To be different is a choice? Not for me!

This had a temporary possible title: such as 'Aren't you / they stupid? I’m not gay!' which could have grown a series of 'Aren’t they angry … '; Aren’t they wrong ...'; 'Aren't they nasty ...'; even 'Aren't they accepting … '. Another possible set of titles began How stupid are you? I'm not gay'.
Then the story veered away and the title had to change!

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I’m not gay!! How stupid are you?

It’s hard at college when you’re different. And the Big-O’Bigots come on the attack almost every day. I call them the Big-O’Bigots because they’re Big; they’re mostly Irish – so the O and they’re Bigots.

And there’s the Gobits too. Yeah, I know – making jokes again – but they’re the God Bigots. And the ordinary shouty Gobbies too – and, yes, enough of them spit out their venom. And after both of those nasty little-minded people – there were the ‘ordinary’ bigots. And aren’t there a lot of them. Too often they just don’t realize they’re being crass, unkind, stupid, ugly or plain nasty. It’s just ‘their way’ of wasting their lives.

And alongside all these are the Nasties. And almost worse, the self-praising self-adoring PLU – the People-Like-Us who can’t stand anyone who breaks their rules, laws, expectations by ‘being different’. Surprisingly, many of these claim that their god tells them to be this nasty - ooops, sorry, that their god has given rules to obey and somebody else who breaks these rules deserves shunning and obliteration.

But this term, I was suffering. I wasn’t gay or whatever word you prefer – but I was different. And golly, didn’t the nasties make me aware of their disapproval. And the easiest words for them to use were all the gay ones, faggot, poofter, bumboy, tosser. Their vocabulary was limited but loud. And as dear Mr Goebbels said 'Make the lie big enough and say it often enough and people will believe!'.

There’s things you can do to retaliate – but it’s best to be far away when the O’Bigots realize that something they don’t like has happened. I was there, albeit well out of range, when Charlie Foster delivered his most famous piece of revenge. Oh it was just ….. special.

It was the day Charlie was leaving with his parents to go abroad – far out of reach of the nasties. During classes, he painted the cars of the three ringleaders pink. Bright pink – with extra lettering in red. Not all messy and splashy but neat, careful calligraphy. Stylish. ‘Methinks they protest just tooo much’ He’d obviously used a stencil – and he’d practiced too. But the slur stuck. Lots of the pupils who’d been hassled and abused by the senior O’Bigots wondered out loud, just enough to be obvious, ‘d’y really think it’s true?’ or other not-quite-below-hearing comments, Was Charlie right about them’. Subtle. Exactly the sort of intelligent attack that confuses the average thug.

The O’Bigot leaders were furious and wanted to take their rage out on somebody, anybody. By next term – it was me.

And I had no such talent with which to retaliate. I was too ordinary, too middle-of-the-road. Actually, to be modest (and one of the things I am most proud about is my considerable modesty) I'm too nice to retaliate. But it didn't stop me thinking of ways to make them stop. And once in a while to plot revenge.

On and on they went. All the ugly words. And not just words. Pushing, shoving. Knocking my books to the ground. Stealing my clothes during gym. Messing up my desk and my locker. But the teasing was never-ending. Pink paint all over my books was beyond a nuisance. Hacking the school records – we all knew who was the only one capable – so my name was changed to Philippa Gay. Only a few letters away from Philip Jay – but the school IT manager said he couldn’t change it back without a system restore and that would cost time and money. He almost said was I willing to pay! For the next month, all my files would come out as Miss Philippa Gay. Including any university applications – and the deadline was getting near.

My parents weren’t happy. And family finances, don’t ask, they couldn’t pay more than a peanut.

So I went on the attack. If ‘they’ were going to attack me for being gay then go beyond gay. Go all the way to girl or tomboy. I learnt that from Charlie. Be subtle. I couldn't plan for subtle. But I could manage clever, perhaps.

I dressed much more borderline, edgy, or sometimes actually girly. I wore girl-cut jeans and blouses instead of my usual (and acceptable) uniform. I wore jewellery sometimes, mostly a bracelet, but a necklace once or twice. And a more subtle, yeah ok girly, perfume instead of bodyspray. I went to a local salon and they showed me how to adapt my longish hair so that it was a sort of boy-girl shape.

And I have to say, quite quickly the tone and nastiness of the verbal abuse changed. The physical abuse changed too. And I started to get people sitting at my canteen (back table, in the corner, near the tray-return so a bit messy and even smelly). They asked, ‘Can we sit with you’. And it was mostly girls.

