tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38070624558288672732024-03-18T01:52:33.528-07:00PJ's Tales of the PetticoatedIt's amazing how obedient they are when all other options are gone...PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-32580417827437911842024-02-28T13:25:00.000-08:002024-02-28T13:39:50.106-08:00Work Experience<p>
Being in my fifth and final year of high school, I had to do one week
of work experience and my mother said I could do it at the agency she manages.
the other kids in my class did similar; one working with his dad on a building
site, another at his mother's pie shop, one at the factory his dad works at...
so there was nothing all out of the ordinary that I'd do my week at the travel
agency where my mother works. It's on the high street in town and most people
only see the shop on the ground floor. What they don't realise is on the two
floors about are two busy telesales offices where the 'girls' make and take
bookings. That's where Mum works and that's where I'd be working too. There
were some forms to fill in for insurance and what-not that had to be signed by
parents, teachers and the employer, plus guidelines to adhere to... and once
all that was sorted, Mum told me that since all the 'girls' wear tights and
heels, I would too.
</p>
<p>
Of course I was mortified, convinced she was teasing me to begin with... but
it was 1985 and if an employer said that their staff must wear three inch
stilettos, tights and a skirt suit then that's what their staff had to wear.
And since many such places were staffed solely by women, there was no such
thing as a male dress code, at least not where my Mum worked anyway.<br />
</p>
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<br />Mum had me practising in high heels for over a month beforehand; every day
after school and all day on Saturday, and that's when she made me try on some
tights and a dress too. I hated the tights but Mum said I'd get used to them,
and they did feel a lot better once I had shaved my legs which, somewhat
ironically I thought, Mum told me I wouldn't need tights. "What?!" I exclaimed.
"You told me to shave my legs so my tights wouldn't itch and now I've shaved my
legs you're telling me that I don't have to wear tights now?" I ranted.<br /><br />
<p><a name='more'></a></p>
<p>
"You can wear some if you want. But your legs look nice now. They didn't when
they were hairy." Mum told me. "So I'll leave it up to you." she smiled.
</p>
<p>
Not wearing tights felt weird, especially in a dress that ends halfway down my
lap, but wearing tights felt far too effeminate and the option being solely in
my hands didn't sit easy with me. After a couple of weeks wearing my heels
most days, Mum said I was really confident in them and walk as well as any of
her 'girls'. "Does that mean I can stop wearing them until I actually have
to?" I hoped.
</p>
<p>
"No it means you should start wearing them outside." she chuckled. "Walking on
paving isn't the same as on a flat floor."
</p>
<p>
"I'm not going out like this!" I said. It was a Saturday and Mum had dressed
me in a flouncy cream blouse and a pin-striped shift dress. I also wore tights
because I felt too exposed without them. "Where would I go?"
</p>
<p>"Where do you normally go on a Saturday?" Mum asked.</p>
<p>
"I don't know... round to Tommy's or Paul's house, into town, cinema maybe, or
bowling."
</p>
<p>"You can go to all of those places in heels."</p>
<p>"Bowling in heels?!" I sneered.</p>
<p>
"Obviously you'd change your shoes when you get there." my mother smugly said.
"But there's nothing shopping you from getting there."
</p>
<p>"I'm wearing a dress." I whined. </p>
<p>
"You can put some pants on. I'm not suggesting you call round to see Tommy or
Paul dressed for the office."
</p>
<p>
"Is this what I'll be wearing?" I sighed, looking down at the drab effeminate
outfit.
</p>
<p>
"Not that in particular. It's mine and therefore a size too big." Mum replied.
"I'll have to get you something of your own."
</p>
<p>"You're actually going to buy me a dress?!" I remarked. </p>
<p>"I bought your shoes... and your tights, so yes."</p>
<p>
Mum wasn't kidding and since I didn't particularly want to go anywhere wearing
my heels, Mum took me shopping for some office wear. Fortunately she took me
to a satellite town where there'd be less chance of bumping into someone I
know, but I was still the fifteen year old boy wearing clackety heels which
drew me lots of unwelcome glances. Mum didn't want to spend too much so we
toured the charity shops and Mum would gleefully tell the elderly volunteers
why I'm wearing women's shoes and shopping for some suitable office wear. I
don't think I've ever felt so bashful before or since... but then again...
there was my actual first day at the travel agency which my mother
managed.
</p>
<p>
Mum found a smart skirt and matching jacket that fit me perfectly and next I'd
need a blouse. There were loads in that charity shop but Mum wasn't taken so
we went to the next. Thankfully my new skirt suit was in a carrier bag but my
heels alone drew plenty of attention, or that's how it felt anyway. Mum said I
was being paranoid and that barely anyone was giving me a second glance as we
stopped to look at the window display of the RSPCA shop. "That looks like it
might fit you." she said.
</p>
<p>
"You've just bought me a skirt." I reminded her. "You said it was perfect."
</p>
<p>
"You can't wear the same thing everyday Darren." Mum told me. "Five days means
five outfits, and we dress down on Fridays so you'll need a nice dress too."
</p>
<p>"Oh god Mum this is getting worse and worse." I whined.</p>
<p>"It's only a week." she chirped. </p>
<p>
"It's a lot more than a week with all this practice I'm getting." I sighed as
I looked down at my high heeled shoes.
</p>
<p>
"And it's paying off." Mum complimented. "You're a natural in heels. The girls
are going to be so impressed."
</p>
<p>
And impressed they were. Mum took me to the travel agency early on Monday
morning; around 7.45 to be precise. Being the manager, Mum has the keys so
we'd be the first to arrive. The staff carpark is at the back of the building
but the entrance is round the front. There were people walking up and down the
high street even at that early hour. "This is soo embarrassing." I said after
a street sweeper smiled at us both.
</p>
<p>
A young woman stood outside the agency and smiled as we approached. "You're
early Kelly." Mum said. Kelly explained that she had to get an earlier train
due to planned maintenance on the railway, before smiling at me and
introducing herself. Bashfully and humbly I mumbled something as she shook my
trembling hand. "Don't be shy Darren, introduce yourself properly." Mum
said.
</p>
<p>
"Err... I'm Darren." I said, glancing at my reflection in the window. Mum
informed me on Friday after school that I'd have to wear make-up too and I'd
spent the weekend learning all about lipstick and mascara, eye-liner and even
eyelash curlers. I also leaned about hair styling and sported what Mum
described as an Elaine Paige style. As Mum opened up and tended the alarm
before it triggered, Kelly looked me up and down and asked if my mother had
done my make-up. "Err... no I err..."
</p>
<p>"You didn't it yourself?!" Kelly exclaimed. "I am impressed."</p>
<p>"So am I." Mum replied. "He had his very first lesson on Friday."</p>
<p>
"I'm even more impressed!" Kelly said as we stepped inside. "Are you looking
forward to your work experience?" she asked.
</p>
<p>
"I guess." I grimly told her. "I wish I didn't have to dress like this
though."
</p>
<p>"You look great. You'll fit right in." Kelly told me. </p>
<p>"One rule for all." Mum smugly added. </p>
<p>
Over the course of the next hour, the staff arrived at irregular intervals and
I was introduced countless times. There were far more people working there
than I'd anticipated; six on the shop floor who wore the agencies corporate
colours of lilac, burgundy and blue, at least a dozen in the first floor
office and maybe a dozen more on the second floor, plus Mum and her assistant
managers. most were impressed that I'd followed the dress code but a few felt
that my mother could have bent the rules for me. "It wouldn't be fair on
everyone else if I bent the rules for my own son, and it's not my fault the
dress code specifies three inch stilettoes and smart skirted attire." she told
them. "He might be a boy but he's scrubbed up well so lets show him what
working in a busy office environment is like, because that's what he's here to
do."
</p>
<p>
Being just a schoolboy, I wasn't put on the phones chasing up booking
enquiries or taking calls from prospective holiday makers, I was just an
office junior. I ferried paperwork between one floor and the next. I fetched
documents from the printer and delivered them. I made tea and coffee and
emptied waste paper baskets and as the morning break ensued, I took the
sandwich order for a local butty shop. "Ooh I hadn't noticed you nails." one
of the girls said as I noted down her order.
</p>
<p>"Oh err, yeah." I timidly said. "Mum did 'em."</p>
<p>"They match your lippy." she noted. </p>
<p>"Yeah." I bashfully replied.</p>
<p>
By lunchtime, the girls had decided that I looked far too nice to be addressed
with such a boyish name and had decided that Darren should be shortened to
Ren. Mum gave her approval and I was too shy and from them on I was Ren; the
office girl. Halfway through the afternoon after delivering some new brochures
to my mother, she asked me to sit and asked me how i was getting on. "OK." I
said. "Everyone's really nice but... it's weird having to dress like this in
front of so many people."
</p>
<p>
"They're all wearing similar Da... Ren." she replied. "And you certainly wear
it well." she told me as I sat with my knees together. "You're not clumping
about like an amateur drag queen thanks to all the effort you put in and so
far as I can tell, you're settling in rather nicely."
</p>
<p>"Yeah I guess I am... it's just a bit weird." I told her. </p>
<p>
"Well I'm very proud of you Ren. Keep it up." Mum smiled. Bashfully I smiled
back before leaving her to work.
</p>
<p>
I returned to the first floor where I had a pile of brochures and a roll of
postage stickers. The actual office junior whom I'd been shadowing all day
came and checked. "Try to put the stickers on straight." she told me, since
some were a little bit wonky. I apologised and endeavoured to do better. She
smiled and left me to work. After that we had a break which meant tea and
coffee and lots of trotting around for me and apart from the dress code, I
really enjoyed myself. I said this to Mum as she drove home. "I'm glad you
enjoyed it." she said. "I hoped you would." she smiled. "As for the dress
code... every one of those girls would rather wear flat shoes and comfy pants.
They don't like it either."
</p>
<p>"Yeah I guess."</p>
<p>
On the Tuesday I wore a smart pinafore and blouse which everyone said was
really nice, although I wasn't so keen. It was comfy but short. The next day I
wore a navy blue skirt with a pair of kick pleats on the front which felt
weird when I walked. It was the only knee length skirt I had, the rest being
mid-thigh and I hoped I'd feel more comfortable in it. It was also on
Wednesday morning that I overheard one of Mum's assistant managers having a
rather heated telephone conversation, and half an hour later that manager gave
me a printed sheet of paper and asked me to put it in the shop window. It said
'Saturday Girl Wanted. Enquire within.' I'd been sent to the shop floor
numerous times and any customers seem to think I'm a girl so I wasn't daunted
by that. But when I stepped onto the shop floor, Kelly who was facing a
customer said. "Oh, here he is now." she smiled. The customer turned and I
gasped. "One of your teachers...?" Kelly said to me.
</p>
<p>I nodded and gulped. "Mrs Dawson." I said. "What are you doing here?"</p>
<p>
"We always come and check." she smiled. "You look very smart." she said as she
eyed me up and down. "Love the hair."
</p>
<p>
I was speechless. "What's this?" Kelly asked, taking the paper from me. "I'll
deal with this. You take Mrs Dawson upstairs."
</p>
<p>"Erm... yes... thanks." I said. </p>
<p>
Mrs Dawson smiled on me. "Don't look so frightened young man. I'm just here to
have a look around and meet the manager." she said.
</p>
<p>
"Yeah... OK." I coyly said before gesturing her to the stairs. "It's my Mum...
the manager."
</p>
<p>"Yes I believe so." Mrs Dawson replied. </p>
<p>
Her unexpected visit was brief, maybe ten minutes at most... but I found it
excruciating. I had been told there'd be a visit and I'd completely forgot
until it happened. Mum explained about the dress code and why she didn't want
to bend the rules for me, then said that I'm getting good experience in what
it's like for women in the workplace. Mrs Dawson was most impressed. "Boys
just don't know what it's like... having to do your hair and make-up before
you can leave the house."
</p>
<p>
"This one certainly does." Mum said. "He spends all day in heels too." she
added.
</p>
<p>"And entirely at ease, it seems." Mrs Dawson commented.</p>
<p>
"He's been practising after school since just after Easter." Mum told her.
</p>
<p>
"I bet you look forward to kicking them off at the end of the day though?" Mrs
Dawson said to me.
</p>
<p>
"Yes Miss." I timidly replied. Once she'd gone I began to worry that every
teacher at school would soon know about the dress code I was abiding by. Mum
told me that I worry too much. As Mum locked up the agency in the early
afternoon since it closed for half day on Wednesday. I gulped at the notice in
the window. Mum said I could apply if I wanted. I guessed she was joking and
told her that I'm not a girl.
</p>
<p>
The following day, Thursday was relatively normal with no unexpected visits. I
had a stack of envelopes to pack and after the break at 3.00pm I sat in the
corner out of everyone's way to pack my stack of envelopes. Unbeknown to me a
string of schoolgirls had come in to enquire about the Saturday job and a few
of them were sent to see Mum. I was on the second floor so was only told as
trade closed for the day. Mum debated with Kelly and her assistants which they
felt might be suitable and they all agreed that none of the applicants seemed
to stand out. "How about Ren be the Saturday girl!" Kelly suggested. "Yeah."
the other two said.
</p>
<p>
"Because he's not a girl." Mum told them, much to my relief. Kelly and the
others argued my case, much to my annoyance. They said I know the team and
know the job and everyone likes me and that I'd be perfect. "I know but he's
not a girl and we'll find someone to fill Joanna's shoes in no time." Mum
said.
</p>
<p>"By Saturday?" Kelly asked. </p>
<p>
"Well maybe not by Saturday because tomorrow's Friday... so you'll have to
find someone to cover." she asked one of her assistants.
</p>
<p>
"It's very short notice. Most'll have plans... unless Ren wants to cover...
just once." she asked.
</p>
<p>"I'd rather not... it's already been a long week."</p>
<p>"You'd get paid." Mum told me. "Two pounds an hour."</p>
<p>"How long for?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Eight 'til four."</p>
<p>"Would I be downstairs on the shop floor?"</p>
<p>
"No more than you are already." Mum said. I considered the prospect, but
mostly the money. Sixteen quid was a lot of money for a schoolboy back then.
"Of course the dress code still applies." Mum added.
</p>
<p>"Hmm." I frowned. </p>
<p>
"And for all we know the perfect candidate might walk in tomorrow afternoon so
mightn't even have to do it." my mother supposed.
</p>
<p>
"We've already got the perfect candidate." Mum's assistant stated. "I do most
of the HR and can't think of a single reason why we can't employ a boy as a
Saturday girl. It's not a real job title and Ren would be an excellent
Saturday girl."
</p>
<p>"I know but I'm not a girl." I said. </p>
<p>
"That doesn't matter Ren." Kelly said to me. "Think of the money... sixteen
quid a week is good for a boy your age."
</p>
<p>
"I know but... what would my mates think if they knew I was the Saturday girl
at Atlas Travel."
</p>
<p>"Just tell 'em it's a Saturday job." Kelly said.</p>
<p>"Yeah I guess."</p>
<p>"So is it a yes?" Mum asked. </p>
<p>"I guess." I sighed. </p>
<p>
Mum smiled whilst the others did a little cheer. We went home and I kicked off
my heels, wiggled my toes and enjoyed a cup of tea before changing into some
normal clothes. "Aren't you washing your make-up off?" Mum asked.
</p>
<p>"I'll do it later." I said. </p>
<p>
"Well in that case your lippy needs a top up." she told me. "Where's your
handbag?"
</p>
<p>"In my room."</p>
<p>
"Well go and fetch it." she said. "Oh... and have you decided what you're
wearing for dress down Friday yet?"
</p>
<p>"Err.... it'll be whatever you tell to wear."</p>
<p>"I put two dresses in your wardrobe so you could decide?"</p>
<p>"Two?"</p>
<p>
"Well I've been telling what to wear all week, I thought it would be nice that
you chose something on your last day." Mum told me.
</p>
<p>"It's not my last day anymore."</p>
<p>
Mum had indeed put two dresses in my wardrobe. One a blue floral tea dress,
about knee length with short sleeves and a bib collar with subtle frilly trim.
The other has an open collar with short butterfly sleeves, lilac in colour
with a wispy print. Neither was sedate but the lilac one he felt was
significantly more effeminate than the other. "OK" his mother said. "I was
hoping you'd wear the nicer one but... it's your choice." she smiled.
</p>
<p>"It's too nice."</p>
<p>"Ah so you chose the one you liked the least?"</p>
<p>"No it just... wasn't quite so... girlie." I replied. "</p>
<p>
"They're both girlie." Mum said. "And the one you don't wear tomorrow, it
thought would nice as a Sunday dress."
</p>
<p>"I have to wear a dress on Sunday as well?!"</p>
<p>
"I thought it would be a nice way to end the week, and I can't think of any
other reason to wear it."
</p>
<p>"I can think of lots of reasons not to wear it."</p>
<p>
"I know but I've bought it and you're going to wear them both at least once.
One tomorrow and one on Sunday."
</p>
<p>"OK." I sighed. </p>
<p>"So do you still want to wear the blue one tomorrow? or the nicer one?"</p>
<p>"I don't know. It's not easy." I said. Mum grinned. "It's not funny."</p>
<p>
"I'm not laughing at you Ren... but you're right. It's not easy. My girls do
this every week... stress over what to wear on dress down Friday and it isn't
easy." Mum told me. "And you've only got two. Imagine having wardrobe
<u>full</u> of dresses to choose from." I frowned at the thought. "Exactly."
Mum smiled. "You can choose one in the morning if you want."
</p>
<p>"Well what do you think?" I asked. </p>
<p>"Well you know which one I like."</p>
<p>
"The wispy one?" I asked. Mum nodded and smiled... and carried on smiling.
"What?"
</p>
<p>
"Nothing... it's just a lovely way to describe that dress... wispy. I wouldn't
have thought of that."
</p>
<p>"I wouldn't know where to start with the other one."</p>
<p>
"That's a prairie dress, more or less." Mum said. "Much nicer for Sunday, I
think."
</p>
<p>"Yeah I suppose." I said. "So what am I gonna wear on Saturday?"</p>
<p>
"You could mix and match something from what you've been wearing all week. The
skirt you wore on Wednesday was nice, maybe that with a different blouse?"
</p>
<p>"I didn't like that skirt much. It was weird to walk in."</p>
<p>
"Well a shorter one then." Mum said, suggesting a few combinations I could
try.<br /><br />"Yeah maybe." I said, skewing my jaw.
</p>
<p>
"Why so glum?" Mum said. "I thought you'd happy to finally have a Saturday
job. Most of your friends have one."
</p>
<p>"Yeah but they don't have a dress code."</p>
<p>"Vaughn Loures does. He's at the Hilton."</p>
<p>
"Yeah but he's a room attendant. That'll be trousers and shirt and maybe a
tabard."
</p>
<p>
"He's a chambermaid. He wears a burgundy dress, a white apron, black tights
and mid heels." mum told me.
</p>
<p>"He's not said owt about that to me."</p>
<p>"I wonder why." Mum smugly said.</p>
<p>
The next day was my final day of work experience and it should have been my
final day at the office, but now I'm covering for the Saturday girl who'd
abruptly quit and left mum two days to find a replacement, so dress down
Friday was now my penultimate day. The wispy dress felt so unobtrusive and
light. Mum said I needn't wear any tights, but also said I could if I wanted
to. It's hem fell just below the knee and I can't deny how nice it felt. Mum
also had a new pair of shoes for me; ivory strappy sandals with a lower kitten
heel. I did my own make-up in palette Mum suggested and she did something
'nice' with my hair which was more or less the same short Elaine Paige style
but with a scarf ties in it. It looked so girlie but that's the point, and the
less like a boy I look the better, I figured.
</p>
<p>
As usual, Mum parked her car at the back of the agency but we had to walk all
the way round to the front so she could open up. "How are your shoes?" Mum
asked as i clicked and clacked over the paving stones.
</p>
<p>"OK." I said. "It's nice to try a lower heel."</p>
<p>"It's still a very narrow heel so you've got to be careful in them."</p>
<p>
"I will be." I said. Mum opened the shutters and shut off the alarm. "Where's
the sign gone?" I asked.
</p>
<p>"What sign?" Mum quizzed. </p>
<p>"The one for the Saturday girl?"</p>
<p>
"You're the new Saturday girl Ren." Mum told me. "Don't you remember?" she
asked.
</p>
<p>"I thought I was just covering tomorrow?"</p>
<p>
"Initially yes, but then when you found out it was two pounds an hour you went
for it."
</p>
<p>"Did I?"</p>
<p>
"You did." Mum grinned. "But if you've changed you mind then please give me at
least two week's notice." she told me. "It's not easy finding decent staff
these days."
</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p><br /></p>
<p><br /></p>
<p><br /></p>
<p><br /></p>
<p><br /></p>
<p><br /></p>
<p><br /></p>
<p><br /></p>
<p><br /></p>
<span><!--more--></span>
PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-84512301403361399582023-01-11T09:32:00.002-08:002023-01-12T00:42:54.940-08:00A Christmas to Remember (part two)<p style="text-align: center;"> <i>This is part 2 of A Christmas to Remember.</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://forcedfeminisationstories.blogspot.com/2022/12/a-christmas-to-remember-part-one.html" rel="nofollow"><i>Read part 1 here</i></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">~o0o~</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><i>After warning me that the first dress I'll be given to wear will be deliberately prissy,</i></div></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;"><i>Dad told me that every dress after that won't seem quite so bad.</i></div></blockquote><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's what Mum said
too. She bought me some lacy knee socks to wear with it and they're
bad enough.” I told him. Dad said I was being dropped in at the
deep end and assured me it would get better. “I hope so.” I
glumly replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I also asked my sister
if she would be at work the next day. “No got the day off.” she
told me. “But I will be out from mid morning so I won't see you in
your first dress.” she frowned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Phew!” I replied.
“Do you know which one it is?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Anna nodded. “I
didn't like it much but it is very pretty.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Apparently so.” I
sighed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Sunday-->Dad
would likely have set off for work by the time I rose on Sunday so we
said our goodbyes before I went to bed. When I did wake the next day
my sister was around, chatting with Mum in the master bedroom as I
exited the bathroom. “I'm sure it was for a christening.” she
said, to which Mum countered with it being the dress she got to wear
for a wedding anniversary. Anna glanced at me as I passed. “Have
you seen it yet?” she asked me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“My dress?” I
knowingly gulped, shaking my head as she nodded.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can he see it yet?”
Anna asked Mum.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes but you don't
have to wear it just yet.” Mum said, making herself visible to me.
In her hands is a clothes hanger and on that, a pale blue dress with
a white V shaped collar and a sizeable satin bow at the base of the
V. “What do you think?” she asked, turning the hanger to show me
a square sailor style collar hanging over the back with a scalloped
broderie anglaise edge threaded with blue satin ribbon tied in a
small bow in the centre. Its long, almost bell shaped sleeves have
white broderie anglaise cuffs and only a few inches below those, the
ruched hem of the skirt</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Could be worse.”
My sister smiled as I could only frown at it. “At least it's not
pink.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There is that.” I
frowned. “It's still really girlie though.” I gulped as I focused
on the big white bow.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well I did warn you.
The first one has to be the prettiest.” Mum smiled. “But you
don't have to wear it just yet.” she said, hanging it from the
picture rail. “Breakfast first... then a shower.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">To be fair, I have seen
my cousin Peter wearing far worse dresses and when Mum told me my
first one would be pretty, I instantly imagined it having short
puffed sleeves and a few more frills. But I have seen Peter wearing a
navy blue sailor style dress and his is positively boyish compared to
my effeminate take on the style. It might not be pink but the shade
of blue is so pale it may as well be pink</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So are you both all
packed?” Anna asked over breakfast.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No but we've got a
few hours yet.” Mum replied, before asking me if I wanted to pack
first or get dressed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... pack.” I
said, wanting to delay having to wear my dress for as long as
possible.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My sister leaves soon
after breakfast, eager to get to the shops early. After we say our
goodbyes and wish each other a happy Christmas, it's just me and Mum
and it really feels like the countdown has begun.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--***packing; clothing list-->We
pack my case and for the first time I see the clothes chosen from my
sister's wardrobe. The <span style="font-weight: normal;">dusty pink
cords aren't as bad as I'd expected them to be, and the denim
dungaree shorts are much shorter than I'd imagined. There's a long
sleeve T-shirt which is clearly not a boys top but looks OK, unlike a
pink satin blouse with long sleeves, frilly yoke and a small upright
collar, which Mum says will be 'nice' with a skirt or pinafore dress.
The pinafore is a stony beige tweed type fabric. with a dropped waist
and box pleats; two front, two back. Mum says it's pure wool and will
therefore be nice and warm, as will 'my' skirt. This is mid grey with
countless knife pleats encompassing it. T</span>o me looks like a
school skirt, but Mum says it's not because school skirts are much
much shorter. Each item is folded neatly and placed in may case,
along with my tights, underwear and the three nighties. “What are
those?” I whimper as she puts another bundle of knickers in the
case.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“To wear with your
nighties and PJs.” Mum said, adding that they'll be nice and cosy.
There's six in total; two pink, two white and two in baby blue. The
front panel is quilted and on the back is three rows of frills.
“You'll only be wearing them for bed.” Mum said when I challenged
their overtly infantile style. On the upside, they don't have my name
embroidered on them, unlike all my other knickers.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Once packed, Mum sends
me for a shower and tells me to head directly to her bedroom where
the prissy blue sailor dress is waiting on her bed along with my
supposedly 'pretty' blue training bra, matching knickers and a long
satin vest. “Can you remember how to fasten your training bra?”
Mum asked as I cast my fearful eyes over the array of effeminate
clothing.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I think so.” I
said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Show me.” Mum
requested, smiling briefly before suggesting I put my knickers on
first. I was predictably hesitant. “Don't be shy. I've seen you in
swimming trunks plenty of times. This is no different.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My eyes focused on the
knickers, or more specifically my name embroidered on the left hip in
royal blue thread. There's no denying they're mine. “It really is
Mum.” I replied, shifting my gaze to the inch wide frilly lace
around the leg holes and a similar band of frilly lace around their
high waist.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“If anything your
swimming trunks are skimpier than those.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They don't have
frills though.” I grimaced.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Once they're on and
you're dressed, they'll be out of sight and out of mind.” Mum told
me, picking up the knickers.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I didn't know they
had those on too!” I exclaimed as I saw the rows of frills on the
back of them. Like the frilly lace around the legs and waist, they're
twice as pale as the sky blue sateen panties.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I told you they were
going to be pretty.” Mum reminded me. “And it's not as if you'll
know they're there when you're wearing them.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll be able to feel
'em when I sit down.” I sneered as she handed them to me. I wasted
no time pulling them on, if only so I didn't have to hold them for
too long, and having my bathrobe on they were quickly out of sight...
but only for a moment. Mum handed me my training bra which meant
having to disrobe. Mum smiled and said that having my name on my
knickers is 'cute'. “It's not cute...” I said, looking down at
myself. “...it's the worst thing about them.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well done. You did
remember.” Mum said as I fastened the bra properly. “I'll just
check the straps.” she told me, turning me around to access the
sliders on the back of each strap. “How's that feel?” she asked
having adjusted them a little.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Like I’m wearing a
girls bra.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We both know it's a
boys bra.” Mum told me, patronisingly adding that girls bras have
cups and boys bras are just flat to the chest. I felt slightly more
at ease once I had the white satin slip on which, save for a little
lace around the hems is a rather plain item. My fingertips hovered
nervously around its short hemline as Mum removed my dress from the
hanger, laid it front side down, lifted the big square collar and
began to unfasten the five big buttons beneath it. The dress went on
over my head and I had to hold the sailor collar up whilst Mum
buttoned me to it. “It's a little big on you but that's OK.” she
said. “Let's have a look.” she added, turning me to face her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It feels really
short.” I said, looking down and finding the skirt flaring out from
just below my chest instead of my waist, and the ruffled hem hovering
around my mid thigh.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's short but
certainly not too short.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's also winter.”
I reminded her.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's fully lined and
you've got a slip on too... and you'll only be outdoors for a
moment.” Mum told me. “Sit down so I can put your socks on.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I can put my own
socks on Mum. I'm not a little kid.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know but these are
delicate.” Mum replied. “I don't want you snagging them.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're even worse
than my dress.” I said as Mum eased a lacy white sock up my calf
and positioned the frilly cuff just below my knee.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Or to put it another
way... you like your dress more than your socks.” my mother smugly
retorted.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's not what I
said.” I told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">With my shoes and socks
on, I stood in front of Mum's big mirror and looked at my outfit.
“You can't deny that you look very pretty.” my mother said to me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The dress might be
pretty but it just looks wrong on me.” I told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only because it's
your first one.” Mum claimed. “But to be fair, your sister didn't
like it much either.” she added. “But I think it's lovely.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So you keep saying.”
I sighed. “Are we going now?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not just yet.” Mum
said. “I noticed a load of clothes on your bedroom floor that
should be in your laundry basket, so you can pick all those up and
straighten your bed and fetch you laundry down.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I replied.
There's one thing about shoes with heels that I realised as I was
tidying my bedroom... the floor is that bit further away which means
having to bend that little bit more to reach it. With the floor
cleared, I straightened my duvet and took my laundry basket
downstairs, gulping at my reflection in the hallway mirror as I
passed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum seems engrossed
with the her phone and only looks up as my heels strike the hard
kitchen floor tiles. “I want to show you something Stephen.” she
says, turning the phone toward me. I know she has a pair of web-cams
which we use for security; one aimed at the front door and one aimed
at the back door with motion sensors that alert her phone if we're
burgled whilst the house is empty. What I didn't know was that one of
them was in my room whilst I was tidying up. I was mortified seeing
myself wearing my prissy blue dress, frilly white knee socks and my
girlie pageboy shoes, trotting around and gathering my laundry. “You
videoed me!” I declared.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes and for good
reason.” Mum replied. “What do you see?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Me dressed like a
girl.” I grumbled. “You're not gonna show that to anyone are
you?!” I feared.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only you love.”
she said, skipping the video back a short while and pausing it. “Now
what can you see?” she asked. The video is paused on a frame where
I'm bending over and grabbing a sock. She zoomed into the frame to
enlargen the back of my dress. I groaned in disbelief on seeing my
frilly knickers visible beneath the hem of my skirt. “When you're
wearing a dress you need to remember to crouch down and not bend
over... otherwise you'll flash your knickers.” she told me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I bashfully
said. “You are gonna delete that aren't you?” I asked.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course.” Mum
told me. “I knew you'd instinctively bend which is why I filmed
you.. so consider this a lesson learned.” she said before deleting
the video in front of me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks Mum.” I
sheepishly said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The car's all packed
and I've set the engine running so it'll be toasty and warm when we
set off.” she told me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Are we going now?”
I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Ten minutes or so.”
she replied, suggesting I take the weight off my feet. “Don't
forget to scoop.” she advised as I pulled out a chair.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know.” I said,
scooping my dress and sitting with my knees bolted together. “I
feel like such a girl.” I said as I smoothed the skirt over my lap.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm sure you don't.”
Mum replied. “But I expect your first dress will feel quite
exciting.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not in a good way.”
I murmured. Mum smiled. “What?” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nothing.” she told
me, although I knew what she was thinking.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum straightened up the
kitchen so it was tidy for Dad and Anna, then gave me one of my
sister's old coats to wear for the journey. It's a pale blue fleece
with long sleeves and a short waist and being the sort of fleece
that's more furry than fleecy, it's clearly a girl's coat. I'm a bag
of nerves when Mum donned her coat and purse and keys. “You ready?”
she grinned. I gulped and shook my head. She opens the door and
ushers me outside.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh god it's
freezing!” I exclaimed as the icy winter air nibbled at my bare
legs. I couldn't get into the car quickly enough where it felt nice
and warm.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Straighten your
skirt so it doesn't get creased.” Mum told me, prompting me to lift
my butt off the seat and smooth my dress beneath me. “Are you
excited?” she asked as she drove very slowly down the driveway.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm petrified.” I
replied. “I can't believe I let you talk me into this.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's just first time
nerves.” Mum said. “You'll feel much more relaxed tomorrow.”
she claimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm just looking
forward to Friday when I can be a normal boy again.” I grumbled as
I glared at my pale bare knees.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're a normal boy
now, Stephen... just one who's wearing a very pretty dress.” Mum
told me. “Shall we have the radio on.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Rihanna's <i>Don't Stop
the Music</i> was playing as we drove down the street. I felt utterly
fearful that someone might see me sat in my Mum's car wearing a baby
blue 'teddy bear' fleece but on this cold Sunday afternoon, very few
people were out and about. Living on the outskirts of the city meant
wear were on the open road in no time and my fears of being seen
dispersed. Nickelback's <i>Rockstar</i> blasted out of the speakers
which was fine by me and almost instantly I felt even more at ease.
Mum sang along to the chorus at the top of her voice and I said she
was too old to like Nickelback. “Is that who it is?” she replied,
adding that it's catchy and sang along again the next time the chorus
came around. I found myself tapping my fingers and bobbing my head to
the beat but couldn't for one moment not think about my clothing. Mum
asked if my knees were warm enough. I gulped and nodded. The flouncy
hem of my pale blue dress lay just about them. The lacy frills around
the cuffs of my socks sat just below them. I could feel the inch wide
frills of my knickers gently brush the tops of my legs and the
elastic waistband sitting high on my midriff. Not far above that the
band of my bra hugged my chest and the lace trimmed straps arched
over my shoulders. The dress itself hung so loosely and lightly I
could hardly feel it, save for the skirt on my lap.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum can't stand
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">anything to do with X-Factor</span>
so when Leon Johnson's song came on the radio she put a CD of
Christmas songs on instead. “This'll get us in the spirit.” she
said as Wham's <i>Last Christmas</i> began.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh Mum you don't
have to sing along.” I whined as she sang <i>this year... to save
me from tears</i>. “It's so embarrassing.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sorry.” she
grinned, adding that I can unzip my jacket if I'm too warm.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's not <i>my</i>
jacket.” I said as I unzipped it and revealed even more of my
dress.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After half an hour in
the car we were driving through Grantham and had to stop at several
sets of traffic lights. It was a nerve racking experience as several
pedestrians crossed in front of us and some glanced in my direction,
but that was nothing compared to half an hour later as we approached
the village of Donnington and our eventual destination. “Does Peter
know I'll be wearing a dress?” I asked in the closing moments of
the journey.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Arrival-->“Yes.”
Mum said. “And Jasmine too.” she added. We soon turned off the
main road toward the hamlet and Mum slowed before turning onto their
driveway. “I see they've had the leylandii cut.” she commented
and the wheels slowly crunched over the gravel. By the time she'd
stopped the car, Auntie June was at the front door, full of smiles. I
was a bag of nerves as I zipped up my fluffy jacket all the way to
the collar. “Don't be shy.” Mum advised before getting out of the
car.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I swallowed my pride
and opened the door, planting my heeled foot on the gravel and
feeling it sink a little. Mum was hugging her sister as I sheepishly
approached. “Stephen you look wonderful!” my aunt said. “Come
in before the cold gets you. We've got the fires lit.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I was quickly ushered
inside where my cousins were waiting. “Hi Stephen.” Jasmine said,
looking me up and down but seemingly thinking nothing unusual about
my clothing.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I said hello to both of
them and Peter said “Mummy told me you'd be wearing a dress but I
didn't believe her.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I can hardly believe
it myself.” I bashfully replied as I stood sheepishly in front of
them. Predictably Peter also wore a dress; navy blue with long
sleeves and a round white collar and cuffs, along with a pair of
white tights and some felt ballet slippers on his feet. His sister
Jasmine wore a denim jeans skirt and a plaid shirt with a ruffled
yoke.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Lets get your jacket
off.” Mum said, appearing behind me. Auntie June said I should sit
by the fire to warm up.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh er... that car
was plenty warm enough.” I replied as I reluctantly in zipped my
jacket. My aunt told me how nice my socks were, and said that Peter
has some Mary Jane's very similar to mine. “The lady in the shop
said they're called Pageboy shoes when they're for a boy.” I
timidly replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Must be a modern
thing.” my aunt said as I removed my coat and revealed my dress to
them all. “Oh that's lovely.” she said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks.” I shyly
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's one of Anna's
old dresses.” Mum told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I thought it looked
familiar.” Auntie June remarked before prompting me to sit near the
fire. I felt so self conscious as I scooped my skirt and sat, making
sure I kept my knees firmly together. “Was the drive over OK?”
she asked my mother.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes fine.” Mum
said. “We've been listening the Christmas songs.” she added as
they disappeared into the kitchen.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“In this house it's
me who ends up wearing my brother's old dresses.” Jasmine said to
me. “Do you like it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not really.” I
replied. “It's too prissy.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The first one always
is.” Peter said. “Mine was pink with kittens on it. I hated it
sooo much, but the one after that wasn't so bad... for a dress.” he
told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't think yours
is prissy Stephen.” Jasmine told me. “It's pretty, but not
prissy.” she added</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Same thing isn't
it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.” she smiled.
“Peter might show you the difference, if you ask him nicely.” she
said, just as Auntie June entered with a tray full of hot drinks.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did you make me a
mocha Mum?” Jasmine asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I made mochas all
round.” her mother replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's mocha?” I
asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Coffee with
chocolate in... just what you need on a cold winter day.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you.” I
said, taking one of the mugs.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you Mummy.”
Peter said, taking another.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks Mum.” his
younger sister said, taking hers.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm this is
gorgeous.” Mum said, sipping hers. “We'll unpack after we've had
this.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My aunt asked me how I
was getting on at school and made general small talk. As we chatted I
could see her frequently glancing shoes and lacy knee socks and
wondered if she knew that I was also wearing a pair of very frilly
knickers and a lace trimmed training bra. “Are you warm enough?”
she asked me. I said I was and Mum told her that my dress is fully
lined.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's his socks.”
my aunt said. “Pretty as they are, they're not very thick.” she
noted, before asking if I had some tights.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... yeah.” I
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After finishing our
drinks. Auntie June took us upstairs where she'd prepared the spare
room for us both. Two single beds are separated with a dressing
table. Opposite each is a chest of drawers that flank a wardrobe we
can use, and there's a convector heater we can use for extra heat if
the radiator isn't enough. “This is perfect June. Thank you.” Mum
said to her sister. “Shall we get you unpacked.” she said to me
as she put a case on my bed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll leave you to
it.” Auntie June said, smiling at me as she left us alone.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You OK?” Mum
asked.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I guess.” I said.
“It's just weird because I’ve never worn a dress before today.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well if there's one
thing that's not weird in this house, it's boys wearing dresses.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah I suppose.” I
said as Mum opened my case.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I told you you had
nothing to worry about.” Mum smiled. “Do you want some tights
on?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you'll need
different knickers as well. Yours are far too frilly to wear under a
pair of tights.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're far too
frilly full stop.” I bluntly told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">First we unpacked,
hanging my frocks and things in the wardrobe and putting my tops and
tights and undies in a drawer, apart from a pair of my white knickers
and a pack plain white tights which Mum left on the bed. “I thought
you'd like the ones with blue trim so they still match your dress.”
Mum said as I cast my eyes over my bed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I don't think I'll ever
get used to hearing 'your dress', but after a few hours in it, I do
feel used to wearing it. Sheepishly I perch on the edge of my bed so
I can unbuckle my shoes. Then I carefully remove my knee socks,
discreetly followed by my frilly blue knickers. I pull on a white
pair and stand to pull them up completely, then Mum helps me with my
tights which are white and thick and feel a million times better than
my lacy knee socks. “Better?” Mum asked once I had my shoes back
on. I smiled and nodded. “Good.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Auntie June asked me
the same thing when I returned wearing my tights. “Are you
comfortable in heels?” she then enquired.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm still getting
used to them.” I replied, flattening my frock and looking down at
my feet. Mum told her that I also got some 'trendy' ankle boots with
heels, claiming that I took to them like a duck to water, although I
claimed otherwise as I sat myself down.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I had to teach Peter
how to walk in heels.” Jasmine told me. “Do you remember?” she
asked her brother.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How could I forget.”
Peter dryly retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you kids want to
put the TV on whilst me and Auntie April make tea?” Auntie June
suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can we put the
Playstation on?” Peter asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You've got a
Playstation?!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Course we have.”
his sister replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK... but it goes
off the moment I ask you both to lay the table. No ifs, no buts.”
Auntie June told us.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Peter crouched before
the TV and opened the cupboard doors beneath it to reveal a PS2, a
GameCube and a Wii. “What games have you got?” I asked, seeing
plenty of titles stacked up.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Loads.” Peter
said. “Bowling on the Wii is good for three players.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I was gonna say that
too.” Jasmine replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I'd never played on a
Wii before and initially was underwhelmed with the prospect of a
ten-pin bowling video game... but it was an awful lot of fun and
after we'd all eaten tea, even Mum and Auntie June joined in. Each of
us had our fair share of landing the bowling ball in the gutter and
scoring no points, but we also got some strikes too which was a
joyous event. I was so engaged that I almost forgot I was wearing a
dress, although not completely since my side spin technique meant
going slightly around my skirt as I mimed the bowling motion. If
anything wearing a dress seemed somehow beneficial. After an hour or
so of exhilarating game play we'd all had enough and my cousin
Jasmine said I'd played particularly well since I was the only one
wearing heels. I had forgotten about those!</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">At 8pm Peter was sent
to put his pyjamas on and Mum told me that I should get ready for bed
too. I had a little whine, claiming it was far too early but both Mum
and Auntie June explained that it's only fair that I abide by the
same house rules as my cousin. I conceded but felt it was unfair that
us boys have to get ready for bed at a certain time when Jasmine
doesn't. Mum accompanied me up to our room because she had to
unbutton my dress and as I held the sailor collar aloft so she could
access them, Mum asked me how it felt wearing my first dress. “No
so bad once I had my tights on.” I replied. “Those lacy socks
were horrible.” I added.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I must admit it does
look nicer with tights.” Mum told me. “Which nightie do you want
to wear?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not the pink one.”
I muttered.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I had a feeling
you'd say that.” Mum replied, removing the lilac one from the
drawer, along with a pair of white night knickers with their quilted
front and frilly bum, some white ankle socks and the ballerina style
slippers she'd picked up in Primark. She left me alone to change and
after washing may hands and face and brushing my teeth, I sheepishly
returned downstairs wearing my girlie nightwear. Peter wore pyjamas
but they were pink plaid with plenty of frills around the yoke and
cuffs.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It transpired that
Peter's usual bedtime is 9pm but since it's the holidays we're
allowed to stay up until 10pm and filled the time watching Home Alone
which as always, provided lots of laughs.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Xmas Eve-->I woke
on the morning of Christmas Eve wondering where I was, but soon
realised I was at Aunt June's house. Mum's bed was empty and I could
hear distant voices from downstairs. My calf length nightdress had
bundled itself up around my hips and after straightening it out I
enjoyed a few extra minutes under the warm and cosy duvet. I suppose
the strangest thing about waking up wearing a nightie is just how
normal it feels... in this household at least. I eventually went
downstairs where Mum and her sister were pottering in the kitchen. My
cousins were still in bed which is when I realised I'd got up far
earlier than I'd expected; soon after 7.30am. “You did look lovely
in your dress yesterday Stephen.” my aunt told me. Sheepishly I
thanked her before asking Mum what I’d be wearing today.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I thought those
dungaree shorts would be nice.” Mum replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I replied,
thinking it could be worse. “Is Peter allowed to wear shorts Auntie
June?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Course he is.” she
told me, adding that he only tends to wear them in the summer.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't think I've
ever worn shorts in the winter.” I noted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'll have tights
on too.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know.” I replied
as Auntie June handed me a glass of orange juice. “Thanks.” I
smiled. She offered to make me a slice of toast, adding that she'd
make a proper breakfast once Peter and Jasmine are up. I was happy to
wait a while and sat at the breakfast bar in my lilac nightdress,
briefly thumbing the lace trim around its long cuffed sleeves. After
a while auntie June went to wake her children and Mum asked me if it
was nice sleeping in a nightie. “I don't know I was asleep.” I
sarcastically replied. “It was OK I guess.” I added.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“See I told you it
wouldn't be as bad as you imagined.” Mum replied. “Have you
brushed your teeth?” she asked. I had. “Good boy.” she smiled.
“Do you want to get dressed before or after breakfast?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't suppose it
matters.” I replied, since I'd be dressed like a girl either way.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A while passed before
Peter and Jasmine came downstairs; Peter in his pink plaid pyjamas
and Jasmine in a pair of pale blue pyjamas with pink swans printed
all over them. It felt a bit weird being the only one wearing a
nightie but all three of us wore girls nightwear so I didn't have
much cause for complaint. Auntie June shoved us all into the lounge
to watch TV whilst she and Mum prepared a full English breakfast. I
asked Peter what it was like wearing dresses all the time, to which
he replied that he doesn't wear dresses <i>all the time</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
“...just when I’m not a school.” he told me. “And it's not
just dresses. I have skirts and pants and shorts too.” he added. I
admitted to him that I was mortified when my mother told me I’d
have to wear girls clothes whilst we were here, before claiming that
it's not so bad. “You soon get used to it.” he told me. “They're
just clothes at the end of the day.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
I guess.” I concurred. “Not sure what my mates would say if they
knew I was spending Christmas week dressed as a girl.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
not worth worrying about what other people think.” Peter said,
before advising me not to tell them.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
won't!” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">After
a hearty fried breakfast we all went to get dressed. I wasn't sure
when Mum had popped up to our room but when I got there, my clothing
for the day was laid out neatly on my bed; knickers, bra, vest,
tights, long sleeved T-shirt and the dungaree shorts. They're a
stonewashed black denim, so very dark grey rather than black, with a
ditsy floral lining that is revealed on the turn ups of the shorts,
and this black floral fabric also trims the top edge of all the
pockets. The long sleeve T-shirt has narrow horizontal stripes on an
off-white background in all sorts of pastel shades; blue, green,
lilac, pink and whilst not overtly girlie, it's not altogether boyish
either. Once dressed I look at myself in the mirror and gulped at my
reflection. The shorts are a little too short for comfort and there's
no hint of skin beneath my thick black tights unless I'm sat with my
knees bent, but compared to yesterday's prissy frock, today I’m
definitely a tom-boy. I wasn't sure which shoes to wear. My pageboy
shoes wouldn't look right and my ankle boots aren't really house
shoes so I put my slippers on before heading downstairs.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Peter
wore an A-line denim skirt, pale grey tights with tiny pink spots on
and a baby pink jumper. His sister had skinny jeans and a sloppy
sweatshirt top on. Jasmine said she loved my dungaree-shorts and I
said that they're my sister's. Mum called us 'the denim gang' and her
sister suggested they put some denim on too so they could join. “No
way!” Jasmine quipped. “You two are way to old to be in </span><i>our</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
gang.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Cheeky!”
Auntie June retorted, grinning. “Now I've got jobs for you three
today. Jasmine, you can clear up the kitchen... and boys, you two can
rake the drive.” she told us.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Dressed
like this? I thought, gulping. I put my ankle boots on and donned my
pale blue furry fleece jacket. Peter wore a quilted dress coat that
didn't quite cover his skirt with a pair of light tan Chelsea boots.
We entered the chilly garage via the back patio and Peter opened the
up-&-over door to reveal the vast gravel drive out front. “Have
you raked this before?” I asked him.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Every
month.” he replied. “Shouldn't take long with two of us.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What
if someone walks past?” I said. Peter looked at me and shrugged
before handing me a rake. He asked if I knew what I was doing. “Not
really.” I glumly replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We
just want to level the gravel, so start at the tyre ruts and don't
dig... just let the weight of the rake do the work.” he explained.
“We'll start at the gates.” he said. “Where the ruts are
deepest.” he added.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
extensive gravel drive of their sizeable detached home has an
entrance and an exit, but otherwise the front of the property is
bounded by leylandii trees some six or seven feet tall, so relatively
concealed apart from the entrance and exit. We stepped out onto the
gravel. Peter headed to one side and I to the other. The chilly air
nibbled through my tights but not so much to cause concern and once
we started raking, I soon warmed up and even unzipped my jacket after
ten minutes. I couldn't help but think how strange it was... two boys
dressed as girls raking a huge driveway. At least I’m not wearing a
skirt, I thought. But tiny shorts, thick black tights and a baby blue
cropped jacket is just as girlie, I figured. After half an hour, Mum
and Auntie June came out and said we were doing an excellent job. My
aunt said she liked my boots and bashfully I thanked her. “Where
are you going?” I asked my mother.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just
down to the Co-op.” she replied. “Won't be long.” she said.
“Are you warm enough?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.”
I said. “Too warm if anything.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
you can take your jacket off.” Mum told me. “Just don't put it
where it'll get dirty.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll
be OK I think.” I said. “Prob'ly too cold without it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
put it back on if you get too cold.” she advised. “Those tights
do look nice with those shorts.” she said, smiling at my legs.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
Mum it's embarrassing when you keep saying I look nice.” I
bashfully blushed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
get used to it... because you'll be hearing it all week.” she
smiled before telling me they won't be long.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Does
your Mum do that?” I asked Peter once they'd gone. “Keep telling
you how nice you look.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.”
he replied. “I think they do it just to make sure we don't forget
that we're dressed as girls.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How
could we forget?” I grumbled. Peter shrugged. I guess he's totally
used it after all this time.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
and auntie June were back within fifteen minutes, carrying a bag of
shopping each. After twenty more minutes we'd finished and returned
inside via the garage and back door. Auntie June handed us each a hot
mug of milky coffee. “You've earned that boys.” she told us. “Do
you want to light the fire Peter?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK
Mummy.” he obediently replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Maybe
you can help, Stephen.” she said to me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
went with Peter into the sitting room where he began to clean out the
ashes. “I wish we had a real fire at home.” I said as I watched.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
at least with central heating you can just turn it on and off.” he
replied. You don't have to clean the hearth every morning and keep
putting logs on all day.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
but... I'd rather look at a real fire than a radiator.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“True.”
Peter said as he swept the ashes into a dustpan.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">He
showed me how to make a </span><i>poor man's</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
fire lighter out of folded newspaper and between us we made about
twelve, placing them on the grate. On top the these he put a a
handful of kindling and let me light it. Once the kindling had taken
hold, he placed a single chunky log on top and we sat in silence,
watching the flames lick around it and eventually take hold. “It's
almost mesmerising.” I said, unable to take my eyes off the flames.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.”
Peter replied as he put the two remaining logs from the basket on the
edge of the hearth. “I'll fetch some more logs.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can
I come?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sure.”
he said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">There's
a wood store in the garden behind the garage; a ramshackle structure
under which a broad stack of chopped logs are stowed. I wondered why
they weren't kept in the garage where it's dry but Peter said they're
best kept outside, otherwise they'd have an insect infestation in the
garage. There's also a chunk of tree trunk on which the kindling is
chopped and a rusty old hatchet. “Wouldn't that be better if it was
sharp?” I quizzed, noticing that it's clearly not. Peter said it
doesn't take much to split a good dry log into kindling,
demonstrating on one of the logs before letting me have a try.
Peter's efforts were more productive than mine and he said it's more
technique than force, before showing me again and explaining that the
hatchet is just a wedge to split the wood rather than something that
cuts it. He let me have another try and it worked much better. I even
built up a good bit of body heat. “Is that enough?” I asked after
we'd slit three logs into a good pile of kindling.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
plenty.” he said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We've
been chopping wood.” I proudly told my Mum when we returned
indoors.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
grinned and asked if I was enjoying myself. I smiled and nodded. “Are
you warm enough?” she asked. “Yeah.” I said, placing my fingers
on my thigh. “These tights are quite warm considering I'm only
wearing shorts with them.” I added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good.” Mum smiled.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After a hearty lunch of
home made soup and crumpets, we spent the afternoon playing board
games and then played video games whilst Mum and Auntie June made the
evening meal. “Stephen do you want to help Jasmine lay the table?”
my aunt asked. I could hardly say no. After we'd eaten, Peter and I
washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen before we all settle down in
the sitting room to watch a Christmas classic movie... <i>It's a
Wonderful Life</i>. Compared to <i>Home Alone</i> it's mind numbingly
boring but festive none the less.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Afterwards Peter and I
were sent to get ready for bed. Mum had laid the white nightie on my
bed but with a pair of pink night knickers. I'd have thought she'd
have saved those for my pink nightdress but no one's going to know so
I wore what she'd left for me. Peter wore a nightie too tonight; pale
blue with a frilly white yoke and a pattern of white clouds and pale
pink crescent moons. We watched another old black and white movie; <i>A
Christmas Carol </i>which, for all its pompous theatrics and
laughable paupers with upper class accents, was really quite haunting
in places. We go to bed soon after, full of excitement for what the
morning might bring.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Xmas day-->Mum is
asleep in the bed beside me when I wake on Christmas morning. I lay
in silence until she begins to stir, nervously anticipating the known
fact that I’ll be gifted a dress and other girlie items this year,
for which I'm expected to feign gratitude for. Eventually, and in a
very quiet whisper, Mum asks if I’m awake. “Hmmm.” I murmur.
“Yes.” I say. “What time is it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just gone seven.”
Mum replied. “You been awake long?” she asked</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Half an hour.” I
figured. Mum suggested we leave it another half hour before rising,
and asked how I was getting on so far.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I
half-heartedly replied. “It's still weird only having girls clothes
but... those lacy knee socks were the worst.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I thought those
looked cute.” Mum said. “But you were clearly happier once you'd
put some tights on.” she noted. “And you seemed to like your
dungarees yesterday.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Will I be wearing
another dress today?” I asked. Mum nodded. “The one I'm getting
for Christmas?” I figured. Mum nodded and told me that it's
supposed to be a surprise. “Well I haven't seen it yet so it will
be.” I replied. After a moment of silence in which Mum just looked
at me with her warm loving eyes, I hesitantly asked what we were
going to do with all my new clothes when we go back home.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... I suppose we
could send them to charity... apart from your undies.” Mum replied.
