The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1866 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I drove home on autopilot, reflecting on what had happened in the restaurant and the conversation afterwards. Why is it that I somehow feel second class? Is it that because I started from a different route, I don’t feel as legitimate as most females do? Each time I do it, someone points out the error of my ways, yet I know as soon as the opportunity presents itself I’ll do the same again.

This time it was Erin who came to my rescue, before that it’s been Si or Stella, Tom even Henry who have grounded me or reassured me. I felt a tear run down my face and hoped my mascara was as waterproof as the manufacturers claim. I’d blown it again, and done my usual thing of ignoring, scorning or denying compliments, especially relating to my looks or abilities.

Part of that I could explain. I’d been a girlish looking boy all my life so had suppressed anything which could give the game away as to how I felt inside; which was caused by revealing my feelings when I was quite young and have my father stamp all over me.

The second was simply that to be proud was to be bigheaded and vain, and coming from such a religious background as I did, my protestant work ethic stuff meant that I felt guilty if anyone told me I was good at something or was attractive.

Put the two together and you have a formula for self loathing, which my father couldn’t see. I did overturn a bit of it at university simply because I worked my socks off, and was rewarded with a first. My father was actually proud of me for five minutes. Then I reminded him of my opposition to belief in sky fairies and he took it as a personal attack upon his integrity. Perhaps it was, though purely unconscious, I had merely meant to say that I couldn’t believe in something which cannot be demonstrated, the exact opposite of faith–which was where he was.

If either of us had half a brain we’d have agreed to differ, but he tried to force me to adhere to his values. and I of course. refused. He set upon me several times and being several orders of magnitude bigger than I was, he usually succeeded in doing me physical damage. It was after one such attack that I nearly managed to end it all. In some ways I’m glad I didn’t, and once in a while I wish I had succeeded.

With most things going for me, why would I want to end it all? Same reason most of us do–I get a bit down or feel life is pointless, then I see my children and remember how much they need me to optimise their potential–at least I tell myself that–but it might be just another delusion. I seem to have more of them than the average loony.

I tried to justify my embarrassment over the way Erin asked that passer-by his opinion. If I’d looked like the hairy one from Star Wars, that chap would have said I was attractive, wouldn’t he? Erin put him on the spot and if he’d said I was ugly, he’d know that he would upset me and that’s ungallant or ignoble.

However much women sometimes decry men for all sorts of things, most men don’t seem to like to put women down, just for the sake of it. The man was no oil painting himself, so perhaps he empathised with another less than perfect soul; who knows?

The motorway was dreadful and at one point I sat without moving for twenty minutes. It turned out there had been an accident ahead and I realised that someone had had a worse day than I had. Two or three people were standing behind the crash barrier talking with a uniformed policeman. In front of them two fairly new and probably expensive motor cars showed major damage and judging by the debris on the roadside, could even prove to be write offs.

I used to know a lad who bought insurance write offs and repair them. He made quite a good living until he tried to weld two of them together and it split down the middle as the owner went over a hump back bridge at speed. He was killed. Apparently, between them the two cars he’d joined together had been responsible for the deaths of four people–he went to prison for it. After that he moved, because no one spoke to him for a couple of years when he got out.

I finally got home and David had prepared a delicious spaghetti bolognaise which I love. It so happens the rest of us do as well, so instead of pestering me with questions, which suited me fine, they just made the noises of eating.

It was after dinner I had a bit of a shock. I went down to my study with a cuppa to check my fan-mail, I mean emails–my fanny doesn’t get any mail–and after signing in had an email from one of the teachers I’d confronted that day.

‘Dear Lady Chatterly,

Eric Chalmers.’

Wow and double wow, who have thunk it? Charmless apologises–why? Did he think I was going to sue him?

Simon came down to find me, partly to discover where I kept the stain remover–he had tomato sauce on his favourite sweater. I told him what had happened and showed him the email.

“Oh, well that shows you and Erin were both right.” Sometimes I wonder if he was a loss to the diplomatic corps, at others I suspect he could cause the next war. “You know how I feel about it, I’ve said so often enough.”

“What? How to load the washing machine–take your sweater off and I’ll soak it in some stain remover.”

“It won’t shrink will it?”

“No–it’s acrylic, Simon.”

“What? made of plastic?”

“Yes, you know you can’t wear wool anywhere near your skin.”

“That’s right rub it in, label me abnormal.”

“What?”

“I know I’m not a real man, I can’t give you children nor wear wool near my skin...”

I gave him an old fashioned look, “Okay, point taken.”

He winked at me and gave me a very old fashioned hug and a kiss.