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SNAFU Part 21

by Angharad

This is a work of fiction any resemblance to anyone alive or dead is unintentional.

I spent much of the night in meditation. Much to my surprise I felt refreshed rather than tired, had I been more experienced, I’d have known that. Effectively, I felt better than had I slept because I also thought I now knew how I would deal with Harry or whatever her name was. Whether it would work, was another matter. What was important, was that I separated my emotions from whatever action I took. That had to be almost clinical but done with a clear conscience, so it wasn’t going to be done in anger or fear but with calmness and if possible, love.

It is rather the way that a parent disciplines a wayward child who needs to learn a lesson. It may be uncomfortable to the child but is even more so to the parent because no parent enjoys disciplining their children. It is so often easier to give in to them, to indulge them rather than do what is proper.

So, reconciled that when the next encounter happened, I should be more prepared and to see it as a necessary act, but without prejudice, I went down to breakfast.
“You seem very chirpy this morning,” remarked my mother.

“Do I?” I replied.

“Yes, considering you came in so briskly last night and disappeared into the shower and then your bedroom. From the smell, we assumed you were burning incense or something. I hope it wasn’t to disguise the smell of something else.”

“Like what?” I replied naively.

“Put it this way, in most student rooms, anyone burning incense is suspected of smoking wacky baccy or something similar.”

Such a suspicion hadn’t even occurred to me, and I wasn’t sure if I felt hurt or astonished, maybe even a bit of both. I expressed my feelings to my mother who immediately went defensive, then apologised. We hugged and I gave her an assurance that I had no interest in drugs.

This again is something most parents must worry about, which I would be spared or cheated out of, depending upon viewpoint. I was once again reminded of my infertility, and of the little matter of telling John the truth about my ‘little problem’. It hung over me like a permanent black cloud. In some ways, I was sure he would cope, yet I still had a nagging doubt. What if he didn’t? The pain was too much to contemplate.

I quickly reviewed my position. I had changed from a normal boy to a normal girl in just a year or two. But was I a normal boy? Obviously not now, but had I been before? I didn’t know.

I didn’t know what constitutes a normal boy, or for that matter, a normal girl. Is there such a thing? I didn’t know that either. I could continue my researches and find lots of academic answers, but they could be wrong dealing with percentiles not, people. Besides, aren’t we all unique?

This was becoming a chicken/egg argument. Possibly there is no definition of a normal boy or girl, only percentiles. Most girls do this or say they think that. The same goes for boys. But within that range, there will be some very different answers to the ubiquitous questionnaire.

I quickly scanned my life before. Two caring but detached parents; a doting grandmother with whom I spent long periods; bullying and intimidation in school, very few friends, so I made my own amusement. It didn’t sound too unusual until I added a few details.

Bullying included sexual abuse, including same-sex abuse. Time with gran included, sewing and dressmaking. Don’t all boys do this? Very funny. Favours to girlfriends included, doing their needlework homework to prevent exposure to other boys. My response to bullying was to withdraw rather than fight back. Yes, the typical response of a girl, and that was before the army got involved. Shit. I didn’t have a chance, did I?

Maybe this was all preordained, that I was trying to avoid my bondage to Sekhmet by incarnating in a male body, which fate then modified into as near as damn it, a female one.

Did I really believe all that stuff? I mean, this is the twenty-first century. So we don’t believe in mumbo jumbo anymore. It’s simply superstitious nonsense, is it not? I mean in this day and age we know you live and then you die. Bang, all over with nothing but an eternity of nothingness.

So why did I keep seeing dead people and lions? Clearly, I must be psychotic. At times I wondered if that might be preferable to what I experienced on a regular basis. I wished my grandmother was here, she would give me her advice, which was always so useful. She always knew what to do, or helped me to choose the best option.

If she was not really dead, but in some afterlife, then surely I should be able to contact her. Would it work like that? If it did, it would ease many of our worries about life and death. However, it could also prevent us from valuing and using our lives as fully as we might. Not to worry if I screw up this time around, I’ll have another go before too long. Life would be very cheap then.

Of course, there are those who have actually believed this through the ages or felt they would live in glory with their gods, in an afterlife. Apparently, in Roman times, wannabe Christian martyrs became so numerous, that the authorities were at a loss in dealing with them. Modern-day suicide bombers seem to believe that their ‘sacrifice’ will see them promoted to glory. Although in my, admittedly western liberal, opinion, the opposite is more likely to happen. Killing innocents causes negative Karma, which in turn causes payback.