“And your tights of course... but you could wear those under a pair
of jeans when it's cold.” she supposed.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Maybe.” I said.
“They are quite cosy.” I confessed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah I like wearing
warm winter tights too.” she smiled. “I'm glad you don't hate it
as much as you thought you would.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well...” I
thoughtfully replied. “...I'm not sure I like it as much as you
hoped I would... but as Peter says, they're just clothes.” I said.
“But I wouldn't like to wear them at home.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I wouldn't expect
you to.” she replied. “But if I keep finding underpants strewn
all over your bedroom floor instead of in your laundry bin... you
might find nothing but knickers in your drawer.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum's always going on
at me for that, saying things <span style="font-style: normal;">like</span><i>
will you never learn? </i><span style="font-style: normal;">as she
tidies up after me, so guess such a threat will help me finally learn
to put my laundry where it belongs. “OK.” I said. </span>
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We
soon heard the sounds of life from the landing and got ourselves out
of bed. I put my feet into my little ballerina slippers as Mum pulled
on her dressing gown and together we headed downstairs where Peter
was lighting the fire. Beneath the tree were loads of presents that
weren't there last night, but most I knew weren't for me. Auntie June
was in the kitchen putting the kettle on and Jasmine soon appeared.
We all wished each other a happy Christmas and Auntie June said we'd
open some presents once the fire is roaring and the sitting room has
warmed up. Proper fresh coffee was made and some crackers were handed
out, so the day began with weak bangs, paper hats, cheesy jokes and
tiresome trivia, but it was all good fun. Mum told Peter that she
liked his nightie and Peter said he got it for his birthday. It must
be awful getting nothing but girl stuff for birthdays and Christmas,
I thought, before acknowledging that I too would be getting my share
of girlie gifts this year.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Before
long we settled in the lounge. The fire was roaring and Auntie June
put a Christmas CD on before handing each of us a bright red felt
stocking that hung from the edge of the mantle. “Now these are from
Santa.” she said, to which Jasmine replied </span><i>he doesn't
exist</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. “Killjoy.” her mother
grinned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Inside
we found a satsuma or clementine (I can't tell the difference), a bar
of chocolate, some nuts, a miniature boxed jigsaw puzzle and a
miniature snow globe with a snowman in mine, Santa Clause inside
jasmine's and a cute looking deer inside Peter's. All three lit up
and were lined up on the mantle piece and Mum hand me my next gift.
From the size and shape of the box I knew it was either a DVD or
video game. “Oh thanks Mum.” I said, revealing The Polar Express
DVD. I hadn't seen it but Jasmine had and said it was good. They also
opened some small gifts; a Lily Allen CD for Jasmine and a Now That's
What I Call Music CD for Peter. I got some ski-gloves which looked
cool, not that I’m ever likely to go skiing and big colourful book
about the solar system and beyond, which is when Auntie June got her
camera out. “Oh no, please Auntie!” I said. “Not when I’m
dressed like this!”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't
worry... no ones going to see them who doesn't have to.” she said.
“...and we can't have a Christmas without photos.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
just had to trust that the pictures would be kept within a small
circle, which I’m sure they would be, but given the choice I
wouldn't even want my dad or sister seeing them, let alone my
grandparents.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Peter's
next gift was a pair of white over knee socks with a pattern of candy
canes and colourful gift boxes decorating them. Mum said they were
very festive, before handing me another gift. “In a similar vein.”
she said, smiling knowingly.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks
Mum.” I said, having unwrapped a pair of white woolly tights
decorated with glittery snowflake shapes.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Jasmine
also unwrapped some tights; rusty brown and ribbed. Peter's next gift
was a dress; red velvet with a white embroidered collar and long
sleeves. “And this one's for you Stephen.” Mum said, handing me a
similar sized package.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
I knew you'd buy me a dress.” I said, unwrapping a green dress,
also in velvet but with no sleeves and no collar. “Thanks.” I
said, forcing a smile. Mum handed me another gift, saying it was to
wear with it. I tore off the paper. “A shirt.” I said, finding a
neatly folded white shirt.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
it's more of a blouse.” Mum said as I unfolded it to discover a
broad round collar with white lace trim. “The buttons are on the
back.” she informed me as I turned it back and forth, looking
somewhat perplexed. “Thanks.” I said, smiling but not beamingly
so.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We
all opened a few more gifts before breakfast, but saved plenty to
open afterwards. Mum always insists on having smoked salmon,
croissants and scrambled eggs for breakfast on Christmas morning, and
her sister made the same for us. Afterwards we went to get dressed
and as I'd figured, I had to wear my new green velvet dress over my
new blouse with my sparkly snowflake tights. “It's weird having
clothes that fasten up the back.” I said as my mother buttoned up
my blouse for me. Mum said they look nicer from the front when the
buttons are on the back. “Yeah but... I can't dress myself unless
they fasten on the front.” I replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Your
training bras all fasten at the back and you don't have a problem
putting those on.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.”
I murmured. “But they don't have loads of buttons.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“True.”
Mum replied. “There.” she said having fastened the final button.
“It's a nice fit.” she said, turning me to face her and thumbing
my lace edged collar.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
dress has a zip on the back but unlike the dress I wore on Sunday
which pulled on over my head, this one needed to be stepped into. The
hem landed mid thigh so it's a short dress in my book. She arranged
my collar before zipping me in and turning me around to face her.
“Very Christmassy.” she smiled. “Do you want to put your
pageboy shoes on?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.”
I glumly said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't
sound too keen.” she grinned.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
I am dressed like a girl Mum.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
so is Peter.” she reminded me. “And who knows...? ...one day it
might be as normal for boys to wear frocks as it is for girls to wear
pants.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
suppose that makes me a pioneer.” I dryly said as I buckled my
shoes.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
suppose it does.” Mum smiled. “Now there's one last thing which
you won't like much... but it's part of your dress so...” she said,
revealing a folded white item.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's
that?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“A
sash.” she said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">This
three inch wide length of white satin went around my waist and tied
in a big bow on the back. “Oh Mu-um... it wasn't so bad until you
put that on me.” I said, looking at my reflection in the dressing
table mirror, turning so I could see the big ornate bow she'd tied.
“It'll get all scrunched when I'm sitting down.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
thought for a brief moment. “Yes I suppose it will.” she said
before taking it off and folding it up.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks.”
I frowned.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
love those tights.” she smiled, looking at my legs. “You look
very festive.” she added as I looked down. Unlike the white nylon
tights I wore with my prissy sailor dress, these are knitted and
therefore even thicker. Each silver snowflake that decorates them is
the size of a two pound coin and they're spaced about three inches
apart forming a diamond pattern of sorts. I'd have preferred to wear
my ankle boots but I guess those wouldn't go with this outfit as well
as my pageboy shoes do. Mum must've read my mind as she asked if my
shoes still felt wobbly compared to my ankle boots. “No they're
OK.” I said. “I'm kind of used to them now after wearing them all
day on Sunday.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good.”
Mum smiled. “Come on... let's show the others</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Predictably,
my aunt and Jasmine said I looked 'lovely' in my new dress. Peter got
his fair share of compliments too. He wore his new red velvet dress
along with his festive over knee socks and shoes similar to mine,
albeit without a T-strap, and Jasmine wore a blue shiny satin circle
skirt with a pale pink flouncy blouse and skin coloured tights with
blue ballet shoes. It's the girliest I’ve seen her dressed since we
arrived. “Now I know you don't want any photos Stephen but can I
please take one of all three of you by the tree?” Auntie June
asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.”
I gulped. “But please don't put it on MySpace where everyone can
see it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
promise.” she said. “So long as you promise to smile.” she
added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">What
I'd hoped might have been one photo of us stood by the tree turned
out to be about seven photographs; me and my cousins standing and
smiling at the camera, another of us sitting and looking up at the
tree, one of just me and Peter, another of me and Mum, then a couple
of me on my own both sat and stood, and finally all five of us around
the Christmas tree using the camera's timer function. This needed to
be taken twice because Jasmine got distracted just as the flash
burst. “Perfect.” Auntie June said as she looked at the pictures
on the camera's small screen.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
Stephen you look so sweet.” Mum said as she looked over my aunt's
shoulder. “You all do.” she added. “I can't wait to see them on
a proper screen.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll
put them on a flashdrive for you.” Auntie June suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
haven't got one.” Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh,
pity.” Auntie June suspiciously replied. “Shall we open some more
presents?”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I
presented Peter and Jasmine with a gift each from me; a 2008 calendar
each. Peter's featured Hubble photographs of the solar system, which
he was very pleased with, and Jasmine's featured British wildlife
photos. Mum gave them a hat, scarf and gloves set each which were
both quite girlie, and they gave me a joint present from both of
them. “Oh cool!” I exclaimed, unwrapping the Harry Potter DVD box
set featuring all five films plus loads of extras. “Thanks!”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Mum
was gifted (amongst other things) a USB flashdrive from her sister,
and from me she was given a scented candle and box of Thornton's
chocolates, on which I'd written </span><i>they're not for sharing!
xx</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I unwrapped a pair of boy's
jeans and a boy's fleece top, followed by a pair of burgundy woolly
tights and a girl's cream jumper which felt so soft. It might have
passed as a boy's jumper had it not had ruffled cuffs and a broad
'boat' neck. Mum said it would be nice with my corduroy jeans before
giving me another gift to unwrap; a Hogwarts bedside radio alarm
clock.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Peter
unwrapped several pairs of tights and girlie socks, plus a new
nightie, some girl's tops and a pleated woollen skirt, which he
appeared grateful for but I could tell he'd have preferred something
a little more boyish. Jasmine unwrapped some make-up and a handbag,
plus plenty of clothes which she was genuinely grateful for... but
unlike her brother she got jeans and several other 'boyish' items to
wear.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“This
is from me Stephen.” Auntie June said, handing me a gift.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
thank you.” I said before unwrapping it.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They
look nice.” Mum said as I unwrapped a woolly hat, scarf woolly
gloves set in purple and pale blue. Clearly it's a girl's set but I
feigned gratitude nonetheless.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">These
were followed by another gift off Auntie June; a pair of Scandinavian
woolly slipper boots in pale grey with a Nordic pattern in pale pink.
“Thank you Auntie June.” I smiled, thinking they'd be a bit more
boyish if they pattern was pale blue instead.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Then
Mum gave me a familiar looking parcel which I knew was the pack of
girls pyjamas she'd bought me and wrapped in my presence. “Oh those
look nice.” my aunt said as I unfolded one of the three pairs; pale
blue pyjama pants with white lace trim at the bottom of the long
legs, and a white satin bow in the waistband, plus a matching pyjama
top with a lacy collar and cuffs. I said thank you to my mother but
wasn't really looking forward to wearing them, especially the pink
pair.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
rest of my gifts were all normal boy's gifts; a big colourful book
about Earth's geological history, a couple of music CDs, a stationery
set, socks, some ski-gloves and a new backpack for school.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
and Auntie June began putting the roast dinner through its final
stages leaving the three of us alone for a while. Jasmine asked me if
I liked my dress after noticing me running my fingers over the soft
velvet fabric. “Not really.” I said. “It feels nice but... I
don't really like dresses.” I added, glancing at Peter and feeling
more than a little awkward.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
you've only worn two.” she told me, before asking which I liked
best.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Neither....
but if I had to choose, this one.” I gulped. Jasmine smiled before
saying she liked my sailor dress the best, adding that Peter also has
a sailor dress. “His is better than mine.” I replied, having seen
him wearing it when they visited a few months ago. Peter's sailor
dress is dark blue with white trim and no prissy details, and as I
recall was knee length instead of short like mine.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Thankfully
the uncomfortable conversation came to an abrupt end when we were
called through to the dining room where Christmas dinner was being
served. After eating far too much and saving barely any room for
Christmas pudding, several more gifts were brought into the sitting
room. One very large gift was given to Jasmine which she rested
horizontally on her lap, and another large wedge shaped gift was
given to Peter and they opened them together. Both were delighted
with their 'main' gifts. Jasmine received an electronic keyboard and
Peter an acoustic guitar. “I didn't know you played guitar!” I
said as he strummed a few chords before finger picking a tune.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I've
been having lessons since...” he replied, tailing off immediately
after 'since'. I later learned that he'd been having lessons since
he'd been petticoated, so eighteen months or so. Jasmine's keyboard
skills were very basic but she's always wanted to learn.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Then
Mum dug out another gift for me; a big box but certainly not guitar
or keyboard sized. I gasped as I tore off the paper. “Oh wow!” I
exclaimed, opening a PS3. Overwhelmed is an understatement as a new
games console was the last thing I expected, and when I was given
another big gift which turned out to be the Rockband game complete
with the guitar controller, all of a sudden it felt like the best
Christmas ever! I leapt up and gave Mum a huge hug, thanking her
profusely. “Can we play it now?” I hoped, directing the question
to my aunt.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of
course you can.” Auntie June smiled, before revealing that Jasmine
and Peter have the Guitar Hero game for their PS2 and also have two
further guitar controllers which meant all three of us could play
Rockband together.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">All
of a sudden my clothing was the very last thing on my mind as Peter
set up my PS3 on their large TV. Mum told me that Dad had got the
game on a trip to America, adding that it's not actually available in
the UK yet which means I’m one of the few people to have it in this
country. I felt doubly blessed and we spent several hours playing
with various degrees of success. I didn't even care that I was
wearing a dress.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
said I should telephone Dad before he sets off for work, which I did.
I was so enthused with the Rockband game and so thankful and then,
part way through our chat, I found my reflection in the darkened
kitchen window and realised that I'm talking to my Dad whilst dressed
entirely as a girl; knickers, training bra, tights, shoes with heels,
the lot!.... “Are you still there Stephen?” Dad asked as I fell
silent.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Err...
yeah.” I replied as glared at myself, wondering if he knew what I'd
be wearing at this moment. “Mum bought me a dress as well.” I
told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
I know.” Dad replied. “How is it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Better
than the one I wore on Sunday.” I said. He asked after Peter and
Jasmine and I told him that Peter plays the guitar really well and
after a little more chat he asked to speak Mum. We said our goodbyes
and I took the phone to the sitting room where Mum was trying to play
Rockband. “Dad wants you.” I said, swapping the phone for the
guitar controller. My clothing soon slipped from my mind as I got
myself absorbed in the game.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We
stopped to watch the Doctor Who Christmas Special which didn't
disappoint any of us. Even Mum liked it and she doesn't usually enjoy
science-fiction, but she's been a fan of Kylie since she was teenager
so that might have had something to do with it. “Do you boys want
to go and put your pyjamas on?” Auntie June said once Doctor Who
had finished.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
followed me up to our room. “So has it all been worth it?” she
asked as she unzipped my dress.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes!
I can't thank you enough.” I said. “I can't wait to tell Jonny.
He's gonna be well impressed.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
just a pity Dad wasn't here to see the look on your face.” Mum said
as I stepped out of the dress.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.”
I replied. “But I'm glad he doesn't have to see this.” I gulped
as she put my dress on a hanger whilst I stood wearing only my tights
and blouse.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
he wouldn't mind. He had quite a few dresses too when he was your
age.” she reminded me as she began to unbutton my blouse. “It's
not been so bad though, has it?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
OK here I guess... but only because Peter wears dresses too.” I
said. “But I wouldn't want to wear them at home.” I added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So
you keep saying.” she smiled. “Which pyjamas are you going to
wear?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not
the pink ones.” I replied. “Do I still have to wear my night
knickers with pyjamas?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of
course you do.” she told me, smiling.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
don't have to watch me Mum.” I moaned as I unfastened my training
bra.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sorry.
You just seem so... familiar with it.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
don't know what you mean?” I replied. Mum said I unfastened the
clasp first time with barely a thought, as if I'd been wearing one
for months rather than only since Saturday. “It's not exactly
rocket science.” I said. Mum told me that my sister used to fasten
hers at the front then twist it round when she began wearing a
training bra. “But she'd have been younger than me.” I supposed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“True...
she was only eleven.” Mum smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I
wore the pale blue pyjamas and the woolly slipper boots Auntie June
had gifted me. They're cosy and comfy but I wished they didn't have
any pink on them. “You'd only be wearing them around the house.”
Mum said. “And pink isn't exclusively for girls.” she reminded
me. </span>
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">I
know... it's just not a colour I particularly like.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">We
went downstairs where Peter wore his new nightie which has a cute
teddy bear on the front and the words '</span><i>only 365 sleeps
until Christmas</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'. “So the
countdown to next Christmas has begun already.” Mum chuckled after
complimenting his nightwear. </span>
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">We
played a few rounds of Uno and Jasmine was the hands-down winner,
before settling down to watch Gremlins, which Mum claimed would give
her nightmares. Jasmine, Peter and I were soon packed off to bed and
I lay awake for seemingly ages, feeling very lucky that I’d got a
new PS3. I anticipated telling my best friend Jonny and couldn't wait
to show it to him and play Rockband. I wondered if Mum and Dad had
gone all out to buy it to make up for me having to dress like a girl
for the week, or if I'd have got it anyway? Either way it must have
been a very expensive Christmas, especially considering how much was
spent on my clothes as well. </span>
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Boxing Day-->I
must've been sound asleep by the time Mum turned in, because she lay
in the bed opposite mine when I woke the next morning and I didn't
recall her coming in. I spent a moment hoping that I'd not had some
very vivid dream and that my PS3 was real. Then I spent a moment
wondering what I'd be wearing today; knowing that I have a pair of
pants, a skirt and a pinafore dress that I haven't yet worn, and
since I wore a dress on Sunday, shorts on Monday, a dress yesterday,
I figured I might be wearing the corduroy jeans today and either the
skirt or pinafore tomorrow. Hopefully the boy's jeans and fleece top
I got for Christmas are to wear when we travel back home on Friday...
but even then I'd still have to wear knickers because that's the only
underwear I have. I forced myself to stop thinking about clothes and
dwelt on my new games console instead. I still can't quite believe
that I've got one!</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Dawn
began to break and in the half light I could see my green velvet
dress hanging from the wardrobe door, alongside my button back blouse
with its broad lace trimmed collar. I recalled posing for photos by
the Christmas tree and cringed, knowing that I’m smiling in all of
them. Knowing that my father and sister would see those photographs,
I envisaged my sister saying how nice or cute or sweet I look, and
Dad saying something like 'you look fine son', before reminding me
that he too had to wear the occasional Sunday dress when he was my
age. But maybe he was just saying that to make me feel better. Who
knows?
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
pulled my arms out from under the duvet and stretched them, before
resting them and thumbing my lace trimmed cuff. Its a peculiar
fabric; delicate and intricate and having seen pictures of boys from
the Victorian and Regency era, I knew that once upon a time it wasn't
uncommon for boys to wear shirts adorned with plenty of lace. Little
Lord Fauntleroy popped into my head and it dawned on me that Mum
could have said my blouse was a '<i>Fauntleroy shirt</i>', much like
my black T-strap shoes are called <i>pageboy shoes</i> when a boy
wears them, and <i>Mary Jane's</i> when they're for girls. I turned
my head. “You're awake!” I said seeing my mother laid on her
side, eyes wide open and smiling at me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.”
she said. “And you look deep in thought.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just
thinking about stuff.” I said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What
kind of stuff?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nothing
much.” I told her. “I still can't believe I’ve got a PS3.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did
you think it was all a dream?” she asked, smiling</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not
really.” I said. “I wish getting a dress for Christmas was a
dream.” I added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
received it admirably.” she replied. “I'm very proud of you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Lord
knows what my friends would say if they knew I wore a dress on
Christmas Day.” I glumly mused. “Will I have to keep it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
it's served its purpose.” Mum replied. “Well get rid of it
eventually.” she said. “Unless...?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.”
I said, quickly and bluntly. Mum smiled and suggested we get up.
“OK.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
peeled open the duvet and swung my feet onto the floor, slipping them
directly into my ballerina slippers. “Aren't you going to wear the
slippers Auntie June gave you?” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're
too warm.” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Or
too pink?” Mum quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No
it's not that... and they've only got a bit of pink on them.” I
replied. Mum didn't seem convinced. “If anything these are way more
girlie... but they're just warm enough for Auntie June's underfloor
heating.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Fair
enough... just make sure you wear Auntie June's slippers tonight.”
Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm...
I suppose I should wear hers.” I replied, before swapping my
slippers.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Auntie
June instantly noticed I was wearing her slippers and asked if I
liked them. I nodded and said they're really warm. “Probably too
warm with the underfloor heating in here.” she replied. “Sometimes
I wonder if it's too efficient.” she said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
helped Peter light the fire whilst our parents made scrambled eggs,
bacon and toast. Over breakfast he asked if we were going for a walk
today and his mother said we were; just a pleasant stroll around the
windmills. “They're turbines Mum.” Jasmine pedantically informed
her.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes
I know... but wind <i>turbines</i> is a bit of a mouthful, so I call
them windmills.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
they're not.” Jasmine cockily said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can
I wear my pants today Mum?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes,
but you'll have to wear your skirt or pinafore tomorrow.” Mum told
me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
I know.” I replied. “I've sussed out the pattern... girlie one
day, tom-boy the next.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
if you wear your skirt tomorrow you'll only have your pinafore dress
left for Friday.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can't
I wear the jeans I got for Christmas on Friday?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Maybe
when we get home.” she said. I frowned. “Your dad won't be there
if that's what you're worried about.” she added, which relieved me
somewhat. “...but Anna probably will be and I know she'd like to
see you.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Wearing
a dress.” I glumly presumed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
she'd just like to see you no matter what you're wearing... but I
think that would be nice since she pretty much chose your wardrobe
for this week.” Mum replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did
she?” my aunt quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
I wanted to choose it but when she saw what I thought would be nice,
Anna was like... <i>No! No! No!</i>” Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So
what did you choose?” Auntie June enquired.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Lots
of floral prints and plenty of frills.” Mum said. “But Anna said
you really wouldn't like any of those.” she added to me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Maybe
I got off lightly, I figured. After breakfast I went to get dressed
and as usual, Mum had already laid my clothes out for me; plain white
knickers with the narrow pink trim and a matching vest, both with my
name ornately embroidered in blue thread, and a matching training
bra. I recalled how Mum said I was used to wearing one already, but I
didn't think that was the case, despite fastening it with little
effort. I adjusted the shoulder straps as I'd been shown at my
fitting before pulling on my vest. Mum entered just as I was
fastening my corduroy jeans and commented on them being a good fit.
“You always say that.” I replied, supposing that if anything
they're a bit too tight, especially around the top.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They've
got some elastine in them.” she said. “And girls jeans are
supposed to be snug around the hip.” she added. I pulled on my new
cream jumper which Mum also said was a nice fit, adding that I looked
quite trendy. I suppose I do, I figured as I looked down at myself. I
also look quite girlie too, but that is the point, I guess.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">My
aunt and Jasmine both liked my outfit, and Mum said she liked Peter's
too. He wears a rusty brown dungaree dress over a burgundy jumper and
thick chocolate brown tights and his Chelsea boots. Jasmine wears
skinny jeans, brown knee high boots and a fleece top. “How far are
the windmills?” I asked.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
only a mile or so.” my aunt replied. “As the crow flies.” she
added.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">What
she didn't say was that the lanes that lead to and from them meander
quite a lot meaning that the walk is the best part of seven miles and
we'd be out for around two hours. The walk leads us first through the
hamlet, passing most of the forty or so houses there. Then a turn
onto another residential lane reveals a view the wind turbines for
the first time. They stand huge and proud on an otherwise flat
landscape, with their massive wing like blades slowly turning, each
slightly out of sync with every other turbine. I couldn't count them
all and soon the meandering lane led us directly away from them. The
pavement stopped at the edge of the hamlet and from there we walked
in the road. Auntie said there weren't many cars that come this way
and I suppose due to it being Boxing Day, today there weren't any.
“How you getting on in those boots?” Mum asked after half a mile
or so. “Still getting used to them or...?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
they're OK.” I said, looking down at my feet. My dusty pink cords
cover much of the tops of my ankle boots, and Mum was right about the
pink laces, they do match my pants. It was nice to be out of the
house for once, and nice to be wearing long pants too, but maybe I
should have worn some tights beneath them as Mum suggested. My soft
woolly jumper and warm furry fleece jacket are nice and cosy though.
Plus I've got a vest on under that and [gulp] a training bra. I'm
constantly aware of its grip around my chest but it's only when I
reach or point or raise an arm that the narrow elasticated straps
stretch into my shoulders... otherwise I'm oblivious to them. Only
the snug band around my chest is always apparent to me. I can go
minutes not considering the fact that I'm wearing heels but not a
second passes that I’m not aware of my training bra.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">One
lane led to another, each taking us past the occasional house or
farm. Some were lined with trees, others flanked by ditches and
flimsy wire fences. The turbines came into view again, standing like
giants on the pan flat horizon. There's not a hill to be seen in any
direction and the sky looks massive here. It's a featureless overcast
sky yet bright. I imagine it in summer, bright blue and completely
cloudless, the silent forest of turbines standing huge, bright and
white. I don't know why but I briefly imagined wearing my blue sailor
dress on a breezy summer day, before putting my meandering thoughts
in check. Eventually we were as close to the turbines as we were ever
going to get, which was very close to a few of them. I felt humbled
in their presence, wondering how much power surged over the pylons
that marched in to the distance.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Jasmine
asked me how long I'd 'really' been wearing heels for and initially
didn't believe that I got my first ever pair on Saturday. She claimed
it took her brother months to learn to walk normally, although Peter
maintained it was weeks rather than months. I felt the warm glow of
pride inside me. Not because I seemed to have learned to walk in
heels far quicker than my cousin, but because I didn't make too much
of a fool of myself doing so.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
route took us alongside a drainage dyke, the type too huge to
contemplate falling into. Soon we were flanked by open fields; flat,
lifeless and frosty. The breeze is on me now. I wish I’d worn some
tights, I thought before wondering if Peter's cold in his
dungee-dress and tights, but shy away from asking him. At least my
feet are cosy, and my top half too. If my furry fleece jacket wasn't
such a girlie colour I'd probably wear it when out in Nottingham, so
comfy and snug it feels... but then again it does have a short waist,
which only girls wear.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Soon
the hamlet came into view and once among the houses, I couldn't help
wonder what the neighbours must think and imagined them gossiping
behind net curtains... <i>there's that woman who dresses her son in
girls clothes … and who's that boy with him? … his petticoated
cousin, maybe? … but he's not wearing a dress … he's not dressed
like a boy either...</i> Maybe they're just used to seeing Peter
coming and going, or maybe it's common practice in the village, I
muse as my imagination runs away with me. I conjure a hamlet in which
every boy is imprisoned in frocks and frills... too shy to go outside
and make friends with the other boys... all working towards a goal of
getting their boy clothes back, but only if they get straight A's at
the end of the school term. I imagine if I were one of them I'm be
stuck in them for quite some time since I’ve never been graded
higher than B. “You look deep in thought.” Mum said. “Penny for
them?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
nothing... just thinking about school and stuff.” I told her. She
asked me if it's been nice wearing long pants for the first time this
week. “Yeah... but they're not very warm.” I said. “I wish I
had put some tights on too.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
you'll know the next time.” Mum replied. “Those pants are quite
thin, compared the normal jeans.” she added as I supposed that I
could wear tights under my jeans when I'm out and it's cold. No one
would know and I doubt they'd notice. “And you could always keep
hold of your woolly ones to wear under your jeans.” Mum suggested,
as if reading my mind</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Maybe.
But my other jeans are all thicker than these so...” I coyly
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Still
be nice and cosy though.” Mum said, tempting me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
house was nice and warm when we returned. A single log smouldered
brightly behind the fire screen. Peter place a fresh long on top of
it, under two pieces of kindling and within seconds it burst into
flame. He often appears so at ease in his frocks and tights, and only
occasionally appears to become bashful and shy... usually when his
clothes are being talked about and complimented. And that is the time
when I tend to cringe too. Auntie put the kettle on and Mum helped
prepared some hot mocha coffee whilst we three fell silent on the
sofa, mesmerised by the flames. “It's a shame you didn’t wear
dress today.” Jasmine said, all of sudden. “You're not worn one
outside yet have you?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah...
when we got here.” I replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Walking
into the house doesn't count... I mean for a proper walk.” she
said. “Like today.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'd
be colder.” I said. “A dress.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not
with nice thick tights.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
should've put some tights on under these.” I said, cupping and
rubbing my knee.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">After
drinking some hot coffee and munching on Maltesers from a box, Mum
began pottering in the kitchen, Peter soon wondered off, Jasmine was
given an errand and only myself and Auntie June remained. “I've got
a big big favour to ask you.” she said. “Will you wear your blue
dress for a while this evening please?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why?”
I gulped, hoping she wasn't having visitors. So relieved I felt that
an 'outsider' wasn't the reason, I said “OK” before it had really
sunk in. “A photograph.” I gulped.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
your mum's kicking herself for not getting one on Sunday... and I
know she promised you'd only have to wear it once...” she said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well,
she didn't... I just figured I wouldn't have to wear it again.” I
thought.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“...and
it's unlikely you'll wear it again.” she added. “Just for an
hour... or two.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“For
one photograph?” I quizzed, thinking that an hour is a long time
for even ten photographs. But my aunt read my rely another way.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Deal.”
she said. “One photograph.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
pictures of me stood by the tree will be proof enough so one more
won't matter. And despite really not wanting to wear my prissy blue
sailor dress ever again, I felt cornered into not saying no. I did
however have one condition. “...but please not my frilly knee
socks.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.”
my aunt agreed. “In fact, Peter's got some tights with little
anchors on... I'll go and...” she said, rising from her seat.
“Unless you want to?” she asked, hesitating.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
declined and she left. Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be
to knock on my male cousin's bedroom door and ask to borrow a pair of
tights... I could.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did
I just hear you agree to wear your blue dress again?” Mum asked,
popping her head in the sitting room. I gulped and nodded and
stipulated one hour, and no lacy socks.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
just one photo?” she added. I don't suppose it matters, I thought.
There's already at least ten photos of me on Christmas day wearing
both my nightie and my dress. “Maybe two?” Mum eventually
quizzed. I gulped and looked into her expectant eyes.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just
don't take loads.” I gulped.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Three,
tops.” she claimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“These
are them.” Auntie June announced on her return. In her hand a pair
of tights, thin and pale looking. She drew our attention to the small
anchors embroidered on a white on a nude nylon background. I figured
if I didn't agree to those, I'd risk wearing my lace knee socks
instead. I suggested a pair of my thick white tights, but both were
in our laundry bag. “What about those ankle socks?” I said,
figuring they would be preferable the thin skin toned tights. “I've
only worn those with my slippers.” I added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm...
yes.” Mum said. “This would be nice.” she added. Why did I even
suggest them? I grimaced. “But I'd still like to see you in these
tights... you can't deny that they're perfect for that dress.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
could, but what's the point? “OK.” I conceded. “You'd only talk
me round anyway.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You've
not worn thin tights before have you.” she knowingly said. I gulped
and shook my head.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Will
they be cold?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sat
in front of the fire?” Mum rhetorically asked. “Do you want to
put it on now or later?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
opted for later, but that seemed like little more than 20 minutes
later. The stop start sound of a practising guitar emanated from
Peter's room. Silence fell from Jasmine's. Mum told me that I needn't
change my knickers and training bra as she casually removed my dress
from the wardrobe. Suddenly my mind leapt back to that moment on the
walk, when I briefly imagined wearing it then. Maybe something inside
me knew I'd wear it again, I thought as mum removed it from the
hanger. “You'll have to take your jumper off.” she prompted.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
wished I hadn't suggested the ankle socks in preference to the tights
because they made my feet look ever so dainty and girlie... possibly
more so than those lacy socks. My pale thin calves, untouched by the
sun for several months appear to have some colour in them, next to
the bright white pelerine anklets which seemed all the whiter with my
black T-bar pageboy shoes. “Auntie June was saying that Peter's got
a sailor dress like this.” Mum said as she buttoned me in.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He
wore it at our house.” I reminded her. “In the summer. And it's
hardly like this.” I said, looking down at myself. “His was dark
blue.” I said, recalling it having a skirt that began at his waist
instead of just below the chest, and its length being just above the
knee rather than mid thigh</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes
of course... I remember now... much more traditional.” Mum
recollected. “Timeless, in fact.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How
can a dress be timeless?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well...
imagine you're a time traveller... you could wear a sailor dress in
Victorian Britain and not look out of place. It's a style that's just
carried on and on... popping back into fashion every now and again
but never really going away.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
hardly fashionable Mum.” I said. “Even Anna didn't like it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
not fashionable these days but like I say... it's that timeless
style.” she told me, adding that compared to some dresses, it's
quite boyish.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
not in the least bit boyish Mum.” I countered. “Peter's maybe...
but not this one.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes...
I was thinking of Peter's. Yours is a very pretty take on a timeless
style.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Prissy
more like.” I grumbled. “Can you take the photo in here so I can
take it off?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
not show Auntie June?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“She
saw it on Sunday.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
she'd like to see it again today.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But...
Peter and Jasmine...”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
don't have to worry about them.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But...
they're dressed normally... I'm dressed like I'm going to a party.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
it's only for a short while.” she told me. “I wanted to take a
photograph of you on Sunday but didn't think at the time.” she
explained. “And it's not like you're going to wear it again.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
guess.” I said. I felt so self conscious in the company of my
cousins. Jasmine in her skinny jeans and Peter's casual dungaree
dress, both in stark contrast to my pale blue frock; its square
sailor collar trimmed with scalloped broderie anglaise, gathered just
a little so it doesn't lay perfectly flat.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Auntie
June was in the kitchen and since she's the one with the camera and I
want to get this over with, I asked where she wanted me to stand,
supposing by the Christmas tree again. “How about in the hallway?”
she suggested. “We'll pretend you've just arrived.” she said. I
posed for one photo by the door, and another stood by the stairs. I
recalled that I had my furry fleece jacket on, without considering
that I’d end up posing for several more pictures wearing that. My
aunt stole one final photo as I hung up my jacket and showed me the
resulting image. I couldn't make out much detail on the small digital
camera screen, apart from the fact that I appear perfectly
comfortable in my prissy blue dress when in reality I feel awkward
and aware that my knickers are only a glimpse away. The dress, with
its high and wide skirt barely touches me below the ribs, and feels
almost like a lampshade around me. My fingertips naturally fall
around its hem, brushing through the folds and constantly reminding
me that this dress is a little too short for comfort. The dress I got
for Christmas is only about two inches longer but even that small
amount makes a big difference, I realised as I became accustomed to
my prissy blue sailor dress for the second time.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can
I take it off now?” I asked after mum had seen the handful of
photos and approved.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why
don't you keep it on for a while longer?” my aunt said. “And
there's those tights to try, remember.” she added. “Then you can
put the Playstation on for a while, if it's OK with your cousins.”
she tempted.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">When
I came down wearing the tights, Jasmine immediately asked if they
were Peter's. I gulped and nodded as Mum came through to see how they
looked. She didn't say they were nice or lovely like I’d expected,
but she did say they were perfect for my dress. They felt very
different to the thicker cosy tights I’d worn before. The thin skin
coloured tights lay on my skin like a whisper; barely detectable. If
it wasn't for the tiny embroidered anchors decorating them, one
mightn't see them at all... and whilst they have nothing like the
warmth of opaque tights, the cover they do provide is noticeable...
just.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Peter
boots up the Playstation and hands out the guitar controllers and
once immersed in the game, my prissy attire soon slips from my
mind... at least during game time. We take turns playing lead, rhythm
and bass. Mum and Auntie June have the occasional turn, giving me
time to sit and watch them play for a while. Mum got the hang of
playing Rockband quite quickly but Auntie June is hopeless at it, but
enjoyed trying none-the-less. It is quite amusing seeing the virtual
audience react to poor playing; sighing, hanging their heads and
wondering off. I glance at my knees and rub my thumb over the wispy
nylon; so thin that I can feel my skin through it. These tights feel
elegant and maybe even extravagant... there purely for appearance
rather than any functional purpose. Like it or not... I find myself
becoming captivated by my clothing; considering every detail... the
fabric, the feel, the length of a hem and the denier of nylon. “Do
you like those tights?!” Jasmine as as she flopped beside me on the
sofa.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Immediately
I stop rubbing them with my thumb. “Erm...” I gulped. “I prefer
wearing woolly ones.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
but those go better with your dress.” she said. “You need thin
tights with a dress like that.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why?”
I asked. “The white ones I wore on Sunday looked OK.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Those
look nicer though... plus they've got anchors on so they fit with the
theme.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
I guess.” I glumly said</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
and Peter were playing a head to head and amazingly, Mum won! Jasmine
and Peter had had enough and Auntie June needed to potter in the
kitchen, which left Mum and myself to play along to Highway Star,
which we both agreed would be the final game of the evening. I didn't
notice at the time because I was too focused on the TV screen, but
Auntie June had taken a couple of photos of me and my mum, both
wielding a guitar controller and both looking like we're having a
rocking good time; Mum appears casual and fashionable in her cargo
pants and fitted jumper whilst I look overdressed and somewhat
priggish in my prissy frock and pageboy shoes. “You can go and get
changed now if you like.” Mum said to me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.”
I replied. “But I'll need you to unbutton me.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
yes... of course.” Mum smiled. Timidly I kept the back of my short
frock in check as Mum followed me up the stairs. “You're very prim
in that dress.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
hard not to be.” I said. “Look at it! It's too short, too swishy
and too pretty.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So
you finally agree that it's pretty.” she grinned.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
always been pretty... it's just I don't do pretty.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
but you do Stephen... and you do it well.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Stop
it Mum you're making me blush.” I said as put my back to her.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only
because you know how nice you look.” she claimed. “And thank you
for wearing it again.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's
OK.” I gulped. “It didn't feel quite so bad the second time.” I
confessed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
peeled off the tights whilst Mum hung my dress in the wardrobe and
pulled on my dusty pink cords and soft cream jumper. “I think you
should wear pink tonight.” Mum said. “Nightie or Pyjamas?” she
asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Choosing
between a pair of girl's pyjamas with lots of frilly white trim or a
relatively plain yet equally pink nightdress took me a moment or
two... and what I don't wear tonight I'll probably have to wear
tomorrow night. “Nightie.” I grimly replied. “But only because
I want to wear pyjamas on our last night.” I quickly told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh...
I thought you chose the nightie because it's not pretty like your
pyjamas are... and you don't do pretty.” Mum smugly reminded me. I
gulped at the nightie, draped casually on my duvet. “It's still
nice though.” Mum said, placing a pair of white night knickers with
their layered quilted front panel and ruffles covering half of the
back.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Surely
you could have got some without all the frills.” I mused.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
could... but you'd be asleep most of the time and completely unaware
of any frills.” Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It
wouldn't be so bad if I could put them on just before actually going
to bed... instead of about two hours before.” I said. “I can feel
them flapping when I walk.” I whined. “And they make my bum feel
big.” I added. Mum sniggered. “They do! Especially under
pyjamas.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
did notice.” Mum chuckled.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
not funny Mum.” I whined.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
not deadly serious either.” she jovially cooed. “Enjoy it while
you can.” she said. “Because it's back to nothing but boring old
boy's clothes the day after tomorrow.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Boys
clothes aren't boring.” I retorted. “I can't wait.” I told her.
Mum just smiled at me. At least when I am wearing boys' clothes, I
don't find myself thinking about them all the time. Even boyish items
like my corduroy jeans and cream jumper manage to occupy my mind
often enough. The wool feels so soft and it fits me so close yet
freely, not drowning me like many of my other jumpers do. The jeans
are different to my other jeans as well, and not just their dusty
pink colour. The fabric is thin and stretchy. The pockets are too
small to put my hands into. The fit around my waist and hips is close
and snug, and the waist is much higher than I'm used to... but so are
the waists on my knickers. I gulp and consider their narrow band of
pastel lace trimming all the hems and the small satin bow just below
my navel, each pair bearing my name; ornately embroidered in vivid
blue thread. That's the worst part. At least my night knickers don't
have my name adorning them... but they do have all those frills on
the back, that curious quilted front and the same high waistband, so
they're far from ideal either.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Downstairs
fire is roaring. Peter sits on a chair arm strumming his guitar and
Auntie June and Jasmine are in the kitchen. Mum offers to help but is
declined, so we sit and listen to Peter; gently strumming the same
two chords and occasionally adding a third. He soon becomes shy and
puts it down. We compliment his efforts before turning our attention
to the TV and watch the end of a silly old James Bond film. After the
evening meal, we sit around the table playing board games; chatting,
laughing but mostly competing, until 8pm when us boys are sent to get
ready for bed.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Peter
and I climbed the stairs and on reaching the landing, I asked him if
he thought it was unfair that us boys have to get ready for bed at
8pm but his sister doesn't. “Maybe.” he shrugged. “But it
doesn't really bother me.” he said. “Sometimes if I'm wearing
something really prissy I wish it was seven o'clock instead of
eight.” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Your
clothes haven't been so bad.” I told him, claiming that my blue
dress is loads worse than anything I've seen him wearing. “And that
looks OK.” I added, complimenting his rust coloured dungaree dress.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks.”
he said. “Sorry you had to...” he told me, hesitating. “I told
them you didn't have to... not on my account anyway.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
know it's not your fault.” I said. “...and it's only a week for
me.” I added, considering how long Peter will have to wear his
girlie clothes for. “...and it's not been so bad I guess.... so far
anyway.” I told him, considering the clothes I haven't yet worn.
“I've got to wear a pink nightie tonight.” I grumbled.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“She'll
like that.” he said. “Hopefully it's not a baby-doll.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's
that?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
don’t want to know.” he smiled before heading off down the
landing to his own bedroom.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
soon found myself having a minor panic attack as I descended the
stairs wearing my pink nightdress... but since the only other boy
here wears nothing but girls clothes, and has done for well over year
now, I reasoned that there is nothing at all unusual about my
nightdress in this house. I anticipated comments and compliments when
I entered the sitting room, but got only got a reassuring smile from
my mother, aunt and cousin Jasmine. Approval but no appraisal.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Peter
wears a purple tie-dyed nightie with short puffed sleeves and a print
of the Disney castle on with three princesses dancing in front of it.
My nightie pales into insignificance and I recalled seeing plenty of
Disney nightdresses and pyjamas that day in Primark... so I suppose
I’m lucky that mine is just a plain baby pink nightie and not a
Disney princess one.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We
all settle down and watch a movie, in which time I only paid
infrequent attention to my attire. The colour offends my senses more
than my eye. At least it's not that bright candy pink or a more
sugary shade, and in the half light it appears almost white anyway.
The fluffy brushed cotton feels nice and cosy and being calf length,
it's an ideal garment for curling up on a sofa with my calves and
feet snuggled under its folds. My mother woke me after my cousins had
gone to bed. “I missed the end of the film.” I said, somewhat
drearily.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
told me that I'd slept though half of the film and initial attempts
to wake me had failed so they left me silently sleeping. “...and
you didn't dribble or snore.” she added. Groggily I went up to our
room where Mum tucked me in. I felt mollycoddled and infantile, but
in a nice way. She asked if I'd had a nice day and I nodded, drearily
asking what we'd be doing tomorrow. “Auntie June's taking us
shopping.” she replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“To
a town?” I gulped.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
smiled and nodded, bid me goodnight and left me alone. Knowing what's
in my wardrobe and knowing which items I haven't worn, it's
guaranteed that I'll be wearing my sister's flouncy pink blouse with
either the skirt or the pinafore dress, and the woolly burgundy
tights I was given for Christmas. Then I recalled the boy's clothes I
was given too; a pair of jeans and fleece top. I hoped those might be
for a trip to a town and the more I thought about it, the more it
made sense. I'd only be laughed at and ridiculed if I were dressed as
a girl in public and I know Mum wouldn't want that, hence giving me
two boy's items of clothing.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--27th-->Come
morning though, my theorising had proved wrong as Mum laid my outfit
on my duvet; taffy pink flouncy blouse, my fancy peach training bra
and matching frilly knickers, the grey knee length pleated skirt and
a pair of white pelerine knee socks. “Can't I wear tights?” I
pleaded. “I'll be freezing in knee socks.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not
with those knickers Stephen.” Mum replied. “The frills would get
all scrunched up.” she added. I pleaded my case; it's December,
it's cold and if I can't wear long pants then I’m going to need
some tights. Mum insisted that I'd be fine since the skirt is made of
wool and it's just above the knee and all those knife pleats means
its twice as thick. “...and pelerine socks are a lot warmer than
they look.” Mum claimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They
look like school socks.” I grimaced.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're
just socks.” she said. “Unless you'd prefer those lacy...?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No!”
I yelped. “I'd be even colder in those.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">My
aunt described my outfit as very formal. Mum told her that I'm
worried that I look like a school girl, to which my aunt replied,
“You're just a normal boy wearing a warm winter skirt and knee
socks... no one's going to think you're a schoolgirl Stephen. Plus
all the schools are on holiday.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
felt patronised. “But... <i>normally ...</i>boys don't wear clothes
like this.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It
might be uncommon but it's not unknown. Peter isn't the only
petticoatee around here, and lots of boys have just a Sunday dress.”
she claimed, backtracking a little “...well... not 'lots' but quite
a few... believe me.” she said, sorting through a bundle of
laundry.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's
a Sunday dress?” I naively enquired. The obvious answer left me
feeling abashed that I’d asked. Mum told me that my prissy blue
sailor dress would be classed as a Sunday dress and I briefly
considered the prospect of wearing such a thing each and every
Sunday.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't
worry.” Mum said. “I'm not planning on getting you one... it's
been expensive enough just dressing you for Christmas.” she chirped</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
dread to think how much was spent. I know most of my clothes are
borrowed off my sister but my pageboy shoes and ankle boots were
about seventy pounds, and my training bras, vests and knickers came
to over eighty pounds... plus my nighties and tights.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">My
attention is drawn to my aunt telling my mother that Jasmine gets all
Peter's hand-me-down's. “...well.... not all of them.” she
smiled, folding a pair of blue patterned knickers with <i>Peter</i>
embroidered on them. I gulped as Mum and I shared a knowing glance. I
wonder if my aunt knows that I have my name embroidered on my
knickers too... before presuming that Mum must have told her. It was
a topic that I certainly wasn't going to raise, but I couldn't help
but wonder.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Our
attention is drawn again when Peter entered the kitchen. “Ooh you
look nice!” Mum cooed. “I love that jumper.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks.”
Peter said. “It's my current favourite.” he said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">His
cable knit jumper is in fact a jumper dress; charcoal grey with long
narrow sleeves and a plain crew neckline. The purely functional
looking dress follows his shape almost down to his knees, where a
pair semi-opaque black tights clads his legs. On his feet is a pair
of black Converse baseball boots with a white sole and black laces.
He looks kinda cool. Certainly comfortable and given the choice I
think I’d rather wear something like that than what I'm wearing
today. When Jasmine appears she immediately tells me that I look very
smart, as does she in her broderie anglaise blouse, plaid pedal
pushers and brown ribbed tights. On her feet is a pair of brown
brogue shoes with a heel that rivals those of my pageboy shoes.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So
how far is it to Spalding?” Mum asked, presuming around a twenty
minute drive. Auntie June said it was, but added that we'd be
dropping Peter off at his girlfriends first, which means a drive out
to Dowsby first.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You've
got a girlfriend!?” I exclaimed at the very same moment mum asked
the same. Somewhat bashfully he told us her name and that they go to
the same D&D club. “Dungeon's & Dragons?” I
enthusiastically interrupted.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Dance
& Drama.” Peter replied before answering a few more questions
about his girlfriend. All I wanted to know was if she thought it
weird; having a boyfriend who only ever wears girls clothes... but I
didn't ask.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Eventually
we all get in the car; Mum in the front alongside her sister, us
three kids in back, me stuck in the middle between Peter and his
sister. The skirt hangs over my knees and does blanket me. It's
pleats cascade off my lap and onto the seat, taking up far more space
than it should. I don't think my pale blue jacket goes at all well
with my taffy pink blouse, but it's the only jacket I've got.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Peter
wears a dove grey down filled gilet over his jumper dress and a small
black handbag rests on his nylon clad lap. Somehow he doesn't look
all that girlie despite clearly wearing girls clothes. If boys did
routinely wear dresses, I mused as we journeyed over the pan flat
landscape, they'd be more like Peter's long casual jumper than the
fussy frilly frocks he usually wears. We drive through several small
villages, one of which is home to the dance & drama club which
Peter attends twice a week with his sister and girlfriend.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">In
the next village we turn of and slow to a halt outside a house.
Chloe, his girlfriend must've been watching as she'd on the doorstep
before we even stop. “She's very pretty.” Mum says as the girl
smiled eagerly at the car.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Like
peter she wears black Converse and tights, but with a short denim
skirt and a black Metallica T-shirt. Peter gets out and the passenger
window is opened. “Bit more space now.” Jasmine said as I shifted
into Peter's seat. A brief chat between Chloe and Auntie June
confirms that Peter will be dropped of after seven this evening by
her Dad, and Auntie June iterates that she wants him home before
eight.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't
worry... he'll be home before bedtime.” Chloe smiled, which
suggested that she knew his evening routine.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nice
girl.” Mum said as we drove off.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“She
is.” Auntie June and Jasmine confirmed. “Have you got a
girlfriend yet Stephen?” my cousin asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Err...
no.” I bashfully replied, smoothing my pleats over my lap. She told
me that she had a boyfriend but she dumped him because he was boring.
The remaining journey took a further twenty minutes an took us down
some very long straight roads with abrupt ninety degree corners. Soon
the spires of Spalding can be seen and I feel increasingly nervous.
“So... what are we going to Spalding for?” I hesitantly asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just
a stroll round the shops.” my aunt replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
a bite to eat... hopefully.” Mum added. “You've got those
vouchers in my purse remember.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Enough
to get a new game with?” I enthused.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Probably.”
Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">My
enthusiasm ebbed as I considered myself browsing the titles, dressed
like a girl who'd look more at home in the library or attending
Sunday school than in a video game store. To avoid a costly parking
fee, my aunt found a space away from the town centre which meant a
ten minute walk through many winding residential streets. Mine and
Jasmine's heels clacked against the pavement in unison. My skirt
swished from side to side and at every opportunity, I stole a glance
of my reflection in a passing window. The short fluffy blue jacket
leaves much of my daggy skirt on display. The pleated zigzag hem
reach to just above my knee and the tops of my girlie white socks sit
just below. But surprisingly I don't feel cold, not even my knees
which aren't covered my skirt or sock. “I am impressed by how well
you've taken to heels.” Mum said, catching me glancing at my feet.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
guess they look harder than they are.” I replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">She
asked if I was warm enough and I nodded. “See... I told you you'd
be fine in knee socks.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
still feel like a schoolgirl though.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Schoolgirls
don't wear heels.” Mum told me. “You just look nice.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Of
all the people we passed, not one seemed bothered that I’m clearly
a boy wearing girl's clothes. Even in the shops we browsed I didn't
see anyone look at me with disapproval. We browsed charity shops and
gift shops, homeware stores and of course some clothes shops. Jasmine
was keen to get something new and wanted to browse everything.
“You're not going to buy me anything else are you?” I timidly
asked my mother.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.”
she smiled. “You've got all the clothes you need.” she said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good.”
I gulped. Before long we happened across the video game shop. Usually
I head directly to the older PS2 games so being able to justifiably
look at all the PS3 games felt very privileged. Predictably, Mum said
'no shooting, slashing or fighting' which put half the titles out of
bounds so I looked at the driving games, sports and platform games. I
was torn between The Simpson's Game and a ten-pin bowling game and
since we’d had so much fun playing bowling on my cousins' Wii, I
opted for that one.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Standing
in the queue for the counter felt very odd. I'm clearly a boy. I'm
clearly wearing girls' clothes and no one seems bothered by that.
“Everything OK?” Mum asked when I joined them; my new game in a
small branded carrier bag. I nodded and smiled and we stepped
outside, my pleated skirt swishing and heeled shoes clattering on the
paving. “Well I don't know about anybody else but I think we should
find a pub for some lunch.” my mother suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Auntie
June strongly recommended one by the riverside. “It's a bit of a
stroll but worth it.” she said. We must've walked a mile along the
riverbank, passing walkers and joggers and cyclists. Despite my
aunt's claim that plenty of boys wear girls clothing around these
parts, I didn't see any. But since no one seemed at all fazed by my
girlie attire, I could only deduce that I'm not the first boy dressed
in this manner that most people around here have encountered. The pub
is indeed right next to the river and inside it's warm and cosy with
friendly staff and not too many customers. We find a table near a
roaring fire which prompts me to remove my warm fluffy jacket.