Girls had NEVER wanted to sit with me. I might be one of the brighter kids even if I tried to hide it – but popular – NO. Acceptable – Doubtful.

Some time later, I was in the town centre by myself, of course, and having a coffee. The BH (Bloody Hack) came up to me with an ugly sneery smile.

“Having a nice day, Philippa?”

“Not really. I’m trundling along with my daily life trying to keep a low profile, waiting for the right girl to turn up – and someone keeps telling lies about me. And last weekend, someone, I can’t guess who,“ glaring at him, “has screwed me up just that little bit extra so that my name comes out on all the college databases in an ugly flip on my proper name.”

BH looked amazed. Something seemed to have surprised him. Then he brought his ugly little mind back in line. “Whatch’er mean ‘the right girl’? Who’s going to be interested in a woofter like you.”

“Tedious though it is to tell yet another person who won’t take any notice – I’m not gay. I like girls. The last boy who pestered me got a knee in the bollocks, okay? I agree that I don’t love sport or cars or vulgarity or leering at women or lesbians or BDSM or porn in its thousand different varieties or playing with my pecker the way that too many of my fellow ‘males’ like to do – but that doesn’t make me less male. Perhaps it merely makes me better educated. Or intelligent.”

“But everyone knows you’re gay!”

“Clearly I’m wasting my energy here. Who is likely to know better than me? Have you any evidence to prove that I am a liar? Have you got anything to prove that ‘they’ – whoever ‘they’ are – regularly tell the truth about any of their victims? You know their style. They casually pick on a target and then systematically bash it, bully it, harass it until it gives in. I’ll go a step further. I repeat what I just said – perhaps that makes me different from my so-called peers and equals. But does that equate to ‘deserving-to-be-bullied’. I think not.”

I changed tack. “I suspect that many of those who are labelling me have some secret that would make them too ‘different’ if it was known. Some might even be judged unacceptable. Mud sticks. The kid who was abused by his parents – didn’t he ask for it? The kid who’s that bit stupid until they find he needs glasses – everyone knew he was the school idiot. Oh yes?”

BH almost had a look of shame – but it soon faded. The sneer began to return.

Then I pushed a bit harder. “So what’s the secret YOU don’t want anybody to know?”

BH shuddered as if I had….... I don’t actually have the words for his expression. Then he leapt to his feet and he ran as if I had something so vile, so horrid, so threatening that it was unbearable. He ran as I might if my nightmares were chasing me.

That evening, all my records were corrected. A number of emails went out to the administration about misdemeanours and misbehaviours of various sorts.

Various of the nastier nasties were ‘asked to visit the Dean’. Overall, some twenty students decided to take a break – the rumour was that they could return next year provided they had demonstrated ‘better behaviour’.

BH disappeared too. And at times, as my life trundles slowly and hiccuply, sometimes I wonder what was so terrible about his secret that he couldn’t face it.

But, me, I’m in a quandary. It’s like a dilemma or a trilemma but, in my view, less defined. So in this amorphous state (see what I can does with big words) I was more than bewildered. I needed someone to talk to. Yeah – but who.

I might be more than 50% girl on the inside (I’d put it at anywhere between 51% and about 90% myself) but that remaining 10% was male and incapable of asking for help. Rather inconvenient really.

I was going to have to bite the bullet, be bloody bold and resolute and all the other phrases. I would have to gird my loins (however painful), put my best foot forward (what?) and take the bull by the horns!!! What do all these phrases mean?

Asking for help

“Mum. I’m not good at asking for help.” I came to a halt.

“No, dear. You’re as useless as your dad at asking for help. But tell me what’s up and I’ll see if I can help or give you some guidance at least.”

I was about to speak, but my eyes were filling up. Mum held her hand up to interrupt.

“If you’re being brave enough to ask for help then it’s either a huge problem, lots of little ones or one so tiny that you could sort it yourself if you thought about it. My guess is that it’s a big one. Perhaps you want to tell me why you like wearing panties? Or is it more that you want to wear more than dresses but don’t know what I’d think? Come, come, darling. How stupid, how unobservant do you think I have been for the last 19 years.”

Did I know what to say anymore. Every single prepared phrase had …… gone. Brain-wipe. Duh.

“Oh come on, darling. Panties?”

“But …… I don’t …..”

“Really? I know you don’t wear them every day – but …….. you do wear them. Which means you’ve obtained them – and hidden them from me. And you obviously choose to wear them. So you obviously like them. Unless there are invisible methods of blackmail within the school system ….. it’s YOUR choice. And I know about it? So – what else do you need help with?”

