Jimmy Samson was fascinated by gangster films. His big secret was that what he really liked were the gangster's girlfriends, the molls. Secret? Well he fancied being one.

A story based in the English east Midland's coal field in the late 1940s. Warning - there may be some minor language problems but I'm sure you'll work it out.

Another old one. Some of you may have read it before because it's the first story I ever posted but it's been off-line for a long time.

Jimmy Samson strolled down the street. His eyes roamed from side to side - this was dangerous territory. His enemies were everywhere. They could jump him at any time with no warning. Anything could happen, and then it did. A scream shattered the silence. Jimmy’s hand went to his inside pocket and his hand closed round the butt of his trusty Gat. Then there was a second more urgent scream. Now there was real trouble.

“James Albert Samson, if you don’t get back here at once for your tea, then I’m giving it to the dog and you’re straight to bed.”

When his Mam used his full name he knew she meant business. They didn’t even have a dog! Why was he still at the beck and call of grown ups? Crumbs he was nearly twelve. He’d be at the big school when he started back in September - practically a man. Especially as his Mam had almost been persuaded to buy him some long trousers for school. He’d still have to wear his shorts for playing in at night and weekends, but he’d be almost grown up during the day, and it meant he wouldn’t have to waste valuable time washing his knees every night.

As he turned and started to run down the twitchel something glittered in the dusty grass at his feet. It could be a half crown. Billy Williamson had found a bob last week, they’d bought five Woodbines and made themselves sick, smoking in the bushes at the back of the rec. No such luck, it was a sort of medal hanging on a bit of dirty ribbon. Well he might be able to swap it for something, so he shoved it in his britches pocket along with a penknife with one good and one broken blade, a lump of Plasticene that was that funny sludge grey you get when all the different colours get mixed up together, and three ‘glassie’ marbles he’d won off Billy at playtime, even though Billy had protested he’d not been playing for keeps. The other pocket was reserved for ammo. The tin of .177 pellets for his precious Gat, and a collection of smooth, round pebbles just right for his gadder.

He swung with one hand on the gate post into the back yard and immediately slowed to a sedate walk. A quick glance to make sure his Mam wasn’t watching through the kitchen window and then he slid his air pistol and catapult into the secret hiding place behind a loose brick in the coal shed. Pausing only to pull up his socks he casually stepped into the little kitchen of the terraced house, his angelic face the picture of injured innocence.

“I were just coming, Mam”, he said “I never heard you first time”.

Betty Samson looked up from the table, where she was pouring tea from a round, brown tea pot. “If you didn’t hear me, how did you know there was a first time? And how many times do I have to tell you. It’s ‘the first time’, not just ‘first time’. How do you expect to get a good office job if you go round talking like a pit lad?” She ruffled his already tousled fair hair, with a tired smile, and patted his backside gently, “Come on now, sit down and eat your tea. It’s your favourite, cheese on toast and there’s some of your Gran’s home made blackberry jam after.”

Jimmy sat down and spooned sugar into his tea. “I won 3 glassie marbles off Billy Williamson this after’s playtime.” He giggled. “He were dead mad. And Mrs Stewart says we break up for summer holidays ....” he paused as he caught his mother’s expression, and cleared his throat “the summer holidays, a week on Friday. So can I stay over at Billy’s after? His Dad says he’ll take us fishing down the cut on Saturday, and it’ll be easier if I stay at their house”.

“Well we’ll have to see what your Dad says when he gets in from work. He’s on afternoons this week so he’ll not be home while half past ten. And go easy on that sugar, it’s on ration and I want some for baking tomorrow. If you do go fishing, I want no more maggots in this house. Not after last time”.

“No, Mam” replied her son, as he busied himself spreading a generous quantity of jam on top of the thin layer of butter on the slice of Hovis.

How was he to blame? He’d just left the remains of a pint of maggots under his bed for a while. The flies just appeared after three days. There weren’t that many. Well, he supposed they were big blue ‘uns, but a few sticky fly papers and a Flit spray had cleared them out in a couple of days. Why do mothers get so upset over nowt? One of the mysteries of life he supposed.

He looked up at the clock ticking away on the mantle over the black leaded range. The range was the power centre of the house. It provided cooking, heating and a limited supply of hot water for the zinc bath hanging in the back yard. It was nearly time, so he jumped up to the shiny wooden wireless on the dresser in the middle room and turned it on. He hoped there was still enough life left in the big glass accumulator to make the valves glow. He’d have to take it in to get it re-charged tomorrow afternoon after school and pick up another one for next week. Then he’d be able to listen to Dick Barton, Special Agent, and his parents' to the news and Saturday Night Theatre.

The notes of “The Devil’s Gallop” introduced the further adventures of Dick, Jock and Snowy, and Jimmy settled down to find out how they’d escaped from the previous evening’s impossible situation. He knew they’d only find themselves in even more dire straits fifteen minutes later, ready for further escapes tomorrow at a quarter to seven.

Jimmy wished he had his trusty Gat in his hand ready to defend beautiful girls from shifty foreigners and Nazi spies, but his mother had forbidden him to own such a dangerous toy. She didn’t even know he’d made a new catapult after she’d thrown his previous one on the fire back. Jimmy had been very upset to lose his gadder and it had taken him several days to find a suitable forked branch to make a new peg and even longer to persuade his best pal, Billy, to part with a suitable length of 1/4” square elastic to give it life. He’d still had enough of the soft leather he’d saved from the tongue of his dad’s old pit boots to make a new pouch. His Mam just didn’t understand. No self respecting eleven year old Bestwick lad could hold his head up without a gadder in his back pocket and his position was considerably elevated by being the owner of a Gat air pistol. The Gat was a poor thing compared to a Webley, but considerably cheaper, and more easily concealed than the more accurate and powerful BSA Cadet air rifle he craved.

Betty Samson sighed as she watched her only son listening avidly to the adventure serial on the old wireless. She’d despaired when he’d fallen at the first big hurdle in his education, by failing to get a scholarship to the Grammar school, but she was determined he wasn’t going down the pit where most of the town’s lads ended up. Not that the money wasn’t reasonable, especially if, like her husband, you got to be a deputy responsible for pit safety and firing. Then you could bring home twelve pounds a week. No, it was the dirt, the danger and the coarse male cameradie she found so repulsive.

Jimmy’s Dad was at heart a quiet, sensitive man, but his work and his companions tended to roughen him at times when she needed tenderness. It had been hard enough to raise a family during the war, but rationing was still as bad as ever. Even though there was no blackout, and enemy aircraft no longer rumbled overhead to bomb the furnaces of Sheffield to the North or the aero-engine factories of Rolls-Royce to the South, life in the coal field was difficult.

If Jimmy couldn’t be a doctor or a lawyer, then, if she kept at him, he could at least get a clean job like Mr Williamson, who was a manger at the Co-op Store and lived in a 3 bedroomed semi-detached house he was buying with a Co-op mortgage. The Williamson’s had electricity, an inside bathroom and a big radiogram that could play records one after the other without pause, not like their little wind up which needed a new steel needle for each record and sometimes ran down before the end, making Vera Lynne sound like Paul Robson. There were even rumours that Mr Williamson had ordered a new car for delivery next year. If he had, the Williamson's would be the first people she’d known who had a car. Jimmy was going to speak properly, study hard, and get a good clean, respectable job if it killed her.

The rest of the week dragged on for Jimmy, but at last it was Friday and two whole days with no school and only another five school days before the seeming interminably, gloriously long Summer holidays. He walked home with Billy, making plans. “Are you going to pictures tomorrer?” The definite article rarely made an appearance in his speech if his mother wasn’t listening, and his accent broadened to suit the circumstances. At least she’d be pleased that the second person singular was absent. The use of ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ was common amongst the older men, but was dying out with the influence of the BBC and the ‘pictures’.

The Saturday afternoon children’s ‘matinee’ was an important feature of their lives. For threepence they could see the serial, currently Kit Carson and the Mystery Riders, a few cartoons and a ‘big picture’. Actually ‘seeing’ was nearly all they could do. The noise of two hundred children let loose in a darkened cinema was unbelievable, and certainly more than two usherettes shining their torches along the rows trying to identify the fighting, scuffling kids could control. Occasionally the film would stop, the main lights would come on and the fat, balding manager would threaten to stop the performance if there wasn’t silence. It usually worked for ten minutes or so until furtive scuffles broke out again, but the manager had made the effort, and he’d already got their threepences in his till.

“Yeh, after I’ve run errands for me Mam”. replied Billy “There’s a gangster picture this week”.

Jimmy’s eyes lit up. They were his favourites. Life seemed a lot more exciting in America. Gangsters driving in fast cars being chased by G men firing ‘typewriters’. Jimmy knew everybody in America called machine guns, ‘typewriters. He thought they carried them in violin cases. He was never quite sure why. The glamorous ‘molls’, with painted finger nails and with cigarettes hanging in the corner of their carmined lips so the smoke drifted past their heavily lidded, mascara’d eyes, specially intrigued him.

His Mam reckoned Billy’s sister, Susan, was fast, because she painted her nails and wore lipstick and nylons even though she was only a machinist at Harvey’s knicker factory. She was also incredibly extravagant with her clothing coupons as she wore the long ‘New Look’ skirts and 5” heels when she went out dancing on Saturday nights. She came home at all hours, sometimes even after midnight. No better than she should be, was the opinion of the close knit community’s respectable matrons. And just who was supplying her with all the coupons and a seemingly endless supply of nylons? Some black market spiv, no doubt.

Jimmy was a secret admirer of his friend’s older sister. Her perfume and the mysterious underpinning to the exotic outfits she wore for her Saturday night outings particularly attracted him. He knew she was pretty old, nearly as old as his Mam. She’d celebrated her twenty first birthday last year with the wildest party anyone had ever seen at the Miners Welfare. There had been guests from as far afield as Derby and Sheffield and at least one sophisticated couple had arrived in a car all the way from London. The party would have gone on all night if the steward hadn’t closed up the bar when the licence extension had run out at half past eleven and cleared them out laughing and giggling into the cool night air. If truth be told, it was Susan’s clothes and makeup that fascinated Jimmy, rather than the young woman herself. It was his big secret. Even Billy, in whom he confided all his secrets, (even to the location of his gadder and Gat hidey hole), had never been party to this. Jimmy knew, or rather felt, that there was something slightly shameful in his secret desire to be the moll, rather than the gangster.

It wasn’t until the following afternoon when they came blinking into the sunshine after being absorbed in the imaginary world of the pictures, that Jimmy remembered the medal he’d found earlier in the week. His head was full of smoking guns and cigarettes hanging from Rita Heyworth’s painted lips which had totally absorbed him and fed his fantasies. How she’d seduced Spencer Tracy and killed a man with a little pearl-handled revolver which to Jimmy’s fertile imagination was little different from the Gat which even now nestled in the pocket of his jacket. He wondered what it would be like to have long red finger nails like the star. He assumed they were red only because Susan’s were always red. They were just a shade of grey on the screen. He’d once seen a colour picture of Rita Heyworth in one of Susan’s film magazines, and she had long, wavy, red hair much like Susan’s.

Funnily enough, out of the whole Williamson family, Susan was the only one with that particular shade. It must have changed when she got old, because Jimmy remembered it as a nondescript brown before she went to work at Harvey’s. He thought that was the perfect hair colour for a moll. He wondered if the medal was the sort of thing a moll might wear round her neck. He decided to try it out when he got home.

He and Billy parted company at the end of his street and he ran the rest of the way home. He was getting hungry and his pocket money hadn’t been able to run to an ice cream or even a half penny chew from the kiosk in the foyer. Unusually, the house was empty when he got home, and a note was propped up on the table.

‘Dear Jimmy’ it read. ‘Your Dad has gone to the match. I’ve had to go to your Gran’s because she’s had one of her turns. Your tea’s ready on the table. Make sure you wash up afterwards. Be in bed for half past eight. If you want anything go round to Mrs Evans. We’ll see you in the morning. Don’t worry, Love Mam’

Mrs Evans was the old lady who lived next door. Jimmy thought she was a bit of a busy body, but she was kind and Jimmy got on with her fairly well. He knew his Dad wouldn’t get back until after the pub shut at ten - Rovers were playing away. He hoped they won because it put Dad into a good mood and he often got a two bob bit slid into his hand on Sunday morning with strict instructions not to tell Mam. So he had the rest of the evening to himself. He could read his comic, and find out what Rockfist Rogan was doing and if Alf Tupper who lived under a railway arch and trained on fish and chips had won the Uppertown Athletics meeting he’d entered in last week’s episode.

Jimmy filled the kettle and set it on the trivet by the open fire in the range. He lifted the cover and found a plate full of ham sandwiches and a tomato. For a treat his mother had left a dish of tinned pears from her precious war time store cupboard together with a little tin of sweet, thick condensed milk. A feast indeed, even though the ham was sliced so thinly it was almost transparent. He ate steadily, all the time thinking about the afternoon’s film. Once the kettle boiled he mashed his tea and poured himself a cup, sweetened with the remains of the condensed milk and took out the medal for examination. As far as he could see it had an embossed image of an angel or fairy on one side and some faint words on the other. The dirty green ribbon was threaded through a loop and tied in a knot. After hanging it round his neck, he looked round for something to polish it up a bit and pulled a handkerchief he’d found lying in the playground the day before out of his pocket. He rubbed the medal vigorously in an effort to improve its appearance. As he did so he felt a small electric shock pass up his arms and disperse around his body. He thought nothing of it and continued polishing - that was to prove a mixed blessing!

As he tried to make out the letters, his hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it away impatiently. What were the letters? was that a ‘Z’ or a figure ‘2’? .... and an ‘o’ at the end? That was it. It read ‘Medallion of Zolo’ or perhaps, it was ‘Zulo’. His hair fell into his eyes again and when he swept it away it brushed his shoulders. It shouldn’t be that long, he’d only been to the barbers a week ago, and ‘butcher’ Harrison had performed his usual clippers up the back of the neck style which left stubble everywhere except for a bit on the top. Not only that, his hair was such a dark brown as to be almost black, the hair he could see was blonde. He ran into the front room, where a mirror hung over the tiled fireplace, and stared at his reflection. Where before his hair had been short and dark it was now long and fair. His face didn’t look quite right either, and he was having to stand on tip toe to see his face clearly. He was having difficulty reaching the tile mantel shelf. He seemed to be shrinking. There was a weird rush of air into his mouth and the next time he looked he was short of his two front teeth. This was really frightening, he wished his Mam was home. He needed the comfort of her reassuring presence.

“Whatth happening to me?” he lisped. Even his voice was changing, and not only because of his lack of teeth. It was a bit higher pitched and babyish, or perhaps even .... girlish. He ran upstairs to his parents bedroom, as he ran his shoes came off and his trousers ended up in a heap at his feet, almost causing him to trip. He stared into the big mirror set in his mother’s wardrobe. Instead of himself he saw a small frightened girl with long blonde hair, missing teeth and a pretty, blue eyed face, Bethany Evan’s face. She was wearing a grey shirt many sizes too big for her small frame and the Medallion hung from her neck. Beth, the little granddaughter of their next door neighbour, was in a class three years below his. She was just eight years old and one of the prettiest little girls in the school. Jimmy felt bewildered as unbidden memories came into his head. He knew what her bedroom looked like. He knew the name of her favourite doll. He remembered playing skipping games and hopscotch with her friends at playtime. Unknown to him, by continuing to rub the Medallion after the change was initiated some superficial memories had been transferred along with the physical transformation.