So apart from ancient Romans running around in skirts, what else did I glean from my analysis? Not a lot. I was just as confused as ever about whether I had ever truly been a boy, and was that genetic, environmental or karmic? What the hell, I went for a ride on my bike, within fifteen minutes of pumping pedals and generally busting a gut, I had no breath left to worry about gender issues.

Wow this bike can fly, or nearly so. Forty-five MPH, according to my computer. Okay, so it was down a steep hill, but it was so exciting a real adrenaline buzz. I just clicked her into top gear and pumping my legs, furiously, I fairly flew along. The rushing of the air in my ears and on my face was bracing. It’s a bit dangerous, with only a few inches of rubber actually in contact with the road, and little chance of stopping safely and quickly. So why do I do it? ‘Cos I can, and I love it. Pity what goes down has to pedal all the way back up. No pain, no gain I suppose.

As I got back up the hill in a roundabout route, circling my way back home, I began to think about my enjoyment of speed and effort on my bike. It kicks in the endorphins and enkephalins plus adrenaline, no wonder I feel good, like a junky getting a fix. But in my previous analysis, wouldn’t that be a masculine attribute? Oh bugger, who actually cares? I’m me, a woman, so does it matter? Probably not, although it might to John, and I was back here again.

Life goes around in circles for me, perhaps it is actually as Jung suggested, that conflicts within us which if we don’t resolve, get projected onto a larger screen and others get involved.

According to my computer, the little one like a digital watch on my handlebars, I had done about twenty miles and been out for nearly two hours. I wasn’t far from home now, and part of me felt like turning away from there and riding some more, but it would have been simply to avoid dealing with my inner stuff, and one bit in particular. I decided as I put on a last spurt towards home, that I would tell John the next time we had some time together.

As I arrived in the close, Linnie and Bill were riding up and down on their bikes. I stopped and spoke to them. Apparently, they had seen me go off earlier but had been too slow to catch me. Mine is a racer, so it seems to be living up to its name. They seemed so disappointed that I agreed to go out for a little ride with them.
I thought to myself, ‘Honestly, the things I do for other people.’ I made them tell their mother what we were doing, and she invited me back for lunch which gave us half an hour.

We tootled about, which is harder than head down and going for it on this bike. It’s designed to be ridden for speed, dragging along behind two slow coaches was purgatory. However, we did eventually do about three miles and returned home safely for lunch.

Gwen Johns is a wonderful cook. Sorry if I repeat myself, but it does bear repeating and any invite to eat at their house is worth having. It was just the four of us, the good doctor, being away at the hospital. Essentially, we had leftovers, but she had turned them into a pasta bake with a side salad. It was delicious and certainly better than the sandwich I’d have done myself if I’d been bothered. I was trying to lose a bit of flab, preferably before I next saw John. Damn, there it was again, that blessed black cloud.

I got back after lunch did a few chores and sent John an email in response to his text. I asked him when we’d get together again. I also texted him to say about the email. The response was, “Hope to have a weekend off next week. Shall I come down?”

My response doesn’t really need detailing here, other than I was filled with some fear and trepidation. I was going to tell him. Now I wanted reassurance that I had done the right thing or was planning to.

My mother came bustling in about six, as I was putting the potatoes on. I wasn’t that hungry, but I knew my parents would be, and if I did the meal, I could serve myself a small portion without too many questions. My father came in about half an hour later, he wanted to get on with his book, but I wanted his opinion.

We were just finishing the meal. I had played with mine rather than ate it. “You not hungry, sweetheart?” Asked my mother.

“Not really.”

“Something bugging you?” she continued.

“Yes and no.”

“What’s the yes part?” My father decided to join in the interrogation, but part of me was secretly pleased. I needed him more than Robert bloody Browning did.

“I’ve decided to tell John.” I spluttered.

“Tell him what?” retorted my father.

“About me.” I could feel my tummy turning just thinking about it all.

“I thought we’d dealt with seeing dead things and funny Egyptians running about the place.” He laughed gently as he said it.

“That wasn’t what I meant.” I was now very close to tears.