“I’m not gay” is what burst out of me.

“I know that. So exactly what are you asking for help with? You haven’t said.”

“But they call me ‘gay’!”

“Aah. So a first question is how do you derail their accusation? Your current method seems to be to confuse them as to whether you’re a gay-boy or more of a girl. Interesting choice. Did you decide this approach by yourself? It’s not one of the usual methods of saying ‘No I’m not’. Eh?”

I was still saying little more than “eeek, um, er, help, whimper”

“Are we still talking about ideas to derail their accusation of ‘gay’? First one is obvious – you do something only boys do, real boys. The easiest is to get a girl to kiss and snog with you somewhere sufficiently public that you will be seen and ‘the lads’ will get to know soon enough.”

“Yeah, and what girl’s going to be willing to kiss me – the boy who everybody calls gay.”

“I’m sure I can talk to a few of the other mothers. I’ve got a few names in mind. Nice girls too.”

“Who. Who on earth ….”

“Just some girls I was at school with who have had their share of bullying and abuse. We didn’t like it then but we had no power. We don’t like it now. And we’ve grown enough to be able to do something. And most of the bullies are still as tiny-minded as when they were at school. They’ve not grown at all, except to be nastier and meaner. Some of them. A few have learnt better.”

“But …”

“I need your brain working at its best, child. No more ‘but’, no more ‘duh’. Contribute. Please.”

This was a family phrase from long ago with my grandparents. Their views on democracy were strongly, if you don’t vote, don’t think, don’t contribute then don’t complain about what others do on your behalf.

“Do you really mean there are friends of yours who’d ask their daughters to, um, kiss me and stuff to make the bullies stop?”

“Actually, there are probably girls already willing – if you’d just ask. Unless you are gay and want a boy to help you come out.”

I took the big step. “If I was gay, mum, I’d kiss the girl extra-thoroughly. I like girls. I can't see anything changing that."

“Mmmmm, I did wonder.” And she didn’t seem too upset by my revelation. That made me think ‘how much did she know about me?’.

There was a pause. Maybe a minute.

“Do you know what sex you are? What gender? And, um, whether you’re heterosexual or not? What boy things DO you do? Cars - no; sports - not much; what else do you or don't you do?"

Gulp. I remembered what I had said to the BH. 'I don’t love sport or cars or vulgarity or leering at women or lesbians or BDSM or porn in its thousand different varieties or playing with my pecker the way that too many of my fellow ‘males’ like to do – but that doesn’t make me less male. Perhaps it merely makes me better educated. Or intelligent.' My brain did a flip - was I more of a girl than I had thought before? What were the answers to Mum's questions.

“You’ve just opened up and pretty much said you’re a girl and, I think I heard, more likely to be interested in boys than otherwise. Yes? No? Come on, words not grunts. And especially now, because girls really don’t grunt. Ever.”

Just to assert myself, I grunted.

The maternal eyebrow raised a fraction in dissent; a quick frown accompanied and a shake of the head. “Naughty girl.” She grinned.

“Couldn’t help myself.”

“Of course not.” Another smile.

“And …..”

“Yes, darling mother-unit.”

“And so, what steps do you want me to initiate. Who, where, when, how ….. we’re still on for derailing these louts who bully you. And we’re going to need to get this right. What’s the outcome of Poor Planning?”

“Piss Poor Performance.”

“and?”

“Unintended Consequences, Sir, Madam, I mean.”

“So you say you’re really a girl? Is this a certainty? a maybe? a wish? an escape? What tests have you done? Who have you talked to? Is it more you don’t feel like a typical boy? Answers, child.”

“I have done some research y’know.”

“I did expect you to have done some. And your answers?”

“I didn’t get as far as answers – just more complicated questions.”

“So what’s your current view on your male-female balance or rather imbalance. For a start, you’ve got a boy-indicator penis and you don’t, as far as I can see, have any overt display of female characteristics – breasts, curves and so on. So, just to get it over with – strip.”

“Strip?”

“I need to see you – completely. Photograph you, just in case. Measure you. And help you decide?”

“Everything you say makes me want to ask more questions.”

“Strip, I said. Move it.”

Soon my flimsy not-very-macho body was on display. I shivered and it wasn’t that cold. Mum went to her room and came back with a dressing-gown for me. Not my usual towelling one but a slinky satin that made my skin wriggle with, um, excitement. I wasn’t sure.

