Oakham

My mother knew the arrangements. I'd be back in Basington on Saturday Evening, staying at my girlfriends house on Saturday night, going to an exhibition opening on Sunday morning, spending the day with Kelly and heading over to Oakham on Sunday evening to spend a couple of weeks with my mother... everything was going fine until about 1.00pm. Kelly and I were just leaving the exhibition and looking forward to a pub lunch... then Mum called.

I couldn't reply. Mum got out of the car and approached us. "I'm sorry Kelly but I need to take him home. Now!" my mother said.

"But Mum... I need to go and change... all my stuff's at Kelly's." I pleaded.

"There's no time." Mum barked. "Get in the car, now!" she said, opening the front passenger door. "You'll have to make your own way home Kelly." she said.

"But Mum!" I exclaimed. "I can't go home like this!" I claimed.

"Well you'll have to... there's no time."

"What's the big emergency anyway?" I asked as I put myself in the car. Mum said she'd explain on the way and slammed the door shut. I was speechless as she started the engine. I gestured to Kelly through the window, as if to say 'I don't know what's happening'. Kelly gestured a similar message back, then Mum drove off leaving her alone. "What's going on Mum?" I asked.

"Your grandmother's been taken ill and I need to you mind Billy." she replied.

"Can't one of the neighbours mind him?"

"Mrs Dixon's got him at the moment but she can't watch him all afternoon."

"You could have let me swing by Kelly's to get changed first."

"There isn't time Steven." my mother replied. "Care to explain whey you're dressed like that?" she snapped.

I clammed up.

"Don't tell me... you spilt coffee on your trousers and the only thing that Kelly had in your size was a little blue mini dress." Mum sarcastically suggested. "I presume it's hers." she added.

I sighed. "Actually Mum it's mine." I confessed.

"Shoes and handbag too?" she asked.

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I like them." I replied.

"But you're a boy... a young man even!" she snapped.

"And old enough the wear what I like."

"Old enough to know better!" she said. A short silence ensued until we stopped at a junction. "I wish I'd put you on the back seat... those legs are distracting me." she said, looking me up and down again. "And you could have worn a bra." she sighed.

"Why? I'm a guy. I've nothing to put in one." I said. "I know how it looks Mum but I'm not trying to pass myself off as a woman."

"So you're parading around dressed like that calling yourself Steven?!"

"Pretty much." I told her. "People are cool about it in Brighton... no one bats an eyelid."

"Well you're not in Brighton now young man!" my mother snapped as the lights changed. "What will the neighbours think?"

"They can think what they like." I said. "I am what I am and I like who I am."

"Well I certainly hope so." she said as we neared our village. Oakham is a small village with one church, one school, three pubs and around five-thousand inhabitants. I grew up on the outskirts of the village, and as we neared my family home, Mum asked if I had my keys in my handbag. "Yes." I said, opening it to double check. "Where are you going?" I asked when she drove right past our turning.

"To get Billy." she bluntly replied.

Mrs Dixon lives on the other side of the village, about as far away as one can be from where my mother lives. She drives slowly down the narrow lane, lined with large exclusive homes on either side, right to the end where Mrs Dixon lives. She left me in the car whilst she went inside. She didn't knock. She just barged straight in and thirty seconds later she's returning with Billy. "Out of the car." she said.

I took a deep breath and opened the passenger door, presuming she wanted me in the back with Billy to stop him yapping. I checked that Mrs Dixon wasn't on the doorstep before actually getting out. Mum handed me Billy's lead, shut the passenger door and got in the car. "Can you let me in." I said as she slammed her door shut. "The back door's locked." I said, tugging at the handle as she started the engine. "Mum!" I said. "Mum!!" I gasped as she began to drive away.

I was speechless as I watched her leave me behind. I looked down at Billy who sat obediently looking up at me. I looked down at myself and cringed. Billy just stared at me, expectantly wagging his tail. I patted his head. "Nice to see you boy." I said. "Come on.” I said as I led him along the lane, my heels clacking loudly on the tarmac.

The dog didn't bat an eyelid at my attire but a dog wouldn't. It was a glorious Sunday in an idyllic little village. It seemed that everyone was out today; either tending the garden, mowing the lawn, walking a dog like me or watching the kids play on the street. In my tiny blue frock and noisy heels, I stood out like a sore thumb and to make things worse, I'd left my shawl in the car so I couldn't even cover my shoulders. Plus, the village may be small but it's a long walk from the bottom end of Pardown Lane to Turnpike Way and every possible route leads me down residential streets. People look and stare but I keep my eyes forward and just walk. There's a very different vibe here than there is in Brighton. I can feel the bemused startled stares as much as I can the sun on my shoulders. The walk of shame takes little over thirty minutes and finally I'm nearing my home. I root my keys from my handbag as I near my family home and aim to make a quick entry... but just as I'm unlocking the door, our nosy neighbour Colin accosts me. "Can I help you miss?!"

I turn to face the stern little man. "No." I say.

"What are you doing... you don't live there." he says.

"It's me... Steven." I confess as his eyes grow to the size of saucers. "...and it's really not a good time."

"But..." he gasped, looking me up and down.

I turned and entered my home, shutting the door behind me. Colin loitered for a couple seconds before shuffling off, no doubt to inform his wife who in turn will telephone the rest of the village. I sighed the deepest sigh before removing Billy's collar and lead. I tottered to the kitchen, put the kettle on and rooted my phone from my handbag. There's three texts from my girlfriend. I call her. "Hi Kelly... Stevie... sorry bout that..."

"What's happened?"

"Gran's been taken sick and Mum needed me to look after the bloody dog whilst she goes to visit gran." I blurted. "And on top of that.. she's just made me walk the dog all the way across the village dressed like a slut on a Sunday!"

"You're not dressed like a slut Stevie." she insisted.

"In Oakham anyone who wears their skirt above their knee is a slut." I said. "The sooner I get changed out of this dress the better!"

"But your bags are here."

"I know... i'll come and get them later... if Mum'll give me a lift." I said. "I've got stuff here." I added.

"OK... you get changed and we'll speak later." she said. "What's up with your gran anyway?"

"Dunno... I'll call Mum in a bit."

Kelly hung up, I made myself a coffee, kicked off my heels and headed to my old bedroom in my stocking feet. "What the..." I gasped to find a home office where my room used to be. "Where's all my stuff?" I thought. I checked the cupboards and cubby holes but couldn't find anything. "Shit." I sighed.

I sauntered back to lounge, slurping my hot coffee. Billy curled himself up on the rug as if everything was normal. I sat myself down and sighed. I stretched out my legs and wiggled my toes; painted a metallic blue to match my dress. My fingernails are the same. I began to feel relaxed after the ordeal of having to walk the entire length of my village like this. I sipped my coffee which for instant coffee, tasted quite good. Maybe it's just because I really need the caffeine. Mum's gonna go ballistic when she returns, I think, before wondering what's wrong with my grandmother and hoping she's OK. Then i worry about my mother again. "You don't mind do you Billy?" I say, smiling at our loyal beagle. Billy glances at me, then back to the window. I think nothing at first, then I wonder what he's looking at. "Jesus Christ!" I yelp, splashing my coffee as I notice Colin and his wife stood staring at me through the window. I quickly shut the curtains and waited for the knock, but it didn't come. I was a bag of nerves as they walked away; Colin smugly saying I told you so and his wife wittering some judgemental crap.

I wasn't actually planning on showing my femme side to the village. Apart from this dress, everything else I'd brought were normal male clothes but they're in Kelly's flat and god knows what Mum's done with the few things I'd left here. I know what I am an like who I am... but it's easy to say that when you live somewhere cosmopolitan like Brighton. Oakham is a different world. It's not ready for someone like me, and frankly, I'm not ready for Oakham.

Confident that Colin and his wife won't return (not until Mum does anyway), I open the curtains and quickly step back from the window. I've been playing on this quiet cul-de-sac since I was a kid and I honestly can't believe that I've just walked along it dressed like this. Of all the things I'd wear in a village like Oakham, this little blue party dress really isn't one of them. I decide to find where my mother has put my things and begin rooting through the cupboards and cubby holes. I visualise my wardrobe back in my flat in Brighton and wonder what I could have worn instead. I knew this dress was more suited to disco than an art exhibition but I figured there'd be loads of flamboyant 'arty' types and I really wanted Kelly to see it. She'd texted me a picture of it in a shop window a few weeks ago, saying that she'd love to see me in something like it, which is why I bought it... but I digress. I don't normally dress like this. Who does? I could have so easily been wearing a chiffon blouse with jeans and heels, or my black Adidas joggers with my cute lilac Adidas trainers, or my brown cord button down skirt and a casual top with flat black ballet shoes. I could have even dressed as a guy (which I do half the time) and none of this would have happened. I continue rummaging as my mind meanders through all sorts of strange alternatives. The walk could have been worse. At least Billy didn't do a whoopsie! I've no poo bags and can just imagine being told to clean it up. Everyone seemed to be out in the sunshine today. I guess I'm lucky no one called my name, but I guess no one saw me as Steven... even Colin called me 'miss'.

After checking through a number of bags and boxes in the various cupboards and cubby holes, there's still no sign of any of my stuff. “I hope she's not sent it to charity.” I mutter to myself. “Or it could be up there.” I mused, looking at the hatch into the loft, before wondering if it's in the garage. I look down at myself. There's no way I’m going to climb into the loft like this, and I don't fancy trotting over to the garage either and rooting through whatever's in there... I'll only ladder my tights and they’re expensive ones from Debenhams. As much as I love my new dress, it's really not appropriate so I reluctantly root through my mum's wardrobe. I used to do this when I was kid but it was fruitless because everything was too big... plus, Mum's one of those women who prefers Edinburgh Woollen Mill to anywhere vaguely trendy so she had few things that I actually wanted to wear. It's all beige and brown and plaid and totally uninspiring, I think as I slide the hangers from right to left and baulk at a salmon pink twin-set. A tweed shift dress catches my eye. It's plain but in that geeky plain Jane style. I removed the hanger and held it against me, turning toward the mirror and considered wearing it and going to the library or something (in Brighton of course, not here. Oakham doesn't even have a library). Combined with say, brown woolly tights and high boots the tweed dress could be nice in winter, I imagine. I put it back and shuffle the hangers, pausing again at a beige summery dress with yellow flowers and a button down front. “That's nice.” I say to no one but myself as I remove it, hold it against myself and swing toward the mirror. The long walk from Mrs Dixon's house wouldn't have been so bad in something like this, I think as I recall every nerve-racking step in my tiny blue dress. Even if I was a girl in a village like this, such skimpy attire on a Sunday is frankly unacceptable. Should I change? I wonder. Would Mum approve of me wearing her things? I observe my reflection for a moment and come to the decision that my little blue dress isn't appropriate and consider wearing the beige one. “Or maybe I should find some trousers.” I figure. Mum certainly won't have any jeans. I toss the dress on her bed and begin rummaging through the rails, shelves and drawers. “You just can't help yourself can you!” my mother's voice makes me jump out of my skin.

“Oh my it is short!” my grandmother said as she appeared behind her.

“You're OK?!” I gasped as I tried to cover as much of my lap as possible, which wasn't much to be honest.

“It was just a bit of trapped wind.” my mother sternly stated. “Planning on wearing that was you?” she said, looking at her dress.

“Erm... this one's a bit short.” I said. “Especially for a Sunday.” I added, hoping to lighten the mood. Mum just glared at me. My grandmother peered over her shoulder bearing a very wry smile. “Where's all my stuff?” I asked. “I was going to find some jeans or something but...”

“It went when I converted your bedroom into an office.” she said. “There's a few bits in the loft but... all your clothes went to charity I'm afraid.”

“I figured as much. I looked everywhere.” I replied. My mother picked up her dress and returned it to the wardrobe. “I guess I'm not wearing that then” I thought as she shut the doors.

“Out.” she said, pointing to the door. I hung my head and scurried past my grandmother. In the hallway I paused, wondering whether to go right into the lounge or left into the kitchen. “Kitchen!” Mum barked. I went and they followed. “Are those your shoes?”

I gulped and nodded. She told me to put them on. “I've got my bag of clothes at Kelly's...” I said as I slide my feet into my shoes. “...er... boy's clothes.” I added. “Can we drive over and get it?” I asked. “Please?” I gulped.

“Your grandmother needs some Rennie's.” Mum said. “Can you pop to the shop and get some... please?”

“You know I can't... not like this.” I said.

“I presume you walked all the way from Mrs Dixon's like that?”

“Yeah... and everybody saw me!”

“So you've nothing to worry about.” Mum said. “Now, can you go to the shop and get your grandmother some Rennies?” she smugly asked.

“You're seriously not going to make me go to the shop like this are you Mum?” I asked. “On a Sunday?”

“If you want me to be your personal taxi driver Steven, then yes... I am.” my mother replied.

“Why didn't you get some on the way?” I asked.

“Because my mind was distracted after I found my son dressed like a slut on a Sunday, whilst I’m in a panic thinking my mother's having a heart attack!”

“Sorry.” I sighed. “Gran's fine... aren't you.” I said, throwing a pursed smile at my grandmother.

“It was only heartburn.” she said in her elderly croaky voice. “But I would like some Rennie's.” she added.

“Can't you drive Mum?” I asked.

“I'm not driving you to the shop Steven.” my mother said.

“I was thinking that you could drive there yourself.” I cautiously suggested.

“I've already driven to Basington and back and to your grandmother's and back.” she reminded me. “It'll only take you ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes there and ten minutes back.” I retorted.

“And it's a lovely day.” Mum replied, pretending everything was normal. “You'll get some sun on your back.” she smugly added. “And you might want to top up your lipstick as well.”

“This isn't funny Mum.” I whined. “I can't go to the shop like this.”

“You went to an exhibition like that... and no doubt you were out in Basington with Kelly last night too dressed like that... popping to the village shop shouldn't be anything to worry about.”

“Kelly and I stayed in last night.” I said. “...and the village shop isn't exactly Brighton. I can wear what I like there... Oakham's a completely different ball park!”

“It's just place full of people... just like Brighton.” Mum said. “Now... if you want me to get your bag from Kelly's, you'll go to the shop and get your grandmother some Rennie's.”

I gulped. She really wasn't kidding. “Can I please change into something else?” I asked.

“What, like my Laura Ashley dress?”

“Or some pants.” I said. “That's what I was looking for when you got back.”

“You were in my knicker drawer!” she bellowed.

“I wasn't!” I insisted. I might have briefly opened it but.

“If you were looking for some pants then why was my dress laid out?”

“Well... I considered it.” I confessed. “At least it's a Sunday sort of dress.” I said. “Unlike this.”

“It's very short.” my grandmother said. She's a bit batty.

“Exactly.” I said.

“Well I’m not sure I'm happy about my son wearing my clothes.” my mother said. “And looking at you now I can only assume that you have done in the past.” she added. I gulped.

Please let me wear some pants, I silently pleaded. “You know that I can't go like this don't you gran?” I said.

“You do look very nice dear... but it is very short.” my grandmother replied. “But they wear them short these days don't they.” she said.

“Apparently they do.” my mother dryly agreed. “Do you want me to get your bag from Kelly's?” she asked. “Or maybe you'd rather make your own way there... if you don't fancy going to the shop.”

“I can't believe you're doing this Mum.” I said as I trotted across the kitchen and grabbed my handbag.

“We could do with some milk too.” my mother smugly added.

“Can I at least get my shawl from the car?” I asked.

“No.” my mother replied. I swallowed my pride and walked out the door. A hoard of butterflies erupted in my tummy as yet again, I find myself walking down the street on which I grew up wearing the most inappropriate attire. I cut down the alley and over the railway bridge and removed my phone from my handbag. “You'll never guess what my mother's making me do!” I said when Kelly answered. First I told her that I couldn't find any of my stuff and my bedroom is now a home office. Then I told her the my grandmother just had indigestion and Mum had brought her back home. “...and she's making me walk to the village shop to get some Rennie's for Gran!” I said.

“And?” Kelly asked.

“And I'm still wearing my little blue dress!” I stated. “Honestly Kelly... on a Sunday of all days, this would be totally inappropriate of I was a girl, let alone a guy!”

“Shit Stevie... why didn't she just drive you?” Kelly quizzed.

“Or drive herself?” I retorted. “I know what she's doing... she's trying to shame me. She just drove off when we collected the dog and now she'd making me walk to the shop in return for a lift over to yours to get my bag.”

“Oh shucks... that really sucks.” Kelly said in an empathetic voice. “All I can advise is... just pretend you're in Brighton.”

“Yeah... god I wish I was wearing something normal. You've no idea how out of place I look, dressed like this in Oakham of all places!” I said, chuckling nervously.

“I can imagine actually.” she replied. “You should have borrowed a bra when you had the chance.” she said.

When we were getting ready this morning, Kelly wanted me to wear a bra with a bit of stuffing in the cups. She prefers me that way when I’m dressed up. I think she likes pretending we're lesbians. But I prefer going flat because I'm not trying to be a woman, I just like their clothes. Wearing false boobs isn't really my thing... I'm just a girlie guy. “Well if I did they'd realise I'm not some chick dressed like Saturday Night Fever as soon as I asked for some Rennie's.” I sarcastically said.

“True.” Kelly giggled. “So you coming over later?” she asked.

“Yeah.” I said. “I hope so anyway... Mum's got me over a bit of a barrel here. I think she's enjoying my humiliation.”

“Just be confident.” she said. “You've nothing to be ashamed of. You're gorgeous guy who looks great dressed as a girl.”

“Yeah, 'til some Neanderthal tries to hit on me and punches me in the face when he realises I'm not some chick.”

“That won't happen in Oakham.” she said.

“I hope not.” I relied. “Look, I'll call you later before we come over.” I said.

“OK.” Kelly replied. “Mwah.” she added before hanging up.

I drew as many stares on the way to the shop as I did when walking the dog home. I prayed for rain. At least that'd stop people from trimming the hedges and washing their cars and send them back indoors where I'd be less likely to notice their glances. I guess I could pass a girl. There are some very flat chested women and I do have a tiny bit of pectoral fat... but once I speak the game's up. I turned onto a busier road headed toward the heart of the village which consists of a used car garage, a pub, a café, a mini-mart, a butcher and a pharmacist. All are closed but the mini-mart.

I tell myself to be confident as I walk through the doors. I count a handful of shoppers inside as I head directly for the milk fridge and grab a big bottle of semi-skimmed. Sometimes the Rennie's are behind the counter in shops this size, but I browse the shelves just in case and happen upon a small hosiery display. I grab a pack of opaque black tights. If my mother's going to make me wear this dress for the next few hours, I at least want something more than the seven denier invisi-tights I'm currently wearing. I soon find the cough sweets, painkillers, sun cream and assorted remedies, but no Rennie's. I approach the counter and ask and get that oh so familiar look... the one that says 'you're a guy'. “I wish I could say I’m doing this for a bet.” I said, sighing at my attire as I put the milk and tights on the counter. “But believe me it's closer to blackmail.” I added. “Please tell me you've got some Rennie's, otherwise I won't get my own clothes back.”

