The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2310 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

“You look tired, Mummy,” said Livvie as we left the car. Neither Trish nor Danni had noticed it would seem.

“Yes I am, been a hard day in work.”

“Oh, can I take your bag for you?”

“No, sweetheart, you’ve enough to carry.” She was quite laden with schoolbag and gym kit.

“Did you have to work with that Hilary woman?”

“Some of the time.”

“I’m so glad you’re my mummy not someone like her.”

“If that’s a compliment, I shall accept it.” I was actually blushing with pride.

“Well, we’d never get anything out of her, would we? You’re much nicer and give us lots.”

Now I was blushing with embarrassment for being an easy touch—doh!

Thankfully, David had worked today so I didn’t have to think about feeding the five thousand. He saw me come in and said, “Kettle’s boiling.”

“You couldn’t make a pot could you, I’m just nipping up to change.” I was back ten minutes later in jeans and sweatshirt. “That feels better.”

He shook his head, “I could never understand why women paint their faces and squeeze themselves and their feet into tight clothes and shoes.”

“Because we do.” I suggested, though I’ll bet he didn’t before he jumped ship.

“But why?”

“Because it makes us feel better about ourselves, so we feel more confident, because we’re in competition with each other. Oh I don’t bloody know.”

“So why d’you do it then? You said you felt better in jeans, so why wear a skirt and heels to work?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Bit of a cop out, don’t you think?”

“Why does it bother you?”

“It doesn’t, I don’t have to do it, do I?”

“No, that’s why I asked.”

“I never wanted to do it, to feel pretty or whatever.”

“I suspect that is becoming slightly obvious.”

“I presume you did?”

“Since nursery.”

“That long, eh?”

I nodded.

“Me?” he asked and I nodded. “Probably, though I wasn’t as aware of it then, it was like Topsy, just growed.”

“As soon as I knew there was a difference I knew I was on the wrong side.”

“Well they say gender identity forms about that time.”

It was strange talking to someone who looked like an ordinary bloke, bearded and balding albeit a bit shorter than most, and perhaps with bigger hips than most yet knowing he was the opposite of me. He’d got rid of ovaries and womb to become a man, whereas the bits he wanted I’d dumped. If only those could have been transplanted or swapped: except there’d be a surfeit of the male bits as statistically more biological males would like to be female than t’other way round. Why is that, I wonder, because I’ve never understood why?

I can understand that cross-dressing is primarily a male thing because males objectify things more easily than females do, apparently the male brain works differently to mine. I’m never going to develop a fetish about an article of clothing or footwear or even part of the body. How can anyone do that? Beats me, but they do get turned on by a foot or a type of shoe or whatever. I mean, while I’m very fond of a small part of Simon, I don’t think about it or similar things and feel randy. It has to be attached to Simon for that to happen. I can think of Simon and feel so, or even Des or Gareth and want them to make love to me, but even then, most of them would have to work to turn me on. I suspect even Kevin, the bit of rough from the garage would have to do more than just kiss me. I felt my heart flutter—nah—that’s nostalgia, gotta be, hasn’t it...

“You all right, missus?”

“What?”

“You sort of zoned out for a moment.”

“Sorry, tiredness I think.” I hope.

“I’ve done a lasagne, which is in the big oven. There’s a stewed fruit and ice cream for dessert. Your tea is over there.”He pointed behind me and I nodded my understanding. “Gotta go, Hannah has a parent teacher thing and I said I’d take Ingrid down the school.”

“Okay.” I turned round to collect my tea and he waved and went off to his cottage. The tea was good and almost revived me.

Phoebe was first home and she pecked me on the cheek before dashing upstairs to change. She was soaked to the skin by a hail storm as she rode home on her scooter thing.

Next was Tom followed by Julie who rushed in just getting caught by a shower as she crossed the drive. The showers of hail were increasingly heavy. Julie also went to change as her hair got a little wet and Julie always likes to look tidy, unlike me who is content to scruff about at home or even sometimes in work if we’re doing dirty work.

Alan phoned about setting up a meeting to continue our film making on the harvest mice. He’d procured some more or the promise of more and wondered if we could use the greenhouse again. I asked Daddy who nodded that we could. I felt like a teenager at times getting permission for her friends to come round. Sometimes I wished I was—nah, not really—adolescence is not a lot of fun. Well mine wasn’t, it was horrible.

My mind escaped to memories of being abused in school by Murray, the headmaster. “Ah, Miss Watts, how nice of you to come.” I’d been sent for after I’d been seen being beaten up by Keith Watkins a classmate but not a friend. He sat behind me in our form room, the form master had arranged us alphabetically and I was next on the list after him. He was a regular psycho and used to pull my hair, which I’d been growing for several months and kept in a low ponytail.

The squabble had started because he tugged on my hair and I, being fed up with it, pushed his hand away and slapped him—yeah, like a girl. He laughed at me, as did the others who saw it, then hit me in the stomach. I doubled up and he hit me on the back trying to knock me down so he could kick me. I refused to fall down, so he pushed me away and kicked at me which somehow I dodged and his ankle caught the side of a table and he swore. He hobbled round trying to catch me but I’d run for it, smack into a teacher.

“Where are you going, Watts?” I was easily identifiable by my long hair.

“Um—nowhere, sir.” Of course a moment later Watkins hobbled in pursuit of me.

“Ah, Watkins—now it makes sense.”

“Sir, Watts kicked me on the ankle.” He lifted up his foot and his ankle was swelling slightly.

“Did you, Watts?”

“No, sir, he kicked at me and hurt himself.”

The teacher, Mr Orton, escorted us both to the headmaster, all the way Watkins was looking daggers at me. Murray wasn’t there he was over the other side of the school so we were let go by Orton, but he must have reported us because I was subsequently sent for.

“Watkins tells me you kicked his ankle.”

“No, sir.”

“You didn’t kick him?”

“No, sir, I was trying to avoid being kicked.”

“And why would he want to kick you, Miss Watts?”

“He was pulling my hair, sir, and I told him to stop.”

“Perhaps if you got it cut he wouldn’t want to pull it.”

“No, sir.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Watts.”

“I don’t want to cut my hair, sir.”

“You’re a disgrace you filthy queer.”

I said nothing as he continued a tirade of abuse which was only correct when he called me Miss Watts, the rest was nonsense or just his excessive dislike of me. I felt his spittle on my face once or twice, though I wasn’t listening to him. He’d bawl me out then tell me to take my ‘disgusting being out of his sight.’ It was always the same and I’d slink away back to my class where they’d all snigger as I arrived late and was then told off by the teacher who might also call me Miss Watts or Charlotte. Watkins would utter more threats about what he was going to do later on but it happened so often I took little notice. On the day in question he pushed me forwards into another boy who made some insulting comment at me and pushed me back and I staggered backwards and stepped on Watkins ankle. He howled and I jumped forwards was pushed back and it happened again.

Watkins stayed home that afternoon and never hit me again for some reason.