“Nice, isn’t it?” smirked Mum. “Not tried anything like that before?”

I blushed. “I wanted to but also didn’t. So I didn’t.”

“Well, change is acomin’.”

“Mum, what d’you think about this?”

“Which ‘this’?”

“My wanting or thinking I want or even thinking I am a girl.”

“Oh. That ‘this’.”

“It’s not what I’d have wished for you or for us. It’s hard enough getting through life as a ‘normal’ without coming out and saying ‘I’m different, I’m really different. Mind you, we've all got our differences - just some of them are more blatant than others. And some of 'them'" - she almost spat the word -" don't like others who seem to be like them to be actually different. Hateful."”

“I did know that. I’m not looking forward to being ‘not one of us’ anymore.”

“Well, a first step might be to find the group you do want to have as ‘people like me’. And it’d serve you better for it not to be a small group like ‘boy-girls’ or ‘used-to-be-a-boy’. If you’re a girl then the group you aim at is ‘girls-and-women’. Yes.”

“Put like that it’s rather obvious.”

“Or are you simply a cross-dresser? Is it the feel of the clothes – so different from the rough, tough cloth that most boy-clothes are made of? Or is it that you are actually a girl and want that piece of gristle between your legs chopped off?”

Chopped off?

Like any boy past puberty, I crossed my legs and held my hands to protect my family jewels.

“Well, that’s one immediate answer. Even if temporary and all. As an indicator of your relationship with your gonads, the displayed urge to protect …… well, y’know what I mean, eh?”

“I may think I’m a girl but I’ve had all these years of pretending to be a boy. You do learn to act as if your nackers are important. Camouflage y’know. You have to learn to be typical - even if it hurts.”

“Oookay. But while I’m not a professional, word-choice is quite indicative. You said ‘I may think I’m a girl’ and ‘pretending to be a boy’. I wonder how that’s different from actually ‘being a girl’. On the other hand you also said 'pretending hurts'. We do need to speak to someone who has some experience at this whole gender-shift thing. The web is NOT the place to get quality advice. Although, I have agreed in the past, it can be a useful stepping-stone to better knowledge.”

“I have to talk to shrinks an’ all?”

“I would be abdicating my responsibility if I didn’t insist. You are talking in terms of a huge series of steps. Depending on your choices, you will have to have pseudo-female chemicals every day for the rest of your life; you will have to have major surgery on your, um, groin and possibly face, throat, chest and wherever else. You will have to unlearn nearly two decades of boyness and learn, very fast and very accurately, what girls have picked up by peer-pressure and osmosis. It ain’t a walk in the park.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m pointing all this out to you face-to-face rather than have you read the same off an inhuman non-reacting screen because I love you. I love you enough to support you if this does turn out to be the right thing for you. I love you enough to prevent it….. if it is not the right thing for you. If there’s a halfway house such as enjoying dressing in women’s clothes – then I’ll love you enough to help you with that too. Whatever you think, I always love you. I may not like some of your choices. I may hugely disapprove of some choices. But I am not you. I should not try to make you in my image of a ‘good son’. ‘good child’, ‘good daughter’, whatever.”

“Am I doing the right thing?”

“What? Investigating your choices in a supportive environment. I can’t think of a safer way to experiment. So, yes. You are doing A right thing. We and mostly you have to decide whether you’re doing the right thing. I do keep an eye open for news, reports, science on this whole trans thing. Ever since I realized this was not a short-term passing phase. I didn’t know when we would have to deal with it – but I knew this deep issue within you would have to be dealt with.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘Oh’. I don’t know what you’ve been looking at or researching. But for the next month or so I want some quality research from you. If you are going to investigate transgendering in any way for yourself then you need real data. This isn’t as important as an A-level project, it’s the rest of your life. I can tell you that I’ve seen too many pictures of Tgirls dressed appallingly and inappropriately, well inappropriate for anywhere other than a low class disco, and you’re not going that route. You can be a stylish girl and then a stylish woman, if you wish – that would make some sense. I’ve read some of the stories, where the boy is amazingly suddenly transformed from the dullard to the ‘best girl in town’ – that’s not real either. I’ve read two reports, just two, one recently, one some years ago, where someone who has transitioned now thinks they made the wrong decision. I KNOW the statistics are bent and twisted by the pros and the antis. I want real data. Real evidence. Real research by you into what you need to have happen to you.”

“Sorry, mum. I didn’t realize.”