Another family sits mid-meal a few tables away but pay us no
attention save for a glance. “I do like that shirt.” my aunt
says, referring to my blouse. “It's very elegant.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
smile and feel myself blushing a little as I sit, smoothing my skirt
beneath me. Mum described my blouse as 'Edwardian' and my cousin drew
my attention to all the buttons running up the back, saying that she
loved being buttoned into an outfit. Personally I feel somewhat
daunted by it, but I kept that to myself.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">A
waitress appeared and handed out the menus before taking a drinks
order. She asked the other family if everything was OK before
leaving. A few moments later she came with our drinks before offering
the other family the dessert menu. They declined and requested the
bill. By the time we were placing our food order, the other family
were preparing to leave. “Don't forget your handbag Andrew.” the
middle aged woman said, revealing the teenage girl to be a boy called
Andrew. We share a glance as he dons his coat, covering a blue satin
frock with a white lace collar in the process. His mother hands him a
blue satin purse and he thanks her, saying 'mummy' which suggested
that he too is petticoatee.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Once
they'd left Mum said “He looked nice.” before turning top me and
saying that it's not that unusual.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Maybe
not here but boy's don't dress like girls back home.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Maybe
they do but you just presume they're girls.” Mum replied. Maybe
she's right. I'd have presumed that boy was a girl had his mother not
used his name, but his bobbed hairstyle didn't look at all boyish.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
waitress returned with the table settings, placing a mat and cutlery
in front of each of us. Since we hardly ever eat out back home and
when we do it's McDonalds or KFC, dining in a homely riverside pub is
a new experience for me. My eye is drawn to the lace trimmed apron
the waitress wears. It's fancy yet formal and maybe too small to
serve any practical purpose. She wears it over a short black denim
skirt with an unkempt frayed hem, and opaque black tights. As she
brings the condiments, I notice her shoes are identical to mine;
black leather with a medium heel, T-strap and a heart shaped silver
buckle. Collectively we thanked her and smiling directly at me she
said, “I love your blouse.” Bashfully I thanked her and felt
myself blushing a little.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">A
while later the waitress returned, placing a burger and fries in
front of us kids and a plate of fish and chips each for the grown
ups. Following Jasmine's example, I cut my burger in half and ate it
in a much more considered manner than I would normally. I couldn't
help but consider how prim I must appear in my feminine blouse,
conservative skirt and formal shoes.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
and June enjoyed their fish and chips as much as Jasmine and I
enjoyed our burgers and chips. “It's definitely worth the walk is
this place.” my aunt said once we'd all finished.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
I'll need the walk back to burn off all the calories.” Mum said.
They settled the bill after a small dispute over who would pay and
were were soon walking back along the riverbank towards the bustling
town centre. Having seen another boy dressed in girls clothes, I
didn't feel quite so self conscious about mine as I had before. We
browsed loads more shops and Jasmine did buy herself a few items;
skirt, top and a stripy polo dress she saw in a charity shop window.
This was alongside a navy blue sailor dress which according to my
aunt is exactly like the one Peter has. “Might fit you that.” Mum
said to me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
don't need any more dresses.” I grumbled, before admitting that
that plainer style of sailor dress is loads better than my prissy
take on the style.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Peter's
would probably fit you too.” my aunt added, suggesting that I could
try it for size when we get back home.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
don't need any more.” I reiterated. My aunt clarified that I'd only
be trying it on and definitely not taking it home with me because
it's one of Peter's favourites. “Oh... OK then.” I said, before
fearing that I’d just agreed to actually trying one of my cousins
dresses on. “I don't think Peter would want me trying his clothes
on though.” I added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
don't think he'd mind.” my aunt said. “And he's not back until
late so he wouldn't even know.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">After
several hours strolling around the small market town, we drove back
home over the pan flat landscape. “Can I put my game on?” I asked
the moment we returned. My aunt made us all a mocha coffee first and
Jasmine tried her new polo dress on, which she clearly liked a lot.
For a dress it certainly looks OK. No frills, no flounce, no bows...
just a simple casual garment that would be comfortable to wear.
“Shall we see if this sailor dress fits?” my aunt suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
yes!” Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do
I have to?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
you did say you preferred it to your own.” Mum reminded me. “And
there's a nice photo of Peter wearing it that I think we could
emulate.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“More
photos.” I moaned. “Are sure you don't one of me wearing this as
well?” I sarcastically asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
I suppose we should now you mention it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
was being sarcastic Mum.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
know you was.” she replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
follow them up the stairs, past the room mum and I are staying in to
the end of the landing where Peter's bedroom is. “Ooh this is
nice.” Mum says as we entered. For a girl, I think as I cast my
eyes around. To be fair it's not that girlie; white wallpaper with a
blue floral print, power blue curtains and a duvet cover decorated
with pastel coloured butterflies. The pictures on the walls are
similar to those in the spare room; Edwardian scenes featuring girls
and ladies in long dresses and one of a troupe of ballerinas mid
dance.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">My
aunt opens the wardrobe and we peer inside. A resplendent display of
all sorts of different fabrics hangs from a rail. Down one side is a
series of small shelves on which a collection of handbags are
displayed; black, pink, green, brown, blue, floral, spotted... all
sorts and seemingly one to match each of the numerous pairs of girlie
shoes that are neatly lined up in the bottom of his wardrobe. “May
I?” Mum asked before leafing through some of his outfits.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Course.”
her sister smiled</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“This
is cute.” Mum said, drawing our attention to a gingham dress, the
very type junior school girls wear.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">My
aunt says he only wears that in the summer and shows her a navy blue
pinafore dress which he wears in the winter. “I thought he wore the
boys uniform at school?” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He
does but he changes into a girls one when he gets home.” my aunt
said. “...whilst he does his homework.” she added. “And once
that's all done he can wear something else.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Three
outfits a day?!” I quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Four
if you count his nightwear.” Mum replied. “I do like these
though.” she added, returning the infantile gingham frock. “I bet
you'd be a lot keener to complete your homework if you had one.”
she said to me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'd
probably just rush through it so I could take it off as soon as
possible.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's
what Peter used to do... but I always checked and if it wasn't up to
standard he'd only end up wearing it for longer.” my aunt told us.
She leafed through his 'Sunday' dresses; some pink, some frilly, some
flowery and mostly very pretty. “Ah... here we are.” she said,
removing the plain sailor style dress. Looking at most of his other
frocks, I could see why that dress is one of his favourite dresses.
Aside from being a dress, it's not feminine like mine is; no broderie
anglaise trim, no satin ribbon or bows and no flounce around the
skirt. Just a simple navy blue frock with a square white collar that
meets in a V at the front.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Are
you sure Peter won't mind?” I said as the dress was handed to me.
That was my ham-fisted last ditch attempt of hopefully getting out of
wearing it which failed miserably. My aunt assured me he wouldn't and
Mum took me to our room to change. “Have you seen the picture in
the kitchen of Peter wearing his sailor dress?” Mum asked as she
unbuttoned my blouse. I shook my head. “It's very nice.” she told
me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What
is it?” I asked, not that I was keen to find out.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He's
just sat on the swing in the back garden and it's just a very nice
photo.” she told me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">With
my skirt and blouse removed, Mum smiled and told me how much she
liked my peach underwear. “Oh Mum you're embarrassing me.” I
coyly said, covering myself as best I could as she removed Peter's
dress from its hanger.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only
because you know how nice it is.” she smiled. “Your underpants'll
be boring in comparison.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
like boring clothes.” I retorted. Mum brought the dress to me and I
raised my arms. Instead of a back fastening, this has a zip on one
side from armpit to waist which I found both convenient and curious.
Mum asked my opinion. “Erm.... it's OK.” I said, but if anything
I felt underwhelmed. “It's nice not having any frilly trim for
once.” I added, but in truth its lack of decorative details
combined with the listless fabric that features a peculiar stiffness,
this dress isn't in the least bit nice. Mum said it looked very smart
and rather boyish for a dress.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
I guess.” I said. “For a dress.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Lets
go and have a look in Peter's big mirror.” Mum said, which was her
way of saying <i>let's show your aunt</i>.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Seemingly
she'd spent the time in which I was getting changed rearranging his
frocks and before I’d even opened my mouth she said “Oh I knew
you'd like it.” when we returned to Peter's bedroom.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
OK I guess.” I apathetically said. “The fabric's not as soft as
my err...” I sheepishly added, thumbing the above knee shirt.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
turn around and have a look.” my aunt advised. I turned to face the
big mirror that occupies one third of the long wall. It must be six
feet wide and eight feet high, but the mirror itself is not my
concern. It's my reflection. A little shorter than my pleated skirt
but significantly longer than my mid-thigh dresses, this dress seems
both too long and too short and leaves an awkward amount of knee on
display. Its waist is cut to my natural waist and is tailored to fit
with the stern fabric too close to my skin. My own sailor dress
floats freely whilst this one hangs gracelessly. Unimpressed by the
utilitarian frock, I focus on the mirror. “Why has it got a
banister?” I asked.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's
a barre.” my aunt said. “For Peter's ballet practice.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He
does ballet?!” I yelped. My aunt told me in such a manner that I
should already know that most petticoated boys go to ballet classes.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sorry...
I thought it was just a rumour... like wearing nappies and playing
with dolls.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">My
aunt told me that they go to ballet because it's a holistic and
healthy, non-competitive form of exercise. She told me that putting
them in nappies was a thing of the past and these days they just wear
bedtime knickers. “...and there's a lot to be said for playing with
dolls. It's certainly more healthy than playing with tanks and guns.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
was never a fan of so-called 'war' toys so I never really had any
growing up. I didn't play with dolls either despite my sister having
a room full of them. But I guess she raises a valid point. The
atmosphere felt momentarily icy until Mum said “Shall we get this
photo taken whilst there's still plenty of light outside?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.”
I said. “Then can I take it off please?” I asked.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't
you like it?” Mum said</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
just... not very comfortable.” I replied. “...and a bit drab.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
it's certainly not pretty like yours is.” my aunt smiled. “C'mon.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We
passed Jasmine's bedroom from which the clunky sound of her
electronic keyboard emanated. Does she even know I’m wearing her
brother's dress? I wondered as I almost crept past the door. My heel
struck the kitchen floor with a clank which always surprises me and
before I know it I'm being shepherded into the back garden. “Can't
I put a coat on?” I moaned. “It's cold.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'll
be fine for a few minutes.” Mum said, marching down the path and
through the big hedge, past the shed and raised be to the lawn in the
corner of which hangs a wooden swing from a limb of a triumphant
beech tree.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What
do I have to do?” I glumly asked as my aunt faffed with the camera.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just
sit and smile.” Mum said. I sat and clutched the ropes and smiled
as best I could, hoping one would be enough... but my aunt says that
the best thing about digital cameras over film is that you can take
lots more photos, and that she did. She only took about six, maybe
seven and we were only out for a few minutes before trotting in my
heels all the way back through the garden and finally back in the
warmth.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
headed directly to the open fire and stood in front of it. “Is that
my brother's dress?” Jasmine asked from the shadows of an armchair.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
jumped out of my skin, almost. “I didn't see you.” I said.
“Err... yeah.” I replied. “They kinda made me.” I claimed as
my mother and her sister came in chatting about the garden.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
you're lucky it's not one of his party dresses.” Jasmine smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can
I get changed?” I asked. Mum nodded, reminding me to put it on the
hanger as I made my eager exit. The simple act of being able to unzip
and remove this dress myself felt somewhat empowering, but that's the
only thing that's good about it. I couldn't help but feel
disappointed that I wasn't overwhelmed with an underwhelming dress.
Maybe if the fabric was softer it'd be easier to wear, I wondered as
I tried to fathom what was wrong with it. I placed it on the hanger
and hung it from the wardrobe and stepped back to look at it. Then I
realised that I’m only wearing my peach knickers and training bra,
plus knee socks and shoes and quickly dressed myself; favouring my
soft cream jumper over the blouse, mostly for ease of putting it on.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
met my mother on the stairs. “Oh that looks nice.” she said. “I
was just coming to button you in.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
figured this was easier.” I said, looking down at myself; T-strap
pageboy shoes, white pelerine knee socks, grey pleated skirt, swaying
slightly as it always does, and my new jumper with its curious
lettuce edge cuffs.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That
skirt looks nicer with a jumper.” Jasmine said. Bashfully I thanked
her. “Shall we play your new game?” she suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
yeah... I'd forgotten about that.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Too
busy trying on my brother's dresses.” she smugly retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It
was only one.” was the best comeback I could think of... but
otherwise she was right.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did
you like it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not
really.” I said. “I thought I would but the fabric's really
starchy and it wasn't very comfy.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
it's really plain compared to yours.” Jasmine added as she fired up
my PS3.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.”
I concurred. “Although... strictly speaking, it is my sister's.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“If
it's a hand-me-down then it's yours, strictly speaking.” she
reckoned as I handed her my new video game.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Like
the Wii Bowling game we played, this one works by miming the action
but the mechanics are slightly different. It took Jasmine and I a
while to get the hang of it but after a while, we began getting the
night scores and the occasional strike. “Yeah!!!” I cheered,
triumphantly jumping and punching the air, my pleated skirt swishing
furiously. I handed the controller to Jasmine and sat for a moment,
straightening my socks before smoothing my skirt over my knees.
“What?” I innocently said, noticing Jasmine looking at me. But I
knew what. “Did I look really prim then?” I bashfully asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not
really... you were just straightening your socks.” she said. “Peter
always needs telling when his get wonky, but you always check.” she
told me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“When
I wore my first dress last Sunday, Mum must've told me umpteen times
to straighten my knee socks and I cringed every time she said it.”
I replied. “So now I check.” I frowned.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good.”
she smiled. “I know you didn't want to wear girls' clothes but you
wear them well.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks...
I think.” I said, before confessing that they're not as bad as
thought they'd be. “I'm still looking forward to just having boy's
clothes though.” I added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
bet you are.” she empathised. “But... don't you think the
occasional dress would be nice?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No!”
I stated, albeit not very convincingly.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“When
you visit us, maybe?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That'd
be OK I guess.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What'd
be OK?” Mum asked as she entered from the kitchen.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nothing.”
Jasmine chirped.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
didn't press her and kept my mouth shut. “You look very prim.”
Mum told me. I gulped and looked up into her eyes. “In a good way.”
she added. “I like that you know to sit with your knees together.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
I can't sit like this.” I said, briefly putting my knees akimbo.
“Not in a skirt.” I added, smoothing it properly.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Having
taken her shot, Jasmine handed the controller to me and I stood,
fully aware that my mother was watching me. “It's very swishy that
skirt.” my mother noted as my ball rolled down the alley. “And
quite a lot longer than your dresses.” she added as I struck six of
the ten pins.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.”
I said, looking down at its numerous knife pleats. “I don't like
the look of it but I quite like wearing it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
can tell.” Mum smiled. “Pity you didn't like wearing Peter's
dress... because you like the look of that.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well...
I thought I'd prefer it because it's not prissy like mine is.” I
said. “But it was stiff and... catchy...” I explained as I tried
to recall just how odd it felt. “...and maybe a bit too plain.” I
surmised, recalling my drab reflection in Peter's big ballet mirror.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
it's a good job I didn't buy you that one we saw in the charity shop
widow.” Mum said. “Because I was tempted.” she told me. “But
then I thought... <i>when would he wear it?</i> ...there's only
tomorrow and you've still got that pinafore dress.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well...”
Jasmine chirped up. “...you did say you might wear a dress next
time you come to visit.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No
I didn't.” I quickly deflected. “You said that.” I claimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
you said, that'd be OK I guess.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
but... it was hyphonetical.” I replied. They chuckled and corrected
me. “Yeah whatever... hypothetical.” I grumbled. “Do you want a
go?” I suggested, handing my mother the game controller and thus
distracting the attention away from me. Dressing like a girl wouldn't
be so bad if people didn't keep talking about my clothes all the
time. Since Sunday, barely fifteen minutes have passed without one of
'them' saying something about what one of 'us' is wearing. Peter
doesn't comment on my clothing unless prompted, and the same goes for
me. But his sister and mother and my mum too, can't go and hour
without a comment about my cosy tights, swishy skirt or whatever
footwear I'm wearing. I didn't really realise that I was glaring at
my feet until Jasmine asked if I liked my Mary Jane’s. “Erm...
they're pageboy shoes.” I gormlessly corrected. An awkward silence
ensued. “Wh... whe... when boys wear them.” I added, finally
ripping my eyes from my feet.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Jasmine
wasn't even listening. Fully engrossed in the image on the TV
screen... her ball rolling down the alley, taking in perfect side
spin, arching comfortably close toward the gutter before swerving
beck and hitting the perfect strike. We both leapt into the air, high
fiving and cheering. “That was amazing!” I exclaimed. “Does
that mean I lost?” I realised.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">She
grinned mischievously. “Soz cuz.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We
decided to make that the final game since Mum and Auntie June have
been busy in the kitchen for ages now. I saunter in and perch on a
dining chair, straighten my socks and ask if I can do anything to
help as I smooth my pleats over my knees. “You could lay the
table.” my aunt suggested, adding that we only need four settings
since Peter's at his girlfriend's house. Mum asked, somewhat
cautiously, if Chloe's parents' approve of Peter being a petticoatee.
“Oh wholeheartedly!” my aunt replied. “Both her older brothers
are in finishing school.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's
finishing school?” I hesitantly asked as I laid out the cutlery. My
aunt said it was just a college, a sixth form, a boarding school.
“...for boys like Peter.” she added, smiling but... in a manner
that puts a full stop on this particular conversation.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">This
evening's meal was lasagne and salad. It's always a bit weird eating
salad in the winter but it went down well. Afterwards my mum insisted
on a game of Scrabble and claiming that Matchmakers and Scrabble is a
Christmas tradition, she revealed a box of Matchmakers and we
couldn’t refuse.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Considerately,
the grown ups played badly and gave us kids a fighting chance. I'm
awful at word games and my first go was adding a single letter to
form the thoroughly miserable 'at'. My cousin added and an <i>e</i>
and <i>s</i> to form 'eats', and on my next turn I added a <i>p</i>
and an <i>l</i> to make <i>pleats</i>. “Like on my skirt.” I
said. My initial pride quickly ebbed into a more bashful demeanor,
but no one seemed to notice. My aunt quickly laid her next word and
any attention I'd drawn to my mundane pleated skirt dissipated
immediately.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Peter
returned home midway through the game. Once again Mum told him how
much she liked his jumper[dress] and quite genuinely he thanked her.
“How's Chloe?” his sister cooed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah,
good, thanks.” he shyly replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Stephen
tried on your sailor dress. Hope you don't mind.” his mother said,
much to my embarrassment.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Stephen
said it was fine but if I were him I wouldn't want anyone going into
my room and seeing all my things. When I had the opportunity I did
tell Peter that I didn't want to wear his dress, but got cajoled into
it by our mothers. “Did they take photos too?” he knowingly
asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.”
I glumly said. “On the swing at the end of the garden.” I told
him. “It was freezing!”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Are
you telling Perter about our little photo shoot?” my aunt chirped
as she entered. I skewed my jaw and nodded. “We got some good
ones.” she said. “In fact, don't let me forget to put them on
your mum's USB stick.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.”
I said, but there's no way I'm going to remind my aunt to give my mum
any evidence of me wearing my dresses. God knows how many there are
now. Thirty, maybe?</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Once
again Mum complimented Peter's jumper dress. “Those tights look
nice too. What denier are they?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm...
twenty I think. Maybe twenty-five.” he replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Unlike
my black tights which only reveal the skin beneath at the bend of
knee, Peter's legs can clearly be seen beneath the sheer black nylon.
“What are mine?” I enquired.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Your
black ones?” Mum asked. “About seventy denier I think.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Right
boys.” my aunt chirped. “I've put some hot chocolate on so you
two can go and put your nighties on.” she instructed. I glanced at
the clock; 7.55pm, then at my mother who reminded me that I'm wearing
my pyjamas tonight.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
bet you're looking forward to everything going back to normal
tomorrow.” Peter said as we climbed the stairs.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Too
right.” I said, watching my pleats cascade over my lap with every
step. “It's been OK though.” I told him. “It might've been
weirder if I had worn boy's clothes...”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
wouldn't have minded.” he told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“...I
always felt awkward when we visited before.” I continued. “Do you
like being petticoated?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not
really.” he replied. “But it's not so bad on days like today when
I get to wear something I like.” he said. “I just wish it wasn't
everyday.” he sighed. “Even at school I have to wear knickers and
a training bra.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But...
what about when you're getting changed for PE?” I remarked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
don't do PE at school.” he said. “I've been excused because I
have my ballet classes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What
are they like?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Tiring.”
he bluntly replied. “You might think it's easy 'coz it's just
dancin' about but it's really hard.” he stressed.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
it's compulsory I suppose?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">He
nodded. “Do you think you're gonna be petticoated?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Dunno.”
I replied. “I hope not. But she's spent an awful lot of money just
for one week.” I said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Having
chatted on the landing for long enough, Peter headed off to his room.
I took a good glance at his outfit and spent no time deciding that
that's the best thing he's worn by far, and in the confines of my
room I spent a moment looking at my reflection. I don't particularly
like the look of my skirt but its longer length and general swishy
feel compared to my dresses does make it nicer to wear. And Mum was
right about just wearing it with knee socks instead of tights. I was
plenty warm enough when we were out. I recalled how nervous I felt
going out in public wearing proper girls clothes, and how odd it was
that no one seemed to bat an eyelid. I recalled that boy dining with
his family in the riverside pub, wearing a blue satin dress and his
girlie hair and handbag. I recall the waitress complimenting my
blouse and feeling ever so prim and proper as we dined. It was such a
stark contrast to me and Jonny slovenly chomping through burgers and
chips in McDonald’s using only our fingers.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
had already laid out my nightwear. I knew she'd make me wear my pink
pyjamas. They wouldn't be so bad if all the frilly trim was pink too,
but being white it stands out all the more. I pull on my pyjama pants
and feel the frills on the back of my night knickers scrunch inside
them. Pushing my hand inside the waistband I straighten the frills
before buttoning myself in to the pyjama top and slipping my toes
into my ballet style slippers. “Did you hang your skirt up or leave
it crumpled on the floor?” Mum asked when I returned to the sitting
room.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
hung it up.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good
boy.” she smiled. “...and everything's in the laundry bag?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
nodded. “Except Peter's socks.” I said, glancing at him. He wears
a pale blue nightdress with a teddy bear on the front, curled up and
sound asleep on a crescent moon. Jasmine still wears her new polo
dress and the nice black tights she'd changed into. I still think
it's unfair that only us boys have to get ready for bed at 8pm and
she doesn't. Even if we could wear boys pyjamas it'd still be unfair.
My aunt suggests we watch one of my Harry Potter DVDs, and after a
brief debate amongst us kids, we agree on Prizoner of Azkaban.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
lengthy film took us way beyond our 10pm bedtime, but we were allowed
to watch it to the end. Mum followed me upstairs and after climbing
into bed, she perched on the edge and smiled. “You don't need to
tuck me in.” I bashfully said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
know. But it's our last night.” she said, running her fingers over
my frills. “So I am going to tuck you in.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What
time are we going tomorrow?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
sometime in the afternoon.” she said, “I’d like to be back
before dark.” she told me. “Have you had a nice day today?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.”
I nodded. “It was scary at first but...”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
told you you had nothing to worry about.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're
not going to petticoat me are you?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of
course not.” Mum replied. “What makes you think that?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Because
you've spent loads on all my girl clothes and... if I don't have to
wear them again, it seems like an awful waste of money.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
been worth every penny.” she told me. “You'd have felt like a
fish out water if you did have your boy clothes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
I guess.” I replied, knowing that she was absolutely right. “But
what about next time we visit? Or they come to us?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
can wear whatever you like.” Mum said. She gave me a hug and bid me
a good night, leaving me alone in the darkness.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Friday, the last day-->The
next morning I woke to find Mum's bed empty yet slept in. I got up
and went down to the kitchen where Mum and Jasmine were making toast.
“Ooh you're up at last.” my aunt said as she joined us. It's just
gone half past eight and the morning sun is already streaming in
through the window. I wondered where Peter, presuming he might still
be in bed. “He's popped to the shop to fetch some milk... so if
you're after cereal, you'll have to wait.” my aunt told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
perched at the breakfast bar with a slice of toast and marmalade and
a big glass of fresh orange. In the streaming sunlight my baby-pink
pyjamas look so much more vivid than they had last night, and the
frilly lace trimmed cuffs cast a lacy shadow onto my hand. “I was
just thinking that.” I said when Mum mentioned my PJs in the
sunlight.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So
you agree that they're nice?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No...
I was just thinking they look different... brighter.” I haphazardly
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
think they're nice.” my aunt said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Too
nice for a boy.” I muttered.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No
such thing as too nice for a boy.” Jasmine commented, smiling,
teasingly so.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Peter
returned with a big bottle of milk swinging from his gloved hand. In
his feet are his shiny black Mary Jane’s, and his legs are clad in
white tights sporting a butterfly pattern. His down filled dress coat
lands mid thigh where an inch of lilac skirt can be seen. He removed
his coat to reveal a pretty lilac dress, covered in pastel coloured
dragonflies. It has short puffed princess sleeves and a small lace
trimmed collar. Around the waist is a purple satin sash tied in an
ornate bow on the small of his back. “It's pretty isn't it?” my
mother says, alerting me to the fact that I’m staring.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm...
yes.” I said. “I like the dragonflies.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're
mayflies.” Peter told me, adding that he'd prefer it without the
bow or princess sleeves. “...but at least I can't see the bow when
I'm wearing it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
sleeves intrigued me; see-through mesh with elastic cuffs gripping
his upper arm. They puffed up as well as out and I imagine wearing it
would mean they're always in the corner of one's eye. “Shall we get
you dressed Stephen?” Mum suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did
you like Peter's dress or were you just being polite?” Mum asked
once we were up in our room. I told her that I quite liked the
pattern, but wasn't so keen on the big satin bow. Mum smiled and
reminisced over the look of horror on my face when she tied my satin
sash in a bow on Christmas day. “...and your look of relief when I
took it off.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It
was a lot better without it.” I told her as she laid out my final
girlie outfit; white knickers and training bra, a lace trimmed girl's
vest with my name embroidered over the hip. The only item loaned from
my sister that I haven't yet worn is the pinafore dress with its
dropped waist and box pleats and (surprise surprise) buttons running
up the back. Mum pairs this with the white blouse I got for
Christmas, along with the burgundy tights I also got for Christmas.
“It's going to feel strange tomorrow morning when you <i>don't</i>
have to wear a training bra.” Mum said as I casually fastened
myself into it.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
gonna feel weird wearing undies that <i>don't</i> come all the way up
to my waist.” I added. “I can't wait to be normal again.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
mean boring again.” Mum grinned.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
like boring.” I retorted as I un-boxed the tights. I've not worn
coloured ones; only black or white and those nude ones with the
anchors on so far... so I'm wondering what these will be like as I
gather a leg onto my hand and push my toes inside. Being woolly, they
conceal the whiteness of my knickers.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
says they look nice as she holds my blouse open. I slide my hands
into the sleeves and turn. Mum begins to button me in, starting at
the bottom and slowly working her way up. I recalled Jasmine claiming
that she enjoyed being buttoned in, and I suppose it does feel
somewhat reassuring, or maybe somehow soothing, like having ones hair
brushed for them. “I know what you're not going to miss.” Mum
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Having
to be dressed by your mummy.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'd
only get the buttons mismatched if I had to do it myself.” I
replied. I often manage to do that with my school shirt and that has
its buttons on the front! “Thanks.” I timidly said once Mum had
fastened the final button. The stony-grey pinafore dress also has
buttons on the back but these are big and covered in the same tweed
fabric. I step into it and thread my hands through the armholes. Mum
faffs with my collar as it settles on my shoulders, making sure it
sits neatly on top of my frock. My mother buttons me in and like all
my other dresses, this also lands mid thigh. It's just a little
shorter than the ends of my fingers and just were my fingertips might
brush against my tights. The fabric similar to that of yesterday's
pleated skirt but having only four box pleats, it's not in the least
bit swishy. It doesn't float around me like my sailor dress does and
doesn't have that captivating shimmer that my Christmas dress has.
Like yesterday's outfit, today's also feels very prim and proper;
like I’m going to a poetry reading or piano recital. “Pageboy
shoes I guess?” I supposed when Mum turned me to face her.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes
I think so.” she smiled. “You've hardly worn your ankle boots.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.”
I said, imagining them with this dress, that skirt, my velvet dress
or sailor dress. “I've not got much they go with.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They'd
go with plenty of boy's clothes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But
they're not boys shoes. I couldn't wear them in the city.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
was thinking just round the house.” she said as I buckled my shoes.
“You could wear those just round the house if you wanted to.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But
that'd mean wearing a dress as well.” I bluntly replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not
at all.” Mum chirped. “You could easily wear those with trousers
or shorts... that's what pageboy's wear.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
think I'd rather wear a dress than a pageboy suit.” I said,
tittering at some of the hideous outfits I've seen.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Most
boys would.” my mother dourly stated. “Some of them are quite
boyish.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
can imagine the less fussy styles my mother was referring to; normal
tailored shorts instead of really short balloon or pumpkin shorts, a
relatively plain shirt instead of a really flouncy blouse. “Yeah
but... they wear make-up... even we don't have to do that.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
they are at a wedding.” Mum said. “And by 'we', I presume you
mean you and Peter?” she knowingly enquired. I nodded. “Good. I'm
glad you two are getting along.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.”
I said. “Jasmine too. Sometimes she can be really frosty but she's
been really nice this time round.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's
nice.” Mum replied. “However I think it's sometimes you that can
be the frosty one and Jasmine just responds to that. This time round
I believe it's you who's been acting particularly nicely.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only
because I feel particularly awkward.” I said as I stood.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're
anything but awkward in those.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It
was more my dress and those knee socks.” I told her. “But Dad did
warn me that the first would be the worst.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
think we all did.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We
went downstairs and jasmine instantly sniped at me with a comment
about going to the library. Having already considered how plain and
primly I'm dressed, I dryly retorted with two words; piano recital.
Jasmine grinned. “At the library.” I added, smiling.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'll
be looking forward to choosing your own clothes again.” my aunt
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.”
I replied. “And being a bit shorter.” I added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
keep forgetting you've got heels on.” my aunt said. “Do you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not
really... but I am used to them now.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
seemed used to them right at the start.” she remarked. Not a day
has gone by when my supposedly superhuman ability to walk in modest
heels isn't mentioned. They're not high like Mum might wear and Peter
has some higher than mine and with slender heels too. Each time I
bashfully take their praise, just as I do when they're talking about
my dress or my skirt or my tights, or in this case, the lacy collar
on my blouse which goes very neatly with my pinafore dress. “It is
the one he got for Christmas isn't it?” my aunt asked.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.”
Mum said. “At least he got to wear it twice before it's consigned
to charity.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.”
my aunt replied. “I've got so many clothes that I haven't even worn
twice.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Me
too.” Mum said. Me too, I thought.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We
packed up early so we wouldn't have a last minute rush. I put my PS3
back in its pristine box, made sure I had all the leads and games,
checked that all my other Christmas gifts were present; books, CD,
DVDs, alarm clock, snowglobe. Then Mum and I packed up our room. She
wanted me the empty my laundry bag and check I had all my knickers,
vests and training bras. Counting four matching sets with pastel
trim, plus my prissy blue knickers and training bra and my peach set,
plus five pairs of night knickers. “Twenty one.” I said. “What
are we going to do with all this?” I asked as I put the items back
in the laundry bag.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well...
like I said... if I find your bedroom floor strewn with socks and
underpants again, you'll find nothing but knickers in your underwear
drawer.” Mum told me. “And you could still wear the bedtime
ones.” she suggested. I grimaced. “Boys you age are prone to
little leaks.” she said. “Which is why they're quilted on the
front... to stop it from getting on the bedsheets.” she explained.
There's nothing more embarrassing than having my mum find the
evidence of a wet dream and whine at me for having to change my
bedding again.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">We
were all packed with several hours to spare. We watched SpyKids3
whilst Mum and her sister made soup in the kitchen. It wasn't the
best SpyKids movie so we chatted though much of it, talking about
school and stuff. Jasmine said how horrid it is playing hockey in the
winter. I empathised having endured rugby on frozen ground. “You're
lucky that you only have ballet.” she said to her brother.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only
in the winter.” he said. “It gets really clammy in summer.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Camisole
leotard makes a difference though.” Jasmine said. I had little idea
what they were talking about, but it quickly transpired that they
attend ballet classes together every Saturday morning at a dance
school in another nearby town. Like her brother, Jasmine can't stress
enough just how difficult and exhausting a two hour ballet session
can be. “...and after that we have a tap dancing class for an
hour.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
a very busy curriculum for a petticoated boy.” his mother says.
Aside from school every weekday, he has a needlework class on Monday
evening, D&D on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, dressmaking on
Friday and ballet then tap on Saturday mornings.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Blimey!”
I said. “Do you get any time to play video games?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not
much during term time... but at half-term and in the holidays,
loads.” Peter replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
you certainly won't get bored with all that on your plate.” Mum
said, having overheard the conversation from the kitchen.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's
the whole point.” my aunt stated. “Occupy their minds fully.”
she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
considered the amount of driving Auntie June must have to do;
dropping him off and picking him up from his various evening classes,
none of which are in near-by Donnington. “That's part and parcel of
living out in the wilds.” Auntie June replied. “The only thing in
walking distance is the grocery store... everything else is a twenty
minute drive.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
suppose we're lucky in the city... the kids can just jump on a bus if
they want to meet with friends or see a movie or something.” Mum
replied. “You don't get bored do you Stephen?” she asked me,
adding that I maybe do spend a little too much time playing video
games when I could be a little more active.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
do three hours PE a week at school.” I reminded her. “And I walk
to school... that's fifteen miles a week.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“True.”
Mum said. “I just wish you were a little more keen on completing
your homework assignments than completing your latest video game.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
usually get it in on time.” I defensively told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes
but it's always last minute. You should do it as soon as you get
home, when the information is still fresh in your mind.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
I know.” I replied. “I just want to chill for a while after
school.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
I could suggest a new house rule that might help encourage you.” my
aunt wryly said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Knowing
what she was hinting at, I gulped and prayed for the conversation to
change. It was an uncomfortable silence until Mum said that she'd
premised me that there'd be no more girls clothes after today.
“Except when you visit us.” Jasmine chirped. I croaked and bit my
lip. “You did say you wouldn't mind wearing dresses when you come
here.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
but, that erm, I mean, err... I'd rather not but, erm, I might feel a
bit... out-of-place.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Would
that mean I could wear boy's clothes when we visit them?” Peter
jovially yet hopelessly asked. Jasmine said it would be nice if I
wore a dress on those occasions too, adding that it wouldn't be very
often, maybe once every two or three months at the most. “You don't
have to do that Steve.” Peter said to me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No
it's OK.” I replied. “I always felt a bit awkward before.” I
said. “...when I was dressed as a boy and you were...” I paused.
“At least now I know it's not sooo bad..” I told him. “I'll
just have to make sure none of my friends call round when you do come
over.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
this is unexpected.” Mum said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
might not have to send that blouse to charity after all.” my aunt
added. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Don't let me forget your pen
drive... I haven't put the photos of Stephen playing on the swing on
it yet.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
hope nobody but us ever sees those photos.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
your Dad and sister will <i>have</i> to see them.” Mum told me.
“But I won't be putting them in frames if that's what you're
worried about.” she assured.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Shall
we get a final one of Stephen?” my aunt suggested, wielding her
digital camera. “In his smart pinafore.” she added, making me
cringe a little. It might be comfortable to wear but to look at it is
rather formal and mundane, but I suppose that is offset by my very
noticeable collar. Mum said that my sister got the pinafore when the
'preppy look' was fashionable one summer some six years previously.
“But a dress like that never goes out of style.” my aunt said.
“It might never be the height of fashion but it is timeless.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">After
a handful of photos taken of me stood by the bookshelf, the freshly
baked bread is finally ready and we lunch on a warming winter chowder
with warm buttered bread. We sit around the table for an hour
chatting about all sorts of stuff. Half the time I spend pondering
Peter’s sleeves. I despise their infantile daintiness whilst
wondering what they're like to wear. They only touch the arm where
the frilly cuff is gathered, and so puffed out they are I expect
they'd always be in the corner of my eye. “Right.” Mum announced.
“I think it's time we got the car packed up.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Ooh.”
Jasmine frowned, expressing that she's enjoyed having us around</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So
has it been a good Christmas week for you Stephen?” Mum asked as we
drove home.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.”
I replied. “I just hope no one finds out that I spent Christmas
week wearing nothing but girl's clothes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They'll
only find out if you tell them... and no one's going to ask what you
wore on Christmas day, so you won't even have to lie about it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
I guess.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So
which has been your best dress?” she asked. I was reluctant to
decide. “OK, which was the worst one?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Peter's
sailor dress.” I replied without hesitation. I described how it fit
really badly and the material felt stiff and starchy and how it
looked really plain and boring. “I think my best outfit was the
dungaree shorts... that felt kind of boyish... even though I was
wearing tights.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Definitely
tom-boyish.” Mum smiled. “I liked that too.” she told me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So...
what was your favourite?” I hesitantly asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
liked them all.” she said. “But I have to say <i>your</i> sailor
dress. You looked so coy and cute wearing it the first time, with
those lacy knee socks.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
felt so embarrassed.” I recalled.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only
because you knew how pretty you looked.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Too
pretty.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There's
no such thing as too pretty.” Mum told me. “Something is either
pretty or it isn't.” she stated.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.”
I said. I focused on the horizon; still pan flat. Nearby shrubs and
fences whiz past whilst more distant features tend to stroll by. I
can feel the big buttons on the pack of my pinafore pressing in to my
back. Not uncomfortably so, but just enough to remind me of their
presence. I look down at my dress. Its box pleats sitting neatly on
my lap. I consider if this dress is pretty and soon deduce that it
isn't. This is smart, inoffensive, unfashionable.. yet comfortable.
It doesn't need constantly tending like my sailor dress did, and it
doesn't draw my attention like my swishy pleated skirt did. It's easy
to wear like my Christmas dress was and if I could make one change,
it would be pockets. “I've just realised that I've not had any
pockets for a week!” I said, somewhat astonished. “Why don't
dresses have pockets?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Some
do.” Mum said. “But we tend to use a handbag instead.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
but... when my hands have nothing to do I put them in my pockets. You
can't to that with a handbag.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Your
hands would be holding the handbag.” my mother informed me. “Thus
giving them something to do.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
yeah.” I realised. “I'm looking forward to having pockets again
though.” I smiled. Mum smiled too before asking me which I'll wear
first; my favourite jeans or my comfiest joggers.“Oh I don't know.”
I said. The idea of which of my boy clothes I might wear first hadn't
crossed my mind. “Jeans I guess.” I replied. “Do I have to wait
until tomorrow?” I asked. Mum told me that Dad is on a
'twelve-two', which means his shift started at lunchtime and ends at
two o'clock in the morning, so I won't see him today. “Okay.” I
said. “But Anna's going to be home isn't she?” I knowingly asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.”
Mum said. “She'll be fine.” she added a moment later.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
I know.” I said. “Everyone seems to be fine with it... it's just
me that seems to think it's weird.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
not weird it's just uncommon.” she said. “And it can't be that
uncommon when they manufacture a whole range of girlie undies
especially for boys.” Mum replied “I think there'll come a day
when it's quite normal for boys to wear girl's clothes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
normal at weddings isn't it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes
I suppose it is these days.” Mum said. “We'd never heard of a
flower<i>boy</i> when I was a girl, and the pageboy dressed like a
normal boy.” she reminisced. “I seem to recall a couple of boys
at school who had to be bridesmaids though.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
know of a boy at school who's been a bridesmaid.” I said, although
I don't know him so it might be just a rumour.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There's
probably quite a few.” Mum claimed. “But boys tend to keep such
things to themselves.” she told me. Too right! I thought.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">By
now the pan-flat landscape had returned to gently rolling hills and
home was getting closer and closer. I looked at my lap, clad in a
cosy burgundy knit and partly covered by my pinafore dress. I realise
that I'm getting farther and farther away from the place where
dresses feel normal. “I'm really nervous.” I said as the open
fields gave way to an urban landscape.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The
worst that will happen is you'll have to endure Anna telling you how
nice you look.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The
worst that can happen is Jonny arrives on his bike just I'm getting
out of the car.” I feared.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Didn't
you says he was away this weekend?” Mum knowingly asked. “Then
you've nothing to worry about.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmmm.”
I replied. But what if Maureen [the next door neighbour] calls round
to borrow something just before we get back? I thought, imagining
arriving home to find our very chatty middle aged neighbour in the
hallway and I’m dressed like I’ve stepped straight off the cover
of an old Mallory Tower's book.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
light had faded significantly by the time we entered our particular
suburb of the city so I didn't feel overly exposed in the front seat
of Mum's car. All anyone would see in passing is my large white
collar so might just presume I'm a girl. I felt more relaxed until we
turned onto the driveway then my nerves returned. It'll just be
compliments, nothing else, I told myself. “You go straight in
Stephen. I'll fetch the cases and everything.” Mum told me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Won't
you come in with me?” I gulped. “Please.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just
because you're wearing a dress doesn't mean you're not a thirteen
year old boy Stephen.” Mum told me. “You don't need mummy to hold
your hand. You can do this by yourself.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--The Return-->I
stepped out of the car and cast my eyes toward the front door. I
glanced down the drive to the street beyond before hastily striding
to the door, my heels clacking noisily. Unexpectedly I find myself
illuminated by the porch light as I approach and momentarily freeze.
It hasn't worked for ages, I thought as I look up and gulp at the
spotlight I found myself under. Quickly yet hesitantly I reach for
the door handle and turn it. “Mum it's locked!” I pined, glancing
fearfully down the drive. My mother had her hands full. I looked up
at the light, then towards the street. I felt stuck in the most
visible place, stood on the doorstep, illuminated from above. The
door opened and there stood my sister. “Sorry I forgot it was
locked.” she said. Her eyes looked me up and down as I stepped
inside. A broad smile swept her face. I stood in the hallway and let
her scrutinise me, not really knowing what else to do. “I had a
feeling that dress would suit you.” she said. “And Mary Jane's
too.” she added, looking at my feet. She complimented my tights and
I corrected her about my shoes. “That makes sense. Pageboys do wear
Mary Jane's these days.” she replied. “It also means you're not
technically wearing girl's shoes.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
I know.” I said</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So...
did you have a good Christmas?” she asked.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
smiled and nodded. “Yeah.” I said, with just a hint of caution.
“...it was a bit weird dressing like a girl but... kinda good
because I didn't feel awkward around Peter.” I said. “And I got a
PlayStation 3!” I announced.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did
you!” Anna exclaimed, although she probably knew I was getting one.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah...
and the Rockband Game... and we went to Spalding and I got a ten-pin
bowling game too.” I enthused. “Thanks for the book and alarm
clock.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're
welcome.” she smiled before thanking me for her gift. “Need a
hand Mum?” Anna offered as our mother bundled through the door
trying to carry four cases and a big carrier bag. Anna took the bag
and helped her with two of the cases, one of which was mine. “You
may as well take this up now.” my sister said. I could feel her
watching as I climbed the stairs. “Oh, and Steve...?” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What?”
I asked, pausing mid step.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Will
you not get changed just yet?” my sister asked.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Mum
said I could wear boy's clothes tomorrow so...” I told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh...
OK.” my sister said. “Cool.” she smiled.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
continued up to my room and opened the door, pausing for a moment. It
felt like far more than six days had passed since I was last in my
own room. I expected it would look as it usually does, with socks and
T-shirts strewn on the floor but then I remembered having to tidy up
before we left. I recalled how it felt wearing a dress for the first
time, and consider how it feels today. I can't deny that I don't feel
comfortable in my clothes. It's my room I don't quite feel
comfortable in. It's a typical boy's room; stripes, zig-zags, blues,
reds. Books, old toys and loads of boardgames fill the shelves.
Posters of planets and volcanoes cover the walls. I gulp and look
down at my feet, woolly tights and tweed pinafore. From my hand hangs
my case in which is nothing but dresses, knickers, nighties and
frilly pyjamas, tights and training bras. I feel like I’m doing my
bedroom an injustice, returning to it like this. I leave the case
beside my bed and return downstairs. My mum and sister are making
coffee and offer me some. “Yes please.” I reply, suggesting we
put some hot chocolate in it like Auntie June does. I fetch it from
its cupboard and my sister comments on my clattery shoes. “Yeah.”
I said. “They don't let me forget I’m wearing them.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
wear them well.” she commented. “Very well.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He's
been like that right from the start.” Mum said. “Took to them
like a duck to water.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That
doesn't mean I particularly like them though.” I defensively added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
don't particularly hate them either.” Mum said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did
you wear those ankle boots?” my sister asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Couple
of times.” I said. “On Boxing Day.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
Christmas Eve too.” Mum added. “He wore your dungaree shorts.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did
you like them?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They
were OK.” I told her. “But I had worn your old sailor dress the
entire day before so I'd prefer anything compared to that.” My
sister grinned and wished she'd seen me in that. “Mum's got some
photos.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Top
secret photos.” Mum cheerily stated. “F.Y.E.O.” she said,
dangling the USB drive that contained them.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oooh!”
my sister cooed. “Can I see?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Later.”
Mum replied, “After tea.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I've
only been shown some of the photos on the tiny camera screen and I
can't say I’m looking forward to seeing them on a large laptop
screen, so I was happy to wait until after tea. “So what else did
you wear?” my sister asked. “What else did you get for
Christmas?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm...
this blouse.” I said, thumbing my collar. “A dress, some tights,
pyjamas...”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
got plenty of boy things too Stephen.” Mum said. “Did you thank
Anna for...?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
he did.” my sister interrupted, smiling at me. “I think a less
fussy blouse would be nicer with that pinafore.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't
you like it?” Mum asked, somewhat defensively.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
lovely.” my sister insisted. “It's just, a dress like that needs
a more understated collar.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes
I suppose. But he only has two blouses and wore the other yesterday.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“My
pink one?” Anna knowingly asked. “With the pleated skirt?” Mum
nodded and told her that we went shopping to Spalding. “How was
that?” my sister asked me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
I was petrified at first but no one seemed bothered... and we did see
another boy wearing a dress so it wasn't just me.” I replied,
recalling his mother, completely unabashed saying <i>don't forget
your handbag Andrew</i>. I'd have felt mortified if that were me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Maybe
they just thought you were a girl.” my sister suggested, adding
that I'd have been wearing some make-up. I shook my head and Mum said
I didn't wear any make-up at all. “but...?” my sister seemed
surprised.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Peter
doesn't wear make-up.” Mum stated.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
thought petticoated boys did?” my sister quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“As
far as I know it's up to the parent or guardian.” Mum replied.
“It's not a mandatory aspect like attending ballet or dressmaking
classes.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Ooh.”
my sister said. “One of the porters at work was saying her
brother's have Sunday dresses... so they're not proper petticoatees
like Peter, but the first thing they do every Sunday morning is their
make-up.” Apparently they're twins, aged fifteen and always have
matching Sunday dresses. “...and apparently they have their names
embroidered on the front of their knickers.” she grinned.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
that is mandatory for boys.” Mum said. “Stephen's got his name on
his.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
Mu-um.” I whined. “Don't tell her that.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No
need to feel embarrassed Stevie.” my sister said as I felt exactly
that. She turned to our mother and asked, “So did you have him
calling you 'mummy' as well?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No
I didn't.” Mum said. “He was just an honorary petticoatee,
weren't you?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
guess.” I replied. “Why does he have to say 'mummy'?” I asked.
“He always says 'mum' when she's not around.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
just a form of address.” Mum replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
infantile though.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“As
are many of the clothes boys like Peter have to wear.” Mum replied.
“Remember his school uniforms?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
thought he dressed like a boy at school.” my sister said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He
does, but to help encourage him to do his homework, Peter changes
into a girl's school uniform when he gets home and he can't change
out of that until his days' assignments are all done.” Mum
explained, describing an infantile navy blue pinafore with a flower
shaped zip pull, and a blue gingham dress he wears in summer.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
not much of a motivator if he only has to change into a different
dress.” my sister said. “I could see it working on someone like
Stephen who'd have normal boys clothes as his incentive.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
know but the point was, Peter's school clothes are deliberately
infantile, along with most his other clothes. Petticoated boys don't
dress like fourteen year old girls for a reason.” Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Aaah!”
my sister announced. She recalled when Peter was initially
petticoated and asked our aunt why, and June apparently replied <i>to
stop him growing up too quick</i>. “I always wondered what that
meant... he does dress like a nine year old.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
still has to call him mum <i>mummy</i>... when his little sister
doesn't.” I added. After a moment I also whined to my sister that
we had to get ready for bed at 8pm every night when Jasmine didn't
have to.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
were all sent to bed at the same time though.” Mum replied. “But
you're right it should be Jasmine too.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“8pm's
a bit early when you're thirteen/fourteen though.” Anna figured.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
just ready for bed, not sent to bed.” Mum said. “And I quite
liked it... all settling down once the boys had their jimjams on to
watch TV and just chill in front of the fire.” she dreamily
recalled. “That was a nice routine.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It
sounds very cosy.” my sister said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
it was in a way.” I concurred.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So
what's it feel like? Wearing a dress?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“This
one or dresses in general?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm...
that one.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
feel like a belong on the cover of a Girl's Own Annual.” I dryly
replied. They both found the analogy amusing and accurate. My sister
said that was the sort of look she was going for when she bought my
dress, and wore it with nut brown knitted tights, before
complimenting my burgundy tights and saying mine look better.
Bashfully I thanked her and she asked if I liked them. “I like
wearing them... they're cosy.” I said. “I tried some really thin
ones too but didn't like those so much.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
dresses in general?” my sister pressed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're
OK.” I said, before stating that I’m not going to wear them round
town or anything.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But
just around the house?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'd
rather not.” I replied. “What if Maureen calls round? ...or
Jonny?” I said. “Although I did kind of tell Peter and Jasmine
that I might wear a dress next time they visit.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So
you must like them a tiny bit?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“My
cousins or my dresses?” I dryly asked. My sister grinned. “Nah...
it's just... I always used to feel really awkward around Peter but
this week I haven't.” I said. “...so maybe next time, if I'm not
wearing a dress, I might feel all awkward again.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why
did you feel awkward?” my sister asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
don't know... it was just weird... the cousin I’d always known as a
normal boy was all of sudden wearing dresses and calling Auntie June
<i>mummy</i>.” I replied. “I couldn't help but wonder how
horrible it must be to wear a pale blue party dress with kittens on
the skirt.” I recall that as the first dress we saw him in, some
eighteen months previously, soon after Peter's thirteenth birthday.
“I guess by making me wear dresses I didn't have to wonder about
his.” I deduced.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
they're not as horrible as you imagined are they.” Mum smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No
but...” I replied, pondering on what the 'but' might be. “...I
still don't want anyone to know that I spent Christmas week dressed
like a girl.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
they won't find out from me.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nor
me.” Anna added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
you can trust your dad.” Mum told me. After a short moment of
silence she added. “...and if you do ever want to wear a dress
around the house... or those dungaree-shorts you liked, your dad's
fine with that too.” she informed me. “You don't <i>have</i> to
wait until Peter and Jasmine visit.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm...
you say it like you think I will.” I hesitantly replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“All
I’m saying is you can wear anything you like.” Mum told me. “And
if that's just boy clothes then that's fine.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Before
long, Mum suggested we unpack and I started with the big bag full of
gifts I'd received. The PS3 took pride of place under the big TV in
the lounge. Eventually I'll have to move it up to my room and play on
my much smaller TV, but for now I can play in the lounge. It looks so
shiny and new. I still couldn't quite believe it belonged to me and
it really was the very last thing I expected to unwrap.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
remaining gifts I took up to my room where Mum has my case open on my
bed. “I don't want that in my wardrobe.” I said as she placed my
green velvet dress on a hanger. “I'm not gonna wear it again.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
might.” Mum replied. “Maybe when we visit your cousins next?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But,
it's a Christmas dress.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
just a green dress Stephen.” Mum replied. “It was your snowflake
tights that gave it a festive look.” she informed me, hanging it in
my wardrobe.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're
putting them all in there?” I said seeing the pale blue sailor
dress, taffy pink blouse and the grey pleated skirt already hanging
in my wardrobe. “They should go back in the big wardrobe.” I
reckoned, that being the place on the landing where all the old or
seldom worn clothes are stowed. Mum claimed the big wardrobe is
bulging and there's plenty of space in mine, adding that I don't have
to wear them if I don't want to.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Also
on my bed is the laundry bag with all my underwear, nightwear and
hosiery inside. From the case Mum removes the dusty pink cords and
put those in the laundry bag, followed by the black dungaree shorts
which she suggests I put on a hanger. “You might wear those again.”
she supposed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.”
I said, not committing myself.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
seem to have lost some of your optimism.” Mum told me as she folded
my soft cream jumper.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm
not sure I'd like wearing girl's clothes here... 'specially when
Dad's home.” I told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But
it's OK I front of me and Anna?” Mum asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
yeah because you're women and you like girl's clothes. Dad might
think...”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Your
dad won't think anything. He wore dresses too remember.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
but... only when his gran told him to.” I said. “The difference
is I'd be choosing to wear one here.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Which
is better, surely?” Mum said. I skewed my jaw. “No?” I gulped
and shrugged. “So it's OK to dress like a girl, but only if you've
been told to?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Kind
of.” I said. “I'd feel weird choosing one.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
followed my gaze into my wardrobe. “You've not exactly much to
choose from.” she said. “But Auntie June did say that lots of
boys have a Sunday dress.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
don't want to wear that every Sunday!” I sneered, clearly referring
to the pretty sailor dress.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But
you wouldn't be choosing it.” Mum smiled. “And there's the idea
of a girl's uniform for doing your homework.” she added. “I know
for a fact there's at least two of Anna's in the big wardrobe.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
gulped. “But... that'd be five days a week... plus Sunday.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'd
only be for an hour or so after school. And a Sunday dress doesn't
strictly mean every Sunday.” mum replied. “Too much?” she
asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
six days.” I retorted. “I'd only have Saturday.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It
does seem like a lot... but it'd be only one full day out of seven,
plus a handful of hours. It'd be nothing really. I think we should at
least try the homework thing... just for a week.” she suggested.