“Teenage pranks eh.” the man behind the counter said. “Someone's certainly done a convincing job on you.” he added.

“Yeah.” I chuckled. “My sister and her mates.” I claimed. He slid open the screen to reach the Rennies and I saw the cigarettes. I gave up eighteen months ago but... “Could I have twenty Regal Kingsize and a lighter too please?” I asked.

“ID?”

I wish I'd thought of that before I decided I need a cigarette to calm my nerves. I nervously opened my handbag, pulled out my purse and removed my college ID card that clearly states both my name and date of birth. The guy checked it before asking if I'd need a bag and scanning the items. “That's nineteen pounds sixty three please.”

I removed my debit card from my purse and waved it over the card machine. The man handed me the bag and receipt. “Thanks.” I said, stuffing my card and receipt into my purse, putting my purse back in my handbag and clipping it shut. “Bye.” I smiled before stepping back into the sunshine.

I grimaced as I walked away. My hints that my sister had dressed me like this and sent me to shop might have been more convincing had I not had my cash card and ID in what was obviously my purse. I kept my head down and walked all the way home again, past the kids playing in the street, the guy polishing his car, the old lady pruning her roses whilst her hubby trims the hedge. The alley back to the cul-de-sac takes me back over the railway bridge. The narrow steel structure clanks loudly under my heels. So much so I wonder if Mum can hear me coming. I doubt the sound could carry that far but as I approach the house, I see Colin and his wife sneering out of their window at me. I cast them a cocky yet scornful smile and continue past.

Mother greets me with a smile that's a combination of triumph and disdain. I rummage into the carrier bag and remove the Rennie's and hand then to my grandmother. “Oh thank you dear.” she says. I put the milk in the fridge.

“Thank you.” my mother chirped. “What else have you got?” she asked, spying the other item through the milky white plastic.

I removed the tights. “If I've got to wear this 'til I get my other clothes from Kelly's I'm at least gonna wear some thicker tights.” I said, taking myself to the bathroom and locking myself in. My head drops into my hands. I can't believe this is happening. I had no intention of coming out to my mother, not today, not tomorrow, not ever. I also can't believe something as trivial as my grandmother getting heartburn has landed me in this situation... or that my mother, instead of going ballistic at me has decided to make me squirm. I look in the mirror and wonder if I should wash my make-up off or top it up. I sit on the toilet seat and remove my shoes, before carefully removing my tights and wrapping them around my hand. They cost £12.99 and I'd be really annoyed if I laddered them on their first outing. I rearrange the contents of my handbag, putting my compact and lippy in one section with my purse, leaving a snag free zone for my tights. I pull on the opaque tights which for a summer's day like today, are on the thick side... but my modesty comes before comfort in this situation. Slip my feet back into my shoes and look down at myself. I look at my face in the mirror once more and sigh.

“Well that's a little better I suppose.” my mother says when I return. “Topped up your make-up as well I see.”

“Well it was either that or wash if off.” I grumbled. “Topping it up seemed quicker.”

“Hmm.” my mother retorted, making me feel like the naughty school boy.

“When can we go to Kelly's?” I asked.

“Later.” my mother replied. “You've got a lot of explaining to do first young man.”

“I still can't believe it's Steven.” my grandmother said. “He used to be so handsome.”

“Who'd have thought he'd make such a convincing whore.” my mother scornfully added.

“Don't say that Mum.” I whined.

“Well what do you expect me to say?” she quizzed. “Hi son, love the dress.. and great legs by the way!” she mimicked.

“Yes.” I thought. “No.” I said. “I dunno...just don't call me a whore.”

The chat... I had a lot of explaining to do... but where to start? I told her a story of my fledgeling intrigue... wondering how the girls coped in their short skirts in the winter, wondering what it must feel like in the howling wind or biting cold. Then come summer when it's too hot for long trousers, I envied their short skirts. Then at the year six prom where we [the boys] all turned up wearing cheap ill-fitting rented tuxedos and looked like a nervous waddle of penguins whilst the girls were a resplendent display of every colour imaginable. They wore long dresses, short dresses, knee length, floaty or fitted with straps or sleeves and even strapless styles. Their hair was up or down, their make-up thick and glamorous. There were plain Jane’s who'd clearly raided their auntie's wardrobe for something 'grown up' with questionable results, I recall... but the point is, the girls wore all sorts of interesting clothes whilst us boys all dressed the same... and I envied the girls. I wasn't surprised when Mum asked if I was gay and she wasn't surprised when I told her I wasn't. “I just like girl's clothes... that's all.” I said.

“You're eighteen Steven. Surely it should be women's clothes?” my mother retorted.

“Well... yeah.”

“You're not one of these trannies who likes to dress like a seven year old are you?”

“No!” I insisted. “I don't really class myself as tranny.” I said. “In so much as I don't try to pass as a woman.” I said. Wearing a bra to me is a bit like blacking up... it's an insult to women, or some of them, maybe... I don't know... it just seems a bit wrong. My mother listened and queried me on certain points, then asked how much time I spend dressed in women's clothes. “In Brighton?” I asked.

Mum rolled her eyes. “Of course in Brighton.” she growled. I told her the truth. “So you must have quite a wardrobe.” she said. I mention charity shops and thrift stores, plus I buy and sell things on Ebay, otherwise I'd run out of space. I began to feel comfortable, telling my mother the truth about how, for example, when Kelly's coming to stay and I'll spend a couple of days deciding what to wear, then a few hours trying everything on and doing my hair and make-up... just to meet her at the station. It's not always dresses, I wear skinny jeans a lot. Little shorts too, with opaque tights is a favourite. “Don't they... erm... reveal a telling bulge?” my mother quizzed.

“Erm... a bit.” I timidly replied. “Like I say I don't try to pass myself of as a female... I just like wearing their clothes.” I reiterated, before confessing to controlling the bulge by wearing control knickers.

“I can't imagine those being very comfortable.”

“They're not... but it's shapewear. It's not supposed to be comfortable.” I dryly said.

“Don't take that tone with me young man!” my mother barked. The confidence I had a moment ago quickly ebbed away to nothing. My mother looks down on me with scorn filled eyes and I feel like a naughty boy again... only one wearing an elegant yet skimpy party dress, black tights and heels! I gulped and frowned and dropped my eyes to my knees. Mum emitted an unusually long sigh, before telling me to make a pot of tea for her and Granny.

I can feel them both glaring at me as I scuttle out of the sitting room. I instinctively do that thing where girls clutch the back of their skirts. I overheard my grandmother commenting on how 'ladylike' I was from the hallway. I didn't hear my mother's response. I filled the kettle and flicked it on. Got the tea pot out and set it, along with some cups on a tray. I poured a small jug with milk and put that on the tray, before grabbing my handbag and popping into the garden for a sly cigarette. Having not been a regular smoker for such a long time, the nicotine rushes straight to my head and calms my nerves. Maybe it's best that this is out in the open, I wonder as I look down at my attire. I chuckle to myself. I’m not exactly wearing the most appropriate 'coming out' dress and as I toke on the cigarette, I imagine what I would have worn had I known that my mother would see me. Something a lot more conservative than this, that's for sure.

I return indoors and warm the teapot before dropping a couple of tea bags into it. My grandmother smiles as I set the tray down on the coffee table. I scoop what little there is of my skirt before I sit; knees and ankles together, with my naiads nervously on my knees, thumbing the soft opaque nylon that clads my legs. “Where's Mum?” I ask after a nervous moment. “Without me!” I yelp when my grandmother informed me she's gone to Kelly's! “Why?!”

“I don't know.” my grandmother shrugged. “Didn't you have a bag there or something?”

“Yes.”

“Well she's probably gone to get that for you.” my grandmother replied. “Are you going to pour that tea?” she quizzed. “I don't want it stewed.”

I pour the tea and grumble that my mother snook off without me. Maybe she didn't want Granny to be alone, or Billy the slothish dog for that matter... the dog my mother could have easily left alone for a few hours, but she's such a drama queen sometimes. We sit in a nervous silence for while, until my grandmother asks me about Kelly. “Is she a nice girl?”

“Yeah she's great.” I said. “It's a bit tricky with me at college in Brighton, but she comes down every couple of weeks which is nice. We'll go clubbing and hang out on the beach, if it's not raining.. blah blah blah.”

“And she's the one who makes you wear dresses?”

“No... she doesn't 'make' me wear them... I always wanted to and when I met Kelly she really helped.” I said.

“You're mother thinks she does. She was saying in the car... I've never trusted that Kelly. There's something controlling about her.” Granny informed me. That's wise coming from Mum! I thought. She's possibly the most controlling person I know. That's another reason why I prefer Brighton and why I’m planning on spending only a week or two at home during the seven week summer break.

“Kelly's cool with it Gran, but she's not the reason I do it.” I said.

Meanwhile, my mother is knocking on Kelly's door. I would later learn the details of this event, but for the sake of chronology and simple storytelling...

“Hi... come inside.” Kelly said. She bore a feeble smile that seemed all the weaker in the presence of my mother's stern expression. “Have you come for Stevie's bag?” she knowingly and nervously asked.

“And a chat.” my mother sternly said as she stepped past Kelly. “I'd like his bag first though.” she requested. It was right where I'd left it, on floor in the doorway. Kelly picked it up and handed it to my mother. “Thank you.” my mother said. “If you don't mind, I'll have a look through it before I return it to Steven.” she said, steeping to the small kitchen table and unzipping the bag.

“Erm... OK.” Kelly gulped.

She watched as my mother began emptying my bag; jeans, joggers, t-shirts, socks. A cylindrical purple satin bag sat toward the bottom of the innocent looking backpack. My mother removed it and unzipped it and sighed. I didn't plan on my mother going through my bag and figured my small selection of lingerie would be safe. In a side pocket she found an unopened box of black stockings, and in the small front compartment, my big bag of make-up. I wasn't planning on wearing make-up at my mother's house. I'd packed it for my day with Kelly. Other than my lingerie, stockings and make-up, everything else in the bag was male. I say male.. some of my tops and T shirts came from the women's departments, as did a couple of pairs of my jeans, and a jumper, but aside from a slightly better cut, they don't look overtly feminine... nothing at all like the tarty little frock my mother found me wearing just after lunch. “There's this too.” Kelly said, handing my mother a folded vinyl bag with a hanger inside. “It's for his er..” she said.

“Dress?” my mother sharply said as she snatched it from her. “Now. Kelly... would it be too much to ask that you to stop seeing my son.” my mother said. “You're a bad influence on him and frankly, dear... he's better off without you.”

“Erm...” Kelly croaked. “I was only trying to help him... he was already dressing up. Maybe I did encourage him a bit too much but... at least I stuck by his side.”

“Is that yes or no?” my mother bluntly asked.

“Well... I was thinking of finishing with him anyway... he's a nice guy and all... but, since he went off to Brighton, I've been seeing a few guys and...”

“I see.” my mother said as she tailed off. “Well that was easier than expected. I think Steven might be in love with you.”

“I know and I feel really mean... I was trying to work out how to do it, you know, let him down gently, and you've done me a favour, really.” she said.

“If Steven tries to call you, ignore him.” she instructed.

“OK.” Kelly timidly said. “Sorry.” she hesitantly added.

“It's not me you should be apologising to young lady... it's my son.” my mother told her. “But I'll deny you that opportunity. Steven's back with me now, and that's where he's staying.”

“You mean... he's not going back to Brighton?”

“No.” my mother bluntly replied. “I thought I was funding him through college, but it appears he was flunking college to indulge his more flamboyant endeavours, which so far as I can make out included shopping, dressing up and gallivanting around the pubs and clubs every night.” my mother informed her. “So I’ve pulled the plug on his sordid little fantasy.”

“It's not a fantasy... he just likes girl's clothes, that's all.” she said. “It's OK for me to dress like a guy, so he can dress like a girl if he wants.”

“Yes I get the acceptable 'politically correct' explanation, but he's not transsexual, he's not a drag queen... he's just a gullible teenage boy who's allowed you to take advantage of him and encourage him to parade around Brighton wearing all sor...”

“I first met Stevie when were fifteen and he was already parading around Brighton dressed as a girl.” Kelly told her. At first Kelly thought I was a girl, a very vulnerable looking one at that. She suspected I was a runaway and approached me. I didn't expect to see anyone from school on Brighton's seafront and didn't even recognise her until it was too late. “Hey aren't you a boy from my school... in Basington?” she said. I couldn't deny it. She was too close. But she said she liked my skirt and promised not to tell and it was such a random chance that it felt like fate. Little did I know that my loyal girlfriend of almost two years had broken up with me by proxy, and that proxy is my mother. I had to wait until Mum returned with my backpack before that particular bombshell was dropped on me.

“There you are.” my mother said as she handed me backpack.

“Finally.” I gasped, taking hold of it. “What...” I gulped as the air squished out of it. “Mum... where's my stuff?” I asked realising the bag was mostly empty.

“I've confiscated most of it.” my mother told me. “But there were a few things you'd left at Kelly's that she's kindly returned to you.” she added in such a menacing way it sent a shiver right down my spine. “You might want to check that everything's there.” she said. “Such as all the bras that you told me you didn't wear.” she added.

“It's Kelly who likes me in a bra... she bought me them.” I said. “I'm not a fan.. like I said.. they're a bit wrong when I’m a guy.”

“Well from a feminists point of view, I’m not sure whether to make you wear them or burn them.”

I couldn't help but chuckle, but I remained really quite worried. My mother's general aura was quite dark and foreboding and she didn't crack a smile. Granny was in the lounge watching songs of praise or some such Sunday night television staple. My mother told me to check the contents of my bag and wanted me to do it in front of her. “Please mum... this is like, private stuff.”

“It's stuff that's been paid for with the allowance I give you each month... so it's mine as much as it is yours.” she said. “Now empty the bag.” she ordered. “You can start with the pack of stockings in the side pocket.” she said.

I didn't really have a choice. And Mum knew what was inside anyway. The big problem was I didn't. What exactly did I leave at Kelly's? I begged my mother one more time not to make me go through the bag in front of her, but she suggested calling my grandmother though to watch. I gave in and removed no less than six bras, five of which had matching knickers and two had matching suspender belts as well. “Kelly bought me all of these.” I said, before removing a little satin nightie and my pink shortie PJs. There's a little black beach dress which I’d wondered what had happened to, and to add insult to injury, the cheerleader fancy dress outfit I'd worn last Halloween. “You must have been freezing!” my mother exclaimed as she picked up the tiny skirt that's barely longer than it's built in shorts.

“Er... I wore some of those really thick ice skating tights.” I replied. “It was chilly but not too bad.” I recalled. “We were in the clubs mostly anyway.”

My mother exhaled in exasperation. “Hearing all this Steven... I don't know if it's a curse or blessing that you're a boy... at least when you're slutting it around Brighton, there's no danger of you coming home pregnant.”

“Mum don't say that.. I’m not 'slutting' it around.” I insisted. “Kelly's usually with me and I usually dress a lot more modestly that this.” I said, gesturing to my tarty blue dress that barely covers my legs.

“Hmm... yes, Kelly.” My mother said. “I asked her to stop seeing you.”

“You can't do that!” I said.

“Well I did, and she said yes. It appears that your beloved Kelly has been seeing... and these are her words... a few other guys since you moved to Brighton.” my mother informed me. “She said she was thinking of dumping you anyway, and my request did her a favour.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Why else would she give me all of your things?”

“Maybe you just took what you could find.”

“Well I didn't notice any name tags in your bras Steven... and you didn't say they were hers.”

“I'm going to call her.” I said “Where's my handbag.”

“Have you any idea what it feels like for a mother to hear her son say 'where's my handbag'.” she narked. I fetched it and removed my phone. “I also asked her to ignore you if you call.” my mother informed me as I called her number. “She said she would.”

“I need a cigarette.” I said, taking myself, my phone and my handbag outside.

“Smoking too?!” my mother gasped.

“Seems that way... I’d have thought it'd be the least of your worries.”

I went out into the back garden with my phone to my ear. “Pick up Kelly. Pick up.” I said as it rang and rang. I rooted my cigarettes out and lit one. I quickly texted Kelly; Please answer the phone. Need to talk x. I took a few drags of my cigarette and noted my lipstick imprinted on the filter, before dialling her number again. “Please Kelly come on!” I said to myself as it rang and rang. Eventually it went to voice mail. “Kelly... it's me. Look, Mum said she asked you to dump me and she says you have... I don't believe her but if it's true, I need that thing off you... you know... that small thing. Please call me back.” I ended the voice mail knowing that there's a strong chance that she won't listen to the message, but I'll just have to keep trying.

I went back indoors to find my mother emptying my little purple bag that I'd hidden my small selection of lingerie in. shame flooded through me when I saw my knickers laid out on the table. “Despite all the satin and lace... some of these don't look like women's knickers.” my mother said. I glumly told her about the handful of shops in Brighton that cater for cross-dressers, which is where one can buy feminine undies that have been cut to fit the male body. “These too.” Mum quizzed, putting her hand on my two pairs of high waisted, low legged, nude coloured control knickers. I nodded. “Well at least they're modest.” my mother said. “Unlike this lot.” she said, putting my lacy and frilly undies, along with my nighties and pyjamas into a carrier bag.

“What are you doing with those?” I said.

“The same thing that I’m doing with everything I don't approve of... I’m confiscating them.”

“But...”

“But nothing Steven... you bought them with my money which means they're mine to do with as I wish!”

“But you're taking my boy clothes and my girl's ones!” I stated. “What do you want me to wear?”

“I'm still thinking about that Steven... so for the time being, you're stuck in whatever you threw on this morning.” she said, looking me up and down. “Will you go and ask Granny if she wants to stay for supper?”

I went and asked and Granny said she'd love to. I returned and Mum suggested I help her. I didn't mind. “Mind if I wear this?” I asked, grabbing her pinny from the back of the door.

“Oh I insist.” she said. “That dress would be worthless if you get any fat on it.” she added, before asking how much I'd spent on it.

“Err... seventy quid.” I confessed. Saying it aloud it sounds really expensive, I thought.

“Sounds about right.” Mum replied.

We made supper, just a simple meat and three veg with gravy. I kept the apron on until after I'd done the washing up. Granny said I was very domesticated for a boy but all I'd done was wash and peel the veg and tidied up afterwards. I guess she was just making conversation. “It's getting quite late mother.” Mum said. “Do want me to drive you back shortly or would you rather stay the night?”

Granny's of the disposition where you can get her to say yes to anything. Giving her options tends to baffle her, so Mum asked if she'd like to stay and Granny said yes. Mum put her back in front of the TV. “Where am I going to sleep if Granny's in the box room?” I asked.

“You'll have to bunk down on the floor somewhere.” my mother replied. “I think you've got a camp bed somewhere.” she added.