“No, you probably didn’t. But some stories go, I might be gaining a daughter but I would be losing a son. However you look at it, however not-very-good at the job you might have been sometimes, that’s still a sort of death. For me. Grief, Anger, Acceptance all that goes with it. I had to find out things. I had to be able to help you when the time came. And it’s now, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“So, what’s first?”

“Should we go and buy some clothes that fit? If I'm going to test how it is to be more girl.”

“Oh, that wasn’t the answer I was expecting!”

“What were you expecting?”

“Not sure. Your suggestion has thrown me off stride. Right now, I can’t remember what I was expecting.”

“But we can look up some names of people to talk to later.”

“Good b’ child. I’ll stick with child for the moment, yes? Because do you know your new name yet? If you're being a bit more girl for a while.”

“How about Rosebud?”

“No. And probably not your next few suggestions. You were going to be called Primrose Petunia….” Mum nearly exploded when she saw my expression.

“Don’t be silly. You were going to be called Rose, or Julie Rose perhaps.”

“So not Philippa then. I’m glad about that.”

“So, Rose, would you like to come shopping after lunch.”

“Oh, yes please, Mummy.”

“Mummy!”

“”If I’m a girl, that’s right isn’t it.” And I realized that Girl-Me would have said ‘Because I’m a girl’. That is, if I did have a Girl-Me.

Over lunch, we decided what sort of things I should buy and an approximate budget.

I’m not going to go into details. Too many stories deal with the embarrassed boy-girl, the first panties, the first bra, the first skirt, the first time the shoe-boy looks up the girl’s skirt, etc etc. All I’m willing to say is that I was excited, embarrassed and teetering on the edge of scary-wonderfulness every minute of the nearly two hours we spent shopping.

And I finished with a good variety of undies, skirts, blouses and three dresses too. And a few last-minute accessories as well, clutch-purse, pocket-purse, shoulder-bag, bracelets, a necklace and earring set in white and purple crystal.

I thought we’d bought a lot but mummy said at least there was enough for a week or so with cross-matching and swapping.

As we got nearer home, we saw some of my friends cycling past. I asked Mummy if I we could slow down and ask them to come round tomorrow.

She said ‘is that when you’re going to tell them you’re being a girl for a while?”

I nodded. Bright-eyed and excited.

If the need is enough!

“Absolutely not. That’s a big coming-out moment and I can’t agree to it so fast because you’ve got excited and over-the-toppish. It needs better planning.” But she did balance what seemed like harsh criticism with a big smile.

“Yes, you’re going to have to tell them. But I’d suggest one or two first off then the others, then gradually more. From my reading, it’s very obvious that some friends will drop you like a hot potato before you can blink while others will suddenly prove that they just weren’t your friends yet. Some of the reactions you get will be horrid. Are you ready for that?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for people to hurt me.” I said miserably.

“Honey, if the need inside you is great enough, you’ll do anything to get there. Others like you have lost mums and dads or both, siblings, family, friends, schoolmates and older ones lose houses, jobs and their whole life. And some lose their lives for real. That’s the cost of being big-time different.”

I pulled a face.

“If you were doing a real-life test it would be full-time and for months. And while you were talking with people that’s when you learn to balance the cost against the pain. As your mum, I’d prefer there to be little or no pain in your life. I’d prefer it if your differences were not that important. But it looks like you may have chosen otherwise. I nearly said ‘chosen differently’ but then it can be a choice to be different. But this is more of an experiment. Still quite difficult to explain and justify if there are any Haters about. But it looks like you do want to find out more - so. We'll see what happens, eh?"”

“Don’t forget – your first question to me was how do we derail the accusation that you’re gay. Apart from completely ignoring that or rather not even thinking about it while you change tack completely and instead aim to come out as wondering if you are a T-girl – are you still thinking about that? I guess that coming out completely as a T-girl would be as bad or worse to the Bigots and Nasties. What’s your plan?”

“Can we move house? Time-machine? Parallel World? Magic??” My imagination was running riot alternating with panic.

Mum was still smiling, “No, no, no, and no. Even if I were a witch or rich or knew how to switch!” Mum likes playing with words just as badly as I do.

“It’s time to slow right down. I’ve bought you some clothes to wear at home at weekends, holidays and maybe some evenings too. I want a demonstration of maximum control from you and maximum research. I’m not allowing you outdoors as Rose – not until I say. You may do some practice at Girl 101, walking, talking, dress-style and so on – but indoors only. I don’t want any over-excited blabbing to your friends. Right. These rules will weaken once you come down from this hyper-excited level you’re at. Because you’re capable of maxi-blabbing right now – and that will not help you or others cope with your intent to be Different. Even if, I emphasise, this is an experiment, a test, a try-out and NOT brackets necessarily a fulltime complete official decision."