“We know, sweetie pie.” Said my mother touching my hand. I felt its warmth on mine.

“If that’s what you want to do, then you should do it.”

“Does he really need to know?” asked my father. “Can’t it wait until you are certain? I mean, is he knocking you off….”

“Tom!” snapped my mother, “Just what do you mean?”

“Look, they are both adults, and we all know what adults get up to.”

“If you mean, are we having sex?” I asked, to which he nodded, I continued, “No we’re not.”

My mother had looked very uncomfortable with this but began to beam with pride at me. “But I’d like to,” I added wiping the smile from her face.

“Is he going to notice?” my father enquired, “I mean, it looks like the real thing doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t done a comparison.”

“Don’t women do comparisons in the toilet or changing rooms, you know like men sneak crafty glances at each other in the bogs.”

“Tom,” my mother interjected, “this conversation is becoming scatological, and isn’t helping Jamie.”

“Didn’t you look at other boys willies in the showers?” he asked.

“Only to notice they were all bigger than me, so I stopped doing games.”

“It isn’t about size,” he lied, trying to cheer me up, “it’s about what you can do with it.”

My mother was now beetroot and clearing the dishes. As she left the room, she muttered something which sounded like ‘rowlocks.’ I nearly choked, Dad, however, unaware continued, “I suppose that doesn’t apply to you anymore, does it?”

“Only insofar as being able to accommodate a partner,” I told him.

“When I spoke to your surgeon….”

“He didn’t say anything about that,” I replied astonished.

“I asked him not to, never mind why. I asked him about what he was going to do and he described it all, making me feel very uncomfortable I can tell you. The thought of it, oooh. But then we feel differently about these things.”

“Can’t say I miss it,” I interjected.

“No, I suppose not. Anyway, he told me that when it all healed up, it would seem as much like the real thing as was possible and that even some doctors wouldn’t actually spot it.”

I thought about this for a moment. I had laid out dead bodies of both men and women, young and old. I had washed their intimate parts but hadn’t really looked at them. Even on a corpse, I felt some degree of intrusion and washed their lower abdomens quickly and without looking. So I hadn’t actually compared what I had with anyone else. I wasn’t sure I wanted to, either. I mean, if my mother offered, I would be so embarrassed, I just couldn’t. Women don’t do that sort of thing.

I heard her crashing pots and things in the kitchen, so she wanted no further involvement in the conversation. I wasn’t sure I did, but having initiated it, I suppose politeness kept me there.

My father poured us both some more wine. I didn’t honestly want it either, but I began to sip it.

“So do you need to tell him? If you’re not actually bonking yet, does he need to know?” he asked taking a large sip of his wine.

“Maybe not. It’s just that I feel that I’m holding back on him.”

“All couples have secrets. Even your mother and I do.”

“I heard that Tom Curtis.” My mother’s voice called from the kitchen.

My father blushed, then called back, “Nothing important, my love.”

“Better not,” came the response, it was like long-distance audio tennis.

“I’m sure John has some,” he continued trying to reassure me.

“Probably, but it’s hardly the same. I didn’t tell you I used to be a boy, because it was such a little thing.”

I had meant it to sound sarcastic, but my father picked up on my unconscious double entendre and began choking on his wine. He spent the next couple of minutes coughing, his eyes running and his face as red as his drink.

Needless to say, it killed off the conversation and it finally finished with me feeling more confused than ever. If I had understood them, neither of my parents were particularly in favour of saying anything to John. However, my father seemed to be agreeable to me having sex, or preferably, making love in my view. I considered there was a difference, I hoped John would feel the same.

I eventually retired to bed to finish the Guardian crossword, and think my thoughts. They had given opinions, it was still my decision, my choice.

I might have been better off meditating again because sleep did not come easily. I must have drifted off eventually, but it was filled with all sorts of frightening images. I felt under attack from something I couldn’t see or hear, only feel its effects upon me, which weren’t very nice.

Battered and bleeding I fought on against my invisible assailant until finally some of my blood sprayed upon it and I could see it at last, or enough to land an effective blow. I managed to knock it, or should I say her, down, because she was female. Then I dived on top of her and we thrashed about in the gory mess caused by my own blood. Finally, I was winning, I managed to get my hands around her throat, slippery with the blood and began to exert as much pressure as I could. Blood dripped off my face onto hers, and just before I finished her off, I decided to see what she looked like or who she was.