“We'll tell Dad it was my idea.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It
was your idea.” I replied. “But I'm not so sure.” I said as I
imagined what I'd look like and how it might feel. I imagined the
routine. “It'd be the same thing everyday.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But
only for an hour or so.” she said. “And if it does help your
grades...?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How
is wearing a girl's uniform gonna help my grades?” I dryly asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It
won't.” Mum smiled. “It's starting your homework straight after
school when all the information is still fresh in your mind that will
help your grades.” she informed me. “Wearing a girl's uniform is
the incentive to finish it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But
what will Anna <i>and</i> Dad think if I start dressing like a
schoolgirl after school?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'd
be wearing it for a reason, not through choice... and I think both
will agree that it's a good incentive.” Mum replied. “Plus it
won't be until the week after next so we've plenty of time to discuss
it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">That
seemed to suggest that I mightn't have to do it after all, which
relieved me somewhat. “But... what about the Sunday dresses?” I
asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum
thought for a moment. “How about... if you find a dress hung from
your wardrobe when you go to bed on Saturday, then that's your dress
for Sunday.” she suggested. “I mightn't put one out every weekend
and you don’t <i>have</i> to wear it.” she said. “That way you
won't have to choose yet you still have a choice.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.”
I replied, very much in two minds.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Plus
after wearing the same uniform after school every day... a nice
Sunday dress would be just what the doctor ordered.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.”
I said. “So long as it's not <i>every</i> Sunday... and not the
same one every time.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
luckily for you, there's plenty of potential Sunday dresses in the
big wardrobe... so we'll have a good rummage tomorrow, shall we?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.”
I half-heartedly agreed. “But please don't make me wear anything.
Tomorrow's my first day as a normal boy and I'm determined to wear
nothing but boy's clothes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Fair
enough.” Mum said. “But I did leave your white PJs out for
tonight.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Neatly
folded on my pillow is the girlie pyjama set I'm yet to wear. More
subtle than my pink set, having white frills on white cotton, but
still far too frilly for comfort. Mum Picked up my bag of laundry and
said. “Well I’d best get this lot on to wash.” she said,
leaving me alone in my room.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
wasn't sure what I'd just talked myself into; dressing like a girl
everyday after school and on Sundays too, or just wearing the odd
Sunday dress? Feeling somewhat bamboozled, I zipped up my empty case
and put it away in the wardrobe. I took one final glance at my small
selection of girl's clothes and imagined the rail being full of them. I gulped and shut the doors.</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p>PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-40733599539074209202022-12-25T01:09:00.009-08:002023-05-26T08:10:21.286-07:00A Christmas to Remember (part one)<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was a week before
Christmas. I returned home from school and warmed my freezing hands
by the fireplace. “Mum.” I said. “Jonny's Mum said I could go
to their house on Boxing Day to play video games.” I
excitedly told her. “Can I go?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We'll be at Auntie
June's on boxing day.” she told me. “You can visit Jonny after we
get back.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“In the evening?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No on the
twenty-eighth.” Mum replied. “So maybe the day after that... if
it's OK with Jonny's mum.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You mean we're going
to stay Auntie June's?” I quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes. From Sunday. I
did tell you.” Mum claimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You said we were
going over Christmas but I thought that was just for the day.” I
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No love, we're going
to stay <i>over</i> Christmas, from the twenty-third to the
twenty-eighth.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But that's a whole
week!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Almost, yes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why?” I asked. “We
usually just go for the day.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know but you're
dad's working over Christmas and he's got a lot of night shifts, and
so has Anna.” Mum told me. “I'm certain I told you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You did but you
didn't say we were going for a week!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm sure I did.”
Mum replied. I recalled what Mum had told me about the Christmas
arrangements this year and figured that maybe she had told me, but I
must've got the wrong end of the stick. When Mum said we were going
to her sister's <i>over Christmas</i>, I thought she meant for one
day over Christmas like we do every other year. And she didn't
mention my Dad would be working a string of night shifts, which isn't
unusual since he's a hospital doctor and works long hours both day
and night. My big sister Anna is a nurse and will also be working all
sorts of unsociable hours over the Xmas period, which means it'll
just be me and Mum visiting her sister June and my cousins Peter and
Jasmine.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I considered the
prospect of a week at my Aunt's house. “It's gonna be weird coz
I'll be the only boy.” I grumbled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Peter's a boy as
well you know!” Mum bluntly told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah but he's...”
I retorted before quietening my voice to a mere whisper.
“...petticoated.” I gulped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He's still a boy
despite his clothing.” Mum said. “Which raises the subject of
what you're going to wear whilst we're there.” she added.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What do you mean?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... I think
it'll be best if you also wear girl's clothes. That way you won't
feel inclined to tease your cousin.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't tease him!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not directly... but
you do have a habit of sniggering when he enters a room wearing one
of his dresses, and smirking when he calls Auntie June 'mummy'.” my
mother replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I don't!” I
claimed, knowing that I often do. But when you see a fourteen year
old boy wearing a prissy party dress and saying 'thank you Mummy'
when Auntie June tells him how nice he looks, it's hard not to
snigger.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We both know you do
Stephen.” Mum retorted. “And your sister and I have already had a
good rummage through her old things...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But I don't want to
wear girls clothes!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And neither does
your cousin. But he has to because he's petticoated.” Mum retorted.
“Think yourself lucky it's just for a few days.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'll be a week!”
I gulped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Six days.” Mum
pedantically corrected. “That's nothing compared to the six years
your cousin's due to be petticoated for.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I thought it was
'til he was sixteen?” I quizzed. I knew it begun on his thirteenth
birthday and understood it would continue until he left school.
“...when he's left high school.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He'll have two years
at finishing school after he's left high school, so he'll be
eighteen.” Mum told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Blimey!” I
grimaced.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Six days doesn't
sound so bad now does it” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... yeah.” I
frowned. “What if I promise not to snigger or smirk or anything.”
I proposed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And if you do?”
Mum queried</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I won't!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Because each time
we've visited them in the last two years you have.” Mum told me.
“And no matter how much you try to stifle your smirks, we all hear
them and that's not very nice for Peter.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But I promise I
won't this time Mum.” I pleaded. “You don't have to petticoat me
too.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Are you sure about
that?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes. Absolutely!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Because I can't
imagine you sniggering or smirking at your cousin if you're also
wearing frilly knickers and a prissy dress.” she told me. “But if
you're wearing normal boys clothes, chances are you will.” she
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I won't.” I
insisted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well I'm not willing
to take that chance... and you'll probably feel more at home there if
you only have girls clothes to wear.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll feel like a
fish out of water!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You said yourself
you'd be the only boy.” Mum reminded me. “And it won't be
anywhere near as bad as you imagine.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'll be horrible.”
I whined. “Does Dad know?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course.” Mum
replied. “In fact your dad suggested it when I said I was worried
about you teasing your cousin.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I gulped. I didn't want
to believe this but Mum wasn't in the habit of lying to me. “Do we
have to go for the whole week?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well your Dad and
Anna have lots of long night shifts that week which means they'll be
sleeping throughout the day and if we're here they won't find that
quite so easy. Plus you don't want to spend Christmas trying to be
quiet all day. You'll want the telly on.” she said. “And I can't
make Christmas dinner without clattering about in the kitchen... so
it's best all round if we spend Christmas at Auntie June's.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's not best for me
if I have to dress like a girl the whole time.” I frowned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“When in Rome.” Mum
chirped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I knew the saying but
for the sake of expressing my contempt I grumbled, “What does that
even mean?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“When in Rome we do
as the Roman's do.” Mum replied. “We follow the customs of
wherever it is we're visiting.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But Peter doesn't
get to wear boy's clothes when they come here.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They've only visit
once since he was petticoated, and you teased him relentlessly.”
Mum reminded me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I wouldn't have if
he'd worn boy's clothes.” I replied, knowing my argument was weak.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He wasn't even
wearing a dress that day. He was wearing shorts.” Mum retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“With white knee
socks and girlie shoes.” I countered. “...and a girl's T-shirt
with puffy sleeves.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“See... you're still
sneering at him and he's not even here Stephen.” Mum responded.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sorry... but...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But what?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nothing.” I
muttered.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
next day at school, Jonny asked me if I'd asked my Mum about going
over to his house on Boxing Day. Glumly I told
him that I had asked, and even more glumly I told him that we're
spending Christmas at my Auntie June's house because my Dad and
sister are working night shifts that week. “I can't believe it!”
I grumbled. “A whole week at my Auntie June's house. It's gonna be
so boring.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Is she the one who
petticoated your cousin?” Jonny asked. I nodded and sighed, but
said nothing of what my mother has in mind for me whilst we're there.
Jonny asked why he'd been petticoated, presuming it was for bad
behaviour or something.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't think he was
that bad... but she got divorced a few years ago and his dad hasn't
had much to do with them since, and according my mum, petticoating
him was for the best because he no longer had a father figure.” I
explained from the best of my recollection.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's grim. It
kinda makes sense if they've gone off the rails but not because their
parents split up.” Jonny said. “What's he like?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He's OK I guess.”
I replied. “Quiet.” I added, before describing him as being in a
state of perpetual embarrassment because his mum's always telling him
how lovely he looks and he has to call her 'mummy' despite being
fourteen years old.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Blimey I thought he
was like... eleven or something?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nah... but some of
his dresses are like a seven year old would wear.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah... my Mum was
telling me that it revolves around infantilisation as much as it does
treating them like girls.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Infanti-what?” I
quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Infantilisation...
treating them like little kids.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How come your Mum
was talking to you about petticoating?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh one of her old
friends had to send her son to a boarding school where they're all
petticoated.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What did he do?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Stole a car.”
Jonny told me. “I don't think he was doing the actual driving but
he was in the car when police stopped 'em.” he said, adding that
the car had crashed at the end of a high speed chase.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What an idiot! He
could have been killed.” I exclaimed. “How old is he?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Our age.” Jonny
said, adding that his mother had likely told him all the details as a
warning not to get in any trouble with the Law. “She showed me some
pictures of him.” he added, describing the
uniform as a green skirt, white shirt, burgundy blazer and burgundy
tights.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Eugh!” I
responded, trying to visualise the outfit.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And apparently that's all they
wear!” Jonny said just as three girls strolled past wearing only
knee socks with their short pleated skirts. “Evenings <i>and</i>
weekends!” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Imagine having
nothing to wear but a girls' school uniform” I said, wondering how
cold those girls must me with half their lap and knees uncovered</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What you looking
at?!” one of the girls snarled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nothing.” we
sheepishly replied in unison. “How do they cope without tights?”
Jonny asked once they were out of sight.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Dunno.” I gulped.
A vision popped into my head of my cousin Peter last Christmas when
we went to visit for the day. He wore a bottle green dress with a
pair of white ribbed tights. I remember my mum saying how nice and
cosy his tights looked and Peter sheepishly replying that he'd got
them for Christmas off his sister. “Sorry what?” I said, hearing
Jonny repeat a question.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You going deaf?”
he said, before asking a third time when I'd be back from my aunt's.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh err.... the
twenty-eighth.” I replied. “Mum said I could come over the day
after that... if it's OK with your Mum.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll ask.” Jonny
replied. “So when do you go?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sunday.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's gonna be
weird. A whole week in house where the only other boy has to dress like a
girl.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's only six days,
but yeah.” I glumly replied, gulping. My dishonesty for not
confessing to my friend that Peter wouldn't be the only boy having to
dress like a girl left me feeling riddled with guilt, but there's no
way I could confess such a thing to anyone. When I got home after
school, Mum asked if I'd told Jonny that we'd still be at Auntie
June's on boxing day. “Yeah.” I mournfully told her. “He's
gonna ask his Mum about me going on the Saturday instead.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You can't go this
Saturday.” Mum retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I mean the
Saturday after we get back.” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh yes. Of course.”
Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What are we doing
this Saturday?” I quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We need to go
shopping for some shoes and stuff.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You don't have to
take me with you!” I blurted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'll need to try
the shoes on. I can't just take your foot.” Mum sarcastically
replied. “Plus you need a training bra which means taking you for a proper fitting.” she informed me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What do I want a bra
for?!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's just a training
bra. Peter has to wear one and so shall you.”</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">"What's a proper fitting?" I grimly asked.</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">"It's a right of passage." Mum said, somewhat smugly.</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">"What does that mean?"</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">"It means you'll be measured and fitted with your first training bra and shown how to adjust the straps properly."</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">"But why?"</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">"So it'll be comfortable. You'll be wearing one everyday we're away."</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“This is gonna be the
worst Christmas ever!” I huffed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh get over yourself
Stephen! It's not all about you.” Mum told me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well it certainly
feels like it because I’m the one who has to dress like a girl!”
I growled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did you tell Jonny
that you'd be wearing dresses whilst you're away?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No!” I snarled.
“Why would I tell him that?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Because you're
making such a big deal over it I thought you might have had a good
old moan about it to your friends.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's the last thing
I want them to know.” I stated. “And it <u>is</u> a big deal!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know it is love.”
Mum said, resting her hands on my shoulders. “It's also a big deal
for your cousin and the last thing he needs is you scoffing and
mocking him.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But I won't.” I
whined. “I promise.” I insisted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Chat with dad-->Being
a hospital doctor, my dad regularly works thirteen hour shifts. It's
similar for my big sister Anna who's a nurse at the same hospital so
several days can go by without me seeing either of them. Currently
Dad's on the day shift and he returned home at around 8.30pm whilst I
was playing on my games console. “How you getting on son?” he
asked, popping his head around my bedroom door.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I mournfully
replied. “Why didn't you tell me I had to wear girls clothes when
we go to Auntie June's?” I whined.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Your mum told you.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah but she said it
was your idea.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well it was a joint
decision. And it won't be so bad.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'll be awful!” I
complained.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'll be what you
make it.” Dad replied, perplexing me somewhat. “I've never told
you this before son but when I was about your age I was given my
first dress and...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You had a dress?!”
I remarked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Dad nodded and sighed.
“I didn't want one but my grandmother used to say that every boy
needs a Sunday dress and when I was about eleven or twelve she took
me shopping for one.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Were you
petticoated?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.” he said. “Not
like Peter is but whenever my grandmother wanted me to be on my best
behaviour, I had to wear one of my dresses.” he confessed.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How many did you
have?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh I don't know...
two or three to begin with, then when I began growing out of one I'd
be given another so maybe fifteen or twenty all in all.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did anyone know?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not apart from the
immediate family and friends and neighbours of my Granny. And it was
the same for my brother.” he told me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Uncle Andrew?”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Dad nodded. “The
point is Stephen... it's not just you, and it's only for a few days.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's nearly a week
Dad. And it's Christmas.” I frowned. “And I promise I won't tease
Peter.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course you won't.
Especially if you're also wearing a dress.” he told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I sighed and considered
what my father had told me. “What did you mean when you said; it is
what I make it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... every now
and then we'd have to spend the weekend with Granny and more often
than not she'd tell us to put a dress on and if we kicked up a fuss,
she'd make us wear one she knew we hated.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Didn't you hate them
all?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course but some
were far worse than others.” he replied, pausing for a moment.
“However if we did as we were told... we'd be able to choose one
that wasn't quite so bad.” he said. “And considering this was the
early eighties, most styles were <i>really</i> bad.” he told me,
adding that it didn't happen that often and stopped by the time he
was about fifteen.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did you have to wear
knickers too?” I asked. Dad nodded and said they had to wear 'the
works'. I gulped, knowing that 'the works' meant everything. “I'm
not gonna get loads of girlie presents am I? Like Peter does.” I
grimaced.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There'll be a few.”
Dad told me. “But only to wear whilst you're there.” he added.
“You'll have plenty of boy things too.” he assured.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmmm.” I groaned.
We shared a moment of silence. My father's confession didn't exactly
make me feel any better about the prospect of having to wear girl's
clothes whilst we're at my aunt's, but considering what Jonny had
told me at school, coupled with my Dad's disclosure... it could be a
whole lot worse. “So there's no getting out of it?” I sighed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm afraid not son.”
Dad replied, forcing a reassuring smile. “And if it's any
consolation, no one else need know.” he told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--The last day of term.-->I
spent the last two days of the school term pretending that I was
really looking forward to Christmas. My form teacher went around the
class asking each of us what we were doing on Christmas Day and in a
show of faux enthusiasm, I told him that we were spending the week
with my aunt in Donington. He presumed I meant Castle Donington near
the airport and said he used to go plane spotting there when he was
younger. I corrected him and said it was the village of Donington in
Lincolnshire. “Oh! Nice.” he replied, adding that it'd be cold if
the east wind blows, before asking the next pupil what they'd be
doing.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It seemed to make more
sense to not let on to the rest of the class that I was dreading the
trip because they'd only want to know why, although Jonny did
question my change of heart. I told him that I was looking forward to
it, but reiterated that it's just gonna be weird because my cousin is
a petticoatee, before asking him not to tell any one. “Nah course I
won't.” he said, before telling me that I couldn't visit him on the
twenty-ninth because he'll be visiting his extended family that
weekend, but could call round early in the new year since the new
term doesn't start until the seventh of January.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Cool.” I said.
“Only downside is you'll have had a week to get good at all your
new video games.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do your cousins have
a console?” he asked. They did, I told him, adding that they've got
a PS2 and a Wii but aren't allowed to play any shooting or fighting games
because my aunt is quite strict about that sort of thing. “My mum
doesn't want me playing any road racing games after what happened to
that boy I told you about... she reckons playing Burnout and Need for Speed led to his friends going joy riding.” Jonny told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's ridiculous...
she may as well say Lego Star Wars promotes gun crime, and that's age
three plus!” I retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know!” Jonny
concurred.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We parted company
wishing each other a happy Christmas and I continued home alone,
worrying what the next few days would bring. Mum's already told me
that she's taking me shopping tomorrow and I know it's gonna be girl
things I'll be getting, and the day after that we'll be driving over
to Donington, or more specifically Northorpe, a small hamlet close to
the village. “How was school love?” Mum asked when I returned
home.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I told her.
As usual she asked if I had any homework and I informed her that it
was the last day of term and therefore I didn't have any homework.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Course. Silly me.”
Mum said. “Soo no more school for two weeks!” she enthused.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And nothing but
girl's clothes next week.” I grumpily retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It won't be as bad
as you imagine.” Mum claimed. “Dad said he'd spoken to you about
it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” I
mournfully replied. “I can't believe he had to wear dresses too.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well it is quite
common... it's just not talked about very often.” Mum replied.
“What are you most worried about?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't know.
Everything.” I said. “What if someone from school sees me trying
on girl's shoes tomorrow?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well I thought about
that and figured if we drove over to Derby...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Someone might see me
there too!” I whined.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“If anything people
drive from Derby to Nottingham to go shopping. Not the other way
round.” Mum said. “The chances of anyone seeing you are next to
none, and it's not like I’m going to take you to Primark. It'll be
a proper shoe shop. A small one. There probably won't be anyone else
in there.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.” I mused.
“They won't have heels will they?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only little ones.”
Mum smiled. I gulped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hey Steve!” my
sister said as she entered the room.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hiya.” I
sheepishly replied. “You off to work?” I presumed since she wore
her navy blue nursing dress and thick black tights.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” she smiled.
“You looking forward to going to Auntie June's?” she chirped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not really.” I
muttered.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'll be fine.”
she told me. “Mum and I have already found you a few of my old
things... and none of it's too girlie.” she claimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“If it's just dresses
then they're already too girlie.” I glumly retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah but... you'd
prefer a plain dungaree dress to something flowery.” Anna replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah I guess.” I
replied. “But I'd prefer jeans.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You've got some
corduroy jeans.” Anna said. “They are a dusty pink colour but
it's not just dresses.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Lucky me.” I
moaned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well if you don't
want to wear them you don't have to.” Mum said. “There's some
nice shorts too.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“In December?!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“With warm woolly
tights.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Great.” I groaned.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Stephen.” Mum said
in her serious tone. “We've put an effort in to choose you a few
boyish things to wear. If you don't like them then it's just skirts
and dresses.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But I'll have to
wear those anyway.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We're going for six
days and you've got eight outfits which includes one pair of jeans
and one pair of dungarees...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Isn't there only
five?” my sister quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“From your wardrobe.”
Mum said. “I've got him a few things of his own.” she added.
Turning to me, my mother said I'd be unwrapping those on Christmas
morning so my cousin wouldn't be the only boy getting girlie gifts.
“...and I'd appreciate it if you at least pretended to be thankful.
They're just to wear whilst we're away then everything can go back to
normal.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Being previously
forewarned by my father about my girlie gifts, this didn't come as a
surprise to me. My sister however did seem surprised. “He'll be
getting some proper presents too though?” Anna asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course he will.”
Mum assured. “I'm not trying to ruin Christmas for you Stephen, I'm
just trying to ensure it's pleasant for everyone, particularly
Peter.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Surely it'd be
better if he wasn't petticoated whilst we're there.” I suggested.
“Then he could be a normal boy for the week instead me having to be
a girl.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Petticoated boys
aren't girls.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know but you know
what I mean.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I do... and I'm
sorry but it's not going to happen.” Mum told me. “Anyway I've
already bought you a couple of frocks and a nice skirt and blouse,
plus various other bits and bobs. If you don't wear them whilst we're
away you'll only have to wear them here.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't want to
dress like a girl here!”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Then you'll have to
wear them there.” my mother smugly retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My sister soon departed
for work and a couple of hours later, my dad returned home from his
long day shift. It's not often we all sit down to eat a meal together
and it being Friday, he brought a fish & chip supper home with
him. You can't beat a chippy tea sat on the sofa in front of the TV
and for a while I'd completely forgotten what was in store for me
until Mum casually told Dad that we were going shopping to Derby the
following morning. “Why Derby?” Dad quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Because Stephen
needs some footwear and he's worried that he might be seen by one of
his classmates if we go shoe shopping here.” Mum replied. “Plus
there's a shop in Ilkeston where I'll take him to get fitted for a
training bra, and it's on the way.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I felt myself blush as
my dad cast his empathetic eyes over me. “Be brave son. It was the
same for me when my grandmother took me shopping for my first dress.”
he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And at least I'm not
taking you dress shopping.” Mum told me. “You've got everything
you need in that department.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's one
consolation I suppose.” I muttered.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Saturday shopping-->Dad
had already left for work when I got up the next morning. I honestly
don't know how he does it. I find my 9am to 3pm school day long and
arduous but Dad works from 7am until 8pm. No wonder he's always
tired. Mum and I set off for Derby soon after breakfast and arrived
at around 9.30am. “I thought you said we weren't going Primark!”
I said as we walked toward the discount clothing store.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not for your shoes
but you need some nightwear and they've got a good selection of cheap
socks and tights.” Mum replied. “Don't worry... no one will know
they're for you.” she assured.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I have been shopping
with Mum before when she's picked up clothes for my sister and it
didn't bother me then, so I guess she's got a point. It's just
knowing she's shopping for girlie stuff for me that makes a big
difference. “Ooh these look nice and warm.” she said, looking at
a pack of thick white tights.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My cousin often wears
white tights and they seem so very girlie. “I'd prefer black ones.”
I quietly suggested.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Black would be nice
with the dungaree shorts Anna gave you.” Mum replied. “But white
are nice too.” she added. “As are these cream ones.” We
strolled along the selection and I felt so very self conscious being
a boy in the girl's department. But I wasn't the only one. Another
boy about my age was with his mother trying to choose a gift for (I
presume) his sister. Our eyes briefly met and quickly parted. “Oh
these are pretty.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Mum they're horrid!”
I quietly grimaced as she lifted a pair of white lace knee socks from
the rack with frilly lace around the cuffs. “You're not gonna buy
me them are you?” I discreetly protested.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just pretend they're
for your sister.” she softly suggested. “Unless you want to cause
a scene and everyone will know they're for you.” she added in an
equally hushed tone.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I gulped. I
soon found myself in the nightwear aisle where Mum chose me a pack of
three nighties and three pyjama sets. The nighties came in lilac,
pink and pale blue and the pyjamas were blue, pink and white. “I
don't want any pink ones.” I quietly gulped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know you don't but
two out of six isn't so bad.” Mum said. “And all the others are
either Barbie, ballerinas, unicorns or princesses.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I cast my eyes over the
options and seeing those, plus Peppa Pig, Dora the Explorer and other
unsavoury options, Mum had chosen the best of a bad bunch for me.
Eventually we joined the queue for the tills and Mum had in her
basket three packs of tights, a pair of lacy knee socks, a pack of
three nighties and three pairs of girl's pyjamas. “Oh those look
nice!” she said, seeing a pair of fleece ballerina style slippers
with bows on the toes. She gave me a look as she dropped them in the
basket. I gulped and said nothing, not wanting to cause a scene. We
must've queued for fifteen minutes before finally getting to a till.
The busy assistant didn't even look at at me as she quickly scanned
each item and placed them in a bag. “That wasn't so bad was it.”
Mum said as we left the busy store.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's easy for you
to say. You're not a boy being bought loads of girlie stuff.” I
grumpily replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Think yourself lucky
I didn't buy you a dress... because you'd have had to try it on
first.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">There is that. I
thought. Next we browsed lots of shoe shop windows in which Mum
pointed out the styles she was looking for; some black Mary Jane's
because they go with any dress and some rugged winter boots to wear
outdoors. “Those look nice and warm.” she said, pointing out some
brown suede ankle boots with a fleecy lining and a rugged sole. They
looked like boys boots, apart from the chunky heel which I reckoned
I'd never be able to walk in. “You'd be fine.” Mum insisted.
“They're only a couple of inches high.” she said. “But at
sixty-five pounds, its way more than I want to spend.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Three shoe shops later
and I found myself following my mother inside after looking at the
window display. They had a similar pair of boots for less than half
the price and after having my feet measured, I tried a pair on. The
lady didn't seem at all bothered that I was a boy trying on a pair of
girls boots, although she did warn me to be careful if I’ve not
worn a heel before. The boots fit and did feel cosy but the two inch
heels felt awkward and unwieldy. “You're doing well considering.”
the lady said as I tottered in front of a low slanted mirror.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Very well.” Mum
concurred. “See... I told you heels were nothing to worry about.”
she told me. “Can we try him in some of these next?” she said,
holding a shiny black shoe with a single strap and a silver buckle.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Pageboy shoes. Very
nice.” the assistant smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I thought they were
called Mary Jane's.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“These days we call
them Mary Jane's when they're for a girl and Pageboy shoes when
they're for a boy.” the assistant told me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Despite having laces,
the ankle boots have a zip on the side and came off in no time. The
assistant takes the patent leather 'pageboy' shoe from my mother, but
isn't sure if they have that style in my size. “Do you like these?”
Mum asked as she sat beside me and picked one if the boots up.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're OK I
suppose.” I mournfully replied. “For girls shoes.” I added. “I
don't like the other ones though.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well at least they
<i>are</i> boys shoes.” Mum replied. “What don't you like about
them?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're too shiny
and they're too girlie.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Auntie June says
there's no such thing as 'too girlie' when it comes to dressing a
boy.” Mum told me. “Oh... here she is.” she said, looking up
toward the approaching shop assistant.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm sorry... we
don't have them in a size five or six, but we do have these which are
very similar.” the assistant said as she opened one of three shoes
boxes she'd fetched.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They look better.”
I said, seeing that they're normal black leather and not super shiny
like the others. But on closer inspection the buckles are shaped like
a love heart and once removed, they have a T-strap instead of a
simple single strap. “What are the others like?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Same just in
different sizes.” the assistant replied. “Will he be wearing them
with tights?” she asked my mother.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum nodded. “Or knee
socks.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Right well you'll
need to try them with thinner socks.” the assistant said to me as
she knelt at my feet. She revealed a pair of thin white ankle socks.
I gulped because they're just the sort the girls wear at school;
knitted with a pattern of stripes and diamonds. “Put these on.”
she said, handing them to me. I pulled off my winter socks hesitantly
pulled on the girlie socks. The assistant unbuckled each shoe and
removed the lump of tissue from each toe. “So when's the big day?”
she asked as she placed the first shoe on my foot.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Big day?” Mum
quizzed.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're going to be a
pageboy aren't you?” the assistant assumed as she fastened the
buckle for me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I err...” I
bashfully replied, looking up at my mother.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're to wear with
his Sunday dress.” Mum told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh how nice.” the
assistant smiled as she fastened the other shoe. “Now be careful
when you stand. These heels aren't quite as chunky as the others.”
she advised.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I could scarcely
believe how girlie my feet looked in a pair of white pelerine socks
and black T-strap shoes. Both the assistant and my mother said they
were a perfect fit, before asking me if they felt OK. “They're a
bit wobbly.” I said as I took a few steps this way and that.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only because you're
not used to heels.” Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You just need
practice.” the assistant said, before asking Mum if she wanted both
pairs of shoes. Mum said she did and asked if I could wear the ankle
boots now. “Of course.” the assistant replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But... I don't want
to wear them now.” I timidly told them. “I'm not used to heels.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You will be after
half an hour.” Mum said. “All you need is a little bit of
practice.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Your Mum's right.”
the lady said as I sat myself down. As she unbuckled my shoes, she
told me that the socks were complimentary and Mum said that I may as
well keep them on as she put my trainers and woolly socks in the box
the boots came in. I pushed my pelerine feet into my new ankle boots
and pulled up the zips.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The lady had repacked
my pageboy shoes and she and Mum waited for me to stand before we
headed to the counter. The total came to sixty-three pounds and
ninety-nine pence and as we left the shoe shop, I said to my mother
that she's spending an awful lot of money for just one week. “Needs
must.” was my mother's reply. “Right... where next?” she mused.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't know.” I
murmured. “I only need a bra now don't I?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's a <i>training</i>
bra Stephen.” she stated. “That's quite different to a proper
one.” she told me. “Is there anywhere you want to go?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not really.” I
said. “Home?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How about we have a
stroll around the shopping centre because it'll be nice and warm in
there, grab a steak slice from Greggs then head back to the car?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I said. We
only walked for ten minutes before the big shopping centre came into
view, but wearing shoes I wasn't used to I felt like I'd walked much
further. I told mum that they were hard to walk in but she said I was
doing well and should stick at it. We were hit with a blast of very
warm air as we entered the shopping centre, which was a huge contrast
with the icy air outside. The halls are decked with lavish
decorations and Christmas carols play quietly over the Tannoy. It's
busy. Very busy and without even thinking I take hold of my mother's
hand. She asked if I was OK. “Yeah. I just don't want to get
separated from you.” I replied. From my other hand hung the Primark
bag in which is nothing but girls clothes and if I did get lost and
had to get help from one of the officials, they no doubt look in my
bag and wonder why a boy who's wearing girls shoes has nothing but
girls tights and nightwear, so I stuck as close as I could to my
mother.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">All the shops in the
centre are the very same chains we have in Nottingham so Mum didn't
feel any need to browse beyond the shop windows. British Home Stores
has in one of its many broad windows a display of eight or ten child
mannequins. Boys in jeans and winter jackets and girls wearing
festive outfits; red and green velvet frocks or tartan dresses with
white trim and warm woolly tights. “I know you'll say they're
horrible but I do love those Christmas dresses.” she said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm not getting one
for Christmas am I?” I feared.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm saying nothing.
I don't want to spoil the surprise.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I am aren't I.” I
huffed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well like I said
yesterday, it wouldn't be fair on Peter if he was the only boy
getting lots of girl things.” Mum replied. “But I think it's only
fair to forewarn you.” she added, squeezing my hand.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's gonna be so
embarrassing.” I grumbled. “What am I gonna tell my friends when
they ask what I got for Christmas?” I mused. “<i>Oh, a tartan
dress and some sparkly tights. What did you get?</i>” I mimicked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's not a tartan
one.” Mum replied. “And you don't have to tell them.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know... it's just
gonna be weird when they ask.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well if nothing else
it'll be a Christmas to remember.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You can say that
again.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We called into Greggs
and got a couple of steak slices then headed back to the car park. We
ate whilst the car warmed up and before setting off, Mum told me she
was very proud of me. “What for?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“For taking this in
your stride.” she said. “You could have kicked up a fuss when I
bought you those tights and lacy socks, but you didn't.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I was too mortified.
Especially when you dropped those socks in the basket. I won't have
to wear them will I?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course you will.”
she said. “I wouldn't have bought them otherwise, and I know
exactly which dress you'll wear them with.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's it like?” I
grumbled in my most apathetic tone.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's blue, and it's
very pretty, and I know you'll hate it... but every dress you wear
after that won't seem so bad.” she said, adding that I'll be
wearing it tomorrow.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“When we get there?”
I feared.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Before we set off.”
she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh no Mum!” I
whined. “At least let me dress like a boy for the journey and I'll
dress like a girl once we're there.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I think it'll be
best if you don't take <i>any</i> boy's clothes.” Mum replied.
“Otherwise you'll only be wanting to wear them instead of your girl
clothes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I gulped and almost
promised that I wouldn't, but knowing just how empty such a promise
would be, I thought better of it. “But what if one of the
neighbours sees me getting in the car?” I supposed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They'd have to be
stood halfway up the drive.” Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They might just be
passing by.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll make sure the
coast is clear.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But what about when
we're driving down the road?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll drive really
fast.” Mum jovially told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What of we have a
crash?” I imagined. Mum just chuckled and told me that I have a
vivid imagination before starting the engine.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The drive to Ilkeston
takes around twenty minutes and Mum pulls up outside an old
industrial warehouse that not in the town centre. Above the door is a
sign saying <i>Intimate Undergarments Ltd</i> and on the door is
another sign stating 'by appointment only'.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Bra fitting-->Mum
pulls out her phone and scrolls through her contact list before
putting to her ear. “Hello... is that Barbara? It's April Johnson, I
have an appointment for my son Stephen... yes... we're outside now.
OK... see you in a tick!” Mum unbuckled her seatbelt and I did the
same. Just as I got out of the car, the door opened and an attractive
young woman appeared and introduced herself as Barbara. “Am I OK
parked there.” Mum asked.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes you'll be fine.”
Barbara smiled. “You must be Stephen?” she said to me.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” I shyly
said as she held the door open. We stepped inside and she led us up a
staircase to room full of partial mannequins displaying bras,
panties, suspender belts, corsets, teddies and shapewear in all sorts
of styles and colours. It's chilly and she apologises for that.
“These old warehouses don't have the best insulation.” Barbara
told us. “But the fitting room is nice and warm.” she said,
opening the door to a smaller back room. “Have you had a bra
fitting before?” she asked me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... no.” I
sheepishly said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well its nothing to
worry about. Just take your top off and I'll measure your chest and
shoulder arch.” she told me. I gulped and glanced at my Mum. She
smiled and nodded and I removed my jacket, jumper and T-shirt,
although not with much haste.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Meanwhile, the lady
handed my mum a clothing catalogue to browse through whilst I'm
having my fitting. “We keep most styles, colours and sizes in stock
and embroidery is free if you buy three or more panty and vest sets.”
she said as Mum leafed through the pages.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Wonderful.” Mum
said. “We're looking at six sets so I'll certainly take you up on
that.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Barbara returned her
attention to me and slung an elastic band around my chest which had a
Velcro fastening and adjusted its height, making sure it was straight
all the way around. Then she slung a tape measure around that and
noted the measurement. Next she measured the arch of my shoulder
from front to back and noted that down before finally taking my waist
measurement.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Is that it?” I
asked as she removed the band around my chest.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not quite.”
Barbara said. “That's just your measurements. When your Mum's
chosen some styles we'll get you one fitted.” she told me. I
gulped. “How you getting on?” Barbara asked my mother.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're all so
lovely.” Mum replied. “Do you want to see?” she asked me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not really.” I
murmured as I joined her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I get the feeling
you're not keen on having a training bra?” Barbara said.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I shook my head and
looked at the page Mum had open which featured six different styles
on each page. I felt sorry for the boy who had to model the bras,
although his face wasn't in shot; just his chest and shoulders.
“That's not so bad.” I said, pointing to the plainest style.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I like these.” Mum
replied, pointing to another.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're too lacy!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you'll be
getting quite a few so you can have some plain ones and at least a
couple of pretty ones.” Mum told me as she turned the page to
reveal a page full of boy's knickers. I feigned a vomit as I saw the
high waisted garments with lace trim and varying amounts of frill.
There's white and pink and blue and lilac and various colour
combinations. Once again I sought out the plainest style and Mum
pointed out some really pretty ones. On the opposite page are the
matching vests which like the knickers come in various styles and
colours ranging from fairly bad to absolutely horrible.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Which do you like?”
Barbara asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“None of them.” I
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I was asking your
mother.” Barbara replied with a chuckle. Mum chuckled too.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">She leafed back to the
previous page and tapped on the bra that I said wasn't so bad. “Well
we'll get him a pack of plain ones.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Academette.”
Barbara said, that being the name of the style.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Mum said.
“With the pastel trim.” she added as she leafed forward a page.
“And the same knickers and vests.” she said, naming the style
'academette' for clarity. “Also with pastel trim.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And do you want the
vests embroidered on the chest or hip?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... hip I think.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Embroidered with
what?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Your name.” Mum
said. I didn't want my name embroidered on such an obvious girlie
vest but I knew my mother had made her mind up and having overheard
that the embroidery service is free, I knew she'd already made her
mind up. “Can I have a minute to choose him some nicer ones?” Mum
asked Barbara.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course.”
Barbara said. “I'll get him fitted whilst you're making your mind
up.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Barbara began rummaging
through the innumerable sets of shelving that flanked the fitting
room which left me at a momentary loose end. Mum resumed browsing the
range of boys knickers and training bras and sheepishly I requested
that she doesn't choose me any girlie ones. “Boy's knickers that
aren't girlie are called underpants... and you've got loads of
those.” she replied. “The academette range isn't too girlie but
they're not necessarily pretty either. You'll be wearing a really
pretty dress tomorrow so you need something equally pretty to wear
under it, and you've got another pretty outfit too so you need
something really nice to wear with that.” she explained.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can I borrow you
please Stephen?” Barbara asked as she fetched a small bundle of
cellophane wrapped items. She placed them on a table and separated
the three packs. <i>Boys Academette Panties</i>, stated the label on
one. <i>Boys Academette Vests</i> said the next, and finally <i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Boys
Academette Training Bras</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">
on the third, All the garment within are white but the narrow lacy
trim is in various pastel colours, being blue, lilac, green and pink.
She opened the pack of bras and removed the one with pale blue trim
and a small blue bow stitched between the 'cups'. “I'll just get it
fitted.” she said, unfastening it. “Then I'll show you how to
fasten it yourself.” she added. “Arms please.” she smiled,
holding it from its shoulder straps.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Timidly
I raised my arms and she slid it on, stepped behind me and fastened
it. Barbara drew my attention to the adjustable straps which have a
slider on the front which means I can adjust it myself and
demonstrated how. Then she drew my attention to a mirror which I
hadn't previously noticed and my jaw dropped seeing myself wearing a
bra. “Now you need to make sure the chest band is straight all the
way around and not to high or low on your torso before adjusting the
straps.” She explained. “If you find the straps drop off your
shoulders, they'll need shortening... but you don't want them digging
either.” she told me. “If that happens then make them a little
longer until it's comfortable.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.”
I meekly said, feeling more than a little mortified. I glanced at my
mother who smiled as she watched.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
gulped as Barbara unfastened my bra, and proceeded to show me how to
fasten it myself. “Now there's one pair of hooks and three pairs of
loops and you want to use the first set of loops only.” she told
me. “Over time it'll stretch which is when you'll start using the
second set of loops.” she added, before showing me how to hold each
side of the clasp, and how to reach behind my back to fasten them.
“That's perfect.” Barbara said, before prompting me to unfasten
it the same way, and fasten it again. “Excellent.” she smiled.
“You can put you T-shirt on now.” she told me, handing it to me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do
I have to keep it on?” I gulped. Barbara smiled and nodded.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
may as well love.” Mum said as she stood. “It'll get you used to
wearing it.” she told me. “Can he also have this one in blue, and
this one in peach... both with the matching knickers.” she said to
Barbara.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<span style="font-weight: normal;">Oh
those are lovely.” Barbara said, looking at the catalogue and
stating the styles; </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Lulabelle</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">
and </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Sophia</span></i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I pulled on my T-shirt and Barbara returned to the numerous shelves.
Mum smiled at me and I could sense her pride whilst all I felt was a
deep sense of humility. The undergarments Barbara fetched hung from a
plastic hanger that held both the knickers and training bra. “Oh
not pink!” I grimaced.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's peach.” Mum told me as Barbara laid them on the table. The
fact one set looked pink wasn't what was really wrong with these sets
of underwear... it was all the frilly lace! The pale blue set has
ruffled white lace around the leg holes and waist, plus white lace
trim around the bra. and the peach set has a white lacy panel
covering most of the front of the knickers and more covering the
cups!</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It looks like pink to me.” I moaned.
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll show you the pink set if you like.” Barbara said to me.
“This is definitely peach.” she said. I decided to take their
word for it. Knowing my luck, Mum would only choose the proper pink
set if they were put side by side and whilst peach does look like
pink to me, there are worse shades of pink. “Right.. just to double
check, it's Stephen with a PH and not a V?” Barbara asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You may as well both take a seat.” Barbara said. “I'll be
about twenty minutes with these.” she told us.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum and I sat on the sofa. She handed me the underwear catalogue and
asked if I wanted to have a look. I shook my head. Barbara sat at a
sewing machine in the corner. “I can't believe I'm wearing girls
shoes and a bra.” I grumbled.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's just a training bra.” Mum told me. “Made especially for
boys.” she added. “You'll get used to it in no time... and then
you won't have to wear them again.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Until the next time
we visit Auntie June.” I glumly retorted as the noisy sound of the
sewing machine filled the room.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>BRUGGADUGGADUGGA …
BRUGGADUGGADERRRR … BRUGGADUGGADUGGA ... BRUGGADUGGERRR …
BRUGGADUGGADUGGA … BRUGGADUGGADUGGA … BRUGGADUGGADERRRR ...
BRUGGADUGGERRR</i></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The sound stopped and
Barbara stood. “I'll show you the first one.” she said, holding
up one of the <i>Academette </i>vests with my name embroidered on the
lower left corner in ornate italics. Mum said it was perfect whilst
all I could do was gulp, although I might have nodded slightly too.
Barbara sat and the repetitive yet irregular sound of the machine
resumed. On and on it went until eventually it stopped. “Right
that's everything.” Barbara chirped, showing us my embroidered
undergarments.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's on my knickers
too!” I gasped, seeing my name embroidered on the front-left of
every item apart from my bras.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So you don't get
yours mixed up with Peters.” my mother told me as Barbara placed my
undergarments in a large boxy paper bag. “What's the damage.” Mum
said as she approached holding her debit card. Barbara totted up the
bill on a calculator and turned it toward my mother. “Perfect.”
Mum said and promptly paid. Barbara escorted us down the the front
door and pleasantly bid us farewell. I gulped and meekly said thanks
and bye before heading to Mum's car. “That wasn't so bad was it?”
Mum said as I fastened my seat belt.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It was horrific.”
I whined. “I can't believe you got my name put on all my knickers.”
I said. “In fact I can't believe I’m saying 'my' knickers.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum just smiled and
started the engine. “I'll leave it up to you if you want to show
them to Dad or not.” she said as she released the handbrake. “It's
your underwear and it's no one else's business.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How much did it all
cost?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nether you mind.”
Mum replied. “It's a gift so you shouldn't be asking.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Some gift.” I
silently said to no one but myself.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The drive back to
Nottingham should have taken no more than fifteen minutes but we got
stick in the cross town traffic and it looked like we'd never get
through the city centre. As we sat in standing traffic, Mum suggested
wrapping up the pyjamas and some of the tights she'd bought me so I
could unwrap them on Christmas morning. “Why?” I replied. “I've
already seen them.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know but you can
pretend you haven't.” Mum said. “And I presume you'd rather
unwrap a pack of PJs than a pack of nighties.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But then I’d have
to wear a nightie on Sunday night <u>and</u> Christmas eve.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“True.” Mum
replied. “Would you rather unwrap your nighties on Christmas day?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not really.” I
figured. “Can I take my bra off when we get home?” I asked.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only if you want to
try a different one on.” Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There's no point
taking it off if have to put a different one on.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum turned and smiled
at me. “Exactly.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why do they even
make bras for boys anyway?” I mused.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Training bras.”
Mum corrected. “It's the same reason they make knickers for boys.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And why's that?”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“To wear when they
wear girlie clothes.” she told me. “Flowerboys and pageboys both
wear training bras and frilly knickers, and boys can be bridesmaids
too nowadays.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Really?” I
quizzed. Mum nodded. “Pageboys don't even wear dresses.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No but they do wear
very girlie outfits these days.” she replied. “Then there's boys
like Peter who've been petticoated, and all the boys who go to mixed
girls' schools.” she added.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's a <i>mixed</i>
girls' school?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It a girls' school
that allows boys to enrol, but the boy have to wear the same uniform
as the girls.” she explained. “I think your plain knickers and
training bras are for those schoolboys.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How come?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Academy means school
and those undies are called <i>Academette</i>.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I mean... how
come the boys have to wear the girls uniform?” I replied.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Because it's a
girls' school.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And did they get
expelled from a normal school or something?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not necessarily...
but I guess that has happened. Why?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... Jonny was
telling me that someone his mum knows had to send her son to a
boarding school where all the boys are petticoated after stealing a
car.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh.” mum replied.
“Did you tell Jonny that you were going to be petticoated whilst
we're at Auntie June's?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No way!” I
exclaimed. “But I told him ages ago that I have a petticoated
cousin and Jonny figured that Peter must've got in trouble for
something.” I explained. “I told him it was just coz his dad
left.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh I see.” Mum
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“If you and Dad split
up would you petticoat me?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Me and Dad aren't
going to split up.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know but...
hypothetically.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Ooh... that's a big
word.” Mum cooed. “Hypothetically... probably not.” she said.
“The difference between you and Peter is he lives in a small
village in the middle of the Fens where there's nothing for the
teenagers to do and more often than not they get up to no good.”
she told me, citing under age drinking, smoking weed, vandalism and
joy riding as examples. “Petticoating gives him a routine in which
he can use his free time constructively rather than just being bored
out of his mind all the time and getting in with the wrong crowd.”
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So it's not because
his dad left?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's a combination
of things.” Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.” I responded.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Eventually we got
through the heavy traffic and finally returned home. Both my dad and
big sister were at work and Mum wasted no time having a proper look
at my new underwear. “You're not going to wrap any of those up as
Christmas presents are you?” I hesitantly asked. It's one thing
unwrapping a pack of girl's pyjamas on Christmas morning and
pretending I like them, but unwrapping a pair of frilly knickers and
a training bra in front of my aunt and cousins would be too
embarrassing.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Thankfully Mum said she
wasn't as she unboxed my Mary Jane shoes. “Do you want to wear
these for a while?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Now?” I gulped.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you'll be
wearing them tomorrow and you did say they felt a bit wobbly in the
shop.” she replied, “So maybe it's worth spending and hour or so
getting used to them.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I conceded.
She'd only talk me round if I said I didn't want to.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I do think those
socks are nice.” Mum said as I removed my new ankle boots.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'd forgotten I was
wearing them.” I replied as I wiggled my toes. Mum asked if I
thought they were nice. “Too nice.” I glumly replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you can't deny
that they're perfect with those shoes.” Mum said as I pushed my
feet into my new Mary Jane's.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well course they
are.” I dryly replied. “Girlie socks will be perfect with girlie
shoes.” I sighed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We both know they're
just as much boy's shoes as they are girls.” Mum reminded me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're still girlie
though.” I muttered as I fastened the straps. “They've even got
heart shaped buckles.” I said. I made sure the T-bars were centred
and put my feet together. “They don't exactly go with these jeans.”
I noted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you'll have to
wait until tomorrow before you can wear them with a dress.” Mum
told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's not what I
meant Mum.” I defensively replied. Mum just grinned and filled the
kettle. Then she suggested I put my new 'things' back in the bag and
take them up to my room. “I don't want to touch them.” I
grimaced, although I wasn't being entirely serious.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'll be wearing
them everyday next week.” Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not through choice.”
I grumbled as I picked up the array of panties and bras and vests and
placed them in the bag.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Careful on the
stairs.” Mum said as I left. I was careful and couldn't take my
eyes of my feet. I tried to decide which was more girlie; the black
T-bar shoes or white pelerine ankle socks. I recalled what the lady
in the shoe shop said about them, saying that they're called <span style="font-style: normal;">Mary
Jane's</span> when they're for girls and <span style="font-style: normal;">Pageboy</span>
shoes when they're for boys. It was news to me but I can't deny that
my new girlie shoes are in fact boy's shoes... and my new ankle boots
which look far more boyish are without a doubt a pair of girls boots.
I took care descending the stairs and joined Mum watching TV in the
lounge. She asked if I was hungry since we'd only had a steak slice
since breakfast and I ended up making both of us a pot-noodle each.
After an hour or so she asked if I was getting accustomed to my new
shoes and I figured I was. “Do you reckon many boys have shoes like
this?” I wondered as I peered at my feet.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well the lady in the
shop did say they're called pageboy shoes when they're for boys, so I
suppose so.” Mum replied. “I've always known them as Mary Jane's.
You learn something new everyday.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Another hour passed and
I asked if I could take my shoes off. “Go on then.” she told me.
“But will you keep your bra on 'til bedtime.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why?” I wined.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“To help you get
accustomed to wearing one.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But I've had it on
all afternoon. I'm already accustomed to it.” I sighed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Then you won't mind
wearing it for the rest of the evening.” Mum told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Eventually my dad and
sister came home from their shifts at the hospital, albeit at
different times. I feared they somehow knew I was wearing a bra
beneath my jumper, but how could they? Mum did suggest I showed them
my new boots so I put them on for a short while. Anna said I was a
natural in heels despite me stating that I found them a bit awkward.
