The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1312 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

The rest of the party went as it was supposed to and by half past seven, all the little darlings had been collected by their parents and once again I could breathe a sigh of relief–that no more had been dumped on me.

Trish had been disappointed with Maureen’s present–a pair of socks–until she looked inside and saw a new ten pound note folded there; that made them, very nice socks.

I pointed out to her that just because it was her birthday, she needn’t think everyone had to give her something, or I’d give her a smacked bottom and send her to bed. She knew I wouldn’t hit her but the threat of bed was enough for her behave and she apologised.

It was getting dark, so I wouldn’t let her out on her bike, she’d have to wait until the morning, which unleashed another tantrum so I did send her to bed. She had to make do with reading a book until the others went up.

It was quite a relief to get to bed myself that night. I thanked Simon for his part in organising the party games and he told me he was pleased it had stayed dry–then they could run about in the garden and work off some high spirits.

I confided to him that I was a little worried about Billie. Julie had been promised reassignment surgery after she was eighteen, which meant in a year’s time. Trish had been done–albeit through serendipitous causes, and she, Billie felt unloved and so on.

I could see her point, she was eleven and had another seven years to wait before she’d be eligible–a lifetime to a child. I did point out that she’d probably start hormones next year. All I got back was that there were girls in her class who had booblets already.

It’s very difficult dealing with any sort of neurotic urge, and transgender ones are probably as bad as any. However, scientists seem intent on finding some organic cause for it, the latest I read was about white matter being different in gender variant people to normals. I suspect this is likely to be insignificant in the greater scheme of things, and wonder why they even bother researching it–they’re not going to cure it, other than by allowing the individual to live in the desired role; with or without surgery.

I used to think the difference between transvestites and transsexuals was that transvestites wanted to keep their wedding tackle, but I discovered that it wasn’t so black and white, and not all transsexuals wanted to lose theirs either.

In my simplistic thinking, I was a female with no boobs and an outie. So I resolved to change that and did. Thus, in my opinion, I’m a non-menstruating female, which is how the law sees me, thanks to the Gender Recognition Act of 2004. So how do these others, the she-males, see themselves–those who don’t want an innie? I’m not counting those who can’t have surgery for whatever reason, just those who don’t want it.

It isn’t some sort of superiority thing either–I’m more female than you because I’ve got a twat–na-na-da-na-na. I suppose it’s all a matter of continua or spectra, which was when I think I fell asleep, thinking that Billie thought she was less a girl than Trish.

I woke up still puzzling over this business of continua, wondering if life would have been easier if I’d been content to dress up in women’s clothes every now and again. Then I realised it wouldn’t have been. I was female, and expressing that as my identity and role was the only way I was going to be satisfied. That I was doing it so completely was such wonderful luck. I glanced across at Simon, who was still in the land of nod. Nothing much seemed to keep him awake, anything seemed to play on my mind. I looked at the clock it wasn’t quite six, but it was light. I wondered why I’d woken then I thought I heard something outside.

I was out of bed and peering out the window in a flash–Trish was dressed and getting her bike out of the garage. I threw on some clothes keeping an eye on what she was doing. She rode up and down the drive for a few minutes, but I knew that wouldn’t satisfy her for long and sure enough she went down the drive and turned onto the cycle path outside. I grabbed my cycling shoes and galloped down the stairs, stopping at the bottom to put them on before clonking across the drive and pulling the Specialized out and jumping on it.

It was colder than I’d realised and I regretted not grabbing a jacket. I sped off in the direction she’d taken and within a couple of minutes I had her in my sights and I accelerated. A combination of fear and anger seemed to spark the adrenalin and I flew along touching thirty miles an hour at one point, then I slowed as I drew level.

“And where d’you think you’re going?” I asked my daughter.

“Oh hello, Mummy–isn’t this fun?”

“And why didn’t you come and ask if you could go out on your bike?”

“You were asleep.”

“How d’you know?”

“I looked in and both you and Daddy were asleep.”

“Don’t you see how dangerous this could be?” I asked as we pedalled along together.

“I shouldn’t get knocked off on a cycle path–should I?”

“No, but you could fall off and hurt yourself.”

“I’ve got my mobile phone with me, Mummy,” replied the smart-arse.

“What if some nasty person had appeared?”

“I’d have ridden off like a rocket.”

“And if they’d been on a bike as well?”

“I’d have pushed them off and run for it.”

“Trish that is nonsense and you know it, I caught you up with no bother at all. If I was a nasty person I could have abducted you or killed you or all sorts of things.”

“I let you catch me up, Mummy, I saw you in my mirror.”

“You couldn’t stop me catching you up, I can ride much faster than you–where are you going?” She suddenly accelerated and rode off the cycle path and down an animal track into some bushes.

I stopped, with narrow tyres on wheels which are probably worth at least a couple of hundred if not more, I stopped and called after her. She didn’t answer. Thankfully, the ground was pretty hard and dry and I tried to follow the bike tracks as I walked as briskly as I could after her.

She’d effectively ridden into a small patch of scrub which gave rise to woodland. The path split into three and each was too hard to register tyre tracks, my heart sank.

“TRISH,” I shouted but apart from the noises of the woodland, a rustling of trees and a few bird songs, there was only the traffic on the road behind me and that was increasing.

“TRISH,” I called again, “TRISH, WHERE ARE YOU? You silly little cow.” I was filled with a mixture of fear and anger again. Logic tended to suggest she was alive and well and enjoying giving me the run-around like the naughty imp she was.

At the same time part of me had every sort of catastrophe that could befall her happening in my mind, from being kidnapped by paedophiles to cycling into a ditch or hitting a low branch. I’ve done both the latter and it bloody well hurts.

I’d gone from worried to frantic in a matter of about three minutes. “TRISH,” I yelled so loudly, they probably heard it on the Isle of Wight. No answer came back.