The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2940 by Angharad Copyright© 2016 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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“So will you teach me to sew?” asked Debbie.

“They do run evening classes on sewing and dressmaking.”

“I’d rather learn from an expert.”

“I’m not an expert, Debbie, I only know what my mum showed me and what I’ve since gleaned as I’ve gone along. I don’t do fancy sewing, making fiddly cushion covers or patchwork quilts because I don’t have time, I have a busy life with a demanding job and even more demanding family.”

“Is that a no?” she looked crestfallen and I felt such a meanie.

“I’ll teach you some of the basics, beyond that, you’ll have to either read the book or find a class. That’s my best offer.”

“Done,” she said offering her hand which I foolishly shook. Now I was committed to even less free time, though I suppose I could encourage some of my girls to tag along. Peculiarly, Danni and Trish seem better at sewing than Mima or Livvie. I don’t know why unless like Debbie and possibly even I, are trying to legitimise our female status by doing girly things—except some of the best needleworkers in the world are men.

“Friday evening, come for dinner and we’ll hold our sewing bee afterwards. I’ll ask David to do something fairly light so we all stay awake and fewer fingers will get pricked or mistakes made with cutting out or measuring.”

“Sounds good to me. Now, if I was to invest in a sewing machine, which is the best?”

I hate that sort of question, it’s at best offering opinion, like which is the best car? How do I know, I’ve only driven about a dozen types out of hundreds. Still it had been asked and I had to answer it. “I don’t know, there are so many to buy these days which do all sorts of things, most of which you’ll probably never need. If I embroider I do it by hand, which isn’t often. I certainly don’t want a machine to do it for me.”

“Cor, can you really get machines which do that?”

“Yes, but what they cost and how good they are, is anyone’s guess.”

“What have you got, then?”

“My mother had an old Singer and I got a Brother a few years ago.”

“Which is best?”

“The better,” I said correcting her grammar, “is dependent upon what you want to do with it. The Singer is simpler and thus has less to go wrong and it was serviced a year or two ago, the Brother has a larger variety of stitches but is more of a fiddle to set up.”

“Would you help me choose one?”

“What for—I mean, what are you going to be using it for?”

“Curtains.”

I had a horrible feeling she was going to say that and while they’re not the most difficult of projects, they can be awkward simply on account of size and type of material and rufflette tape can be a bitch to add.

“Why don’t you see what’s available commercially and I’ll help you shorten them if necessary, that way you get to see some results more quickly?”

“Really? I was hoping to do it from scratch but I suppose you’re right and I’ll be able to say I altered them, won’t I?”

“Exactly, and hung them as well.”

“So if my mum comes to visit...”

“She can see how you’re developing as a nest builder.”

“Mmmm, I like that idea, prove to her that I can do it as well as she can.”

“That might be a fruitless contest. Instead of trying to out-woman her, why not just try to be the best you, you can be?”

“You sound like my therapist.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re probably right; it’s just that everything I’ve done since beginning my transition has failed to meet her approval. It would be nice to receive it once in my life.”

“How did you fare when you were still living as her son?”

“Not as well as my older brother. He was always perfect to both my parents whereas I was a girly boy who was rubbish at everything, especially sports or chasing girls. My dad thought I was gay. I’m not, I was a female—in my head anyway—so having sex with a girl was like—I dunno—homosexual; yet if I’d told them I had a crush on a boy, they’d have been very upset. So I just tried not to think about it. Now I’ve got the equipment, I’m not sure I can be bothered especially as I never really learnt how to deal with boys as a woman and sometimes I’m frightened both by my inadequacies and them finding out about my past and either being horrible or being aggressive and horrible.”

“I can understand all that.”

“How can you? You’ve had your whole life to train for who you are now. I’ve had to learn very quickly and missed out on much of it.”

Oh boy, this getting very awkward very quickly. What if she discovers my history or one of the girls blabs when she’s there for sewing? How is she going to feel? Should I tell her before then or am I entitled to keep my status as I do now, it’s not as if we’re having a relationship and I don’t have to justify anything to anyone. I shall murder Esmond bloody Herbert when I next see him, why couldn’t he have sent her to London or one of the larger universities? Why me? Because I’ve been there, done that and got the bloody tee shirt.

Why do I seem to attract these people and why the hell do I then allow them to manipulate me into helping them? Am I just weak? Do I need to get approval or just have a compulsion to rescue them?

She went off to do tutorials and I called Diane into my office but to bring tea with her. “That serious, is it?”

“Could be—I’m thinking of running away to a monastery.”

“Don’t you mean nunnery?”

“If I were lesbian possibly but I think a monastery might be more fun.”

“Wouldn’t it be incest if you were doing it with your brothers?” she threw in as she went off to make the teas.

She’ll have to go.

“So what’s the problem, oh wise professor?”

“You mean apart from an insubordinate subordinate?”

“You mean me?” she asked disingenuously.

“I do.”

“Huh, just because I’ve been a secretary to a professor longer than you’ve been a professor, you’re paranoid.”

“No, I was paranoid long before I had a lab stool let alone an academic chair.”

She choked on her tea—served her right.

Once the banter subsided I got down to the meat of the problem, me. “I feel awful with Debbie thinking I’m a natural female when I’ve been through so many of the problems she’s encountered. At the same time, I’ve moved on from all that; I’m a married woman with loads of children and I don’t want to be a role model for any transgender women who want to work in a university. What d’you think?”