Dad said he was proud of me and apologised for us not being able to
spend this Christmas as a proper family, but hoped I have a nice time
with my cousins despite the circumstances. “Were you making it up
to make me feel better when you said your granny used to make you
wear dresses?” I asked him.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He assured me he wasn't
and said there's some photographs somewhere, possibly in a box in his
mother's attic. “I'll see if I can dig them out next time we're
over there... so long as you promise not to laugh.” Dad said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Are you gonna be
here tomorrow when we go?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I'll be away
early.” he told me. “Why?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Coz I was hoping I
wouldn't have to wear a dress 'til we got there but Mum wants me to
wear one for the journey...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And you don't want
me seeing you dressed as a girl?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... if you were
gonna be here... I was gonna make you promise not to laugh.” I told
him.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well I can empathise
with that.” Dad said. “Mum says she's got quite a number lined up
for you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Have you seen it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's one of your
sister's old ones.” he told me. “You're going to hate it... but
whatever you wear after that won't seem so bad in comparison.”</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><a href="https://forcedfeminisationstories.blogspot.com/2023/01/a-christmas-to-remember-part-two.html">Read part two here</a></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p>PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-57547580916768890922022-04-10T01:12:00.000-07:002022-04-10T01:12:11.117-07:00The Runaway<p>Fleeing his horrible stepmother to spend time with his real mother, William attempts to hitch-hike all the way to Gallopton in Hopshire; a journey more than three-hundred and fifty miles from his home overlooking the Solway in Cumberland. Navigating with a road atlas stolen from the grounds keeper's car and sticking mostly to back roads, it takes almost all day to travel no more than 50 miles. It's mid-summer and the nights are short and warm so he camps out in a barn and continues his journey early the following morning. He walks for hours fuelling himself with the last of the food he purchased the previous day; that being two small sausage rolls, a chocolate bar and a can of cola. He is eventually picked-up at around 8.30am by a friendly woman in a clapped out old car. “Where are you going young man?” she asked. </p><p>“Erm... Hefferton.” he replied. </p><p>“I'm going as far as Oakford if that's any use?”</p><p>“Yeah I guess.” he replied. </p><p>“Well jump in then.” she said. “My name's Vicky.” she told him. </p><p>“Hello... I'm, err... Andrew.” he told her.</p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p>“So what's in Hefferton?” she asked. </p><p>“Erm... my err uncle.”</p><p>“I see.... and why isn't your Mum or Dad driving you?”</p><p>“My Dad's away with work and my step-mum's horrible. She won't let me do anything.”</p><p>“Does she know you're visiting your uncle?”</p><p>“Yes... but she didn't want me to and wouldn't give me the bus fare, saying I could walk if I was so desperate to see him.”</p><p>“I see.” she replied. “Well I'm just dropping a bag of old clothes of at the charity shop in Oakford... but I suppose I could take you all the way to Hefferton.” she offered. He thanked her. “Where've you travelled from?” she asked. He hesitates and stammers as he concocts a reply. She doesn't believe him but plays along, hoping to somehow get to the truth as to where he's from and where he's going. At half past the hour, a news report about a missing boy comes over the radio and describes a twelve year old boy; William Jackson from Solfirth, shoulder length blond hair, quite thin, possibly wearing a green jacket and blue jeans. “That's you isn't it.” she says. </p><p>“No.” he claimed, pulling his beanie hat over his ears and claiming he has brown hair. </p><p>“Green jacket... check” she says. “Blue jeans... check.” she says, and removing the beanie hat from his head to reveal his shoulder length blond hair, she says. “Blond hair... check.” </p><p>William skewed his jaw. “Please don't dob me in.”</p><p>“Are you running away from home?” she asked. He nodded. “Why?” she asked. He tells her about his horrible stepmother, and his awesome dad who's away on business all the time... and the mother he misses so much. “It's quite unusual for a child to be placed with the father rather than the mother.” the woman notes.</p><p>“Mum was sick when they separated... she had a breakdown... but she's better now. We talk on the phone but I just want to see her... but Beverly [the stepmother] won't let me.”</p><p>“And what about your dad?”</p><p>“He'd like me to visit her but he's way on business for weeks on end and Beverly's got him right under her thumb... so it's not happened yet.”</p><p>“So it's your Mum that lives in Hefferton, not your uncle?”</p><p>“No.” he confessed. “No one lives in Hefferton... but the M1 passes by and I can hitch down to Gallopton.”</p><p>“Gallopton?” Vicky quizzed. “In Hopshire?” she asked. He nodded. “That's an awful long way.”</p><p>“I know... but please don't call the police... I just want to see my Mum.”</p><p>“But the police are looking for you.”</p><p>“I know... and they'll send me back to Beverly.” he sighed.</p><p>“Is she really so bad?” she asked. “Does she hurt you?”</p><p>“She doesn't hit me if that's what you're asking... but she's so strict, especially when Dad's away. She won't let me play out with my friends, and won't let them in the house, and doesn't like me watching TV or making a noise...” he sighed. “...I just have to sit and read or do jigsaws... anything that doesn't disturb her in any way.”</p><p>“But she is your guardian.”</p><p>“I know but... I want to see my Mum... even if it's just for a day... an hour even!” he pleaded. “Can you help me?”</p><p>“I wish I could but this old banger will never get us all the way to Hopshire... and now I know you're planning on hitch-hiking down the M1, there's no way I'm going to just drop you off in Hefferton.”</p><p>“So you're gonna turn me in?”</p><p>“I want to help you, I really do but I don't know how I can.”</p><p>“I suppose I could get the train... I didn't have enough for a ticket from Solfirth. Is there a station at Hefferton?”</p><p>“No but there's one at Oakford... but I'm not sure about letting you go all that way on a train on your own either.” she told him.</p><p>“...and the police will be looking for me at the train stations.” he frowned. “Why are we stopping?” he asked as she pulled into a lay-by.</p><p>“I've got an idea... but you won't like it.” she said, reaching over to the back seat and pulling a bag onto her lap.</p><p>“What idea?”</p><p>“Well... I suppose I could take you on the train to see your Mum...”</p><p>“Really?!”</p><p>“Yes... but since the police are looking for a blonde haired boy in a green jacket and blue jeans.” she explained. “What they're not looking for is a blonde haired girl... and I just happen to have two charity bags full of girls clothes.” she said, opening one of the bags to reveal some clearly girlie garments.</p><p>William gulped. “Are they your daughter's?” he nervously said, not knowing what else to say.</p><p>“No.” Vicky smiled. “The girl who lives next door to me. She's little bit younger than you but, at a guess, you'll be about the same size as her.”</p><p>“But... I don't look anything like a girl.” he claimed. </p><p>“With the right clothes and touch of make-up... I think you could look very much like a girl.” she said. “It's the only way I can think of that we could get you to see your mother without being detected.”</p><p>William sighed. “But...” he huffed. “I've never dressed like a girl before.”</p><p>“Most boys haven't.” she replied. “Think of it as going undercover... like a spy or...”</p><p>“I'm too young to be a spy.” he retorted. </p><p>“I know... but we're pretending.” she smiled. “Maybe a gang of thugs is planning on kidnapping you to get a ransom off your rich father... but the only way to evade them is by dressing like a girl.”</p><p>“But my dad's on the other side of the world.” William replied. “And I don't want to dress like a girl.”</p><p>“Why not? Because girls are feeble?”</p><p>“No they're not!” William retorted. “All the girls I know can do anything a boy can do, and Lauren Baxter is one of the best footballers in the whole school.”</p><p>“Oh.” she exclaimed. “When I was your age the boys never held us girls in such high esteem... or any esteem at all for that matter. They just thought we either looked pretty or didn't.”</p><p>“They can look pretty... but they can be other things too.” he said. “Athletes, scientists, engineers, doctors, teachers, builders, plumbers...”</p><p>“Yes, yes you're right.” she smiled. “Oh my how times have changed.” she said. “When I was your age we were dissuaded from having any ambition beyond learning to type and cook.”</p><p>“That sounds like the nineteen-fifties! You're not that old.” William retorted. </p><p>“It was the nineteen-eighties.” she told him. </p><p>“What do you do?” he asked. “...for work?”</p><p>“I have a small holding.” she told him. “Sheep, goats, hens, a few vegetable crops.” she said. “It doesn't earn much but I get by.”</p><p>“So you're a farmer?”</p><p>“Not quite but near enough.”</p><p>“What did you want to be when you were my age?”</p><p>“Oh I don't know. Just happy I suppose.” she told him.</p><p>“Hmm.” he responded. “So... do I really have to dress like a girl?”</p><p>“Have you got any better ideas?” she asked. William didn't reply but he was clearly racking his brain, desperately trying to think of something. Vicky let him think for a moment before reminding him that all they got is a couple of bags full of girls clothes, “...we don't have a lot of options.”</p><p>“We could cut my hair short and dye it brown.” he enthused.</p><p>“I could cut your hair but I can't dye it in the back of a car, and you'd still need different clothes.”</p><p>“I've got some money. I could buy some from the charity shop you're taking those to.” William suggested. “But if the people in there have listened to the radio... we'd be rumbled.” he figured. </p><p>“What would you do if you were me?” he asked. “...if dressing like a girl is the last thing you want to do, but also your only option.”</p><p>“If I were you? I honestly don't know because I'm not a boy.” Vicky replied. “But what I do know is that in helping you I could be doing the most stupid thing I've ever done. I could get arrested.” she told him. “But all you want to do is see your mother... and I can't deny you that.” she said. “....and the only way we can get you from here to Gallopton without anyone recognising you is...” she paused</p><p>“Yeah I know.” he mournfully said. “I don't mind.... it'll be worth it so long as I get to see Mum.”</p><p>“OK... let's see what we've got.” she said. </p><p>“I don't want to wear anything pink.” he insisted as she removed several pink items.</p><p>“What part of 'disguised as a girl' do you not understand?” she asked him. “Why don't you climb in the back and rummage through the other bag.” she suggested.</p><p>“I can't believe I'm agreeing to this.” he said as he squished himself between the seats to the back of the car. </p><p>“I can't believe I suggested it... I could be charged with kidnapping.”</p><p>“It's not kidnapping if I'm willing to go with you.” he replied. “If anything I'm taking you with me.”</p><p>“Will you tell that to the police when they arrest me?”</p><p>“You won't get arrested.”</p><p>“I hope not.” she said. “How about this?” she said, holding up a stripy dress with narrow purple, lilac and blue striped running across the cotton fabric.</p><p>William turned his nose up at it. “There's some jeans in this bag.” he said. </p><p>“You're already wearing jeans.” she replied. “A different pair isn't much of a disguise.” she said. “You need a skirt or a dress.”</p><p>“But girls don't always wear dresses.” he whined. </p><p>“Well unless you find a really girlie pair of pants or shorts... you'll have to wear a dress.”</p><p>After much rummaging through both bags, lots of discussion and plenty of rejections, William was eventually convinced that in order to become a convincing 'girl', then he needs to wear something girlie. He ended up wearing a mid blue dress with bright red cherries printed on it. It has short puffed sleeves and a round white collar. Over this he wears a pale pink knitted cardigan with a single button at its plain neck. On his feet is a pair of old blue dolly shoes with a single strap across the instep, and his legs are clad in thin pink tights with a peppering of tiny butterflies in the knit. Also in the charity bags was some girl's knick-knacks; plastic bedroom ornaments, a few small trinket boxes, a baby pink backpack and a glittery handbag. In one of the trinket boxes is a selection of hair clips, bobbles and slides, some of white end up in William's hair. “Oh not make-up too!” he whined when Vicky opened her handbag and removed a small make-up bag. </p><p>“Girls your age love wearing make-up.” she told him. “This is an essential part of your disguise.” she told him, removing several items. Five minutes later, Vicky drops the sun visor to reveal the vanity mirror and his reflection.</p><p>“I look like a girl!” William exclaimed.</p><p>“A pretty one too.” she said. “Although I'm not sure about your hair... it looks a bit... overdone.” she commented. William rolled his eyes upward to the fringe he couldn't see. The fringe that's held off his forehead with a couple of sparkly hair slides. He couldn't disagree. Two bunches, two bobbles and two slides does feel like an awful lot in his formerly loose hanging hair. “It'll have to do I suppose.” she said. “Shall we see if we can get a train down to your Mum's?”</p><p>“Yeah.” he sighed. </p><p>“Are you sure? You don't sound so keen all of a sudden.”</p><p>“Well... I am dressed as a girl... all of a sudden.” he frowned.</p><p>“And I don't think anybody will suspect you're really a boy.” she told him. </p><p>“How long will it take to get to the train station?”</p><p>“About ten minutes.” she told him. “But it might be an hour or two before the next train heading to the south east.”</p><p>“What if there's police on the platform?”</p><p>“Don't worry about that. They're looking for a boy and you're a girl... and if anyone asks, I'm your aunt and your my niece.”</p><p>“But what's my name?”</p><p>“I don't know. Think of one.” she suggested. “Maybe the name of a girl you like at school? Who's the one that's really good at football?”</p><p>“Lauren?”</p><p>“That's a nice name.” she said. “Shall we call you that?”</p><p>“I don't know.” he mournfully relied. “I don't feel like a 'Lauren'.” she said. “She's much sportier than I am.”</p><p>“I always liked names like Sally and Alice... proper girlie names.”</p><p>“How about Lucy?” he suggested. </p><p>“I think that would be lovely.” she said. “Is that another girl at school?”</p><p>William nodded. “She's quite quiet, and really good at maths.”</p><p>“Just don't forget and tell me your name's not Lucy... OK!”</p><p>“I'll try.”</p><p>“Good girl.” she smiled.</p><p>“This is going to be so weird.”</p><p>“Well I think you're doing very well so far... Lucy.” she smiled. “Does it feel nice, wearing a dress?”</p><p>“I dunno.” he shrugged. “These tights feel odd. I don't think I've ever worn anything so thin before.”</p><p>“Probably not... and they make them even thinner than those.” she told him. “Now... if anyone asks, you're my niece and I’m your aunt and we're going to London for a few days to visit the Natural History Museum.”</p><p>“Why not just say we're going to Gallopton?”</p><p>“Because the police might know that you might be heading there, and if we say we're heading there, they might give us a second glance.” she explained. “We'll get two tickets to London and once we're in London, we'll get the train or bus to Gallopton... whichever's soonest.” she suggested.</p><p>Before long they pulled into the train station car park at Oakford. It's a small town so its station is also very small. 'Lucy' accompanies Vicky to the ticket office where she's told that the next train to King's Cross arrives in an hour and twenty minutes. She purchases two tickets, costing over £150.00; far more than she expected to pay. “That's why I had to hitch hike.” William told her as they returned to the car, offering her the forty pounds in cash that he has. </p><p>“No you keep that Lucy... it's me that got you involved in this crazy endeavour.” she replied, smiling nervously.</p><p>“Not really.” William replied. “You were only going to the charity shop.” he reminded her. </p><p>“Yes.” she smiled. “But your disguise was my idea.” she replied. “I suppose we should get some lunch.... and get these bags packed up and taken to the charity shop.”</p><p>“OK... but lunch is on me.” William replied.</p><p>“Oh you sweet girl.” Vicky smiled.</p><p>“Weird!” William exclaimed.</p><p>“You're going to give the game away if you freak when I call you a girl, Lucy.” Vicky smiled.</p><p>“I know but... it's so weird.” he replied. “I'm not used to it.”</p><p>“I know you're not... but look.” she said. “You're wearing girl's shoes, a lovely pair of tights, a pretty dress with cherries on and a pink cardigan. The only thing you're wearing that doesn’t belong on a girl is your underpants... now I suppose if will help you feel more like a girl... we could buy you some knickers...”</p><p>“No!” William exclaimed. “I feel girlie enough as it is.” he claimed. </p><p>“Then stop saying 'weeeirrrd' when you're referred to as a girl.” Vicky retorted. “People are going to presume you're my daughter, you'll hear them say 'she' and 'her' when referring to you, and when they ask I'm going to be telling people that you're my niece, Lucy.” she explained. “Do you understand?”</p><p>“Yes.” he frowned.</p><p>“Good girl.” Vicky smiled. “Now you're going to need a few things in this backpack because it might look suspicious if it's empty...” she supposed, opening the baby pink backpack with its distinctive Nike logo printed in lilac.</p><p>“Why not put my own clothes in it?” he said when she began putting more girl's clothes inside.</p><p>“Because if we get our bags searched, finding boy's clothes in a girl's backpack will be very suspicious... especially if they match the clothes worn by a missing boy.” she told him. “We'll explain to your Mum why you're dressed like a girl when we get there. I'm sure she'll understand.”</p><p>“OK.” William replied. “But what about you? You'll need a bag too.”</p><p>“I've got one in the boot.” she told him. “It's not full of clothes but some emergency gear if I get stranded in the car overnight.” she said; listing a warm jacket, hat and gloves, a sleeping bag and a survival blanket, a torch, batteries, glow sticks, power bank, hand warmers and some water and snacks.</p><p>“That's loads of stuff!”</p><p>“Be prepared.” Vicky said. “That's what they told me when I was as Girl Guide.”</p><p>They drove the short distance into the town, parked the car and got out; each carrying a charity shop bag. William was a bag of nerves being dressed as a girl, but no one seemed to give him a second glance, not even the two middle aged women running the charity shop. In the small Co-op they grabbed some sandwiches, crisps, drinks which William insisted on paying for, although he did give Vicky the cash to handover at the 'til and she gave him the change once outside. “Thank you Lucy.” Vicky smiled.</p><p>“You're welcome... Auntie Vicky.” William replied. </p><p>The strolled back along the high street toward the car and Vicky said she needed to quickly pop into Superdrug for something, suggesting he look at the make-up for a moment. William loitered uncomfortably in front of what seemed like a thousand different lipsticks. An assistant approached and in a meek, soft voice, he said he was waiting for his aunt and gestured toward the counter, from where Vicky glanced over and smiled. “OK miss.” the assistant said, leaving him be. </p><p>“Everything OK?” Vicky asked as they left.</p><p>“Yes.” William proudly replied. “She thought I was a girl.” he quietly added.</p><p>“You are a girl Lucy.” Vicky said, taking hold of his hand and squeezing it lovingly. </p><p>William looked down at his dainty shoes and thin patterned tights, his cherry print dress wafting in the breeze, its hem a few inches above his nylon clad knees. He glanced at the passing shop window to see his bunches silhouetted in a dark reflection. Maybe it's not so bad being a girl, he figured. At least it's only for one day. They returned to the car and Vicky checked the time. “We've still got nearly an hour before the train arrives.” she told him. </p><p>“What are we going to do?” he asked. </p><p>“Well... I'm still not sure about your hair. It's got too much in it for a girl your age, so I think if I gave your fringe a little trim and you wore an Alice band... you'd look perfect.” Vicky told him, removing a broad white Alice band from the Superdrug carrier bag.</p><p>“Does that mean I can take these out?” William asked, putting his fingers on the pair of glittery slides that hold his fringe off his forehead. She nodded. “Good 'coz they're itchy.” he stated. </p><p>Vicky grinned as he removed them and let his over long fringe drop onto his face. She drove somewhere less conspicuous and parked up. They relocated to the back seat where she'd have a little more room. William removed the cardigan and his bunches and with a damp comb, Vicky combed and straightened his hair as best she could and first tidied up his fringe; cutting it neat and straight across his eyebrows. “We can see your face now Lucy.” she smiled after the final snip. William smiled too and said it's needed cutting for months. Vicky suggested tidying up the rest and asked the boy to sit up dead straight and hold still. “It's not easy in the back of a car.” she said. “So I hope it doesn't look too bad.”</p><p>she turned him away from her so she could trim the back, then they swapped sides so she could finish off. “That doesn't look so bad.” she said. “Here.” She handed him the Alice band.</p><p>William put it in his hair, first using it to hold his fringe off his forehead, but then pushing it a little further back and letting his fringe drop forward again. Vicky suggested he got out of the car, swept the trimmings off his dress and had a look at his reflection in one of the windows. He did and he froze. His jaw dropped then he took a short sharp intake of breath. His fingers found his face. “Vicky I look even more like a girl now!” he gasped, observing his new bobbed haircut.</p><p>“The perfect disguise.” Vicky replied. “Shall we catch a train Lucy?”</p><p>William nodded. “Mum's not gonna recognise me at all!” he exclaimed.</p><p>“Think she might.” Vicky replied with a smile. “So long as the transport police don't, that's the main thing.” </p><p>They drove back to the railway station and waited on the platform. William felt confident with his disguise; his hair and frock wafting in the wind. He looked Vicky up and down. She wears a pair of practical pants and rugged boots, an open checked shirt over a fitted T shirt. Her auburn hair hangs long, loose and free. A sizeable handbag hangs from her shoulder and the tatty trolley case from the boot of her car stands lopsided beside her. The train soon arrived and they boarded. In order to remain inconspicuous, they sat in a seat without a table and William occupied the window seat. He couldn't help but thumb the ends of his freshly trimmed hair. “Do you like your new hair, Lucy?” Vicky asked.</p><p>For a boy it's too girlie and William preferred it unshapely and unkempt. But playing the part of Lucy perfectly, he told Vicky that he loved it and asked if he could still wear bunches. She smiled and said he could. He spent much of his time staring out of the window and watching the landscape roll by. He enjoyed observing how the features close by whizzed passed and those in the distance slowly rolled along. </p><p>Despite it being summer, the air-con on the train was maybe a little too high and he asked if he could put his cardigan back on. “Of course you can Lucy, you don't need to ask.” Vicky replied. He donned it and fastened it's sole button on the collar. It seemed to make no sense that a cardigan would have only one button, but he figured that that's just the style as he made sure the pan collar of his dress sat on top of the cardigan. There's something very curious about girls clothes, he mused as he focused his attention once again on the rolling landscape.</p><p>Each time the train passed beneath a bridge or underpass, he got a brief reflection of himself, or more accurately, of Lucy; the twelve year old girl he's pretending to be. He'd often look at his lap and smooth his skirt. The knitted butterflies on his tights stretched over his knees and he couldn't help but wonder how they could be made. Could it be a complex machine, or a person, slowly and meticulously embroidering the tiny wings and bodies into the thin wispy nylon. He supposes that it might be quite nice being a girl because they get to wear so many more colours and patterns and styles than boys do, although he knows he prefers being a boy. At least boy's clothes are more rugged and he needn't worry about snagging his tights or getting dirty... and how can you climb trees or straddle gates when you're wearing a skirt or dress? But wearing a dress for the very first time, plus delicate tights and dainty shoes doesn't half make him feel special. He can understand why girls get excited about bridesmaids dresses and party dresses... they must feel so elegant. “You OK Lucy?” Vicky asked. William turned and smiled and nodded. She asked if he was hungry. </p><p>“Not yet.” he replied. “But help yourself if you are.” he said.</p><p>“I'm actually starving.” Vicky smiled, ripping open one of the sandwiches. </p><p>William tucked into his sandwich a short while later and a short while after that, Vicky suggested putting his hair in bunches again. “OK.” William replied, removing his Alice band. Vicky removed a comb from her handbag and separated his hair into two halves, tying each side just above his ears with a pale pink bobble. </p><p>“How do they feel?” she asked.</p><p>“Bouncy.” he said, bobbing his head a little.</p><p>“It's a pity I don't have any ribbons.” she grinned, before suggesting she reapply his lipstick. “You suit this shade.” she told him.</p><p>“You're probably just saying that.” William replied. </p><p>“Pale pink looks pretty on everyone.” Vicky replied. “Even an old fogie like me.” she said, applying it to her own lips.</p><p>“You're not old auntie Vicky.” William told her.</p><p>“Well I feel old when I’m in the company of a pretty young lady such as yourself, Lucy.” she replied. </p><p>William felt bashful. He's never been called a pretty young lady before. The compliment felt nice and despite looking forward to being a normal boy again, he was enjoying spending the day as a girl. The journey to London took three and a half hours and they arrived at King's Cross in the early afternoon. “They're not for me are they?” William asked, seeing armed police with dogs at the exit. </p><p>“No.” Vicky grinned. “This is London... armed police are a common sight at all the important places.” she told him. </p><p>William put his hand in hers and she gripped it tightly. “If we do get separated, you're going to have to go directly to the police and tell them exactly who you are... no pretending... understand?” Vicky told him.</p><p>“But what about my Mum?” William replied. </p><p>“London's the last place you want to get lost.” she said. “I’m sure they'd contact your Mum as well as your stepmother.” she added. “...and I guess your Mum would get here long before your stepmother.”</p><p>“I'd hope so.” William replied. “Where are we going now?”</p><p>“Just across to St Pancras to see if we can get a train to Gallopton.”</p><p>“There's two train stations right next to each other?!” William realised as the waited at a pedestrian crossing.</p><p>“Three if you could the tube station too.” Vicky replied. </p><p>More police flanked the entrance to St Pancras station but no one seemed to give Vicky and 'Lucy' a second glance. She approached the ticket office and wisely asked for the next train to Margate rather than Gallopton; a few stops before the seaside terminus. “Oh that's excellent.” she said, being told that the next train departs in half an hour. She purchases two tickets. “It's only half an hour Lucy.” she said to William. </p><p>“How long will it take to get there?” he asked. </p><p>“About an hour.” she said. “Do you know where your Mum lives?”</p><p>“Forty-three Bridge Road.” he replied. “We'll probably need a taxi from the station.”</p><p>“OK.” she said. “We're looking for platform nine.” she said, keeping tight hold of his hand as they bustled their way through the busy station. “I'm not used to so many people.” she said.</p><p>Thy found a seat on the platform and William asked Vicky if she'd take his bunches out. “I think Mum's more likely to recognise me without them.” he figured.</p><p>“I think she'll recognise you the moment you say 'hello mum'.” Vicky replied.</p><p>“I hope so.”</p><p>“I know so.” Vicky replied. “Your disguise is very convincing but people who know you will know you're you.”</p><p>“Just so long as the police don't recognise me.” William said as two police officers and one police dog strolled up the platform. The looked directly at William as Vicky combed his hair. For all they knew he was a blonde haired girl and a rather prim one at that, with his pale pink cardigan and cherry print dress. </p><p>The train to maidenhead prepared to depart and they soon found themselves on the final leg of their journey to Gallopton. “Are you getting nervous?” Vicky asked. William nodded. “Me too.” she grimaced. “I don't know what you're mother's going to say when she finds out it was my idea to dress you as a girl.”</p><p>“But I'd probably be back in Solfirth by now if you hadn't.” William replied. </p><p>Vicky smiled. “It seems fortuitous that I just happened to have two charity bags full of girls clothes... otherwise you may well have been.”</p><p>“Thanks for helping me.” William said, looking up at Vicky with puppy dog eyes. </p><p>“My pleasure.” Vicky replied. “But we're not at your mum's house yet... so don't count your chickens.” she added.</p><p>Within the hour the train pulled in at Gallopton station and William and Vicky alighted. A fleet of taxis waited and they climbed in the back of the nearest one. “Do you know Bridge Road?” Vicky asked.</p><p>“Course love.” the gruff driver replied. </p><p>“There please.” Vicky replied. “In you get Lucy.” she said, opening the back door. The drive from the station to Bridge Road was a mere five minutes. “Is this it?” she asked the 'girl'. 'Lucy' nodded. Vicky paid the driver and they got out. “What number did you say it was?” she asked.</p><p>“Forty three.” William replied. “About half way down.”</p><p>“When were you last here?” she asked as they began to stroll. </p><p>“When I was ten.” William replied. “Just before Mum and Dad split up.”</p><p>“Must've been hard.” she mused. “I hope your Mum doesn't mind that I dressed you up as a girl.”</p><p>“I'll tell her it was my idea if you want.” William said.</p><p>“Thanks but I think it's best we don't tell lies.” Vicky replied as she kept an eye on the door numbers; thirty one, thirty three, thirty five, thirty seven.</p><p>“It's the one with the blue door.” William said as the neared number forty one. Confidently he marched up to it and knocked. A short moment passed before a woman answered. She appeared flustered. “Mum! It's me! William!” he said. </p><p>“Oh William!” she gasped, glancing at Vicky and back to the boy. “Why are you dressed like that?”</p><p>“It's a disguise.” he told her. “This is Vicky. She helped me.”</p><p>“Oh erm.... you'd best come inside.” William’s mother said. Once in the lounge, she looked her son up and down. “Well I must say this is a surprise.” </p><p>“I ran away from home to see you.”</p><p>“You've been all over the news.” his mother said. “Beverly's worried sick.”</p><p>“She's not here is she?”</p><p>“No.” his mother replied, opening the double doors to the dining room. “But the police are.” she said, introducing DC Howe and DS Barton.</p><p>“We had a feeling you'd turn up here young... er... man.” the police officer gulped. “And this is?” he asked, looking at Vicky.</p><p>“Erm... Vicky Sterling.” Vicky replied. “I picked him up hitch-hiking and after hearing his story... decided to bring him to his mother rather than take him to the police.”</p><p>“He's a missing person! You should have taken him directly to the police.” the officer barked.</p><p>“I know. And he'd have gone straight back to his stepmother where he isn't happy... he just wanted to see his mum and I couldn't deny him that.”</p><p>“Erm... can I ask?” the other police officer interjected. “Why is he dressed like a girl?”</p><p>“Everyone was looking for me. It's a disguise. It was my idea!” William claimed.</p><p>“It was my idea.” Vicky confessed. “I was dropping some things off at the charity shop for a neighbour when I picked him up... he was desperate to see his mother but with his description on the radio, and presumably the TV too... I said the only way I could get him from Oakford to Gallopton unnoticed was if he dressed as a girl, and I just happened to have several bags full of girls clothes.”</p><p>“And your boy clothes are in your backpack?” William's mother asked. </p><p>“Erm... no.” William replied. “They're in Vicky's car at Oakford station.” he said. “This is full of girls clothes in case we had our bags searched.”</p><p>“Oh.” his mother remarked. “Well there's nothing here for you to wear.”</p><p>“That's OK. I don't mind being a girl for a day so long as I get to see you Mum.”</p><p>One of the officers radioed their superior, informing them that the boy had been found unharmed. “Yes he turned up at his mother's a few minutes ago.” they added. “OK. Over.”</p><p>“Are they gonna take me away?” William asked. </p><p>“Well you'll have to go back home.” his mother replied, before asking the police officers if she could have a few moments alone with her son. One went into the lounge with Vicky, the other stepped outside the back door making sure both exits were covered. William and his mother talked for a good hour. He told her how much he missed her, how much he disliked Beverly, especially when his dad's away on business, which these days is most of the time. His mother tells him how much she misses him and wishes she could see him more often, but the distance and other circumstances make it almost impossible. </p><p>“Dad keeps saying he'll bring me to see you when he has the time but... since he got promoted he never has any time.” William frowned. “...and Beverly refuses to move any closer.”</p><p>“I can't believe you disguised yourself as a girl to come and see me.” his mother said, tucking his bobbed hair over his ear. “You look quite cute but... I think I prefer you as a boy.”</p><p>“So do I!” William replied. “This is just so the police didn't recognise me before we got here.” he said. “Vicky cut my hair... it was just a mess beforehand.” he added.</p><p>“Well she's done a very good job... but next time I hope to see you with short back and sides.”</p><p>“I promise.” William replied. “It's been fun but I don't want to dress like a girl ever again.”</p><p>DS Barton entered the dining room. “We're going to have to take him to the station.” he said. “You can come with him.” he added. </p><p>In the lounge, William gasped to see Vicky in handcuffs. “You can't arrest her! She's done nothing wrong.” he insisted.</p><p>“Miss Sterling is being taken in for questioning young lady... I mean... laddie.” the DS bashfully and awkwardly corrected himself. </p><p>“What for?” William asked.</p><p>“Aiding and abetting a fugitive.” the DS smugly replied.</p><p>“I'm not a fugitive. I ran away and Vicky helped me find my Mum!”</p><p>“Aiding and abetting a runaway then.” the DS retorted.</p><p>“Is that even a thing?” William’s mother snarled. “You're just clutching at straws... you know she's done nothing wrong yet you're treating her as a criminal!”</p><p>“She dressed your son as a girl Ma'am... isn't that enough?”</p><p>“That's not a crime... and she did it with the best of intentions.” William's mother said as Vicky was bustled outside by DC Howe.</p><p>By this time, a police carrier van had pulled up outside, along with a marked police car. Vicky was put in the back of the van and William and his mother were invited into the marked car. Several neighbours and passers-by had stopped to see the commotion. DC Howe handed William's mother the pink backpack, before shutting the door and banging on the roof. The car departed. “They can't arrest Vicky Mum.” William said as he peered out of the rear window. </p><p>“They just want to ask her some questions.” his mother replied, hugging her son. “She'll be fine.”</p><p>“I hope so. She's nice.”</p><p>“Yes she seems very nice.” William's mother concurred. </p><p>William didn't initially see Vicky at the police station, but was questioned about her. Heeding her advice, he told the truth; she'd picked him up hitch-hiking early this morning and he lied about his name and destination. When the missing person report came over the radio, Vicky instantly realised it was him. “She said she'd take me to the police but I begged her not to. I just wanted to see my Mum but Vicky wouldn't let me hitch-hike and didn't want me getting the train alone either... so she brought me down here.” William told the police officer. “She even paid for my train ticket.” he added. “She was just trying to look after me, and make sure I got to see my Mum.” he told them, looking up at his mother.</p><p>“And it was Vicky who dressed you as a girl, put make-up on you and cut your hair?” the police officer asked. </p><p>“Yes.” William said. “I didn't want to at first, but I knew there'd be police at the train stations and they'd probably have my description... so it was the only way to get all the way from Oakford without being recognised.”</p><p>“Well I certainly wouldn't have recognised you.” the police officer said.</p><p>“I did. The moment I saw him.” William's mother stated.</p><p>Once the police officer was satisfied with William's version of events and had checked all her notes and double checked any ambiguities in his statement, William and his mother were asked to return to the waiting area. Much to both their surprise, Beverly was sat waiting when they exited the interview room. “Did you put him up to this?!” Beverly scowled at his mother. </p><p>“Of course I didn't!” William's mother retorted. “You barely let me speak to my son, let alone collude with him.”</p><p>“And why's he dressed like that?!” Beverly barked.</p><p>“It's a disguise.” William snarled. “To make sure I spent as much time away from you as possible.” he smugly sneered.</p><p>“Does he have his own clothes in that bag?” Beverly growled, glaring at the pink backpack he held. William's mother shook her head. “Hmm.” Beverly frowned. “I suppose you expect me to buy you some.” she exclaimed. William skewed his jaw.</p><p>“I'll buy him some.” his mother said. </p><p>“There's no need.” Beverly said. “I'll be taking him home as soon as the police have finished with him.”</p><p>“They've already finished with him as far as I know.” William's mother retorted. </p><p>“Then I'll take him now!” Beverly spat.</p><p>“No!” William whined.</p><p>“You'll have to go.” his mother told him</p><p>“Can I see Vicky before I go?” William asked. </p><p>“Who's Vicky?!” Beverly barked.</p><p>“The lady who helped me.” William said. </p><p>“I'm not sure.” his mother said. “I'll ask.”</p><p>“I'LL ASK!” Beverly insisted, loudly reminding all within earshot that she's the boy's legal guardian. She spoke to the desk sergeant before turning to William and saying “No you may not!”</p><p>“Do you have to speak to him like that?!” William’s mother asked. </p><p>“After all he's put me through the last few days, yes!” Beverly retorted. “Now come on William. I'm taking you home!” she said, practically snatching the boy out of his mother's arms. She marched out of the police station clutching William by the arm and put him in the back of her car. William fought back his tears whilst his step-mother thumped the sat-nav. “Six and a half hours!” she growled. “We'll be lucky to be home by midnight.” she spat. The boy remained silent until she turned to him and barked “Haven't you got anything to say for yourself?!”</p><p>“I'm sorry... I just wanted to see my mum!” he said. “You wouldn't let me visit her and Dad kept putting it off so the only way was to go myself.”</p><p>“And you were so desperate you disguised yourself as a girl!”</p><p>“This just happened.” William said, looking down at his dress. “I didn't plan it but when my description came on the radio... I didn't have much choice.” he told her. “Will you get me some boy's clothes?” he asked, adding “Please.”</p><p>“Well I don't see why I should.” she snarled. “Who cut your hair?”</p><p>“Vicky.”</p><p>“That's the woman who took you to your mother's instead of doing the right thing and taking you to the nearest police station?”</p><p>William nodded. “She was only trying to help me.” he muttered.</p><p>“Well I hope they throw the book at her!”</p><p>“She's done nothing wrong.”</p><p>“Oh you think so do you?!”</p><p>“Yes!” William retorted.</p><p>They drove in silence for a while, heading towards London. Beverly began making hands free calls, trying to book a room in a Travelodge or Premier Inn on the outskirts of the city. Many were fully booked, or only had double rooms available, or were far too expensive at short notice. Eventually the receptionist on the other end of a call said they've got a double room with a day bed available, adding that the daybed is fine for children but not adults. “That should be fine.” Beverly replied. “Dnd do you provide a baby sitting service?”</p><p>“We do.”</p><p>“Wonderful.” Beverly replied, before giving her card details over the phone and programming the sat-nav to the location.</p><p>“I don't need a babysitter.” William snarled. </p><p>“You need an armed guard.” Beverly retorted. It was the first vaguely light hearted thing she'd said all day. The hotel is on the north side of the M25 in a former Georgian mansion. A valet takes the car and William sheepishly follows his stepmother into the foyer. The friendly receptionist smiles and asks if he's her daughter. “He's my stepson.” Beverly bluntly retorted. “...and he's in an awful lot of a trouble.” she added.</p><p>“I see.” the receptionist replied. William hung his head. </p><p>“He's not to leave the room under any circumstances so can you make the staff aware that if he's found wondering the corridors or grounds, to bring him straight back to the room.” Beverly requested</p><p>“I'll make sure they know.” the receptionist added.</p><p>“Thank you.” Beverly smiled. “Come along William!” she instructed. William glanced at the receptionist who smiled empathetically down on him. </p><p>They took the lift up to the 2nd floor and despite the hotel being clearly quite posh, the room is rather modest with a double bed on one wall, a built in dresser, chest and wardrobe opposite, and in the corner by the tall window sits a steel framed sofa. “Where am I sleeping?” William asked.</p><p>“On the day bed.” Beverly said, nodding toward the sofa.</p><p>“Can I watch TV?”</p><p>“Absolutely not!” she snapped. “You can sit and think about your behaviour.”</p><p>William sat on the settee, scooping his frock beneath him and smoothing the skirt over his lap. He looked from one side of the settee to the other. “It's not going to be long enough to sleep on.” he said. </p><p>“You spent last night in a barn, did you not?” Beverly replied. “This is the lap of luxury in comparison.” she said, removing her laptop and plugging it in. “Now please don't disturb me as I've got work to do.” she snarled. “Just sit quietly and don't fidget.”</p><p>William did sit quietly and tried not to fidget. Beverly tapped away on her laptop and made the occasional phone call. With nothing more to occupy him than his meandering thoughts and the sound of his stepmother's nails tapping on the keyboard and her occasional murmurings, time passed very slowly for William. Beverly called reception and asked if some food could be brought to the room. She didn't ask if William wanted a cheese sandwich and a carton of apple juice, but ordered them for him regardless. “...and what time is the restaurant open?” she enquired. “Five 'til nine... OK... could I book a babysitter for around 6pm?”</p><p>“I don't need a babysitter.” William whined. Beverly glared at the boy for interrupting her conversation, before completing the conversation and hanging up. “I don't need a baby sitter.” William repeated, huffing is if to punctuate his statement.</p><p>“Well I'm not going to leave you on your own after the way you've acted this last few days.”</p><p>“Where am I going to go?” he sighed. “I don't even know where we are, plus I'm wearing a dress!”</p><p>“I'm not taking any chances with you, young man. And lets not forget that wearing a dress didn't stop you from travelling from one end of the country to the other.” his stepmother replied. </p><p>“Can you get me some boys clothes?” he meekly asked. “Please.” he added in a humble, pleaful tone.</p><p>Beverly was planning on doing just that but her disdain was so great she didn't feel inclined to show the boy any favour whatsoever. “I don't see why I should!” she snarled. “You've already cost me a small fortune.” she stated. “I had to fly down here, hire a car and now we're going to have to get a hotel for the night...” she paused and glared at him via the rear view mirror. “...and who's to say that you won't run off again the moment my back's turned?”</p><p>“I won't.” William said. Beverly raised an eyebrow and returned her attention to her laptop. William slumped his shoulders to express his disapproval, but wasn't at all surprised by his treatment. After all he did runaway from home and knew full well he'd be in trouble for doing so. A good half an hour passed before room service arrived with some food for him. Beverly made him sit at the dressing table to eat, facing his reflection. Other than seeing himself reflected in windows, this is the first mirror he's really encountered. The pale pink cardigan looks ever so prissy with its single button holding the collar together. His broad round collar lays on top of it and is trimmed with a little lace. His new hair cut looks very girlie and despite him wearing a little bit of make-up, his familiar face looks just as boyish as it always has. The bubble has burst. He's a boy in a dress and he knows it.</p><p>“Are you going to eat that sandwich or just gorp at yourself?” Beverly growled, prompting William to eat. </p><p>Afterwards she sent him back to the sofa where he sat and stewed until around 6pm when there was a knock on the door. Beverly answered. “Babysitter.” a female voice stated. </p><p>“Oh, come in.” Beverly said. “Here he is... don't mind his dress... it's a long story.” she told the babysitter. One would assume she's one of the chambermaids or cleaners; dressed in a jet black frock and crisp white apron. In a friendly tone, she asked his name.</p><p>“William.” he frowned. </p><p>“He's not to leave the room under any circumstances, and don't let him use the phone or my laptop.” Beverly instructed. “I've forbid him from watching TV but whilst you're in charge, I'll leave that up to you.” she added. “I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.”</p><p>“Very well Ma'am.” the babysitter said, dropping a slight curtsey. </p><p>“Where are you going?!” William scowled.</p><p>“Never you mind.” Beverly retorted before turning on her heel. </p><p>The babysitter was somewhat taken aback by the woman's attitude towards the child. She turned to face William and smiled empathetically. “Well you're a little bit older than the children I usually sit for.” she told him.</p><p>“I told her I'm too old for a babysitter.” he mournfully replied.</p><p>“Well like it or not, you've got one.” she said. “What's with the dress?”</p><p>“I ran away from home.” he replied. </p><p>“Ah... so that's why she's so blunt with you?” the babysitter said, before asking once more about his attire.</p><p>“I disguised myself as a girl because the police were looking for a boy.” he replied. “I was all over the TV, apparently.”</p><p>“Oh... the boy from up north? That's you?!” she realised. William nodded. “The news said you'd been found safe and sound but it didn't say you were dressed as a girl.” she told him. “You look cute. I like your hair.”</p><p>Nervously he thumbed the ends. “The sooner I can get it cut the better.” he muttered. “Beverly could have got me some boy clothes but I think she's leaving me dressed like this 'til I get home to punish me.”</p><p>“I can think of worse punishments.” the babysitter said.</p><p>“I’ll probably be grounded for the rest of my life.” William added.</p><p>“Prob'ly.” she said. “So... why did you run away?”</p><p>“To see my Mum. My stepmother won't let me see her and my Dad never has the time to take me coz he's always away with work.”</p><p>“Where does he work?”</p><p>“All over. Dubai, Singapore, Buenos Aires, Houston, Hong Kong...”</p><p>“How exciting!”</p><p>“Not really. I'd prefer it if he was at home.”</p><p>“What does he do?” she asked. William replied as best he could, describing his dad as some sort of business analyst for a financial consultancy. “Yeah, you're right, that doesn't sound in the least bit exciting.” the babysitter said. “How old are you?” she quizzed.</p><p>“Twelve.” he told her. </p><p>“It's a bit risky running away at your age. There's some real weirdos about.”</p><p>“My stepmother's one of 'em.”</p><p>“I’m sure she has your best interests at heart... even if you can't see it.”</p><p>“She has her own interests at heart and no one else's.” William replied. “I wish I could stay with my actual Mum.”</p><p>“Why can't you?” the babysitter asked. </p><p>William explained about the breakdown she suffered when his dad left her, but said she's a lot better now. “It's just a lot of paperwork and discussions needed to overturn the custody ruling... and my dad's away with work all the time so nothing's getting done, which means I'm stuck with Beverly.”</p><p>“Oh you poor thing.” she said. “Do you wanna watch some TV?”</p><p>“OK.” William apathetically replied.</p><p>He flicked through the channels, past the soaps and re-runs of Top Gear until something interesting appeared, and spent a while enjoying that. The babysitter spent most of her time reading a book and was dismissed the moment Beverly returned. “That's enough of that!” Beverly spat as she turned the TV off. “You may as well get in the shower then get ready for bed.” she said.</p><p>“OK.” William said. He really needed a shower.</p><p>“And make sure you leave the door wide open.” Beverly insisted. “I don't want you escaping through the air ducts.” she somewhat jovially added. To William, it seemed that his stepmother's mood had eased somewhat.</p><p>However whilst he was in the shower, Beverly scooped up the clothes he'd worn forcing him to wear only a small hand towel when he exited the en-suite. “I'm not wearing those!” he whined, seeing a pair of girl's pyjamas laid on the day bed.</p><p>“You've been wearing a dress all day.” Beverly spat, before suggesting that he might have preferred a nightdress instead. Reluctantly, William donned the pyjamas and Beverly sat him at the dresser where she proceeded to vigorously dry his hair with the towel. William whined that she was being too rough. “Stop being such a girl!” Beverly snarled. “You can't go bed with damp hair.” she stated, claiming he'd catch a cold. William sat and sulked and stared at his reflection whilst Beverly rigorously dried his hair. He hated the fact that she'd got him a pair of girls flowery pyjamas instead of boys ones. “Was this Vicky woman a hairdresser?” she asked as she combed it. </p><p>“No. She's a farmer.” William replied. </p><p>“Well she's done a good job of your hair... if you were a girl it'd be a lovely haircut.” she said. “But since you're just a boy...”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Well ...you look ridiculous.” she snarled. At least when he was with Vicky dressing like a girl felt like an adventure, now he just can't wait to be himself again. Beverly removed the surplus cushions from the day bed and pulled its duvet open. Since William had spent the previous night camping in a barn and woke at the crack of dawn, an early night tonight is just what he needed. The boy was soon in a deep sleep.</p><p>William woke early, but not quite so early as he had the previous day. The curtains are wide open. The sun is relatively high and Beverly is sat on the bed, tapping away at her laptop. “Sleep well?” she asked, somewhat bluntly.</p><p>“Yes.” William replied, somewhat mournfully. In his slumber he was oblivious to the fact that he'd slept wearing girl's pyjamas. His eyes dropped to the pink floral pattern and he sighed. The cherry print dress and pink cardigan he'd worn yesterday hung from the wardrobe door. “Do I have to wear that again?” he humbly asked.</p><p>“What do you think?!” Beverly bluntly retorted, not looking up. “You need to shower before breakfast.” she added, still tapping on the keyboard. “Then you and I need head back home.” she said. “And don't be surprised when I tell you that you're grounded for the rest of the school holidays.”</p><p>It could have been worse, William thought. There's only a fortnight left 'til the next term begins and last time he was grounded, for something far less serious than running away from home, he was grounded for a month. But Beverly is so strict in curtailing his movements; seldom letting him visit his friends and never allowing them to visit him, there's not a great deal of difference between being grounded and not being grounded. “When's Dad coming home?” William asked.</p><p>“Not for a good few weeks yet.” she told him. “And before you think I'll have forgotten all about this episode by the time he gets back, I won't have.” she added. </p><p>William took his time in the shower. He wasn't looking forward to going home, mostly because all he has is the dress Vicky had given him which today doesn't seem at all adventurous. He exited with a towel wrapped around his waist since Beverly had scooped up the pyjamas the moment he'd stepped out of them. His dress wasn't on the hanger nor was it laid on the bed waiting. “Where's my dress?” he whined.</p><p>“You don't really think I’d make you wear that again did you?” she said, revealing an Asda carrier bag. William breathed a big sigh of relief. His belief that the bag contained some boys clothes was so strong that he thanked his stepmother before she removed the contents</p><p>“I can't wear that!” he gasped when she removed a prissy yellow dress with short puffed sleeves and frilly trim</p><p>“Of course you can.” Beverly bluntly replied.</p><p>“But...” he gulped again. “I thought...” he paused. “...I thought you'd got me some boy's clothes.”</p><p>“Oh I'm sure you did. You're a spoilt little brat who thinks everything will just land on your lap.” Beverly growled. “I fully intended getting you some boys clothes when I left you with the babysitter last night... but then I thought, he's made his bed, he can damn well lie in it!” she told her stepson. “And I bought you this instead.” she added, laying the dress on the bed.</p><p>“I'd rather wear the one Vicky gave me than that!” he snarled.</p><p>“Oh I'm sure you would. But that was an old dress destined for a charity shop and you deserve better than that. ” she told him. “You'll need these first.” she told him, revealing a pair of knickers with frilly lace trim. “And I got you a little training bra too.” she added, showing him a matching bra.</p><p>“I'm not wearing those!”</p><p>“You don't have much choice young man.” she smugly replied. “You can hardly leave the hotel wearing a towel, can you?”</p><p>“I'll wear what I wore yesterday!” he stated, glancing around for it.</p><p>“I gave those to the chambermaid and her to put them in the bin.”</p><p>“I'll wear them pyjamas then!”</p><p>“Oh no you won't young man.” she told him. “You'll wear these.” she said, smiling wryly at the clothes on the bed</p><p>“Why are you doing this?!” William whined, tightening his grip on the towel around him.</p><p>“Because I can.” she stated. “If it's any consolation... you arrived wearing a dress. No one’s going to think any less of you if you leave wearing a dress as well.”</p><p>Knowing he had no choice, William reluctantly took the knickers and in the privacy of the en-suit bathroom, he donned them. His cheeks were crimson when he revealed himself; his hands shyly concealing his frilly panties. “Please don't make me wear that.” he tearfully whined as Beverly held the bra for him to slip his hands into.</p><p>“You can't put your dress on until you've got your bra on.” Beverly told him. “And I very much doubt you want to travel home wearing just a pair of knickers.” she told him. William gulped and glanced toward the dressing table mirror, in which he got a glimpse of the rows of white frills that run across the back of his panties. Hesitantly, he held out his arms and Beverly slid the bra over them. “Turn around.” she instructed. William had no choice but to glare at his reflection as the bra was fastened around him. Once that was on, the dress couldn't come quickly enough. </p><p>“It's too short.” he whined. </p><p>“It's a sun dress. It's supposed to be short.” Beverly told him. “Sit down and put these on.” she said, handing him a pair of thin ankle socks with frilly cuffs. William huffed as he pulled the girlie socks on. </p><p>“I can't wear those!” he exclaimed, seeing the shoes she'd also got for him.</p><p>“They're only little heels.” she told him. </p><p>“What's wrong with the shoes I had yesterday?”</p><p>“They're in the bin along with everything else you wore yesterday.” she retorted. “These will be fine providing you're careful and don't try to run in them.”</p><p>“I'm not gonna run away again.” he told her. </p><p>“And I'm not going to take any chances.” Beverly replied as she fastened the small shiny buckles. “There.” she said, standing and grabbing her small trolley case. “Come along.” </p><p>The boy stuck out his lip and hesitantly made his way toward the open door, briefly glancing at his reflection as he passed a full length mirror. The dress looks even shorter and he looks even more ridiculous than he'd imagined.</p><p>William was so embarrassed as he loitered in the foyer whilst Beverly checked out of the hotel. His attention was drawn by an opening door. He turned to see the babysitter emerge pushing a linen trolley. “Hello William!” she smiled. “What a lovely dress.” she said. “Very summery.” she added.</p><p>He was too embarrassed to respond. Surely she was just trying to be nice, but no one could seriously think that such an infantile dress on a twelve year old was lovely, especially with it being so uncomfortably short. With that thought, William realised she was teasing him as she disappeared through another door, giving William once final glance as she left. Beverly seemed to prolong his wait making small talk with the receptionist but after far too many minutes, they were finally making their exit. William walked awkwardly in the heels toward the revolving door and once outside, the breeze instantly caught his frock and revealed his frilly panties to anyone who might have been looking. “It's too short.” he whined, grabbing it.</p><p>“Oh stop complaining William. You're the one who wanted to wear a dress in the first place.”</p><p>“No I didn't!” he insisted. His step mother raised an eyebrow. “Not today anyway.” he sheepishly added as the valet delivered the car.</p><p>“In you get. And put your seatbelt on.” Beverly instructed. Even when seated, the dress barely covered William's lap. Beverly got in the driver's seat and fasted her seat belt. “Now I don't want to hear a peep out of you until we get home.” she told him.</p><p>“How long's that gonna take.”</p><p>“All day.” she retorted.</p><p>“What about breakfast?” he whined. “I'm hungry.”</p><p>“We'll stop off at a café or somewhere when I'm hungry!” Beverly retorted. </p><p>Within minutes they were back on the busy M25. William sighed and peered out of the window, then gulped and looked down at his bright yellow dress and long thin legs. He kicked out his feet and sneered at his frilly ankle socks and the shoes strapped to his feet. “What have I got myself into?” he wondered.</p><p>Before long they were headed north up the M1 and Beverly began making phone calls; some were work related but one one was to the Molly, the housekeeper. Beverly spoke hands free but listened via a bluetooth earpiece, so William could only hear one half of the conversation. “I'm bringing him back now.” Beverly said, adding that it'll be tea-time or early evening when they finally arrive. “Can you get James [the grounds keeper] to put a lock on William's bedroom door... and tell him to make sure it's a substantial one, the sort he uses on the outhouses.” she requested. “I'm going to move him into the corner room, so that needs clearing out and preparing.” Beverly instructed. </p><p>The corner room is a small bedroom that's used for storage. William has seldom seen inside it but he knows it's a lot smaller than his own bedroom, and being situated at the corner of the house, has two windows; one facing east and the other facing south. “No!” Beverly snapped. “Save for the furniture, I want nothing in that room.” she stated.</p><p>“What are you doing?” William asked when the call ended. “Why are you putting a lock on my bedroom door?”</p><p>“Because your bedroom and everything in it is out of bounds from now on young man.” Beverly told him. “...and when I say everything, I mean everything.” she added. “...and that includes your clothes.”</p><p>“What am I supposed to wear?!”</p><p>“You've got a lovely new dress.” she bluntly stated. “That'll do you for now.”</p><p>William gulped. “But I can't dress like a girl all the time!”</p><p>“Oh but you can my dear boy.” she confidently told him.</p><p>When they finally arrived back at their sizeable home in the early evening, Molly the housekeeper opened the door to greet them. Her smile disappeared the moment the boy got out of the car. “William?” she quizzed. He skewed his jaw and frowned.</p><p>“Miss William is probably more appropriate form of address.” Beverly sneered as she scowled at him. </p><p>Molly replied with a nervous chuckle before telling William to go indoors “...we'll get you changed out of those clothes.” she said.</p><p>“We'll do nothing of the sort!” Beverly retorted. “William thought he was being clever by disguising himself as a girl in order to evade the police.” she said. “Let's see how he likes living as one!”</p><p>“No!” William snarled. He ran inside, his heels clacked loudly on the hallway floor. The boy headed directly to his bedroom but found a substantial hasp and staple and big padlock securing the door. He was trying and failing to rattle the door open when Beverly and Molly caught up with him.</p><p>“Has the corner room been cleared and cleaned, Molly?” Beverly asked. Molly said it had. “You have a new bedroom... Miss William.” Beverly said to the boy, emphasising the miss and causing him to cringe. “This way.” she chirped.</p><p>William gulped and followed. The corner room is located at the corner of the house and has two windows in the corner; one facing west and the other facing south. It's a light bright room but it's small. A single bed occupies a third of the floorspace. A wardrobe and chest of drawers reside along the one long wall. In the corner where the windows meet sits an ornate dressing table and the sedate floral wall paper and pale pink curtains give the room a distinctly feminine ambience. “It's like a girl's room.” William grimaces when he enters. </p><p>“Then it's perfect for you.” Beverly replied. “Molly will make your bed up.” she added. </p><p>William's stepmother and the housekeeper left him alone in his new bedroom. In the dressing table mirror he glimpsed his reflection. Wearing a dress so short and so yellow, William felt like he was dressed as a daffodil. He couldn't help but lift it a little to glimpse his knickers. The frilly lace around the legs is particularly offensive to him. Had he been wearing a longer dress he'd take them off but this one is too short. He let go of the hem, sat on the mattress and with a heavy sigh, William cursed himself for letting Vicky talk him into dressing as a girl in the first place.</p><p>He sulked and stared at his pale thin legs, following them to his feet. He tried to imagine why girls actually like wearing this stuff as he glared it the horrific frills on his ankle socks... and the shoes! To William they just look senseless. They don't even cover the foot properly, only having a bit for his toes to go into and another bit cupping his heel, and a strap across the instep to hold them on. The heel is small but significant, although when walking in them, William didn't really notice them. He was more worried about his incredibly short dress and his frilly knickers than the heels on his shoes. </p><p>He considered the outfit Vicky had put him in; the blue cherry print dress with blue dolly shoes, pink tights and a pink cardigan. It was girlie but not so bad and definitely better than this, he thought. Molly the housekeeper returned, clutching a bundle of bedding. “Out the way Miss William so I can...”</p><p>“Stop calling me that. I'm not a girl!” William insisted. </p><p>“I know you're not.” Molly replied. “But your stepmother gave me explicit instructions to address you as 'miss' William... and it's she who pays my wages, not you... so if you don't mind, Miss William... I need to make your bed.”</p><p>“But she's not here. She can't hear you.”</p><p>“And I’m not taking any chances Miss William.” Molly said. </p><p>William sighed and stood aside. Molly plonked the bundle of bedding on the mattress and began unfolding the sheets. “Sounds like you've had quite the adventure.” she casually said as he perched nervously on the stool by the dresser, making sure his super short dress covered as much of his lap as possible.</p><p>William sighed. “I just wanted to see my mum.” he muttered.</p><p>“So much so you disguised yourself as a girl.” Molly added. William nodded. “Was it worth it?” Molly asked.</p><p>“It was nice seeing my Mum... even if it was only for an hour or two.” he replied. “And Vicky... the lady who helped me was awesome.” he said. “The disguise was her idea.” he added. “But now Beverly's saying I have to dress like a girl all the time...” he sighed and gulped. </p><p>“Well I'm sure it won't be forever.” Molly said. “And at least you're not built like Biff Tannen.”</p><p>“Who's Biff Tannen?” William asked. </p><p>“The bully from Back to the Future.” Molly replied. “Like it or not... you do look quite nice as a girl.”</p><p>“I'm not a girl.” William asserted. </p><p>“So you keep saying... but since you decided to run away and disguise yourself as a girl, your stepmother has decided that the most fitting punishment is that you dress as a girl until she decides otherwise.” Molly reminded him. “...and James and I have been instructed to only address you as 'miss' William, so as much as it pains me to say it, Miss William... you're going to have to get used to dressing like a girl.”</p><p>“Dad'll put a stop to it when he comes home.” William said.</p><p>“Let's hope so. But you've got a good four weeks between now and then so...” Molly shrugged. She left for a moment and returned with a duvet and some pillows. “You can help by putting your pillow cases on.” she suggested, unfolding a pale blue duvet cover.</p><p>“I'm not sleeping under that!” William exclaimed seeing a huge Cinderella print on the duvet cover.</p><p>“You don't have much choice Miss William.” Molly told him. “Best bet is to put up and shut up for the time being... then things might go back to normal sooner rather than later.” she advised.</p><p>“I only thought I'd be dressed as a girl for one day... and that was only so the police didn't recognise me.” William muttered as he stuffed the pillows into their cases. “I wish I'd changed back into my own clothes before Beverly saw me.”</p><p>“Hindsight is a wonderful thing... but it always comes too late.” Molly said the boy. “Why didn't you?”</p><p>“I left them in Vicky's car.” he said. “Could you go into my bedroom and get me some?!” William suggested.</p><p>“Some what?” Molly replied. “Clothes?” she presumed. “Absolutely not Miss William.” she stated. “I'd be dismissed.” she claimed.</p><p>“But... that means all I've got is this.” he whined, grabbing at his dress.</p><p>“Careful!” Molly said. “I saw your knickers then!” she told him.</p><p>William skewed his jaw and slumped his shoulders. Molly threw the duvet over the mattress and smoothed it out, before putting the pillows in position. With his bed made, Molly went about her duties and William sat sulking in his new bedroom. He peered through the windows where the shadows of the trees stretched far and long. After a while he cautiously left the corner room and crept along the hallway, checking the lock on his bedroom door which was indeed, very secure. Stepping as lightly as he could in his heeled shoes, he descended the stairs and overheard Beverly speaking to someone on the telephone. He eavesdropped for a moment. “I'll keep you posted, but he's grounded for the time being.” his stepmother said before hanging up. “I can hear you creeping about!” she said. </p><p>Bashfully, William revealed himself. “Sorry.” he murmured.</p><p>“No need to apologise. You're not confined to your room.” his step mother said. “You can go outside if you want, providing you don't leave the grounds.” she added.</p><p>“I don't want to go out dressed like this.” he muttered. </p><p>“Well you'll have to at some point.” she told him. “That was your mother on the phone.” she told him. William's face brightened in an instant. “She wanted you to know that Vicky has been released without charge...”</p><p>“Oh good!” William said. </p><p>“...and the money she spent taking you to Gallopton will be repaid from your allowance.” Beverly added.</p><p>“OK.” William replied. </p><p>“And that includes both your train ticket and Vicky's, as well as her return fare.” she told him. “So that's around two-hundred and thirty pounds.” she said. “How long do you think it will take to repay that?” she asked. </p><p>“Twenty three weeks.” William replied. </p><p>“Yes.” his step mother replied. “Pretty much between now and the new year.” she informed him. “I've spoken to your father and he agrees that it's only fair that your punishment last at least as long as the repayment period.”</p><p>“You mean... I have to dress like a girl for the rest of the year?!” William gasped.</p><p>“Yes.” Beverly replied, smiling wryly. “So you'd best get used to your frilly knickers and prissy little dress, Miss William.”</p><p>“But...!”</p><p>“But nothing!” she snapped. “Had you not disguised yourself as a girl in order to evade the police, dressing you as a girl to punish you would never have crossed my mind... so you've only got yourself to blame, young man.” she smugly informed him.</p><p><br /></p>PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-31904014889898135412022-01-01T12:32:00.009-08:002023-01-23T00:45:32.180-08:00No Surprises<div style="text-align: left;"><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Kenny Linch is
getting a Play Station 5 for Christmas.” I mentioned to my mother
over breakfast one morning.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Lucky boy.” my
mother replied. “I hope his parents can afford one. They're still
not cheap.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know.” I
replied. “The FIFA game is like sixty-five quid!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.” Mum replied
as she buttered her toast. “Remember what we talked about before
your birthday?” she said. “I don't want you getting your hopes up
this year.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.” I replied,
glaring glumly for a moment into my cereal bowl.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">~o0o~</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--What you getting for Xmas?-->A
few days later. It's break time at school and me and a couple of
friends are sheltering in a doorway, keeping out of the icy biting
wind. Robert said he was hoping to get a gravel bike for Christmas
and Peter said he'd got a CX bike for his birthday. “I'd like a PS5
but my folks can't afford one.” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Kenny Linch said
he's getting one.” I commented.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm surprised he
hasn't already got one. His Dad's loaded!” Robert claimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So what you getting
for Christmas?” Peter asked me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Petticoated.” I bluntly replied. His eyes widened and Robert's jaw dropped.<br /><br /></p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're kidding?”