Sure, he’d often imagined being the moll, rather than the tough gangster, but starting out as an eight year old hadn’t been part of the game plan. Despite failing the scholarship exam Jimmy wasn’t a fool. He had a sharp innate intelligence, if only he could summon the confidence to use it. In desperation, now he did. He went into his own bedroom and sat on the bed to think, still toying with the Medallion. What had he been doing before the shocking change had happened? He’d been polishing the Medallion with a handkerchief he’d found. They were both still in his tiny delicate hands. He examined the handkerchief carefully and saw the initials BE embroidered in one corner, in fact if he didn’t force himself too much he could remember embroidering it him.....herself in Miss Beresford’s sewing class only last week and tucking into her knickers before going to school, where it had taken an imprint of her youthful persona. Well, if rubbing the Medallion with something belonging to Bethany had turned him into her, perhaps rubbing it with something belonging to him might reverse the process. He got hold of his shirt tail and vigorously polished away, but nothing happened. He remembered the tingly feeling of electric shock when he’d first started polishing, but this time - nothing. He began to panic, but suppressed the feeling. Perhaps the Medallion was like the accumulator they had in their wireless downstairs and needed to recharge before it could work again. He decided to try again every hour until either it worked or he fell asleep.

He remembered that his mother had told him to make sure and do the washing up before he went to bed and decided to get that out of the way first. What should he wear? His own clothes were far to big, but his mother had been collecting jumble for the Women’s Institute sale the following week and he thought he’d seen some girl’s clothes in the bag. He found the bag tucked in beside his mother’s wardrobe and he sorted through until he found a little pair of flowered knickers and a blue dress with a tiny white check and white lace trim. That would do for now, he decided. He could run round bare foot in the house, even though the stone quarry tiles in the kitchen would be a bit cold to his feet. To keep his hair out of the way he found a blue ribbon on his Mam’s dressing table, which would serve his purpose.

Up until now he’d kept on his shirt which was much too big, even as a dress and so hadn’t yet properly seen his new body. He pulled the shirt off over his head and looked at himself critically. Needless to say his eyes were drawn to the strange void between his legs. Instead of his prick, (capable, with an effort, of projecting his piss higher up the boys lavatory wall than just about anybody in his class, except perhaps Pete Brown, who was already showing a few whispy pubic hairs), was a small hairless slit, and even his nipples looked different from the ones he was used to. Suddenly he was regretting the three cups of tea he’d drunk earlier. There was no doubt about it he had to go, but how? There was no way he was going across the yard looking like he did. If Mrs Evans saw what appeared to be her granddaughter in next doors lavvy, what would she do? Then he remembered his chamber pot under the bed, normally reserved for nocturnal relief, it offered a safe solution to his problem. Just in time to avoid a minor catastrophe, he turned from his usual kneeling position to sitting down and experienced the relief of emptying his new bladder. He still felt wet after he’d done, and finding the ‘shake it’ technique not applicable, pulled a square of newspaper off the conveniently placed string and wiped himself carefully.

The early summer evening was becoming cooler and the drop in temperature reminded him of the need to get dressed. He pulled up the knickers, which fitted him to perfection and pulled the dress over his head and fastened the three buttons at the neck. He carefully removed the Medallion and tucked it under his pillow for safe keeping. Returning to his parent’s room he stood in front of the dressing table mirror and studied his reflection carefully. Apart from his dishevelled hair he looked exactly like Bethany. He found that if he didn’t concentrate too hard the action of brushing his long hair with his mothers hair brush came quite naturally and he soon teased out the tangles, leaving a mane of shining blonde hair reaching down his back. He picked up the blue ribbon and a couple of hair slides and he soon had his hair tied back with the ribbon stretched across his hair line above his blonde arched eyebrows.

Once downstairs, he quickly put the kitchen to rights, picked up his discarded clothing and returned to his room to retry the reverse transformation. He tried several items of his clothes: clean shirts, dirty shirts retrieved from the wash, and handkerchiefs, but drew a blank each time. By this time dusk was falling and he could no longer see properly, so he decided to light the gas, but then he found another obstacle - he couldn’t reach the mantle to light it with a match. He was too small.

His new, smaller body was younger than his own and tired more easily. He quickly grew too tired to continue his efforts and was having problems keeping his eyes open, so he removed the dress, hid it under his pillow, and crawled under the bed covers. He’d had an exhausting day and was soon fast asleep. Several hours later, his mother looked in on him from the door. It was dark, but she noticed his hair seemed rather long and made a note to send him for a hair cut when he got home from school on Monday.

Jimmy had started to polish the Medallion at about six o’clock on the Saturday evening, so it was ready for re-use with his body at 6 on Sunday morning, but he didn’t know that.

The early morning sun found its way through the thin curtains and shone into Jimmy’s eyes just before seven, and he stirred. What a strange dream he’d had. Why would he dream he was Bethany Evans? She wasn’t even one of his normal female fantasies. He tried to sit up, but something was pulling on his head stopping him. His elbow was resting on his hair; his long blonde hair! With a twist, he moved his arm and sat up, and looked at his hands and arms through a curtain of hair. It hadn’t been a dream. It had really happened. With a sinking heart he recalled the previous night’s adventures. What would he tell his Mam? Crumbs, if she’d got upset about the maggots, she’d kill him for this! He thought he might be able to pacify his Dad, after all they were lads together and enjoyed the bond of masculinity - well they had done before this happened. He wondered what time it was. He knew his parents wouldn’t stir until half past eight, when Dad would go downstairs, rake the fire back into life and ladle some water into the boiler so they could all have hot water for a wash.

He’d have one more try at regaining his former body before confessing his misdemeanour to his parents. He retrieved the Medallion from its hiding place under his pillow and picked up a clean shirt. “Well, here goes nothing” he muttered, hung the Medallion round his neck and started polishing. To his relief, he felt the same electric like tremor extend up his arms and into his whole body. This time he was prepared for, and watched the transformation. First his hair began to darken and seemed to recede into his head, and almost at the same time he began to grow taller. He was most interested in the action between his legs and he watched with fascinated relief as his prick gradually pushed out of the slit and eventually his filled scrotum took up its former position, until at last all was as before. Well almost all, his hair looked as long as it had before ‘butcher’ Harrison had shaved it well back the previous week.

Jimmy calmly lay back on his pillow and gave it all a bit of deep thought. First, the change had happened when he’d rubbed the Medallion with Bethany’s hankie. Second, nothing had happened when he’d tried the same thing last night, with any of his own clothes or hankies to reverse the transformation. Third, when he’d tried to change back this morning it had done exactly as it had the first time, but in reverse when using his own shirt. Fourth, once he’d changed back, everything was fine - except his hair needed cutting again.

Demonstrating an instinctive grasp of logic, that, if he’d applied it to his exams, would have seen him off to the Grammar school next term, he drew some conclusions. First, the Medallion needed to be re-charged like an accumulator before it could be used again. At least used again on him. Second, the re-charge might need a nights sleep, or perhaps just at the most thirteen hours, but why did he now need a haircut? He thought some more, and then the penny dropped. He needed a haircut, because the last time he’d worn that clean shirt had been before he’d been to the barber’s. The Medallion transformed people into a copy of whoever had worn a piece of clothing last, so it had turned him into the Jimmy Samson who needed a haircut. That meant he was now a week younger than he had been last night. Did that mean he could live forever? If he kept changing himself, it did. Small boys aren’t normally concerned with their own mortality, and Jimmy was no different. No, his fertile imagination was thinking about gangster’s molls, and about Billy’s big sister in particular. Susan was the nearest thing to a gangster’s moll he knew.

He was busting to tell Billy about his new treasure, but managed to contain himself all that slow week, the last week of the Summer term. He made good use of the time to form a plan to use the Medallion. It was risky, but he wouldn’t get a better chance. One of the worst bits all week was being sent to Harrison’s by his mother for another haircut - two in a fortnight was pushing it a bit. He hated the itchy feeling as short bits of hair worked their way down his neck. Mrs Samson had been amazed at the state of his hair and had smilingly accused him of eating horse manure to make his hair grow so fast, before giving him the shilling for another attack by the demon barber of Bestwick.

He resisted the temptation to experiment all week, until Thursday evening when his Dad was at the pit and his Mam had to visit his Gran again.

“Now then, Jimmy” she said “You’ll be a good boy, won’t you? I’ll probably stay at your Gran’s tonight so I won’t be here for your bedtime. Just make sure you’re in bed by half past eight and make sure the fire’s well damped and don’t leave the gas lit when you go up”. She bent down to give him a kiss. “Your Dad’ll be home at half ten, so you won’t be on your own all night. Get yourself off to school in the morning so Dad can have his lie in. Be good, love, and if you need anything just bang on the wall and Mrs Evans’ll come round”, and she hurried out the door.

Jimmy looked at the clock as soon as he was alone. It was only five o’clock. If he started straight away, he could try a transformation, using something out of the jumble sale bag and be ready to change back well before he had to go to school in the morning. His Dad might just look in on him when he got in, but if he hid under the bedclothes and pretended to be asleep, he’d be safe. The temptation was irresistible, and it would give him some practice before carrying out his plan at the weekend.

He ran up the stairs two at a time and took the jumble bag from his parent’s room and into his own and started sorting. He fancied being a bit older this time, but not really old. At least, this time he’d have something to wear that’d fit him exactly. Eventually he found just what he was looking for. A slim black tailored skirt and matching short velvet collared jacket, second hand, but in very good condition. He’d also found a pair of shiny black high heeled shoes. There were a few items of brand new under wear - brassieres, slips and a firm elasticated girdle with suspenders hanging at the bottom that he thought had been supplied by Harvey’s - probably ‘seconds’. No knickers, but Jimmy thought no-one respectable would give knickers to a jumble sale - even at the WI.

He first stripped off, hung the Medallion round his neck and then cautiously picked up the skirt and started rubbing the Medallion with it. Again he experienced the electric tingle and his second transformation began. This time he watched whilst standing in front of his mother’s wardrobe mirror. This time his hair stayed dark, but grew in thick waves down to his shoulders and instead of shrinking he grew taller. Most disturbing were the two swellings that gradually formed on his chest, until they were fully fledged, firm breasts. Jimmy’s eyes stared at his new figure and so fascinated was he at his first sight of a pair female breasts that he missed the disappearance of his prick and its replacement by a much more mature pussy, surrounded by dark, curly hair. He, or rather she, was now fully complete, and Jimmy studied his new body with interest. She was about five feet five inches tall, delightfully curved with long dark hair falling to her shoulders. Her blue eyes were set either side a straight, small nose, and her full lips were slightly curved. She was about the same age as Billy’s sister.

As he stared, memories began to invade his mind. For Jimmy they were disturbing memories of erotic encounters. He recalled a tall fair haired young man, and a passionate tongue probing kiss. He felt a dampness between his slender thighs and he started breathing with short, frequent pants. His mouth felt dry. Then a different man, older this time, and slightly balding, he felt anger, an argument. It was the woman’s father, forbidding her from meeting the fair haired man. Jimmy suddenly realised his new name was Angela Cavendish-Hart, and her father was Colonel Cavendish-Hart. He’d never seen Angela or her father, but he’d heard his parents talk about them. They had been coal owner’s before the war and lived in a large house in its own grounds at the edge of the town. They were the local gentry, and Jimmy was now the twin of the Squire’s daughter.

Angela wasn’t Jimmy’s ideal of the gangster’s moll. She was too cool and sophisticated for that, but there was, never the less, an excitement in being her. He still had over three hours to experiment and he wanted to see what he could look like fully dressed before he had to get into bed to deceive his father - why did he almost call him ‘Daddy’? He found one of the brassieres matched the size that sprung into his head and he put it on, almost without thought. It made his already firm breasts stand out and drew them upwards to increase the impression of cleavage. He put on a full length slip followed by the tight skirt and the short jacket. After putting on the shoes (no stockings, there were none in the bag, and it would have been suicide to raid his mother’s precious stock) he walked surprisingly easily in the 4” heels and with a feminine sway to survey himself in the full length mirror. He saw a slender attractive woman with dishevelled thick, dark, wavy hair. She wore a smart, tightly fitting suit. The skirt extended below her knees and walking was only possible because of the short slit up the back, and only then in short, quick steps. The fitted jacket was trimmed with black velvet at collar, wrists, and pockets and showed off her slim figure to perfection.

Jimmy regretted not being able to paint the long oval nails, but his mother didn’t possess such a decadent thing as nail varnish. However he was able to experiment with the lipstick from the dressing table. It was a bright vibrant red and he applied it with an expertise which could only have come from the woman whose body he now occupied. Jimmy, or perhaps Angela now, picked up Mrs Samson’s hair brush and worked on her hair for a few minutes and at last presented the image of a cool, sophisticated, young county beauty. He turned and posed before the mirror, hardly able to appreciate that the reflection was really him. He practised with the voice and was amazed that his Bestwick accent had totally disappeared, replaced by the ‘posh’ accents of a wealthy, privileged society girl. If she’d be horrified at the totality of the change, his mother would at least have approved the speech pattern!

Jimmy heard the downstairs clock strike ten. His dad would be home soon and playtime was over. He’d learned a lot. Like if he held the clothing against the Medallion while he was changing he got a few memories along with the physical changes. The adult brain he was using also seemed to be more aware than he was accustomed to.

He crept downstairs and washed off the lipstick. He didn’t want telltale traces on the bedclothes. Back upstairs, he undressed and replaced all the clothes in the bag and the bag where he’d found it, before slipping into bed naked. He slid the Medallion under the pillow and settled down to wait for his Dad to get home. Images of the young fair haired man slid in and out of his head. As he lay there a name sprung to mind. He was Alistair McArthur, a subaltern in Daddy’s old regiment, and her lover. That’s what she’d been arguing about with the Colonel, her father. He’d accused her of defiling her mother’s name by her wanton behaviour. Jimmy thought wanton behaviour sounded fun

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound, first of the back door opening and closing again, then of his dad filling the sink with hot water from the boiler by the range and beginning to wash the coal dust from his body. Jimmy lay there hardly daring to breathe. What if his dad took it on himself to do more than just peep round the door? Eventually he heard footsteps on the stairs. He pulled the covers well up, faced away from the door and feigned sleep. He heard the door open and sensed his Dad peering into the dark room. He remembered to continue breathing evenly, though he really wanted just to hold his breath. The relief, as the door closed again was indescribable.

Left to himself, he began exploring Angela’s memory. As she thought of Alistair, Jimmy felt a dampness between his legs and his nipples stiffened. One hand, and one finger, gently teased the little, sensitive nub near the top of his pussy. The other caressed his breasts. The feeling was wonderful. Warmth spread through his body, and only by burying his face in the pillow could he prevent the little squeals of delight being overheard in the other bedroom. If the crescendo was incredible, then there are literally no words to describe the climax. Jimmy shuddered, and shuddered again and bit the fabric of the pillow to avoid screaming as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through his body.

He lay back sweating and panting in the glow. “Bloody hell” he thought “ that beats fishing, any day of the week”. With that he drifted off into a satisfied and restful sleep.

Once again he woke with sun. Making sure to use a shirt he’d worn after his haircut, he used the Medallion to restore his body. After all, three visits to the barber’s would begin to look suspicious. With just one day to go before the holidays, his plans were almost fully formed, and he could hardly wait for his overnight stay at the Williamson's.

Billy kept looking at him all day at school. “You’re looking pleased wi’ thisen” he said ungrammatically. “You look like cat that’s got cream. What’ve you got to be so bloody pleased about?”

Jimmy blushed. He hadn’t realised he’d been walking round with a silly grin on his face all day, remembering his night time pleasures. “Oh”, he replied innocently “nowt, really. It’s just that I’m looking forward to holidays .... and going round your house for night. It’ll be great, won’t it?”

Billy nodded, dubiously, while Jimmy thought how great it really would be, and fingered the Medallion he’d wrapped in his hankie and stuffed deep into his britches pocket.

