Easy As Falling Off A Bike.
by Angharad.
part 33.

I reflected on the beating my father had given me, it was one of many such reflections. I hadn't hit anyone since primary school, when Mary Smith took the doll I was playing with, so I decked her. In the jungle that was primary school it seemed much more acceptable besides she got her own back after I pulled the wheels off her pram, she whacked me over the head with a toy guitar. I think I still have a small scar somewhere near my crown.

I enjoyed school so much I used to truant at every opportunity until one of my form masters discovered although I was small and weedy, I had a brain. With his encouragement I began to get more interested and show what I could do.

I was easy meat for the predatory bullies and quite regularly got punched and kicked, so much so that I began to stop feeling it, almost as if I could detach from my body and it was someone else who was getting pasted. Despite the number of times I got duffed, I never gave in and eventually they got fed up with a punch bag who wouldn't scream for mercy or do what they wanted me to, so in the end I won and they left me alone.

At home, my education caused more trouble with my parents, we would argue over politics and religion. I believed that my education gave me a freedom to think that they had missed out on, they believed what they were told to. As a teenager, with everything in black and white, we had trememdous rows but usually I would apologise to keep the peace and plan to escape as soon as I could.

In lots of ways my parents were good to me, they were strict but I wanted for little in a material sense and they were pleased when I got accepted to do biology at Sussex, I was the first to go to university from my family and they were proud of me.

Maybe I did change, I matured in some ways and certainly academically I blossomed, I got a first in Zoology and was tipped to go on to do a doctorate. However, while I liked Sussex, I wanted to explore things a bit more. My nascent transsexualism was beginning to emerge from its chrysalis and although Brighton wasn't too far away, where almost anything goes - the sort of San Francisco of Southern England, only we have the Royal Pavillion rather than the Golden Gate - I didn't think I would be able to do anything about it until after I got myself a job somewhere either teaching in a university or perhaps a researcher in a laboratory.

I'd seen an article in 'Nature' by Professor Agnew about squirrel biology, he did a lot of work on red squirrels on Brownsea Island and the Isle of Wight. It caught my imagination and I emailed him my impressions of his work. To my astonishment, he asked me come and see him and then offered me a place to study dormice at Portsmouth University. No we don't have them there, well only a few in a captive breeding programme, but we do have them around places in the South of England and although secretive and hard to find, I became something of an expert on them. So here I am in Portsmouth, wondering what the hell to do with my life.

Bristol were sounding interested in my small mammal work, they have one of the foremost experts on foxes and badgers in the country if not the world, but I came from Bristol and it had too many past associations. Besides, what if I did transition, who would want me then? Prof Agnew said he would but maybe he was just being nice to me, he knows a bit about my history and is a friend of Dr Thomas. I did give her permission to discuss my case with him, I suppose at the time I needed a father figure for reasons I have already mentioned, or she thought I did. He certainly helped.

It makes me smile that whenever I seem stuck in the present with a dilemma or awkward decision to make, my mind wanders down memory lane as if it's delaying me having to deal with the pressing problem. It was certainly happening now.

The train of thought started with wondering how I would tell my parents that I was going to live as a girl. I still didn't know and I suppose because contact was minimal at the present, I didn't need to for the moment. If I didn't make the change, then I wouldn't have to tell them anyway. It was one reason for not doing it.

I made some tea and sat at the small table in my room with a sheet of paper. I drew a line down the middle and put a plus or a minus sign at the top of each column. Then for the next three hours, I tried to make an objective analysis of whether it was a good idea to change over or not.

Of course I could find far more negatives, but then we always do when we are analysing ourselves, it's one of the reasons there are so many psychiatrists. Our self esteem is usually in negative equity, unless you are a dangerous egomaniac or a half-wit.

I was desperately trying to think of some more positives to make it at least seem as if I had tried to be fair, when there was a knocking on my door. I dropped the pen in shock - who could be calling on me at this hour, it was eight thirty?

I thought about ignoring it, but it knocked again. I thought I'd better open it although I was shaking as I approached the door. I opened it a few inches, Big Mac turned around and looked at me.

"Hi Miss Watts, a few of us are going down the pub or the Union and wondered if maybe you'd like to come with us?"

I nearly fell over. In just about twenty four hours, I had three men wanting me to go out with them. Two days ago, the most response I'd have got from him was a grunt. I was completely thrown by the change in fortunes.

"I erm don't know, I'm looking over my brother's notes and things and was planning an early night."

"C'mon," a bit of relaxation would do you good and we'll have you back here by eleven, how's that?"

"Who's we, exactly?" I asked, ignoring all the warning lights that were flashing in my head.

"Me, Tiger, Colin then there's Tiff and Sally, oh and Bazza and his girl, what's her name?" he called to the group behind him. "Jessica" came back, "Yeah, I always forget Jessica, dunno why."

"Maybe you'll forget mine too," I said smiling, although it was a polite rather than sincere one.

"If you tell me, I promise to remember for ever," he grinned back at me.

I knew he'd find out within a couple of days anyway, so I decided I'd put him out of his misery. I know it's a mistake, we should always keep them guessing, but I am new to this business. "Cathy, Cathy Watts."

"Mine's really Heathcliff," he joked and behind him several falsetto voices did a dreadful impression of Kate Bush.

"I presume you've read one ..."

"..Book, I've read many," he interrupted.

"I was going to say, CD label." I threw back at him.

"Oh Cathy, you have cut me to the core," he groaned, his knees buckling in mock agony. "You'll have to revive me with your gracious presence at the pub, or I shall die as tragically as he does in the book. Will you come knocking my window each night?"

Maybe I had underestimated him, he had read, 'Wuthering Heights' after all.

"Knocking your window, I think not," I said, shaking my head.

"Come on down the pub," he implored. The cry was echoed from the group behind him.

"I'm hardly dressed for going out," I said.

"You look fine to me, so come on, have some fun, you can work tomorrow."

Why didn't I say no, any sane person would have done so. Maybe I just needed to stop thinking and just be, like the saying, "Men do, women are." Instead I said, "Give me two minutes to brush my hair," and shut my door.

My heart was beating nineteen to the dozen, I kept telling myself that it was a huge mistake, but beginners always make lots of those. I prayed they would all be little ones. I brushed my hair, redid my lippy and grabbing my jacket, opened the door to shouts of hooray.