The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1709 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

The next day, my office seemed very claustrophobic. I had three first year students who were asking about the notice I’d put on the student’s notice board.

“We wanna help with the dormouse survey,” said the first one.

“Yeah, like that’s why I came here–to do dormice, like you, Lady C.”

“Oh what, I just love dormice.”

“Okay, okay, ladies, I get the message. Meet me at this grid ref.” I scribbled some figures and numbers on a pad, “at ten o’clock on Saturday.”

“Where’s is it?” asked student number one.

“Go and see, it’s a university, you’re supposed to be intelligent to be here. Now clear off before I change my mind.” They went off with a clopping of heels and grumbles–seemed none of them had ever heard of Ordnance Survey, let alone a grid reference. How on earth did they manage to get a place here?

The last word I heard was one of them would ask her boyfriend what it was. Common sense should have told them it was likely to be woodland, though I wouldn’t bet on it. If they saw my film, they’d know dormice are mainly woodland critters. But then I expect they were too busy ooh-ing and ah-ing at the cute little furries.

Before I went to do my degree, I was quite an experienced birdwatcher and that led to other things, while you’re waiting to see or hear birds, especially in summer when the leaf cover is dense, you look around at other things. You notice insects, or wild flowers; you learn to recognise certain species occur in certain types of habitat and unconsciously, you’re building up ecological models. When I started my degree in biology, the first couple of lectures made everything fall into place–it was a real epiphany–suddenly what I’d been doing unconsciously or unsystematically began to make sense and order. From that moment on, I was really gripped with field study stuff and ecology.

I joined the local birding club when I was about twelve, my dad wasn’t happy but he spoke with the secretary who said that on field trips, someone would keep an eye on me and get me home safely. Because I was a bit of a shrimp, and insisted on my long hair, they used to call me Charlotte. One or two of the women tried to take me under their wing, but I was trying to be independent and also to fulfil my dad’s expectations, so I rejected their help.

It was a bit silly, really. There I was trying to act macho, and all it did was destroy any of that credibility. After a bit, I stopped protesting about them calling me Charlotte or girly, and went with the flow. We had some really good ornithologists there and I wanted to learn, so I was prepared to cope with the teasing–after all, it was me who chose to have hair which went well below my shoulders. It was usually in a ponytail, but once, one of the women grabbed me after I slipped and ended up in a hedge with bits of twig and leaf in my hair.

“Charlie, hold still, I’m trying to get the bits out of your tresses.” Next minute she had the hair band off and was combing my hair. “Jesus Christ, you look like a girl,” she said quietly to me. “Are you sure your hormones are right?”

I snatched the hair band back and ran off, tears streaming down my face. It was hard to face her again, but when I reflected upon it, I knew I looked like a girl because I was one, and my androgen insensitivity didn’t help change my mind one bit.

I’d known since I was little that I was or should have been a girl, but once it started to alienate me, I kept it quiet, and when everyone else on the planet was going through puberty, I wasn’t. What was crazy was that neither my parents nor I really noticed until I hadn’t grown anything much after about fourteen–and not much since–except in certain places–like chest and bum.

I overheard the same woman talking with her friend on the same field trip, and she was saying I should have been born a girl, her friend said something to the effect that there were operations to correct that sort of thing these days, and I began to try and research everything I could about it. Now t strikes me as crazy as to how ignorant I was about it all, but I was trying to hide from myself–something I still occasionally do–so I was avoiding it all.

I was just about to go and get a sandwich for lunch–somehow I never have time at breakfast to make one–when the phone rang. It was the dean’s secretary.

“Ah, Miss Watts, could we send someone round to you who has a personal problem, which we think you might be able to help them with.”

“Can you give me ten minutes to get a bite to eat?”

“Could you wait for your lunch, I hope it won’t take long?”

I swore under my breath, “Okay, send her round.”

“Ah, it’s a him, Miss Watts.”

“Okay, send him round–I don’t have a lot of time, so tell him to hurry up.”

I cleared the papers off my desk and found the apple which had been in my shopper for three days, one bite revealed it wasn’t eatable any longer–the day was getting better by the minute.

I organised some papers in files, so there was a reasonable risk I might find them again, if I tried. I was shoving said files into a filing cabinet when there was a rap on my door and I jumped, shutting the drawer on my fingers–bloody hell that hurt.

I had to take a deep breath before I could even tell them to come in.

A boy walked into my room and it was like déjá  vu, he was smallish, long haired and effeminate–no, he was feminine, not effeminate. It was like seeing myself about eight years ago. Oh shit, not another seeker after the truth for me screw up?

“Is this going to take long?” I asked a little brusquely.

“I...I...don’t know,” he looked dejected by my insensitivity.

“This is personal, right?”

He nodded.

“Had any lunch?”

He shook his head, “I’m not very hungry–look, I’ll come and see you again.” He turned to leave and I raised my voice.

“Stop!”

He froze as if I’d hit him with some sort of death ray.

I walked up to him grabbing my handbag, “Come with me, I’ll buy you lunch.”

“I’m not very hungry.” He looked quite ill for a moment.

“No, but I am, and I know a little restaurant where we can talk and eat in relative privacy.”

“I, er, don’t know.”

“No, but I do, c’mon follow your Auntie Cathy, she knows best.” With that I practically dragged him out to my car.

“You’ve got a Jag?” he sounded surprised.

“Yeah, so?”

“I thought you’d have some sort of hybrid–ecology and all that?”

“Good lord no, I want to get from one place to another and back again without a power cut.” No one practices what they preach, do they?

We parked at the little Italian restaurant and I ordered a tuna salad–I know, predictable me. He didn’t know what to have, so I ordered one for him too and a pot of Earl Grey for two.

The owner of the place was doing the waiting, although he hadn’t served us, though he appeared with the tea a few minutes later, “Lady Cameron, how nice-a to see you.”

“Buongiorno, Giuseppe, good to see you too.”

“Your tea, ladies,” he said laying out the cups and saucers before disappearing back to the kitchen. My companion blushed absolutely scarlet.