School broke up on early on Friday afternoon, and after they’d all sat fidgeting whilst Mrs Stewart had delivered a homily about moving on in the world and how they should work hard at the secondary school, and how they should be a credit to her, Jimmy and Billy ran into the playground of Bestwick Mixed Junior for the last time, feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from their shoulders. They went round to Jimmy’s house first to pick up his suit case. Mrs Samson had it all ready in the kitchen when they arrived.

“Now just you remember to be polite to Mrs Williamson, and don’t eat them out of house and home. I know what you’re like. I’ve put your sugar ration in a tin, make sure you hand it over and not keep it to eat on your own. I want to see you back here by three ‘o clock on Sunday. We’re going to your Gran’s for tea and you’ll need a good wash before we go.” she paused and gave him an affectionate kiss “Go on then, be a good boy and enjoy yourself”.

Jimmy picked up the small, cardboard case, and ran off wondering if it was possible to be both a good boy, and to enjoy himself. On balance, he thought probably not! Especially when he thought of his plans for the holidays. Not very well thought out plans, as it turned out.

Jimmy had remembered to retrieve his precious Gat from its hiding place and he and Billy spent the rest of the afternoon taking pot shots at a row of tin cans sitting on the wall in the Williamson's back garden until Mrs Williamson called them in for tea. The Williamson's didn’t have to eat in the kitchen. They had a dining room with a china cabinet and a cocktail cabinet that lit up inside when you opened the door. Its interior was lined with a padded pink plastic material, but it contained little alcoholic except a bottle of British sherry, a few small bottles of Babycham, a bottle of Johnny Walker for Mr Williamson’s evening snifter, and a half bottle of brandy - strictly for medicinal purposes. The Williamson’s were upwardly mobile, but had a longer way to go than they realised, even though Mr Williamson was a stalwart of the Conservative Club and frequently pontificated on the idleness of the working classes. He’d never actually been down the pit, of course. The two boys gobbled their tinned salmon, lettuce and Heinz salad cream, with thin slices of bread spread (and carefully scraped) with Co-op margarine, so they could attack the plate of fancy bought cakes balanced on the three tiered cake stand which formed the centre piece of the table.

The Williamson’s ate as a family and Jimmy found it difficult to keep his eyes from continually wandering to survey Susan Williamson’s prominent breasts, which threatened to fall out of the low, off the shoulder blouse every time she leaned forward. Her long auburn hair was held off her face by a black velvet ribbon and her scarlet tipped fingers held her knife and fork in the delicate and precise way she imagined was usual in polite company. She had inherited her father determination to rise and she was ruthlessly pursuing her objective with no thought as to who she left in her wake. A silver charm bracelet dangled on her right wrist and a black banded dainty gold watch adorned her left. Jimmy thought she was the most glamorous girl he’d ever seen off the cinema screen.

Susan, for her part thought Jimmy was a common little tyke. She couldn’t imagine why Mummy let William play with a pit man’s son. Actually Susan thought most people in Bestwick were ‘common’, including most of the other girls in the sewing room she was using as a means to snare Albert Harvey, the oldest son of George Harvey and heir to the Harvey factory.

Mrs Williamson looked at Susan as she sipped her tea (only the second best china, of course) “Are you seeing Albert this evening, dear?”

“Yes, Mummy, he’s picking me up at seven in the Lanchester, and we’re going to the Cavendish-Hart’s for drinks. I don’t know what time I’ll be home. Don’t wait up for me”. She checked her watch. “Heavens, is that the time? I must get changed. He’ll be here in half an hour”.

She dashed out of the room in a wave of heady perfume, that sent Jimmy into an ecstasy. He’d nearly choked on his fancy cake when she’d mentioned where she was going. His imagination ran riot.

Apart from the glamorous Susan, for Jimmy the main attraction at the Williamson’s was the imposing radiogram which dominated the front room. Unusually for most families in Bestwick, the Williamson's used their front room daily. In most houses the front room was reserved for funeral teas, or occasionally for courting by the younger members of the family, even though most of them were much smaller than the new semi-detached villa. After asking, and receiving permission to leave the table the boys rushed into the front room and tuned into the Home service for their daily diet of ‘Dick Barton, Special Agent’. After the closing music they got out the Monopoly set and played until Mrs Williamson sent them to bed. Billy was feeling very buoyed up as he’d achieved a rare win when Jimmy had allowed him to get hotels on Park Lane and Mayfair, and quickly bankrupted his pal when he landed on them in two successive rounds. Jimmy lacked his usual killer instinct for the game as he thought of Billy’s big sister and the Medallion tucked away in his pocket. For once he was glad when bedtime came and brought the time when he could initiate his plan a little closer.

The two boys were to share Billy’s bedroom. There was a two tier bunk bed in the room and Billy always slept in the top bunk and used the bottom as a dumping ground for his toys and discarded clothing. For Jimmy’s visit, Billy had made a token gesture and swept his junk into a corner of the room leaving the bed clear for him. They climbed into bed and talked for a while, but Billy soon realised that Jimmy was a bit distracted and gradually he dropped off to sleep. Eventually just after Jimmy heard a clock strike eleven Billy’s parents climbed the stairs and went to bed themselves. He knew Susan was still out, so as soon as everyone was asleep he could put his plan into action. What he intended was to ‘borrow’ some of Susan’s clothes so he could use the Medallion to become her whenever he got the chance, and now, with Susan out, and everyone else asleep was his chance.

Jimmy crept silently out of his bed, pulled on his dressing gown and tip toed across the bedroom trying to avoid the detritus spread all over the floor. Just as he reached the door, he banged his bare toe on a hard object and just managed to suppress a cry of surprise and agony. He felt round to see what he’d nearly trodden on. It was his Gat. He’d been showing Billy his rapid draw technique just before they’d gone to bed and he’d left it on the floor under his clothes. Without thinking he slipped it into his dressing gown pocket and quietly opened the bedroom door. All was quiet except for a gentle synchronised snoring from Billy’s parents' room. If he were caught, he could always claim he was looking for the toilet and mistook the door to Susan’s room for the bathroom door. Once he was satisfied it was safe, he closed the door behind him and crossed the landing to Susan’s room. Once inside he drew the heavy curtains and turned on the electric light. It still seemed strange that he could get light without needing to strike a match and set it to a gas mantle.

He examined the room quickly and soon spotted the clothes she had been wearing at tea laid out on her bed. She’d not got round either to putting them away or into the wash. It would be too risky to ‘borrow’ them, but he was fascinated and couldn’t resist having a closer look. Just as he bent to pick up the blouse, the Medallion he’d carefully placed in his pyjama pocket slipped out, and for security he slipped it over his head, then, for a moment, his hand, the blouse and the Medallion were in contact! He heart missed a beat as he felt the familiar tingling and in his panic to undo the damage he managed to get the Medallion tangled up in the blouse and thus inadvertently transferred much more of Susan’s memories and personality than had happened previously. The effect was enhanced because Susan had only recently worn the blouse, and she wore it frequently because she was well aware of how it affected her male companions.

Jimmy watched with horror as the transformation took its course. How would he explain this? There couldn’t be two Susan Williamsons could there? As he grew his pyjamas and dressing gown grew tighter, especially around his bum and chest and he quickly took them off and threw them on the floor. Ten minutes later he was staring at a naked Susan, or at least at a close, a very close, simulation. He stared at the proud breasts, much bigger than Angela Cavendish-Hart’s, his slender waist and flat stomach, and at how his rounded hips tapered down to his curvy legs and tiny feet. He noticed that his curly pubic hairs were a dark brown even though his hair was a rich auburn colour. He was disappointed to see that his long tapered finger nails were unadorned and that his face was devoid of makeup. Then it felt as though his head would burst as memories and experiences totally alien to him thrust themselves to the forefront of his consciousness. Oh, he knew who he really was, but he was also aware of being Susan Williamson. He knew what she did at work. He knew where she kept her clothes, where she bought her clothes. He blushed when he found he also knew how she got her clothes! He remembered growing up as a girl and being irritated by his/her little brother. It was just so confusing.

Well, there was nothing to be gained by standing around naked, at least not right now. He giggled, just like a girl, he giggled! Using the limited experience he’d gained from being Angela, he let Susan take over and quickly dressed himself in the outfit she had been wearing at tea. Soon he was standing before the mirror tightening the wide black belt emphasising his small waist and twirling round for the pleasure of seeing the widely flared red skirt swing out revealing the frothy petticoats beneath and the tantalising tops of his nylons supported by the suspender belt. He quickly applied a little makeup, but decided to leave his nails for the time being. Now he really did look like the gangster’s moll of his imagination. There was enough of Jimmy there for him to retrieve his Gat from his dressing gown pocket and began posing in front of the mirror. He found an opened packet of Craven A on the dressing table and a lighter set on the back of an ornamental elephant. He put one between his lips and lit it whilst watching himself in the mirror. He coughed a little at first, but soon got the hang of it and posed with his gun, with the cigarette hanging from his painted lips. He looked just like Lauren Bacall. He just needed Philip Marlowe in the form of Humphrey Bogart to come up behind him and kiss the back of his neck, and............

“Susan, what on earth are you doing? It’s past one. I didn’t hear you come in”. Jimmy nearly jumped out of his, well Susan’s, skin. Mrs Williamson was standing in the doorway, her hair a riot of frightful curlers, and wearing a flowery dressing gown. He let Susan take over.

“Mummy! You startled me. I didn’t hear you either”. He looked at the pistol in his hand, and smiled nervously. “Err, I found Jimmy Samson’s air pistol on the landing table and couldn’t resist having a look at it. Do you think I look more like Lauren Bacall, or Rita Heyworth? I’m trying to make up my mind”.

“I’m sure I don’t know, dear”. replied her mother. “Now don’t be too long before you go to bed, it is very late and I’ve got to get up early to send the men off fishing”. She walked across the room and gave Jimmy a kiss on his cheek. “Goodnight dear”, and she closed the door behind her.

Jimmy sat on the bed finishing the cigarette until a whooshing noise meant she’d finished in the bathroom and then he relaxed.

He was still bereft of ideas as to how he was to get out of his fix. The real Susan would be home well before he could use the Medallion to get back to being Jimmy. He sat for a long time in the dark thinking and then he heard a car draw up outside. A few minutes later, the car drove away and there was the sound of a key in the front door. Susan was home. He still didn’t know what to do, when the door opened and the light came on.

“Who are you, what are you doing in my room?”. Susan gasped in a slightly slurred voice as she swayed ever so slightly on her high heels. Jimmy turned round trying to think of something to say when, with a little cry, Susan fainted and collapsed gracefully to the floor.

Jimmy tried to think what you were supposed to do to people who fainted and couldn’t. So he went over and tried to make her comfortable on the floor by propping her head on his dressing gown. Her clothes were pretty loose already so he couldn’t do anything about that. It was then the solution to his little problem came to him.

He rummaged round under his dressing gown until he found the Medallion. He carefully draped it round Susan's neck, took a dressing gown sleeve and pressed it to the Medallion. He sat back on his heels to watch.

First he noticed her clothes getting looser still and her hair gradually darkening and getting shorter. Jimmy watched fascinated as Susan gradually changed into a simulacrum of himself. This should work. They could simply swap places for a day then swap back and all would be OK. Then the body stirred and the eyes flickered open and stared round the room, before falling on Jimmy’s face.

Susan gave a start and a frightened whimper. “What’s happened to me?” she put her hand to her mouth. “What’s happened to my voice? I can’t talk proper. I sound like a pit lad. What are you, the devil?”

A blank expression came over her face, and Jimmy knew what was happening. His memories and experiences were imprinting on her mind. Now she was aware of who she was. “I ... I’m Jimmy Samson. I’m going fishing with Billy Williamson and his dad tomorrow morning. My dad’s a deputy down at Bestwick Main Colliery......but I’m not. I’m Susan Williamson I live here with my parents. This is my room. I’ve been out with Albert Harvey this evening and we’re going out again tomorrow evening. This is so confusing, please tell me what’s happened.”

She began to sob quietly to herself. She certainly looked odd. Her makeup was dispersed in odd patches on what looked like Jimmy’s face and her nail varnish was squashed up into the cuticles of Jimmy’s stubby finger nails. Her elegant clothes were in disarray around her smaller body and her earrings were on the floor where they’d fallen from her unpierced ear lobes.

Jimmy lifted her onto a bedroom chair and sat opposite her on the bed. He retrieved the Medallion from round her neck and handed her his dressing gown.

"You'd better put this on or you'll get cold" he said and, once she'd disentangled herself from the clothes she'd been wearing, she slipped it over her naked shoulders.

The tears ran down her cheeks and she regarded her doppelganger with a bewildered expression. Jimmy gave her handkerchief from the dressing table.

She dried her eyes “Please, help me."

“I’ll try to explain, but I’m not too sure myself” he replied.

He explained how he’d found the Medallion and had accidentally been transformed into Bethany Evans, but left out his second deliberate experiment with Angela Cavendish-Hart’s clothes. He told her he’d accidentally wandered into her room in search of the bathroom and had bumped into her clothes and become transformed unintentionally again. He left out any account of his fantasies. He told her about the way the Medallion seemed to work and that there was no way they could restore themselves that night.

By this time Susan had recovered sufficiently to be acutely aware of the problem they had. “Do you mean to tell me I have to be you for the rest of tomorrow, until we can get together and change back?”

Jimmy nodded. He noticed that she was fingering his Gat with the same fascination he used to. He also noticed that he regarded it as a silly little boy’s plaything quite beneath his notice, and it shocked the Jimmy part of him that was gradually being submerged in a modified version of Susan. That is, the new Susan had her memories and could draw on her experiences, but her personality, whilst still female, was a mixture of the old Susan and Jimmy’s fantasies. It felt very strange, but he was getting more and more comfortable with it as time passed.

Susan seemed to come to a sudden decision, “Well I suppose I’d better go back to bed”.

Jimmy looked at her narrowly. She seemed to be accepting the change more easily the longer she was in his body, and then he realised that she’d been in contact with the Medallion and his dressing gown for the whole transformation. That meant she must have absorbed an awful lot of his memories. He wondered if that included his earlier transformations. He searched his version of Susan and realised that the memories weren’t actually that detailed, but were more impressions and attitudes, so he thought he was probably safe. Using his Susan skills he quickly removed the makeup and remains of nail varnish from the real Susan’s new body and helped her into what had been his pyjamas and dressing gown.

Susan picked up the Medallion and pushed it into the pocket of her dressing gown. “I’m looking after this. I don’t want anything to happen to it until I’m me again.” she said emphatically. “...and don’t forget, we have to call each other by our new names until we change back”.

Jimmy was about to object, but thought better of it. She was hardly likely to run off with it. She was as keen to change back as he was. Well he thought he was, but he was gradually growing accustomed to this body. He hadn’t felt self-conscious about his almost exposed breasts for some time. Without another word, Susan walked out the door carrying her Gat and the Medallion, leaving Jimmy to settle into her old room.

Jimmy sat down at the dressing table and removed his make up, enjoying for the first time the opportunity to be openly female for the first time in the whole adventure. Oddly enough the desire to be a gangster’s moll seemed to have receded somewhat. What seemed to interest him now was his date with Albert Harvey tomorrow night. That disturbed the Jimmy part of him just a little. He removed the clothes again, and put on the flimsy nylon night dress he knew he’d find tucked into a teddy bear with a zip in his tummy.

“Good night, Oliver”, he said, kissed the bear on the nose and put out the light. It wasn’t until he was snuggling down under the covers that he realised what he’d just done. “Now where did that come from” he thought, but before he could arrive at a solution he was asleep.