Suddenly I leapt up off her, astonished and sickened. When I had seen her face, it was like looking at my twin. I realised I was fighting myself, and had tried to kill ‘myself’ or part of me. I felt sick and vomited. Was I trying to kill off Jamie the boy part of me? No, it was definitely a female part. I looked down at myself, I was female too. What was going on here?

I woke up in a sweat, not knowing quite where I was until the shapes of my bedroom became clear enough for me to recognise. I was grateful I hadn’t actually vomited, although I felt very sick. I went to the loo and then back to bed and sleep.

In the next dream, I met my grandmother. This, I thought should at least be a happy dream. I told her of my dilemma with John and asked her advice.

“What do you want me to say Jamie?” she answered my question.

“Tell me what to do, Gran.”

“You know I can’t do that, Jamie.”

“But I need to know what to do. Should I tell him I was a boy?”

“You never were a boy,” she replied.

“What?” I called back to her because I could see her fading away from me.

“Gran, please stay. Don’t leave me, Gran….” I shouted after her.

“It’s okay Jamie, it’s alright.” I awoke being held by my mother, “It’s okay, you were having a bad dream, it’s alright now.”

“I was with Gran, and she left me.” I sobbed on my mother’s shoulder. “I only wanted to ask her if I should tell John. She said, ‘I never was a boy ’. Why would she tell me that?”

“I don’t know sweetheart,” cooed my mother as I sobbed on her shoulder. After a few minutes, I calmed down and returned to a thankfully dreamless sleep for the remainder of the night. I awoke feeling like death.

Over the next few days, I spent longer and longer riding my bike. It stopped me having to think about what I should do when John arrived in a few days. I was cycling most of the day, just riding aimlessly, then because I was tired, sleeping easily. It felt okay to do this, not thinking just doing.

One day, the weather which had been threatening to change, did just that. It went from warm and dry to cool and changeable. That was okay too, I didn’t get so hot, although the squally showers weren’t so pleasant.

I was riding along a road that was unfamiliar to me. Surrounding both sides was a quite dense broadleaf woodland. Had I had the time or mood to notice, I would have seen the diversity possible in the colour green, from the grass and ferns to the higher canopied oaks and beech trees. Even within the trees, newer leaves shone with lighter green compared to their older, darker counterparts.

It felt quite dark, and I wasn’t sure if this was due to the overhanging trees or the sky, which I couldn’t see clearly. The rain began and I stopped, standing close to the bole of a beech tree, holding the bike under the shelter. I began to feel much cooler as the temperature seemed to drop.

The rain began to fall in earnest, hammering on the road surface, like stair rods great drops fell in rapid succession. The noise above me was increasing as the deluge became heavier. I flattened myself against the tree trying to keep dry, pulling the bike as close as I could to keep the saddle dry.

It seemed to get darker, almost as dark as night and I felt a little apprehensive. When I was a child I had an unpleasant experience in a wood, which I neither wanted to repeat nor remember.

The rain got heavier, certainly, the noise of it in the tree canopy got louder almost deafening, when from nowhere there was a flash and a loud bang or crash.
Suddenly there was smoke drifting everywhere and splinters of wood were in the air. I realised that the tree just a few yards away had been hit by lightning. Then there was another flash and crash, this time without damage to the trees, but enough to make me move deeper into the wood, seeking new shelter.

The strange smell I decided was ammonia, which my schoolgirl chemistry decided was possible, given atmospheric nitrogen and water. How the hell could I work that out yet be unable to sort my relationship problems?

Another crash and I moved yet deeper into the wood, all the time my memory telling me not to shelter under trees in a thunderstorm. However, I chose to ignore it, as the rain was teeming down, even heavier than before, smashing leaves off trees and the little woodland path down which I had recently run was now a torrent of muddy water, rushing down a slope I hadn’t noticed before.

I stood there, pulling my thin shower-proof cycling jacket around me. My mum had given it to me with matching shorts and shirt. They were all red matching my bike, making me look like a mobile blood clot. I should have called the bike the ‘Embolism’. My little joke was all I had to laugh about as the rain continued to hammer for another hour, the torrent on the previous path causing me to move yet again to avoid being carried away with it. The ground was now very slippery and carrying or pushing a bike through it was not a comfortable experience. My shorts were now becoming wet and my shoes had long since filled with cold water.

