“Ouch,” I said as I stuck the needle in my finger.

“Don’t you dare get blood on it,” cautioned Stella.

“I won’t,” I said as I sucked my finger. Creating the pattern had caused me a few anxious moments, then I’d worked out what I needed to do and once I’d cut it out, I was able to use it to make the various bits I needed for my dormouse toy. It was only about five times as big as the real thing, but any smaller would have been useless for a kid. Later when I have some time, I might make myself something a bit more life size to keep in my office.

I’d pinned the bits, and was tacking it when I stabbed myself. Fortunately, it didn’t really bleed, although it jolly well hurt–for a moment, I had great empathy for people with diabetes who have to prick their fingers to check blood glucose levels. Can’t be very pleasant, and I’ve heard it hurts more than injecting the insulin. Being a total wimp, neither appeals to me.

I set up my mother’s sewing machine and in less than half an hour, had stitched up the body of the giant dormouse. I sewed in the eyes and embroidered around the mouth, while Stella brought me cups of tea. By this time my eyes hurt and I’d had more than enough sewing for a while, so I finished my tea and went to bed.

I hadn’t long got into bed, when Stella arrived and climbed in beside me. “If that bloody lump kicks me out of bed in the night, I’ll do the same to you.”

Stella put her hands over her tummy pretending to protect the ears of her foetus. “Now there little Pud, don’t you listen to the horrible woman, you kick her as much as you like, her bark is far worse than her bite.”

“Only ‘cos I just brushed my teeth.”

“What is?” asked Stella looking bemused.

“The only reason my bark is worse than my bite.”

“That makes even less sense than usual, Catherine Watts.”

“I won’t bite you because I’d have to clean my teeth again, however, I might just make an exception in a minute.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“It was more of a prediction.”

“Isn’t that all a threat is?”

“Perhaps. Now shut up I’m trying to read this blessed book.”

“Who’s Sam Bourne?”

“The nomme de plume of the author, Jonathan Freedland, why?”

“I just wondered. What’s it about?”

“It’s about a woman who battered her sister in law to death with a book, because she kept disturbing her while she was reading it.”

“Boring plot then, you know whodunit.” Stella was either deliberately pushing me, or too thick to see what I was saying applied to her.

“The plot is actually very good, or it would be if I was allowed to read it.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

At this point I rolled over on my side, and tried to concentrate on my book. I might as well have tried to fly on a broomstick, I was rattled and Stella wanted to talk.

She spoke again and I dropped the book on the floor. It was futile to continue. I lay on my back and she turned around to talk with me. It felt as if I was in the dormitory of a girls’ school.

“It felt really weird meeting you as a six year old.”

“I thought you were older than that?” I replied distorting the meaning of her remark, deliberately.

“No, you as the six year old, silly.”

“I can’t remember any of that.” It was partly true and partly that I didn’t want to recall it. Memory is a mutable subject and those ones, I’d rather forget.

“It showed you knew you should’ve been a girl when you were quite young.”

“So, I got there in the end, with your help.”

“But, I hurt you yesterday.”

“It wasn’t deliberate, so forget it, I have.”

“But you missed out on so many things, because you didn’t grow up as a girl.”

“True, but I also experienced some other things which you didn’t, so none of it was wasted. Life is too short for regrets, and I got where I needed to be.”

“If Pud is a girl, you can share in her upbringing, and enjoy some of the things you missed out on.”

“And if he’s a boy?”

“You can still share him with me.”

“That’s very sweet of you Stella, I was hoping that would be the case.”

“I think I want you to be his or her’s godmother.”

“Don’t you think it would be a good idea to wait and see that everything is okay first; second, as an unbeliever, am I the most appropriate person to be a fairy godmother?”

“Fairy godmother!” she shrieked, “Oh you’d be ideal, but I also think the more conventional type would also be up your street.”

“But aren’t you supposed to be responsible for bringing the little darling up as a member of the church and give them spiritual guidance? I don’t believe the fairy tales, so how can I do that?”

“Isn’t the fact that you’ve recognised the issue, proof enough that you are the ideal person.”

“Run that by me again, Stella, because I didn’t hear the word agnostic or atheist once in the sentence.”

She rubbed my shoulder, “Cathy, it’s not about churches and religion, leastways not how I see it. To me it’s about integrity and the way you live. To point out your lack of religious belief, shows honesty and integrity: ergo, you’d be a good godmother.”

It began to look as if I’d talked myself into it. I was flattered and more than happy to accept the position, except for my own qualms of hypocrisy. I wanted to share in Stella’s baby, because it was likely to be as close as I ever got to one of my own. I quickly shoved that thought from my head, it would do neither of us any good, and it was a fact–when I took the pills, I was reducing my fertility. When I had the surgery, it became absolute without stored sperm and I wasn’t going to bother with that.

I began to yawn, seeking escape from these painful thoughts, through sleep. “You look tired, Cathy.”

“I am, Stel, I think my therapy session took a lot out of me, but it felt so good afterwards to have shifted a piece of baggage that I wasn’t even aware I had.” I yawned again.

“Night night,” she said and pecked me on the cheek. Then she rolled over on her side and switched off the light on her side of the bed. I did the same and tried to sleep. I was very tired but my head was buzzing with all sorts of thoughts. This was Stella’s fault for stirring them up–or was it? I suppose it wasn’t when I thought it through, because we are responsible for what we think, say and do. We can be provoked, but our reactions or replies are our responsibility. I was inducing myself into a really good guilt trip, and decided to use an old trick of imagining that I was riding up a really long, steep hill, focusing on as much detail as I could. Long before I go to the top, I was fast asleep. I had vague memories of strange dreams, but none of them lingered enough to remember them after going to the loo, which I did twice thanks to all the tea I drank–Stella, the bearer of my tea, remained fast asleep all night. There’s an irony there somewhere, but I’m too tired to find it.