Jimmy gradually came to the following morning, but as soon as he turned onto his stomach for another 5 minutes snooze the feeling on his chest quickly brought him fully awake. The events of the night before seemed unreal in the light of day, but were soon confirmed when he looked at his slender feminine arms and hands. He could hardly wait to try painting his nails like the stars he remembered seeing both at the Saturday afternoon kids matinee and in the evening as Susan on the double back row seats with some boy or other. He looked at the clock. It was after ten. He’d never stayed in bed so late before, but he knew this was normal for Susan after a hectic evening. Using her memories he got out of bed and putting on a filmy negligee went into the bathroom. He remembered to put the seat down before sitting to relieve himself. He turned to the bath and started to run the water. How easy it was! At home they had to get the zinc bath in from the yard and set it by the fire before filling with a ladle from the boiler. He luxuriated in the hot water until his mother disturbed him by banging on the door.

“Are you going to be in there all morning, Susan?” she called through the locked door. “I want you to go down the town for me and the shops’ll be shut if you mess about much longer”.

“All right Mummy, I’ll be down soon”. and Jimmy climbed out of the bath. he admired himself in the mirror as he patted himself dry. Turning his head this way and that to watch his hair swing from one side of his slender neck to the other. He giggled, this was fun. He wondered how Susan was coping with the fishing trip.

Back in the bedroom he pondered on what to do next. Ah, his nails. He let Susan take control again and selected a vivid red polish from the selection on his dressing table and applied two coats to both his finger and toe nails. While they were drying he had his first Craven A of the day, and read a copy of Woman magazine he found on the bedside cabinet. He was soon absorbed in an article describing the latest Christian Dior Autumn collection. It seemed that skirts were to remain long despite the shortages. A further call from downstairs pleading for him to hurry, stirred him into activity as he chose his dress for the day. His Susan side selected a matching bra and knicker set in red, Harvey’s, of course, and a garter belt in the same colour. She selected a revealing cream blouse and a pair of dark slacks with a tight, high waist, but wide long legs, which needed to be worn with high heeled strappy sandals. She carefully applied makeup and dabbed perfume at her neck and wrists. Her silver charm bracelet, gold watch and a pair of hoop earring completed her preparations for the day.

Meanwhile, Billy, his dad, and as he thought, Jimmy, were busy drowning worms down at the cut. They’d given up trying for roach with bread bait and were going after the easier to catch perch using worms they’d collected in the garden early that morning. Susan was surprised at how she’d coped with picking the worms out of the moist earth and dropping them in an old jam jar. She would have been horrified at the thought of picking up a slimy worm in her bare fingers when she was in her original body. She was wearing Jimmy’s shiny black wellingtons with the tops turned down so they didn’t make her bare calves sore, and had carefully placed the precious Medallion in her jacket pocket. She was quite enjoying the day out, considering the strange circumstances.

Susan knew that the first chance she and Jimmy would have to reverse the change would be later that night. That meant that she would have to rely on Jimmy to cope with her important date. She’d just about persuaded Albert to promote her from the sewing room to be his secretary where she could use the shorthand and typing she’d been studying at evening class for precisely that purpose. Albert was taking her, or rather Jimmy now, to the Lion Hotel in Massingham that evening for a candle lit, romantic meal. She was sure that, like the perch she had just popped into her keep net, Albert was hooked. She didn’t want Jimmy to mess anything up. She’d have to find an opportunity to speak to him before the all important date.

When the fishing party returned to the Williamson's at five o’ clock, Billy’s mam was just putting finishing touches to the tea table and Jimmy was upstairs preparing for his evening out as Susan. Making the excuse to use the toilet, the real Susan went upstairs and burst into her old room without knocking. She found what looked like her old body sitting at her dressing table engaged in some serious make up application. Jimmy looked round. “What do you want, Jimmy? I’d appreciate it if knocked before coming into my room, I could have been undressed. Don’t disturb me now I’m trying to get my eyelashes on straight”.

Susan was taken aback, and oddly felt slightly embarrassed to be watching an apparently glamorous young women partly dressed and applying her makeup. “Wait a minute, what do you mean, your room? It’s my room, and you know it”.

Jimmy was enjoying this “Not from where I’m sitting it isn’t, and I’m sure Mummy wouldn’t think so either. So buzz off you scruffy little tyke and let me finish getting dressed”. He could contain himself no longer and burst out giggling. “OK, Susan, what do you really want. We haven’t got long, Albert’s due in twenty minutes”.

Susan was still recovering from the strange feelings she’d had when she first came into the room. “Well, I just wanted to stress how important tonight is for me. This is my big chance to get away from all those common factory girls and get into the office. I don’t want you spoiling it for me. You will be careful won’t you? I don’t want to get a bad reputation”.

“According to my mother, you, or rather I’ve already got a reputation. I don’t see how anything I do will change that”. answered Jimmy.

A voice called from downstairs. “Jimmy, your tea’s on the table”.

Susan turned to the door. “I have to go now. Please be careful. I’ll see you in here when you get back tonight when everybody’s in bed and we can change back. Cheerio”.

Jimmy completed his dressing and did a final check in the full length mirror. His dress was a flowery summer one with thin straps over his shoulders. It had a tight bodice with a low neckline to show off his full breasts and a full skirt in the New Look length down to his calves. A short bolero jacket with 3/4 sleeves in a matching fabric allowed some adjustment for temperature. His nylons were held up by the suspenders attached to a tight girdle which emphasised his already small waist. His shoes were white and had a 5” heel which not only made his legs look even more sensational, but gave his hips a sexy swaying motion when he walked. His long nails were painted the same red as his lipstick and his artificial eyelashes gave his eyes that ‘come to bed’ look. His long hair was dressed in a fashionable upsweep which emphasised the his long pendant earrings. There was no doubt about it. He was dressed to kill. Watch out Albert Harvey, here comes Susie!!

Jimmy was just checking that his seams were straight when he heard Albert’s Lanchester purr to the front gate. He picked up his hand bag, checked he had his lipstick and cigarettes and ran down the stairs just as his mother let Albert in. Jimmy’s escort smiled broadly. “Darling you look wonderful. Shall we go?”

Jimmy smiled at his date, and gave Susan’s, his now, mother a kiss. “Bye, Mummy, don’t wait up”. He noticed Susan, in his body at the table. She was staring hard and clearly wishing she was back in her old shape and going out with Albert herself.

His escort opened the door of the handsome motor car for Jimmy to slide in. He was as excited about the drive as he was about his date with the good looking young man. It was the first time he’d ever been in a car, let alone one with such a pedigree as a Lanchester. As they drove along the quiet roads, Jimmy took the opportunity to study his companion. As Jimmy, he’d never met Albert Harvey. He had Susan’s memories to go on, but they weren’t very specific. Albert was tall, about 6 feet as far as Jimmy could tell from his position in the passenger seat, with dark, Brylcreamed hair in the fashion of the day. His sensitive hands seemed to caress the wheel as he fed the car into the bends on the winding road. Jimmy was surprised to find himself wondering what those sensitive hands could do to his breasts, or even better, his pussy. From his experience as Angela, he was only too aware of what the dampness between his legs meant.

Eventually, they were passing through the arch of the old coaching inn and parking in the cobbled yard. Albert opened the door and took Jimmy’s elbow as they crossed into the oak panelled and beamed dining room. The maitre de showed them to a small private alcove, all but invisible to the rest of the room and handed then both a menu and lit the candles. Even on such a warm sunny summer evening, the low dark ceiling and tiny windows set in thick walls made for a dark, intimate, atmosphere, perfect for seduction. Albert was obviously a favoured guest at the Lion Hotel, and the staff knew exactly what service he demanded and ensured he got it.

Jimmy almost gasped when he saw the menu. He’d never even imagined such dishes before. Where did they get the meat to be able to serve such a range? He knew that his Mam had enormous difficulties putting meat on the table everyday with the meagre official ration. He noticed that his menu had no price listings. He was sure that this was going to be a pretty expensive meal for Albert. What exactly did he expect in return?

Albert looked across the table at him and smiled. “Shall I order, darling?” he said.

Jimmy let Susan take over. She looked up through her dark eyelashes with a seductive curve to her painted lips. “Please do”. she murmured, and reached across the table to stroke the back of Albert’s hand with one long, scarlet nail. The colouring of Albert’s face wasn’t due to embarrassment.

At a glance from Albert the hovering waiter rushed over, his note book and pencil poised. “Yes, sir, are you ready to order?”

Without bothering to reply directly, Albert simply began ordering. “We’ll both have the filet, well done. A selection of fresh vegetables and no fried potatoes.” He looked at ‘Susan’. “They’re so vulgar, don’t you think?” Without waiting for a reply he continued talking to the waiter. “We’ll have the Brown Windsor soup, with fresh white rolls to start”.

The waiter finished scribbling on his pad. “Yes sir, certainly sir. Now, would you like something to drink, sir?”. He was obviously working hard for the large tip he was sure Albert would furnish.

Albert glanced at the wine list. “Do you still have any of the ‘38 Nuits St George grand cru?”. When the waiter nodded, he continued “Two bottles then, if you please, and we’ll have two dry sherries while we wait”.

The sumptuous meal passed without incident. Unless the surreptitious foot fondling that took place throughout counted as an incident. Or the suggestive glances ‘Susan’ made from beneath her lashes counted as incidents. As the wine bottles emptied both ‘Susan’ and Albert became more relaxed and mellow. Eventually they reached the coffee and liqueur stage, and as they sipped their Cointreaus, ‘Susan’ began fishing for information about her future at Harvey’s.

“You know how I hate working in that awful sewing room. You’ve no idea how crude some of those women can be”. She said.

Albert knew only too well how crude the women were and how they treated any young lad who got into their hands. He remembered when he’d first ventured into the large dusty room at the age of fifteen when, at his father’s insistence, he was learning about the factory from the bottom up. Even though they knew he was the bosses son they pulled off his trousers and applied a generous quantity of black boot polish round his balls. They then dressed him in an enormous pair of pink satin bloomers before pushing him out into the yard, much to the amusement of the rest of the staff. Women are worse than men when they get together! Albert certainly sympathised with Susan’s position.

“Well, Susan, I could perhaps arrange a transfer, but I’d need to do it through the official channels. It could be most difficult if anyone thought I was applying favouritism, you know”.

‘Susan’ gently stroked the back of his hand again, and allowed the tip of her pink tongue to lick her lips very slowly. “Isn’t there anything, anything at all, I could do to persuade you?”

Jimmy couldn’t believe what he was saying, and how he was feeling, as Susan’s personality gradually took over. He still knew who he was, and was still in control, but he was enjoying being Susan in ways he’d never imagined before. He wondered if his Mam had ever felt like this when she was with his Dad, but he thought probably not.

Albert, responded by placing his other hand over her tiny one and looking into her eyes. “Well, I think it would be better if we continued this conversation in private, don’t you? Tell you what, I’ve booked a room here so we can discuss your future with Harvey’s without being disturbed. How about it?”

Twenty minutes later they were sitting together on a sofa in a private room with a bottle of champagne cooling in an ice bucket at their side. Albert started the discussion by gently kissing ‘Susan’ on the lips. The kiss gradually became more passionate as their tongues fenced in a sexual dance. Jimmy slid his slim fingers into the opening in Albert’s shirt and teased his nipples.

Albert squirmed to the touch. “Oh Susan, you are so very beautiful. I don’t think I could survive without our little dinners.”. and he reached behind her back and expertly released the zip and opened the back of the dress. There were advantages in being the manufacturer of women’s clothing - there was accurate knowledge of how it all fastened together. ‘Susan’ gasped as the sensitive hands that had previously controlled the powerful car so efficiently, began to control her passion by caressing her breasts so wonderfully.

It seemed like no time at all before ‘Susan’s' expensive dress was draped on the back of the sofa covered by Albert’s Saville Row suit in a simulation of the embrace their respective owners were enjoying on the bed. If Jimmy had thought his time as Angela had been exciting, it was as nothing compared with the feelings he experienced as Albert teased his clit to its tiny erection. He gave little delighted squeals, no longer worried about waking his father and thrust his hips into the teasing finger. When the climax came it was earth shattering in its intensity and ‘Susan’ screamed in ecstasy. This certainly made up for the days fishing Jimmy had missed!

‘Susan’ just managed to retain enough presence of mind to realise that she needed to keep something back to use for further bargaining, so when Albert’s prick began to probe the entrance to her pussy, she moved away. She smiled at his evident confusion. He obviously thought he was home and dry, but she had other ideas. She pushed him back and to Jimmy’s surprise she let the tip of her tongue touch the head of Albert’s proud upstanding member. He groaned in anticipation as ‘Susan’ opened her red lips and took him in. She teased him for a while and then peered up at him before pulling away.

Between little kisses, she spoke to him. “Albert?” kiss, kiss “When would I be able to start in the office?” kiss, kiss, kiss “Just think what fun we could have” kiss, kiss “if we could be together more often” kiss, kiss “What do you think, darling?”

Albert was at the point when he would agree to anything. “Oh, please don’t stop. This is absolutely fantastic.” He looked down at the riot of loosened red gold hair spread over his thighs, the long scarlet nails scratching his balls and the lovely pouty lips gently caressing the tip of his prick “Oh, yes, yes. You must start on Monday, it’ll be wonderful”

“Promise?” said ‘Susan’ as she teased him again.

“Oh, I promise, I promise. Please don’t stop”. He cried, and with that, she allowed him deep into her mouth, and in a moment she was taking in his ejaculate until ran from the corners of her lovely mouth.

She smiled, with satisfaction. Success!

The real Susan was agitated when Jimmy quietly opened the door to his bedroom in the early hours of Sunday morning. “Where have you been? The car pulled up nearly an hour ago.”

Jimmy smiled dreamily. “Albert just couldn’t leave me alone. It’ll be fantastic when we’re working in the same office, well I mean when you’re working in his office. I suppose we’d better change back, where’s the Medallion?” Then he saw the expression on his old face. “What’s the matter, Susan?”

“It’s gone. I’ve lost it. We’ve been searching for it all evening. I told Billy I’d lost my penknife down at the cut and we’ve been looking for hours. Well, I’ve been looking, Billy was looking for a penknife. The trouble is we fished both banks between the locks. It could anywhere along half a mile of canal bank, or even in the water”.

“Does that mean we’re stuck as we are”. gasped Jimmy. He was contemplating living the rest of his life as Susan. On the record of the last day he could think of worse fates.

“Yes, at least, unless I can find the Medallion. I think I’m going to be spending at lot of time fishing”. Replied Susan. “I think I’ve got enough of your memories to cope, and I’ve got the Summer holidays to get used to the idea of going back to school. I’m getting to be quite a good shot with your, or rather my air pistol. It’s strange though, I seem to be obsessed with American gangsters and their molls, especially the molls”.

She looked at Jimmy, now with his long golden red hair hanging loose to his shoulders, his scarlet tipped fingers delicately holding a cigarette to his full, red lips, and his heavily lidded eyes half closed against the drifting smoke. “You know, you rather remind me of Lauren Bacall in the ‘Big Sleep’. It’s strange fancying myself”. She suddenly became thoughtful, and her expression became one of suspicion. “Just what were you doing in this room, before all this happened ?”.

Jimmy smiled and shooed her to the door “Never you mind, young Jimmy. Now don’t you think you should get out of my room and get back to your own? It’s not polite for small boys to be pestering their friend’s older sister”.

The new Jimmy looked confused for a moment, and then with a sigh pulled open the door and crossed the landing to his bunk in his best pal’s bedroom.

Susan sat for a moment, relishing her cigarette and surveying her reflection in the dressing table mirror. “Well, it doesn’t look as though I’ll end up working down the pit after all. Mam will be pleased, especially as I’ve got an office job as well”. She remembered with relish how she’d been able to play with Albert Harvey. “And one with excellent prospects”.