I'd stumbled across the camp bed when I was rooting for my stuff. It's under the stairs behind the brooms and vacuum cleaner. Mum put her mother to bed at around nine-thirty. Afterwards, she suggested I set up my bunk. I thought it'd be best in my old room, the new home-office, but Mum said no. She didn't want me in the lounge either so my bed was set up in the corner of the kitchen-come-dining room, next to where Billy the beagle sleeps. “He'll need a walk before you turn in too.” Mum said. I suggested just letting him out into the back garden. “He won't get a decent walk in the garden Steven. Take him up Malshanger Lane for a run around the copse.”

“Can I borrow a top or a jacket?” I asked. “It'll be freezing at this time.”

“I suppose.” my mother replied.

With all the talk of walkies, Billy was waiting obediently under the hook where his lead hangs bearing an expectant expression. At least it's dusk outside, and I’ve got some proper tights on and a fleece top that Mum reluctantly loaned me, but the short gathered bubble skirt still looked and felt totally inappropriate for walking the dog. I took my handbag and some dog poo bags, sparked up a cigarette in the alley that leads to the main road and checked my phone. Still no reply from Kelly. Every time a car approaches I dip my head and watch its headlights strike the blue satin fabric. I love this dress but after everything that's happened... I don't half regret wearing it today. We cross the busy B road and head up the lane. It's a beautiful lane with a tunnel of trees all the way up to the copse. I let Billy off his lead and he darts off. I perch on a tree stump and try to call Kelly. She doesn't answer, so I send and text then call again, leaving another voice mail. It's really not like Kelly to ignore me so I can't help but assume what Mum told me is correct... at least the bit about Mum telling her to finish with me and not to answer my calls. I don't want to believe that Kelly's been seeing other guys behind my back or that she was planning on dumping me anyway but I fear that might also be true. I smoke another ciggy whilst Billy forages in the undergrowth, then check my phone. There's no messages and I notice the charge icon is flashing. I'd better charge it when we get back. “Billy... come on boy!” I say and he scamps toward me. “No no... down boy.” I say as he begins to jump up at me. “I don't want your muddy paws on my dress.”

With Billy on his leash, we stroll back down the lane and eventually back home. I check my backpack's numerous little pockets but can't find my charging lead. I ask Mum if she'd seen it but she said she hadn't. “Just stockings and lingerie.” she said.

“And all the clothes I was planning on wearing whilst I'm here.” I dryly added.

“Talking of clothes, I dug out an old nightie for you.” she said. “It's on your bed.”

I grimace at the polyester garment that's laid neatly on top of the camp bed in the corner of the kitchen-come-dining room. I'm not sure what colour it's supposed to be; spearmint green, pale turquoise, duck-egg blue maybe... whatever it's called it's vile. The nightie is long with half length sleeves and a crew neck that's trimmed with lace in the same vomit inducing shade as the polyester itself. Sometimes I wonder if my mother deliberately buys the least desirable clothes she can find. Its well past 10.00pm and it's been a very long day so I decide to turn in. The narrow camp bed creaks beneath me as I put myself under the numerous sheets and blankets. I check my phone one last time before turning it off to preserve what little is left of my battery. I'll have to try to find a charge cable tomorrow. I expect they'll sell them in the village mini-mart.

The problem with calf length nighties is how they quickly work their way up above the knee. The problem with this particular nightie (aside from the vulgar colour) is the itchy stitching around the armholes, collar and frilly bib detail, plus its scent. I guess it's been at the bottom of my mother's drawer for years, directly on top of a scented drawer liner. It has an aroma that is both sweet and stale. Under sheets and blankets on a warm summer night, the cheap polyester feels clammy and as I predicted, I didn't get the best night's sleep and being woken by my mother's heels on the tiled kitchen floor, the filling of the kettle and general clattering, it was spared the luxury of a lie-in. “Not really.” I reply when my mother asked if I slept well.

I'd put my dress over the back of one of the dining chairs along with my tights, but both were gone when I woke. Mum must've read my perplexed expression and told me she'd 'put it away'. “What am I going to wear today?” I sneered.

“Well you'll have to make do with your nightie for the time being.”

“I can't wear this all day!” I said as I stood. It's skirt dropped off my thigh and slid to my calves as I stood. Its unsavoury colour looks even worse in the natural daylight.

“I never said you could.” my mother snapped. “Now put your shoes on. I don't want you walking around in bare feet.” she ordered.

I sighed as I put my feet into them. The nightie alone looked bad enough, but combined with my low heeled court shoes I'm sure I look horrendous. I check my phone to see if Kelly's got back to me, but no sooner it boots up after being turned off all night, the screen goes blank. I sigh and audible sigh. “My battery's died.”

“Did you find your charge cable?” my mother asked.

“No.” I replied, suggesting that I maybe left it at Kelly's.

“Kelly returned everything that's yours.” my mother claimed.

“Maybe not everything.” I said. “I really need to get in touch with her.”

“Why? I told you it's over between you two.”

“I still need to talk to her though.” The problem with mobile phones is one never needs to memorise a number. It's my phone book as well as my phone but without power, it's completely useless. I can't use the land line or borrow my mother's mobile because I don't know Kelly's number in full.... so I'm a bit scuppered really.

My mother drives Gran home around mid-morning leaving me home alone. “How long will you be?” I asked. Mum presumes and hour, maybe two at the most. All I have is the nightie I slept in so I’m not exactly going anywhere. “What am I supposed to do?” I moaned.

“Well I don't know. Use your imagination. Hoover up or clean the kitchen or something... just don't go rooting through my things!”

“I won't!” I retorted.

“...and don't bother looking for your things either, because you won't find them.” she added. “And don't just slouch in front of the TV either... you're still in my bad books and you'll have to work your way out.”

Mum left with Granny and with nothing better to do, I packed up my camp bed before running around the house with the hoover, then cleaned the kitchen before slouching in front of the TV. Mum only has the basic Freeview channels so apart from the tiresome daytime shows it's either news, shopping channels, repeats or black and white movies... and not very good ones at that. Although a good chunk of the garden isn't overlooked by anyone, I can't help but worry that someone might see as I smoke a cigarette wearing the long thin nightie. Beneath it I wear yesterdays knickers which are a pair of my beige bulge controllers. They're not designed for comfort and I curse my mother for removing the clothes I’d brought to wear. I just don't understand her logic... she's angry that she caught me wearing a dress and she clearly doesn't approve that it's something I do openly and frequently. I'd have thought if anything, she'd have insisted I wore the clothes I'd brought rather than taking them away from me. Mum returned and accused me of parading around the garden in my nightwear. “I was just having a cigarette.” I dryly retorted. Mum handed me a carrier bag. “What's this?” I asked.

“I popped into the Age Concern charity shop on the way back and got you something to wear.” she said, adding that Billy needs a proper walk and reminding me that I wanted to to go to the mini-mart. I thanked her before looking inside. “What did you expect? The height of fashion?!”

The earthy brown blouse has long billowing sleeves and pointed collars that tie with a big floppy bow. It's the sort of thing one might wear for a fiftieth wedding anniversary, but only on the proviso that it's their fiftieth wedding anniversary. The skirt she'd bought to go with it was worse though; calf length and knife pleated all the way around with blue and yellow flowers printed on a pale cream background. “I can't wear this Mum.” I frowned.

“You can't wear a nightie all day either.” she said. “...and I presume you're still wearing yesterday's knickers?” she said, staring at my crotch area. My nightie is a little bit see through but with my big beige control knickers on, there's nothing much to see. She told me to have a shower and after a clammy summer night in her polyester nightie, I knew that I needed one. Mum had laid the skirt, blouse and a clean pair of my control knickers on the bed in the box room. I made sure the door was shut before dropping my towel and quickly donning the constricting knickers, then reluctantly stepping into the skirt. It looked horrible and hung horribly, as did the blouse which really didn't 'go' with the skirt. “I look ridiculous Mum.” I said when I presented myself to her.

“It's certainly more appropriate than the little number you wore yesterday.” she spat as she looked me up and down.

“You're enjoying this aren't you?” I said. “Ridiculing me.” I added.

“You ridiculed yourself all on your own yesterday Steven.” she retorted. “At least now there's a lot less flesh on display.” she added. “...and you owe me seven pounds.”

“What?”

“Three for the skirt and four for the blouse.” she stated. “There's cash point in the mini-mart.” she informed me. Mum insisted that I did my hair and applied some make-up and stood over me and watched. “You've certainly done it before.” she said as I dusted my face, painted my eyes and applied a touch of mascara. I opened one of the two lipsticks I had in my handbag, but Mum demanded she see it before I apply it. She asked for the other one and didn't approve of that shade either. She went to her room and returned a moment later. “Try this.” she said. I grimaced at the bland peachy brown shade that no woman this side of thirty-five would ever consider wearing. “That's better.” she said.

I looked up at her with pleaful eyes and gulped. I'd put my shoulder length hair in a quick and easy 'up' do but my mother wasn't overly keen. She pulled out the bobble and clips that held it in place and after pulling a brush through my hair, she folded into a French pleat, held in place with about fifty bobby pins. “I look about forty with it like that.” I whined.

“This is Oakham... it's hardly the centre of high fashion.” she replied.

Still desperate to get in touch with Kelly, and in need of a charge cable for my phone, I had no option but to walk all the way to the village store again. At least it's a Monday and the kids are all in school, so the residential streets I have to walk are much quieter than they were yesterday... but in my ill-matched 'middle aged' attire, I stood out all the more.

The walk to the mini-mart takes ten to fifteen minutes. Billy came with me and I tethered his leash to the handrail outside. “Still trying to win a bet?” the man behind the counter asked as I approached.

“Don't ask.” I said, before asking if he had a charge cable for an iPhone. He shook his head and said I’d have to go into Basington for something like that. “Oh cripes.” I frowned. “I'm desperate to charge my phone... you don't use an iPhone do you?”

“Android.” he shrugged.

“OK. Thanks anyway.” I said before leaving the shop empty handed. I return home going the long way around, past the old rectory and up Station Lane where I could let Billy have a run. I returned home about one hour and two cigarettes later. “Sorry I forgot.” I whined when Mum asked for the seven pounds... and the bitch made me walk all the way back to the mini-mart where I withdrew ten pounds in cash.

I returned home and Mum gave me the three pounds change, then watched with bemusement as I dropped the coins into my purse. “Do you even have a wallet?” she asked. I skewed my jaw and shook my head then sheepishly asked if she could drive me into Basington where I could buy a charge cable for my phone. “I'm not your personal taxi service Steven.”

“Well I can't go on the bus dressed like this!”

“Why don't you ask Colin next door if he's got one.” she suggested. “I know he's got one of those iPad things.”

“I'm surprised he's not been round.” I grumbled.

“I'm not.” my mother bluntly stated. “We're not exactly on speaking terms these days.”

I didn't like the idea of knocking next door so I dismissed that suggestion. There's no way I'm going to get the bus into Basington either, although I could buy myself some more suitable clothing once there, and maybe call round to Kelly's... but the more I think about what Mum said, the more I'm beginning to believe it's true. She has fobbed me off a few times in recent months, leaving it four or even six weeks between visits. Our relationship is (was) somewhat complex and not seeing her for a month or longer always left me feeling frustrated. “Well if you've nothing better to do you may as well do some housework.” Mum suggested.

“I've already hoovered down here and cleaned the kitchen.” I said. Mum shrugged and said she didn't want me sitting around idle all day, and gave me a duster and some furniture polish and I spent the next couple of hours dusting and polishing the entire house, then hoovering upstairs and the stairs themselves.

“Steven... Steven!” I heard my mother holler over the sound of the vacuum cleaner. I turned and almost jumped out of my skin to see not only mother, but Mrs Dixon too. “Turn that off will you?!” my mother instructed.

Mr's Dixon's eyes grew to the size of saucers as she stared at me. “I thought you had a cleaner for minute.” she said to my mother, before looking up at me. “I didn't recognise you Steven.”

I wanted the stairs to open up and swallow me whole. “Err... hello Mrs Dixon.” I timidly stammered.

“You look er... nice.” Mrs Dixon said, clearly trying to stifle a snigger.

“He looks ridiculous.” my mother stated as they both glared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment.

“I popped round to ask how your mother's doing?” Mrs Dixon asked my mother. “I've been beside myself with worry... you were in such a fluster when you collected Billy.”

“Mum's fine.” my mother told her. “It turned out to be nothing more than heartburn.” she added. “Steven, on the other hand...” my mother said, turning her yes toward me. “...has been spending his time in Brighton dressing up in women's clothing rather than buckling down to his studies.” she said as I hung my head. Mum described the moment she caught up with me at the exhibition that Kelly and I had visited.

“That was Steven getting out of your car?!” Mrs Dixon gasped. “I wondered who she was.”

“Well now you know. She was him.” Mum stated. I gulped and hung my head a little bit more. “Come through... I’ll make a pot of tea.” Mum said. “In fact... Steven can make the tea.” she added. “You can finish your hoovering later.”

I wound up the vacuum cleaner's cable and parked it at the foot of the stairs, before sheepishly going through to the kitchen/diner. “I didn't notice his shoes.” Mrs Dixon commented after my heels struck the tiled floor. My mother replied with a derogatory groan, before pointing out just how accustomed I am to heeled footwear. “He's shaved his legs too.” Mrs Dixon noticed.

“Hmm.” my mother groaned.

The two women sat at the table whilst I prepared a pot of tea. My hands were visibly trembling as I put out the cups and dropped a couple of tea bags into the pot. By the time I'd made the pot of tea and parked it, along with two cups, the sugar bowl and a small jug of milk on the table, my whole body was trembling. I sloped off to the tiny box room, sat on the bed and dropped my head into my hands. “Oh god why is this happening?!” I whispered to no one but myself.

Meanwhile, my mother is telling her visitor everything. “I was so angry with him. When I collected Billy from you I told him to get out of the car and just drove off. A walk through the village dressed like a common whore will teach him a lesson.” she said. “Then I thought... if he likes women's clothes so much, he can damn well stay in them.” she added, before telling her that she'd picked up today's outfit in a charity shop this morning, and deliberately chose something that she knew I wouldn't like.

“I did wonder. I can't imagine any teenager wearing that skirt and blouse combo.” Mrs Dixon said. “And I can't believe it was Steven I saw getting out of your car wearing that skimpy little dress either.” she added. “That's going to turn some heads... I thought.”

With the box-room door slightly ajar and the two women talking rather loudly, I couldn't help but eavesdrop. I looked down at my clothing and sighed. I have to take my hat off to my mother though... she really hit the nail on the head when finding me something horrendous to wear. I can't imagine any top that might improve this skirt and as for the blouse... has it ever been fashionable?

I overheard my mother claiming that she believes it's Kelly who's been leading me astray and that she told Kelly to have nothing more to do with me. I successfully fought back a few tears when mother told Mrs Dixon what Kelly had said; that she was thinking of dumping me anyway and had a few boyfriends on the go. “Well he's better off without her if she's one of those.” Mrs Dixon replied.

“I'm beginning to wonder if he'll be better off out of Brighton altogether.” my mother retorted. “Apparently he spends most of his time parading around in women's clothing and no one bats an eyelid.” she said. “Maybe a few days parading around Oakham might teach him a much needed lesson.” she added.

“So... what is he?” Mrs Dixon asked. “I presume he's not gay... is he trans maybe?”

“I don't think he's a transsexual but he's certainly a transvestite.” Mother bluntly stated. “...just doing it for a thrill.” she added.

If my phone had power I’d have put my headphones in and listened to some music. If there was radio in my room I’d listen that, even if it could only pick up a local station... anything would be better than overhearing my mother talk so candidly about me in such a disparaging way. Eventually Mrs Dixon leaves and my mother tells me that I can finish the hoovering. I exited the box room and returned to the stairs, telling my mother that I'd overheard most of what she'd told Mrs Dixon. “Just how long are you planning on keeping this up for?” I asked.

Mum thought for a moment before smugly saying “That's for me to know and you to find out.” she said. “As things stand you don't have much choice in the matter.” she said, looking down at my horrendous outfit. “That may change in a few days time but for now, you'll wear what I want, not what you want.”

“That's not fair.” I whined. “If you hadn't over-reacted when Gran got sick you'd have been none the wiser.”

“I may have over-reacted Steven but I’m all the wiser for it.” she stated. I gulped and hung my head. Mum turned on her heel and walked away. I plugged on the vacuum cleaner and continued hoovering the stairs.

Mum made supper for 5pm and I cleaned up afterwards. I checked my phone several times, hoping it had somehow found a little bit of charge in the battery, but no... it's completely flat. We watched TV for the rest of the evening and I wondered if Mum was deliberately selecting the dullest programmes in order to bore me senseless or if she actually watches this crap. Meanwhile, our slothish beagle slouched on his bed until around 9.30pm when he became animated. “Can I borrow that fleece again... please?” I asked when Mum said I needed to take the dog for his walk.

By the time we'd reached the lane, I wished I’d asked what happened to the opaque tights I'd bought because this thin pleated skirt provides no resistance from the twilight chill. My legs were covered in goose pimples and I physically shuddered... then I remembered that I have my nude tights in my handbag. I imagined the scene; perched on a tree stump at the copse whilst Billy forages through the undergrowth... I'm donning my tights when someone drives past, or worse, another dog walker appears... a chatty one at that! I decide to generate some heat by walking briskly. My noisy heels clack loudly on the tarmac whilst my calf length skirt billows behind me. Despise it as I do... I can't deny that my unfashionable pleated skirt is more appropriate for walking a dog than last night's little dress was.

It's after 10pm when I return. Billy goes directly to his bed where he pretends to sleep, but he's always got one eye open. After spending last night on a bunk beside him, I’m looking forward to a proper bed and decide to turn in. My mother insists that I wear the nightie again and I struggle to work out if its better or worse than the skirt and blouse that hangs from a hook on the back of the door.

The following morning after a really good night's sleep, I don the horrendous skirt and blouse because that's all I have. Mum insists I wear my shoes when I'd rather mill about in bare feet. At least they're only a two inch heel. It could have been worse, I figure. “Oh I forgot to mention yesterday.” Mum said over breakfast. “I noticed that Mrs Dixon uses an iPhone similar to yours, maybe she's got a charge cable you could use.”

“Could you ask her?” I asked with some enthusiasm.

“You could walk over after we've been to see your grandmother.”

“Could you drive me? Please.”

“I'll drop you off on the way back.” she said.

I sat in the back of the car with Billy. I can't believe I'm letting my mother do this to me... but what choice do I have? I can't help but think about Kelly. I'm both gutted and scathing but I really need to talk to her. I imagine she's no idea what my mother's putting me through and wonder how she'd react if she knew. I guess she might say 'Hey that's great! You were always worried about your Mum finding out' and I’d reply telling her that she doesn't understand and that I’m not wearing my own clothes, but a dreadful outfit my mother got from a charity shop. Maybe I won't mention it when I get to speak to her. I don't really want her to know... especially if she's dumped me.