Peter chuckled, somewhat nervously. I shook my head and gulped.
“You're not kidding!” he said. I skewed my jaw. “Jeez that
sucks.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” I frowned.
“Mum was gonna do it for my birthday but she decided to delay it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I thought you had to
be thirteen.” Robert said. “My cousin got petticoated on his
thirteenth birthday.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“My aunt reckons it
should be the twelfth birthday coz after that you're in your
thirteenth year.” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Have you got a
petticoated cousin too?” Robert quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nah. She's got two
daughters.” I stated. “What's your cousin like?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well he's about
twenty now so back to normal... but I remember him when I was a kid,
having to wear a dress every Sunday...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I can't believe
you're gonna be petticoated Mike!” Peter said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Me neither.” I
replied. “I can think of better things to get for Christmas.” I
dryly added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Will you have to
dress like a girl for school?” Robert asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Dunno.” I
shrugged. “I hope not.” I said. “Did your cousin?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Dunno.” Robert
shrugged. “I only really saw him on Sundays when we visited my
gran.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">~o0o~</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--You told Peter!-->A
week passed. “I bumped in to Peter's mum in town today.” my
mother told me as I sat quietly doing my homework. “You told him
about being petticoated.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” I replied.
“He asked me what I was getting for Christmas.” I added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh.” Mum said. “I
thought you'd have kept it to yourself.” she presumed. “Was he OK
about it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well he said he
couldn't believe it... and Robert said he had a cousin who was
petticoated.” I told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You told Robert as
well?” she quizzed. I nodded. “And was he OK with it too?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't know! They
didn't tease me but they weren't exactly envious either.” I
retorted, sighing.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.” Mum
responded. “I didn't think you'd tell anyone.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well they'd prob'ly
find out sooner or later.” I figured.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.” Mum said.
“So... what did Robert say about his cousin?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not much.” I
replied. “He's about twenty now so all back to normal.” I told
her, adding that he was petticoated on his thirteenth birthday.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's a year too
late according to Auntie Andrea.” Mum commented, before guessing
that Robert would have been about five years old when his cousin was
first petticoated.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” I
concurred. “He only saw him on Sundays when they visited their
grandmother.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So he'll have been
wearing a Sunday dress then?” Mum said. I nodded. She smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Will I have to wear
a Sunday dress?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course.” she
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Every Sunday?” I
asked. She nodded. “It's gonna be so weird.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only at first.”
she told me. “You'll get used to it in no time.” she claimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So... what did
Pete's mum say?” I asked after a moment of silence.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not much. I think
she thought Peter was making it up because she looked quite surprised
when I said you were. I also got the feeling that she didn't really
approve of petticoating, but she didn't say anything untoward.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.” I replied.
“I wish you didn't approve.” I glumly said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know.” Mum said
in a warm friendly tone. “It's only natural that you're...” she
began. “Actually... it's <i>nurtural</i> that you're hesitant.”
she said. “<i>Boys will be boys</i> and <i>girls will be girls</i>
are social constructs. Girls aren't born wanting to wear pretty
clothes; that's drummed into them from day one. It's the same for
boys. If the world was different a boy wouldn't bat an eyelid if he
was given a nice dress... just like girls don't bother when they're
given boyish clothes to wear.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But the world isn't
different. It is what it is and boys don't dress like girls...
well... not normally.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know... but
petticoating is changing the world one boy at a time.” she told me.
“You'll come out the other end a perfectly normal young man. You'll
have excellent school grades, a strong sense of self, plenty of
confidence and a much broader outlook than your peers.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah... but apart
from the grades, I’m not sure what all that means.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You don't need to
really.” Mum replied. “Think of it like all those kids who only
eat pizzas and burgers and fries... they don't understand why they
should have a healthy balanced diet, but when they're older and unfit
and possibly obese as well... they'll look back and wish they'd done
things differently.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But it's not their
fault. It's their parents that feed them loads of cra... I mean, bad
food.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Exactly.” Mum
smiled. “I don't want you being thirty years old; working in a
minimum wage job, wishing you'd done better at school and regretting
getting in with the wrong crowd... but ultimately it's down to the
parent to steer the child in the right direction so they can do their
best at school and curtail their social circles when they're at their
most vulnerable.” she explained, adding “If that makes sense?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I think so.” I
replied, although I wasn't really sure. It wasn't the first time she
talked about the ins and outs of petticoat discipline.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">~o0o~</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Teacher's chat-->It's
only a fortnight until Christmas and the last week of term before
school breaks up. It's registration and as the form teacher is
reading out the final few names from the register, the headmistress
enters the form room and smiles ominously in my direction.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Vanessa Watson.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Here Miss.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Paul Wilkinson.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Here Miss.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Andrew Woods.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Here Miss.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Claire Yates.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Here Miss.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Andrea York.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Here Miss.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The register is closed.
“Right class... don't worry. You're not in trouble.” the form
teacher said, turning her attention to the headmistress. The usually
stern woman smiles at the class, before asking me to stay behind
after the class has been dismissed. All eyes turn on me for a brief
moment before the school bell rings; then the room is filled with a
cacophony of scraping chair legs and clattering feet as everyone
grabs their coats and bags and filters out of the class room.
Everyone except me, that is.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">There have been
occasions when, after being assured that I'm not it any trouble, it
turns out I am in trouble, so I can't help but fearfully wonder why
the headmistress wants to speak with me. She and the form teacher
wait patiently for everyone to leave and once they have, the door is
closed. “Don't look so worried Michael.” the headmistress smiled.
“You're not in any trouble.” she assured.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... OK.” I
gulped. I wasn't convinced. She and my form teacher pulled up a chair
each, close to my desk.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Now....” the
headmistress smiled. “Your mother informed us some time ago that
erm... things are going to err... change... for you... over the
Christmas holidays.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh.” I said,
knowing exactly what this was about.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's OK. Don't
worry.” my form teacher said. “You're not the first petticoated
boy I've had in my class and you certainly won't be the last.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And you won't be the
only one in the school.” the headmistress added. “...and before
you ask, I shan’t tell you who the others are.” she informed me.
“Similarly your confidentiality is assured but occasionally...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I've already told
Peter and Rob.” I interrupted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh.” the
headmistress chirped. “Did you let something slip or err...?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No Miss... they
asked me what I was getting for Christmas and I said said I was
getting petticoated.” I replied. They seemed surprised. “I
mean... I’d rather not but... I am.” I told them. “Mum was
gonna do it for my birthday in the summer but decided to delay it 'til
Christmas.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” the
headmistress replied. “New year, new start.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How were Peter and
Robert when you told them?” my form teacher asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK I guess. They
didn't say much. They couldn't believe it but... Robert said he had a
cousin who...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Was petticoated?”
my form teacher said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes Miss... it was
years ago.” I said. She asked when I told my friends. I thought for
a moment. “Couple of weeks back.” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And no one else has
said anything to you about it?” the headmistress asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Err... no.” I
said. “Is this about them?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No no. Not at all.”
the headmistress replied. “We're just here to assure you that you
have our full support and if you experience any taunting, teasing or
bullying, to report it immediately.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... OK.” I
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Now... do you know
if your mother is planning on you attending school wearing the err...
girl's uniform?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... I don't know
Miss.” I said. “I hope not.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well, if you do...
we have a zero tolerance policy regarding any teasing or taunting of
petticoated boys.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'd have thought
you'd have a zero tolerance policy for that sort of stuff for all the
kids.” I said. “Petticoated or not... I don't want any special
treatment.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Stammering somewhat,
the form tutor said that they do have a zero tolerance approach to
all bullying of any student. “...we're not trying to single you out
Michael as some sort of 'special case'...” she said, performing and
air quote. “...but some of the other kids might single you out and
should that occur, we want to nip it in the bud, so to speak.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I said.
“Thanks.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Now the equal
opportunity policies we have to abide by means we can't stop a parent
or guardian from sending a petticoatee to school wearing the girl's
uniform. Sometimes it happens only occasionally if you've been
misbehaving at home or... we did have a boy who wore it day in day
out for several terms, similarly his PE kit, swimming class...” she
explained.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well err... like I
said, I hope Mum doesn't but... if I have to wear it I have to wear
it.” I shrugged. “I s'pose I'd better ask her.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” the
headmistress replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“May I add that it's
not just on the school grounds... if anything happens on the way to
or from school, or even at the weekends or during the holidays... if
it involves one of our students, we want to know about it.” my form
teacher said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes... absolutely.”
the headmistress concurred.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK. Thank you.” I
said. “Shall I err...” I began to stand. “...get myself to
class.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... not just yet
Michael.” my form teacher replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes there's still a
couple of other things to discuss.” the headmistress added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh, err... OK.” I
said, sitting myself down.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Now... as mentioned,
you're not the first petticoatee we've had and you won't be the
last... and whilst we don't want to single you out as a 'special
case'...” the headmistress said, performing an air quote. “...the
simple fact remains that as a petticoated boy, you are a [cue another
air quote] 'special case'.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Or... will be...
next term.” my form teacher interjected, smiling, briefly.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” the
headmistress concurred. “<u>You</u><span style="text-decoration: none;">...</span>
<span style="font-style: normal;">will </span>be expected to be on
your <span style="font-style: normal;"><u>best</u></span><span style="font-style: normal;">
</span>behaviour at <span style="font-style: normal;"><u>all</u></span>
times.” she informed me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I usually am
Miss...” I stated.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Usually.” my form
teacher said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The headmistress
continued. “We will not tolerate any disruptive behaviour, teasing,
taunting or bullying, rudeness, back-chat, lateness, truancy,
incomplete or late homework assignments...” The list went on and
on, so much so my mind began to wonder. “...as a petticoated boy,
you're a heartbeat away from being put in isolation or being given a
half or full detention. Do you understand?” she informed me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... yes Miss.”
I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I hope so.” she
sternly replied. “Because being put in isolation or being given a
detention means you shall report to the school nurse first and
foremost and you <u>will</u> be put in a nappy.” she informed me.
My jaw dropped. “...and you shall remain in one until you arrive
home.” she stated. I wanted to say '<i>are you fucking kidding me?</i>'
but I knew she was being absolutely serious. “Your mother will be
informed and depending on the severity of your misbehaviour, may send
you to school the following day wearing another one.” I gulped. I
could feel the blood draining from my face. “Should that be the
case, which I sincerely hope it never will be... you shall report to
the school nurse before registration, again during morning break,
once again at lunch time and finally during your afternoon break.”
she told me. “Is that absolutely clear Michael?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes Miss.” I
humbly replied, feeling myself blushing profusely.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I certainly hope so
Michael.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I glanced at my form
teacher who cast me a brief yet friendly smile. “It'll never come
to that will it Michael?” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No Miss.” I humbly
replied. I was given leave to attend my class so grabbed my coat and
back. “Thank you Miss.” I said as I scuttled away. Technically I
wasn't in any trouble but I felt like I'd just been given the
bollocking of a lifetime. Talk about putting the fear of god in me!</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">~o0o~</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How was school
love?” Mum asked when I returned home.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You don't sound so
sure.” she said. “Has something happened?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not really... I was
kept back after registration so the headmistress could talk to me
about being petticoated.” I told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I see.” Mum
replied. “What did she say?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... first of all
it was just about if anyone teases or bullies me... but then she said
that if I misbehave in anyway, I'll be put in a nappy and then put in
isolation or given a detention.” I told her. “...and sent home
wearing it!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You won't misbehave
will you?” my mother casually replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I never do. It's
just the thought of it.” I fearfully replied. “I suppose you
already knew that?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum nodded. “I
figured it was best that the school told you since it's their rule
and not mine... but they did ask me to sign a consent form, which I
did.” she told me. My eyes widened as I realised my mother gave
them permission to do that. “It'll never come to that so long as
you behave yourself Michael.” she defensively claimed. “And
you'll be wearing nappies for bed anyway.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's one thing
wearing a nappy for bed, it's something else being put in one at
school!” I retorted. “...and having to walk home in it!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So long as you
behave yourself.” my mother casually reiterated. “Which I'm sure
you can. You've only had one detention since starting high school,
and that was for a stupid prank.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah but... the way
Mrs Trimble spoke, once I'm petticoated I'll get done for the
slightest little thing.” I whined.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Behaving is easy
Michael. Misbehaving takes a bit more effort. You've nothing to worry
about. The chances of you being put in a nappy at school are slim.”
Mum said. “Providing...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah I get it.” I
replied. I hoped the headmistress was laying it on thick for effect.
Being given a detention for the slightest bit of back-chat seems a
bit harsh. “Oh that's another thing.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Will I have to wear
the girl's uniform?” I asked. “When I’m petticoated.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You mean a skirt?”
Mum replied. “If you want to.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why would I <i>want</i>
to?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There's always a
handful of boys who don skirts in the height of summer because they
can't wear short trousers.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh yeah.” I
replied. “But you're not gonna make me dress like a girl for
school?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So long as you're
good, you can wear what you like.” Mum told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Cool. Thanks Mum.”
I smiled. “Mrs Trimble said if you wanted to send me in a skirt she
couldn't do anything to stop you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“She can't. The Law
says they can't specify one uniform for boys and another girls.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah I know that...
I’m just making sure I won't have to wear a skirt for school.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well like I say,
it's entirely up to you.” Mum smiled. “But you will have a school
skirt.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What! Why?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“To wear when you're
doing your homework.” she told me. I sighed. “You'll probably
prefer it to a pretty dress... which is what you'll be wearing <i>after</i>
you've done our homework.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah prob'ly.” I
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">~o0o~</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--The last day of term-->The
following Friday was the last day of term before school broke up for
Christmas. After that I'd have one more week of normality before
becoming a petticoated boy for the next.... I don't even want to
think about it. Lessons were so relaxed we may as well not have
attended. Some teachers conducted a quiz, others let us play games or
just chat, and most of them enthusiastically asked if we were all
looking forward to Christmas. “Yeah!” most would respond. I'd
murmur something vague, glancing at either Peter or Robert who'd look
at me with pitiful eyes.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">During the afternoon
break, we huddled in a doorway, out of the breeze. “I take it
you've not told anyone else what you're getting for Chrimbo?”
Robert said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No one else has
asked.” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So it's just us two
that know?” Peter asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You and all the
teachers.” I told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How do they know?”
he quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“My mum told them,
months ago.” I said, before telling him that Mrs Trimble and my
form teacher kept me back after registration on Monday to tell me
that they'll support me and that I need to report anyone who teases
or bullies me. “Apparently I’m not he only one, but they wouldn't
tell me who else is petticoated... not that I’d want to know .” I
told them. “So... have neither of you two said owt about me?” I
asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I told my mum but no
one else.” Peter confessed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Me too.” Robert
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I half expected it
to go round like wild fire after telling you.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well if it was me, I
wouldn't want anyone to know.” Robert replied. “So I didn't tell
anyone, apart from my mum.” he told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Same here.” Peter
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“My mum bumped into
yours a couple of weeks back.” I told him. “Your Mum thought
you'd made it up... or, that's what my mum reckoned when she asked
her about it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“She did.” Peter
replied. “I got told off for making up stories, then she apologised
after seeing your mum in Teen Scene.” he said. “She doesn't
approve. She reckons boys should be boys and girls should be girls.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So do I... funnily
enough.” I dryly retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I bet you do.”
Robert commented.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So what did your Mum
say?” I asked him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Same really...
although when my cousin was petticoated, she reckoned he needed it
'coz he was goin' off the rails.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you remember
that? ...coz... I was tellin' my mum and she reckoned you was only
like, five when he was thirteen.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I was seven... turns
out he's eighteen and not twenty.” Robert replied. “...and
yeah... I do remember because I had to wear a dress to his birthday
parties.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You wore a dress?!”
Peter and I blurted in unison.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” he frowned.
“He was being petticoated so he was wearing one, and his mum
requested all boys attending wore dresses too... so my Mum put me in
one of my sister's party dresses.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What was that like?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Bit weird but...
everyone else was wearing one so...” he shrugged. “But when he
was fifteen and I was ten I was like, nah... not wearing one.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You wore one every
year?! Blimey!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You kept that
quiet.” Peter said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you blame me?”
Robert replied. “...and it was only three times, and they weren't
mine... they were my sister's.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't know if that
makes me feel better or worse.” I replied. On the one hand, Robert
is the only one of us who's already had to wear dresses, but on the
other, it's over for him and I'm yet to begin.
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did your cousin know
he was gonna be petticoated?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't think he
did.” Robert said. “He cried a lot on his first birthday.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can we change the
subject?” Peter suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” I replied.
“I want one last week where I don't have to think about it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's gonna be
easier said than done.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know, but I’m
gonna try.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">~o0o~</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was <!--My last 'normal' week.-->the
quickest week of my life. I'd met up with Pete and Rob a couple of
times and we didn't mention the P word. At home it was another
matter. My big sister was back from Uni and she reckoned it'll be
fun, being petticoated... like having a little sister. Although Mum
insisted that I'll always be her brother, petticoated or not. Mum and
my sister were looking through some old photo albums, focusing on the
pictures from Christmas past rather than the summer holidays we
enjoyed. “Oh this one's nice.” they agreed, revealing a picture
of me aged nine. I'm proudly holding the Lego Hogwarts Castle that I
got for Christmas that year and my hair is hanging on my shoulders.
“You really should grow your hair out again... you looked so cute!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I was nine! Course I
looked cute.” I retorted. “I'll be thirteen in the summer.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'll also be
petticoated.” my sister said. “If you grew your hair out again
you'd look like a girl.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't want to look
like a girl.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Maybe not today but
what about when you're wearing a dress?” she said. “Would you
rather people think you're a girl or know you're a boy?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't know.” I
frowned. I tried to imagine myself in a public place, dressed as a
girl yet looking like a boy. “Everyone's going to know I'm a boy
anyway.” I figured.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not if you grew your
hair again.” my sister stated, once again showing me the photograph
taken on Christmas day, three years previously. “What do you think
Mum?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's entirely up to
your brother.” Mum replied. “People who don't know him will
probably think he's a girl whether he's got short hair or long
hair... but what we don't do with petticoated boys is pretend that
they're girls.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's the point of
making me dress like a girl then?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“To curb any
boisterous urges.” Mum replied. “It's been well documented that
boys behave better when they're dressed like girls.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I behave myself
anyway.” I reminded her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum told me that in
that case, the only way is up, before embarrassing herself by
bursting into some ancient old eighties song and dancing along.
“<i>...baby... for you and me nowwww.</i>”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum and my sister spend
a lot of time rummaging through boxes in the attic and I knew they
were sorting through her old things for me. I'd overhear her saying
stuff like <i>Do you think this'd fit him?</i> and Mum saying <i>No
but he'll grow into it</i>... and <i>these are cute</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
followed by </span><i>I know, I can't wait to see him in them</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span>
The attic isn't a pokey space at the top of the house, it's a floor
in itself with a landing, a large dusty attic room, a small box room
and several storage spaces in the eaves. Every time I crept up the
attic stairs to find out what they were doing, Mum would hear the
creaky steps and tell me to go back down stairs. As well as sorting
things in the attic, they were also sorting though my things and I'd
say stuff like <i>Can I keep this?</i> and Mum'd say <i>Well you
won't need it, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">or</span><i> you
won't read it, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">or</span><i>
you're too old for toys like that</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
I couldn't fathom her logic; my Woody from Toy Story toy was to keep,
but Buzz Lightyear had to go. I could keep the Lego Hogwarts but not
the Minecraft Fortress. When I noticed that half of my books and
boardgames had gone I crept up to the attic to see where they were,
but no matter how lightly I trod on the stairs, they creaked and
alerted Mum. “The attic is out of bounds in December Michael... you
know that!” Mum told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">It's
where she always hides the Christmas presents, but that's not what
I'm looking for. “I know I'm just getting loads of girl stuff for
Christmas... I'm looking for my Harry Potter books.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">You
don't need them this instant and the attic is out of bounds.” she
stated. “Down you come, and don't let me catch you sneaking up
there again.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Sorry.”
I murmured as I descended the stairs, each one emitting its own
distinctive creak</span>. “I wasn't looking for Christmas
presents.” I told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know you wasn't.”
Mum replied. I've seen half of them already because Mum has made no
bones about me seeing some of the things she's bought me, such as a
girls Xmas jumper with a reindeer and its name Dancer in glittery
lettering. I also saw a girls hat, scarf & gloves set on the
kitchen table, and Mum told me that they're for Christmas before
packing them away, and several pairs of 'girls winter tights' with
snowflake and star patterns, which I was also told are for Christmas
before being put away... but worst of all was a few days ago when I
couldn't help but blurt what the packaging stated... “Boy's
knickers!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They do make them
for boys.” Mum told me. “...and they're for Christmas so leave
them be.” she added, putting them away<span style="font-style: normal;">.
</span>Part of me wondered if I was better off knowing what was
coming or if, like Robert's cousin, it’d be better to know nothing
until the last minute. I figured I was better off knowing and
thinking about it, if I had been petticoated on my twelfth birthday,
I'd have been six months in by now and probably totally accustomed
the being a petticoated boy. It's too much to process so I tried not
to think about it, but that's so much easier said than done.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<p align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">~o0o~</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Christmas Eve-->Christmas
Eve was upon me. My final day of normality. Mum allowed me to meet up
with Peter and his sister in town. She gave me a five pound note with
which to buy my sister something nice. “I've already got her a
present.” I replied, that being a box of Thornton's chocolates.
When I met my friend, his sister immediately asked if I was the boy
being petticoated.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Helen!” Peter
blurted. “We don't mention the P word.” he told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sorry.” she said.
“Must be a bit daunting.” she said, smiling empathetically at me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just a bit.” I
replied. She asked if I was 'all set' which means, have I bought all
of the gifts I'll be giving, so I told her I had to buy something for
my sister. “She's nineteen.” I told her, adding that I have a
five pound budget. She suggested Thornton's chocolates. “I've
already got her some of those.” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How about a nice
soap and shower gel set?” she suggested. “Bayliss and Harding do
some nice ones.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Where's that?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's not a shop its
a brand.” she grinned, and promptly marched us to TK Maxx.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">There was huge
selection to choose from and plenty priced at five pounds; mostly
packaged in pink and flowery boxes. I'll probably be unwrapping
something like this myself, I figured as I chose a set that Peter's
sister suggested. The route to the counters took us through the girls
clothes section and Helen stopped a few times to admire a skirt, then
a dress, then the handbags. I felt completely out of place in the
girls' department, as I expect Peter did too... but I couldn't help
but wonder if I'd soon begin to feel comfortable amongst the skirts
and frocks and flouncy tops in any of the high street shops. The
toiletries set was gift wrapped free of charge at the counter, in
pink sparkly paper and tied with a baby pink ribbon. “Didn't you
get a carrier?” Peter asked as I joined him, clutching the overtly
girlie gift. I didn't think about that. Maybe I should have, but it's
too late now. “People might think it's for you.” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No they won't.”
his sister said, before asking if everyone knows that I'm going to be
petticoated.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I told her that Peter
and Robert know... and all my teachers at school. “But it's only a
matter of time I guess.” I mused.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No offence Mike but
I'm glad it's you and not me... I'd be mortified.” Pete told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I am mortified.” I
replied. “And will be even more tomorrow.” I said, looking at my
sister's gift. “This is probably what <u>all</u> <span style="font-style: normal;">my</span>
Christmas presents are gonna look like.” I frowned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Is it your birthday
tomorrow too?” Helen asked me. I shook my head. “Huh... I thought
boys were always petticoated on their birthday.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not me.” I
replied. “But my mum was thinking about doing it then.” she asked
when my birthday was, then asked how long I’d known. “Since
summer.” I told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Weird.... normally
they're just dropped straight in it... no warning, no nothing.” she
told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I think it's cruel
doing it like that. One day you're hoping to get a new bike or a
games console, the next you've got dresses and make-up.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I suppose they drop
them in at the deep end so they don't run away or something.” Helen
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's what I'd do.”
Peter said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And go where?” I
asked. “You're twelve.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'd only get
caught and put in one of those petticoating boarding schools where
they make them wear a nappy instead of knickers.” his sister told
him. Peter claimed she was making it up and I'd never heard of such a
place, but Helen was adamant that there are boarding schools that
enforce petticoating and that the boys at least have to wear nappies
at bedtime. “...so I guess it could be worse, Mike.” she said to
me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” I replied,
before suggesting we change the subject.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We browsed the gaming
shops and loitered outside a couple of girls clothes shops whilst his
sister went inside. First she spent ten long minutes in Teen Scene,
then wanted to go into Candie Girl. “Don't be ages.” Peter told
her. She suggested we could come inside. “No thanks.” we more or
less said in unison. “She's takin 'ages.” Peter moaned after five
minutes.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The sign above the door
has big pink letters with heart shaped dots over the i's. The display
on one side of the door was of winter coats and boots, the other is
sparkly dresses. “It must be freezing wearing a dress at this time
of year.” I commented.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'll have tights.”
Peter said, adding that plenty of girls at school don't even wear
those in the winter. “Will you have to dress like a girl next
term?” he asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No... thank god.”
I replied. “Would you still me my mate if I did?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Course I would.”
he told me. “It'd be a bit weird to begin with but after a while
it'd just be normal I guess.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's what my mum
keeps sayin'.” I said, sighing. “You won't be offended if I don't
invite you round to my house?” I quizzed. “I think my bedroom's
supposed be getting redecorated...” I added. “...so it's like a
girls room... which will be pretty embarrassing.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Blimey!” he
grimaced. “Will you still be allowed to come to mine?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I hope so... and Mum
said I wouldn't have to dress like a girl <i>all the time</i>.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just most of the
time?” he said. I nodded. “Finally!” he said when his sister
exited the store. “You were ages.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well there's lots to
look at.” she said. A couple of Candie Girl bags hung from her
hands. She checked the time and said we should think about heading
home soon. “Do you have a curfew Mike?” she asked me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Mum just said home
before dark.” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We browsed a couple
more gift shops before parting company. I said my goodbyes and Helen
gave me a hug, which was nice I suppose, before giving me one of the
Candie Girl bags. “I got you present. I hope you don't mind and I
don't mind if you don't like it.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He won't want owt
from there Helen!” Peter exclaimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He was right, but
politely I said it was OK and thanked her. “Have a good Christmas.”
I said. “I guess I'll see you on the other side.” I glumly added.
“And... thanks again for this.” I said to his sister.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hope you like it.”
she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I walked home with the
pink gift wrapped present for my sister in one hand and the pink
Candie Girl bag in the other. Mum asked if I'd had a nice time.
“Oh... you got her something from Candie Girl?” she presumed,
noticing my carrier bag.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Err... no... I got
her this.” I said, raising the pink wrapped package. “Peter's
sister gave me this.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What is it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Dunno.” I
shrugged. “Something girlie I guess.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“A Christmas
present?” she asked. I nodded. “Well put it under the tree.”
she said. Whilst I was out, the base of the tree has been stacked
with numerous gifts; each and everyone in girlie gift wrapping. I
froze as I noticed them. “They're not all for you.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Phew.” I replied.
Mum smiled. “Are we allowed to open one gift before bed this year?”
I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course.” she
told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I wanna see what
Helen got me.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'll have to wait
for morning to open that. I've already decided which one you're going
to open tonight.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's not gonna be a
nightie is it?” I knowingly replied, having seen a girls nightwear
set, age 12-14 on the sideboard a couple of weeks ago.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's a surprise.”
she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm not gonna get
any surprises this year.” I told her. “Unless you've decided
you're not gonna petticoat me after all.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“After all the money
I've spent on nice things for you... that's really not going to
happen.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know.” I glumly
said. Mum smiled down on me. I hated the idea of being petticoated
but I knew she was doing it because she loved me. “What?” I asked
and her smile grew ever more empathetic.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... I do feel
the need to forewarn you of something.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What?” I
cautiously asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... your
petticoating starts tomorrow.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know that.” I
murmured.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And tomorrow starts
at midnight.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Err... yeah.” I
cautiously replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... that means
you have to wear your first bedtime nappy tonight.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Whaaaat?!” I
whined. I tutted. “I thought that would be tomorrow.” I huffed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's an important
part of your changeover that you're petticoated when you wake up.”
she told me. “But you won't have to go to bed early... you can go
at your usual time, one last time.” she added as if that was some
sort of consolation I'd be grateful for.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But that's not fair
Mum. I thought today was my last day when everything would be
normal.” <span style="font-style: normal;">I whined.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
tomorrow's your first day of being a petticoatee, and you need to be
aware of that from the moment you wake up, which is why you need to
wear a nappy tonight.” she told me. “I'm sorry.... maybe I should
have waited until bedtime to tell you?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">At
least I wouldn't have spent the rest if today knowing I'd have to
wear a nappy </span><i>tonight</i><span style="font-style: normal;">...
I thought that was tomorrow!”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm
sorry my love... but either way, you'd have been wearing it tonight
and you’d still wake up wearing it tomorrow... and your first pair
of knickers won't seem so bad after a nappy... do you understand?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
guess.” I sighed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's
up?” my sister asked, entering the kitchen and hearing my woeful
tones.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Petti-stuff.”
Mum told her. “Nothing you need to worry about.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Mum
says I have to wear my first nappy tonight instead of tomorrow.” I
grumbled.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh.
I see.” my sister said. “Well, that's not so bad considering you
were supposed to be petticoated six months ago.” she told me.
“...and even then, you'd have had to wear your first one the night
before your birthday, isn't that right Mummy?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It
is.” Mum replied. “It's just the way it's done.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.”
I mournfully said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What do you want for
supper tonight?” Mum asked. “Anything you want. Burgers, Pizza,
KFC?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can we get KFC?” I
enthused.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes but it will be
very busy tonight... it'll be a long wait.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not if I pre-order
through the app.” my sister said, getting out her phone. “What
time do you want to eat?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“About an hour?”
Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My sister tapped and
swiped, ordered a boneless family box, plenty of fries, wings, some
sides and the drinks. “All done Mummy.” she smiled. “It'll be
ready at six-forty-five so if I set off at half past...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's amazing what
you can do on the phone these days.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You wanna come with
me?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can I?” I
enthused. There's no excitement in going to KFC and back but I've
never been in my sister's car before so being driven somewhere by her
rather than by Mum is what I'm looking forward to. Half an hour
quickly passed before my sister grabbed her car keys and handbag. Mum
told me to be good as we left. “I will.” I said, although I
struggled to think how I could possibly misbehave just going across
town and back with my sister. “Can I sit in the front?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Course you can....
one last time.” she replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I opened the door and
climbed in, pulling it shut. She got in the driver's side. “Why is
it one last time?” I quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Because there's lots
of little rules for petticoated boys and one of them is they only
ever sit in the back of a car... so this is the last time you'll be
allowed in the front seat.” she told me. “Here, hold this on your
lap.” she said, passing me her handbag.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm...” I
grimaced, not actually wanting to hold the dainty pink satin bag with
it's girlie bow design and sparkly clasp.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's nothing to be
afraid of.” she grinned. “...and you'll have handbags of your own
soon enough.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's gonna be so
horrible having to dress like a girl.” I told her, nervously
holding her handbag.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Only 'coz you've
dressed as a boy your whole life. You'll have loads more choices
after tomorrow.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I won't. It'll
just be dresses and skirts.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah but there's
loads of different types of dresses and loads of different types of
skirts.” she told me. “Plus you'll have long pants and short
pants, cropped pants and pedal pushers, jumpsuits, play-suits,
dungarees, culottes... shirts and blouses, T shirts, vests and
camisole tops... you'll be overwhelmed with how many different types
of clothes you'll have to choose from.” she told me. “I'm looking
forward to teaching you how to mix and match and accessorise.” she
smiled. “I know you'll always be my brother but it'll be like
having a new little sister.” she said. “And we've sorted out
loads of my old clothes for you, so it won't just be prissy little
girl dresses like most petticoated boys have.. you'll be able to be
fashionable and trendy as well.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I just want to be a
normal boy.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You will be. And
Mummy's only doing this because she loves you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's the other
thing that's going to be weird.... having to call her 'mummy' again.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'll be normal
before you know it, and little things like that, and going back into
bedtime nappies is to help you not grow up too quickly... which can
be a big problem for a lot of teenage boys.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah I know.” I
glumly replied. I didn't know, to be honest, but Mum has talked to me
about it sporadically yet extensively in recent months so much so
that even in my ignorance I feel like I understand why I need to be
petticoated. “It wouldn't be so bad if every boy had to do it...
but I feel like I'm the only one.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There's quite a few
boys at university who were petticoated. It's easy for us women to
spot who they are because they're respectful and humble and
intelligent and talented... the others who weren't act like over
grown children, treating the campus like a school yard.” she told
me. “You won't fully understand for years to come but a little bit
of girl time goes a long long way.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The next three and a
half years is more than <i>a little bit</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
of girl time.” I sighed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
does seem like a long time but at the end, it'll only count for
around twenty percent of your life... that's one fifth, which is a
small portion.” she told me. “When you're twenty-one it'll be a
seventh and when you're thirty it'll be one tenth... not long at all
in the great scheme of things.” she said as we turned into the
retail park that is home to KFC.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
I suppose when you put it like that.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">She
found a parking space close the entrance and asked for her handbag.
Checking the app on her phone she said we were five minutes early and
thus had a five minute wait. She propped the phone on the dashboard
where it displayed a countdown, and after topping up her lipstick,
she handed the handbag back to me to hold. “Hey do remember going
to Auntie Sandra's wedding?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Vaguely.”
I replied. “Why?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
reckon my bridesmaid's dress might fit you. I'd love to see you in
that.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Eugh.”
I grimaced. “Was it flowery?” I recalled.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No
it was ivory.” she replied. “The flowery one was for Janice and
Ken's wedding... that'll be far too big for you.” she informed me.
“Right... two minutes.” she said. “I'll be back in a tick.”
She grabbed her phone, opened the door and got out.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't
you need this?” I said, holding out her handbag.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I've
already paid, you hang on to it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The
door slammed shut and I found myself alone with the girlie pink
handbag in my hands. I gulped at it... </span><i>you'll have
handbags of your own soon enough</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
I recalled my sister telling me. “Handbag</span><span style="font-style: normal;"><u><b>s</b></u></span><span style="font-style: normal;">.”
I said to no one but myself, dwelling on the plural. That means more
than one, I mused. All the time I've been worrying about being
petticoated I've focused mostly on the dresses.. but there's so much
more; handbags, heels, lipstick, hair clips and the prospect of
having my bedroom redecorated so it's like a girls room with pink
wallpaper and Barbie bedding.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">I
was so lost in my thoughts (and fears) that I jumped out of my skin
when my sister opened the car door. She gave me her phone to put in
her handbag and put the KFC bag in the rear foot well. “I hope
Mummy's remembered to warm some plates.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
don't have to call her Mummy... it's me who has to do that, from
tomorrow.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
know... but if it helps you adapt, I don't mind calling her Mummy
too... in fact I quite like it. It feels more friendly than 'mum',
don't you think?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
infantile.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah
but that's the point.” she said as she started the engine. “It's
still nice though.” she added. “Mum's too blunt. Mother's too
formal and Mummy's just right.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.”
I responded. Given the choice I'd prefer 'mum' but like many things
in a twelve years old like, most choices aren't mine to make. “Well
I’m not gonna call her 'mummy' until I have to.” I retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
is that when you're wearing your nappy or your knickers?” my sister
asked. I didn't reply. We barely chatted at all on the way back.
“Penny for your thoughts.” my sister eventually said. “What are
you thinking?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
I don't know. All sorts of things.” I sighed. “This time
tomorrow'll be my bedtime.” I grumped, glancing at the digital
clock on the dashboard which reads eighteen-fifty-four. “Seven
o'clock's way too early.” I whined.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It
does seem very early.” she agreed. “But rules are rules... and
it'll be eight o'clock when you're thirteen.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And
it'll still be eight o'clock when I'm fifteen.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well
it's better than burning the candle at both ends.” she said. “Some
of the boys at uni stay out partying 'til the early hours and can
barely stay awake in their lectures... it's stupid really because
they're wasting their education. Being petticoated means you'll get
the most out of yours.” she told me. Mum has said the same time
after time after time. It's like a mantra being drummed into me.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We're
back Mummy.” my sister hollered as we entered our home.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
good. I've warmed some plates.” Mum replied. “And the Amazing Mr
Blunden is about to start.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
I love that film.” my sister gushed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's
a new version. Not the old one.” Mum warned her. I'd never heard of
it but it ticked the Christmas ghost story box. We chomped through
the KFC sat in front of the TV.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can
we open a present after supper, Mummy?” my sister asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of
course.” Mum smiled. “But only a small one.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Once
we'd had our fill, my sister offered to clear the plates and cutlery,
again addressing her as 'mummy'. I offered to help but avoided the
infantile address. “It's weird you saying 'mummy' all the time.”
I said as I put the KFC bags in the kitchen bin.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">We'll
get used to it.” she smiled. We returned to the living room and on
the coffee table was three small gifts. “This one's for you.” my
sister said. It</span>'s a small gift, very small, so small in fact
that I can only think that it might be some lipstick.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No it's not
lipstick.” Mum smiled as I began to peel off the wrapping.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I discarded the paper
and carefully opened a tiny cardboard box. “A key?” I quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“A door key.” Mum
smiled. “Which room do you think it might be for?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I've no idea.” I
replied. “The only doors that have locks are the front door, the
back door and the doors in the attic.” I thought. “...and the
garage, and shed.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well it's not for
the garage and it's not for the shed.” Mum replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And the front and
back doors have Yale locks.” my sister added. “So let's have a
look upstairs shall we?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--My new bedroom-->My
sister and mother followed me up to the attic. The stairs,
predictably, creaked underfoot. First I tried the door to the larger
attic room, but the key didn't fit. But it slotted straight into the
lock of the small box room which, last time I saw it, was packed full
of all the things we didn't want yet hadn't got rid of; appliance
boxes, suitcases and old dining chairs. I turned the key and pulled
the door open. I gasped and froze. The small room has been cleared
out and thoroughly cleaned. A wood framed single bed fills a third of
the available floorspace. On it is a lilac duvet set with a butterfly
pattern in pink, purple and blue, and perched on the pillow is my old
cuddly Woody toy, along with Jessie the cowgirl and Bo-Peep, both of
which belonged to my sister. A wooden bedside cabinet with heart
shaped handles fits between the bed and the wall. On the floor beside
the bed is a Hello Kitty rug, but other than that, the floorboards
are bare. “Is this my bedroom now?” I eventually managed to
croak.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just until we get
your room redecorated.” Mum told me, prompting me to step inside.
The floor creaks under every step and even when standing totally
still, they continue to creak and squeak beneath me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">At the foot of the bed
is a dressing table with an ornate oval mirror and an old wooden
chair facing it. Next to that, a chest of drawers on which a small
fluffy pink Christmas tree is perched beside my Lego Hogwarts castle.
An empty clothes rail stands beside the door and above that, some
bookshelves containing my books and games, some of them anyway. My
sister said it was compact and bijou. I didn't know what that meant.
“Small and cosy.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you like it?”
Mum asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“At least it's not
been painted pink.” I replied, glancing around the plain white
walls and painted white furniture... although the neutral palette
made the pale pink drawer handles and other pastel and pink details
stand out all the more.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mum told that there's
plenty of clothes in the big chest of drawers and my nightwear is
stowed in the small bedside cabinet. “Knickers in the top, nighties
and jimjams in the middle, and nappies in the bottom drawer.” she
added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do I have to wear
one now?” I gulped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No you can watch
your film first.” Mum told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I timidly
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My sister suggested we
returned down stairs since the movie will have already started.
“These floorboards need sorting out.” she said as every step
creaked loudly under foot.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're fine as they
are.” Mum said. “And with Michael's new room being directly above
my room, I'll be able to hear if he gets out of bed in the middle of
the night.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“When are you gonna
decorate my room?” I asked as we passed by my proper bedroom.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We'll get Christmas
and New Year out of the way first.” Mum told me. “I've been so
busy getting the box room ready I haven't even thought about paint
and wallpaper for your big room yet.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I wasn't expecting any
surprises this Christmas but a new bedroom was a big surprise, doubly
so since it's so very small. The fact that it's not that girlie came
as a small consolation, but the Hello Kitty rug and two of my
sister's old cuddly toys were things that a twelve year old boy could
really do without.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It must be the
umpteenth time that I've watched Home Alone and there were moments
that I got so engrossed in the action that completely forgot about my
new room and impending new life... but only for a moment before the
reality came flooding back to me... <i>your nappies are in the bottom
drawer</i>. Those words seemed to echo inside my skull, over and
over.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">When the film finally
ended, Mum wasted no time in telling me to say goodnight to my
sister, before taking me upstairs. I loitered nervously as she
removed a pair of knickers from the top drawer of my bedside cabinet;
they're big and white and very frilly. “Do you want a nightie or
pyjamas?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm.... pyjamas.”
I timidly replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">She placed a neatly
folded set on the bed, alongside the knickers. They're white and
looked girlie, with lace and frills and baby pink piping. From the
bottom drawer she removed a folded nappy, and a pair of rubber
knickers, which she handed to me. “We'll get this on in the
bathroom.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The stairs creaked
noisily as we descended to the landing. She told me not to look so
frightened. “I'm not going to put you in it like a baby.” she
said. “It's big boys nappy that you put on yourself.” she
informed me. “But I need to show you what to do.” she added,
removing a tub of cream from the bathroom cupboard. She told me to
have a wee and insisted I sit because petticoated boys are expected
to sit whenever they use the toilet.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Like a girl?” I
moaned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Exactly like a
girl.” she said. She told me to undress and I told her it was
embarrassing doing so in front of her. “You've nothing I haven't
seen before, and once you know what to do you'll be allowed to get
ready for bed on your own... OK?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I frowned and nodded.
She opened the tub and told me what to do with the nappy rash cream,
then I washed my hands, dried them and pulled on the nappy, sniffling
as I did so. She apologised for the experience being so humbling for
me, but assured me and that it will get easier after a few weeks when
I'll be more accustomed. “Rubbers next.” she said. I pulled those
on and the elastic bit into the tops of my legs and waist. “They're
supposed to be snug but they're certainly not too tight.” she told
me after checking. “Right, hands, face and teeth.” she told me.
“I'll be up in your room.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I was glad to be on my
own and felt thankful that my little sniffle didn't turn into full on
tears. After brushing my teeth, I carefully opened the bathroom door
and made sure my sister wasn't anywhere near the landing, before
trotting across the carpet and up the creaky wooden stairs. Mum
smiled as I entered. The pyjamas were laid out waiting on my bed,
along with the big white knickers. She handed them to me. “Why do I
have to wear those if I'm wearing pyjamas?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're called
over-knickers... to wear on top of a nappy.” she said. I huffed and
pulled on the over knickers and Mum showed me the drawstrings; one on
each leg and another on the waist, each threaded through a small
metal heart shaped toggle. “These need to be snug but not too
tight.” she told me. “Otherwise they'll be uncomfortable.” she
said. “That's right.” she smiled. “Now these metal toggles have
a special magnetic lock which only I can undo, so don't bother trying
to take your nappy off. It stays on until morning.” she told me. I
began to silently panic. “And the drawstrings are made from Kevlar
which even a pair of scissors won't cut through.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So I'm locked in
it?” I gasped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just until morning.”
she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But... I don't have
to be locked into it Mum! That's cruel.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Unless you were
planning on taking it off the moment my back's turned, it makes no
difference.” Mum replied. “And it's Mummy from now on,
remember.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I hung my head, sulked
and said “You're treating me like a baby.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm not treating you
like a baby.” she insisted. “And we've discussed this plenty of
times before.” she said. “The problem with boys your age is you
want to grow up to quickly... and putting you back in nappies is to
remind you that you're still very much a child.” she told me.
“...and it's just for bedtime, providing you're good.” she said.
“Now jim-jams on and into bed.” she smiled. “And once you're in
bed you must stay in bed.” she instructed as I pulled on the
pyjamas. “No getting out and creeping about... if you need to wee,
you've got your nappy.” she informed me as I climbed into bed. “I'm
right below you remember so I'll hear if you do get out of bed.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I mumbled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Now give Mummy a
hug.” she told me, opening her arms.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Night night...” I
said, pausing, gulping and adding “...Mummy.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good boy. Night
night.” she stood and glanced around my room. She smiled at me one
last time before shutting the door and turning off the light (the
switch is on the outside), then locking the door. I gulped and cast
my eyes around the darkened room. It's late even for me and I'm
tired. I planted my head on the pillow and drifted almost immediately
to sleep.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I woke and it was still
dark outside, so other than it being before around 8.00am, I wasn't
sure of the actual time. My eyes were well adjusted to the darkness
and for a moment, I wondered where I was until I remembered that I'd
slept in the small box-room in the attic. I cast my gaze to the
dressing table with it's overtly feminine ornate oval mirror. How
many boys have a dressing table? I wondered as my eyes shifted to the
chest of drawers on which my Lego Hogwarts castle is displayed,
alongside the fluffy pink Xmas tree. I sigh and turn on my side and
spy the horribly cute rug on the floor. I turned over to see the
cuddly Bo-Peep, Daisy and Woody sitting next to my pillow. I didn't
mind having Jessie present but Bo-Peep is an overtly girlie doll who
sits grinning at me, as if amused by my predicament. My hand finds
the bulk of my nappy beneath my girlie pyjamas and despite having not
used it, I can't wait to get out of it. Knowing how creaky the floor
boards are, I daren't step out of bed so lay awake, patiently waiting
for Mum to unlock the door. “Oh and I have to start calling her
Mummy.” I muttered to myself, sighing at how infantile that's going
to make me feel each and every time I say it.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I suppose an hour
passed before the creaky attic stairs alerted me. The box room light
turned on before the door was unlocked and the round bag on the back
of the door was revealed to me. “Happy Christmas!” my sister
beamed as she entered my room. “Did you sleep well?” she asked,
perching on the edge of my bed. I nodded, frowned and pulled the
duvet up to hide the frilly details of my pyjamas. “How's your
nappy?” she asked me. I blushed instantly. “Mummy said you've got
to go and tell her if you're wet.” she told me</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm not!” I
blurted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK... let's go for
breakfast.” she grinned, tugging at my duvet. “Love your
jimjams.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're horrid.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No they're not.
They're my old ones.” she smiled. “Come on, it's Christmas Day!”
she beamed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah and all I'm
gonna get is loads of girl stuff.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nothing you wanted
but everything you expected.” she replied. I frowned and nodded.
“Aren't you gonna wish me a happy Christmas?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sorry... happy
Christmas.” I said. She smiled and opened her arms. We hugged for a
moment and I finally got out of bed. “Was this your rug too?” I
asked, planting my feet on the girlie Hello Kitty rug. She nodded.
The floor creaked, the attic stairs more so.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good morning.” Mum
chirped. “And happy Christmassss!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Happy Christmas
Mummy.” I glumly muttered.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How's your nappy?”
she asked, glaring at my bulbous hips.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I haven't used it.”
I defensively retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It doesn't matter
one way or the other.” Mum replied. “Do you want a glass of
orange juice, milk or a cup of tea?” she asked, directing the
question to both me and my sister.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Could I have tea
please Mummy.” my sister replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Tea please...
Mummy.” I said, before asking when I could get dressed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“After breakfast.”
she said, cracking a load of eggs into a pan.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oohh.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We enjoyed scrambled
eggs with croissants and brittle bacon before Mum took me up the
bathroom and released the drawstrings on my over-knickers using a
special magnet. “Right, over-knickers off, nappy in the bin and you
in the shower.” she said, telling me to make sure I rinse off all
the cream and wear a shower cap to keep my hair dry. “I'll fetch
you some normal knickers and you can put your pyjamas back on.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I couldn't see my usual
shower gel... just the floral scented stuff my Mum uses. And the only
shower cap is Mum's and that's got flowers on it too. At least the
'normal' knickers she fetched me were plain white with a thin lacy
trim; no frills or flowers and only one tiny bow on the front...
unlike my pyjamas which have frilled lacy cuffs around the ankles and
sleeves, a lace trimmed collar, a frilly yoke and baby pink piping.
