The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1935 by Angharad Copyright © 2013 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Trish went off with a skip in her step–so for five minutes, at least, she’ll feel normal not some sort of weirdo. I listened to people on the radio debating gay marriage, mainly feelings against it, because of traditionalism. It was traditional for people to die once they got an infection or for lots of men to beat their wives–it probably recommends it in the scriptures–but we’ve moved on. Why can’t the pros and cons be just a matter for the two people concerned irrespective of their gender or sexual orientation. What’s it got to do with priests and politicians, who are the only groups to prosper by pointing out our differences–that says it all as far as I’m concerned and I have no room for either.

If you were able to look in the various houses in any typical street anywhere in the world, it would be quickly noticed how weird we all are, with little quirks and foibles of all sorts of things. Some are acquired in childhood from parents or peers, either by accident, or trauma or possible mimicry. Does it matter if the bloke up the end likes to wear his wife’s panties when they’re making love–it might to her, but it concerns no one else. Why should we criticise the woman next door who has to wash her hands a hundred times a day, or who can’t eat her meal unless the salt and pepper are arranged in a specific way?

I can’t stand bingo and soap operas–although at times my life feels like one–but I accept they are the mainstay of many other people’s lives. They get really involved in their fictional character’s lives and upset when bad things happen. How can old ladies sit listening to some berk calling out numbers for small cash prizes, several times a week? They do and enjoy it–quite how or why is beyond me–but that’s their prerogative as to how they spend their money and their time. Personally, I’d rather go and fiddle with a bike or true a wheel, which I’m sure makes me a very small minority. We’re all odd, there are only very generalised norms, such as all wanting somewhere to live and raise our children–assuming we want them. To be allowed to dwell in security and to earn a living without undue interference from others–these are norms.

Most of us don’t walk down the street shouting at others or threatening them, most of us don’t feel threatened by our neighbours because we usually have enough in common to be prepared to tolerate each other until something which makes people question their core values–some of which they haven’t done before.

This might be wearing the clothes of the opposite sex or wishing to identify with it; being attracted to the same sex as themselves; being of a different ethnic group or just being different. I know because I’m a weirdo, I can’t throw stones not that I’d want to, but providing they’re not hurting anyone I do tolerate them and try to accept them. If I suspect abuse of any sort, my attitude would very likely change.

I don’t know how I’d feel if they built a rehab place for drug abusers, next door–probably uneasy if not alarmed. Why? Probably because it isn’t something I know about or understand. Having had plenty of issues myself I’ve possibly been lucky not to need alcohol or chemicals to cope with them. I’m not condemning those who do, we all deal with things the way we think is best at the time, I just don’t understand them and perhaps on a bad day, see them as weak, giving in to use of such things instead of dealing with the problem–but I’m not in their shoes, with their baggage, so I try not to judge, even though I know I do. Some of that is my baggage and some a fear of them being out of control or perhaps more honestly being out of my control.

I was musing on this when Julie came to see where I was. “Trish hasn’t got hold of any of your happy pills, has she?”

“What?” I only caught the bit about happy pills and given my previous thoughts, it struck me quite hard.

“Trish, she’s elated about something.”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Would you care to share?”

I sighed, “She was getting anxious about being transgender because she was different to other girls.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I’d hoped by having a girlhood, she’d not have the same baggage I had, and that she’d have a more normal womanhood.”

“Yeah?”

“But it didn’t seem to be the case.”

“No well it wouldn’t, would it?”

“Okay, so I was wrong–but I had to give it a try.”

“Yeah, okay–so what did you do to her to make her happy–hypnotise her?”

“No, I simply pointed out her legal position.”

“What being adopted?”

“No, being female.”

“That gave her a big cheesy grin?”

“I simply showed her her birth certificate which shows her as female, her legal status, the same as you and I and half the population of this country.”

“But we’re still different.”

“I know, Julie, but let her work that out for herself and enjoy the sense of belonging and being normal, like everyone else.”

“Okay–no prob. You want a cuppa?”

“That would be nice, darling–what are you after?”

“Maybe I just thought you’d like a cuppa.”

“Yeah and maybe I just thought you wanted to talk about something?”

She gave me a very old fashioned look. “Okay, I’ll make the tea first.”

I’m beginning to know these kids like their mother–that makes me feel good.

We sat down on the sofa in my study and I shut the door. I didn’t push the issue and it was several minutes before Julie began to talk about her situation.

“I’ve met a boy,” she began and I just nodded. “He works in the pub opposite the salon. I think I like him rather a lot and I hope he feels the same about me.”

I nodded.

“Well say something, then.”

“What would you like me to say?”

“To–I don’t know–tell me to be careful or something.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because you're my mother.”

“Oh okay, be careful or something.”

“No you silly bugger–I don’t know what I want you to say.”

“I thought you simply wanted to tell me that you’re fond of a certain boy and you want my approval. You’re eighteen, you don’t need it, but I’d like to ask one or two questions if that’s alright?”

“Yeah, ’course.”

“What’s his name?”

“Aiden.”

“How old is Aiden?”

“Twenty two.”

“What’s his job?”

“He’s a barman.”

“So he’s going to be working some evenings and weekends?”

“Yeah.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s about five ten, twelve stone, dark hair and brown eyes.”

“Does he smoke?”

“I think so.”

“Not sure I care for that.”

“Yeah, okay but otherwise?”

“He sounds like most other young men. He might be the one, he might not–to find your prince you have to kiss a few frogs. Why not bring him round for dinner?”

“I’d rather bring him down to breakfast.” She blushed because she knew she was pushing my buttons.

“If you’d been going together for months not just weeks, that might have been okay.”

“Wow, really?”

“Yes, I think so–why the surprise?”

“I thought you were a bit of a prude.” Perhaps I don’t know these kids quite as well as I thought I did.