We arrive at my grandmother's house and she compliments my clothing. She's probably old enough and batty enough to think that my skirt and blouse is nice. Mum asks how she's been since the heartburn scare and generally fusses and gossips the sort of nonsense that only women of a certain age can understand. After an uncomfortable ten minutes just loitering, Mum puts me to work washing dishes and wiping worktops, mopping the lino, dusting the mantle, coffee table, sideboard and every ornament on them. “He's very domesticated.” my grandmother twittered as I half heartedly cleaned her small bungalow.

“He is.” Mum replied. “I think he enjoys pretending he's a woman and doing what he thinks is women's work.” she added in a most belittling tone.

“It's not like that Mum.” I claimed. “I don't pretend I’m a woman, I just like the clothes.” I said. “Apart from these ones.” I sneered as I looked down at my garish skirt and earthy brown blouse with its big limp bow hanging down the front.

“I think you look very nice.” my mother lied, adding that my bland brown lipstick goes perfectly with my blouse. My grandmother agreed, but she would.

Mum made granny another cup of tea and asked if she'd like a sandwich making. She offered me one too. “Please.” I humbly replied as I dusted the top of the TV. Mum soon delivered a spam and mustard sandwich, then suggested I clean the bathroom before we set off back.

On the way back to Oakham, I complained that I'd had to clean the whole house whilst there. “Your grandmother was very grateful.. I'm sure her home-help will be too.”

“That's my point, she has home-help so why did I have to do it?”

“You need to be put to some use.” my mother retorted. A moment later she drew my attention to a small row of shops. “That's where I got your skirt and blouse from.” she informed me. Judging by the three mannequins in the window of the Age Concern charity shop, the items my mother bought me are typical for that store. Not surprising really since this suburb of Basington appears to have an average age of fifty-something.

As we neared the village of Oakham, Mum asked if I still wanted to call in on Mrs Dixon. I did and my mother said she'd drop me off at top of St John's road. “But that's miles away!” I whined.

“It's ten minutes and Billy needs a walk.”

“But...” I knew my mother wouldn't back down so I gave up trying. At least with Billy by my side I at least feel like I've got a sense of purpose. Mum drops me off in the village and I walk briskly along the road then down the lane, lined with large exclusive houses and neatly trimmed hedges. It's a single track lane and I have to stand aside a couple of times to allow a car to pass. I keep my head down and respond to their appreciative wave with a coy pursed smile. Each time I wonder if they think I’m a young woman with no fashion sense and a flat chest or a teenage transvestite with a very limited wardrobe. The first part of this walk of shame terminated at Mrs Dixon's modest bungalow; a nondescript 1960s build that looks out of place amongst the more recent four and five bedroom homes. I swallow my pride and find some courage as I approach the door and ring the bell. As I wait, I look at my reflection in the glass front door and smooth my hair, which today is tied in a high bouncy ponytail. I run my fingers through it before pressing the doorbell once more.

“Oh fecking hell!” I groan to myself as it dawns on me that she's not in. When I returned home some thirty minutes and fifty bemused glances later, my mother suddenly recalled that Mrs Dixon attends the parish council meeting on Monday afternoon, but is always back by three. Mum knows this because they often have afternoon tea... yet claimed it slipped her mind. I set off back at around 2.45pm and call into the mini-mart for another pack of cigarettes. My timing couldn't have been worse as all the kids were leaving the village school which meant lots of parents to look at me with perplexed expressions as I passed in my noisy heels. I can only hope they're staring at my horrendous outfit and not the eighteen year old boy who's wearing it.

“Ah... Steven.” Mrs Dixon said when she answered the door. “What can I do for you?” she asked, looking me up and down with the same bemused expression as everyone else in the village.

“Erm... my iPhone's run out of charge and I haven't got a cable... Mum said you might have one and I wondered if I could charge my phone.. please?” I gulped.

“Well I suppose.” she said before inviting me inside. “Did you walk over?” she asked.

“Yes.” I replied, adding that I'd called earlier but she was out.

“I'm attend the parish council meeting every Monday... you're mother knows that.”

“Yeah... but she didn't tell me until afterwards.” I glumly replied, adding that this is the second time I've walked all the way over here today.

“Can't be easy for a boy in those heels.” she said, looking at my footwear.

“It's my outfit more than my shoes.” I said. “I'm used to these but I can't believe she's making me wear this.” I added, grabbing the garish pleated skirt and letting it drop.

“The shoes are your own?!” she quizzed. I gulped and nodded, before timidly rooting in my handbag and removing my phone. “Ah yes... a cable.” she said. “I should have a spare one somewhere that you can take home.” she told me as she rummaged through a drawer. “I'll want it back mind.” she added. I suggested that I'd bring it back later this evening. “Tomorrow will be fine.” she said, handing me the cable.

“OK.” I said. “Thank you.” I smiled before putting it in my handbag.

“Actually... I'll be running the coffee morning at the Methodist church hall until noon, you could pop in there.” she said. “It'll save you walking all the way down here.”

“Erm...” I considered the prospect of walking into a hall full of twittering women wearing tweed twin-sets and big broaches. One by one they fall silent as their eyes are drawn to the sound of my heels, clacking on the parquet floor and echoing off the walls. I imagine their gasps and whispers, sideways stares and disapproving glances...

“So I'll see you tomorrow.” she said. “And if you bring Billy you'll have to tie him up outside.” she added as she lead me to the door. “Bye for now.” she smiled.

“Erm... OK... er... bye Mrs Dixon... and thanks again.” I nervously said as I was herded out of her house.

As I walked away I recalled the moment my mother drove off and I realised that she wasn't going to stop. I thought she'd make me walk through the village to shame me and that would be that. That was the day before yesterday and I've lost count of how many times I've had to walk through the village since.

I used to fantasise about situations like this... some random situation leaves me with no option but to wear female clothing in public. The reality is as nerve racking as it is thrilling... but any titillation from the thrill is superseded by a deep fear of public ridicule. I guess I'm thankful that people just stare at me rather than holler taunts or insults, but I wish they'd just turn the other cheek and ignore my presence in their idyllic little village.

After the thirty minute walk from one side of the village to the other, I arrived home and wasted no time plugging my phone in. I turned it on but there's no missed calls or text messages from Kelly. I leave it to charge for a while before trying to call her again. I stand in the back garden puffing away on a cigarette as the phone rings and rings. I send a frantic text, pleading with her to contact me and telling her that my mother's gone crazy.

“It was very good of Mrs Dixon to give you a cable.” Mum says as I plug my phone in so it can charge fully.

“Yeah... she wants it back though.” I said, before telling her about the coffee morning at the Methodist church. “Please don't make me wear this again.” I pleaded. “Surely you've got something better I could borrow.”

“I don't want you wearing any of my clothes Steven... and I don't think that little blue number will be suitable... so you'll have to.” my mother retorted. “Anyway... what did you need the screwdrivers and pliers for?” she asked.

“What?”

“They were were in the spare room.”

“Oh... er... nothing.”

“Well they're back in the drawer where they belong.” she said. “Please put things back when you've used them.”

“Yeah... sorry.” I sighed. “So... how long are you planning on ridiculing me for?” I asked. “Surely you don't expect me to wear this ensemble all the time?”

“It'll do for now.” my mother bluntly replied. “As for ridiculing you? I'm not ridiculing you Steven. You know who you are and you like who you are, remember?”

“I'm not someone who'd willingly wear this monstrosity though.” I glumly groaned as I baulked at my attire.

“It may not be the height of fashion but at least it's feminine Steven.” she replied in a most patronising tone. “I might pick you something else up if anything catches my eye.” she said, stepping closer to me and faffing with my pussy bow.

“Mu-um!” I moaned.

“Just making it look nice.” she said, looking me in the eye and smiling.

“Nothing could make this look nice.” I moaned. “You're really enjoying humiliating me aren't you?” I said, noticing a wry smile sweep my mother's face.

“Let's just say... I'm doing my best in a tricky situation.” my mother replied. “Now I noticed that your legs are looking stubbly, but I've got some knee highs you can wear when you go to your coffee morning tomorrow.” she added.

“I'm not wearing knee highs!” I protested. “What about those black tights I bought?” I asked.

“You can't wear thick black tights with that skirt Steven... you'd look ridiculous!” Mum said. “Plus it's the middle of summer... knee-highs are ideal.” she claimed.

The following morning, I wake and peel my eyes open and the first thing I see is my horrific skirt and bland billowy blouse hanging on the back of the box room door. I'm beginning to get used to it... seeing it first thing that is, not actually wearing it! It looks as bad as it ever did and would be the last thing I'd choose to wear. I'm not sure if the fact that it's the only thing I've got to wear is irony or just bad luck. My nightie has gathered uncomfortably around my thighs and I shuffle it down to my knees. Whoever thought that calf length nighties were practical to sleep in? Usually I'd wear a short nightie or girl's PJs. Nothing like this... ever!

I swing my legs out of my bed and shove the polyester nightgown over my knees. They are looking stubbly and I suppose I should shave them... but with my mother taking control of seemingly every aspect of my life, maybe I should wait and see what she says. On the bedside table is the pack of dull grey knee-high tights my mother gave me, and beneath the window, hung over the radiator is two pairs of my beige control knickers. As usual I slept wearing yesterdays knickers. This may come as a surprise since they're so uncomfortable... but under the circumstances, I feel somehow less vulnerable with my underwear on. I'm only supposed to be here for a week and I figure I can put up with the routine for a few more days.

After breakfast, I dress in the same clothes I’ve worn since Monday. The blouse wouldn't be so bad if it didn't have the long floppy bow that ties beneath its pointed collars. It looks dreadful when tied but worse when left undone. But thinking about it, the earthy brown blouse with its billowing sleeves and long five-button cuffs would still be horrendous without the bow. I pull on a pair of knee highs and slip my toes into my shoes. Stocking feet are far more comfortable than bare feet, so that's one good thing I can say about my hosiery. I quickly realise that the 'comfort top' claim on the box is an overstatement since they grip the tops of my calves really quite firmly. I catch a glimpse of my reflection as I totter through the hallway and focus on my knee-high tights. The thin brownish-grey nylon is about as unappealing a shade as one can get, but thankfully their unsightly tops and my stubbly knees are hidden by my calf length skirt, which looks as bed as ever as it wafts around my legs

“What time are you going to your coffee morning?” my mother asked as I entered the kitchen.

“I'm not going to the coffee morning Mum... I’m just gonna pop in towards the end.” I told her. “Hopefully when everyone's gone.”

“Please don't take that tone with me young man.” my mother retorted as she looked me up and down. “...and make sure you thank Mrs Dixon for lending you her charge cable.”

“I'm not an eight year old Mum... I do have manners you know.” I remarked. My mother sighed returned her attention to the magazine she sat reading. I made myself a cuppa and sat outside to enjoy a cigarette. I imagined a scenario that involved my mother making me wear items from my own collection of clothes. It'd be just as humiliating in a small village but at least I wouldn't be stuck in the same outfit day after day. I imagine my ditsy blue summery dress, then my denim daisy print dungee-dress and my mother saying how nice I'd look if I was her daughter instead of her son. I recall the moment my mother rang me at the exhibition. I should have scarpered and hid, then none of this would have happened, or I could have lied and said we'd left an hour ago. I sighed and wallowed in self pity, before stubbing out my cigarette and dropping the but in the bin.

I set off at eleven thirty, briskly walking past Colin's house with its twitching curtains and over the iron railway bridge where I stop and light another cigarette. My heels bang loudly on the metal structure before click-clacking on the tarmac path. It's the third day in a row that I've worn the same horrendous outfit, only today it looks all the worse due to the pale grey knee-high tights I’m wearing. I wonder if the villagers are getting used to seeing me. I also wonder if they realise that I'm not a young woman with a bad fashion sense.

I stroll past the mini-mart and the village pub and soon past the quaint duck pond, overlooked by a majestic weeping willow and some enviable cottages.

This is by far my favourite part of Oakham. It was once the heart of the original village before it was surrounded by a modern housing estate. Over the road is the Methodist church and its hall. Outside is a sign stating 'coffee morning today'. I tether billy's leash to a fence post and tell him I won't be long.

Walking into the church hall was exactly as I’d imagined. The handful of middle aged ladies ceased their chatter and focused on me as I entered... although Mrs Dixon didn't loudly state my name. Instead she waved me over and offered me a cup of tea. I politely declined and gave her the charge cable. Mrs Dixon thanked me before asking if I'd return the favour by helping her clear the tables and chairs. “Erm...” I said, glancing at the handful of women who remained. “..err.”

“Oh come on... a strong boy like you.” Mrs Dixon prompted. “You'll have these chairs stacked in no time.” she said. I could feel half a dozen pairs of eyes watch as my heels clacked on the parquet floor as I stacked the chairs, one table at a time. It reminded me of being at school, where a handful of kids would have to stack the chairs after morning assembly. Once they were lined up against the wall, Mrs Dixon and I shifted all the tables which also stacked five high. “Thank you so much Steven.” Mrs Dixon said. “I'll let you get on with your day... and thanks again for the cable... if you need to borrow it again, just ask.”

“Err... OK, thanks.” I humbly replied before making my way outside. Billy looked excited as I approached him. I was in a silent panic. I checked my phone but there's still nothing from Kelly. I know she hasn't blocked me because I can still see her contact details. I power it down fully to conserve the battery for as long as possible.

On my arrival home, Mum gave me a shopping list that took me into the pharmacist, the butchers and the mini-mart. Embarrassingly, the pharmacist took one look at me and said “You must be Hillary's boy.” That being my mother's first name. “Steven isn't it?” she knowingly asked.

“Er, yes.” I croaked. I could feel my cheeks going red as I rooted the prescription from my handbag. She took it and perused it and told me it would ready in a jiffy. Rather than waiting, I told her I’d be back in a jiffy and promptly left, popping into the mini-mart for some bread, milk, some loose veg and some cigarettes, then into the butchers for some lamb chops and sausages. In Brighton a 'jiffy' means a couple of minutes. In a village it seems to mean anything from ten minutes to an hour. I sit in the pharmacy for fifteen agonisingly long minutes waiting for the prescription to be prepared. It was possibly the longest fifteen minutes of my life which was made more arduous when an elderly lady sat beside me and made small talk. We agreed that the weather was nice before she asked if it was my dog tied up outside. I tried to speak both softly and laconically when replying. She asked if I was new to the village and I told her that I grew up here but currently attend college in Brighton, just as the pharmacist appeared with my mother's prescription.

“Nice talking to you miss.” the old lady said as we exchanged glances.

“You too.” I replied, smiling. “Thank you.” I said to the pharmacist as I exited.

“That's no 'miss' you know...” I overheard the pharmacist say as the door slowly closed behind me.

I returned home with the groceries. Mum had gone out somewhere and left me a note with a list of chores; hoovering, bathroom, kitchen floor and mow the lawn. “Mow the lawn!” I grimaced. I looked out of the kitchen window toward the garage in the corner of the garden to notice that my mother had already got the lawn mower out. Maybe she intended to do it herself but didn't have time, or maybe she's making sure I do it, I wondered. Either way I'd rather not mow the lawn. My attire is totally inappropriate and the noise will draw the attention of the neighbours.

After a coffee and cigarette, I run around the house with the vacuum cleaner before giving the bathroom a quick wipe down. After mopping the kitchen floor I reluctantly mow the lawn whilst it dries, all the while I keep my head down. Mum returns as I'm emptying the cuttings into the composting bin. I ask where she's been. “I called in on Mum.” she replied. “And popped into Age Concern on the way back.” she added.

“The charity shop?” I gulped.

“Yes.” she hissed as she looked me up and down. “You don't deserve it but you do need a change of clothes.” she said.

“Why are you doing this to me Mum?” I said in an almost tearful tone when I was shown what she'd bought me.

“Because you've spent the last eleven months flunking college and dressing as a tart at my expense...”

“I don't dress like a tart!” I interrupted.

Mum raised her finger to silence me. “Not any more you don't.” she said. “Whilst you're here you'll wear what I decide, also at my expense.” she stated. Her eyes drifted to the dress she'd bought. “It's above the knee so you'll probably want to run a bath and shave your legs first.” she said, before telling me to take it to my room.

“Roll on the weekend.” I groaned as I snatched the garish floral frock from the door. I don't even have a wardrobe to hide it in, so it hangs from the hook on the back of the door.

I set the bath taps running before undressing. The knee-high tights have left an imprint below my knees. 'Comfort top' my arse. I think.

Some girls see shaving their legs as a chore but I love it. Relaxing in a nice hot bath full of bubbles, then taking my time with the soap before pulling the razor up my shins and over my knees. It's much more enjoyable than shaving my chin which I tend to do twice a day. Five o'clock shadow coupled with feminine clothing doesn't really work as a combination. I shave my chest and pits too, and finally my arms and hands. It was Kelly who first suggested that I shaved my arms because she figured they were a little bit too hairy. I disagreed but gave it a try and they did look much nicer (thin, slender, feminine)... but I wish I hadn't. I love shaving my legs and pits but my arms are a bit of a chore. I'd let them grow back but there's no way they'll return to the soft downy feel and appearance they used to have. After washing and conditioning and rinsing my hair, I loll in the water for a while. It's the first time I’ve fully relaxed since Sunday... then a vision of the new (to me) dress enters my mind and I groan. A moment later, Mum hollers through the door. “Are you going to spend all afternoon in there?”

I pull the plug and dry myself, then I run the towel through my hair, over and over until the bath has fully drained. With the towel around my waist, I rinse the bath using the shower. Then I unlock the door and quickly scurry to the small box room and shut the door behind me. I wast no time pulling on a clean pair of knickers and sliding them up my silky smooth legs. I carefully tuck myself into them so they're as comfortable as they can be, which to be blunt isn't at all comfortable. I only bought them to wear with tight skirts and skinny jeans and seldom wore them for more than a few hours at a time. I've worn nothing but my constricting control knickers for four days now and can't imagine they're doing me any good.

I frown at the floral frock. It's a lot better than the patterned skirt and brown blouse but it's still something I’d never wear by choice. I undo the zip and step into it. It's a little shorter than I’d expected, landing above the knee. It's also a good size too big and hangs shapelessly from my shoulders, much like a sack. “There's no way I’m walking the dog wearing this.” I said when I presented myself to my mother.

Mum looked me up and down. “It actually looks a lot nicer than I'd hoped.” she sternly said.

“It looks horrendous Mum.” I replied.

“I'm glad you think so.” she smugly said, glancing at my dress, my legs, my arms and my head. My slightly damp hair hangs limply on my shoulders. “Do you ever put it rollers or French braids?” she asked.

“I plait it sometimes.” I confessed. “But usually I just tie it back or up.” I added.

“I've a good mind to cut it short... then there's no mistaking for what you are.”

