The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2543 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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Despite the farmhouse having thick walls the strong winds kept me awake, so did the driving rain. I tried to console myself that it was better now than in May or June. But it was a bind. I discovered the wind rattling round the chimneys was the noise I’d heard, the bedrooms having fireplaces as well as the reception rooms downstairs. Normally there was a plate which closed the chimney off but over the years it had become corroded or rusty and didn’t fit as well. I intended asking Maureen to look at it but had forgotten about it.

The weekend had flown by. All that had concerned Simon was how the French could get millions to march through Paris protesting at the murder of the magazine journalists, whereas, locally, we’d be lucky to get half a dozen and a couple of brownies to protest about the closure of a library. True, the gay pride march had been bigger than the library protest, but I wasn’t sure what I thought about it. Not being gay, I didn’t feel a need to march or to draw attention to myself, life seemed to do that by itself.

I don’t think I’d attend a trans march either, because I don’t think I’d want to be identified as trans. If that makes me a hypocrite so be it. In adopting several transgender children, I think I’m doing as much for the cause as any other individual without having my name up in lights. I’ve personally achieved what I set out to do, which was to become female in as physical a sense as I could and also in a legal sense. That I’ve become a wife, mother, acting professor, film maker and so on, is an incredible bonus. That I don’t need to shout about it perhaps shows complacency but I honestly don’t care. I know there are all sorts of gender identities out there, but I’ve found my own level and so have my children, save Danni who worries me.

Is it possible for someone to sublimate their real identity for several years just so they might win an England cap? I didn’t know other than how I did so myself while at university—at least as far as the outside world was concerned. Even that wasn’t as effective as I thought.

In my third year at Sussex, I was getting increasingly involved with my then cross dressing during the evenings and weekends. Providing I had enough food in stock, I’d occasionally dress all weekend, including nail varnish and makeup. One weekend, I’d been so busy doing work for my project on hedgehogs, that I fell asleep still dressed and made up. It had to be submitted between nine and ten the next morning. I woke at nine thirty. I had no chance of changing back and removing makeup or nail varnish and getting my project in on time. While I felt quite sick, I had to consider how to get to the office and hand my work in.

My hair was a mess but my makeup wasn’t too bad nor were my clothes. I combed my locks into some form of order, grabbed my handbag, wrapped a scarf around my neck and strode off to the office. Much to my relief, no one took a blind bit of notice of me, including the office staff who accepted my work without batting an eyelid. I was tempted to go on to lectures and see if anyone worked out who I was; but chickened out and went back to my room where my heart was beating nineteen to the dozen and I suspect my blood pressure was off the scale with all the adrenaline flooding my system.

I remembered the event like it was yesterday and my heart began pounding in my chest, so much so that I had to sit up. I was nearly back to safety, less than a hundred yards from my room with a cold breeze blowing up the denim miniskirt and straight through my tights, when someone passed me and quite casually said, “Hi, Charlie,” I spun around but the figure who’d spoken, a woman student, was rapidly disappearing into a building. I’m still not sure who it was.

I’m also not sure what I felt about things. I rarely ventured out dressed in those days. I certainly couldn’t at home and even here, there were always people about. Once or twice I did wear makeup while out riding in the early morning, but there were always a few people up and about. These days I think it almost absurd, how I tried to keep it all secret and also how I yearned to be able to be myself in everyday life. It was what I dreamt of, my greatest desire and so forth. Yet here I am, living the dream, being as female as it’s possible to be without having menses or giving birth, and I yearn for other things, like a secure future for my children or some peace and quiet in my own life. Wearing skirts and makeup I can do anytime, and do occasionally, but they are no longer important except when I wish to make an impression.

In the old days, they were only important because in wearing either the clothes or makeup, I was reaching into the world I felt I should have been occupying from birth. They were symbolic of how I wanted to portray myself or be seen—except, with very few exceptions they weren’t seen—as far as I was aware. Now I’m secure in that world as I want to be and be recognised, so the props are much less important.

I didn’t dress up to enjoy the clothes for themselves, it was never about the clothes, they were props in declaring who or what I felt myself to be. I have a large wardrobe of them these days, all much better quality and fit than in the days of my undergraduateship. They’re important because I have a certain appearance to maintain, the wife of a millionaire aristocrat and university professor. They show I’m successful and powerful—not necessarily signals I want to send very often, but occasionally, it comes in useful.

Were anyone to have a video clip of me scurrying back to my room that morning compared to me striding from my car to a meeting, they’d probably never believe they were the same person. Perhaps they weren’t. We all change as we proceed through life, possibly I’ve changed a bit more than others.

I lay there listening to Simon snore like a wild boar on heat alternating with the rumble of the wind in the chimney. I felt about as sleepy as an alarm clock. It was no good, I needed a cuppa and a few minutes to unwind myself from the memories which were threatening to bring on a stroke or cardiac arrest.

Drinking my tea I mused on how dumb I’d been that day, allowing myself to fall asleep while dressed and made up and not setting the alarm clock. Oh well, it’s all water under the bridge and I survived the experience both originally and in remembrance.