However, there was no way I was cycling in this sort of rain. I wouldn’t be able to see where I was going nor would other road users.

Most drivers were quite safe, provided they weren’t driving. Then they became homicidal maniacs. In these conditions I would be making it far too easy for one of them to kill me off, assuming I didn’t drown first.

Just then, there was an enormous crash and simultaneous flash and the tree about ten feet away split in half, one of the aforementioned halves heading my way. I threw the bike one way and myself the other as a lump of wood weighing a ton or more smashed against the tree I’d been sheltering under, pretty well where I had been standing. It then fell towards me, and I leapt and scrambled out of its way, sliding full length in the mud and water.

However, I wasn’t just lying there, the water was now carrying me down the slope as I desperately tried to get some purchase on anything, my cycle mitts could grasp. Over and over I rolled in the stream of muddy water, I was soaking wet, with mud and other slime in my mouth and face, descending the slope to be deposited in a muddy pool at the bottom.

I managed eventually to pull myself out, shivering and frightened. The rain still beat down upon me, as I tried to make my way back up the slope, now even steeper as it grew wetter and more slippery. I could see my bike, and just yards from it, I slipped and rolled back down into the increasing morass.

My watch had stopped with water inside it, so I had no idea of time, but I guessed an hour or more had passed since the rain had started, probably more. I finally managed to get back to the top of the slope and inspected my bike, thankfully it was undamaged. To have walked back carrying it would have been unthinkable.

I was emptying the water out of my shoes when out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of movement. I looked and saw nothing. The rain was easing and I wanted to be on my way.

I took off my helmet and wiped my face as best I could in the little cloth I had in my tiny saddlebag, it was dirty but dry. Usually, I used it for wiping my hands or the chain. As I did so, I saw movement again. This time I knew I wasn’t alone.

“Oh shit,” I thought to myself, then began to shiver as I recalled my previous experience with elementals, as nature spirits are called by occultists.

I have mentioned before how we integrate energies from external stimuli. Some of us see ghosts, some of us hear them whilst others may feel coldness or some other sensation. Me, glutton that I am do all of these. I see, hear and feel.

What we see or feel depends on our map of the universe, so two people may see or feel very different things from the same stimulus. I knew what I had seen, it was a little green man. This was not a martian, however, but a sprite and it was some of these who had terrorised me when I was a child.

Elementals are like children themselves, they can be playful even spiteful depending upon what they are and how you respond. The one thing is not to appear scared or they will really enjoy themselves just as children would if given the power over someone else.

Given that I was bigger and more knowledgeable now, I should be able to deal with these energy forms without too much trouble. I continued drying myself off as best I could pretending not to notice that several more had arrived and I was now surrounded.

I grabbed my bike and was about to move towards the road when I realised I was well and truly surrounded. There must have been a hundred of them and they looked less than happy.

“Hello guys,” I called out, they seemed even more irritated.

“This is a private wood,” one of them called to me.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that. I only came to shelter from the rain.”

“This is a men’s only wood,” another voice called.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that either. I am going now, thanks for your hospitality.” I made to move towards the road, about a hundred yards away.

“You have transgressed the rules and must pay.”

“Sorry boys, I don’t have any money with me.” I tried to stay calm, but I was a little, make that a lot, frightened. I had never seen so many of these little men.

“You must pay.”

“Sorry boys, I just told you I don’t have any money.”

“We shall take your velocipede until you do pay.”

“Bugger that little man,” I retorted,” my dad gave me this bike and besides I have a long way to go. So no deal.”

“You must pay, you must pay.” A chant began, getting louder and louder. It was sort of hypnotic and I knew I was in danger of them taking me into a trance, where I would be in real peril.

I felt my body becoming weaker as they all obviously focused their energy on stopping me from leaving. I slumped against a tree, holding on to my bicycle, but it was being drawn away from my weakening grasp. I felt myself feeling light-headed, I was succumbing to their chant. I had to fight it.

The thought flashed through my mind that if I couldn’t cope with this group of energies how was I going to deal with Harry, a really nasty and organised one? Not by going to sleep, that was certain.

