CHAPTER 36
That was the start of the next stage.

I had another visit to Dr Newman, where this time he did play vampire, but also insisted on giving me a couple of jabs in my arse. All attempts to explain about saddles were met with a blank stare and the words “Well, don’t you want this?”

Sore for three days. Eric was down for two of the nights, leaving various items of kit including his two axes and a two man tent. I had rung Steph already, to tell her I was on the way at last, and we arranged a time for Geoff to collect all our junk for the weekend.

Ginny and Kate had been stupidly excited when I rang them. I had left it as long as I could, approximately five seconds after taking the first dose, and they immediately demanded a visit. It all blurred into one the next day, but we were even worse than the ‘Aliens’ night. We watched ‘World War Z’ this time round, and Ginny brought enormous quantities of dim sum that I found myself eating for breakfast, and all of it done in the clothes Kate had brought down.

Reality bit again, though, as I washed the glasses and plates from our excesses. Ginny caught my mood.

“So?”

“Just….realising I can’t have it all. I mean, I knew that, but, well, every now and again I get a little flash of reality”

“This weekend thing?”

“Yeah. It’s Steph that made me realise. I mean, she was obviously almost there when she did it, and there’s no way I could do that, turn up in a skirt.”

“Why not? Nobody else will ever see you again”

“So, Eric goes with me, he’s the odd bloke sharing a tent with a man in a dress, oooh, do you think they, you know?”

“You are getting quite a thing for him, aren’t you?”

I looked down into the sink, where the bubbles were getting rather interesting.

“Yes, I am. All part of realising who I am and what I have been hiding, suppressing, whatever. It will come…”

As usual, Ginny’s response was a hug, and I leant back into the taller girl’s embrace, relishing her warmth and support. I really was luckier than I had known.

Finally, that Friday came round. Our kit was gone, and Eric would meet me at Clapham for the faster train across to Reading. And there he was, this time in mountain bike shorts and a Cyclists’ Touring Club top. I had my Wales flag top on, and bib shorts, no point in trying to cover up my deformity. He gave me a hug as I came up to him on the platform, and then it was hunt-the-carriage for the cycle spaces, load the bikes and settle into our seats.

“Sleep much last night?”

“For once, Eric, yes. No dreams.”

“I was wondering…would there be any connection between the hormones and the nightmares?”

I thought about that one for a few seconds. ”I don’t think so. Sally and Doc Newman have warned me about probable mood swings, aye, but if I am honest I think any connection between sweet dreams and my pills is likely to be a sort of release of tension. You know, light at the end of the tunnel thing”

Eric nodded. “Trouble is, if you get any more, any extra stress, are you going to cope? Or is it just going to be same old same old?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t. Let’s just get this weekend rolling, enjoy ourselves and then see what happens.”

“Makes sense, but you might want to take your hand off my knee for now.”

Oops.

Changing at Reading was a nightmare. Not being a follower of the festival scene, I hadn’t realised that we were passing through the same weekend as the town’s own festival, which is considerably bigger than ‘ours’. It wasn’t just the difficulty of getting our bikes through the crowds and across to another platform, it was the patrols of ‘Revenue Protection Officers’ (ticket inspectors) inside the station who seemed to be stopping anyone who wasn’t in a suit. As a result, we only just made the Birmingham train, but we did, and it was a lot more comfortable. So comfortable I fell asleep. Such a stimulating travelling companion. I was shaken gently awake as we came into the underground maze that is New Street, and we went up down and sideways until we could find our platform.

A crappy little broom cupboard affair on the train was all they had for bikes, but I was amused to see the notices were all in Welsh as well as English. Back to boxy seats again, and I broke out the sandwiches and fruit cake I had sneaked past Ginny’s eyes , sharing it with Eric. He in turn produced a flask, and then some small rectangular shapes. Chocolate.

“When was the last time you had any of this, Annie?” he whispered, “A girl needs her chocolate”

I stared at them as he held them out, Green and Black being two of the words, organic another, dark a fourth, but the word that took my vision into a tunnel was that C-word itself. Let me just say that I managed to bite my tongue before the words “Who do I have to shag for it?” came out, but only just. Let me leave it there; it didn’t last very long.

Shrewsbury, and the way out led us past some old stone walls and onto a busy road, beside which we walked our bikes until we came to a complicated little gyratory junction thing, and we could finally put cleat to pedal. Alongside the river, up a little rise to some lights, left, down a bit, left again, then pass all the queuing cars and up to the entrance. A quick check of tickets, book in, wristbands on, and I was finally at the real beginning of a weekend away with a man.

Eric checked the site plan (“It’s a map and I am the man”) and led us round past all sorts of odd little buildings and through a gate by a huge marquee. I dragged out my mobile and gave Steph a shout.

“Come straight along the far hedge and you should see the van, about three hundred yards”

There they were, by the biggest camping tent I had ever seen, or so it seemed. The five younger Woodruffs were all there, and I noticed that while Eric got three hugs and two shakes, all of mine were hugs. Steph was bubbling over with excitement.

“You say you haven’t heard of most of these bands, Annie, but trust me you will enjoy them. Show of Hands, Capercaillie, that odd Swedish band you like, the Oysters, Kath Tickell, and they’ve got Richard Thompson back, with his band this time”

“Slowly, Steph, slowly, and after a cuppa? We need to get pitched first, aye?”

“Already done, Jan and Kelly set it up. Your bags are in, everything zipped together, and I’ve left you some proper pillows.”

I had a sinking feeling, and as I opened the inner tent I found I had been right. Two sleeping bags, zipped together to make a double. The assumptions were clearly out in force. I left it alone, and concentrated on getting my kit laid out and then changed into some lightweight trousers and a fleece shirt, as the wind was a little raw. My tea awaited me, at a proper table inside Bill and Jan’s tent, and we settled down with the programme to work out the weekend’s strategy. Steph had already drawn up plans for our assault on the open mike competition and her final ritual sacrifice of twelve year old prodigies, I was insistent we needed to be right up the front for Den Fule, and she was saying exactly the same for the Oysterband. Geoff was shaking his head.

“The first time I ever saw her get hairy was to them. I didn’t know where to look”

Steph grinned. “But you did look, though, didn’t you?”

He grinned happily back. “Oh yes indeed! I still do! I have a paper which says I can”

I broke in. “What’s tonight, then?”

Bill smiled. “An early evening ceilidh, Calan in the acoustic tent, some odds and sods to listen to for a while, or the beer tent, then it’s your Swedish lot. Finish off with a session in the bar tent.”

“What, get wrecked?”

“No, play some tunes, have some fun, and get wrecked if you want. So, we do the dance, have some dinner, listen to the music and then make our own with a bunch of strangers. Steph, did Jimmy say he would be coming this year?”

Steph called across “Saturday night”

Bill nodded. “That means Monday night is going to be blistering. Annie, I hope you have brought some lip salve, this is going to be a good one!”

The dance proved to be not so good. I did a few of the odd sort of swingy things, with Steph and Kelly, and some woman who asked me up, but I was feeling more and more ill at ease as I was. Everyone I knew there was treating me as a woman, until it collided with reality. I danced as a man. I dressed as a man. I would have had to piss in the gents’ toilets, if it hadn’t been for the single portaloos that were available. Steph caught my mood.

“Next year, cariad, next year, fe fyddwt ti’n ferch yn wir, o’r diwedd”

“Sorry, Steph, but I’m sort of lost with that stuff”

She smiled. “I will never understand how one of us can go through life and not know their own tongue. All I was saying is that next year will be different. Next year a woman, to coin a wotsit”

Next year. There would, after all, be a ’next year’ for me.