The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2465 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

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Whilst I was so proud of Phoebe, I now had to decide what to wear to this thing next Thursday. If I start looking in my wardrobe now, I might have just decided what to wear by Wednesday evening.

It’s absolutely crazy, but when I was a poor, lonely student, it took me seconds to decide what to wear. For cycling—my cycling skins; for uni—my jeans, sweatshirt and polo shirt with trainers. For bed, my nightie. I had two sets of clothes, usually one in the wash and the others in use. I also had two sports bras or a couple of crepe bandages to help hide my bouncy bits. It was crazy because most people thought I was female anyway, but I only had a couple of things that were overtly girl’s things—a dress I bought in a charity shop; a denim skirt and a couple of tops with one pair of shoes.

I’d spent most of my money on the Scott, perhaps because I wanted to have an excuse for not transitioning. It sounds self defeating because it is and if you speak to any number of transgender folk, you’ll find they put obstacles in their own way to slow them down if not stop them altogether. Why? Because of the great uncertainty of what will happen when you do, when the boats have been burnt and so on.

We all think we look better as the gender we prefer until we are about to step out of the front door for the first time as we should have been, then we discover all sorts of things wrong with the clothes, or ourselves—my makeup is no good, the heels are too high, it’s too cold to wear this, or too hot, or too dry, too wet, too perfect, too anything. The truth is, we’re too scared, or I was.

Oh I’d posted a second class letter or card at eleven o’ clock at night, which was so urgent it didn’t need to be there for three weeks, wearing enough makeup to suggest I was on the way home from clubbing with clothing that suggested I wasn’t. Why did we all need to make our first pair of shoes, high heels? Why did the clicking of them sound so good for the first few steps, and why now am I embarrassed if my shoes have metal tipped heels that almost cause sparks on a road surface?

I’m so different from how I was when Stella accidently tried to kill me. My body has matured, so my curves are curvier than they were when I first came to Portsmouth. I’ve breast fed two babies since then. I’m nearly eight years older, so weigh a bit more, but not a lot, and bits of my anatomy have been altered with help from a very good surgeon. My only regret, my mother isn’t here to see how much happier I am as a woman—a married one, and the wife of an aristocrat to boot.

I have a much larger wardrobe now, sometimes I’m spoilt for choice and that makes it harder. A significant amount of my clothing, shoes and bags are designer labels. Many are cast offs from Stella, some I’ve bought myself and some were presents from Simon—chosen by Stella. Whereas I was poor and unhappy seeing a psychiatrist, I’m now quite wealthy in my own right and extremely happy. Money can’t bring happiness, though it helps, the opportunity to be oneself and be liked for it brings me great personal satisfaction. I discovered that most people didn’t know I wasn’t a natural female, though my initial nervousness may have tipped off one or two that I was odd. I also discovered I didn’t have two heads, a fact I was able to demonstrate to others when they found out my history.

Some said I made a passable girl or woman. Some said I made a very attractive one. Simon said I was the most beautiful woman in his world. I love that man. He also told me I was never a boy. I’d love to believe he was right, I really would. I did have some experience of a girlhood, I played the Blessed Virgin Mary in the school nativity play when I was five. In high school, because I grew my hair long and refused to play rough sports and my voice didn’t break, I was chosen to play Lady Macbeth in the school play. I refused and the headmaster, a sadistic homophobe, convinced my dad that it would be good for me. They also made me wear skirts for a month or so. In those days it was a single sex school, so I really stood out like a sore thumb especially when I rebelled and with the help of a girl friend and her spare uniform, turned up in school looking like a refugee from the girls’ school next door.

It wasn’t until years later I discovered that my body didn’t do testosterone, so I had my puberty in my early twenties when I started oestrogen and my body really changed. I’m still shocked that I couldn’t see what was happening, especially as I was trying to hide it in baggy clothes.

I switched on the light in my wardrobe, they say the weather will be slightly milder by Thursday, so what shall I wear? A suit? Too formal—unless I’m on my way there after work, so a suit has possibilities—I opted for the grey one with a maroon pinstrip in it, and a burgundy blouse. Or a dress? Or pants and a top? Jeans? No, too informal, even designer ones.

Nobody will know me, well perhaps one or two from when Julie disappeared and I offered a reward for information which helped me find her and person who took her.

Could they recognise me from the dormouse film? I doubt it, I was dashing about in a short skirt or shorts and vest top, which pleased the men viewers. The posters in the bank, my hair’s different and that suit went in the dustbin covered in blood from when Sammi and I were shot by Cortez. Sadly, the same happened to the Chanel suit Sammi had borrowed from me. Still she’s okay now apart from the odd nightmare. Julie and Danielle’s rooms are nearest hers so they’ve helped quite a bit in comforting her.

So, is that what I’m wearing—the grey suit and burgundy blouse with grey boots—ankle variety. Looks like it. Simon will wear one of his suits, all bespoke tailored in Jermyn Street. I suspect some cost almost as much as my best bike, if not more. They look lovely, but then they should at that price. Mind you, the suit I’m describing cost a couple of hundred and I nearly died when I saw the bill, then the blouse, shot silk, cost over a hundred as did the boots and the bag was even dearer. Simon paid for it all, Stella helped me choose it or she agreed my choice, and she has one of his cards. I don’t and I’m his wife. It’s a point which rankles at times, he’s offered me one but I won’t take it. My pride won’t let me. His response was more one of surprise than anything.

Simon would give me the world, so would Stella, but only if he got the bill.