“You can't do that Mum.” I stated. “You might be able to control what I wear but not my hair.” I told her, before grabbing my handbag and heading out into the back garden for a cigarette and to check my phone. I can't help but look at my reflection in the patio door and sigh as my phone boots up.

I'm not surprised to find no missed calls or text messages from Kelly... but I'm still disappointed. We'd been together for eighteen months and to be dropped so suddenly and harshly, via my mother of all people is the last thing I expected. The least Kelly could do is explain things herself, but I guess she's scared of my mother who told her not to contact me. Again I leave a message, stressing that it's really important that I get that 'small thing' from her, suggesting that she could post it and reminding her of my mother's full address and post code.

I finished my cigarette and dropped the extinguished butt into the wheelie bin before returning inside. Mum's unloading the washing machine and hands me the basket. “These need pegging out.” she sternly instructed. I emit a disgruntled sigh before turning on my heel and returning to the garden. I can't help but glance up at the overlooking windows as I peg out my mother's laundry, and it doesn't take too long for Colin and his wife to appear in their back bedroom window. I try to ignore them but it's easier said than done. Apart from my ghastly brown blouse and garish pleated skirt, every item I peg on the line is my mother's; underwear, nightwear, skirts and tops, tights and socks. I glance up at the neighbour's window and they're still there, staring at me. Eventually I wave and they quickly duck out of sight. What sad little people they are, I thought as I picked up the empty laundry basket and peg bag and returned indoors. “You're very lady like.” Mum said in an accusational tone before commenting on how I crouch rather than bend and stand with my feet close together.

“It comes with the clothing.” I replied, glancing down at my horrid floral frock that hangs like an oversized sack. “Whoever designed this must have been colour blind.” I frowned.

“I'm sure it was considered nice once-upon-a-time.” my mother dryly retorted.

“When are you going to let me have my own stuff back?” I asked.

“I haven't decided.”

“So you've still got it?” I presumed. “You haven't sent it all to charity.”

“That's not your concern.”

“Of course it's my concern! It's my stuff!” I blurted.

“Bought with my money!” my mother barked. “Until you're paying your own way in life Steven you'll damn well do what you're told... especially now you're back home.”

“Well I'm going back to Brighton on Saturday.” I told her.

“I thought you were staying for a fortnight.” my mother replied. “Isn't your landlord upgrading the fire alarms?”

“Yeah but he said that'd only take a week.” I informed her, although I knew I’d best check first.

Mum cast her disapproving eye over me. She glared at my feet. “Tell me... are those you're only heels or do you have more?”

“Err... a few.” I confessed, before reluctantly revealing that of my five or six pairs, most are higher than these.

“And you can walk in three and four inch heels?” my mother quizzed.

I nodded. Mum sighed. “I'm desperate to wear some flats though... I've had these on since Sunday morning.” I said

“Well you've only got yourself to blame.”

“Err... I did pack some plimsolls, but you won't let me have them.” I reminded her.

“You can't wear plimsolls with a dress like that.” my mother replied, clearly humouring me.

“That's not the point Mum.”

“And what is your point?” she asked.

“The point is... I brought plenty of normal clothes and it's you who's making me dress like this.”

“You said you liked women's clothes.”

“I don't like this.” I grimaced. “And I certainly don't like wearing women's clothes here where the curtains twitch every time you make me walk the dog or send me to the shops or walk all the way to and from Mrs Dixon's.”

“You said you didn't care what the neighbours thought and... how did you put it... I am what I am and I like who I am.” my mother retorted.

“Yeah but this isn't me.” I whined, grabbing the skirt of my bland brown frock. “This is you trying to humiliate me.”

“And do you feel humiliated?” she asked.

“Of course... no eighteen year old would wear something like this... let alone that skirt and blouse you got me.”

“Well I'm glad you feel humiliated.” my mother told me. “How do you think I felt seeing you wearing that tarty little dress on Sunday?”

“I dunno.” I gulped. “I had no intention of you ever finding out.”

“Well I did find out.”

“And thanks to you the whole village knows.” I spat.

“Good.” my mother bluntly replied. “If you can brazenly parade around Brighton dressed like that everyday you'll damn well spend everyday in Oakham dressed like that too.”

“But it's different there... no one bats an eyelid.” I claimed. “...and I don't wear women's clothes everyday.” I added.

“Well you do now.” my mother stated.

“Roll on Saturday.” I dryly said as I grabbed my handbag and Billy's lead. I checked my reflection as I pulled in the fleece top my mother was letting me wear whilst walking Billy in the evenings. I spark up a cigarette in the alley and smoke it as we stroll along the busy B road. I decide to wait until the copse before checking my phone. After three days of silence, I doubt that Kelly will contact me now so I delay the disappointment for another ten minutes... and ten minutes later as I perch on a tree stump whilst Billy runs around the copse, the predicted disappointment comes. “Bitch.” I grumble as I power down my phone.

One by one the street lights illuminate as Billy and I stroll back down to the lane to the busy B road. I'm sure the passing cars will see me as a young woman as they hurtle past; illuminating me in their headlights. I lurk in the alley beside my mother's house for a few moments as I suck the final few puffs out of my cigarette before stubbing it out and dropping the butt in the wheelie bin. I notice the neighbours curtains twitch as I cross the gravel driveway. “Any word from Kelly?” my mother asked.

“No.” I grumble.

“Good.”

“It's not good.” I retort. “She's still got something of mine.”

“What thing?” my mother asked.

“Nothing.” I replied. “Nothing much any way.”

“Kelly said she'd given me everything, so if you tell me what it is...”

“It's nothing Mum.” I stated.

Mum responded with a sneer but other than that, nothing more was said on the matter. I briefly checked my phone again before bed but both predictably and disappointingly, there was no message or missed call from Kelly.

Next morning I woke with the turquoise polyester nightdress ruched around my thighs. The horrid new dress wasn't on the back of the door where I'd hung it. I yawned all the way to the kitchen where my mother was making fresh coffee. “Go and put your shoes on Steven... you know I don't like you wondering around in bare feet.” my mother instructed.

“Where's the dress you bought me yesterday?” I asked.

“I've put it away.” my mother replied. “You can wear your skirt & blouse again now they've been laundered.”

“I hate that skirt and blouse!” I whined.

“I know you do.” my mother heartlessly replied. I frowned. She told me she had work to do and suggested some chores that won't disturb her; such as dusting, cleaning the windows (inside only) and wiping the windowsills, changing her bedding and cleaning all the cupboard doors in the kitchen. “...and we're running low on milk so if you don't mind popping to the mini-mart.” she suggested.

“Why can't you just pop down in the car?” I quizzed. “It won't take more than five minutes.”

“Whilst you're here I don't have to.” she replied. “Plus, the fresh air will do you good.” she added.

Mum took herself to her home office (AKA my old bedroom) and with nothing better to do, I got on with the chores she'd given me which were interrupted several times when she requested I fetch her a cup of coffee.

By eleven AM, the milk was running low and Billy needed his lunchtime walk, so yet again I was faced with having to walk through the village wearing the most horrendous outfit. I decided to go the long way round; skirting the village via the quiet lanes around the old rectory. This also meant I could avoid the postman who I spotted delivering to the houses about five doors down. I scurried down the alley besides my mother's house and headed to the old station road; a relatively quite lane with little traffic. This much longer route would also avoid the twitching curtains and bewildered villagers, at least on the way to the shop, I figured.

What I didn't bank on was the obtusely blunt charwoman outside the old rectory who, after a double glance, loudly proclaimed that I must be the boy they've all heard about. She looked me up and down, sneering at my attire. I focussed on her royal blue tabard and gulped. “You transvestites would be taken a lot more seriously if you knew how to dress.” she stated. “Where on earth did you find that skirt?”

“My mother gave it to me.” I humbly replied, before mumbling my way through an explanation of sorts. “I wouldn't wear this in a million years! It's my mother who's making me wear it.” I claimed. “It wouldn't be so bad if she didn't keep sending me to the shop and taking the dog for a walk.” I added.

A wry smile swept the woman's face. “Ah... so it's a punishment of sorts.” she said.

“I guess.” I frowned as she looked me up and down. “Well... I'd best get going.” I said, tugging on Billy's leash.

“I suppose you had.” she retorted. “See you again.” she said in a cheery yet sarcastic tone.

“Bye.” I dryly replied. “Come on boy.” I said to the dog. I could feel her watching me all the way to the end of the lane. Nosy old bat, I thought as I headed into the village... past the pond and thatched cottages, the public house and on toward the mini-mart. The cashier is his usual cheery self, although like everyone else in Oakham, he can't help but look at me with bemusement and I can't help but feel like I'm in a Little Britain sketch.

We saunter home through the residential streets and alleyways. I imagine I'm wearing something nice. Something of my own. A denim skirt with a simple vest or a nice summery dress maybe. I wish I'd packed a few things now, but wonder if Mum would have confiscated them anyway, and still made me wear this horrible ensemble in public. Probably, I mused.

Mum wore a face like thunder when I returned home. “What?” I asked in a guilty tone, although I had no idea why she looked so angry. Mum held an official looking letter aloft. “What's that?” I asked.

“It's from the college.” Mum said. “An invoice for next year's tuition fees, and an attendance report.” she informed me. I gulped. There's was no lying my way out of the fact that my attendance rate has dropped from 80% in the first term to 38% last term, although I did claim I was ill a few times. Mum ordered me to sit whilst she gave me the third degree. “I pay twelve hundred pounds on your tuition fees and this is how you repay me?!” she barked. “I pay four hundred pounds a month paying for your flat, plus your allowance...” she added. “...then you didn't budget for your gas and electric, and I had to pay that for you as well... and you can't even be bothered to go to college??”

I claimed I did a lot of studying from my flat, or in the library, but my mother wasn't having any of it. “Please Mum!” I begged. “Don't do that.”

“I wouldn't mind if you qualified for any grants... but I've forked out over ten thousand pounds this last year. There's no way I'm going to fork out another ten grand. Honestly Steven. I thought it was bad enough finding out that you've been spending my money on women's clothes. Now it turns out that I’ve been funding your entire double life!”

I apologised numerous times. I promised I'd buckle down next year. I pleaded with her not to contact my landlord and cancel my tenancy and tried my very best to convince her that I did want to complete my college course... but my mother wouldn’t budge. Who can blame her? “I'm gonna go back to Brighton anyway.” I said.

“And do what?” she asked. “Get a job?” she asked. “Because it'd better be a good one. You won't get any housing assistance until you're twenty-one... and I certainly won't be subsidising you.”

With no work experience or decent qualifications, I'm unlikely to get anything more than part time bar work. There's no way I could afford to live in Brighton without support. “Well I can't stay here... there's nothing in Oakham.” I defiantly sighed.

“Well it's either here or the streets.” my mother retorted. “I'm not going to throw you out but it's entirely up to you Steven.” she said.

I took myself out into the back garden for a cigarette and a think. In fact I had two cigarettes and neither of them did anything to calm my nerves. I was looking forward to going back to Brighton in a couple of days and now it looks like I won't be going back at all. From the middle of the lawn I looked at the house, the patio doors and my reflection in them. The breeze swept my light perma-pleat skirt around my calves. The prospect of staying here indefinitely didn't sit easy with me, but what choice do I have? I'm too young to get Governmental help with housing and Mum's too well off for me to get free college tuition or funding for my living expenses... so I'm scuppered. How things can change so drastically in such a short space of time I’ll never know.

When I returned indoors, Mum was in her home office, talking to someone on the phone. I eavesdropped for a moment and heard enough to work out that she was speaking to my landlord in Brighton. I didn't listen for more than a moment before skulking to the tiny spare bedroom. It's not even big enough to put a wardrobe in and as I sit nervously on the bed, I consider the prospect of this being my home for the foreseeable future. I sat alone of a few moments before my mother appeared in the doorway. “Well that's one thing sorted.” she sternly stated. “Your rents paid until the end of the month and he wants your things out by then.”

I gulped and looked up at my mother through pitiful eyes. “Then what?” I timidly asked. “You can't keep me here.” I said as my head dropped. “Not like this.” I added as I stared at my garish skirt and earthy brown blouse.

“It's entirely up to you if you stay or go Steven.” she told me. “You'll always have a home here but after this week's revelations, you live here on my terms, not yours.” she said. “Understand?”

I gulped and nodded.

“Good.” she said. “Come with me.”

I followed my mother to the front door. “Where are we going?” I asked as she picked up her bunch of keys.

“Not far.” she said before opening the front door.

I sheepishly followed her round to the gate that leads to our garden. Propped against the side of the house is six bags of gravel which need raking out over the rutted driveway. Mum unlocks the garage and fetches me a rake. “I can't do that dressed like this.” I whined.

“Would you rather wear your little blue number?” she asked. I hung my head as she pushed the rake into my hands. “Thought not.” she said.

Collin's curtains weren't the only ones that twitched as I spent a good hour raking the gravel driveway whilst wearing the most inappropriate attire. Shame cursed through me each time I dragged the rake noisily through the gravel. I prayed for a sink-hole to open up beneath my feet... but I had no such luck. I kept my head down as I heard a car trundle around the corner. I glanced and recognised the racing green Range Rover that was pulling up by the grass verge as Mrs Dixon's. I reluctantly greeted her as she trod over the gravel. “You're doing a good job Steven.” she said. “Is your mother in?”

“Yeah.” I replied. “Just go in.” I said.

Eventually I reckoned the gravel was flat and even enough, so leant the rake against the wall and returned indoors. Mum's already told her friend all about my disappointing college attendance report, that she's cancelled the tenancy on my flat and will no longer be financing my 'life of luxury' in Brighton. I loiter in the hallwal as my mother is telling Mrs Dixon that she fully intends to keep me busy now I'm back. “...he'll be earning his room and board, mark my words.”

“And so he should.” Mrs Dixon agreed. “It must have cost you thousands, what with his tuition fees, rent and weekly allowance.” she added.

Mum nodded. “About ten to be exact.” she said, glancing at me as I sheepishly entered. “I certainly won't be spending another ten thousand on him.” she added.

“So he's back for good?” Mrs Dixon asked.

Mum nodded. “At least for the time being. He needs to weigh up his options. Don't you?” she said to me. I frowned and gulped and nodded, before humbly asking of she wanted me to do anything else. “You can wipe that dust off your shoes.” she suggested.

I took myself to my room and left Mum alone with her friend. I kicked off my shoes and wiped them with a tissue, then slumped on the bed; sighing, sulking and generally feeling sorry for myself. This time last week I had a life, a girlfriend, a flat, loads of clothes (both nice and normal) and a plan. Now I’ve got nothing but a tiny box room, a pissed off mother and two horrendous outfits. Even if I wanted to I doubt my mother would let me wear my little blue frock again, and the brown thing she got me isn't much better than this skirt and blouse. I pull my hair from its pony tail and run my fingers through it, before tying it higher and tighter

I turned my phone on knowing full well that there'd be no message from Kelly. I proceeded to compose possibly the longest text I've ever sent, explaining that my mother's gone 'mental' since finding me wearing a dress. That she's taken all my stuff away and won't let me go back to college and am stuck in the box room with nothing to call my own. I try to describe what my mother's making me wear and how humiliating it is... but decide to delete all those words and mention nothing of my attire in the epic message. I end it with a final plea for her to contact me because I still really need that 'tiny shiny' thing off her. I press 'send' and power down my phone.

“Mrs Dixon gone?” I ask when I eventually saunter through to the lounge.

“Yes.” Mum replied. “She's kindly agreed to help clear out your flat this weekend.”

“But... we've got 'til the end of the month.”

“The sooner it's dealt with the better.” my mother informed me.

Come Saturday morning, Mrs Dixon turned up in her Range Rover at around 9.30am. “You look nice Steven.” my mother's friend said as she looked me up and down with a bemused glare. My mother had made me wear the bland brown frock along with a pair of cheap 15 denier black tights that really didn't work with it. As usual I willingly applied my own make-up but wore a lipstick of my mother's choosing. This time it's a deep mauve colour that no one this side of fifty would wear, and no one that side of fifty would wear with this dress!

I sheepishly climb into the back of her Range Rover with Billy on the floor by my feet. I've been eager to return to Brighton all week, but not under these circumstances! We head out of the village and towards Basington, but rather than skirting south and east around the ring road, she heads north. I soon queried the route, and wasn't happy with the reply. I'm being dropped off at my grandmother's house and my Mother and Mrs Dixon will clear out my flat on their own. I grimace as I visualise some of things they'll find. I've definitely got far more girl's clothes than boy's and some of things they're going to find in my lingerie drawer would be embarrassing if I was an eighteen year old girl. Stockings, suspender belts, big knickers, little panties, thongs, teddies, French knickers, camisole tops, cropped vests and a good handful of bras that Kelly either bought me or told me to buy. As stated, I don't really wear a bra because I don't have any tits. I'm a guy who likes girl's clothes, not a guy trying to be a woman... but Kelly had her tastes and loved seeing me in matching panty and bra sets. I've even got some chicken fillets that Kelly bought me. I cringe as I consider the very likely prospect of my mother finding them.

“Oh my!” my grandmother said as she laid her eyes upon me. “Where on earth did you get that frock from?” she gasped.

“Mum chose it.” I grumbled as I timidly perched on a chair; my nylon clad knees nervously knocked together as my mother looked down on me. I tore my eyes from her stern expression and looked at my perplexed grandmother. I smiled at her timidly before asking after her welfare. She said she was fine but the doctor has advised that she needs plenty of exercise, before suggesting I take her for a walk this afternoon. I gulped and said, “Er... yes... course.” before gulping again.

“Anything you need mother, he'll do.” my mother stated, listing dusting, hoovering, washing up and mowing the lawn. “...and don't be afraid to send him shopping for you.” she added.

My slightly batty grandmother nodded and smiled. Mum kissed her on the forehead, scowled at me and returned to Mrs Dixon who waited outside. “Do you want a cup of tea or anything?” I timidly asked. My grandmother nodded and smiled and didn't take her eyes off me as I headed to the kitchen. I looked down at myself a growled. These thin black tights are so cheap that they've already gone baggy at the knees. I hitch them up then fill the kettle. As it boils, I consider all the things that I really don't want my mother to find in my flat. “Oh christ, my diary.” I quietly grumble. I hope she doesn't read it.

Granny makes small talk as we sip our tea. First she mentions the weather, which has been fine for weeks, then she complains about politics, then asks if I like wearing dresses. “Yes.” I honestly tell her. “But not like this.” I add, smoothing my frock over my lap. “Mum's making me wear this to punish me... she knows I hate it.”

“It's too big for you.” she said.

“I know.” I frowned. “It fits like a sack.” I added. “But all I've got is this and a skirt & blouse which believe it or not, are actually worse.” I told her.

She smiled and nodded. I wasn't sure if she was even listening. I soon began pottering around with a duster, just for something to do really. I wiped the kitchen worktops and table, washed the few dishes then swept the stairs and hoovered the hallway. Early in the afternoon, my grandmother recalled her doctors advice and suggested we go for a stroll around the churchyard. “Have you got a raincoat or something I could borrow?” I shyly asked.