As I felt myself sliding down the smooth bark of a beech tree, my legs becoming weaker by the moment, I fought to stay awake and in control. What could I do against these little monsters?

Oh, why not call up a lioness? I can almost hear you all saying it. Well, the problem was that my mind was losing its link with the rest of me, it was falling under the control of these little demons. As I slid down to the ground, I saw the lioness that I had on a bracelet my mother had given me. I held onto the picture in my mind as things began to go black.

As I felt myself falling down a dark tunnel I tried to keep the lioness in my mind, don’t think about anything else, just the lioness. I felt one of them pulling at my wrist, and it angered me. They had the bike, more anger began to course through me.
I saw a large lioness in my mind's eye and I projected it into the wood. I was breaking the spell. The tugging on my wrist continued and I shrugged it away. I sat up. The throng of little bodies pressed closer, the chanting continued.

I stood up, albeit on shaky legs. They stopped for a moment. Then the chant began again. “Shut up you little bastards,” I shouted at them.

Astonishingly it stopped. “Do you know who I am?”

“A stupid woman.” Came back the reply.

“I am the Devourer of Souls.” I spoke quite quietly. I am the Queen of the Lions.”

Silence held for a moment. I felt the energy surging back into me, my little furry friend was close. I was surprised they hadn’t picked up on it. Then maybe we operate on different frequencies, which is why most ordinary folk don’t see or feel these things. I was about to bring the equivalent of a ground attack helicopter into their little world, from a dimension to which they seemed oblivious. Now I was back in control, as it should be.

“Where is my bike?”

“You must pay.” The chant began again, but now I was immune to it.

“Where is my bike?” I roared at them, and I mean roared.

It worked as my bicycle appeared a second later.

I looked at the faces of the now apprehensive elementals. One or two began the chant again and as it spread and its intensity rose, I did what any self-respecting ‘devourer of souls’ would do. I sent the girls round.

Well, to be exact, it was just one girl, but if you are about two foot six and suddenly confronted by a large feline about a foot taller at the shoulder than you are, the effect is striking.

Suddenly, it went very quiet, so quiet you could hear a sprite piss himself, all metaphorical of course. I was standing before this group, my little pet stood behind them.

“Is there anything any of you would like to say before I dissipate your collective energy into nothingness?” I asked feeling like the invading force in ‘The Hitchhikers Guide’, about to destroy the earth.

There was silence. Then a sobbing. “You there,” I called to the sobbing sprite, “do you have something to say?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, milady.” Then they all nodded and this general agreement spread through the throng.

“You didn’t mean to offend me, yet you would rob me.”

“We are sorry.” Came back the response.

“Why should I not destroy you?”

“We promise to be good in future.”

“If you promise never to hurt another human in this wood or near it, or damage their property, then I won’t destroy you. But let me ever hear any story of funny goings-on here and I shall send my little pet back and all of you will cease to be. Do I make myself clear?” The energy flowing through me was now steaming the wet out of my clothing.

“Yes, milady.” Came back the answer.

“I also demand recompense for your assault on me. Now you must pay me.” I thought it was worth a try after all they seemed materialist enough to try and pinch my ‘Specialized’ and my bracelet.

“Take this, milady.” The voice led my eyes to follow, and before was the proverbial crock of gold. Okay, so it wasn’t a crock it was a small bag with gleaming gold coins.
I nearly succumbed again, this time to temptation and greed. “Bring me one of the coins.” I roared at them. They duly obliged.

I took it and put it in the pocket of my jacket.

“I will take this as a symbol of our agreement. If ever it should disappear I shall come back for the rest and all of you will cease to be. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, milady.”

“We have an agreement until the end of time, is that understood?”

“Yes, milady.”

“Never make me come back here in anger.”

“No milady.”

“You promise?”

“Yes, milady.”

With that, I walked off to the road and began the ride home. When I got there I jumped in the shower and washed all the mud and muck of me. Then my clothes went in the machine, going through the pockets I felt the coin again. It was real, and upon examining it, I could see it was a Charles the second guinea, in mint condition. Probably worth a lot of money, but to me, it was beyond cost and besides, it was a reminder of my deal with the woodland folk and an antidote to my previous experience. Now I knew I could enter a wood or forest anywhere and they would know who I was, ‘Milady of the Lions’.

One day I shall have to write up my story, except that no one would believe it, but it’s all true.