Is it just me, or do the days between Christmas and New Year, seem grey and forgettable? Or maybe it’s that short term memory thing again–I can’t remember. Anyway, it seemed that all the factors of Christmas had been there, too much money spent, too much food eaten, and a superfluity of booze quaffed by too many, Israel was bombing Palestinians, so all was right with the world. I watched the pictures on television and gasped in disbelief, state terrorism in action. More British soldiers killed in Afghanistan, and suicide bombers in India and Pakistan kill dozens.

What is wrong with everyone? Can’t they see if you kill people, it rather pisses off their friends and relatives? When you’ve finished killing, you then have to talk to resolve things, so why have we got to go through all these stages, why not go straight to talking?

Maybe I’m just a dumb female, but it makes sense to me, as does the fact that if a quarter of the world consumes three quarters of the resources, someone is going to go without. I wasn’t that good at maths, but neither am I completely stupid, unlike most electorates. We need to vote for issues that are in everyone’s best interests, not just the favoured few–but that would be the end of capitalism as we know it, and Simon, Henry et al, would have to get proper jobs.

Of course, I can hide in my ivory tower or come home and talk philosophy with Mima. She can now say, “Fossafussy”, see she’s increasing my vocabulary all the time.

Simon arrived home at lunchtime on New Years Eve, he’d taken a couple of hours off. “What we doing then, babes?”

“About what?”

“Tonight, are we doing fancy dress?”

“Fancy dress?”

“It is New Year’s Eve.”

“Yeah, okay, you can wear three fig-leaves and go as New Year’s Eve. I’ll put on my nightdress…”

“Yeah…”

“And go to bed.”

His face fell. “Aren’t we doing anything?”

“Yes, looking after Mima.”

“Tom and Stella can do that, let’s go out for the night.”

“Where, it’s freezing cold, so I’d be wrapped up like a walrus’ testicles, fancy dress, yeah, let’s go as Eskimos, get me a set of furs.”

“Can we rub noses?”

“Not until you bring me back a seal steak, and a Penguin.”

“Some biologist you are, Eskimos are at the Arctic, penguins are the Antarctic.”

“I don’t want some fishy smelling chicken, I meant the chocolate biscuit, Mima likes them, don’t you, Sweetie?”

“I wuv pengins.” Mima was sat in her highchair watching me prepare the evening meal, she was content to sit there, as she’d helped me make some fairy cakes–we thought we send some to the Vatican. The house was filling nicely with the smell of fresh bread baking, and Simon was getting up my nose.

“Can you wipe her hands, please, Darling?” I threw him a cloth and he did so as if she’d been rolling in cow pats rather than eating one of the cakes we’d made. I shook my head, I wasn’t going to take over, he had to learn if we were to keep her, he had to do his share, besides it would be good practice for when Stella’s Puddin’ erupted. No I don’t mean the actual birth, I mean afterwards, when she’s got chocolate pudding all over herself. Hang on, how do I know it will be a girl? I just do. Ooh, someone just stepped on my grave.

I suppose Simon’s ineptitude meant that he and Mima were busy for about two hours longer than they should have been. I’m exaggerating of course, it only took him ten minutes to do something I do in less than one. He was touching her like she’d fall apart if he used any pressure. Even Tom is better than him.

I put the casserole into the oven, a change from the slow cooker. It was coq au vin, hardly exciting cooking, but it would be okay, and a bit more exciting than beans on toast.

The bread maker beeped and I tipped out the contents–“Not to touch,” I said at Simon and wagged my finger at him. He looked very sheepish at me, like a schoolboy who was in hot water.

“Okay, Mummy, I’ll be good,” he said rolling his eyes. “You’re no fun anymore.” He threw the cloth back to me and it splashed in the sink, sending droplets of water all over me. Mima laughed with glee. I glowered at him.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, sorry.” He passed me the towel

“So I’m no fun any more–have you asked yourself why?”

“No, but don’t blame the little folk.”

I gave him a perplexed expression, then got what he was on about. “It has nothing to do with that,” it did, but I wasn’t going to admit it to him. I was so tired all the time, and it seemed a logical conclusion that as it coincided with Mima’s stay, it was linked to it. Some of it was the extra responsibility, and the twenty four hour care little ones need, but the custody thing also weighed heavily on me.

“No it’s just me, worn out by the excesses of Christmas.” I was still stiff but my bum wasn’t quite so sore now.

“The fairy on the Christmas tree, it was so funny…”

I wasn’t in the mood to laugh, so walked out of the kitchen. I went and sat in the dining room, feeling self-conscious and thin skinned. Jemima came running in, grabbed her doll and pushchair and went off to the lounge to play. I felt quite relieved.

“I was hoping we could celebrate,” said Simon.

“Celebrate what?” I snapped back.

“It was year ago, that you became fully the woman I love.” He turned slowly and walked away.

Oh shit, why didn’t I remember? I got up slower than I’d like, and went after him. “Simon, please.” He stopped and turned, and I threw myself into his arms. “I’m sorry, I forgot–please forgive me,” I rested my head on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, I just thought we could celebrate it.”

“It’s a lovely idea, but it should be tomorrow we celebrate, not today.”

“Yeah, well after midnight, it is tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah, I’m going stupid, sorry.”

“I also got this for you.” He went to the hall table and picked up his attaché case, and picked out a large brown envelope. He passed it to me. It was large and heavy. It had been opened. I pulled out the documents.

“Gender Recognition Panel–what’s all this about?”

“Your two years is nearly up, I thought we should get this sorted, it gives your enemies fewer sticks with which to beat you, and it means we can then start to organise our wedding.”

“So you still want to marry me then?”

The silly bugger went down on one knee and said, “Catherine Watts, will you marry me?”

I burst into tears and nodded.

“Can you help me up, my knee’s locked?”

Once I got him upright again, we went and sat in the kitchen, me on his lap and my hands around his neck–not strangling him, but leaning my head on his shoulder. “I love you, Simon Cameron–sometimes I wonder why, but today I know why.”

“Why is that, Catherine Watts?”

“Because you are the most romantic man in the whole world, and I don’t deserve you.”

“No, probably not.”

I sniffed, “That was a rhetorical statement.”

“Oops,” he hugged me.

“So, are you going to make an honest fellow out of me?”

“Why, are you giving up banking?” I smirked, well the odd one below the belt is allowed, I’m a girl and can’t hit as hard.

“Banking requires the highest levels of honesty and integrity, ask that John bloke who comments on those stories on that web site you occasionally visit, you know he’s from bow wow wow, or somewhere, he’s a banker.”

“Banking requires the highest levels of honesty and integrity, okay, that’s the customers, what about the wheeler dealers?”

“You cut me to the quick, you ungrateful hussy.”

I smirked again, “Got it in one, still gonna marry me?”

“I have to, the warranty expired last week, I can’t send you back now.”

“What?”

Mima walked in and put her doll in my lap. “I can’t get her dwess on, Mummy.” She held the garment in her other hand. “Have you been cwyin’?”

“No sweetheart, laughing, Daddy Simon made me laugh.” I took the doll and with a little difficulty pulled the dress on it and did up the poppers.

“Can I’ve a cuddwle, Daddy?”

“Course you can, Poppet.” I stood up and she jumped onto his lap. He practically submerged her into his embrace, and she giggled. “Maybe we will stay in–and celebrate–something better still.” He looked down at his wriggling bundle and smiled.

“Sounds good to me,” I said and kissed him.