“Yes... of course.” she replied. “Have a look on the hooks.”

There's a row of coat hooks by the front door with a number of jackets hanging there. I choose a knee length one, which is a standard beige mackintosh. I check my reflection and look OK, although my tights have yet again gone wrinkly at the knees. I decide to take them off before returning to the lounge where my grandmother waits. “That looks a bit better.” she said, before commenting on my lack of tights and my lack of leg hair.

“They were going wrinkly.” I timidly replied.

“I noticed.” she said. “I can't abide cheap tights. Why people buy them is beyond me.”

I didn't reply but did agree, although it wasn't beyond me why my mother bought them. My theory is that my wants me to look as ridiculous as possible, probably to teach me a lesson and condition me into never wanting to wear women's clothes ever again. “You ready?” I asked as my grandmother picked up her handbag.

“I think so.” she replied as she double checked the contents. “Keys and purse.” she said to no one but herself. “Now... if any one asks, you're my granddaughter.” she said. “Your name's Jane and you've got a sore throat.” she added. “If anyone knew my grandson was a transvestite I'd never hear then end of it.”

“OK.” I said. Sometimes she's right on the ball, other times she's completely batty. I wonder if she puts it on, or if her condition comes in waves. I suspect the latter. I check my reflection in the mirror that hangs above her fireplace. The jacket looks great. It's that timeless style seen in many a fifties film-noir movie as well as on the high streets of today. I imagine I’m wearing something really nice beneath it; a pin striped shift dress or maybe a pencil skirt and white blouse. The only thing I don't like is my lipstick. “Oh.” I declare, grabbing my handbag. “Do you mind if I...” I say as I retrieve my own pale pink lipstick. I grab a tissue and remove the mauve. “Mum'll probably go mad but...” I apply my own lipstick and roll my lips together.

“That's nicer for a girl your age.” my grandmother said. “Pity you're just a boy.” she dryly added.

“Yeah.” I timidly replied. “Not much I can do about that.”

“Well at least you're quite slight.” she said. “How tall are you now?”

“Five seven.” I replied. Being neither tall nor broad does work in my favour. I'd hate to be one of those six foot trannies with shovels for hands.

I felt confident as we stepped out. Granny linked on to my arm and we strolled slowly down the garden path. Billy trotted lethargically along side. Thankfully the church yard is only five minutes down the road, and doubly thankfully, we're the only people there. We stroll around the looping path and rest for a while on a bench before slowly strolling back. My grandmother did greet a couple of people we passed but none stopped to talk. Their eyes tended to be on the grumpy looking beagle rather them my grandmother or myself, so I was spared having to pretend that I was her sickly granddaughter who's been silenced by a sore throat.

Granny made spam sandwiches for lunch, followed by a cherry Bakewell and a pot of tea. I tried to help but she insisted, although I did wash up afterwards. We watched a couple of old films in the afternoon on one of those Freeview channels that shows nothing but black and white movies back to back. The first was laughably bad with dreadful dialogue being frequently interrupted by noisy props. The second was much better; a wartime movie the name of which escapes me now, but my mother and Mrs Dixon returned two thirds of the way through so we missed the ending.

This time Mrs Dixon came in and I made them a pot of tea along with the remaining cherry Bakewells served on a plate. They made small talk for a while. I timidly perched on the edge of my chair; knees nervously knocking together and my fidgety fingers rested lightly upon them. My mother kept casting me menacing glances as they twittered on about all things trivial. I couldn't help but worry about all the things my mother will have found when clearing out my flat.

Within half an hour I once again found myself in the back of Mrs Dixon’s Range Rover with Billy by my feet. Only this time I was sat besides several large bin bags filled with my stuff. In the back is more bin bags and boxes. Mum barely says a word as we return home, not to me anyway.

Mrs Dixon parks not on our drive, but a little further away, opposite the neighbours house. Neither she nor my mother help me unpack the car which meant no less than twelve journeys too and from, crunching over the gravel carrying boxes and bulbous bin bags one by one. Each time the curtains twitched and each time I prayed for that sink hole to open up beneath me. The bags and boxes are stacked along one wall of the kitchen-come-dining room. Mum pours herself and Mrs Dixon a modest glass of Chardonnay, which they enjoy whilst I'm unloading my stuff. “Is that everything?” Mum asked when I fetched in the final bag.

I nodded and nervously glanced at Mrs Dixon. “I've shut the car.” I timidly said.

“Thank you.” she said, casting me a smug smile that made me feel all the more uncomfortable. She turned to my mother and said “Well I suppose I'd best leave you to it.”

Mum thanked her for helping. “And don't forget what I said... anything you need doing, just give me a call.” my mother added. After seeing Mrs Dixon to her car, Mum returned and cast me a dagger like stare. “You've certainly acquired an awful lot of stuff since you've been away.” she said, casting her eyes over the seven bulky bin bags and five big boxes. “They'll have to go in the garage for the time being.”

Knowing that most of my clothes don't quite match my gender, I couldn't help but feel as guilty as hell. “I'll need to sort through it first.” I timidly requested.

“It's already sorted to an extent.” my mother informed me. “Which wasn't hard to sort since you kept everything so orderly.” she added.“I was fully expecting to find a bomb-site like your bedroom here used to be.” Mum paused and sucked the air through her teeth. “What I didn't expect to find was a pink duvet, pink curtains, a fluffy pink heart shaped rug and a pink feather boa draped around a dressing table mirror!” she exclaimed.

“Sorry... I guess I should have warned you.”

“Well I should have guessed, especially after Sunday's revelations.” my mother sighed.

After a short silence, I timidly reiterated my request to have a root through to get some of my things. “Do you know what's where?”

“It depends what you're looking for.”

“Jeans. T shirts.” I stated. “Trainers.” I added.

Mum pointed out a box marked with a K at the bottom of the pile. “Everything else can go in the garage.” she said, removing the garage door key from its hook.

“Can't I have a root through first?” I asked.

“You can have a root through that box... after you've put everything else in the garage.”

I was rightly suspicious of my mother. I knew full well how controlling she could be long before last Sunday. “What's in it?” I gulped.

“A selection of your clothes, shoes, underwear.” she said. “Your diary.” she added.

“You didn't read it did you?” I bluntly asked.

“Of course not.” she insisted. “Your bedroom alone spoke volumes.”

I hung my head and recalled the bedroom in my flat. Against the plain white walls, flat-pack vinyl clad furniture and biscuit brown carpet, there's an awful lot of pink; curtains, bedding, rug, lamp shades, slippers, dressing gowns, ornaments and trinkets. I mentally homed in on my dressing table which I loved to organise; nail varnish on one side, lipstick on the other and my pink vintage vanity brush placed perfectly straight and perfectly centred.

“...if you were an eighteen year old girl it'd be a lovely room.” my mother continued. “If a little infantile.” she added. I cringed as she mentioned my Disney Princess nightie case that contained a lilac Rapunzel style baby doll nightie. I bit my lip as she listed a handful of titles from my collection of girls children's books. I gulped when she quizzed why an eighteen year old boy would have a girl's high school uniform. “You even put your name on all the name tags.” my mother told me.

My hand found my forehead and began rubbing at it. “I can't explain Mum.” I gulped. “I liked pretending it was my old school uniform.”

“And there was me thinking you'd bought it for one of those School Disco parties.” Mum retorted.

Shit! Why didn't I just say that? My mother pursed her lips and shook her head. I hung mine. Mum shifted a couple of bags and gained access to the box marked K. She heaved it onto the table. I gulped as she removed the lid. I didn't take my eyes off the box and my mother didn't take hers off me. All of a sudden, my baby pink Hello Kitty laptop cover seems so very wrong. But at least she's letting me have my laptop. Beside it is my diary. Lilac fur with a shiny silver clasp and a little heart shaped padlock. I spy my blue fleece jacket folded neatly, but can only guess what's beneath. I hesitate before taking hold of my diary. I check the lock and my mother reassures me that she hasn't opened it. “Yeah I know.” I timidly reply. I remove my laptop and put them both to one side. I glance nervously at my mother, as if seeking permission before I lift the folds of beep blue fabric.

“Go on... have a look.” my mother said. I wanted to die as I pulled the jacket aside to see a folded garment in burgundy. As my trembling hand reaches for it, my hesitant eyes meet my mother's. A wry smile swept her face. “I can only imagine you liked pretending you had a job.” she smugly suggested.

How does an eighteen year old boy explain why he's got a burgundy housekeeper's frock with baby pink trim and a baby pink tabard with burgundy trim? Mum's right; I did often pretend I worked for a cleaning agency that had only one style of uniform for both male and female employees. I liked imagining a world where certain job roles put normal guys in women's clothing; the hotel whose room attendants all dress as chambermaids; black frock, white apron and little lace cap. The restaurant whose table staff all wear little black skirts, black tights and crisp white blouses. The agency that insists all their staff wear a smart skirt-suit with high heels, regardless of their gender. The budget airline on which all cabin crew wear a traditional air-hostess uniform... even the high school that has made the girl's uniform compulsory for both boys and girls, followed by an exclusive finishing school where both boys and girls are trained in the art of formal femininity. I tell my mother none of this. I don’t have to. She's already guessed that I like pretending.

Beneath my housekeeping frock is a plaid pinafore dress. I like it but it's daggy. Something a plain Jane might wear to college over a nice blouse with a pair of cream knitted tights. “Are they all going to be dresses?” I asked, frowning.

“There's a skirt, and some culottes.” Mum said. “A couple of blouses.”

“So you're going to keep me dressed as a woman indefinitely?”

“Mmm hmm.” my mother nodded. “At least for the remainder of the summer.”

“But Mu-um!” I protested.

“It's exactly what you'd be doing had you returned to Brighton.” she stated.

“But this is Oakham!”

“It is... which is precisely why I'm strictly controlling what you can and can't wear.” my mother informed me. “I won't have you parading around in tarty little dresses or slutty mini skirts.” she said. “You'll dress conservatively whilst you're here.”

“But Mu-um... I'll be the laughing stock if wear this stuff everyday.” I said, rummaging further to find my dark green spotty culottes which I've never really liked, plus a knitted cardigan and camisole twin-set in a middle aged shade of dusty rose. “What will the neighbours think?”

“When I asked you what the neighbours might think, you said they could think what they like.” my mother reminded me. “You know what you are and you like who you are.. remember!”

“But these are all clothes I was planning to sell on Ebay.” I claimed. “I never wore them!”

“Would you rather just have that dress?” she asked, nodding at my current horrendous frock. “...and your lovely pleated skirt and nice brown blouse?” she added. “..and nothing else?” I frowned and skewed my jaw. “I thought not.”

“I rather be able to chose for myself.” I said, finding a pale pink blouse, an ivory blouse, my brown corduroy dungaree dress, a black box pleated skirt and a royal blue tea dress that I've also never liked. Below this is some of my underwear. I root beneath my laptop and discover my vanity case, a pair of black Mary Jane's, a pair of heeled loafers, my vintage vanity brush and my jewellery box, along with more items of underwear. My mother points out that for a cross dresser who claims to not wear a bra... I have an awful lot of bras. “Kelly bought me all the bras.” I said.

“And the chicken fillets too?” she asked. My jaw dropped a little. I nodded. “Don't look for them. They're not in there.” she said as my eyes drifted toward the box. “...and most of your lingerie we deemed far too racey for Oakham, so you won't find that either.” she added.

Saying 'we' reminded me that Mrs Dixon has also seen the contents of my drawers and wardrobe. I summed up the small selection that had been packed in this particular box. There's barely enough for a week, and there's only the dungee-dress and plaid pinafore that I actually like. The pleated skirt's OK if I worked in a library maybe, but the tea-dress and culottes were bought on a whim and I'd never wear them. “I'll need more than this Mum.”

“There's plenty.” she said. “Plus there's not much storage space in the spare room.” she added.

“There's plenty of drawer space for jeans and T shirts.” I hinted.

“You won't be wearing jeans or T shirts for some time yet young man.” my mother replied. “If gallivanting around in women's clothes is what you do in Brighton, you'll damn well do it here!”

“I only wear them occasionally.” I claimed. “I dress as a guy most of the time.”

“The amount of male clothes you have compared to female clothes suggests otherwise.” my mother retorted. “Mrs Dixon counted fourteen pairs of heels and six pairs of flats. Only three of those were men's shoes.” she claimed. “Needless to say you'll only be wearing heels for the foreseeable future.”

“Mum you can't do this!” I insisted.

“No one's making you stay Steven. However should you chose to stay, there are going to be certain conditions.” she reiterated. “Take those to your room.” she said. “You can even get changed if you like.” she added. “I'll put these in the garage.” she said as she marched over to the pile of bags and grabbed one. I just gorped as she opened the back door and marched out over the lawn. I don't know why but I decided to help. I grabbed a bag in each hand and carried them to the garage. I glanced around as the light flickered into life and got momentarily excited seeing my bike, but maybe not. When I carried the final box to the garage, I felt that I was resigning myself to something.

We return indoors and Mum asks if I am going to change my clothes. “I'm half waiting for you to tell me what to wear.” I gulped.

“Anything you like.” she replied. “Apart from this.” she added as she placed her fingers on the folded housekeeper's dress. “You'll be wearing this whilst you're doing your chores in the morning.”

“Oh Mu-um!” I whined.

“That's what you bought it for.” she said. I hung my head before reaching for my laptop. “I'll keep hold of that.” she said, quickly putting her palm flat on the pink Hello Kitty case. “I want to check if you were telling the truth.”

“About what?” I gulped.

“About you skipping college to study at home... I presume all your coursework is saved.” she added.

“Er... yeah.” I replied, biting my lip.

The thing is... my mother works as a freelance software engineer, digital security analyst and systems architect. She earns a ridiculous amount of money working for numerous big businesses and I imagine could easily crack my passwords and find out everything from just how little actual course work I’ve done, to how many clothes and accessories I've looked at, let alone purchased. She could probably crack FaceBank's security and unearth my video chats with Kelly. I really hope she can't do that but... I gulp. “Can I have this?” I asked, referring to my fluffy girl's diary.

“You can.” she said. “Providing you continue to write in it.”

“Oh I err... don't.” I stammered.

“Don't lie to me Steven.” she bluntly interrupted. “It's clearly well thumbed and the lock is scratched from all the times you've opened it.” she said. “Plus I found last year's diary too.” she added. “The Barbie one.” she smirked. “I trust you've still got the key for that somewhere?” she said. “It'd be a shame if you lost it... such a tiny thing.”

I gulped. The keys to both diaries are in my jewellery box. I wonder if she's routed through and found them... and I wonder if she has read my diaries, but deep down I trust that she hasn't. The search history on my laptop would be far more revealing than the contents of my diary anyway. But the keys to my diaries aren't my main concern... there's more pressing issues than that. I took the box to my room and plonked it and myself on the bed.

I removed my vanity case, perched it on my lap and looked inside. I half expected many items to have been removed, but everything seems to be there. Numerous eye-shadow palettes, a dozen mascaras, a handful of eye-liners, fifteen maybe twenty different lipsticks, ten shades of nail varnish, plus loads of hair accessories. I opened my jewellery box and likewise, all seems to be present; a few necklaces and bracelets and loads of earrings... plus the two small keys that fit the little padlocks on my diaries. Should I wear some earrings? I wonder. I put a pair of small silver studs in before rooting through my handbag to retrieve the dangly blue agate earrings I'd hastily removed last Sunday and dropped them into my jewellery box. I check my reflection in my vintage vanity brush, which has a mirror on one side and a hair brush on the other and refresh my pale pink lipstick. I remove the clothes and and put them to one side before sorting through the underwear.

I'm mortified knowing that my mother has rooted through my knicker drawer. I suppose it wasn't easy for her either. I guess all my nice lingerie is in one of bags in the garage because all my mother has put in the box is more of my big control knickers, some plain crop tops, an ivory suspender belt and a white suspender girdle. There's several unopened boxes of stockings and maybe a dozen pairs of tights, each neatly bundled just as I'd left them in my sock drawer. Up until now I've had no use for the drawers in the box-bedroom. I put the underwear in one, the hosiery in another and begin to sort the pile of clothes, but they all need hanging rather than folding in a drawer. I lay them flat on my bed and weigh up the options. Of all the clothes I love, my mother's done a pretty good job of selecting the worst of a good bunch.

But the spotty culottes aside, everything is better than the garish dress I’m wearing. My eye is drawn to my brown corduroy dungaree-dress. Normally I’d wear a jumper or as t shirt with it, but having only two rather 'pretty' blouses, neither of which I'd put with a casual dungee-dress, I have to choose one. I'm edging toward pink because it's a less fussy in design. Typically, I change my mind and decide to wear the ivory blouse and plaid pinafore. The pinafore dress will conceal its frilly bib and if I wore a pair of cream opaque tights for the ultimate 'preppy' look, I imagine my mother might approve. Then I wondered why I'm even considering what my sodding mother wants and opt for the dungee-dress and baby pink blouse. The two pairs of shoes in the box both have a higher heel than the courts I’ve been trotting about in all week. I don a pair of opaque chocolate brown tights and slip my feet into the brown loafers with a substantial three inch heel.

I don't look great but I think I look nice enough... which makes a change. But what will my mother think? I sheepishly saunter through to the lounge where Mum looked me up and down, but made neither a comment nor paid compliment. She just looked and returned her attention to the TV. I nervously sat and glared at the TV too. Eventually, I break the uncomfortable silence by saying “Thanks for letting me have my own clothes Mum.”

“Think nothing of it.” she grumpily replied.

“I'll need some hangers.” I said. “And more hooks.” I added.

“There's some in the cupboard on the landing... in fact you may as well hang them in there.” she said.

“Thanks.” I meekly replied as my mother looked me up and down again... and again. Her eyes lingered on my footwear; a pair a brown loafers I'd found in a charity shop months ago. I looked down at them, then to my mother and asked if she's ever going to let me wear male clothes.

“You clearly prefer wearing women's clothing.” she stated.

“I like both.” I claimed.

“Since when?”

“I dunno.” I glumly said. “Always I guess.” I replied. “I used to wonder why girls could dress like boys if they wanted but we couldn't dress like them... you know, like at school... they could wear trousers one day and a skirt the next but we were stuck in long pants all year round.” I explained. “You remember about five years ago when a load of boy from a school in Exeter wore skirts...?”

“Vaguely... was it because they couldn't wear shorts in the summer?”

“Yeah... I used to dream about doing that... just one day would have been nice... to see what it was like.” I told her.

“And did you?”

“Course not.” I said. “Never had the guts... or a school skirt.”

“If you’d told me a might have bought you one.” my mother said, although I didn't believe her.

“You'd have been livid... just like you are now.”

“I'm livid because of your secrets and lies Steven.”