With a smile, Susan Williamson stubbed out her last Craven A of the day and began to prepare herself for bed.

The End

 © 2014 Robyn Hoode

Christmas has never been a good time for me. Well at least not since the time it started to involve rather more giving than receiving. That was once I started work and realised the deprecations a few presents would make on a sixteen year old’s wage packet. I suppose you could call me an unreconstructed Scrooge — that’s him before he had the three spiritual visits and underwent a conversion to convention. I put up with it for a few years but the sinking feeling I got after Bonfire Night, which I always liked because the thought of throwing a Catholic on the fire, even symbolically, appealed to my twisted sense of humour, eventually got to me.

The fifth of November meant that all too soon fireworks would disappear from the shops, only to be replaced by cotton wool snow, holly and sparkly cut-out Santas. Some shops, obviously not as dedicated to the real meaning of Christmas as others, even had the temerity to display models of stables, shepherds and infants in mangers. The town council wasted my council tax on pointless lights and decorations at the behest of avaricious shop keepers hoping to lure more punters into spending ridiculous amounts of money buying gifts for people that they neither want, nor would dream of buying for themselves. Who on earth buys boxes of chocolate selections … for their own consumption?

This year was no exception. As the nights drew in further my mood darkened to match. The supermarket gangways became more and more congested with shoppers and displays of ‘Christmas Extras’ making the weekly food shopping more of a nightmare than usual - especially so on Christmas Eve. I hefted my rucksack of shopping onto my shoulders and left the shop, careful to avoid the Santa Claus figure that played ‘Jingle Bells’ excruciatingly badly if anyone stepped anywhere near. For late December, it wasn’t a bad evening. Global warming meant frosts were becoming increasingly rare so it wasn’t too cold; in fact if it hadn’t been for the strong north wind blowing straight down the high street it would have been almost balmy. It was still dark though … if you didn’t count those revoltingly cheerful fairy lights blinking away on strings between the lamp posts and the brightly lit shop windows.

One window attracted my attention. I still don’t know why I even looked, but when I did, the sight brought me to a sudden stop. I stood transfixed by the display. It was a novel idea; instead of showing a whole Christmas tree, the window dressers had just shown the topmost branches, as if the rest of the huge tree extended a hundred feet below the floor and shoppers were standing on a high viewing platform. There were the usual tinsel strands and huge glass baubles, but what attracted me was the fairy standing on the top.

She was full size. By which I mean she wasn’t a doll, well, figuratively she was a doll, but not a child’s doll, a grown-up’s doll - a very grown up doll indeed. I’ve always been partial to blondes with big lungs, and this fairy’s lungs were only too clearly on display. She had bedroom eyes, but sleep would be far from their promised intent; they were slightly tilted at the outer corners, long dark lashes, lids just slightly closed and with irises a shade of dark blue designed for lovers to drown in. As I moved from side to side the better to see her perfect form the eyes followed me, her wide, generous mouth curved in a Mona Lisa smile and parted just enough for a tiny pink tongue to caress the lips. Was she real? Were those ample breasts moved by breath, or a hidden electric motor? Then her right eye deliberately and slowly closed in a conspiratorial wink. Her head moved sideways, beckoning ‘Come here’.
I’m still not sure why I made for the shop door. On second thoughts, I’m completely sure — I was captivated by the fairy queen. With hindsight, ‘captured’ might have been a better description, but where ignorance is bliss ‘tis folly to be wise — and what a load of bollocks that is! As I entered the shop the PA system was already warning customers that the shop would be closing in fifteen minutes and security staff were gently herding them to the doors. I hid behind a rack of winter overcoats as the last of the legitimate customers left with their last minute presents. I worked my way along the wall until I estimated I was behind the window with my fairy queen and quietly waited.

I didn’t have to wait long before the door was flung open and my vision stepped out. She glanced quickly up and down the floor and with hardly a glance at me said quietly “Follow me, and don’t be too obvious.”

How could I be any other but obvious? I hardly looked like staff with a scruffy old fawn ex-navy duffel coat that my mum had worn when they were trendy in the late fifties, a pair of patched blue jeans, well worn trainers, coloured dirty, and a heavy rucksack. Considering she was wearing her fairy queen outfit with spread-out skirts like a ballet dancer’s dress, she moved surprisingly quickly, keeping to the spreading shadows as the main lights went out in groups. Eventually we reached an unobtrusive door hidden behind a clothes rack. She opened it, reached inside, switched on a light and pulled me in, closing the door afterwards.

She looked me straight in the eye. “Hmmm, not perfect, but you’ll do.” Then, after wrinkling her nose. “Need a bath, of course.” She spoke in a breathy contralto. I was still slightly (slightly? A lot!) confused. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t. She tilted her head to one side and smiled that little smile again. “Cat got your tongue? You cut it a bit fine. I thought you might have got cold feet.”

I’m sure my mouth was hanging partly open. “Cold feet?” I echoed, probably sounding as gormless as I felt.

The room had originally been a smallish store room. It was lit, inadequately, with a dusty, bare forty watt bulb suspended from the middle of the ceiling. The blonde peered closer, then fumbled in the cleavage of her dress before extracting a pair of glasses. She breathed on them and gave them a wipe with a fold of the dress before setting them on her up-turned nose. “Oh!” she said. “You’re not who I thought you were, but you look so much like him.” She continued accusingly.

I was still baffled and could only reply “Who?” which I thought was the most intelligent thing I’d done in the last fifteen minutes.

She repeated. “But you look so much like him. At least without my specs. Who are you anyway?” Still sounding peeved.

“I can’t help who I look like. I’ve always looked like me. I’m Jeremy — Jeremy Howard.” I was beginning to feel a bit more ‘here’ so I added “Who are you?”

My fairy queen was beginning to look and sound less queenly by the second. “Fuck me. What a cock up. Now what?” She was beginning to undress. She removed her tiara, then turned her back to me. “Unzip me, duck, will you? This fucking dress is killing me. I can’t think. What a total fuck up.” She had a posh voice. She pronounced ‘fuck’ as if it was spelt ‘fack’. Must be a southerner, I thought.

As I pulled the zip down, exposing more of her creamy skin and her braless breasts, she turned her head and grinned impishly. “Since you’re undressing me I suppose we’d better introduce ourselves. I’m Sue Hill, and you’re supposed to be Andy Dutton, but, clearly, you’re not.”

She stepped gracefully out of the dress and, wearing nothing but a pair of lace knickers, white, sparkly tights and a matching pair of white, sparkly stiletto heels, she held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jerry.”

I took her hand briefly, nervously “How do you do Sue?” As my confusion subsided I began to appreciate the length of mum’s old duffel coat. It was just long enough to hide the embarrassing swelling caused by seeing a more than half naked and very attractive female dashing around trying to find her civilian clothes amongst the sundry detritus.

Sue smiled again, but this time revealing an expensive row of orthodontised small shiny teeth. She knew my difficulties. “Well it can’t be helped,” she said, mostly to herself, “you’ll have to do. Hang that up will you, duck? Over there, on that hanger.”

I picked up her dress and, once I’d sorted it into front/back and in/outside, hooked it on the hanger. I replaced it over the central heating pipe stretching along the wall just below the low ceiling. Sue had used my distraction to slip on a tight, belly exposing red tank top and a pair of low slung jeans.

I still had no idea what was happening. “Look, there’s obviously been some sort of mistake. Perhaps I’d better clear off. That other guy — Andy? — he’ll probably turn up. Probably held up somewhere.” I edged to the door but Sue, hopping on one foot whilst trying pull a pink trainer on the other, grabbed my arm in a surprisingly strong grip.

“No, wait a bit. Andy won’t turn up now. I know it’s asking a lot at Christmas but I’ll make it worth your while. You busy for the next few days?”

I avoid the remnants of my family like the plague at Christmas — it just isn’t my thing, besides, the remnants are just that, and a bit remote too. I know some atheists still like the parties, but not me. Just naturally anti-social, I guess. My friends were tied up with their families. All I had planned was a day at home with a good book or three, a bottle of single malt and a couple of DVDs. How sad is that?

So, with nothing to lose, and a very lovely girl looking at me very persuasively, I shrugged my shoulders “Well, not really. I usually go underground over Christmas and wait for it to blow over. What’s the deal?”

Sue gave an even broader smile, released my arm, completed her shoeing and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks, you’re a doll. Follow me and try to keep out of sight. I know the security guys and they usually hide away in their lair and drink tea for half an hour after the shop shuts. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

If I hadn’t already agreed, the velvet touch of her lips on my cheek was enough to make me her slave for life. Sue turned out the light, opened the door and, after a quick shufti, beckoned me to follow. As she led the way quickly round the edge of the display floor, I was able to appreciate her figure. If anything she was a touch taller than me and not much lighter. I reckoned her extras, like tits and arse, probably made up for my heavier muscles. It was out of season for me, so I wasn’t quite as skinny as I am in Summer when four hundred hard miles a week on my bike keeps my weight down. I ride time trials several times a week; anything from ten mile sprints to stamina sapping twelve hour events. I take it easy from October to New Year, when I’m ready to start steady training ready for competition later on.

We eventually reached an inconspicuous door hidden by some curtains. Sue produced a key, opened it and, with a wink, ushered me inside, locking the door behind us. A dim light revealed a lobby and a small lift.

Sue jumped inside. “Come on, hurry up. We’ve got a lot to do.” As soon as I’d joined her she pressed a button and we shot upwards, seemingly forever, until a little ‘ting’ indicated our arrival.

Sue’s flat was at the very top of the six story building and very comfortably furnished. Despite my reservations about the Christmas lights I was enchanted by the view from the uncurtained window. My bird’s eye view allowed me to see the pattern of the city’s streets in full fairy-land colour. Even the lights of moving vehicles had a certain beauty as they constantly changed the pattern; the distance insulating the noise and fumes I experienced so often.

I looked round the room comparing it very unfavourably with my own slightly less up market accommodation — a rented couple of rooms in an outer-suburb Victorian terrace house. “Wow, this is really something. Must cost a bomb in rent.”

Sue came up behind me and rested her chin on my shoulder. She smelt like heaven might. It was nearly enough to start evil thoughts and inconvenient swellings. “Doesn’t cost me a penny. Daddy owns the shop. I’m a spoilt little rich girl. Can’t you tell? Lovely view isn’t it?”

“If your dad, owns the place, why were you posing in the window?” I didn’t move because I didn’t want her to move either.

“Bit of a long story, but we had a sort of argument, and I ended up betting the old man I could replace the human statue woman who was going to be the Christmas fairy. She cried off — broken leg, broken neck, bit of a chill, or something equally trivial. It threatened to ruin my whole window display … and I’m quite proud of it. I so wanted it to be a success and I opened by big mouth just a teeny bit too much.”

I thought Sue had rather a nice mouth — generous rather than big. I was beginning to have suspicions, but I needed to know. “Where is all this leading? I’m getting more confused by the minute. Not that I’m objecting, but in my mundane life meeting a girl, then, not only being invited to her flat, but also seeing her minimally dressed, doesn’t happen often.”

For an answer, she took hold of my hand and dragged me over to a large sofa positioned to offer a view of the city below and pushed me gently down on to it. Sue sat at the other end and half-turned to face me.

“Well, it’s like this …” I missed most of the rest because I was drowning in her blue eyes with my imagination working overtime, but it seemed I was to take her place for a couple of hours the following (Christmas) morning and, apparently, I agreed. Just because she wanted to go to a ‘super’ party that evening and she’d be too ‘blasted’ in the morning even to think of posing in the shop window.

“ … but,” I started and continued, even after a glare from Sue, “why me? Why a bloke and not one of your girl friends, or at least a female?”

Sue giggled. “Chance dear boy, merely chance. I came across Andy at a club a few nights ago. He’s on my theatre arts course at Uni and always up for a laugh. So I conned him into this. Posing as me, I mean. Unfortunately for me, he was probably too pissed to remember, and, unfortunately for you, you appeared at the window just when I was expecting Andy. On the other hand, fortunately for me, you seem to be up for it too. Aren’t you darling?” I got another soft kiss, but still only on my cheek. “It’ll be a laugh and I’ll make it worth your while … in more ways than one.”

The next kiss was full on, and breathtaking. I’m not really all that experienced with women. Most of them at work are as geeky as I am, and the few girls at the cycle club are all well and truly attached. I’d never met anyone as overpowering as Sue. She seemed to be able to combine girly femininity and assertiveness. Odd really, because I don’t like effeminate, girly women. You know, the sort who get all fluttery when they have to change a light bulb, but Sue was different.

By the time I’d recovered from the kiss, my feet were bare, my jeans were off and I was down to my Y fronts. Blimey, she was a quick worker. Fortunately, I was totally relaxed ‘down there’ — probably still in shock I suppose. Sue had me standing in the middle of the room so she could walk all round me and take stock, as she put it.

“Why do you shave your legs?” she asked. “Have you done this sort of thing before?” There was a little twinkle in her eyes.

“No, I bloody haven’t.” I replied; not entirely truthfully. “I’m a bikie. We all shave our legs. I just keep mine shaved in the close season because I hate the prickly feel when the hair comes back.”

“But why really? What’s the point?”

“Oh, lots of reasons. Everybody does it and it looks better than hairy legs. So poser value, I suppose. Then it makes massage easier and, if you come off and get a few cuts and grazes that need sticking plaster, it doesn’t hurt so much when you pull it off. It’s all crap about wind resistance — doesn’t make a ha’porth of difference to that.”

“You’ve got nice legs, though and your feet are small.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m a six or sometimes a seven, depends on the make. Got small hands too.”

“Same as me. I’m a six, too; that’s handy. Now, we need to get the rest of the hair off.” She sniffed. “You need a shower, anyway.” I was surprised. I’d had a shower only three days before and I hadn’t been out training since. I’d been told women had a sensitive sense of smell. It must be true. “While you have a shower and get rid of the rest of your superfluous hair I’ll nip down into the shop and liberate a few things we need. Daddy won’t mind and anyway, it’ll be put down to shoplifters.” She showed me the bathroom and handed me a tube of stuff. “Follow the directions. Don’t worry about the stinging. It’s perfectly normal. Use my shampoo for your hair and don’t forget the conditioner. It’s a good job you’re so fair. Andy’s dark. It’d be lots more difficult to tart him up. You’ll be a piece of cake. You’ve a lovely boyish face too.”

With a throaty giggle, she left the room and I heard the lift start up.

I couldn’t believe the bathroom. All pink tiles and mirrors. Gold plated taps everywhere and big fluffy (and clean — there’s a thing) towels hanging on a heated rail. The only drawback was the sting from the depilatory before I was able to get it washed off. The shower was gorgeous and I was still indulging myself in the powerful jets of hot water and watching the last few body hairs disappear down the drain when Sue returned.

“Haven’t you finished yet?” Obviously, I hadn’t, so she turned off the lovely hot water and changed it to freezing cold. I leapt out onto the soft bath mat, shivering and cursing. “Now get dried — not your hair, though and come into the bedroom. We haven’t got much time. I want to get to my party before it’s all over.” As her party was unlikely to end before four in the morning — at the earliest — I thought she was being a bit sniffy. On her, it still looked good.

If the bathroom was good, the bedroom was splendid. A big bed with an even bigger duvet spread over it and a deep pile carpet so white I hardly dared step onto it. The whole of one wall was taken up by wardrobe doors. Spoilt little rich girls obviously had a lot of clothes to store. Over the bed hung a good quality print of Breugel’s ‘Hunters in Winter’ and something new and original and colourfully swirly on another wall. Sue led me to a well equipped dressing table and sat me down facing the mirror, totally ignoring my nudity. I suppose she was used to having naked men in her bedroom — lucky them.