“Can I tell Bethann?”

“What exactly would you tell her?”

“Perhaps I could leave a tiny bit of nail-varnish showing?”

“And how would you ensure that only Bethann noticed? And if she did notice, that she wouldn’t jump to the wrong conclusion – for example, that you ARE gay? What would you do if one of the others noticed first? Not a great suggestion, I’d say.”

“Well if I can’t do the accidental reveal, then how would I tell her that I’m going to begin transition?”

“Is she your best friend? Have you done the uber-girly pinky-swear yet?” I shook my head. “No, well, using the pinky-swear secret oath is out. Do you think she suspects anything? Have you shown more than a teenager’s interest in her panties and so on? Does she think that for you ‘getting into a girl’s panties’ means the usual boyish flustered grope. That she has no suspicion that you want to buy and wear them yourself?

I blushed so red. Could I see myself talking about this to Bethann. Then I realized the one I could talk to most easily might be Esther. But what would Bethann’s reaction be? Oh dear. I could see so many difficulties ahead – and that was just with the ‘simple’ task of telling my friends.

I was almost in tears. “I don’t know who to talk to first. Bethann’s my best friend amongst the other girls but I suddenly feel that Esther might listen better and be less strong in her reaction. Perhaps both of them together?”

“I said no. I meant no. I definitely mean ‘not yet’. I don’t want any accidental slippage. You’ve only truly admitted today how uncertain you feel gender-wise. Up to now, it’s all been covered with maybe and perhaps and so on. Together with the pretty-successful pretending-to-be-a-boy camouflage that you’ve used for so long. We’ve gone way past ‘stopping them think you’re gay’ – haven’t we?”

I nodded my head. Then realized we were at home. “Can I go and get dressed, Mummy. I’ll be back down so quick, we’ve got to keep talking but I want to do it in a dress instead of these things.” And my fingers plucked with disgust at the drab boy trousers I was wearing.

By the time I came back I was still over-excited – but differently than before. I was wearing a dress. MY dress. MY undies. My bra, my tights. My shoes. It was all wonderful. And these ones fitted properly. Not hat I had anything to put in my bra – not even fake boobage yet.

I came downstairs, clip-clopping in my new one-inch heels. A noise my feet had never been capable of before.

Then Mummy - got it right that time – said ‘ So, we were talking about telling your friends? Any further thoughts.”

Instantly my excitement vanished. I had been doing some thinking. Maybe not very coherently because it was such fun putting on a dress that had been bought for me, that fitted me. I was still on the edge of tears, but my determination had got stronger too. Mummy’s earlier words had helped make it very clear what were the costs of my choice. But each successive plummet had been overset by the steadily growing rocket-blast as she also said ‘it will be possible’.

"I think that talking to Bethann and Esther together is the right thing. Esther’s clearly my next best pal. I’d like to be able to tell them next weekend. What do you think?”

“Right now, I’d say next weekend is much too soon. Let’s say ‘not yet’ again. Other options may become clear in the next few days too. As I say, I’m not keen on anyone volunteering to be so bigly different as you seem to have decided on but I will help you. But you will be speaking to some specialists too. Soon, if I can manage it. I'm - careful use of the double-negative - not unhappy that you've told me that you're uncertain gender-wise - but we are a long way, a very long way from knowing what's going on inside your head or your soul. We haven't even checked out what sort of body you have."

I had to say it. “Mummy, you’ve helped me so much already. I know the path I might be setting off on will be bloody and bloody hard but everything you’ve said and what we did today has made me more certain that I’m not much of a boy. I’ve never thought of myself as ‘a girl locked inside a boy’s body’ but it’s a cliché because it is a good description for a lot of T-girls. Everything we’ve said today has made me more certain that I don’t really have a choice. I may be a girl. If I am a girl then I have to be a girl. And that means doing all that’s necessary to make me feel like a girl.”

“I’d better go and buy a new fan then for protection. Once this gets out you and me are going to be in a shxtstorm with it all ricocheting off all nearby fans. It will be messy and horrid – but I think we’ll get through it. Unless you also turn out to be lesbian, vegan and whatever else.”

“Oh, as regards being lesbian and vegan – perhaps I forgot to tell you!”

“Aaaaaaaarrrrgggghhhh.”

Squeaking with pretend-fear I ran for the stairs.