“But you understand don't you? It's not easy for a boy to say 'hey mum... I've got loads of school trousers, can I have a skirt... you know, for when it's sunny?'...”

“I'd like to believe that being honest with one's mother is easy.” my mother retorted. “So...” she said after a short silence. “When was the first time?”

“In pre-school I guess... although I don't remember it. I remember you saying I went straight for the dresses in the dressing up box.”

“Lots of boys did... you were only four.” she replied

“Then there was that wedding... if it counts.”

“When you were a page boy?” Mum knowingly asked.

“And wore girls shoes, girls tights, a girl's blouse and velvet pedal pushers.”

“It was a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit.”

“Maybe so. It was really girlie too.”

“Everyone said how cute you looked.” Mum replied.

“Who's wedding was it anyway?” I asked. It was one of my mother's second cousins, a couple she hardly hears from these days. “Have you got any photos?” I asked.

“Maybe in a photo album somewhere.” Mum replied, adding that she might root them out one day. “When was the first time you properly dressed as a girl?” she asked. “How old were you?”

“I dunno. Fifteen I guess... I was round at Hazel McGuire's house and her parents were out.” I timidly confessed. We were rummaging in the attic, looking for a board game or something and she found her old flowergirl dress. As she held the garment against herself and recalled the day she wore it, I casually asked why they don't have flowerboys.

“They do have flowerboys you know.” my mother interrupted. “And some of them do wear dresses.”

“Yeah I know.” .

“Did you wear it?”

“No it was far too small... Hazel was about seven when her mum remarried.” I said. “Then she found her sisters' bridesmaid's dresses...” As I recall, after deciding she was going to try one of them on... she suggested I wore the other. I remember trying to feign hesitance, coaxing her into encouraging me, then reluctantly agreeing.

“I see... was it nice?”

“It was gorgeous!” I exclaimed, biting my lip as I recalled the experience.

“Hmm.” my mother groaned, somewhat disapprovingly.

“Then about six months after that... in Year Twelve... Hazel tried the embarrass me by telling her friend Kelly but Kelly said it was cool...”

“And that's when you started seeing Kelly?” my mother asked.

“We were just friends at first.” I glumly replied. We'd hang out and watch TV, criticising what the celebrities were wearing, she'd say what she would or wouldn't wear and having already experienced a really nice dress, so did I. I pointed out a dress in a magazine on day, a little flowery one and she said she had one just like it. It didn't take much for her to talk me into trying it and it didn't take long for her to have an outfit waiting for me whenever I visited.

“Didn't her parents mind?” my mother quizzed.

“No.” I shrugged. “It was a bit weird at times though... depending on what she made me wear.”

“Such as?”

“Her old school uniform on a Sunday afternoon.” I gulped. “But she'd dressed me up to look more St Trinian's than Queen Mary's College.”

“Did you always wear what she wanted?”

“Back then I did... I didn't have owt of my own.” I said. Mum asked when I began buying my own clothes. I described my nervous ramblings in the charity shops and shopping with Kelly so she could do the buying bit. Eventually I plucked up the courage to buy my own clothes; a pair of tights, leggings, a skinny T shirt maybe. Then we went to Brighton one Saturday and it was so liberal and relaxed, I not only felt comfortable buying women's clothes there, but even trying them on first.

“In the shops?” my mother gasped.

“Yeah.” I replied. On a few occasion I tried something on, bought it and walked out wearing it

“And what did people think?”

“It's Brighton. They didn't bat an eyelid.” I said. “Unlike here where curtains twitch in my wake every time I walk through the village.” I added.

“Well it's your lifestyle choice.”

“It is in Brighton... in Oakham I'd rather be a normal guy.”

“Well it's a little late for that.” my mother replied. “I for one have no issue with your lifestyle choice. I regret that you couldn't tell me about it years ago and that I had to find out the way I did... but I don't regret making you walk all the way from Mrs Dixon’s last Sunday. I was worried about my mother, angry at your deceit and needed to teach you lesson.” she told me. “Plus... Billy did need a walk.” she added.

“And what about Monday and Tuesday and everyday since?” I bluntly asked. “Still teaching me a lesson?”

“No... I'm encouraging your lifestyle choice.”

“Enforcing it more like.”

“Who you are in Brighton is who you'll be in Oakham.” my mother retorted.

“Who I am in Brighton is someone who wears what I like when I feel like it.” I said. “Sometimes it's a dress or a skirt but mostly it's jeans and a T shirt.”

“My roof my rules Steven.” she sternly reminded me. “You'll wear what you're told until I decide otherwise.”

“And how long will that be?”

Mum sighed. “Well I’m not sure... maybe until I've decided how you're going to repay me the tuitions fees I've wasted on the college course.” she suggested. “...or maybe until you've repaid me in full.” she said. I felt hard done by. That's about twelve-hundred pounds. I doubt she actually expects me to repay every penny and is only saying it for effect... to hammer home just how much trouble I’m in. I knew my ever increasing bunking off would come to a head eventually... but I figured it'd be next summer when I leave with an average exam pass. “Oh don't look so hard done by... it's not as if I’m asking for the four hundred pounds a month rent back, or the eighty pound weekly allowance... or the three hundred pounds for your gas and electricity bill in April.” my mother listed. “Compared to that lot, a mere twelve hundred pounds is nothing.”

“Where am I going to get twelve hundred pounds from?”

“The same place as everyone else Steven... you get it a little bit at a time, by working for it.”

“But I haven't got a job and no one's going to employ me dressed like this.” I retorted. “Certainly not in Oakham.”

“Like I say. I'm still deciding how you can repay me.”

I didn't want to start throwing any ideas around... but if she does insist on me repaying her, I could start selling my clothes on Ebay. I’ve done it before with items I didn't like or didn't fit but even I sold everything I'd only get a few hundred tops. It's an idea though.

I leave and hang my handful of clothes in the cupboard on the landing. Many of them I’m not looking forward to wearing and were due to be resold on Ebay Eventually I pop out into the back garden and smoke a cigarette. I've only four left and consider going to get another pack. Then I consider not... I'd only started smoking again because I was so stressed last Sunday. I'd stopped for over a year prior to that. I look at the imprint of pale pink lipstick on the filter. At least Mum's not making me wear a horrible shade, but has made it perfectly clear that I'll be wearing what she decides. I sigh, thinking of all the clothes I’d rather wear being bundled in bags and boxes in the garage.

When I return indoors I notice that the key for the garage isn't on its hook. Mum must be keeping it elsewhere. I fill up the kettle, pop my head around the sitting room door and ask my mother if she'd like a tea or coffee. She wants neither, but does get up to start preparing supper. I can feel her watch as I make myself a drink. “I really can't get over how confident you walk in those heels.” she said. “Are you as adept in stilettos?” she asked.

“Err... I'm OK.” I bashfully replied. “I tend to wear flats most of the time.”

“Yet your heels outnumber flat shoes three to one.”

“Yeah but you know how it is... I've got loads of shoes I hardly wear and just few pairs that I always wear.” I said. “Most of the time I'd dress down a nice outfit with a pair of plimsolls or trainers.”

“Hmm.” my mother frowned. “I do know how it is Steven but I'm not quite ready for having 'girl talk' with my teenage son.” she said. “Plus you're trying to pull the wool over my eyes... it's obvious that you wear high heels often.”

“I've worn them more this week than any other Mum.” I said. “I didn't potter around my flat in them.” I claimed.

“Well I'd think not... you had neighbours downstairs to consider.” my mother replied.

As usual, I tidied up after supper and took Billy for his evening walk, up the lane to the copse where he could rummage in the undergrowth. I perched on 'my' stump and turned on my phone. There's still no word from Kelly. I quickly tap out another text: Kelly... it's been a week and you still haven't replied. You know what I need. Another week will be six weeks since the last time. Please get in touch, then I won't need to pester you again. Stevie. I put an habitual 'x' at the end, but delete it before sending. My battery is down to twenty percent so I power down my phone and put it back in my handbag. I remove my cigarettes and light one, but it doesn't stop me worrying about Kelly's lack of contact or how long my mother's going to keep this charade up for.

When I return home, my mother's watching X Factor. Billy settles himself back into his bed and I timidly enter the lounge. I don't bother telling her that Kelly's still not been in touch. She'd only say 'good' or press me why it's so important I speak to her. We watch TV in relative silence. Mum sips at a glass of white wine but doesn't offer me one. After twenty minutes or so my mother takes the empty glass to the kitchen. I shyly follow and politely ask if I'm allowed one. “Yes but there's only a dribble left.” my mother replied, holding the bottle aloft. It's one third full which is two small glasses. “I'd go and get another but I’ve probably had one too many.” she said. “You wouldn't mind would you?”

“Going to the shop?” I knowingly quizzed. If I don't go now I'll have to go tomorrow because I’ve only got two cigarettes left... and after the week I've had, I feel like I deserve a glass of wine. It's nine-thirty and the shop shuts at ten, so I check my make up, refresh my lipstick, done my fleece, grab my handbag and leave. Colin's face appears in his window as I trot past in my noisy heels. They boom as I cross the iron railway bridge and crunch on the cinder path before click-clacking once more on the tarmacked pavements. It's nice to be wearing something decent for a change, and with the twilight looming, most curtains are closed so I don't feel like I'm being watched from all directions. A small gang of youths are assembled around the village bus stop. They fall silent and watch as I pass them by, but when I’m a few yards beyond them, one says to another “Do you reckon that's him?”

I guess after a week, the news of the tranny in the village has filtered down from the gossiping housewives to their kids. The shopkeeper looks me up and down as I enter. I smile though pursed nervous lips. Last week I’d claimed I was wearing a dress because my imaginary sister and her fictitious friends were having a bit of fun... and a week later I'm still wearing a dress. I grab a basket and fill it with milk, wine, bread and some crisps. “...and twenty Regal kingsize please.” I say as I put the basket on the counter.

“ID?” he asked. I removed it from my purse. “You know... normally that wouldn't be accepted.” he said. “A young woman with some guys ID.”

“Yeah well I'm not a young woman am I.” I dryly said. “But it's certainly my ID.”

“Yes I know... you're the talk of the village.” he told me.

“Tell me about it.” I frowned.

“That's eighteen pounds seventy-two please.”

I waved my debit card over the machine until it beeped approvingly. He bagged my items and handed it to me. “Thanks.” I said.

“See you again.” he said as I left.

The kids were still loitering at the bus stop and once again, all eyes were on me. “Are you a bloke?” one of the girls asked.

“Yeah... are you?” I retorted. One of her friends sniggered, until she elbowed him in the ribs.

“Are you a faggot?” she asked.

“No... are you?” I replied just as dryly. Everyone may have been 'cool' in Brighton but there's always some bell-end with a big mouth and a small mind. I guess the same goes for Oakham.

“Tranny!” she hollered once I'd walked past.

“Observant!” I hollered back.

By the time I returned home, it was ten o'clock and fully dark outside. “Do you mind if I kick my shoes off?” I asked when I delivered two glasses of wine to the sitting room.

“At this time of night you may as well get your nightie on.” my mother suggested.

“I hate that nightie.” I whined, before suggesting that she could have let me have some of my own nightwear.

“You only need one nightie.” she said, before insisting I wear it.

It's a colour and style that a middle aged woman would find questionable. The icy turquoise colour reminds me of mouthwash. The unflattering calf length fit and lacy frilly trim reminds me of old women. On an eighteen year old it's positively horrible and I guess my mother is fully aware of that.

“You didn't have to wash your make-up off.” my mother said when I returned wearing her unwanted nightie.

“No point wearing it with this thing.” I dryly replied. Mum sipped her wine and complimented it. “It's just a pinot grigio.” I replied, sipping my own. “What's on?” I asked.

“Not much.” Mum replied as she flicked through the TV channels. Eventually she settled on a rom-com which wasn't very funny but it saved us from trying to have an uncomfortable conversation. Between us we drank the bottle of wine and I felt positively tipsy when I finally went to bed.

In the morning, I felt a little groggy but I was a long way from feeling hung-over. My mother on the other hand was suffering from a headache and demanded alka-seltzer with her morning coffee. “I'm going to get dressed.” I said, leaving my mother clutching her skull.

“Er... just a minute.” she groaned before getting up and following me. I stood aside and let her lead the way to my room. She told me to get my tea dress from the cupboard on the landing and began opening my drawers. Most remain empty but two contain my underwear and hosiery.

“I'm not wearing a bra mum.” I said as she removed a plain white one.

“Yes you are.” she replied. “Call it a crop top if it makes you feel better.” she said as she put a pair of white control knickers on top of the bra, followed by a white suspender belt. The bra is a triple A cup and therefore virtually flat. Each item is very plain with minimal decorative trim and broad ¾” straps on both the bra and garters. I love wearing really nice lingerie but sometimes, when I'm imagining a scenario such as working as a cleaner, I like to wear plain, almost brutal undergarments... and it's mostly those that fill my drawer. Mum chooses a pair of honey coloured stockings and tells me to wear my black Mary Jane's, before giving me some privacy.

Having worn nothing but beige knickers all week, wearing some white ones does make a pleasant change. But they're still proper control knickers with a high waist and low leg and aren't exactly comfortable. Neither is the garter belt. It is unforgiving around the waist and clipping my stockings to the straps at the back is an unnecessary faff. I also hate the way the two straps at the front go loose when seated. I'd rather wear tights but there's something about stockings. Like a bra, you never forget you're wearing them. On the rare occasion that I do wear a bra, I always make sure that I fasten it properly; linking the clasp behind me like a proper woman would.

I pull on the tea dress and fasten its buttons. After watching one of those 'back in time' TV shows, I fancied a bit of wartime chic and bought it off Ebay for a fiver. It looked OK online but fell wide of the wartime chic mark in reality. I fully intended to re-list and sell it on and now I wish I had. It looks just as dreary today as it did the first time I tried it. I apply a light dusting of make-up and wear a nutty brown lipstick, before fastening my feet into the black Mary Jane style shoes with a significant three and a half inch heel.

When I present myself to my mother, she looks me up and down approvingly but refrains from actually complimenting me. “So where did you buy that from?” she asked.

“Ebay.” I replied. “I meant to resell it but...” I frowned.

“Well it's good job you didn't.”

“I wish I had.” I sighed. “How's your hangover?”

“It's not a hangover, it's a headache.” she insisted. “Can't you do something better with your hair?” she asked, suggesting a slide or Alice band rather than a simple high ponytail. She told me to fetch my vanity case which is home to all my hair accessories; bobbles, bands, slides, scrunchies and clips in all colours, shapes and sizes. Some of them are embarrassingly cute, such as the big felt ice-cream cone and cupcake. Mum describes them as something Grayson Perry might wear with one of his prissy sissy dresses. She dips her hand into my case and removes a narrow white Alice band with a satin bow attached. “I imagine you wore this with your school uniform.” she said. I gulped. “Or these maybe?” she said, finding a pair of white bow clips. I said nothing, but I guess my shamed expression spoke volumes. My mother quizzed me as to why an eighteen year old boy would even want a girl's high school uniform.

“I told you.” I humbly mumbled. “I liked pretending sometimes.”

“Pretending what... exactly?” she bluntly asked. “That you're a schoolgirl?”

“Nooo...” I frowned. I took a breath. “I was always a boy.” I said, before confessing that I sometimes imagined that the law changed and single sex schools, like Basington Girls' Grammar, had to allow boys to enrol under some new equal opportunities act... but any boys who did enrol had to wear the girl's uniform. I used to pretend I'd been sent there against my wishes because it had an 'excellent' Ofsted rating and my education came first. I used to imagine how awful it must be, waiting for the school bus alongside all the kids from the comprehensive school and being sniggered at because I'm wearing a pleated skirt and white knee socks.

“You've got quite an imagination.” my mother replied as she slowly rummaged through my collection of hair accessories. “And the housekeeper's frock?” she quizzed. Reluctantly, I described a scenario... I needed a job but all the agency would offer me was cleaning work. I was placed in an office block which had a very strict uniform policy, and some new 'equality in the workplace' ruling meant they were well within their rights to impose the same workwear regulations on males as they do females; closed toe, mid-heeled footwear, natural tights or stockings, regulation domestic dress, tabard and name badge. “Interesting.” my mother said. “Do you always imagine that it's some rule or regulation that puts you in women's clothing?”

“Not always... sometimes I pretend it's just normal.” I replied. “...and in a place like Brighton it pretty much is.”

“Well you're far from normal Steven.” my mother sternly reminded me. “Take that ponytail out and put this in.” she said, handing me a cheap blue plastic hair-band with a moulded blue lump of a bow on one side. “Sneer all you like young man... I'm sure someone with your imagination can concoct a story to justify why an eighteen year old boy is wearing a Sunday dress.”

“I don't have to imagine anything... my mother's making me wear it.” I dryly replied as I pulled out my ponytail and slipped the band in my hair.

“And you're far more willing than you make out.” my mother claimed.

“I don't have much choice do I?” I sighed.

“No.” my mother chirped as she picked up a hair brush. She removed the band, brushed my hair into a centre parting, tucked it behind my ears and put the band back in position. “That's better.” she claimed. I checked my reflection. I looked daggy... but I’ve looked worse.

With my mother feeling queasy, I fetched her endless cups of tea that morning. After an hour or two, I didn't mind my drab calf length dress quite so much, but my underwear never ceased to feel uncomfortable. The bra grips me snugly around both chest and shoulders and my suspender belt has an unforgiving grasp around my waist. Every time I sit or stand or climb the stairs I can feel the straps shifting over my hips and tugging at my stockings; stockings that need hitching up every hour or so.

In the early afternoon I took Billy for a walk up to the copse as usual and enjoyed a cigarette as he ran around the trees. I heard the sound of a car trundling up the lane so kept my head down, but it pulled in just by the entrance to the copse and beeped its horn. I reluctantly sauntered over as its window wound down. “Excuse me.” a very well spoken lady asked. “Is this the way to the bowling club?”

“Err... yeah.” I gulped as her jaw dropped a little. “Carry on up here, turn left at the brick cottage, then it's the next right and right again.”

“Left then right then right.” she clarified.

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” she chirped as she wound up the window. They drove off and I felt embarrassed. It was clear that she thought I was female until I spoke. “Billy!” I hollered. He came bounding out of the trees and ran head first into his leash. “Come on boy.” I said.

The moment I returned home, my mother asked if I'd pop to the village shop for her. “What for?” I asked. “I got milk and bread yesterday.” I reminded her.

She wanted some ready made Aunt Bessie's Yorkshire puddings and roast potatoes because she didn't feel up to making them from scratch today. I suggested we have mashed or boiled potatoes instead, and skip the Yorkshire puddings altogether but my mother insisted that because it's Sunday, we need proper roast potatoes and Yorkshire puddings. At least this dress is more appropriate than last week when I trotted through the village wearing my short satin tiered dress. And after a week I guess the residents are getting used to seeing the village tranny trotting about in his heeled shoes and horrible clothes. Again it's warm and sunny and being a Sunday, many a lawn is being mowed and many a car is being washed. Children play noisily on the streets, people walk their dogs, a group of cyclists pedal through the village and predictably, I seem to be drawing and awful lot of glances.