“Are you warm enough or do you want a vest on too?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Knowing it'd be a
girl's vest, I said I'd be OK. Mum raised an expectant eyebrow.
“Mummy.” I glumly added. “Can I put my slippers on?” I asked,
glancing down at my bare feet.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... technically
you haven't got any slippers... but who knows what's under the tree?”
she gleefully replied. “Come on.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We went to the lounge
and my sister patted the seat beside her. I sat and she hugged me.
“You smell nice.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I had to use Mum's
shower... I mean... Mummy's shower gel.” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well it smells much
better than that Lynx stuff you used to use.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Here... I think you
should open this one first.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you.” I
replied, adding “Mummy.” as I took it from her. I read the gift
tag which predictably was addressed to me, and from 'mummy'. It's
wrapped in girlie pink paper which I slowly peeled apart to reveal a
pair of pink and white slipper socks with rubberised 'paw' prints on
the sole for grip.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">And so it began;
countless gifts in pink wrapping; most from 'Mummy', many of which I'd already seen when she'd left them laying around in the kitchen, such as the reindeer jumper and gilrie hat and goves set. I also have a few girlie gifts from
my sister, plus aunts & uncles, my grandparents and family
friends. Each was as girlie as the last, if not, more so. I had
several dresses, some skirts, blouses, T shirts and jumpers, tights,
socks, outerwear, underwear, a hat, scarf & gloves set, nighties,
toiletries and a make-up set which my sister said she'd show me how
to use later on. I got some shoes; with heels, and some more,
without. Some ankle boots with fur lining and a concealed wedge which
are possibly one of the least girlie gifts I received, and I got some
boot-cut jeans too, with butterflies and flowers embroidered on the
back of one leg. I also got some denim shorts but not the sort that
boys wear. They're short ones which my sister said would look really
cool with thick black tights, trainers and a casual hoodie. I guess
they would... on a proper girl. My casual hoodie is pink with an
Adidas logo on the back in pale blue, and my trainers are pale blue
with sparkly lilac stripes on the sides. I also got two handbags;
one, a casual denim one that's more of a messenger bag style, and the
other, a small shiny satin one for best.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It could have been
worse because as I understand it, most petticoated boys have to wear
really prissy dresses all the time where as most of my new clothes
are, all things considered, relatively normal. I guess if I had to
choose a favourite gift it would have to be the one that Peter's
sister Helen gave me... </p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEht7Sxw4ilfNNz3K00QTh4743CQJpDB8I5eFWHnWuimlUwWrnyKAtGb2dr_xj17de7yFVdvgRZ9gC3QWsl_wUJcRmn1cGefBERrS7baS_9oNG9ITtpYn5DTAi_aKSpHJhRlAUNybEpAx5gPDmAarzeCG3IMXu8pcp6_SvXVPACkYTvLzuAooQjVgQ=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="800" height="383" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEht7Sxw4ilfNNz3K00QTh4743CQJpDB8I5eFWHnWuimlUwWrnyKAtGb2dr_xj17de7yFVdvgRZ9gC3QWsl_wUJcRmn1cGefBERrS7baS_9oNG9ITtpYn5DTAi_aKSpHJhRlAUNybEpAx5gPDmAarzeCG3IMXu8pcp6_SvXVPACkYTvLzuAooQjVgQ=w384-h383" width="384" /></a></div><br /><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There's
no denying that it's a girl's T shirt but I could appreciate the
sentiment. I recalled Helen's words when she gave it to me; </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I
don't mind if you don't like it...</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
followed by </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I
hope you do like it...</i></span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
and I kind of do.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So...” Mum asked.
“...do you want to get dressed?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I guess.” I
reluctantly said. She let me chose, providing I wore one of my new
dresses so I chose the most sedate; a dark red frock with a plain
'crew' neck and no sleeves. I wore it for the rest of the day over a
white blouse and white tights, with a pair of shiny black Mary Jane's
strapped to my feet.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">If anything, I thought
I’d be overwhelmed with embarrassment wearing my first ever dress,
but if anything, it was a rather mundane experience, helped by the
fact that no-one outside of our immediate family would be visiting on
Christmas Day. We watched TV and enjoyed a hearty Christmas Dinner
followed by pear & ginger trifle. “I'll do the washing up
Mummy.” my sister said, but Mum insisted on doing it herself,
instead suggesting that my sister and I have a play with my new
make-up set. “Oh yes I'd forgotten about that!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Make-up-->We went
up to my room with my new clothes bundled in our arms. “Careful in
the stairs in your new heels.” my sister advised.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm OK.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're doing really
well.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're not that
hard.” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It took me ages to
get used to heel when I was your age.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're were probably
higher than these though.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No they were about
the same.” she claimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Where did all those
come from?!” I blurted seeing a load of clothes hanging from the
formerly empty clothes rail in my bedroom.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just a few of my old
things that should fit you.” my sister told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Those coupled with the
clothes I was given as Christmas gifts meant I had loads of girls
clothes. We hung my gifted clothes on hangers and put some in the
drawers, which also had more of my sister's hand me downs in them. My
clothes rail was now two thirds full. My sister said I had some nice
things. “...and they're not all really girlie.” she said, sliding
the hangers from one side to the other. “I used to love this one.”
she said, drawing my attention to a pale floral frock which she
unhooked and put at the end of the rail. “This one's pretty too.”
she said, admiring one of my new dresses, and putting that on the end
of the rail.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why are you moving
them?” I asked, not that I had any issue... I was just wondering.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm putting all your
Sunday dresses together.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What exactly is a
Sunday dress?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Something nice, and
conservative... the sort of thing you'd wear for church on Sunday.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't have to go
to church do I?” I feared.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No Michael, we're
still atheists.” she smiled. “But you will wear one on Sunday's.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Every Sunday?” I
asked. She smiled and nodded and sat me at my dressing table, laying
out all the various items and naming each in turn; eye shadow,
eye-liner, mascara, foundation and blush and lipsticks. “What's the
point of wearing make-up?” I moaned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“To look pretty.”
she told me. “...and before you say you don't want to look
pretty... you've got lots of pretty new clothes to live up to and you
don't want to look like a boy in a dress, do you?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But I will be a boy
in a dress” I sighed, adding “...or a skirt or whatever.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The point of being
petticoated is so you get lots of girl time, and that means doing
lots of girl things as much as it means wearing girl's clothes.” my
sister explained. “I know it all probably seems quite boring now
but...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's more than
boring... it's embarrassing.” I interjected. “Look at me... and
even this isn't so bad compared to what I have to wear at bedtime.
All my friends would freak if they knew I had to wear a nappy and
rubbers and frilly over knickers.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't worry about
your nappies. You're friends don't need to know about those and
Mummy's right... you will be asleep most of the time you're wearing
them.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know but...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Here... start with
this.” she said, handing me a flat round tin. “It's called
foundation.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What do I do with
it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well first, you put
a hair band on to hold your fringe back...” she said, opening a
small shallow drawer on my dressing table, to reveal a variety of
hair accessories. “...then you apply a very thin dusting of powder
all over your face.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I followed her
instructions and saw my familiar face become an unblemished even tone
all over; from ear to ear and hairline to chin. My sister said she'd
do my eye make-up for me but explained every step, from blending two
shades of eye-shadow, applying my eye-liner and tidying the line with
a cotton bud, and finally, applying my mascara. “You're gonna freak
when you see this.” she said, grinning.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why, does it look
bad?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No it looks great,
but I remember when I first saw myself with my eyes made-up and it
just looked soo different.” she told me. “Now make sure you don't
touch them. No rubbing or itching or you'll ruin it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can I look?” I
asked. She nodded. “Blimey I see what you mean!” I exclaimed.
“That doesn't look at all like me!!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well it does... it's
just you with make-up on.” she smiled. “Do you want to do your
own lippy?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... not really
but.” I replied, taking the unlidded lipstick from her. She told me
to apply it to the bottom lip only, then to roll my lips together
which puts a coat on my top lip. “And that's it?” I asked. She
nodded. “Is that OK?” I asked, looking at my reflection after
rolling my lips together.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Perfect.” she
smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Should I take this
off now?” I asked, referring to the headband. She nodded. My fringe
flopped onto my forehead and I looked in the mirror. My sister asked
my thoughts. “Well... I look weird but... I suppose at least now I
look like a belong in this dress.” I said, casting my eyes over my
dark red dress, prissy white blouse and white woolly tights.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My heart began to race
as we descended the stairs. I just knew Mum was going to shower me
with compliments, saying how lovely I look and blah blah blah. And
she did. We watched the Queen's speech which as usual, bored me
senseless and made five minutes feel like an hour, then with an
average Christmas movie on the TV, we played Trivial Pursuit and for
a while, I actually forgot I was spending my first day as a
petticoated boy... but not for long. As the time neared 6.00pm, Mummy
reminded me that it'll soon be time for my bedtime bath and that
bedtime is at seven o'clock sharp. “Ooh it seems so early.” I
moaned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know but you'll
soon get used to your new routine.” Mummy replied. “And boys your
age need all the sleep they can get.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But I didn't go to
bed at seven 'o'clock when I was eleven years old.” I pointed out.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No but had you been
petticoated when you were eleven, you would have done.” Mummy
informed me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And when you're
thirteen you can stay up 'til eight o'clock.” my sister added.
“Isn't that right Mummy?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It is.” Mum
replied, before suggesting she show me how to take my make-up off
whilst she runs my bedtime bath.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I hate these
floorboards.” I said as we entered the box room and the creaked
underfoot.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well Mummy needs to
know that you're in bed after bedtime.” my sister replied. “So
creaky as they are, they do serve a purpose.” she added. “...and
when you've adapted to petticoating you'll be able to have your old
bedroom again.” she told me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“When's that going to
be.” I asked as I sat in front of my dressing table mirror. “God
I look weird.” I sighed as I observed my well-defined doll like
eyes, porcelain sin and pale pink lips.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You don't look
weird, you just look lovely.” she told me. “And I suppose you'll
know when you've adapted because you'll look at yourself with make-up
on and won't feel weird.” she reckoned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I donned the stretchy
fabric head band to hold my fringe off my forehead and from a drawer
in my dresser, removed a pack of make-up wipes, some baby-oil, cotton
buds and cotton wool balls. The wipes removed my foundation and
lippy, the balls removed my eye-shadow and the cotton buds swept away
my eye-liner, leaving my face blank and looking very very bland. Much
to my embarrassment, my sister helped me undress right down to my
knickers and training bra and wearing just those, she sent me to the
bathroom where Mum was waiting. “Did you bring a nappy and some
rubbers?” she asked. I grimaced and shook my head, before trotting
back to my room in the attic in my girlie underwear to fetch a nappy
and a pair of rubber knickers. I can't imagine ever getting used to
this... it's one layer of humiliation on top of another, and when
Mummy actually began to bathe me, it was even more humiliating. “I
need to make sure you're clean.” she said as she squeezed a big
pink sponge over my head, rinsing out the shampoo. “And you need to
condition your hair so it's nice and soft and shiny in the morning.”
she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After my bath, Mum
dried me with a big soft towel and covered me in talcum powder. She
handed me the tub of nappy rash cream and told me to make sure I
apply it properly, “...otherwise you'll get nappy rash which means
you'll need a nappy in the day until it's cleared up.” she warned.
“I'll be in your room.” she said, leaving me to don my nappy on
my own. Once again, I cautiously poked my head out of the bathroom
door to check the landing was clear before quickly trotting up to my
room. Mum smiled at me as I entered. On my bed lay a pair of frilly
white cotton over knickers and a pale blue nightie with frilly white
trim. I frowned at them, but didn't complain. Once ready for bed, Mum
asked me to choose a dress to wear tomorrow. “Now?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's as good a time
as any.” she said. “And you've still got a few minutes before
bedtime.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Can I wear my jeans
and the T-shirt Helen gave me?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's Sunday tomorrow
so you have to wear a Sunday dress.” she told me. “I can choose
one if you prefer.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I looked at the
selection; five or six in total and all too girlie for comfort. “OK.”
I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I think this one.”
Mum said, selecting the pale blue one. “It used to be your
sister's.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know.” I
mournfully replied as she hung it from the back of my bedroom door.
Mummy told me that when I wear a blue dress, that I need blue
knickers, a blue training bra and a blue vest. “OK.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I got into bed. We
hugged and Mummy left me alone, locking the door and turning the
light out. I huffed and sighed, feeling not the least bit sleepy. I
lay awake for hours and wet myself long before I drifted off to
sleep. <!--Boxing day-->On Boxing Day morning I discovered that my
nappies turn pink when wet, which means Mummy will always know if
I've used it or not. She let me and shower before breakfast and told
me that it doesn't matter if I needed my nappy or not. “It's there
just in case and it's better to wet your nappy than your bed.” she
told me, before sending me to my room to dress. “Matching knickers
and training bra remember... and don't forget to put a vest on.”
she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I moaned. My
sister had showed me how to put a bra on properly but it was still
really fiddly. The dress Mum chose was quite stretchy so pulled on
quite easily. I wasn't sure if I should wear tights or socks or which
shoes so I went downstairs barefoot.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mummy said I looked
lovely and my sister said it was so nice to see her old dress getting
some use again. “We'll do your make-up after breakfast.” she
added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Then we'll go to
Granny's.” Mum said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I can't go to
Granny's like this!” I gasped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We always go to
Granny's on boxing day.” Mum reminded me. “She knows you've been
petticoated and she knows you'll be wearing a dress, and auntie
Claire and uncle Paul and your cousins will be there too, and they
know you've been petticoated too.” she informed me.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A panic began to well
up inside me. Being dressed like a girl yesterday wasn't so bad
because it was just my mum and my sister... two cousins plus my uncle
and aunt and my grandmother is too many people too soon... but there
was no getting out of it. After breakfast, I donned a pair of thin
'nude' tights and my flat ballet style shoes and once again, my
sister helped me with my make-up. This time I did my eye-shadow
myself, but she did my eye-liner and mascara for me. I wore a blue
Alice band in my hair and Mummy told me that I needed my little satin
handbag. “What should I put in it?” I asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Your lipstick.” my
sister said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And a clean pair of
knickers, a nappy, rubbers and over knickers.” my mother added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What?! Why?” I
exclaimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Because petticoated
boys always carry clean knickers and a nappy... just in case.” Mum
relied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just in case of
what?” I whined.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just in case we get
stranded and have to stay overnight somewhere.” Mum told me. “You'd
need a nappy for bed and clean knickers in the morning.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” I frowned</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And the other reason
is if you misbehave.” she added. “Your knickers are a privilege,
not a right and if can't behave yourself you'll be put in a nappy and
everybody will know about it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">My jaw dropped. I felt
so self conscious knowing there was a nappy inside my handbag. In
fact that worried more than my dress as we exited the house. The
December air nibbled through my thin tights as we walked to Mum's
car, but my woolly dress coat felt nice and warm, although to look
at, it's clearly a girl's coat despite being navy blue. My aunt,
uncle and cousins were already at our grandmother's house when we
arrived, and to be honest, they didn't seem at all phased that I was
dressed like a girl. Granny said she didn't think my Mum was going to
go through with petticoating me, after delaying it from my birthday,
but added that she was glad she had. “My mother always said that
little boys are best behaved when dressed as girls.” she told me,
claiming that her brothers each had a Sunday dress when they were
boys. My cousin Samantha, aged fourteen, said she liked my dress and
auntie Claire recognised it as one of my sister's hand-me-downs.
Little Lottie is only five and probably too young to realise that
there's anything odd about a boy in a dress, and Uncle Paul didn't
comment on my attire at all, but did say I'd grown since he last saw
me, and asked how I was getting at school. All in all, they just
pretended it was normal that I was dressed like a girl and after a
short while, I kind of felt normal too.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The next day I wore
more casual clothes; a trendy canvas skirt that I'd got for
Christmas, with black tights and my new trainers, plus a peach
cardigan over a plain pink long sleeved t-shirt. Mummy put some
sparkly slides in my hair which looked a bit girlie but I guess
that's to be expected now I'm a petticoated boy. My sister continued
teaching me to apply my make-up and although I wasn't very good at
it, I was doing my own eye-liner and mascara, as well as eye-shadow,
foundation and lipstick. Practise makes perfect, my sister told me...
and I suppose it does.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">By new year's eve, I
began to feel like I'd got used to dressing in girls clothes everyday
but I hadn't got used to my bedtime routine. It was by far the most
humbling aspect of being a petticoated boy. If I didn't wet myself
before falling asleep, I’d wake in the middle of night, desperate
for the toilet and hang on for as long as possible before wetting
myself. It's horrible but as Mummy says, it's better to wet my nappy
than my bed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mummy took me shopping
on new year's day for some new school clothes and let me wear my new
jeans for the first time. When she said I could wear long pants for
school, I figured she meant the pants I'd always worn; boy's pants.
But no. She bought me several pairs of girl's school pants which have
their fastening on the side and a bow on the front, plus a school
skirt to wear whilst doing my homework, a pack of navy blue school
tights, some white pelerine knee socks and a new pair of school shoes
which, whilst being girl's shoes, are lace-ups so they’re not that
girlie at glance.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">We returned to school
on the 3<sup>rd</sup> and I was so embarrassed walking to school on
the first day of term wearing my navy blue dress coat and girl's
trousers over a pair of white knitted knee socks. I figured the best
thing to do was come clean, so when anybody asked why I was wearing a
girl's coat or girl's socks, or of anyone asked what I got for
Christmas, I'd shrug and tell them I've been petticoated. They didn't
know whether to laugh or pity me and I expect behind my back, my
classmates did both. No one teased or picked on me and my form
teacher kept me back after the afternoon registration and asked if I
was getting on OK, to which I'd apathetically reply “I guess Miss.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you think it's
wise telling everyone that you've been petticoated?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Would you rather I
lie Miss?” I smugly asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mummy asked how my
first day back had been and seemed surprised when I told her how my
classmates didn't know how to react when I told them that I'd been
petticoated. “Most boys try to keep it secret.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's the point of
that, Mummy?” I retorted. “There's no lie I can think of to
justify why I'm wearing a girls coat, trousers and socks.” I said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“True.” Mum
frowned. “Have you got any homework?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just an English
assignment.” I told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well go and put your
school skirt on. You can do it at the table in the kitchen.” she
told me. “...and bring that white Alice band down with you.” she
hollered as I left for my room</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I changed out of my
girlie school pants and pulled the skirt on. It's short, pleated and
charcoal grey and coupled with my pelerine knee socks, I look every
bit the school girl. I put the Alice band in my hair and checked my
reflection before returning downstairs. Mum said I looked lovely
before asking what my English assignment was. “Five hundred words
describing what I did over the Christmas Holidays.” I replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh.” Mum said,
seeming somewhat abashed.</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p><br /></div>PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-55816886008032317342021-04-05T07:20:00.012-07:002021-09-24T05:52:17.662-07:00Door to Door<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After numerous job
offers, all of which were followed by a rejection once they found out
about his past, Daniel is told by his work search advisor to go
door-to-door to find work. Daniel has issues with this advice as cold
callers are often met with suspicion, especially one who's currently
on probation. He runs the idea past his probation officer, with whom
he has a weekly meeting and the probation officer says that so long
as he's honest, polite and prepared for plenty of rejections, there
shouldn't be a problem with him going door-to-door to try to find odd
jobs. “What kind of odd jobs?” Daniel asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Anything really...
weeding, sweeping leaves, cleaning.” the probation officer
suggested. “Pack a rucksack with anything you think you'll need; a
trowel and garden fork, maybe a pair of secateurs, a dustpan and
brush, a roll of bin bags, dishcloths and dusters, a few cleaning
sprays, one for glass and one for wood, maybe one for plastic... use
your imagination.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And I’m supposed
to charge them?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The point of the
exercise is that you find work to earn money.” the probation
officer replied. “If you spend an hour weeding or sweeping leaves
then charge them seven or eight pounds... two hours, fifteen pounds.”
he suggested. “Think minimum wage.” he added. “But you will get
a lot of rejections and lots of doors slammed in your face. Just be
polite. Don't be pushy and if you do get lucky, work hard and fast
and thoroughly.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But... no one's
going to let someone like me into their house... and I can't lie
about why I'm going door-to-door.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't lie. Just tell
them that you're an ex-offender struggling to find work and you've
been sent door-to-door to satisfy your commitments in order to
receive Universal Credit, otherwise you'll be sanctioned, which means at least six weeks with no payments.” his probation officer tells him.</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p>
<span><a name='more'></a></span>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It doesn't sound
like the best sales pitch.” Daniel grimaced.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's the truth
though. Honesty is always the best policy.” the probation officer
told him. “It will feel like a fruitless task but you need to do
something to keep the Department of Work & Pensions happy.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But where?” Daniel
sighed. “I can't imagine many people on the Foundry Estate giving
out cash for odd jobs... and if I went up to Highgrove or Plushton
they'd probably think I was a burglar doing a bit of reconnaissance..
especially if I tell 'em I'm on probation.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Some people are more
trusting than others. It doesn't matter whether they live up in
Plushton or down on the Foundry... but at least up in Plushton
they've got large gardens and plenty of cash.” the probation
officer advised. “And make sure you're relatively smart; smart
jeans, an ironed shirt and clean shaven.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Plushton is one of
those exclusive villages on the far side of the greenbelt. The
probation officer googled a map of the village and printed a copy so
Daniel could keep track of all the streets he's 'knocked' and wishes
him the very best of luck. “I'm gonna need it.” Daniel said as he
put the map in his pocket.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Glumly,
he packs a rucksack full of all sorts of gardening and cleaning stuff
and spends an entire day knocking on doors and having them shut in
his face. He gets the odd taker but after three days, he'd been
offered only three odd jobs and earned the grand total of £18; three
for sweeping a driveway and garden path that took a mere twenty
minutes, eight pounds for spending an hour ironing a pile of bedding
and seven pounds for an hour's weeding.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">On Friday afternoon,
Daniel attends his weekly meeting with his probation officer, who
claims that the £25 he's earned in five whole days isn't a bad
start. “It's dire!” Daniel replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know it's not much
but it demonstrates that you're trying to find work and more
importantly, are finding work.” the probation officer replied. “I
trust you've got paperwork?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Er... yes.” Daniel
said, showing him the four handwritten invoices; each signed by the
householder and marked 'paid in cash'.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good.” the
probation officer replied. “So what's the plan for next week?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“More of the same I
guess.” Daniel apathetically replied. “I've only knocked half the
village so...” he shrugged.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The following week...
he does the same. Gets more doors shut in his face and the odd taker;
fifteen pounds for emptying the contents of a garage into a skip
which took a couple of hours, a fiver for sweeping some leaves. He
trimmed a hedge but didn't do a very good job so didn't get paid at
all for that. He knocked on several more doors to no avail until a
friendly middle aged woman who, after making it clear that she didn't
have any odd-jobs for him, chatted for a moment with Daniel and
empathised with his plight. “It's so hard for youngsters to find
work these days.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel agreed as a drop
of rain landed on his forehead. He cast his eyes skyward. “I'd
best be off Mrs... err....”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Haverthwaite.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'd best be off Mrs
Haverthwaite... I don't want to get caught in this rain.” he said
as another drop splatted on his shoulder.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite cast
her eyes skyward too. “Actually Daniel, there is something you
could do for me... I've got a stack of laundry on the line... would
you mind fetching it in for me... it'll only take you a tick.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course Mrs
Haverthwaite.” he replied. She directed him around the side of the
house to the back door, where she appeared with an empty laundry
basket and peg bag. She watched as he quickly unpegged each item,
swiftly folded them and dropped each in the basket. The rain pittered
and pattered around him as he brought in the washing and just as he
was making his way back to the house, the heavens opened and he
rushed to the back door. “Phew... that was close.” he said as he
handed her the laundry basket.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh thank you so much
Daniel... please, let me make you a cup of tea.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh no I'd best
er...” he paused and cast his eyes toward the window and the
torrential rain beyond.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You can't go out in
this... you'll catch your death.” she said. “Come in... I've
already put the kettle on.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you.” he
shyly smiled as he stepped inside and removed his shoes.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you take milk and
sugar?” Mrs Haverthwaite asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just milk, thank
you.” Daniel replied as he glanced around her large dated kitchen.
She pulled out a chair at the small dining table. “Thank you.”
Daniel smiled as he sat.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I must say you've
folded my laundry very neatly.” Mrs Haverthwaite commented as she
peered into the basket.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel smiled an
appreciative smile, but didn't reply. Mrs Haverthwaite placed two
mugs of hot tea in the table and slid one to him. “Thank you.” he
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're welcome.”
she said, sitting herself opposite. “So tell me, what odd jobs do
you tend to do?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Anything I can get
really.” Daniel replied, listing weeding, hedge trimming, sweeping
leaves, window cleaning, clearing gutters, “...and fetching in
laundry.” he smiled as the rain slammed against the window.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It seems fortuitous
that you turned up when you did.” Mrs Haverthwaite said as she
glanced at the rain. “I'd have got soaked to the skin.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Another minute out
there and I'd have got soaked too.” Daniel smiled before sipping
his tea. “Thank you for this.” he said. “I doubt the rain will
last too long.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It seldom does when
it's torrential.” she said. “Do you live locally?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not in Plushton...
in town.” Daniel told her, but didn't reveal that he's from the
run-down Foundry Estate. “I've been trying to find full time work
closer to home but these days you need a stack of A levels or a
degree before they'll even consider a job application.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So what kind of jobs
have you been looking for?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Anything I can get
really... labouring, factory work, shelf stacking...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Would you consider a
cleaning job?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah I guess.” he
replied. “I did do one day cleaning in the Old Mill shopping
centre... but they didn't ask me back and the agency haven't offered
me anything since.” he apathetically added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.” she replied.
“So cleaning isn't one of your strong points?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I did my best but
didn't really get chance to prove myself, or get to grips with the
floor buffer.” he told her. “That was driving me more than me
driving it.” he smiled. “But I think they didn't ask me back for
personal reasons... some of the other cleaners just stood around
talking rather than actually working.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I ask because I had
a regular cleaning girl until a few days ago and whilst I hold some
hope that she'll come back... I might be looking for a new cleaner.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You mean here?”
Daniel enquired.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes... it'd only be
two half-days a week; Tuesday and Friday from ten 'til one.” she
informed him, before listing some tasks including hoovering, dusting
and ironing.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I can certainly
iron.” he told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Really?” Mrs
Haverthwaite quizzed. “I was under the impression that most
youngsters avoid ironing like the plague.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I worked in the
laundry when I was er...” he paused and gulped, then frowned. Mrs
Haverthwaite looked upon him with an expectant gaze, waiting for him
to continue. “I'll be honest with you Mrs Haverthwaite... this is
usually the point when any offer of a job is withdrawn.” he told
her, before revealing that he's spent several months in prison.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I see.” he
cautiously responded. “Not for burgling old ladies I hope.” she
added in a stern yet jovial tone.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No... nothing like
that.” he replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Are you currently on
probation?” she asked. Daniel nodded. “So that explains why
you're struggling to find employment.” she said. Daniel nodded and
gulped. “Well I believe people deserve a second chance, but I would
like to speak with your probation officer.” she said. “...not to
find out what you've done but to make sure that I'm not putting
myself or my possessions at risk.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's fine Mrs
Haverthwaite... and I don't mind telling you what I did.” he told
her, before beginning to tell his story, only to be cut short.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Please, I don't want
to pry into your past or personal life.” she said, before asking
for the probation officer's name and number and said she'd try to
contact them later that day.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Err... OK.” Daniel
said, retrieving his phone from his pocket.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll need your
number too.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Course.” Daniel
smiled. She jotted the details down on a post-it note. Having long
since finished his cup of tea, Daniel said he'd best get going. Mrs
Haverthwaite grabbed her handbag and removed her purse. “Oh, no...
honestly Mrs Haverthwaite... I only did a couple of minutes work.”
he said as she removed a five pound note.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You saved both
myself and my laundry from getting soaked Daniel... that's got to be
worth something.” she said as she handed him the note.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel took it from
her. “Normally I'd charge a fiver for half an hour so if there's
anything else you need doing...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's very kind of
you, but no, not today.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel left with a warm
feeling in his heart, but the pessimist inside him felt he'd never
hear about the offer of her cleaning job again. He spent the rest of
the afternoon getting doors slammed in his face before sauntering in
a homeward direction.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Unbeknown to Daniel,
Mrs Haverthwaite contacted the probation service a few moments after
he left and spoke to his probation officer, explaining that young man
has been going door to door seeking odd jobs. “That would be
Daniel, I expect.” the probation officer said. They chatted for a
few minutes and whilst Mrs Haverthwaite insisted that she wasn't
trying to find out how Daniel got himself into trouble, she did quite
directly ask if he was either violent or a thief. “No no... nothing
like that.” the probation officer insisted. “Daniel's easily led
and just ended up with the wrong crowd in the wrong place at the
wrong time.” he informed her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Satisfied that her
instincts toward Daniel's good nature were correct, she sent Daniel a
text message that evening asking him to return to her home at 10am on
Friday morning, but stressed that she's only offering him a trial
rather than regular work at this stage. Daniel replied by text
thanking her and confirming that he'll be there.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Keen
to make a good impression, Daniel makes sure he's smart and
presentable for Mrs Haverthwaite. He irons a shirt, shaves his face,
puts a sharp crease on his best trousers, scrubs his fingernails,
polishes his shoes, combs his hair and sets off in good time. He
walks up the hill to Plushton; a village that enjoys a lovely view
over the valley in which the run down mill town and his home on the
grotty Foundry Estate are nestled. Despite wearing his smartest
clothes, Daniel feels like an intruder in the affluent village. He
becomes increasingly nervous as he nears Mrs Haverthwaite's house,
and takes a deep breath before knocking on her door.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<span>Daniel.”
the lady smiled. “Do come in.” she said. No shoes</span> are
allowed in the house but she does have a small selection of slippers
for her guests to wear. She gives him a routine which begins with
changing her bedding, giving her bedroom a quick tidy/dust before
vacuuming the carpet. Then he cleans the upstairs bathroom, followed
by dusting the furniture and balustrade on the landing and vacuuming
the landing carpet. After dusting the banister, he's on his hands and
knees sweeping the stair carpet with a dustpan and brush. The hallway
is dusted, its mirror polished and the floor mopped and dried. Next
comes the kitchen floor, followed by cleaning the utility room and
downstairs lavatory. Finally, he tidies the lounge, dusts the
furniture, plumps up the cushions and vacuums the carpet and rug.
Apart from changing her bedding, which is only done on a Friday, he
is expected to do all the above on both Tuesday and Friday... plus
any additional chores which she'll put on the fridge. Today, he also
cleans her dining room; dusting, polishing and vacuuming, and in
return she gives him £30 in cash.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Having never worked so
hard in his life, Daniel feels exhausted yet proud of his efforts as
he paces down the hill back towards town. Friday afternoon is the day
he has a mandatory meeting with his Probation Officer, so Daniel
heads directly to there and looks forward to telling his probation
officer that he's got one regular job; two mornings a week. “Well
done Daniel... but you'll need more than that if you're going to make
something of yourself.” the probation officer advised. Daniel
agreed and said he'd continue going door-to-door seeking odd jobs
every Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel spent the
weekend killing time milling around his bedsit, watching TV, eating
inexpensive ready meals and flicking through magazines. On Monday he
goes door-to-door seeking odd jobs and after mostly getting doors
slammed in his face, he's offered the task of clearing up a back
garden after what appears to be a rowdy beer fuelled barbecue. The
lawn and patio is littered with empty beer cans, bottles, cigarette
ends, chicken bones, half eaten burgers, bits of salad, paper plates
and greasy napkins. He fills two bin bags and charges ten pounds for
the hour he worked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">On Tuesday he returns
to Mrs Haverthwaite's where she points out a few areas in which he
could improve, all of which are in the bathroom. He needs to pay
particular attention to areas such as the back of the loo, back of
the sink pedestal and the soap dish. He tidies and vacuums the
bedroom, cleans the bathroom and landing, balustrade and banister,
sweeps the stairs, mops the hallway and kitchen floors, cleans the
utility room and downstairs loo, then tackles a stack of ironing.
Once done, he loiters expectantly waiting for Mrs Haverthwaite to
give him the money he's earned. Mrs Haverthwaite compliments his
efforts today and says she'll see him again on Friday. Too shy and
polite to ask for the money he's earned, Daniel leaves hoping he'll
be paid for both days on Friday.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Wednesday and Thursday
is spent knocking on doors and getting them slammed in his face. He
doesn't mind the fact that most people don't have any odd jobs to
offer him but they could at least be polite about it. He'd expect to
be told to f*** off on the Foundry Estate, but such foul rejections
from residents in the posh Highgrove suburb take him by surprise each
and every time.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel returns to Mrs
Haverthwaite's house in Plushton on Friday morning and puts every
effort into the list of chores he's given. He tidies the bedroom,
cleans the bathroom, vacuums the landing, sweeps the stairs and is
halfway through dusting the hallway when there’s a knock at the
door. “Would you get that please Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite
hollers from her study. He opens the door to a woman in her twenties,
about Daniel's height with an Eastern European accent. She abruptly
asks who he is and Daniel says he's doing a few odd-jobs, before
glancing and gulping at the feather duster in his hand. The woman
hands him a garment carrier, saying she's returning it to Mrs
Haverthwaite. “Oh I'll fetch her... one moment.” Daniel says.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There's no need.”
the woman abruptly says. “I'm returning what is hers.” She puts
the carrier into Daniel’s hands, turns on her heel and strode away.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Err... bye then.”
Daniel mutters as she marches down the drive.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Who was it?” Mrs
Haverthwaite asked. Daniel described a woman about his own height and
build with dark hair and a European accent. “Oh... that'll be
Jolanta.” Mrs Haverthwaite frowned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I did try to fetch
you but she just gave me this and walked away.” Daniel said,
holding the plastic garment bag. “She said it belongs to you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite took
the bag, unzipped it and sighed. “Jolanta was my cleaner but she
left because she thinks I accused her of stealing.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did she steal from
you?” Daniel asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'd like to believe
she didn't but I'd mentioned a misplaced ring to her and she
instantly got defensive and a moment later she'd quit.” Mrs
Haverthwaite sighed and paused. “It didn't cross my mind that she
might have taken it... but her reaction when I asked if she'd seen
it... well... I can't help but wonder.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I see.” Daniel
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“This is her
housekeeping uniform which I presume means she definitely won't be
returning.” Mrs Haverthwaite said. “But on the upside, you do
have a more permanent position here Daniel.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you.” Daniel
said. “I'd best get on.” he added as he reached up to a high
shelf with the feather duster. After dusting, Daniel mops and dries
the hallway floor before tending to the large sitting room, then
cleaning the downstairs loo, kitchen and utility room. Mrs
Haverthwaite pays him sixty pounds in cash which is graciously
received.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The following week on
Tuesday, Daniel's does his usual routine, starting in the bedroom and
finishing in the lounge, then on the fridge is listed his additional
chores which includes tackling a large stack of ironing, plus
cleaning all the interior windows, frames and sills. “This might
take me 'til about 2pm Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel says. Mrs
Haverthwaite tells him she'll pay for the extra hour and asks if it's
OK that he stays a little longer. “Yes of course Mrs Haverthwaite.”
he says.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--EXPAND these days to full paragraphs-->On
Friday, as well as his usual chores, Daniel weeds tidies the border
between the drive and front lawn and sweeps the entire drive which
being in Pluston, is much longer and wider than the average drive.
After his usual chores on Tuesday, she has him dust and vacuum the
study which she uses as a home office, and the following Friday's
additional task is cleaning the front door, scrubbing the front
doorstep and polishing the brass house number, letterbox, bell push
and door handle until they're all gleaming. When he returns home, he
notices a number of pale patches on his pants, and recalls Mrs
Haverthwaite advising him not to get the cleaning solution on his
clothes as it contains bleach and will stain them. The splashes are
all below the knee so he turns them into a pair of cut off shorts,
but essentially, it's one less pair of smart pants he has.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After a fruitless
Monday going door-to-door and being offered not a single job, Daniel
makes his way to Plushton on Tuesday morning, over which an ominous
black cloud lurks. He hopes he'll avoid the rain but as he strides up
the hill through the greenbelt between the run down town and
up-market village, the heavens open. Now's the time he wished he'd
packed an umbrella or at very least, invested in a jacket that is
actually waterproof. The rain has stopped by the time he's tramping
up Mrs Haverthwaite's driveway, but Daniel is absolutely drenched.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The warm a friendly Mrs
Haverthwaite insists he get out of his wet things so she can hang
them to dry over the radiators. She'll find him something to wear
whilst his jeans, socks, shoes, shirt and not very waterproof jacket
dry... “I know this may seem unusual but... this is the only thing
I've got that should fit you.” Mrs Haverthwaite hesitantly tells
him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I can't wear that!”
Daniel gasped as she presented Jolanta's old housekeeping uniform on
a hanger.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's only for a few
hours whilst your clothes dry.” she said. “...it is the <i>only</i>
thing I have that will fit you.” she frowned. “...and you did say
Jolanta was about your size.” she reminded him, adding “I very
much doubt you'd fit into anything of mine.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel gulped as he
glanced from the housekeeping uniform to Mrs Haverthwaite's stout
rotund frame. “I guess I don't have much choice.” he conceded.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel changed out of
his sodden clothes in the utility room and donned the frock; jet
black, knee length with press studs up the front. Its short sleeves
are gathered a little on the shoulder, and trimmed with white cuffs
to match its white rounded collar. He felt so incredibly shy as he
opened the utility room door to present himself to Mrs Haverthwaite.
She was stood at the kitchen sink with her back to him. “Erm...”
he said, getting her attention. “Should I wear the apron as well?”
he timidly asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I think so.”
she said, smiling and looking him up and down.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel was hoping she'd
say the opposite, since the apron has frilly trim all the way around
it and around its little pocket on the front, but he reluctantly
donned it and tied its tapes in a bow at the small of his back. Mrs
Haverthwaite adjusted the bow a little. “That's better.” she said
as Daniel found an item in the apron's pocket.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">At first the thought it
might be an item of underwear. “Erm... what's this?” he asked,
revealing something small and white and trimmed with lace.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll show you.”
Mrs Haverthwaite replied as she took the item from him. “There.”
Mrs Haverthwaite grinned after placing it on his head.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel's eyes rolled
upwards but he couldn't see the dainty little thing in his head. “I
can't imagine what I look like.” he gulped. “Actually... I can.”
he added. “Did Jolanta wear this too?” he asked as his hands
found the dainty little cap.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“She didn't like it.”
Mrs Haverthwaite told him. “She said it made her feel like a
servant.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know what she
means.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Have you hung your
clothes over the radiator?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good... they'll be
dry in no time.” Mrs Haverthwaite smiled. “You'd better get
started.” she suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes Mrs
Haverthwaite.” Daniel replied. He pushed his feet into the slippers
he wears inside the house and began his regular routine; giving her
bedroom a quick tidy, dust and vacuum, cleaning the bathroom, dusting
the landing, vacuuming the carpet, polishing the brass door knobs,
sweeping the stairs, mopping and drying the hallway and kitchen
floor, before dusting the sitting and dining rooms and running the
vacuum cleaner over the carpets and rugs and finally plumping up all
the cushions on the sofa and armchairs. Additional chores are usually
listed on a note and stuck to the fridge and being a Tuesday, there's
a large stack of ironing to do. Mrs Haverthwaite checks in on him and
seems surprised that he's started the ironing so soon. “You're very
swift.” she commented as he quickly ironed a bed sheet.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I volunteered in the
laundry when I was on remand.” Daniel replied. “This pile of
ironing is nothing compared to the stack I had inside.” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I hate to ask Daniel
but since you're my employee... why did you go to prison?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Dan's conviction-->“I
was with the wrong people at the wrong time.” he told her, before
explaining in more detail. Daniel had got into a car with some
'friends', but had no idea the car was stolen or that some of the
others were carrying knives. After a police chase, the car was
crashed but a scuffle ensued between the suspects and arresting
officers. If they weren’t wearing stab vests it would have been a
murder charge. All the time, Daniel was curled up in the car,
clutching his skull and cursing himself for getting into the car. It
was only when the others had been cuffed and contained did the police
find Daniel and he was arrested too. Due to the seriousness of the
offence, all five were put on remand until the trial and despite
Daniel not being part of the car theft or the scuffle, he was found
guilty by joint enterprise. Luckily he was given a three month
retrospective sentence, three-hundred hours community service and two
year's probation. The others faced sentences between eighteen and
thirty months inside.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So you just accepted
a lift in good faith and all hell broke loose?” Mrs Haverthwaite
supposed. Daniel nodded. “There are motions in place to put an end
to joint enterprise... so many innocent bystanders have had their
lives ruined just because they were present when something bad
happened.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh Mrs
Haverthwaite... you're a diamond... do you know that?!” Daniel
cooed. “Most people surmise my account as, I was with a knife gang
in a stolen car and was involved in an assault.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know you wasn't
involved Daniel... you have an honest face and at my age, one knows
honesty when one sees it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you.” he
smiled. “I'd better get on with this otherwise I'll never get it
done.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes sorry... I'm
keeping you.” she said. Daniel pressed the iron on the sheet and
ran it the full length of the ironing board before shuffling the
sheet over a little and swiftly ironing the next section. Eventually
Daniel finished the ironing and asked Mrs Haverthwaite if there was
anything else he could do. “You can take the weight off your feet
and have a cup of tea with me.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” Daniel
smiled. She pulled out a chair and Daniel sat, smoothing his apron
over his lap. She made a pot of tea, poured him a cup and slid it to
him. “Thank you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're more than
welcome Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “You've worked ever so
hard today... much harder than Jolanta ever did.” she told him.
“...and that's not to say that Jolanta was a shirker. She worked
hard too, albeit begrudgingly.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well I'm happy for
the opportunity... finding work is hard for someone like me.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I can imagine.”
she replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">They chatted about all
sorts of things, mostly focused on Daniel; where he grew up, was
schooled, his family and friends. “...although I don't really have
many friends these days.” he glumly added. “The trustworthy ones
have distanced themselves from me and I've distanced myself from the
others.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Very wise.” Mrs
Haverthwaite said, before offering him another cup of tea.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.. thank you.”
Daniel replied. “I'd best get changed and get going.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Are your clothes
dry?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They should be.”
he said as he stood. “I don't fancy walking home in this.” he
jovially added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel returned to the
utility room, kicked off the slippers and pulled on his socks, then
removed the apron followed by the jet black housekeeper's dress. He
hung it on a hanger and recalled the moment Mrs Haverthwaite
suggested he wore it whilst his clothes dried. I seemed horrendous at
first but after a while it wasn't so bad. He pulled on his jeans
which were still warm from the radiator before buttoning himself into
his shirt. His jacket is still a little damp around the cuffs but
it'll do, he figured. “I expect you're feeling much more like
yourself again.” Mrs Haverthwaite smiled when Daniel emerged
wearing his own clothes.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes... all cosy and
warm.” he replied. “Well I'll see you on Friday.” he said as he
grabbed his bag.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Haven't you
forgotten something Daniel?” Mrs Haverthwaite asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The mystified youth
glanced around his person and the kitchen. “Erm... I don't think
so.” he cautiously replied. Mrs Haverthwaite stepped to him and
removed the white lace-trimmed headband. “Oh blimey! I'd completely
forgotten about that!” he exclaimed before thanking Mrs
Haverthwaite.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel felt bashful as
he left. Imagine the shame if he'd made his way home with a dainty
little maid's cap on his head!</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Friday... do I have to wear it again?-->On
Friday he returns to Mrs Haverthwaite's and knocks on the back door.
She opens it and invites him in and after a little small talk, she
says “I've washed your uniform but it needs an iron... it's hanging
in the utility room.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh er... do I have
to wear it <i>again</i>?” he asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... I've been
having a think.” she replied. “You don't really want to risk
ruining your own clothes with a splash of bleach or something... new
clothes are expensive and you are living on the breadline.” she
explained.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know but... it's a
dress.” Daniel gulped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite smiled
and told him that it's housekeeper's uniform, adding that it's hard
wearing and stain resistant, particularly to bleach. “Wearing this
makes a lot more sense than wearing your own clothes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I get what
you're saying Mrs Haverthwaite but...<span style="font-style: normal;">”
Daniel replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
wore it on Tuesday with no issues.” she reminded him. “Plus it's
a very good fit and perfect for the task at hand.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
know but... I did feel a bit silly on Tuesday... especially that lacy
head-thing.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
forgot you were wearing that, remember.” she replied. “And you
did seem much more focused on Tuesday. You'd got round to doing the
ironing much sooner than I thought and I figured you must have cut
corners elsewhere... but after a thorough inspection I couldn't find
anything you'd missed.” she informed him. “I noticed that as well
as polishing all of the door knobs, you also polished the hinges and
latch plates too... something I don't recall asking you to do.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sorry.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
don't apologise Daniel. Your attention to detail is meticulous.”
she complimented. “There's an old saying; dress the part, play the
part.” she said. “You surpassed your already high standards when
properly attired, and like I say, I hate to see you ruin your own
clothes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... I'd rather
not wear it but... you're the boss Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel glumly
replied. And that was that. He spent ten minutes ironing the uniform
and apron before donning it and the lacy little cap.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's much better.”
Mrs Haverthwaite said when he emerged from the utility room. “May I
see your bow?” she asked. Daniel turned to show her the back of his
apron. “Perfect.” she smiled. “That's a much nicer bow than
Jolanta ever tied.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_n_Lfhf1pp1uKs7d3fb-LnfgLktITZ2ZZXOGyPxgWFcDXhj2xGhoQwvUB9tHqoZ7AMXqSzmTZB-wL5SSoAHIMKUu8UBfBiXq3OIw6yCtrB2UKmQDOKZzsedpj0cDMDDjbaK4YIoc/s640/apron%252C+how+to+tie+one..jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_n_Lfhf1pp1uKs7d3fb-LnfgLktITZ2ZZXOGyPxgWFcDXhj2xGhoQwvUB9tHqoZ7AMXqSzmTZB-wL5SSoAHIMKUu8UBfBiXq3OIw6yCtrB2UKmQDOKZzsedpj0cDMDDjbaK4YIoc/w300-h400/apron%252C+how+to+tie+one..jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks.” Daniel
bashfully replied. He set about his chores and climbed the stairs,
getting one quick glance in the hallway mirror and another in the
mirror at the end of the landing. He entered Mrs Haverthwaite's
bedroom and being a Friday, his first chore was to change her
bedding, but first, he had a good look at the bow he'd tied in her
dressing table mirror. Daniel hadn't especially tried to tie a 'nice'
bow. He did try to get the two bows the same sort of size but other
than that, it's apparent perfection was a fluke. He stepped back to
look at himself from the front, but being a small dressing table
mirror, he could only see his reflection from his midriff down to his
calves. He lifted the skirt a little above his knees and sighed. “It
may be appropriate to the task at hand but it certainly looks
ridiculous on me.” he muttered to no one but himself.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel embarked on his
chores and stripped the duvet, mattress and pillow cases and dumped
them in the laundry basket. He grabbed some fresh bedlinen from the
airing cupboard on the landing, stealing a glance of his full
reflection as he did so. With the bedding done, he set about giving
her room a quick tidy, which was just a little dusting and
straightening of ornaments, before vacuuming the carpet. He gave the
bathroom a thorough clean, wiping down all the wall tiles, the window
and shower screen, then cleaning the sink and bathtub before getting
on his knees and cleaning the toilet inside and out and not
forgetting around the back. The floor tiles he scrubbed by hand
before drying them with an old towel. He emptied the bin, cleaned to
residue from the soap dish as well as the underside of the sink and
bath plugs. He made sure the taps, shower head and flush-handle were
gleaming before doing the same with the door handle, hinges and latch
plate. He didn't think that Mrs Haverthwaite would have noticed he'd
done those on Tuesday but now she has, he'll have to keep on top of
them. Finally, he finished the bathroom by putting out fresh towels
and a flannel. All the while he couldn't help but glance at his face
in the mirror above the sink. <span style="font-weight: normal;">The
little lacy cap doesn't cover enough of his head to keep the dust out
of his hair and as such, it has no practical use. With that thought,
he figures that its only purpose is to denote the servile status of
its wearer.</span><b> </b>After dusting and vacuuming the landing, he
makes sure all the door knobs, latch plates and brass hinges are
gleaming, then fetches Mrs Haverthwaite's laundry hamper down to the
utility room and puts the bedding in with the rest of the whites.
“Why don't you stop for a moment and have a tea-break Daniel.”
Mrs Haverthwaite suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well I haven't swept
the stairs yet or done anything downstairs Mrs Haverthwaite.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's OK... you're
allowed to stop and have a tea break.” she said before insisting.
However it was Daniel who made the pot of tea and served it, along
with a small selection of biscuits arranged neatly on a paper doily
on a posh looking plate. Daniel sat himself down and smoothed his
apron over his lap. “Are you getting used to your uniform?” she
asked. “You seem comfortable enough.” she added. As ever, Mrs
Haverthwaite's tone and demeanour is warm and friendly and in her
presence, Daniel can't help but feel at ease.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's not
<i>un</i>comfortable to wear.” he replied. “But every time I
catch my reflection in a mirror I think '<i>yikes... I'm wearing a
dress!</i>'.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Think of it as a
uniform rather than a dress.” she advised. “I firmly believe that
a uniform gives one a sense of place and purpose, which is why I
insisted Jolanta wore one.” she said. “She wasn't happy about it
but if she'd gotten herself of a job in Asda or McDonalds, she'd have
had to wear a uniform there.” Mrs Haverthwaite smiled. “Putting
you in Jolanta's uniform hadn't crossed my mind until you got caught
in that downpour and it honestly was the only thing I could think of
that would fit you whilst your clothes dried.” she explained.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah I understand
that but...” Daniel replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good.” she said,
cutting him short. “It seems almost fortuitous that it fits you so
well.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I suppose.”
Daniel glumly agreed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I hope it's not
making you have second thoughts about working for me.” she said.
Daniel gulped and reiterated that finding work for someone with his
background isn't easy. “Nor is finding someone willing to work as
hard and as thoroughly as you.” she complimented.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks.” he coyly
replied. “But don't you think it's a bit weird?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Would you consider
it weird had you been a young woman?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course not...
it's a woman's uniform.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And some might
consider the job you're doing is woman's work.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not these days.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Then consider it an
exercise in gender equality.” Mrs Haverthwaite suggested. “Since
I insisted Jolanta wore it, it might be considered sexist if I allow
you to work under different conditions based entirely on your
gender.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I suppose.”
Daniel glumly replied. Not because he agreed with her point, but
because he couldn't really counter it.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel spent a good
hour cleaning the ground floor before starting the short list of
additional chores. Today it was sweeping the patio and cleaning all
the patio furniture which took him out of the house and out of his
comfort zone. He hardly ever wears shorts in the height of summer so
having his calves exposed to a nippy September breeze is something
he's really not used to. He fills a bucket of warm soapy water and
washes the bird muck and atmospheric dust off the glass patio table.
His leg hairs are on end and his calves are covered in goose pimples.
Mrs Haverthwaite checks on him and reminds him to give the table and
chair legs a good clean too. “Yes Mrs Haverthwaite.” he replied
before crouching and wiping the cast iron frames. He couldn't help
but glance up at the houses that overlooked the garden, then down at
his servile attire. This part of the village boasts large houses and
large gardens so the neighbours aren't too close. Daniel hopes that
anyone who might see him will presume he's female, albeit one with
short hair. He glances at his mirrored image in the patio doors and
gulps at his dainty lace cap. He keeps forgetting he's wearing it
until he catches his reflection. It seems like a strange twist of
fate that him getting into that car all those months ago has somehow
resulted in him working as a housemaid. He sighs and continues with
his chore. Once the furniture is clean and gleaming, he begins to
sweep the patio which is bigger than it looks when one only has a
ten-inch broom.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Once done, he asks Mrs
Haverthwaite if there's anything else he can do before changing into
his 'civvies'. “No thank you Daniel, but please, have a cup of tea
before you change.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He glances at the time.
It's 1.15pm. “May I have coffee?” he politely asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes of course.”
she replied as she sat. “You know where everything is.” Daniel
made a small pot of tea for Mrs Haverthwaite and a coffee for
himself. She requested a couple of digestives, which he knew she
liked served on a paper doily on a side plate. “Thank you.” she
smiled as he set them down for her. “You've done well today.” she
said, before thanking him. Daniel politely thanked her as he sat,
smoothing his frock and apron over his lap. “...but I think,
instead of aiming to arrive by around five-to-ten, you should arrive
a little earlier so you've got time to iron your uniform and be ready
to begin at ten o'clock sharp... it was gone twenty-past when you
started this morning.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes Mrs
Haverthwaite. Sorry.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh there's no need
to apologise Daniel. You weren't to know that you'd need to iron your
uniform.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">They chatted about this
and that until their cups were drained. Daniel washed and dried them
before changing out of his uniform and donning his own clothes. Mrs
Haverthwaite handed him sixty pounds in an envelope and bid him
farewell. “I'll see you on Tuesday... about half-nine?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Er... yes. See you
then Mrs Haverthwaite.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As Daniel made his way
home, he couldn't help but reflect on his mornings work. “Maybe I
should have been more assertive and refused to wear Jolanta's uniform
again.” he pondered. “It's not like I'd got caught in a downpour
again.” he grumbled, before wondering if by reluctantly accepting
it, he's now a transvestite. “It's not like I’ve chosen to wear
it.” he thinks. “...and I didn't exactly enjoy wearing it.” he
mumbled to himself. “It wasn't that bad... until I went outside.”
he mused, before recalling every glance at his reflection. He quickly
raised his hand to his head to double check that he'd removed the
little lacy cap, before picturing himself reflected in the large
hallway mirror. It wasn't so much the uniform that looked ridiculous
but combined with his hairy legs and grey ankle socks, the whole
image did. <span style="font-weight: normal;">He briefly pondered how
he might improve the image but all he could think was either shaving
his legs or donning a pair of tights.</span> Neither sat easy with
him, so instead he wondered if a pair of black knee socks might be
better. They'd certainly be warmer the next time he has to sweep the
patio.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel has his regular
meeting with his probation officer at 4pm, but beforehand, he goes
shopping for an inexpensive yet decent raincoat. The probation
officer is impressed that he's found some regular work and it appears
to be going well for him. Daniel mentions nothing of the uniform but
as he describes his cleaning routine, he can't help but visualise
himself wearing it. “...and when you're not cleaning for this
lady... are you continuing to go door-to-door throughout the rest of
the week?” the probation officer asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes of course.”
