The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2777 by Angharad Copyright© 2015 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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After dropping the offspring to school, where Danielle still seemed preoccupied, I drove on to the university. Diane presented me with a cuppa as I walked in—how does she know I’ve arrived? I’d love to find out but am certainly not going to ask her.

I took my dormouse mug of steaming tea—that’s a mug with a photo of a torpid dormouse on one side and one perched on a branch on the other. Simon got it for me—I have six of them, white bone china. The other five are in my study at home but I don’t dare use them at home, there, my cups have had about the same lifespan as a World War Two fighter pilot, so they are for work only. He did offer to get me a set of unbreakable ones, but they were either enamel or plastic—no thanks.

I had just sat myself down and opened my file of new post when I nearly spat my tea all over the first item. It was entitled,‘Gender Diversity and Equality.’ Apparently the department of culture was concerned that all UK universities should write back to his department letting him know how we were dealing with gender different students or staff. It was forwarded to me from the Dean’s office.

I picked up the phone and dialled Tom’s number. “Dean’s Office,” answered Pippa.

“Is old fuzzy face in?” I enquired.

“That’s a nice way to talk about your father.”

“Never mind the moralising, is he?” He hadn’t mentioned anything about his schedule for a few days.

“I shall make enquiries, Professor.” Pippa and I often played games on the phones as we so rarely saw each other these days.

“I can put you through now, Professor.”

“Cathy?”

“Who else, Daddy?”

“Weel mak’ it quick, I’ve a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Why have you sent me this note from the Department of Culture?”

“Whit note wis that?”

“One about making provision for transgender students and staff.”

“I cannae remember.”

“The diversity and equality protocol surely covers it all, doesn’t it?”

“Probably, it protected ye alricht, didn’t it?”

“As far as I know.”

“Aye weel send it back wi’ that as a note and Pippa will send it off.”

“Do we have any more transgender students or staff?”

“Aye, one or twa.”

“Okay, see you later, Daddy.”

“Alricht, hen.”

So we had some more did we? Nobody had said anything to me, but then did they need to? Obviously not. On one hand I wasn’t the slightest bit interested on the other I wondered if I’d met them and not noticed—which was worrying. They are either so good or I’m losing my ability to spot them at four hundred yards in pitch dark.

Actually, if they start young enough like Trish and Danielle, they make very presentable females, which is half the battle on a daily basis. It’s only when you get to relationships does it get sticky, or like that woman from Bristol, encounters with the law. I still can’t believe they sent her to a men’s prison, she was like a walking Barbie doll. Obviously she’d spent more time having plastic surgery than dealing with the legal niceties. But then people do that with all sorts of things, they’re more likely to spend money on appearances than sensible things like insurances. I know we have to pass to make life easier, but given the range of natural females, there is a bit of leeway and we don’t have to follow stereotypes. In fact doing so might make life more difficult.

I’ve read of so many girls who were stunningly beautiful who were terribly miserable because of the unwanted attention they got from men, so perhaps I should be grateful for being moderately attractive not a stunner. It must be awful to be in that position that wherever you went people wouldn’t leave you alone simply because of your looks. That’s the world in which we live where many of us are driven by our libidos or other primitive urges rather than our reasoning powers.

After lunch I was trying to calculate if I’d have time to finish something if I started it before going to collect the girls when the phone rang. It was Daddy.

“Jest something we forgot aboot this form f’ thon culture people.”

“What did we forget?”

“We need tae hae a named person as thae transgender representative.”

“I’m sure with your charm you’ll persuade someone into doing it; perhaps these other people you know of.”

“Actually I wis thinkin’ perhaps ye’d dae it?”

“Why would I want to do it?”

“Ye’re a senior member o’ staff, ye’ve experience o’ it yersel’ and wi’ others. Ye’d be perfect—sae I’ll jest pit yoe rname doon .”

“I don’t want to do it, Daddy. Sorry an’ all that but I’m saying no and meaning it.”

“But why—ye’re sae well qualified?”

“Because I don’t. I don’t want to carry this stigma around with me for evermore. I may have a history of being transgendered but I don’t feel it applies to me anymore and there are probably better people out there who’d do it better than I. I don’t want to be involved anymore.”

“Whit aboot yer girls?”

“That’s different, obviously I can’t divorce myself from their experiences past, present or future; but I don’t have to be involved in every other one that happens in this city. I don’t even know if I understand half of the different categories people are claiming these days—many of which I suspect show they’re not gender different but bonkers.”

“Aye alricht, we’ll find someone else, wud ye dae it until then?”

“No—I’m sorry, Daddy, but I don’t want anything more to do with it, full stop.”

“Okay, I’ll see ye later, then.”

“Yes, I’ve got to collect the girls in a little while.”

“Okay, bye.” He rang off and I felt totally exasperated. Why can’t people who know me very well understand that just because I have a history of gender dysphoria and have several children with it, that I want to be involved in every case in the neighbourhood? I don’t, I don’t understand where people are going with it—what the hell do they need fifty genders on twitter or facebook, why would I want to be addressed as Mx. I’m quite happy with binaries, you Tarzan me Jane—suits me fine. So what other people do is up to them, just don’t ask me to play—and I don’t care what their reasoning is, whether it’s biological or simply because today is Thursday, I can’t understand it nor really want to. If that makes me a regressive—tough, at least I know what I am—an adult female, or woman. What they want to be is up to them, I’m not stopping them but neither am I encouraging them because I think it’s all got very silly.