When I returned, Mum had the oven warming up and was basting a small whole chicken ready for roasting. She gave me her apron and had me chopping the cabbage, peeling the carrots and topping & tailing the green beans. The dulcet tones of Radio 4 crackled from a tinny transistor radio on the windowsill whilst the washing machine whined and whirred in the background. Mum put the chicken in the oven and told me how long it would take, before telling me when the vegetables would need to go on, and suggesting I check how long the frozen roast potatoes and Yorkshire puddings need to cook. The washing machine spun to a crescendo then stuttered and jolted to an abrupt halt. “Shall I empty that?” I asked knowingly.

“Please.” Mum replied. “It's just tea towels and dish cloths... would you mind hanging them on the line.”

“Sure.” I replied as I crouched on my heels and pulled the damp cloths into the plastic washing basket. I removed the apron, grabbed the peg bag and my handbag and carted the basket across the lawn to the washing line. The summer sun felt warm and strong through my thin blue tea dress as I pegged up the towels and cloths. The breeze kept my skirt flapping around my stockinged calves, pressing the fabric onto my thighs. Each time I crouched to grab the next towel, my suspender straps slid around my hips then stretched and tugged at my stockings when I stood. My bra's broad straps dug into my shoulders each time I pegged something to the line, and the chest band crept upwards just a little.

Once the basket is empty, I grab at my chest band and straighten my bra before opening my handbag and grabbing my cigarettes. I light one and inhale deeply. I enjoy the warm sun on my back as I look up at the trees and exhale. I cast my eyes toward the garage and think of all the clothes I'd rather wear, before turning toward the house where I can see my reflection in the patio doors. The sunshine illuminates me and I realise to my horror that my bright white underwear can quite clearly be seen through my thin blue frock. A mortified hand covers my gasping mouth as I begin the trot quite briskly towards the doors. It's not so noticeable as I enter the shade but... “Oh Mum you could have told me that I needed a slip!” I exclaimed.

“Outside with that thing!” she said, nodding at the half smoked cigarette in my hand.

“Sorry.” I said as I quickly retreated to the patio door and put myself just outside it. Mum asked me why I thought I needed a slip. “Because you can see my undies!” I exclaimed, gesturing. Mum claimed she couldn't, so I stepped back into the sunlight, nervously glancing up at the neighbours windows before looking at my slightly distorted reflection in the patio door. I turned my back to the sun but kept my eyes on my reflection, before quickly trotting back into shade. “It's even more obvious from the back!” I whined through the open door before sucking desperately on my cigarette. My mother insisted that she hadn't noticed, but did agree that my white underwear was immediately apparent when I stepped into the sunshine. “I can't believe I've just walked through the village with all and sundry being able to see my underwear.” I moaned before taking a final drag on my cigarette. Somehow I felt that my mother should have noticed and could have told me.

“Don't blame me Steven.” my mother retorted. “It's up to you to check.” she stated. “Would you like to borrow a slip?”

“Can I?” I timidly asked, before telling her that I should have some of my own in amongst my stuff in the garage.

“That's out of bounds until I've decided what to do with it, and you.” she sternly replied. “Plus I've got just the thing.” she added in a lighter tone. She went to her room and I shyly followed. She rummaged in one of her drawers whilst I looked at my full reflection in her mirrored wardrobe doors. I can see my underwear but it's not so obvious inside. I curse myself for not checking whilst my mother finds what she was looking for. “It's actually a nightie but it'll do as a slip.” she said, handing me a familiar looking garment. It perfectly matches the long nightdress I've been wearing all week, only this is short and sleeveless. “You can keep that.” Mum tells me. “It was a sleepwear set your grandmother bought me years ago. You've already got the other half and I've never really liked it.”

“Thanks.” I gulped. Lucky me. Two horrible nighties I think as I head to my room. I unbutton the dress and step out of it before spending a second looking at my underwear. There's no lacy elastic or decorative bows. It's best described as functional but strapped around my flat chest, the bra serves no function whatsoever. It's one of the few actual bras that I've bought myself after deciding that in my 'boy goes to girls school' fantasy, all the boys would have to wear a bra to deter them from twanging the girl's straps. I hoped the rare triple A cup size would be ideal for my flat chest but they're empty and a little baggy. I pull the icy turquoise nightie over my head and make sure its broad lace straps lay flat over my shoulders. It's lacy hem lands mid-thigh and covers my stocking tops. If its colour wasn't so repugnant it'd be quite a nice garment. I step in to my tea dress and button it up.

“Is that better?” I ask my mother as I return to the kitchen.

“Much.” she tells me. “You left the laundry basket on the lawn.”

I walk out and fetch it, checking my sunlit reflection in the patio doors as I return. I can't believe I didn't think to check if I needed a slip before going to the village, or taking Billy for a walk. I'll know next time. I glanced at the time. “The roasties need to go in.” I said as I opened the freezer.

My mother sat at the table and made the Sunday dinner by telling me what to do and when; baste the chicken, turn the potatoes, put the carrots on, then the cabbage, put the Yorkshire puddings in and steam the green beans. Remove the chicken, drain the juices, let it rest. Combine the juices with the cabbage water and stir in some gravy granules, put the plates on to warm... the final five minutes were a bit of a whirlwind but I felt really proud of myself when I placed an appetising plate under my mother's nose. “You've done really well Steven... the gravy's lovely and thick.” she complimented as she poured it over her chicken, veg and potatoes.

“I only did what you told me.” I humbly replied. “I wouldn't have had a clue otherwise.”

“What did you cook in Brighton?” she asked. “Or did you cook?” she quizzed.

“Yeah but it was oven chips and omelettes, ping dinners and pizzas.” I pessimistically replied. “I can boil veg and make mash but making an omelette is about the limit of my cooking skills.” I optimistically added. “Oh, and cauliflower cheese.” I added.

“Do you buy the cheese sauce or make it?”

“I make it.” I replied. “Kelly taught me.” I added, before briefly explaining the process.

“Being able to make a good white sauce form scratch is something to be proud of... and versatile.” she said. Adding cheese is one thing, but adding pepper or garlic instead, or onions and mushrooms means it can be used on meat, veg or pasta dishes, and leaving it plain is ideal for lasagne.

“I've never thought of it like that before.” I replied. “I've only ever made cauliflower cheese.”

“Well if you're interested in cooking I'll quite happily teach you.” my mother offered, before suggesting I make her one of my omelettes one day. “...and that cauliflower cheese.” she chirped.

“Yes... course.” I timidly replied. Afterwards, I washed the dishes and wiped the worktops, cleaned the hob and the glass oven door, then had a cigarette in the garden. The towels I'd hung out are still a little damp and I recalled the shameful moment when I realised just how thin my frock was. I also recalled my stroll to the shop, oblivious to the fact that my bright white underwear was visible to all and sundry and emit a regrettable groan.

Indoors, my mother is on the phone and I unwittingly overhear her half of the conversation. “No he hasn't … I was waiting for him to say something … he's just walked in.” she said as I entered the lounge. I wondered who she was talking to. Granny maybe? Or Mrs Dixon? That's more likely, I figured. “I'll put you on.” Mum said, handing the telephone to me. “It's Kelly.”

That's the very last name I expected to hear. I took the phone and marched out of the lounge. “Kelly... why didn't you call my mobile?”

“I've tried like five times today.” she bluntly retorted. “But it's gone on to voice mail every time.”

“Sorry... it's switched off. I haven't got a charge cable.” I said. “Why didn't you call me?!”

“Because you mother told me not to.” she replied. “Sorry it ended the way it did but... did your Mum explain?”

“That you were going to dump me anyway?” I said as I stepped into the garden.

“Yeah.” she said. “Your Mum told me to break it off. She said she'd never liked me and claimed I was a bad influence...” she paused. “...and the last few months I've been getting tired of your 'me me me' attitude. You think everything's about you. It's all, how does Stevie look, ooh look at Stevie's hair, isn't Stevie girlie!”

“That's not fair... you know I like dressing up.”

“Yeah, but it's not all about you!” she said. “Sometimes I want to be the girl. Sometimes I want to wake up in a man's arms... and just occasionally, I'd have liked to send you a picture of dress that I really liked and you didn't go and buy it for yourself!” she growled. “I was livid when you turned up with it last Saturday... but because everything's about Stevie, I had to play nice and tell you that you looked great when I was really pissed off!”

“But I thought...” I gulped. I thought she'd sent me the picture of the little blue party dress because she thought I'd look good in it.

“That's the problem Stevie... you always think about yourself first. I've spent the last few weeks wondering how to break it to you, then your Mum turned up and made it easy for me.” she bluntly told me.

“Is it true you've been seeing other guys?” I asked. “Behind my back.”

“When you're in Brighton and I'm in Basington, it's hardly behind your back Stevie.”

“I knew there was something going on when you skipped a few visits in the spring.” I grumbled. “Anyway... I get that it's over, but I need my key.” I said in my most serious voice. “It's gonna be six weeks this wee...” I stopped speaking immediately. “What?”

“I said I gave it to your mother.” Kelly replied.

“What?!!”

“You heard.”

“No Kelly.. please tell me this is a wind up.” I pleaded. “Does she know what it's for?”

“Why don't you ask her?” Kelly said, then she immediately hung up. I slowly made my way back inside. I felt numb. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes... totally numb. My mother sat with an expectant expression on her face. She reached out her hand, beckoning for the cordless phone. I placed it in her hand. “Anything you want to tell me?” she asked. I moved my mouth but nothing came out. I tried again and emitted a feint croak. She dipped her fingers inside the collar of her blouse and slowly removed a necklace. “Is this that 'thing' you so desperately needed from Kelly.” I gulped so hard that I almost swallowed my tongue when she revealed the tiny brass key. How I’m going to explain this I’ve no idea. “You'd better sit down.” my mother instructed.

I gulped and sat. My knees actually knocked together as I nervously fumbled my fingers. “Der... di... did Ke... di... did she...” I gulped again. “Did she tell you what it's for?”

“Oh yes.” my mother replied. “But what I really want to know Steven, is why?”

“Err...” I hesitantly began. “You'll never understand.”

“Try me.”

“You've known all week and you didn't say anything?”

“I was waiting for you to say something.” my mother replied. “I was beginning to think you'd removed it.” she said, reminding me of the screwdrivers and pliers she'd found in my room. “...but judging by the look on your face, I can only assume it's still firmly in place.”

I gulped and nodded, but couldn't actually say it.

“And how is it?” she asked. “Any blisters or chaffing?”

I gulped and shook my head.

“Well I'll have to check.” she said. “I won't actually believe this until I see it.”

“Please Mum.” I murmured. “Just give me the key.”

“Not until I've had an explanation.” she clearly stated as she dropped it back inside her blouse. I fumbled my fingers and tried to think of what to say and how to say it. My mother asked me to pass her her handbag, which was on the edge of the coffee table. “Thank you.” she chirped as she placed it on her lap and opened it. I was busy choosing then losing my words as she slowly removed a small yet significant booklet. “Kelly also gave me this.” she said, showing me a copy of The Keyholder's Handbook. “...which I believe you gave to her, along with your key.”

I gulped and nodded, but could barely raise my eyes to my mother's.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because she was taking about us breaking up.” I said. “Before I went to Brighton.” I added. “She said I'd be surrounded by loads of cute girls and being miles away from her, reckoned I'd cheat on her... so I gave her that to prove I wouldn't.”

“Oh how very romantic.” my mother cooed. “...and it turned out she was the one cheating on you.” she added. I looked at my mother with pitiful eyes, silently pleading for her to just give me the key. “I still need to see it.” she reiterated.

“Please Mum.”

“Please Steven!” she barked. “I don't want to... I need to.” she stated. “Stand up, and show me.”

I begged but Mum wasn't going to budge. If I’m going to get the key I have to do as she says, so with the heaviest of heart, I stood and clumsily rummaged beneath my frock, pulling my tight white control knickers down onto my thighs, before lifting my skirt and slip to reveal the shiny silver chastity cage that encases my cock. The cage itself isn't the only thing to be ashamed of. There's also the fact that I'm completely hairless down there. In fact there's barely a strand to be found below my ears. I single tear drops from my eye as she peers at silver cage and hairless crotch from all angles. “I see it's got a little plate on the end... that explains why you always sit down to pee.” she said. “There was me thinking you were just being lady like.”

I prayed for that sink hole again. This time it could swallow, me, my mother and the whole house up. But seemingly nothing is going to stop the unending humiliation I'm enduring. On her request, I lift the cage with trembling fingers, then my scrotum so she can have a good look at the steel retaining ring. “That's enough. Pull your knickers up.” she said before sitting back in her chair.

“Can I have the key now?” I ask after letting my dress drop to my calves.

“No.”

“Please Mum... it's not yours. It's mine. I gave it to Kelly. Not you!”

Mum gave me one of those quick pursed smiles. “I've been flicking through this little booklet all week, and it quite clearly states that your keyholder is free to pass on your key to whomever they wish.” my mother informed. “So if you gave it to Kelly, and Kelly gave it to me, then it is mine.”

“But that's just stuff in a book... it's not to be taken seriously it's just... role play.”

“How long is it since you were released?” she asked. “And don't lie to me.” she warned.

“Five and a half weeks.” I meekly confessed.

“So you're due for release this weekend?” she asked. “Six weeks is a maximum, I understand?”

I lowered my eyelids and nodded.

“And how does that work?”

“Erm.... Kelly unlocks it.” I muttered.

“Then puts it back on when you're done?” Mum knowingly asked. I gulped and nodded the slightest of nods, before stating that there's no way it's going back on... not since she dumped me. “As your keyholder Steven, that's for me to decide.”

“But Mum... you can't!”

“Oh but I can.” she replied. “Now, for the most part, I don't have a problem with your tendency to crossdress. I wish you'd been able to talk to me about it rather than going behind my back.” she said, adding “At my expense!” I hung my head. “But what I do have a problem with is the thought of you... an eighteen year old boy, dressing up as a schoolgirl and masturbating.”

“I don't!” I meekly peeped as I stood before her.

“Oh don't give me that. I wasn't born yesterday. I know what goes on.” my mother retorted, staring me directly in the eye.

“It's not like that Mum.” I insisted. “I find the clothes comforting rather than exciting.” I claimed. “They make me feel like... me.”

“Good for you.” she replied. “However I very much doubt that you're telling me the whole truth.” she said. I gulped. “The cage stays on.” she told me.

“But Mum!” I yelped. “It's been six weeks.”

“Not quite.” she stated. “According to the keyholder's handbook, there's plenty of places that provide fitting and respite services.” she informed me. “I suggest you search the internet for a local one.”

“You've taken my laptop.” I reminded her.

“You're phone's smart enough.”

“There's hardly any battery left.”

“Well you'll have to walk over to Mrs Dixon's and ask if you can borrow her charge cable again.” my mother stated before turning on her heel and leaving me alone. I sighed the heaviest of sighs. All this time I've been getting frustrated by Kelly not getting in touch with me and all the while my mother had my key! What must she think of me? First she catches me dressed in women's clothing, then finds out that I'd put myself in chastity!! Why didn't she say anything? I wondered. And on top of everything... why is my mother so keen to keep me chastised?

Earlier in the week I had a damn good go of trying to remove the cage with a big pair of pliers, but the quality of the lock proved to be far better than I’d expected. I tried to prise it apart using a couple of screwdrivers but that didn't work either. I knew I'd bought a good one because it cost me almost £90. In retrospect, I wish I’d bought a cheap plastic one instead.

As usual, I took Billy up to the copse at sundown. Only this time I didn't take my phone because there's no point. I can't believe that Kelly just handed my key to my mother. Oh, I almost forgot... the key to his chastity cage. I imagined her saying, just as my mother was leaving her flat last Sunday. Ooh and you'll need this... as she handed her the Keyholder's Handbook. I can't imagine my mother's reaction whatever the circumstances nd can't believe that she won't give me the key. The handbook is essentially fiction but the advice about the care and maintenance of a chastity cage is real. It tells me how to maintain hygiene and recommends that I apply lube around the retaining ring to prevent chaffing and keep myself hairless to prevent snagging.... all the stuff about the keyholder's rights and earning my respite is pure fiction and Kelly knew that. My heart sinks when I return home to find my mother casually leafing through the Keyholder's Handbook.

I sheepishly sit in the arm chair opposite her. After few minutes of uncomfortable silence, and my mother slowly turns the pages, I say “You know it's mostly fiction don't you.” My mother didn't respond. “All the stuff about keyholders.” I added.

“Maybe so... but you put yourself in chastity and handed the key to your girlfriend, and she gave it to me.”

“But it's nonsense... the key's not hers to give away, it's mine!”

“It's a nonsense that you bought into when you handed the key to Kelly.”

“So?”

“The same nonsense gave Kelly the right to give the key to me.” my mother replied. “...and it's this very nonsense that's preventing me from giving the key to you.” she stated, holding the booklet aloft. “At least for the time being.” she added.

“But Mum!”

“But nothing Steven. It's not my doing that you're in chastity but it is my decision that you remain there. Just as it wasn't me that put you in women's clothes... you did that all by yourself ...and at my expense!” my mother retorted. “In fact thinking about it... you probably bought the chastity cage with my money too!”

“What do I have to do to get my life back?” I bluntly asked her. “You've taken everything from me and now you're... you can't do this Mum.”

“You know what you have to do... you have to repay the money I've wasted on your tuition fees.” my mother replied.

“But how?” I whined. “I haven't got a job.” I stated. “Or any savings.”

“Well I've been thinking.” my mother replied in a more thoughtful tone. “I could employ you on a part time basis as the cleaner, say, three mornings a week for minimum wage.” she said. “That'd be around sixty pounds a week.”

I quickly totted up some figures in my head. “That'd take five months!”

“And Mrs Dixon said a few months ago that she quite fancied a cleaner a couple of times a week... and you've already got your uniform.”

“You've got to be kidding!”

“I'm offering you a way out Steven... I don't have to employ you.” she told me. “But I do have to demonstrate that there are consequences to you taking advantage of me. Think yourself lucky that I'm not making you repay the money I've wasted on rent and bills... not to mention your allowance.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Is my mother seriously suggesting that I become a cleaner, not only for her but for Mrs Dixon too? I've always imagined myself as a lowly cleaner, hence me having a housekeeper's uniform... but that's just role play. I never imagined that I'd ever be in a situation where such a fantasy could come true, and thinking about it... striding through the village dressed as a cleaner won't be any worse that the outfits I've already been subjected to. “OK.” glumly replied.

A wry smile swept my mother's face. “Are you sure?" my mother asked. 

I thought for a moment, then gulped and nodded. "Yes."

"Well in that case." my mother said. "You'd best iron your uniform ready for the morning.”