Easy As Falling Off A Bike pt 1348
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(aka Bike) Part 1348 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad
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“You ever heard of Toby Rushland?” I asked Si.
“Heard of him? I’ve met him.”
“Oh.”
“That sounded ominous–why d’you want to get some cheapo theatre tickets?”
“He’s a friend of Erin, my agent.”
“Yeah, so? He’s quite personable so I’d expect him to have a few women friends, except he’s gay.”
“Gay men fascinate some women.”
“I hope you’re not one of them?”
“Me a fag hag? Nah, but Alan my cameraman is gay, so I don’t have a problem with them.”
“You just wouldn’t want your daughter to marry one?”
“I’d have no objections, perhaps they’d enjoy talking about clothes or comparing knitting patterns.”
Simon rolled his eyes, “Lots of gay men get married–it’s a sort of stealth thing.”
“But these days, what for? I mean there are gay men in parliament and top of industry, even on Radio 4. I mean, there’s Evan Davis on the Today programme–talk about iconic.”
“Yeah, but they’re token aren’t they?”
“No–it’s the women who are token–there’s only one of those on the Today programme as well.”
“Yeah, but there aren’t any male presenters of Woman’s Hour are there?”
“That’s different.”
“No it isn’t, if you have a policy of equality and diversity, why can’t you have men presenting Woman’s Hour?”
“Si, that is taking things too far, besides it wouldn’t be Woman’s Hour then would it?”
“I suppose People’s Hour wouldn’t have quite the same ring about it.”
“It’s partly historic anyway, it’s been going for years when women’s issues weren’t as easily broadcast as they are today, not that they discuss some of the really dark ones, anyway.”
“Like what? I thought they did, I mean they’ve dealt with sex change and gay stuff, abortion and female circumcision–surely it doesn’t get much more controversial than that?”
“I didn’t mean Woman’s hour, I meant radio as a whole–I mean there’s this business of Corrective Rape–it happens in South Africa and the Caribbean.”
“Corrective rape–sounds a bit of an oxymoron to me–how can rape correct anything–it’s just nasty.” Simon shuddered as he spoke.
“You’re absolutely right–it’s almost a euphemism for hate crime against women, gay men and transgendered people. They get gang banged–by a bunch of morons–I presume–no self-respecting man would do it–I hope–it’s supposed to teach them a lesson, if they survive–they don’t always.”
“Plus, I presume they could get pregnant or catch nasty diseases from these nasty little boys. Rape is a really nasty thing to do–there was a girl in uni who got attacked on a tube platform and raped in front of a group of people by a gang of black youths.”
“Was she black?”
“Yeah, she was really beautiful and such a sparkling personality–it all changed after that–she went into her shell–developed a dependency on pain killers–I think she killed herself eventually. Not one of the bastards watching even called the police.”
“Perhaps they couldn’t get a signal?” I suggested, “Or didn’t have mobiles, people didn’t ten years ago.”
“This was London, babes, people like their toys there. It’s not a backwater like Bristol where bicycles are still the majority personal transport.”
“Nah, only the wealthy can afford a bike, most have to rely on shank’s pony if they can afford boots or shoes.”
“Crikey, you’d be a millionairess then with the collection of footwear you’ve got upstairs.”
“That’s Stella’s fault.”
“How come, they’re in your wardrobe then–if they’re hers?”
“They’re mine.”
“You’re beginning to lose me here; there are over thirty pairs of shoes and boots in your wardrobe and it’s my sister’s fault?”
“If you cast your little mind back to the days when I was rather more shy and awkward about being in public.”
“You mean as a female?”
“Yes,” I blushed, it still embarrassed me to think I wondered if Simon was a cannibal that first evening, especially when he told me I looked good enough to eat.
“Yes, I’m still waiting for the explanation before my single brain cell rolls back into its storage space.” He rolled his eyes again.
“Well, I was relatively new to girldom, especially in public.”
“You’d spent two months dressing like a girl when you did Macbeth.”
“Yeah, but that was covered–I’d been instructed to do it, so no one could tell the school or my parents. When I was in your cottage wearing borrowed clothes and makeup–I was sort of in uncharted waters.”
“I thought you said that Stella made you do it–so weren’t you covered in that sense?”
“She didn’t exactly make me do it, she sorta encouraged me by saying that your clothes wouldn’t fit anyway and so I had to borrow some of hers.”
“So what’s that got to do with half of the British Shoe Corporation’s output in your wardrobe? I’m losing the will to live here.”
“Well, given my inexperience...”
“Get on with it–I’d like to go to bed sometime this week.”
“Stop interrupting then.”
His reply was a sigh but he said nothing.
“Where was I?” He made to tell me but a Paddington hard stare stopped his ideas of mutiny. “Oh yes, I was a bit green about things girly, so Stella was my style guru.”
“So why have you got all the shoes and not her?”
“Oh she’s got quite a few herself.”
“Not as many as you.”
“Probably not–which wardrobe did you look in?”
“Your one why?”
“Oh ‘cos there’s a few more in the wardrobe in the spare room.”
“How many?”
“Not sure, “ blushed.
“How many?” he repeated more loudly.
“Twenty three pairs.”
“Of shoes?”
“Um–not entirely, there’s four pairs of boots as well.”
“You have fifty seven pairs of boots and shoes?
“Fifty nine if you include my cycling shoes.”
“Jeez-uz–why do you need sixty pairs of footwear?”
“I was trying to tell you, it’s all Stella’s fault.”
“How can it be Stella’s fault that you’re the Imelda Marcos of Portsmouth?”
“I was trying to tell you.”
“Pray do–and while you’re at it tell me why you have sixty and I have half a dozen?”
“Stella was my style guru...”
“We’ve done that bit.”
“Shut up and listen.” I fixed him with another icy stare.
“Carry on–I’m all ears.”
“No you’re not, you’re all belly.”
“Hey, that’s personal, and I’ve been growing it for years–takes a long time to nurture a male pregnancy like mine.”
“You certainly look the part–anway...”
“You cheeky cow–get on with the facts.”
“I was being factual–you’re getting fat.”
“That’s just trying to distract me–get on with why you have half a million shoes in the house.”
“That is a gross exaggeration, there’s only a quarter of a million.”
“Get on with it–I’ve got to be in work in ten hours.”
“Right, okay–Stella was my style guru and–” he went to get up but I motioned him to sit down again, which he did sighing heavily. “She was my mentor in things female,” he nodded and urged me to continue, “so I tended to do what she suggested unless I absolutely hated her idea–there was the pink skirt which she liked but I hated and refused to wear it.”
“Has the pink skirt got anything to do with the shoe saga?”
“No, of course not, why?”
“Will you please stop detouring yourself and just tell me why all the shoes are Stella’s fault and I can die happy and fulfilled.”
“Oh that–she told me a girl can’t have too many–and who am I to disagree?”
“We have a house full of your shoes because Stella said that?”
“Yes,” I said innocently.
“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”
“It’s the truth, cross my heart to lift and separate,” I said drawing a cross on my chest.
“I don’t think that’s the original wording, is it?”
“It is for the Playtex ads, I so wanted a Playtex cross your heart bra when I was a boy.”
Simon shook his head, “You are completely bloody barmy, aren’t you?”
“In agreeing to marry you–probably.”
“Right–that does it–you’ve been asking for a good tickle all bloody night–and you’re going to get one.”
“No–Simon–no–I need to wee–stop it–stop it or I’ll–see what you made me do?”
