish, “Two against one, we win.”

“Remember Mima might not want a Chinese.” I reminded her.

“You wanna Chinese don’t ya, Meems?”

“I wike pizza, too.”

“Ha ha, that’s two each,” jibed Billie.

Somehow we got home without me strangling any of them, the pettiness was beginning to get to me and I was glad to escape to the bathroom, jump in the shower and wash away the cares of the day.

Stella came up and helped me put my hair up and I did my makeup a little more heavily than usual, using blusher and eyeliner and mascara and even a little eyebrow pencil. I splashed some perfume–Chanel No 5 about myself and then dressed in my long royal blue dress–one with a boned bodice and no other visible means of support. I’d only worn it once before and since then my breasts had grown somewhat, and it actually fitted me properly.

I put on my sapphire necklace and matching earrings and thought how well they matched the dress, the shot silk shimmering in the bedroom lights. I added a gold bangle and my gold plated watch. Just collect my bag and wrap and I was pretty well ready, it was half past six. I had time to kill, so I filed my nails and found some nail varnish–two coats later and I was ready.

Simon came dashing in, pecked me on the cheek and dashed into the shower. I got out his dinner suit, one of his dress shirts and a dicky-bow, his cummerbund and his cuff links.

“Wow, you look like a million dollars,” he said as I posed sexily for him, pouting and sticking out my one hip. Part of him suggested I was having the desired effect and I smiled as he struggled into his underpants and trousers with a little difficulty.

“What’s with this dinner, then?”

“Dad had to dash off to Canada for some important meeting, so I’ve had to stand in for him, and you for Monica.”

“Gee, how come we didn’t get to go to Canada?”

“Because he’s the boss and we’re not.”

“Oh, fair enough.”

We eventually got to the dinner–banquet would have been a better description, though I did manage to control how much I ate, so I was able to continue to breathe in the tight fitting dress, although I think I knew where every bone was.

The table we were on was full of other bank’s top brass, most of them Sir this or Lady that, however, Si was the only Lord and I was the only other aristocrat–albeit by marriage there too. So we were accorded some respect from the others. I was also the youngest there by quite a margin, but most of them were public school types with plums or silver spoons stuck in their snobbish gobs. If they did but know it, I was an oik but in deep cover.

After several bottles of wine had been emptied and tongues loosened, they got to discussing all sorts of things including news stories. The Scrabble thing they thought was hilarious. Lady Astrid Butterworth, thought it was a hoot, some trensvestite beating the top player by such a good word–she couldn’t remember what it was. Had we seen the piccies with the stubble and the pink wig?

“The word was obeisance,” I said curtly, I wasn’t amused. Not that they’d understand its meaning anyway.

“So it was, ladies and gents, we have someone who reads their Telegraph properly, or is it the Times?” she chuckled at me.

“Guardian, actually.”

“Eoh, I thought thet was read by teachers end social workers,” she tried to dismiss me.

“Yes, I’m a teacher.”

“Goodness, what d’ya teach?” she seemed genuinely curious.

“I’m a university teacher.”

“Oh, en intellectual, how interestin’.”

“Ev’ry gel needs a hobby, Estrid,” commented Lady Cynthia Brown-Smyth.

“Hobby?” gasped Simon, “She’s one of the world’s leading experts on Muscardinus avellanarius.”

“What’s thet when it’s et hame?”

“A dormouse, what did you think it was.”

“I hed no idea,” she blushed.

“I saw a naice programme on thase a few months ego,” said Astrid smiling, “Charles thought the presenter was quate dishy, didn’t you honeybunch?”

“Ebsolutely,” roared Charles across the table, “a tasty bit of tottie, eh what?”

“That was my wife,” said Simon angrily. “Tasty tottie, indeed.”

“Heng on old men, I meant it in the naicest sense, she’s a real beauty, just the job to liven up a nature programme, what?”

“Goodness, our very own TV star–do tell us about making a TV programme, better than discussing thase wretched trenssexual tapes who are busy throwin’ each other under train’s, don’t ya know?”