She sat down on the wide stool alongside me and glanced down at the effect her proximity was having. “God, you men! Can’t you control that thing?” She picked up a pen and, without warning, struck me sharply on the embarrassing protrusion (or my cock, if you want to do away with euphemisms). Never has so much become so little, so quickly. Definitely not the most enjoyable way to effect a reduction, but it worked.

She put her face next to mine and stared at us in the mirror. We looked almost like brother and sister. Not exactly twins, but not far off. Our noses were different; Sue’s was generally straight with a slightly turned up tip and mine is … just a nose — more or less straight all the way and a good size. Our hair was almost identical in colour, but hers was wavy, curved in at the bottom with a fringe just skimming her finely arched eyebrows. Unlike most of my friends, I’ve always kept my hair long. It’s a bit inconvenient to get dry, but a low pony tail suits my geek image at work, and it’s not too much of a problem on the bike.

“Right! Let’s get to work on you, and then I can get to work on me.”

“Err, I would prefer it if I could have something to wear. Where are my jeans?”

Sue looked shocked. “I haven’t had you shower and get to smell a bit less manly only to let you get smelly again by wearing those disgusting jeans.” She looked round and grabbed a diaphanous dressing gown from her bed. “Here, put this on.”

It really wasn’t my usual style. It was pink for starters — well, it had a pink aura, at least. I put it on and tied the sash. It felt … different, but not too bad, and the reflection in the mirror was disturbing. The loose top hid my flat chest, and already, without Sue doing a thing, I looked like a girl — like Sue. OK, I had rather bushy eyebrows, but they’re so light coloured they didn’t show up so much, and, while my lips are naturally thin, the small smile was very similar to Sue’s. Fortunately the gown was long, sweeping the floor, even, and it hid my growing interest … in my own reflection. That was a bit worrying.

I’d already discovered that Sue was a no-nonsense girl and she spent little time in thought. She knew exactly what she wanted, and how to get it. Before I realised what was happening she had my hair in rollers and trimmed the front into a fringe.

I protested, but mildly. I was becoming fascinated. “Hey, hang on a bit. I’ve got to go back to work after Christmas and I can’t go with a fringe and wavy hair without causing comment — embarrassing comment at that.”

She waived my protest airily. “Don’t be daft, Jerry. This’ll wash out and be straight again in no time. I’m not giving you a perm, just a bit of a set.”

“… but the fringe.” I whinged. “That isn’t going to disappear, is it?”

“Well, no,” she confessed. “but if we cut it really short you can say you singed it whilst … err, cooking Christmas dinner. See? No problem, my sweet.” And she smiled at me via the reflection in the mirror.

“I suppose.” But I knew I’d first have to convince my mates that I was even capable of cooking anything that didn’t start with piercing a film covering before placing in the microwave. Microwaves aren’t noted for singeing hair.

But I started to get really worried when I first felt the pain of a hair being plucked from my right eyebrow.

Sue explained. “Look, I’m a drama student. I know all about make-up; I’ll just fit you up with artificial eyebrows after the hols. Look, you agreed to this; don’t start whining now. We simply haven’t got the time. Your eyebrows are too bushy. They’ve got to look a bit like mine when you’re standing on the tree tomorrow morning.”

Suddenly it didn’t seem quite so light-hearted any more. I was going to be standing in full view of any passing people for two whole hours the following morning. My heart sank. What if anyone I knew looked in and, worse, recognised me? I’d done some stupid things in my time, like the time I … well lets leave it at that. This was going to be the most stupid, and just because a half-naked rich, spoilt bird wanted to go to some flash party full of Sloane rangers who talked with plums in their mouths. Was it worth it, just on the off-chance I may have a happy half hour later on? I eyed Sue’s reflection in the mirror. She was still the most beautiful girl I’d ever had even half a chance with — so yes, I suppose it was worth it. What had I to lose except every meagre scrap of dignity I’d ever had?

Sue had spent my thinking time wisely and my eyebrows were now mere slender arched shadows of their former selves. Now she was studying my face closely and reaching for the paints and potions laid out on the dressing table. It was soporific as she smoothed, dabbed and drew on my face. The perfumes and even the tastes were strange and entrancing. We ended with us both looking into the mirror, our faces side by side. I looked incredibly sexy. So sexy, I was turning myself on, but she still wasn’t satisfied.

“Something’s still not right. I know!” She disappeared into the bathroom and returned a moment later with a roll of transparent tape. She waved it in the air. “Your nose — it’s too straight up and down. Blenderm’ll fix that.” She took a pair of scissors and cut off a length. “This is just an experiment. If it works I’ll do it properly.” She carefully stuck the tape on the tip of my nose. I resisted the temptation to sneeze. The she gently pulled the tape and stuck along the bridge of my nose, smoothing it firmly down. She took a sponge, dabbed it in the foundation and deftly covered the tape.

The shape of my nose and with it my whole appearance altered surprisingly dramatically. The tape had pulled up the tip just enough to give me a slightly retrousse nose, just like Sue’s. The tape itself was invisible under the covering of makeup. I was no longer me. I was Sue’s twin sister. A strangely eerie feeling.

“Wow, that’s incredible. That’ll do for your face for now. I know I can get you looking OK tomorrow so we’ll leave your face for now and sort out the rest.”

“The rest?” I echoed. Sue looked down below my face and raised an eyebrow — one just like mine. “Oh, you mean the clothes.”

“Not so much the clothes, as the extras you need to fit my clothes. Don’t worry, I’ve got all we need right here. Shopping after hours is so very quick and convenient.” She grinned.

Worry? Me? I wasn’t being given the time to worry. That would, no doubt, come later.

She started doing things to my newly smooth chest using the Blenderm, and before I knew it I had the beginnings of cleavage. The cleavage became even more realistic once Sue had covered the tape with makeup just as she’d done with my nose and strapped me into a padded strapless bra. I had tits. Their size was mostly padding, but the bit you could see was all me — an illusion created by pulling the loose flesh round my pectoral muscles into the middle with the tape. I still looked a bit like a nineteen fifties housewife shopping on Saturday morning, hair in curlers ready for the evening’s fun drinking port and lemon in the local. All I needed was the harassed look and a head scarf, but there was clearly potential for glamour. There was even more potential once I’d wriggled into the padded tightly laced girdle. Now I had shape.

Sue nodded approvingly. “You’ve got a good figure for this. Hardly any fat and not much upper body muscle. We could do with a bit more fatty tissue up top, here”, she stroked my faux chest, “but it still looks pretty good. Your legs are a bit muscular, but the tights’ll make it look more like a girl’s subcutaneous fat, ‘specially if you wear two pairs.”

“My legs are supposed to be muscular.” I protested. “I’m a racing cyclist. I don’t need so much upper body strength. Only sprinters need that — I’m a time trialist. I just need steady effort over a long time.”

She gave me a pair of thin, filmy tights and watched as I rolled them down and eased them over my feet.

“You’ve done this before.” She accused.

I gave her a sarcastic glance. “I have … daily, in Winter. They’re no different from Lycra training bottoms except they’ve got feet.” The second pair slid easily over the first and I had to admit that they did make my legs look softer without spoiling their shape. I’ve always been quite proud of my legs — slender, but strong with long shapely muscles.

She wasn’t very interested. Too busy roughing up my finger nails for one thing. She looked up. “You need long finger nails. Yours are disgusting. Don’t you ever use a nail file?”

“A what? I just clip them at work with a pair of wire sidecutters and finish off by running my penknife round them to round off the corners. Keeps ‘em out of the way when I’m typing.” I tailed off as I became aware of Sue’s expression of disgust. “What’s wrong with that?”

She shrugged, realising I was a hopelessly lost cause. “It’s just so much NOT the way to look after your nails. Now just sit and wait until I tell you that you can move your hands.”

I stared, fascinated by my finger nails — not, so far in my life, a subject for deep contemplation. They’d always been there, and mostly just a nuisance needing to keep them trimmed so I could type easily. Now they were long — 5mm extended beyond my finger tips, and a delicate shade of bright pink. If bright pink can ever be considered a ‘delicate’ shade.

“Well, that’s the basics, now lets see how you’ll look in the costume.” Sue was shuffling hangers along the rail in her wardrobe. “Right, here’s the one we’ll use for tomorrow. Now stand up.” I obeyed — it was becoming a habit. She thrust a white confection of lace and taffeta, or whatever, over my head, carefully avoiding rubbing against the paint job on my face, and zipped the back.

She grabbed a pair of shoes. “Try these on.” ‘These’ were a pair of mauve stilettos with what looked to me like stilts attached to the heels. “They don’t go, but they’ll do to try. You can use the ones in the changing room in the morning. The ones I wore today. If you can manage these you can manage them.”

I put them on and stood with difficulty. After hobbling to one of the full length mirrored doors, I studied the new me. The hair rollers were a bit of a turn-off, but the rest was … spectacular. The dress was a bit like a white ballet dress, but one of those longer ones, not a tutu. It came down to about my knees and left my shoulders bare except for narrow ribbons.

“I’m never going to be able to balance in these things for two minutes, let alone two hours.” I protested.

“Oh, stop whining, Jerri. You don’t have to stand unsupported. There’s a seat to rest your bum on — like a shooting stick, and you can draw the curtains for a couple of minutes every half hour so you can have a rest, or a pee. You’ll be fine.”

I really don’t like my name shortened. I was named Jeremy, and that’s the way I like it, but somehow I heard that ending ‘i’ rather than the usual ‘y’. It had a sinister ring to it, yet I realised I was hardly a ‘Jeremy’ as I looked now.

“Just walk up and down a bit and get used to it all whilst I get myself ready for the party.”

She whizzed round the room like a blue-arsed fly undressing, showering, dressing, painting and still finding time to bark instructions to take shorter steps, swing my bum hold my arms out like fairy — well I guess I was supposed to be a fairy. The trouble was I found it difficult to concentrate on me, as I watched her baring all, almost a strip show for my sole benefit. It began to seem almost worthwhile, almost fun. In fact, if I were honest with myself it was fun.

Once Sue was ready … and, boy was she ready? … she insisted I get out of the dress and showed me how to clean off the makeup. She gave me a lacy dressing gown to wear and showed me where she kept her CDs and DVDs so I could keep myself amused until bedtime. I was to sleep in her bed, unfortunately alone, but I could dream. It was about nine when she eventually left her flat in a cloud of perfume, and me in daze after a blistering kiss that required urgent repairs to her lip stick. She assured me that she’d be back in time to get me ready for my two hour ordeal before crashing out for some necessary sleep.

I left the underpinnings and my face as it was and put my feet up on the sofa. I tried to watch TV, but it was the usual Christmas drivel and I soon bored of it and began a search of Sue’s CD collection for alternative amusement. For a long haired hippy type I have rather unusual tastes — I like classical music. So I was delighted to find Sue had a wide selection of my sort of stuff and I settled down to listen to Schubert with a stiff whisky and water close to hand.

I’m not sure if it was the whisky or my unusual dress, but I quickly became restless and began stalking round the flat and eventually into the bedroom. A movement I caught in the corner of my eye was merely my own reflection in one of the mirrored doors of Sue’s wardrobe. It startled me because it was the reflection of a stranger. A tall slim girl stared back at me when I stood still, and she was turning me on. She was wearing a long gown and when she moved she showed tantalising glimpses of slender, shapely legs. What had I allowed myself to be talked into? I quite liked looking like that elegant girl. She looked confident and self assured — something I never was. She looked like the sort of girl who knew what she wanted and, more, knew how to get it — something I never did. Was I turning gay? I searched my motives. No, I still fancied Sue (as well as the girl in the mirror) and none of the men I knew or knew of appealed in the slightest. Perhaps I was a lesbian? That thought, and the whisky, made me laugh out loud and broke the spell.

Sadly, I cleaned off the make up but was disturbed to find the girl in the mirror was still there. Not quite as glamorous as before, but still unmistakably female. I stripped off completely, turned off the lights and slid, naked, beneath Sue’s duvet.

“Do you really want me to? You have to ask.”

“Yes. Yes. Now, please.” I arched my back so my groin pressed against the ‘thing’ sticking out from between … Sue’s? Yes! From between Sue’s legs. My view was impeded by my breasts, but I ached to feel her inside me and I locked my stockinged legs round her slender waist lest she should change her mind and withdraw. The frilly suspender straps strained as I flexed my quadriceps.

A cold chill swept my body and I heard Sue’s insistent voice. “Come on. Come on sleepy boy. Time to get up.”

No wonder I felt cold. The duvet was on the floor and a slightly dishevelled young woman shook my shoulders. I was on my back, legs akimbo and my morning erection standing proud for all to see — although ‘all’ was just this beautiful young woman with the slightly bloodshot eyes which did only a little to detract from her appearance. Never the less, it was still embarrassing, and Sue’s trade mark smile did nothing to lessen it.

I’m sure I blushed. “OK, OK. I’m up. I’m awake.” The dream was still vivid as I rolled out of bed, grabbed the dressing gown I’d been lent the previous evening and quickly dashed for the bathroom and bladder relief.

Sue called instructions from the other side of the door. “Have a shower, but don’t get you hair wet. You’ll find a new toothbrush in the cabinet to the right of the wash basin. Be quick. It’s gone eight already.”

By the time I got back into the bedroom, Sue had taken off her glad rags and was waiting for me wearing another gown similar to the one she’d lent me. I suppose when you live over Daddy’s shop one tends to acquire an extensive wardrobe. She was wielding a brush and sat me at her dressing table. She ignored my complaints as she removed the rollers I’d been forced sleep in and began vigorous brushing. Soon my hair was looking very like her own - waves down to my shoulders and a fringe just clearing my now elegantly curved eyebrows.

She stood back and examined me critically in the mirror. “Hmmm. Not bad, though I say it myself. I think this is going to work.” She yawned. “God, I’m tired. Had a hell of a time though. Good job I’d booked a taxi, I reckon I’m well over the limit still. But, my love, not so much over the limit that I can’t sort you out.”

I was beginning to feel hungry. “Any chance of breakfast? I’m bloody starving.”

“Nothing more than tea and toast for you this morning, my lad. I’ve got to lace you into this girdle or the dress’ll never fit properly.”

“Don’t drink tea. Coffee?” Sue nodded. “How much toast? Two slices? And marmalade too?”

“OK, coffee and two slices of toast and marmalade. No more. You’d better eat now or it’ll ruin your make up. I’ll put the kettle on, and you can cut a couple of slices of bread. The toaster’s on the worktop.”

We were soon both sitting at her kitchen breakfast bar drinking coffee, and eating delicious wholemeal toast liberally coated with thick cut marmalade. The coffee and the bitter taste of the marmalade served to waken me. It was still a bit dim outside so the window acted as quite a good mirror. A mirror that reflected two attractive young women, identically dressed, munching toast. One of them was eating delicately without spilling crumbs, the other was taking large bites and spraying crumbs all over the place. One of them was me, but the only way you could tell was by the crumb count.

“Leave the stuff on the worktop, it’s getting late. We have to have you in the window and me in bed by ten and it’s nearly ten to nine already. Into the bedroom with you.”

Sue grabbed my hand and pulled me into the middle of the bedroom. I thought she’d changed her mind and we were going forget all the dressing up nonsense and go to bed together, but no such luck.

“Right. Off with it. I can’t put the girdle on over the gown. And do try to keep control.” I was so nervous that keeping under control wasn’t really a problem.

I shivered, partly from the chill of the garment, but mostly from anticipation. I was glad I hadn’t eaten more as Sue hauled on the laces at the back. “Hey steady on. There’s bits of me in there that need room to breathe.”

“Nonsense. Just breathe less deeply. You’ll be fine. You’ve got to have a waist. The flare of the dress and the padding’ll hide your lack of a decent arse. Now, lift your arms up.”

