The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1796 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“D’you believe the helicopter story?” asked Simon as we snuggled together in bed.

“He’s not usually given to telling lies, is he?”

“You know him better than I do, babes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I felt irritated by Simon’s tone.

“You’re his mother and have more contact with him than I do.”

“Yes, but you’re his dad and supposed to have this male bonding thing.”

“Ha,” he scorned, “Isn’t he supposed to want to screw you and kill me?”

“Only in Greek mythology and the imagination of Dr Freud.” Then I couldn’t resist the old and very corny Jewish joke, “Oedipus, shmedipus, what’s it matter as long as he loves his mother.”

Simon groaned and noted, “I set myself up for that, didn’t I?”

“You said it,” I smiled and pecked him on the cheek. “I want to go to sleep now,” I turned my back towards him and he spooned around me his arm around my waist gently rubbing my tummy.

“Did you hear what that scallywag daughter of yours did to me?”

It’s always my daughter when they do wrong. “No, what did she do?” I yawned back at him.

“She wore that provocative tee shirt again.”

“I wondered if you’d notice,” I lied.

“Of course I did.”

Only when she stood in front of him waving her arms about. “So it would seem,” I was getting very sleepy.

“To stop her wearing it, I purchased it from her and cut it up with the kitchen scissors.”

“How much did you give her?” I knew how much, but it would be interesting to see what he says.

“A tenner.” He lied according to Julie, she said he gave her twenty.

“Oh, okay. I’m going to sleep now.”

He muttered on about stopping her sending the wrong messages to boys but I only heard the first sentence, I was fast asleep moments later and dreaming that Simon was buying all Julie’s sexy or suggestive clothing to protect her from boys. The next thing he was wearing it himself, which looked very silly–his hairy chest poking out of the top of a vee necked top. ‘I have to wear it, to make it worth the money I paid her for it.’ I simply stood there in total bemusement. I woke a little after this realising I’d been dreaming.

Sitting on the loo moments later–the reason for my waking, I supposed–I asked myself what would have happened had Simon been a cross dresser? I wasn’t sure but I suspect I’d have left him.

Then I wondered, why? After all shouldn’t I be more accepting than your average woman. Or should that be excepting? I wouldn’t want the competition to be the female in the relationship, which is my role and I don’t even want to share it, save with my daughters and that’s a different sort of competition.

I washed my hands thinking that I must have very poor confidence in myself to be undermined by a cross-dresser. Perhaps I still have–I don’t know–or shall we say I’m not consciously aware of it, and Simon doesn’t wear my clothes or any other woman’s that I know of, so I feel far more loving towards him. I felt myself blushing with embarrassment.

I wouldn’t tolerate a relationship with a cross-dressing partner because it might undermine my position as the female in the relationship. What was I thinking? How could I be so intolerant–yet I’ve met a few transsexual women who felt the same.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about it on reflection, and would I reject a relationship with someone who did cross dress? I hadn’t in terms of people who weren’t prospective partners, so would I actually do it to a partner or prospective one? I wasn’t sure. It seemed I wanted to receive acceptance more than I seemed to want to give it. Did that make me a hypocrite or a bigot?

I know lots of women would have issues about a partner doing something normally seen as deviant, I don’t see it quite like that unless there is such a strong fetish element that it overrides everything else.

Now I felt I was starting to ramble and even I wasn’t sure what I meant whatever it was I meant. Or did I mean it? God knows, I went back to bed and Simon was lying flat on his back with his mouth wide open doing his impression of a jet engine being tested.

Then I thought back to my little conversation with myself in the bathroom, and the thought of Simon lying there in Julie’s suggestive clothing–which he wouldn’t get into anyway–almost made me laugh out loud. I got back into the bed and lifted the covers, Simon rolled over onto his side and the engineering work stopped. I snuggled into the back of him which meant unless I moved he’d be stuck lying on his side or he’d fall out of the bed. Either way it would stop him snoring–I hoped.

I must have gone back to sleep fairly quickly because I remember waking up when some cold hands were placed on my back. It turned out to be Meems who’d climbed in on my side of the bed. Mind you there wasn’t much space on Simon’s side, he was lying right on the edge and I was still tucked in behind him.

If I hadn’t squealed when Meems shoved her freezing cold puddies up the back of my pyjamas, everything would have been fine. But I did, it was involuntary, I suspect I might have jumped as well which of course had a knock on, or should that be knock off, effect on Simon.

The old joke if you can’t sleep lie on the edge of the bed, you’ll soon drop off, isn’t quite true. Oh Simon dropped off alright, it was the sleep bit which didn’t happen. So to recap, Meems got into bed shoved her cold hands up the back of my jammy top and I squealed and jumped and Simon fell out of bed, landing with quite a thump on the carpet. For some reason he wasn’t particularly amused. Meems was, her wot caused it all: and because I was ruled the guilty party by Simon and my treacherous daughter, was sentenced to go and make the tea while they cuddled under the duvet. I’ll have to plot my revenge some-when.

While I was downstairs, Daddy came in with Kiki who got muddy paws all up my pyjama trousers–they’re cream with little flowers on. I didn’t know whether to put my pyjamas or the dog in the washing machine. In the end it was the pyjamas along with the rest of the dirty clothes hamper. Simon is worse than any woman about his clothing, he chucks stuff in the dirty basket almost before he’s worn it. I did suggest I washed ironed and then put them back into the dirty hamper and cut out the middle man–he didn’t get the irony, just the ironing.

Having started my chores I stayed up and had a short chat with Daddy before the others began to arrive at the breakfast table and another day commenced.