In a trice she had the bra round my chest, complete with padding and Lo! I had tits again. With the aid of the Blenderm and a bit of shading I had a cleavage too.

She threw me a pair of knickers. “Put these on and pull them up tightly.” I did, and there was still a bit of a bulge. Not for long, though. “Here, let me.” She grabbed my special equipment and, after subduing it as she had the previous evening shoved it all back between my legs, somehow. It looked OK, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable .

When I complained, her only response was “You’ll get used to it, and it’ll feel so much better when you let him out again.” She gave a little wink. I prayed she wasn’t merely a prick teaser.

I impressed her again as I expertly pulled on the two pairs of white tights and snugged them round my waist. Sue chucked a pair of white trainers with pink detailing to me. “Put them on. They’ll be a lot easier and quieter to walk in when we go to the window. Anyway, you’re going to wear the shoes I wore yesterday and they’re in my changing room. Now sit at the dressing table and I’ll apply the war paint.”

She was enjoying this, I could tell. She’d suddenly woken up. It was amazing watching my face being transformed. The strip of Blenderm to turn up my nose tip really made my face look much more feminine and the dramatic make up re-created the girl who’d almost seduced me in the mirror the previous evening.

She held the dress open and got me to step into it before zipping it up at the back. It was tight, but bearable and, when I looked in the mirror, fantastically worth it. It just wasn’t me; it was a girl almost as lovely as Sue. It gave me the confidence I needed. No-one, not even my dear departed mum, would recognise Jeremy Howard in this vision.

The pink and white trainers spoiled the image a bit, but they’d make the journey to the window quicker and quieter. I was nearly ready.

Sue pulled on her jeans and a loose sweater; her hair tied back in a scruffy pony tail. “Come on; it’s time for your performance.” This was the first time I’d been with a girl and looked a lot more feminine than she did — weird, to say the least.

The main body of the shop was deserted as we made our way to the old store room where I changed into the sparkly stilettos, Sue fitted my tiara and handed me my wand. It had a big silver star on the end. I waved it experimentally and made a wish. It didn’t work. I was still dressed as a fairy queen and Sue was still urging me to hurry as it was five to ten, and she was knackered and needed sleep.

As we hurried round the periphery of the sales floor towards the entrance to the window, Sue explained how the gadgets worked. “The curtains are closed right now. When you’re in position, you’ll see a switch fitted onto a branch right next to your right hand. All you have to do is operate it, the curtains draw back, and you’re on show. It’s easy. There’s a clock, as well, that only you can see so you’ll know when time’s up. If you’re absolutely dying for a pee, close the curtains and behind one of the dwarves there’s a Portapotti.” She giggled. “You’ll have to sit down though. You can draw the curtains for a stretch every half hour or so, but don’t make it too long.”

I was getting nervous. “Surely there won’t be many people about on Christmas morning, will there?”

“You’d be surprised. I think quite a few go to the cathedral for a carol service, and there’s people, usually dads, who’ve gone to the pub for a quick one while the women folk are getting dinner ready.”

“Quite right, too” I muttered chauvinistically only to get a very dark look from Sue before she realised I was joking.

I clambered into position. As Sue had told me, there was a padded seat to lean my bum on, and somewhere to rest my outstretched left arm holding the wand. I settled back and switched on the curtain mechanism. There was a quiet whirring and I was revealed to the world as this year’s Christmas Fairy Queen.

What I hadn’t allowed for was that drunken young men — even before they’d spent a few hours and drunk a few bitters in the local — would do their best to make me laugh. One gang of lads, probably on their way home from a party, even turned their backs, dropped their britches and mooned me. I tried to think of something boring - like Pascal — to avoid smiling. After about half an hour I sneaked a look at the hidden clock. My heart sank. It read ten o five. It was going to be a long morning.

I amused myself with wide eyed children, who stood staring, trying to decide if I was real or not. Sometimes I just winked; other times I poked out my tongue, which usually generated shrieks of laughter, easily heard through the plate glass. Their dads spent their time trying to look down my cleavage. Wouldn’t they have been disappointed?

What really shook me was how hard it was simply to stay still for a few minutes. I became mesmerised by the clock and time seemed to pass even slower than when I was riding my bike on a turbo trainer - one of the most soul-destroying, but effective ways of getting fit in poor weather. After the first half hour I took advantage of a lull in passers by to close the curtains and have a stretch and move round a bit. Surprisingly, I didn’t find the high heels too much of a problem.

All went well until the last half hour. There were just twenty-five minutes left when a tall distinguished man dressed in a dark, well-cut overcoat hove into view and stood looking closely at me, smiling. He gave a little wave, shook his head slowly whilst raising a quizzical eyebrow. Something about his demeanour looked familiar and my spine tingled as I realised that this was Sue’s dad checking that she was honouring her wager. I was certain that I didn’t look sufficiently like Sue to fool her father, but never the less gave him a slow wink and a smile I hoped was sufficiently like Sue’s trademark to cause him to wonder, at least.

If that wasn’t enough, just as Mr Hill turned away, a more familiar figure stopped to stare. I was already warm from the high powered lights shining on me, but seeing my best buddy made me even warmer. I could feel the sweat beginning to run down my back and, even worse, down my forehead and past my much reduced eyebrows into my eyes. I resisted the temptation to close both my eyes and restricted myself to closing one of them in a wink and pushing my tongue out enough to lick my painted lips in what I fondly imagined to be a sexually loaded way.

Gordon smiled and reflected my wink. He pursed his lips in a simulated kiss and mouthed “You’re beautiful, babe”. At least I don’t think he recognised me. Our next boy’s night out would be embarrassing if he had, and I’d never live it down at the cycle club. I was relieved when, with another wink, he walked of chuckling to himself.

It must be my inherent honesty that made me hang on until the clock showed noon before closing the curtains for the last time. Well, I’d done it. Hopefully without being discovered either by Gordon or, perhaps worse, by Sue’s Dad. Now for the promised reward.

I made my weary way back to the changing room to rid myself of those heels and the other accoutrements - especially that wand that had proved so ineffective. Fortunately none of the security staff were in evidence — probably holed up somewhere with a glass of something and a mince pie.

It was a relief finally to close the door and retrace to the lobby where the lift, Sue’s flat and more importantly, Sue herself was waiting. I was just opening the hidden door when a I heard a voice shouting from a afar “Merry Christmas, Sue!” I looked round and saw a man in a blue uniform waving cheerfully. Luckily, he was too far away to see me clearly, so I simply waved back and ducked into the lobby and into the lift.

Although there was a staircase for safety reasons, it was rarely used and the lift opened right by the flat’s front door, which was ajar as I arrived. I wasn’t really thinking clearly or I might have heard the voices before I barged into the living room, but I didn’t. There were two people sitting on the big sofa. They had their backs to me but I recognised them both and nearly had a heart attack on the spot.

One was Sue … and the other was the man who’d smiled and waved at me about thirty minutes earlier. They both turned to me with big smiles and stood up.

“Well, well so this is the young man you managed to convince to dress up and stand in the window.” The man turned to me. “You were very convincing. I was almost sure Sue had lost our little bet.”

I blinked and stuttered nervously “Lost? Bet?”

Sue walked over, put her arms round me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I owe you a little apology. The bet wasn’t quite how I explained it last night. You see, Daddy and I, well we like a bit of fun at Christmas and this year he bet me I couldn’t get a boy to pose in the window as a Christmas Fairy for two hours on Christmas morning.”

“… and you found a prat to do it. Me.” I pushed her away. “I hope it was worth it for you. Now, if you’ll show me where my clothes are, I’ll get out of your way so you can enjoy your winnings.” I turned towards the bathroom, but before I could reach the door Sue grabbed my arm.

“Don’t be silly, Jeri. It’s not over yet. You have to stay for Christmas dinner … and you can’t go without having a little drink with us. Daddy’s got to go soon anyway, haven’t you, Daddy?” She shot what looked like a meaningful glance at her father, and my heart missed a beat or two. “He’s going to my brother’s for lunch with him and his family. He always says it’s not Christmas without kids … and I don’t have any. So, how about having Christmas dinner with me?”

I made a show of thinking about it, but, really, it was a no brainer. “Thanks, I’d like that.”

We had our little drink and Mr Hill left after shaking my hand to congratulate me on my effort and warning me not to get led astray by his daughter. I thanked him for the former whilst hoping for the latter. I was still in my Fairy Queen dress and, I suppose, still looking glamorous — apart from the trainers, of course.

Sue looked me up and down. “You can’t possibly eat dressed like that. Come with me.”

She led me into her bedroom and began sorting through her wardrobe, after ordering me to take off the dress. She eventually found what she was looking for — what I believe is called a little black dress (I’m no expert, but it was black and there wasn’t much of it). Whatever it was, I was soon wearing it and a pair of black patent heels to match. Sue added a silver charm bracelet to my right wrist, a silver necklace and long pendant earrings to my already pieced ears.

As I looked in the mirror, the elegant, confident girl I’d seen the previous evening was back. Instead of white tights, black stockings held up by suspenders attached to the padded girdle made my legs look fantastic, if slightly muscular. She at once both fascinated and frightened me. Where was the old me?

It wasn’t until Sue replied that I realised I’d voiced my thought out loud. “Don’t worry, love, you’re still in there. You’ve just discovered an extra part of yourself. Go with the flow and enjoy it. I certainly intend to. Now, leave me to get ready for dinner and have another drink in the living room." She kissed me gently on the lips and shooed me out.

I poured myself a glass of Muscadet and stared out over the now quiet city. Everyone was at home or with friends enjoying the festival. Normally, I would have been on my own eating a sandwich as I read a book, but this year was different. I too was snug indoors with someone I hoped was to become more than just a friend.

Then I heard a noise and looked round. It was Sue standing in the bedroom door.

I could hardly believe my eyes. She was wearing a lacy bit of nothing much, that left just enough to the imagination to make it interesting. The teddy was a semi-transparent black and left her shoulders and arms bare. Her black stockings were held up by frilly suspenders and she balanced comfortably on a pair of heels that must have been 5 inches tall. Her blonde hair was up, and displayed her long slender neck to its best advantage. Her lips were a shade of dark pink that matched her long fingernails and her heavily lidded eyes offered what I hoped was a promise.

She smiled at my expression of awe. “You like?”

I nodded, dumbly, then managed “I like, err what’s for dinner?” My throat was as dry as a rusty chain - perhaps that’s what made me squeak.

She smiled again. “How about … me?”

* * *

We surfaced several hours later having still eaten nothing but the fruits of love. We lay on her huge bed, wearing rather less than when we started. Sue’s head was resting on my chest and she was licking my left nipple in a way that was likely to get things started all over again when a thought struck me.

“Sue, it’s the Boxing Day ten tomorrow.”

She frowned. “Huh? So what?”

“Well, there’s a fancy dress section and I have a tandem we could ride. That’s if you can think of a couple of costumes.” She giggled.

* * *

I don’t know what my club mates thought when a very glamorous Fairy Queen piloted a tandem stoked by one of Santa’s glamorous pixies put up a very creditable twenty five minute ride, but I particularly enjoyed the second (and third) glances I got from my mate Gordon.

Christmas would never be the same again.

‘Du bist die Ruh, du bist der Frieden,
Du bist von Himmel mir beschieden.
…

Sarah’s contralto soared above the piano accompaniment and my heart soared with it. How could it not? Her voice was the most beautiful I’d ever heard and it was matched only by her physical beauty. I adored her; my only aim in life was to possess her completely to shower her with my love and all I owned, however little that may be.

My rest and peace I find in thee,
From heaven you were sent to me,

Ruckart’s words, born on Robert Schumann’s music, pierced my very being and tears trickled unbidden down my cheeks. All too soon …

‘Du hebst mich liebend über mich,
Mein guter Geist, mein beßres Ich!’

Lovingly you raise me high,
My spirit soars to a better I.

The closing words hung in the air as the accompanist quietly played the closing bars and Sarah, eyes closed, stood silently in the curve of the Bechstein on the stage of the Wigmore Hall. Total silence for a few seconds before the audience rose as one to applaud the new star of the lieder performance. Her incredible vocal range made her either the new English Elizabeth Schwarzkopf or even Kathleen Ferrier brought miraculously back to life. Widmung was the final song in a programme that had included both Schumann and Schubert as well as the aria ‘What is life to be without thee?’ from Gluck’s Orfeo made famous by Ferrier herself all those years before. I knew that she had dedicated Widmung to me because we were bound by an invisible thread. Even though we had never met in person she must have realised the flowers and cards she received daily had been sent by me. How could she not?

Sarah Bowler acknowledged the ecstatic applause graciously with down cast eyes and a shy smile. Strands of her blonde hair had escaped the confines of the combs that held it clear of her face and part hid her sweet face. I couldn’t take my eyes from her as I clapped more vigorously than any of my neighbours. They had merely enjoyed the performance but I, I had absorbed her very essence into my soul. I knew with certainty that once she became aware of my devotion she'd fall into my arms and sing only for me – only to me.

The accompanist stood beside her as she turned to hold his hand and kiss him gently on the cheek in thanks. She owed everything to Steven Gale it was said. He was the one who had discovered her latent talent only months before and it was he who had introduced her to eager audiences always looking for the latest, beautiful young musician to laud and admire. It was Gale who managed her; it was Gale who taught her; it was Gale who always accompanied her; it was Gale I hated. He was the barrier to our everlasting happiness and he was the one whom I planned to kill if necessary. There was no other way. Sarah’s future happiness depended on it.

The changing of the clocks a couple of weeks earlier seemed to have brought real Autumn weather in its wake. Even after this lunch-time concert the weak November sun struggled to have any effect on the cool, damp, misty afternoon. I was glad of my long dark woollen overcoat as I dawdled opposite the main doors, leaning against the barrier above the grey river, my breath adding to the mist ... waiting.

After half an hour my wait was rewarded and two figures arm in arm emerged from the hall. One, tall, gaunt and , like me, wearing a long dark overcoat, the other, smaller, slim rather than gaunt, a scarf covering fair hair, kept warm with an ankle length fake fur coat, high heeled knee length boots bringing her head almost to his shoulder.

Gale’s dark beard and swarthy complexion all but hid his features but he was clearly in deep conversation with his companion for she kept nodding or shaking her head in agreement whilst alternately staring into his all but invisible eyes or at the ground immediately in front of her pointed toes. Sarah appeared to be almost in a trance; it was as if, without the support of Gale’s arm, she would fall to her knees.

Eventually, after a final intense and somewhat one-sided exchange, Gale turned abruptly and headed briskly away in the direction of Westminster Bridge. My love watched him go for a moment before turning and glancing in my direction. I’m sure she felt my love, even through the intervening 30 metres but she was so overwhelmed and unable to trust her intense feeling towards me she quickly hurried away in the opposite direction from Gale.

I knew she would want me to follow so that we could explore our mutual love in a more private place and did so at a discreet distance. I was taken by surprise when she turned abruptly into the vast Bankside building that housed the Tate Modern art gallery. Surely she would have crossed the footbridge into the City and into a quiet wine bar where I would have joined her to discuss our future life together but perhaps she had a deeper purpose.

She knew exactly where to go and hurried past the entrance towards the Turbine Hall, that huge space which had once housed the mighty steam turbines which drove the alternators when the building had been a power station. She stopped on the balcony above the hall and stared at the current exhibition. The huge red disc opposite glowed brightly through the artificial mist. Of course what appeared to be a disc was, in fact, merely a semicircle, its reflection in the mirrored ceiling giving the illusion of a circular red sun on such a day as the reality outside. Even the drifting mist, hanging low over visitors lying supine on the floor enjoying their reflections and becoming part of the installation, was an eerie echo of cold, damp London just outside. Yet somehow Olafur Eliasson’s installation became more significant, the more it reflected the real weather.

I had never seen this exhibition before but it was clearly not Sarah’s first visit. The huge red disc totally absorbed my attention. The sounds of people became lost and confused in the echo of the vast open space. It was truly another world … and we, my love and I were sharing it. At last I knew why she had led me here. This was the place where we were to become one. On an impulse, I rushed towards her calling her name.

Inexplicably, she recoiled as I approached. Had she underestimated my passion? I moved towards her, my arms outstretched to embrace her, my lips ready to whisper my love into her ear. Again she stepped back. Her eyes were wide and her mouth opened to scream as she toppled backwards over the barrier head first onto the hard concrete floor 10 metres below.

There were only a dozen or so other people on the balcony and we all rushed to the place from which she’d fallen. She lay on her back, eyes closed, a red stain surrounding and within her beautiful hair. Her fur coat flung wide open revealing the long black dress she’d worn for her Wigmore debut. No-one noticed me – not even Sarah, who’d never notice anyone again. For the second time that afternoon tears ran down my cheeks.

Suddenly the crowd surrounding my love was violently pushed away as a huge bearded figure forced his way to her side. How Gale had heard so quickly of the accident was a mystery to me but there he was, gently caressing her face with the long slender fingers which contrasted sharply with his bulk. All I could see was his long dark hair as he bent over Sarah. Then, he turned sharply and looked upwards straight into my eyes. Where before his eyes had seemed almost hidden by dark bushy brows now they stood out, intense with hatred as he seemed to penetrate my very soul with his will. I was unable to move until he withdrew his gaze and turned his attention once more to the fallen girl.

In a daze, I walked away as emergency ambulance staff ran down the steps into the hall. The ambulance, its blue flashing lamp making another, but unwelcome, installation in this museum of the unexpected, still at the entrance already gathering a small crowd of the curious.

********************

For the rest of the afternoon I wandered aimlessly around London, seeing nothing and almost getting knocked down by swearing cabbies on several occasions. I eventually fetched up in a Starbucks near Leicester Square with an Evening Standard I’d bought after seeing ‘Singing Star Unconscious after Tate fall’ on a bill board. So she wasn’t dead after all.

‘New opera singing sensation, Sarah Bowler, is in Charing Cross hospital after falling inexplicably from the balcony above the Turbine Hall in Tate Modern this afternoon. She had only an hour before given her debut Wigmore hall song recital to huge critical acclaim. Her companion and manager, Steven Gale, said she had a great future in the classical music world and he had every hope that she would recover completely and achieve her full potential in both opera and the more intense field of lieder.’

There was more but it told me all I needed to know. Sarah was going to be all right. I needed to see her for myself. I checked the time. Six o’ clock so visiting time was probably still OK but I needed first to find out just where in that huge hospital she was being kept and, second, to get in to see her without raising suspicions.

*****************

The taxi dropped me right outside the hospital entrance and I joined what appeared to be a gradual influx of what I assumed to be other visitors. It looked as though my timing was perfect. All I needed to do was find out which ward Sarah occupied. I searched the list of different wards and decided that women’s medical looked the most promising and began to follow the signs. I often wonder how the staff in big hospitals ever manage to find their way to work. Every corridor, every lift, every flight of stairs seemed identical but eventually I found what I thought could well be the right place. Fortunately Sarah wasn’t, yet, a major star or there would have been newsmen and paps all over the place. As it was there was just one bored man with a camera and tape recorder sitting half asleep in a small waiting area near the ward entrance. He looked up as I sat near him.

“You ‘ere for that singer woman who fell on her bonse at the Tate?” he asked.

“Yeah. Seen her yet?”

“Nah, not a chance, mate. That bloody great minder of ‘ers is keeping everyone out. ‘im and the ward sister. She’s a tartar and no mistake. Keep clear of ‘er or she’ll ‘ave yer guts for garters. I tried to get a quick shot and she damn near chucked a bedpan of piss all over me. Who you wiv?”

I thought for a moment. He was probably either the Standard or one of the red tops. So I made a quick choice.

“Opera World” I said “Sarah Bowler’s a real up and coming star. It’ll be big news if she’s not able to sing any more. You?”

My temporary colleague nodded “Yeah, I ‘eard she was. Not my fing really. I’m more your Amy Winehouse myself. Quite fancy Maddona an’ all. I reckon she’s a bit of a goer if you know what I mean.” He grinned lewdly. With his less than stunning personality I reckoned he was onto a loser. “Me? I’m freelance. Sun mostly though.”

The ward door burst open and I was face to face with Steven Gale. Even standing I had to crane my neck; sitting, it was as if I was on my knees. Once more I felt the effect of his intense, dark gaze; it was as though my heart stopped beating for a moment and I became dizzy from lack of oxygen to the brain.

“Come with me.” He said “At once” His voice was quiet and, whilst calm, was overlain with hidden menace. I tried, unsuccessfully to place the accent. Not an English one, of that I was sure.

The reporter watched enviously as I followed Gale through the doors into the ward and then into a side ward. Sarah lay pale-faced her eyes wide open and unblinking with tubes and monitors connected in profusion, propped in a semi sitting position. Her pale hair, stringy with sweat, was scattered in profusion over the pillow. A broad white bandage, stained red, crossed her brow.

Gale stared at me. His thick dark brows knitted in a frown. I found it impossible to look away much as I dearly wanted to.

“Her brain is permanently damaged, She’ll never sing again.”

I tried, unsuccessfully to avoid his gaze. “Well, you never know. It’s amazing what they can do nowadays.”

“I said ‘Her brain is permanently damaged’. When I said that, it was a statement of fact not a feeble unqualified opinion. Her brain is damaged and you damaged it.”

His voice didn’t change for that last sentence but I felt a deep unease as he said it. I felt he could read my mind. More, I felt he could control my mind. I had never felt so helpless in my life. Never the less, I tried.

“How can you possibly say that? I was nowhere near her when she fell. How can it be my fault?”

“We both felt your malevolence. It was coming in waves from your confused and evil psyche. I know these things. I have lived for many years. More than you could possibly imagine. Sarah was my creation. Her voice was mine to command and you have taken it away. Her voice would have charmed millions – billions, even. She is irreplaceable … except.” And here he paused, never taking his eyes from mine but allowing them to become distant for a moment. He continued “ Except if I can recreate her image. She was more than anyone before. Greater even than my beloved Trilby because Sarah could sing a little before I taught her how to use her voice properly. Poor Trilby was tone deaf and was ridiculed when I became temporarily unable to help her.”

He smiled without showing his teeth. It was tight smile. “Do you know who I am?” he said. “Have you heard the story of Trilby and her … Svengali? My dark looks and my name became an embarrassment to me. Despite my powers, I can’t control everyone and so I became Sven, Steven, Gale. You see?”

“But … but that’s just a story with no basis in truth. What you claim is nonsense. In any case it all happened so long ago - a hundred and more years ago – you can’t possibly be the same person.” I protested but in my heart I knew he was real. I could feel his power even as I denied its effect. I could feel his power but I had no idea of its extent.

Gale continued. I swear he never blinked; his eyes remained open all the time and a strange dark light flowed from them and into my very soul.

“Today is a very special day. It is fortunate you chose to attack Sarah today …”

I protested. “I didn’t attack her. I love her and I know she loves me. We are soul mates …”

“Silence, fool!” for the first time Gale raised his voice. “Your stupid fantasies have done enough damage. However, it is true that you are soul mates. They shall be as one on this special day. This day of the dead. This ‘All Souls Day’ when souls have only an ethereal connection with their fleshly bodies and anything is possible for those who are able to command the necessary powers. Those like … Svengali.”

I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry. I tried to move, to run, but I was frozen in place. It was all could do to breathe and that only in short quick, shallow heaves of my chest. The light in the room dimmed and the sounds of the busy hospital faded to nothing. All I could see was Gale’s, Svengali’s, eyes and the light from them illuminated only the bed and its frail, beautiful occupant.

“Get onto the bed. Lie next to your ‘love’.” His eyes followed me as I complied. I had no option. What had been my greatest dream became a nightmare. Sarah never stirred as I place my head next to hers. The light from his eyes grew in intensity and it was as if the rest of the world stood still. There was nothing except his eyes and I slept.

**************

“Wake up, dear, you’ve got a visitor. Isn’t that nice?”

I felt a gentle shaking on my arm and I opened my eyes to see the kindly face of a nurse smiling at me.

“You may be our star patient, but you can’t sleep all day.” She had a comforting mature face – almost motherly but a no nonsense from you my girl sort of motherly.

I looked round the flower bedecked room. A low Autumn sun streamed through the window putting the blooms on the far side in glorious colour. It was obviously a hospital ward but there was no sign of life support equipment, no drips nor any monitors. It was a room for convalescing not for treatment. Where was I? I remembered Gale or Svengali or whatever he called himself. I remembered seeing Sarah unconscious on the bed. I remembered the eyes – Oh how I remembered the eyes but after that … nothing.

The nurse fussed round plumping pillows and adjusting the bed to help me sit up. “Now lets make you look nice for your visitor. We can’t have him seeing his favourite girl looking untidy can we?” She picked up a brush and began to draw it through my hair. Each stroke took much longer than it should. I’d always kept my hair short and neat. I visited the barber regularly every other Thursday evening at six sharp. I had an appointment. My hair was never long. It was never blonde either and I could see it as the brush ended each stroke … long blonde hair.

I needed to know. “What time is it?” My voice! Not gruff and deep but sweet and musical. Needed to know more. “What day is it?”

The nurse put down the hairbrush and stood, hands on hips, smiling a resigned sort of smile. “You ask me that every day. You must know I always wake you at half past eight. Every morning, half past eight on the dot. And, as it was Wednesday yesterday it’s Thursday the eleventh of December today. Just two weeks it’ll be Christmas. What ever shall we do with you? We can’t have you forgetting what day it is, can we? Not after making such a wonderful recovery.”

Then I remembered Sarah falling. Falling through the mist, in the light of the big red sun onto the hard floor. But it was Sarah who fell not me. I loved Sarah and I’m sure she would grow to love me too.

“I think her recovery will be very quick now, nurse. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with her progress tomorrow. We want you to be home for Christmas, don’t we my sweet?”

A tall figure stood by the door. A tall, dark figure, burly with delicate hands. His hawk-like face handsome with piercing eyes beneath bushy black brows and a thin aristocratic nose, prominent above a tidy black moustache and long beard. His white teeth stood out sharply against the contrasting blackness.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” The nurse gave the bed a final tidying stroke and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

“What have you done to me?” Even though he still terrified me, I had to know.

“You and Sarah are soul mates now, just as you always wanted. She sleeps within you only to wake when I call her. She lost control of her body when she hit her head on that hard floor but her essence lingers on. For her, music was all she craved. All she lived for. She only came alive when she sang. Physically, sexually, she was dead but you my dear were passionate. Your only thought was to possess Sarah, to possess her body and now you do … for ever.

“I too desired Sarah’s body, just as you did. Now with a passionate soul within it I can. My power was useless against her indifference but I think it will prevail with you, my dear.”

I felt helpless as he took my now delicate hand and kissed me full on the lips. I should have been revolted but I was not. Gale’s magnetic personality overcame my distaste and I felt a stirring in my body. I was reacting to Gale, to Steven but Sarah, deep within me stirred too and I heard her sing. I heard her sing Schumann again. But this time it wasn’t Widmung, (Dedication), it was a song cycle - ‘Frauenliebe und Leben’ (A Woman’s Life and Love) and I knew I was trapped for ever in a cycle of music with my beloved Sarah and a cycle of life with my tormentor.

The End

We all know what TV means don't we?

TV Trouble

Robyn Hoode

She’s volatile and a trouble maker. At least that’s what George had told me at the shop that morning. I’d been to the house before, but only to deliver the set and she’d been a bit fussy then. She’d put newspaper on the floor all the way to the table where she wanted it installed and had stood by with a duster in her hand as I’d shown her how to switch it on and demonstrated how to get the different programmes. Only two in those far off days — BBC or ITV and no colour, of course; that came much later.

She was obsessed with dust, or the fight against it. There'd been a coal fire laid in the grate unlit. I was sure each piece of coal was individually selected, washed and dusted before being laid over a dozen identical sticks of firewood and neatly rolled sheets of … I looked, and sure enough, it was the Daily Mail. With the window tightly shut and despite the busy main road just the other side of the tiny front garden, the room had been eerily quiet and smelt of musty airlessness and lavender.

I pulled up outside, picked up my tools and the case of spare valves I always carried and knocked on Mrs Williams door. It was opened almost immediately by a small, bird-like woman of indeterminate age, wisps of grey hair poked out from a head scarf wound as a turban, and she wore a floral pinafore tightly wrapped round her thin, shapeless body. But the most striking feature was her eyes. They were a cold bright blue and seemed to penetrate right into my brain. I felt she knew what I was thinking, whilst fervently hoping she didn’t.

“Oh, it’s you is it? You’d better come in. Don’t forget to wipe your feet. I don’t want dirty footprints on my clean floor.” She stood aside as I stepped over the threshold, first onto the bristly door mat, and then onto the first page of the previous day’s Evening Post. “It’s not been right since you left it.” Two months ago, I thought. “That Richard Dimbleby looks fat, and he says he can’t tell the colour of the balls when he’s watching snooker.” 'He' wouldn’t, I thought, it’s black and white, and Dimbleby really is fat.

The line of newspaper pages led into the front room, still smelling of musty lavender, with the TV on its flimsy table. She’d followed me in and stared suspiciously as I set down my tool box and the case on yet more newspaper.

“It’s the picture valve.” She said. “Mrs Andrew's son told me, and he ought to know; he’s an electrician down the pit.” I grunted and wondered why Mrs Andrew’s son hadn’t mended it then. “The sound's all right. Well as right as it ever is. I can hardly tell what they’re saying sometimes. It’s those American programmes. English televisions don’t play them very well.”

I waited for the set to warm up and wondered if she’d noticed I hadn’t said a word. I was still having problems with my voice. The sound came on slowly, reaching a deafening volume before I turned it down. The old biddy or 'he' must be deaf as a post. There was no raster. The screen remained obstinately dark. Well perhaps the pit electrician was right. I looked at all the glass ornaments displayed on the top of the shiny, waxed wooden cabinet and spoke for the first time.

“I’ll have to take the back off. Do you think you could clear the ornaments? I don’t want to break any.” Much, I added under my breath. George always called them trinklements and hated them as much as I did.

As she cleared her glass menagerie I opened my case and selected a 30P4 valve. With a bit of luck I’d be out of there in fifteen minutes. I quickly removed the back, just four screws, and identified the culprit. A quick swap and I switched on again and watched amused as she was torn between dusting the innards of her TV and staring at the screen. With relief I saw the screen brighten and the test card displayed. It was too early for programmes — job done.

It was as I was finally replacing the back that it happened. As I stood up, the skirt of my overall coat swung out and swept a whole family of china Disney characters onto the hard lino covered floor. She went berserk. I’d heard the expression verbal diarrhoea, but she was totally incontinent, and then she leapt at me. I think she was only going to grab my sleeve, but I’ve always had a short fuse and that set me off. I like to keep my nails longish and I’d given myself a manicure the previous evening. The bright red varnish meant the blood didn’t show where I’d run my nails deeply into her arm. I picked up my things and ran for the door.

“You’ve not heard the last of this.” I shouted above the sharp sound of my high heels as I ran for my van. “That’s assault, that is and I’ll not stand for it. You want trouble, well you’ve come to the right woman to get it.” I jumped into the pink van with legend ‘LadyLike TV and Electrical Repairs’ (We were very proud of our company name) and sped down the road. I wondered what Georgina would say when I got back.