Daniel replied, “I go round Pluston one day and Highgrove the
next.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well keep it up and
keep records... you need to be able to show the DWP that you're
trying to find work, otherwise they'll sanction you and suspend your
payments.” the probation officer advised.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel takes his wage
receipts and work-search records to the DWP so they can calculate his
monthly welfare payment. They're underwhelmed that he's only finding
around eight to ten hours work each week but are satisfied that he's
spending the rest of the time actively looking for work which means
he won't be sanctioned... not this week anyway. Being on benefits is
like living on a knife edge. There's a fine line between living in
relative poverty and being absolutely penniless since all it takes is
being five minutes late for a meeting and they'll suspend your
payments for six whole weeks.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He enjoys a quiet
weekend, tidying and cleaning his bedsit to the standards the Mrs
Haverthwaite would expect. <!--The next week.-->On Monday he
trudges around, knocking on doors and getting them shut in his face
and on Tuesday, he heads back to Mrs Haverthwaite's. “Good morning
Daniel. Did you have a nice weekend?” she asked as she let him in</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not bad thanks.”
he replied. “Just hung out at home and watched TV.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Is it a nice
apartment?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's just a bedsit.”
he confessed. “Although the agent called it a 'studio apartment'
which is a bit of an overstatement for one room containing a sink,
cooker, fridge, sofa and bed, and the smallest bathroom you've ever
seen.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sounds like my digs
when I was at university.” she replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What did you study?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Economics.” she
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm not even sure
what that is.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Its finance and
stock markets, statistics and analytics.” she replied, describing
it as boring but it did lead to her career as an investment banker.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm not sure what
that is either.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's a lot of
calculations and a lot of responsibility.” she said, before
suggesting he get himself ready.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In the utility room
hangs his uniform which has been laundered and dried since Friday but
not ironed. He swiftly irons the dress, apron and cap before donning
them, then he gulps and pauses before exiting the utility room. Mrs
Haverthwaite, as usual looks him up and down as he emerges. “Are
you wearing tights Daniel?” she noticed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Err... socks.”
Daniel timidly replied as he raised his skirt just a little. They are
in fact over-knee socks, the cuffs of which sit just an inch above
his knees. “My hairy legs looked wrong with my dress.” he
explained. “You don't mind do you?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not at all.” Mrs
Haverthwaite replied as he let the frock and apron drop. “But I
don't mind you having hairy legs.” she said, adding that he is a
boy after all.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I err... shaved
them.” he gulped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I see.” Mrs
Haverthwaite cautiously replied. “May I see?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm...” Daniel
blushed, before pushing one of his socks down to the ankle and
explaining that it seemed like a good idea at the time, then had
second thoughts and bought a pair of over knee socks to hide them.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You don't have to
hide them Daniel.” she told him. “And they do look much better...
I don't mind either way.” she smiled. Daniel pulled his sock back
up as Mrs Haverthwaite smiled and complimented his efforts to adapt
to his uniform. “Well you'd best get on.” she said, glancing at
the time which read nine fifty-nine.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As usual, Daniel's
chores began with tidying Mrs Haverthwaite's bedroom. He tidies her
dresser, dusts the furniture and vacuums the carpet before trotting
down to the utility room with the laundry basket. The frock feels
different next to his hairless legs and every time he catches a
glance in the big mirror on the landing, he spends a brief moment
observing just how much better his reflection looks as he adjusts the
bow on the back of his apron, tightening it a little and making sure
its loops and tails are even.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After cleaning the
upstairs rooms, Mrs Haverthwaite suggests he has a break and yet
again, he ends up making the tea and serving her. “I do enjoy
having you around Daniel.” she said as he placed a plate bearing a
small selection of biscuits laid neatly on a doily along side her tea
cup.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I enjoy being here
Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel replied as he sat himself down. His lap
felt like silk as he smoothed his skirt and apron over it. “I'm
even getting used to my uniform.” he nervously chuckled as he
discreetly hitched up his socks so the cuffs sat just above his
knees.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm glad to hear it.
You wear it well... and much more willingly than Jolanta ever did.”
Mrs Haverthwaite replied, before backtracking and trying to find an
alternative word to 'willingly'. She couldn't. “...you know what I
mean.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I think so.”
Daniel replied. “The first time I didn't have much choice after
getting caught in that storm.” he recalled. “Friday was a bit of
a bombshell.” he admitted. “But after a while it didn't seem so
bad.” he said. “It looks a lot better with knee socks than it did
with hairy legs.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It certainly does.”
she said with a smile. “I'd hate it if you resented me for making
you wear a housekeeper's uniform.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I don't resent
you Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel replied. “I'm grateful that you've
given me some regular work.” he said. “I'm not sure what my
probation officer would think if he knew about this...” he said,
glancing down at his servile attire and nervously chuckling. “...but
like you said... it saves me from ruining my own clothes with a
splash of bleach... and it's the only uniform you've got.” he
shrugged.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you Daniel.
That means a lot to me.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After his break, Daniel
cleared the table and washed the cups, saucers and tea pot before
continuing with his usual routine; cleaning the hallway, mopping the
floor tiles, bottoming the utility room and downstairs loo, dusting
and vacuuming in the lounge, and not forgetting to polish all the
brass door furniture including the hinges and latch plates. “Jolanta
never used to clean those.” Mrs Haverthwaite commented as she
passed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel smiled proudly
to himself. “They do look much better with a bit of a shine.” he
replied as he hitched his socks back over his knees and commented on
how they keep slipping down. Mrs Haverthwaite suggested he could
simply wear them below the knee, or take them off, before offering to
lend him a pair of tights. Bashfully, he declined, but couldn't help
but wonder how they'd look or feel against his smooth hairless legs.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After finishing his
usual rota, Daniel checked the fridge where Mrs Haverthwaite would
list any additional tasks. '<i>Clean all inside widows, frames and
sills – no streaks!</i>' the note read. Daniel's heart sank a
little as this chore would put him in each of the front windows, in
full view of anyone passing by. He began with the rear windows on the
ground floor, cleaning swiftly and thoroughly otherwise he'd be there
all afternoon. After spending the morning hitching his socks every
now and then, Daniel removed his over-knee socks and felt
considerably freer as a result. However with his pale shaved legs
exposed, he did feel more than a little self conscious as he stood on
a little folding stool and reached up to the top of the window. The
backs of his knees felt super sensitive as the hem of his skirt
gently brushed against them. He cleaned the study window, the big
patio doors in the dining room, then the kitchen window. “I see
you've heeded my advice.” Mrs Haverthwaite said as she sauntered in
and noticed his legs.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Er.. yes.” Daniel
coyly replied, glancing down at himself.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“My late husband used
to shave his legs.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Really?” Daniel
quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He was a keen
cyclist.” she replied. “He used to do seventy miles every
Sunday.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Wow... that's
impressive.” Daniel exclaimed. “I don't think I could manage more
than seven.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“A young fit lad like
you?” she chirped. “Of course you could. Gerry [her husband]
cycled well into his sixties.” she claimed. “He'd still be
cycling today had the cancer not taken him.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm sorry to hear
that Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel respectfully replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's OK... I still
miss him but I've got used to life without him.” she said.
“Anyway... I'm distracting you.” she said. “You're doing a good
job by the way... Jolanta always left streaks.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel soon had to put
himself on display in the front windows, and his timing couldn't have
been worse as the postman strolled up the drive. The shy boy quickly
hopped off his little stool and put himself out of sight until the
postman had pushed the mail through the letterbox and made his way
back down the driveway. “Was that the postman?” Mrs Haverthwaite
hollered from her study, before asking Daniel to fetch the letters.
“Thank you Daniel.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're welcome.”
he said, before returning to his chore.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After cleaning the
large lounge window, it's frame and sill, he began cleaning the
frosted window on the front door and the frosted pane beside it. All
of a sudden, a dark blurred figure appeared on the other side of the
glass. It's arm reached for the doorbell. Ding Dong! “Would you get
that please Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite hollered.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel gulped and felt
himself blushing profusely as he hesitantly opened the door. “Oh!”
a startled lady said. “You're not Jolanta.” she stated. “Is
Marion home?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Er, yes... one
moment.” Daniel bashfully said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He trotted to the
study, before trotting back and inviting the lady in. Mrs
Haverthwaite appeared in the hallway. “I thought it might be you
Denise... this is Daniel, my new cleaner.” she said as Denise
looked the boy up and down with a most perplexed expression on her
face.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite
invited her guest into the lounge and told Daniel to continue with
his work. “I say it's absolutely immaculate in here.” Daniel
overheard Denise state as the lounge door closed, cutting him off
completely from their conversation.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“His standards are
far higher than Jolanta's ever were.” Mrs Haverthwaite told her
guest.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I can't believe
you've employed a transvestite!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He's not a
transvestite!” Mrs Haverthwaite sternly insisted, before recalling
last Tuesday's torrential downpour and explaining that Daniel was
absolutely drenched and needed something to wear whilst his own
clothes dried. “Jolanta's old uniform was the only thing I had that
would fit him and since he's my cleaner, it seemed quite fitting.”
she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.” Denise
dubiously frowned. “He seems shifty to me.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He was probably just
embarrassed answering the door dressed as a housemaid.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm not so sure.”
Denise sneered.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well I am. He works
very hard and I'm fortunate to have found him, especially after that
kerfuffle with Jolanta.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Has the ring turned
up yet?” Denise asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite shook
her head. “I don't think for a moment that Jolanta took it but they
way she flew off the handle and stormed out, I can't help but
wonder.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you never know
someone until you know them.” Denise replied. “I'd keep an aye on
that boy if I were you. There's something shady about him.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What makes you say
that?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... the fact
that he willingly wears women's clothing for a start.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He's hardly
willing... it's me who insists he wears it.” Mrs Haverthwaite
asserted. Bewildered, Denise asked why. “Because it saves him from
ruining his own clothes with a splash of bleach, and I insisted that
Jolanta wore it so it's only fair that my new cleaner does too.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But he's a boy.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Equality works both
ways.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “If it's good for a girl then
it's good for a boy... plus, it's a perfect fit and he seems to work
all the harder when dressed appropriately.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Was he sloppy
before?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not at all.” Mrs
Haverthwaite replied. “Not only does he polish the door handles,
but the hinges and latch plates too... he's so meticulous, doubly so
since I put him in uniform.” she said. “If you ever need a
cleaner...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Meanwhile, Daniel was
busy cleaning the interior windows and frames of the upstairs rooms
and each time he crossed the landing from one room to the next, he
couldn't help but glance at his reflection in the large mirror. His
legs kind of look better yet also look strange, like they don't
belong to him. He checks the bow on the small of his back, retying it
and making sure the bows and tails are even. The servile lace
headpiece didn't appear to need adjusting but he straightened it
anyway, before heading into the next room and clearing the windowsill
of ornaments. He begins wiping the frames from top to bottom, then
cleans the sash and pays particular attention to the insides of the
rebates. Mrs Haverthwaite probably won't even check such concealed
places but since she's always praising Daniel for being meticulous
and thorough, he's begun to pride himself on being just that. After
an hour or so, he's finished and makes his way downstairs where Mrs
Haverthwaite is chatting with her friend. “All done Mrs
Haverthwaite.” he says.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you Daniel.”
Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “Would you mind taking the tea tray, then
you can get yourself off.” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel could feel
Denise's gaze upon him as he put the china cups and saucer on the
tray with the tea pot, milk jug and sugar bowl before taking the the
tray away. “I was half expecting him to drop a curtsey.” he
overheard Denise say from the hallway. Rather than putting the tea
tray on the worktop, he felt it best to wash the crockery and wipe
the tray before drying and putting everything away, and with a heavy
sigh, he took himself to the utility room where he finally changed
back into his own clothes. “Right I'll be off Mrs Haverthwaite.”
Daniel said. “See you Friday.” he added, before politely telling
her guest that it was nice to meet her. Denise’s response was
somewhat cold whilst Mrs Haverthwaite bid him a fond farewell,
thanking him for his hard work today. “You're welcome.” he
smiled, before leaving by the back door.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As Daniel makes his way
around the side of the house and down the drive, he glances at all
the outside window frames and all of those could do with a good clean
too. And being September, the trees are beginning to drop their
leaves which means the driveway will need sweeping and the lawns
raking... it's only a matter of time, he figures, before his chores
will put him out in front of the house, in full view of anyone
passing by or paying a visit.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After a long walk home,
Daniel arrives back at his modest little bedsit flat and showers; the
first one since shaving his legs. Already he can feel the stubble
coming through, but figures it's too soon to shave them again. He
dons his bathrobe and makes himself a cup of tea, de-cluttering his
small kitchenette and wipes the work surface whilst the kettle boils.
With a mug of tea in hand, he switches on the TV and surfs the
freeview channels. There's not much on at this time of day; quiz
shows, property shows, home & garden and DIY shows, Judge Judy,
repeated soap operas, endless repeats of Top Gear, old black and
white movies and not so old TV movies. He soon settles on a reality
show called The Edwardian House, in which a family goes back in time
to experience life in Edwardian England.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It's not so much the
family that grabs his attention but their maid, who in this period
does not live with her employer as Victorian maids would. Her day
starts at around 7.00am and ends any time between 7.00 and 10pm. She
lights their fires, empties their chamber pots (ugh), makes and
serves their breakfast, polishes their shoes, cleans their house,
serves their lunch and afternoon tea, does all their laundry and
ironing, runs errands, makes and serves their evening meal and scrubs
the kitchen clean afterwards before finally going home. All the while
she's expected to address her employer as Sir and Ma'am, dropping
curtseys left right and centre. The girl playing the role of the maid
in the TV show talks about the experience and describes just how hard
life was in those times. She talks about the archaic underwear of
stockings, corset, a slip, bloomers, petticoats, and her old
fashioned ankle boots with seventeen tiny buttons on each shoe, the
thick heavy floor-length frock and crisp white pinafore apron which
in those days, the maids were expected to make themselves!</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Much to Daniel's
surprise, the girl claims to actually like the corset. She describes
fetching pail after pail of hot water up one or two flights of
stairs, scrubbing the floors, hand washing their clothes and beating
the rugs and rugs as back breaking work and without the support of
her corset, she imagines the maids in those days would be plagued
with back problems. And in those days, if you didn't work you didn't
eat so one couldn't simply take a day off sick if they're unwell.
Towards the end of the episode, the cameras follow the maid home, but
her working day is far from over. She has to hand-wash her uniform,
apron and underwear, hang it all to dry near a small hot range, then
bathe herself in an old fashioned tin bath, before ironing her
clothing ready for the following day, and finally, before she can go
to bed, she puts her damp hair in rags so she can put her hair in
elegant ringlets in the morning. “I'm glad I don't have all that to
deal with.” Daniel thought as the closing credits rolled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He spent Wednesday
morning in the library, using their computers to search the
employment agencies and applying for anything and everything... but
he knows it's a fruitless endeavour. Sending your CV to prospective
employers is like throwing it into a black hole. You don't know if
they'll even look at it, let alone reply. It's just one of the many
hoops he has to jump through to keep the benefits people happy.
Afterwards he did a bit of personal internet browsing and found
himself getting some shaving advice on the WebHow website, which
advised moisturising after shaving. He picked up some groceries from
town and called into Wilkos to get some moisturiser, and found
himself giving the hosiery section a lingering glance. He considered
buying some tights but since there were so many different types to
choose from, he decided not to.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">On Thursday he went
door-to-door in the affluent suburbs on the south side of town and
apart from being given a two pound coin for putting out someone's
bins, he had no takers at all. Considering the amount of time he's
spent trying to find odd jobs, this has also been a futile
endeavour... apart from Mrs Haverthwaite of course. A couple more
like her would be ideal, he figured, providing they don't talk him
into wearing a woman's housekeeping uniform.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The following day,
Daniel's trousers seemed the glide over his freshly shaved legs. He
didn't tell Mrs Haverthwaite that he'd shaved again and he didn't
wear his socks either, although after he'd tidied her bedroom,
cleaned the bathroom, dusted and hoovered the landing, wiped the
brass ware, swept the stairs and polished the banister... he noticed
the note on the fridge asking him to clean all the ground floor
windowsills and frames, on the outside. “You don't mind do you
Daniel.” she asked as he prepared the tea for his morning break.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Err... no.” he
gulped. “I noticed they needed doing when I left on Tuesday.” he
timidly replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After cleaning the
entire ground floor of the house, Daniel did don his over-knee socks
before heading outside. It wouldn't have crossed Daniel’s mind so
he was really quite thankful when Mrs Haverthwaite suggested he
removed his cap and apron before undertaking the chore. “They'll
only get dirty.” she said, before telling him that he'll need a
stepladder to reach the tops of the windows and promptly fetched one
from the garage. Not wearing his crisp white apron or distinctive
lacy headband was a considerable consolation, and Daniel was glad
he'd put his thick black socks on too. He'd have stood out a mile
otherwise. Hopefully his jet black frock and its narrow white trim
won't attract more than a passing glance should anyone stroll past,
and hopefully another friend or neighbour of Mrs Haverthwaite's won't
call round whilst he's cleaning the front of the house.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He felt a little
precarious on the stepladder to begin with, and unlike cleaning the
insides of the windows earlier in the week, cleaning the outside
provides a very clear reflection. Each window doesn't take too long
since he's only cleaning the uPVC frames. The windows themselves are
done by a window cleaner once every six weeks or so. Going up and
down the ladder isn't too bad in a skirt. He doesn't need to hitch it
up but with all the up and down, he does finding himself hitching up
his socks so they sit just above the knee rather than below it.
Remembering what time the postman arrived on Tuesday, Daniel took the
initiative to tackle the front windows first. It was an initiative
that paid off since Daniel was cleaning the windows on the far side
of the house when the post was delivered. He tried his best not to
glare into Mrs Haverthwaite's study when he cleaned that window
because she was inside sat at her computer. He refreshed his bucket
of warm soapy water before doing the rear windows, and when he'd
finished, Mrs H checked his work before telling him that he'd done a
very good job. “I couldn't help but notice that you kept hitching
your stockings up Daniel.” she said. The very word 'stockings' made
him blush. “Why can't she call them socks since that's what they
are?” he thought.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Tights don't need
hitching up.” she informed him. “Not so often anyway.” she
added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I was looking at
them yesterday.” Daniel confessed. “But I didn't know which to
buy... there's so many to choose from.” he replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... black ones
obviously.” she bluntly replied. “Thin ones should be fine...
about fifteen or twenty denier.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's denier?” he
quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The thickness of the
nylon.” she told him. “The higher the number, the thicker they
are.” she added. “And look for the Lycra mark... they won't
wrinkle if they contain Lycra.” she stated.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... OK.” he
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Marks and Sparks do
the best ones. Cheap tights aren't very sheer so it's worth spending
a little more.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... OK.” Daniel
shyly replied. “I'm not sure what that means but...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite
explained as best she could what 'sheer' meant before advising him to
look for an M&S own brand pack rather than branded tights such as
Aristocrat or Pretty Poly. “..and don't worry about you being a
boy... for all the shop assistant knows you're picking up a pack for
your mother or girlfriend.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Err... OK. Thanks.”
Daniel timidly said... and that was that. She mentioned tights which
to Daniel meant he had to buy some.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite paid
him for his week's work, plus the extra hour he'd worked on Tuesday.
Daniel thanked her and changed into his own clothes, and being a
Friday, he has to take his proof of earnings into the DWP and attend
his weekly meeting with the probation officer.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel reminded himself
which tights Mrs Haverthwaite told him to buy; black, fifteen or
twenty denier... and he did consider calling into M&S on his way
through town but had second thoughts. Tomorrow, being a Saturday will
be better since it'll be busier, and he presumes he'll be less
conspicuous buying a pack of woman's tights amongst all the other
shoppers. He visited the DWP to hand in the handwritten payslips,
which meant a twenty minute wait for his name to finally be called,
then he had a couple of hours to kill before his 4pm probation
appointment. Again he toyed with buying some tights but his nerves
got the better of him when he was sauntering around the clothing
department in M&S, sticking to the menswear section but scouting
the women’s clothes to see exactly where their hosiery section was.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel was glad he
hadn't bought himself some tights today because when he did get to
his 4pm meeting, the parole officer did a random bag and pocket
search to check that he didn't have anything that would breach the
terms of his parole; namely drugs or a knife or stolen goods. How
would he have explained a pack of women's tights! “So how's the
work search going?” the probation officer asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... not great.”
Daniel sighed. Apart from Mrs Haverthwaite who's given him two
morning a week, all he's doing seems like a complete waste of time;
he's got no replies from his job applications and going door-to-door
just means getting doors shut in his face.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're well dressed
and clean shaven?” the probation officer asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
replied, although his hairless legs sprang to mind when asked if he
was clean shaven.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're being polite
and not pushy?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course.” Daniel
claimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well just keep
chipping away... something will turn up.” he said. “At least
you've got a couple of mornings work and providing you record all
your searching, you'll keep the DWP happy.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” Daniel
glumly replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... I'll see you
next week.” the probation officer said before letting Daniel go.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Buying his tights.-->The
following day, being Saturday, Daniel headed into town and went
directly to Marks & Spencer's to purchase the tights Mrs
Haverthwaite recommended. The store was significantly busier than it
was the previous day and reluctantly, he headed directly to the
hosiery display, reminding himself of what he was looking for; a pack
of black tights, 15 or 20 denier. Mrs Haverthwaite didn't specify
whether or not they should be matt, shiny or support tights, so he
went for the least expensive and bought a pack of five pairs of
'light support' matt tights for five pounds. He did feel bashful as
he queued for the tills and could feel his cheeks redden as the
assistant gave him a perplexed glance. “They're for my mum.” he
timidly claimed. She didn't respond. Daniel sighed with relief as he
exited the store, feeling somewhat excited with his purchase. He
couldn't wait to try them on to find out how they felt against his
hairless flesh, although he felt more than a little bit weird about
it. “Maybe I should wait until Tuesday?” he asked himself. After
all, the only thing he has that he could wear them with is his
housekeeper's frock at Mrs Haverthwaite's.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">When Daniel arrived
home, he wasted no time opening the pack of tights and unfolded a
pair. They seemed so thin and delicate that Daniel feared he might
damage them. Despite the temptation to try a pair on there and then,
he resisted until <!--Tuesday... tightsday!-->Tuesday morning and
wore them beneath his pants as he walked up to Plushton and Mrs
Haverthwaite's house. Daniel also donned a pair of ankle socks to
ensure that no one would notice that he was wearing a pair of woman's
tights. He arrived soon after nine-thirty and his freshly laundered
housekeeping dress and apron hung waiting in the utility room. As
usual, he ironed them first and shyly emerged wearing his full
uniform a few minutes before 10.00am. “You certainly do look the
part today Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite smiled as she looked him up
and down. “How do they feel?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“My tights?” he
bashfully asked. She nodded, smiling wryly. “Erm... quite nice
actually.” Daniel confessed, before stating that he'd shaved his
legs last night.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you'd best get
on.” Mrs Haverthwaite said. “I've got quite a lot of additional
chores for you today.” she added, glancing toward the fridge on
which they were listed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel scanned the list
which was headed 'spring clean every room'. “Spring cleaning?” he
quizzed. “It's September.” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes but <i>autumn
cleaning</i> doesn't quite have the same ring to it.” she
cheerfully replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The note told him to
pull out all the bedroom furniture and dust and vacuum behind, then
to do the same on the landing, hallway, lounge, study and dining
room. “Is this every bedroom or just yours?” Daniel asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“All of them.” she
replied, adding that it will keep him here for much of the afternoon
before asking if that was OK.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes of course.”
Daniel replied. “But it might take me all afternoon just to do the
bedrooms.” he presumed, before suggesting spring cleaning the
ground floor on Friday afternoon.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just do as much as
you can today and maybe you could come back tomorrow to finish off?”
she said. “You'll be paid, of course.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... yes, I could
do that Mrs Haverthwaite.” he said. It's certainly going to be a
better use if his time than knocking on doors and getting them shut
in his face.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good boy... well
you'd best get on.” she reiterated.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel headed up the
stairs, but not before checking his reflection in the hallway mirror
where he made sure his bow was neat and even, before slightly
adjusting his lacy headband. He stepped back for a full length view.
Mrs Haverthwaite was absolutely right about his tights; he really
does look every bit the housemaid now. As usual, he began in the
master bedroom before thoroughly cleaning the bathroom, then dusting
and vacuuming the landing and eventually sweeping the stairs. “Shall
we break for some tea?” Mrs Haverthwaite suggested as Daniel went
to fetch the mop and bucket from the utility room.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As usual, it's Daniel
who fills the tea pot and sets a plate of neatly arranged biscuits on
the table. “How are you getting on with your new tights?” she
asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK I guess.”
Daniel replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You don't sound so
sure.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They seem to stick
to my skirt, especially when I’m up and down the stairs.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
need a slip.” she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Is
that like an underskirt?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“A
slip is full length. An underskirt, or <i>half-slip</i>, hangs from
the waist.” Mrs Haverthwaite told him. “Either would solve your
problem.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm
not sure I could buy one though... it was nerve racking enough buying
a pack of tights.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
completely understand.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “I'll take your
measurements and pick one up for you.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm...
OK. Shall I give you some money?”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh
don't worry about that Daniel. Consider it part of your uniform.”
Mrs Haverthwaite replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Bashfully,
the boy thanked her as he sat </span>and slid his tea cup toward
himself. He made small talk such as asking about her weekend, in
which she'd tidied up the borders in the garden. “I noticed they
were looking nice.” Daniel said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And the window
cleaner came yesterday.” Mrs Haverthwaite went on. “He thought
I'd had new windows fitted!” she told him. “Which just goes to
show how good a job you did cleaning the frames last week.” she
added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks.” Daniel
shyly smiled, recalling himself having to hitch up his frock a little
each time he climbed the stepladders, and constantly hitching up his
over knee stockings. “Hopefully they won't need doing again any
time soon.” he hopefully added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not until spring.”
she said. “Now... I have to pop out for an hour or two this
afternoon. You'll be OK on your own won't you?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes Mrs
Haverthwaite... providing you're OK leaving me alone in the house.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You've already
earned my trust Daniel.” she smiled. After their late morning
break, Daniel cleared the cups and plate, washed up and wiped the
table clean, before resuming his chores. Each time he crouched then
stood, he found himself having to arrange his skirt over his tights.
It almost feels like static or something that holds the two fabrics
together, Daniel ponders as he runs his hands over his frock and
apron. Maybe I should have bought the shiny ones instead of matt, he
wondered, before wondering if that would make any difference.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He tidied the lounge
and straightened the study, dusted the dining room before beginning
in the kitchen; mopping the floor, wiping the worktops and making the
stainless steel sink gleam as it had the day it was new. “Oh you're
ever so thorough.” Mrs Haverthwaite said as she found him wiping
each and every cupboard handle and drawer knob. “Jolanta was good
but she was no Daniel.” she added. Daniel smiled a proud smile and
thanked Mrs Haverthwaite, before stating that it's her high standards
that he's aiming for. “You surpass them my dear boy.” she
complimented, before telling him that she was going out but shouldn't
be more than an hour or two.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm just about
finished in here, then I'll start on err... spring cleaning the
bedrooms.” he replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good boy.” she
smiled, before telling him she'd call into the village bakery on the
way back and asking his preference.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh I'll eat anything
Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel replied. She suggested a Cornish pasty
and he was happy with that. She also suggested he stop for a quick
tea break once he's finished in the kitchen.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He did take a brief
break before gathering his skirt & apron and jogging up the
stairs. Mrs Haverthwaite's bedroom has mostly built-in wardrobes, so
he spend barely twenty minutes dusting and vacuuming behind the
furniture in there. The other three bedrooms however, have free
standing furniture; chests of drawers, bedside cabinets plus
wardrobes of various sizes. Removing the drawers from the chests
meant they were easy to shift. The wardrobes however needed whatever
hung within them removing and laying on the beds before he could
shift them to dust and vacuum behind.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">In his own meticulous
way, Daniel gave the insides of the wardrobes and chests of drawers a
quick wipe before returning the drawers and clothes hangers to them,
and it was whilst doing this that he noticed something sparkling in
the back of one of the chests. He wiped the silver ring, encrusted
with a few gem stones before putting it to one side and continues his
task.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">With two rooms
finished, he heads to the forth and as he strides down the landing,
he can't help but look at his reflection in the mirror. He's getting
accustomed to seeing a housemaid, albeit one with his face, yet
seeing his shins clad in thin black tights is the new addition to his
reflection. “Oh damn!” he grumbled, noticing the he'd laddered
his tights. “I thought I'd get more than one day out of them.” he
moaned to no one but himself as he twisted his leg to get a better
look at the large ladder running down his calf. “I knew I should
have brought a spare pair.” he grumbled. Daniel had considered
bringing a spare pair of tights since his mother always seemed to
carry a spare pack of tights in her handbag, not that he made a habit
of rooting through it. What's done is done, he figured before
carrying on with the task at hand, but he found himself frequently
glancing down at the laddered nylon. “I hope Mrs Haverthwaite's OK
about it.” he mused as he emptied a chest of its drawers and placed
them in an orderly stack on the carpet.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Next he emptied the
wardrobe, which in this room is a relatively small one. He wasted no
time laying the clothing inside on the bed before pulling it out,
dusting the cobwebs off its back, wiping the wallpaper and skirting
board, then vacuuming the carpet. However as he's hanging the
dresses, blouses, jackets, jeans and jumpers back in the small
wardrobe, he glumly realises that they're all much closer to his size
than Mrs Haverthwaite's. “She could have loaned me something out of
here instead of giving me Jolanta's uniform.” he thought, looking
down at his black housekeeping frock & white apron and recalling
the day he got drenched in that downpour.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel checked the
time. Three rooms in ninety minutes isn't bad, he thought as he
started on the fourth and final bedroom. Mrs Haverthwaite should be
back soon, he also figured... and within fifteen minutes, she was.
She dropped her shopping in the kitchen before heading upstairs. She
found him on his hands and knees, dusting the inside of one of the
empty chests of drawers. She half expected him to have removed his
servile lace headband the moment her back was turned, and possibly
his feminine apron too, but no... his apron as always was tied in a
perfect bow and his headband sat neatly about his skull. “How are
you getting on Daniel?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK thanks.” the
boy smiled as he straightened his back and refolded his duster. “I
thought I'd give the insides a quick wipe whilst I’ve got the
drawers out.” he informed her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Are you this
meticulous at home?” Mrs Haverthwaite asked. “I imagine your
bedsit is spotless.” she presumed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not really.” he
replied. She told him she'd fetched a couple of hot pasties home and
asked if he was hungry. “Starving.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well come on...
they're best when they're still warm.” she said as Daniel got up
off his knees. “Oh you've laddered your tights.” she noticed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” Daniel
sighed. “I knew I should have brought a spare pair.” he frowned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well never mind,
you'll know next time.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The Cornish pasty from
the Plushton village bakery was indeed very tasty and after a full
morning's work, plus half an afternoon, Daniel was more than ready
for some food. He was also impressed with Mrs Haverthwaite, who
always acts very middle class, since she had her Cornish pasty 'the
common way', with a big dollop of brown sauce. “I'll wash the
plates before I get back to it.” Daniel said once they'd finished.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh I'll do that
Daniel... I’m sure you've got plenty to do and I don't want to keep
you too long today.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “Really?” she
exclaimed, when he told her that he'd done all the other bedrooms and
was halfway through the last one. “My you are swift.” she said,
before checking he hadn't forgotten the little box bedroom at the end
of the hallway.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I've done that.”
he told her. “In fact!” he said, before quickly leaving, darting
up the stairs and returning to the kitchen a moment later. “I found
this in the bottom of a chest of drawers.” he said, handing a
silver ring to her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite's jaw
dropped. “Oh my!” she gasped. “I thought I'd never see it
again.” she said. “I knew Jolanta hadn't taken it... I just knew
it.” she announced. “Oh thank you Daniel! Where did you find it?”
she asked. Daniel described the specific chest of drawers in the
small bedroom. Mrs Haverthwaite expressed her relief and told him it
was her grandmother's engagement ring and therefore very dear to her,
before thanking Daniel again.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel felt very proud
of himself as he returned upstairs. He was glad Mrs Haverthwaite had
got her lost ring back. He finished spring cleaning the bedroom and
double checked that he hadn't missed anything, before gathering up
his dusters, cloths and polish, packing up the vacuum cleaner and
returning them to the utility room. “I've finished upstairs Mrs
Haverthwaite... is there anything else you'd like me to do before I
change?” Daniel asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I don't think so
Daniel.” she replied, just as her telephone rang. “Ooh! You could
fetch the wheelie bin up the drive... if you don't mind.” she
quickly added, before answering the phone.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Obviously, Daniel
changed into his own clothes before fetching the wheelie bin from the
bottom of the drive. He checked with Mrs Haverthwaite to find out
what time she wanted him to arrive the following day to complete the
autumn 'spring' clean, and she suggested 11am. “OK Mrs
Haverthwaite... I'll be here around twenty to.” he replied, before
bidding her farewell.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The village of Plushton
is home to many large, expensive houses. Some are old farmhouses or
converted barns. Some are Victorian, some have a 1930s feel about them
and some are relatively new, like Mrs Haverthwaite's, which he
assumes was built in the 1960s or 70s. Daniel can't help but wonder
what some are like on the inside as he passes by them. He'd love to
live somewhere with a view, and a garden, but knows he probably never
will. The village gives way to the green belt of open fields and a
wooded copse before he enters the outskirts of town. This too is an
affluent area, but soon the grim echoes of industry can be felt as he
nears the run down estate on which he lives.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Inexplicably, the TV
documentary about the Edwardian house pops into his skull, and
specifically, the woman who worked as the housemaid. She was always
filmed walking to work wearing her traditional frock and apron, which
would have been odd as the series was film in recent years. This led
to him considering Jolanta, the woman who used to be Mrs
Haverthwaite's cleaner, whom he assumes also went to and from work
wearing her uniform... which prompted Daniel to imagine doing the
very same thing. Of course he imagines being glared at by all and
sundry... a teenage boy dressed in a black housekeeper's frock would
look completely out of place, even without his cap and apron on. He
imagines being a girl his age and wonders what people might think,
seeing 'her' in the traditional looking uniform; jet black with a
white collar and white cuffs around its short sleeves. Most girls his
age would be in 6<sup>th</sup> form or at college, so even if he was
a she, working as a housemaid would still be unusual. Daniel’s eyes
dropped to his feet and the rugged yet inexpensive walking boots he
wore. He imagined what he'd wear if he was a she. Certainly not the
footwear he's wearing, that's for sure. He visualised a pair of smart
leather lace-up shoes, then some of those dainty ballet style shoes
many women and girls seem to wear, then a pair of stout sensible
heels his mother always wore; the sort that clicked and clacked
loudly against the paving stones. Then he wondered why he was even
thinking about this.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel sighed to
himself. Part of him is disappointed that he went along with Mrs
Haverthwaite's reasoning when she suggested he wore Jolanta's old
uniform again on Friday morning, albeit reluctantly. It's weird
wearing a woman's uniform but it's not so bad, he tells himself... so
long as he only has to wear it there and not to and from his cleaning
job up in Plushton. Then he recalls Mrs Haverthwaite's delight when
he gave her the missing ring and smiles proudly to himself, and
wonders if she'll contact Jolanta to inform her that it's been found.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Wednesday, slip & shoes.-->The
following day, Daniel returns to Plushton. He wears a pair of tights
beneath his pants and wonders if they'll ever feel normal. As usual,
he irons his freshly laundered frock and apron soon after arrival.
“Did you remember to bring some spare tights?” Mrs Haverthwaite
asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I did.” Daniel
replied. <br /><br />“Oh good.” Mrs Haverthwaite smiled. “I did buy
a pack just in case you'd forgotten.” she said, revealing a
two-pack of fifteen denier tights in honeysuckle and saying that
they'd make a nice change. Daniel thanked her, adding that he already
had a pair of black tights on. “I also took the liberty of buying
you a couple of slips... as a thank you for finding my grandmother's
engagement ring.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh!” Daniel
exclaimed as she presented him with a cellophane wrapped pack of
slips. “Thank you.” he said, gulping at the photograph on the
cardboard insert of an attractive woman wearing the silk and lace
knee length garment.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Sorry they're so
lacy.” she said. “They're the only ones I could find that didn't
have a bust.” she grimaced.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh no... that's
fine.” Daniel bashfully said, before thanking her again. Mrs
Haverthwaite left him alone to finish ironing his uniform and change.
He was a little overwhelmed when he unpacked and unfolded the two
slips; one bright white, the other a shiny beige, both trimmed with a
broad band of delicate lace around the low neck, shoulder straps,
camisole back and hem. He pulled on the white one and it effortlessly
slithered down his body and over his hips, landing a good few inches
above his knees. Daniel soon emerged from the utility room and Mrs
Haverthwaite looked upon him with a warm smile. He felt like his
frock and apron were totally transparent as she asked if his slip was
a good fit. “Erm... yes.” he said, before commenting on how well
it stops his tights from sticking to his frock.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's the whole
point of a slip.” she smiled, before revealing another surprise.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh!” Daniel
exclaimed. “I thought you didn’t want shoes worn in the house?”
he quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not outdoor shoes.”
she said, before explaining that the slippers he'd been wearing were
a little tatty and since he clearly takes pride in his appearance,
she though he'd like some proper 'house' shoes rather than slippers.
“How do they fit?” she asked as he slid his stocking feet into
them.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Perfectly.” he
replied. “How did you know what size I am?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I made a template
from the insole of your trainers.” she told him, adding that he'd
mentioned they were a little too big so she trimmed the template down
a little and took it shoe shopping. “You really do look the part
now.” she complimented.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You can say that
again.” Daniel smiled, albeit apprehensively. “I don't know what
my probation officer would say if he could see me now.” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I wouldn't worry
about things like that. He won't be doing any spot checks on you will
he?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I don't think
so.” Daniel replied. “I hope not any way.” he grimaced. Mrs
Haverthwaite suggested he pop up to the landing so he can have a
proper look at his shoes in the large mirror, and he did just that.
“All I need is a pair of knickers and I'll be dressed completely as
a woman.” he thought as he approached his reflection. On nearing
the mirror, he stopped and observed the new footwear from the back
and sides, and there's no denying that he really does look the part
now.<br /><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg5soky_YJRfVshVsA4UOmS0ipTEJkx4rkDGrKWL65PAhMcOqtUITPfraslk8PooIH8hQuC8ymPR9V7k4KU6vxj4E2k6AXuJ-LAOhelu6rpkfLEV4MNaJofnGkjuH7d2VSA4CmPMbj/s675/simon%2527s+shoes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="675" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg5soky_YJRfVshVsA4UOmS0ipTEJkx4rkDGrKWL65PAhMcOqtUITPfraslk8PooIH8hQuC8ymPR9V7k4KU6vxj4E2k6AXuJ-LAOhelu6rpkfLEV4MNaJofnGkjuH7d2VSA4CmPMbj/w400-h205/simon%2527s+shoes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He checked his
little lace head band was straight and tended to his bow before
sheepishly returning downstairs. Mr's Haverthwaite asked if his shoes
were comfortable and Daniel said they were. “Oh I am glad... that
last thing I want is you feeling uncomfortable.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... apart from
the fact I'm dressed as a woman.” Daniel bashfully replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're dressed for
your job rather than your gender... I think the former is more
important than the latter.” she replied in a friendly, supportive
tone.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I suppose.”
Daniel gulped. “Like I said... so long as no one like my probation
officer knows, I'm OK with it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good, yes... right,
I'd better let you get on.” Mrs Haverthwaite smiled. “You may as
well start with the utility room, then the kitchen. I want all the
cupboards emptying and cleaning, and don't forget to do below and
behind the washing machine, dryer, fridge and freezer.” she
instructed. “You'll be OK pulling those out on your own won't you?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I should think
so.” Daniel replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And the floor tiles
need a really good scrub... not just a mop.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm on it Mrs
Haverthwaite.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Having flown through all
the upstairs rooms the previous day, 'spring' cleaning the downstairs
of her sizeable home all of a sudden seems very daunting, especially
considering the total area of tiled flooring that needs scrubbing.
Like a pro, Daniel started at the top and worked down, beginning with
the tops of the built-in units in the utility room which had him
repeatedly going up and down a stepladder. The difference his slip
made was instantly apparent and wearing well fitting shoes instead of
a pair of old loose slippers also felt much much better. He emptied
the cupboards and cleaned the shelving, and gave each item a quick
wipe before putting it back. An hour quickly passed before he found
himself pulling out the washer and dryer and wiping away tons of dust
and cobwebs that had collected behind them. Mrs Haverthwaite checked
on him as he was scrubbing the floorspace where the washer and dryer
sit. “Your fastidiousness always amazes me Daniel.” she
commented, before asking if he'd like a break for some lunch.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll finish up in
here first Mrs Haverthwaite.” he said, sitting up and wiping his
brow with the back of his hand. “It should only take twenty minutes
or so the scrub the floor.” he figured.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He shoved the
appliances back where they belong and filled a fresh bucket of soapy
water before getting on his hands and knees and scrubbing the utility
room floor and wiping all the skirting boards. He paid particular
attention to the grout between the tiles, using the edge of the
scrubbing brush to get right into them and after a frantic fifteen
minutes of work, he stood up and arched his back, before tending to
the bow on the back of his apron, mopping his brow and straightening
his little lace headband. “That's one room done.” he said as he
entered the kitchen.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Wonderful.” Mrs
Haverthwaite smiled. “Quick time too. Jolanta would've spent a good
two hours doing that.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Have you told her
that the ring's been found?” Daniel quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.” Mrs
Haverthwaite thoughtfully replied. “I considered it but since I
didn't actually accuse her of taking it, I felt I had nothing to
explain.” she said. “Plus, she might presume I was asking her to
come back and I don't want to lose you now I've found you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm. Thanks.”
Daniel said as he prepared a pot of tea for them both. “This job
does mean a lot to me.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I know.” she
smiled. “There's a couple of pasties in the fridge and the oven's
already on if you want to pop them in.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How long will they
need?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“About twenty
minutes.” she replied. He checked the time, poured the tea and
placed the pot on the table, along with two cups and saucers, a jug
of milk and the sugar bowl before sitting himself down. “How's the
slip?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's great.” he
said. “It makes so much difference.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm glad to hear
it.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The shoes are really
comfy too.” he added. “The slippers felt like they were hanging
off my feet whereas these just fit.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh that's good. I
was in two minds about buying you women's shoes, but considering your
uniform, I didn't think you'd mind.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“At least they don't
have heels.” he bashfully smiled as he poured the tea, then gulped
as he imagined the scenario had she had. Mrs Haverthwaite smiled,
before changing the subject completely and asking if he's still
spending his free time going door to door looking for odd jobs. “Yes
but it's mostly a fruitless endeavour.” he replied. “A lot of
people are very suspicious, which is understandable, but some are
downright rude.” he explained.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There's just not
enough trust in the world these days.” Mrs Haverthwaite said,
before saying that if he ever needs a reference, she'd be more than
happy to provide one.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks. That means a
lot Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">They chatted about all
sorts of things and Daniel kept his eye on the time, making sure the
pies came out of the oven before they burned. When he did remove
them, he suggested letting them cool for a few minutes and asked if
she'd like some gravy making. “Do you do a lot of cooking?” she
asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.” he shyly
replied. “Unless heating up micro-meals counts.” he jovially
added. He did admit to making mashed potato or boiled potatoes and
boiling carrots or cauliflower to have alongside some sausages or an
omelette, but confessed to being clueless about roasting meat or
making a casserole. “I don't see the point when it's just me.” he
added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes, I'm much the
same these days.” Mrs Haverthwaite said. “But I do like to make a
Sunday roast every Sunday.” she added. “Sometimes my daughter
comes over or one of my friends, which is nice.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel said.
“Does your daughter live nearby?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not really.” she
replied, stating the town. “But it's only forty minutes away.”
she said. “You should come over one Sunday.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh I err....
wouldn't like to intrude Mrs Haverthwaite.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'd hardly be
intruding if I'm dining alone.” she smiled. “Plus it would be
nice to have you over when I'm not putting you to work.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
smiled. “I'm free most Sundays.” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well I'm actually
going to my daughter's this coming Sunday... and I always have
Marjorie and Joyce over on the third Sunday of the month... but I'll
keep you posted.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you... that'd
be nice.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I could teach you to
cook a full Sunday roast.” she suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That might be beyond
my capabilities Mrs Haverthwaite.” he supposed. “I'd best serve
these pies before they get too cool.” he said, standing and
smoothing his apron. “Did you want gravy?” he asked, adding that
he can only make instant gravy. Mrs Haverthwaite declined.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Afterwards, Daniel
washed the plates, cutlery, cups, saucers and teapot, before wiping
down the table and beginning the big 'spring' clean on the sizeable
kitchen. Once again, he started at the top and worked his way down,
beginning with the ceiling roses and pendant lamps that hang from the
ceiling. “You be careful on those stepladders Daniel.” Mrs
Haverthwaite said as she strolled through and found him reaching up
to wipe the dust from the cord.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I will.” he
replied. “The last thing I want is you having to call an ambulance
when I’m dressed like this.” he grinned. Mrs Haverthwaite smiled
and said even she wouldn't have thought of dusting the light cords.
“Well if a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well.” he replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Very true.” she
replied. She asked him the check all the use-by and best-before dates
when he cleans out the cupboards and fridge, and to put anything
that's out of date or near its date to one side. “...and if you
could wash and dry everything in the utensil drawers before putting
it back...” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course Mrs
Haverthwaite.” he replied. He spend two hours dusting the tops of
the units, clearing and cleaning all the cupboards and drawers,
pulling out the fridge and freezer and cleaning behind and beneath
them, before finally starting on scrubbing the tiled floor, which
took the best part of an hour. As he neared the end of the mammoth
task, Daniel checked the time and was shocked to discover that it's
almost 3.30pm. He was hoping to spring clean the entire bottom floor
today but having only done the kitchen and utility room, he
apologised to Mrs Haverthwaite and reluctantly told her that he'd
have to finish the other rooms another day.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's absolutely
fine Daniel.” she replied. “You can come back tomorrow if you
want.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“If that's OK with
you?” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course.” she
said. “Are these all out of date?” she asked, seeing a load of
jars, tins and condiments on the worktop.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Out of date on the
left and almost out of date on the right.” he replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You are organised.”
she smiled, checking the various tins and jars. “All these jars
need emptying and washing to go in the recycling...” she said,
separating them further. “Those can go in the bin, and the rest
need putting in a box. I'll send them to the food bank.” she
explained.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It was after 4pm when
Daniel was finally changing back into his own clothes. “You look
absolutely exhausted.” Mrs Haverthwaite said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Scrubbing floors
really takes it out of you.” he replied. “Imagine being a
housemaid in Victorian times; scrubbing the floors every day.. <i>before</i>
starting all their other chores!” he said. “No wonder they worked
from dawn 'til dusk.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes... we don't
realise how easy we have it these days.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied.
“I'll drive you home.” she offered.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh it's OK Mrs
Haverthwaite... I don't mind walking.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's no trouble...
and you have worked so very hard today.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I wish I’d got
more done though... I hoped I’d have spring cleaned the whole
ground floor today.” Daniel said as Mrs Haverthwaite grabbed her
handbag and car keys. “I'll just put my uniform into wash first.”
he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh yes.” she
smiled. “And don't forget your tights and slip.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I've still got my
tights on.” Daniel replied. “I'll hand wash those at home.” he
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Okeydoke.” she
smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">They chatted about
nothing much as she drove him down the hill towards town. Daniel said
she could drop him in the centre of town, but she insisted on driving
him all the way. He felt embarrassed as she turned into the run down
foundry estate; with its litter strewn streets and the occasional
discarded sofa in someone's front garden. A small row of shops with a
laundry, convenience store and a filthy looking take-away is where he
asked her to stop. “I live above the take-away.” he told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Handy for the shops
and laundrette.” she replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah... that's the
only good thing I can say about it.” Daniel replied. “What time
do you want me tomorrow?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's up to you. You
can start at eleven again if you like, or ten if you prefer.” she
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I thin ten would be
best... so I'll see you after half nine.” he replied, before
thanking her for the lift.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're very
welcome.” Mrs Haverthwaite smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll just check your
wheels haven't been stolen.” he said as he got out of the car,
before giving his employer an thumbs up and a wave. She chuckled and
waved back before driving away. Daniel climbed the steps to his dank
little bedsit, feeling thankful that she didn't want to come inside
and have a look around. Compared to her home, his is positively grim.
A damp patch flanks the window and the wallpaper is peeling in
several places. The carpet is threadbare and his furniture is tatty
and there's nothing to make it feel like a proper home, such as
ornaments or pictures on the wall. Still, it's better than nothing,
he thought as he removed his shoes and then filled the kettle.<br /><br />With
a much needed cup of coffee in hand, he parked himself on the sofa
and rested his legs on the coffee table, feeling thoroughly
exhausted. After a short while he pulled off his socks and massaged
his feet for a moment, before put his stocking feet back on the
coffee table. It's weird looking at his stocking feet and clearly
seeing his toes through the thin black nylon. It's also weird that
Mrs Haverthwaite not only bought him a couple of women's slips, but a
pair of women's shoes too. “She'll be having me wearing make-up
next.” he jovially grumbled to no one but himself. “But then
again...” he thought. A lowly housemaid shouldn't really wear
make-up. They're supposed to look smart and servile, not nice and
definitely not attractive. “I'll refuse if she does.” he mumbled,
imagining the scenario. “I'm just the housemaid, Mrs Haverthwaite!”
he might remind her. “Make up and perfume is a bit above my
station.” Daniel smiled to himself as he imagined Mrs H saying he
was absolutely right, before sending him back to continue with his
chores.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Later, after making
himself a ready meal in the microwave, he removed his tights and hand
washed them before having a shower, then watched some TV. All evening
he couldn't help but glance at his tights, drying over the radiator
and oddly, looking like they belong. He recalled buying them and
blurting '<i>they're for my mum</i>' at the store assistant. Daniel
was certain she didn't believe him, but would saying <i>I work as a
housemaid</i> be any more believable? In an equal society where a
male undertakes what was traditionally a woman's job, then it stands
to reason that he wears the same as a woman would. It's not the first
time he's sat half watching the TV, pondering such things. Trying to
justify him dressing as a woman whilst working for Mrs Haverthwaite.
“It's not so bad once you get used to it.” he muttered under his
breath. “They're just clothes.” he mumbled. “Lots of employers
insist on a uniform.” he murmured, imagining a conversation about
it at the DWP or with his probation officer. “Do I need to get up
early and shave my legs?” he asked himself before going to bed,
running his fingers over the slight stubble on his shin. “Yeah I
may as well.” he figured, before setting his alarm an hour earlier.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Thursday-->As
usual, Daniel arrives at Mrs Haverthwaite's house in good time to
iron his uniform before beginning his jobs. “No tights today?”
Mrs Haverthwaite asked as he emerged from the utility room.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Bashfully, Daniel
replied saying he'd shaved his legs this morning and would put some
on if he felt he needed some. “...if that's OK?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Absolutely Daniel.
They’re your legs.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll start with the
downstairs loo.” he said. “When would be a good time to do your
office?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I've got a few
emails to answer and some phone calls to make so... after lunch?”
she suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” he replied.
He spent a good half an hour thoroughly scrubbing the small
downstairs toilet, then embarked on wiping and polishing the
balustrade and staircase. Even without any tights on, his frock felt
so much more comfortable with a slip beneath it. He worked his way
through the hallway, into the lounge and eventually into the dining
room where he polished the large table and every inch of the eight
chairs wooden around it. Mrs Haverthwaite popped her head in and
complimented his fastidious attention to the task. “I enjoy it.”
he said, adding “If a job's worth doing...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Very true.” she
smiled, before suggesting that he should stop for some lunch once
he's finished in the dining room. “I've made some pea and ham soup,
if you'd like some of that... or I could get some pies from the
bakery?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Soup would be fine
Mrs Haverthwaite.” he politely replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A while later, he'd
finished thoroughly cleaning the dining room and headed for the
kitchen. Mrs Haverthwaite stood over the hob, tending to a large pan
of soup and Daniel offered to make a pot of tea. “You take the
weight off your feet.” she suggested. “I've got everything in
hand.” she said. Daniel pulled out a chair and sat himself at the
kitchen table. Making small talk, Daniel asked if she ever used the
large dining room. “Hardly ever.” she smiled. “I have no need
for four bedrooms either but I like living in a large house.” she
told him. “Emma, my daughter, keeps saying I should downsize to a
nice little bungalow somewhere... but I can't see myself in a 'nice
little bungalow'.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Is Emma your only
child?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes... which makes
my four-bedroom home even more nonsensical.” she chuckled. “But
so long as I've got someone to help me keep on top of the housework,
I see no reason to leave.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Glad to hear it Mrs
Haverthwaite. No one else seems to want to employ me.” Daniel
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I just wish I could
offer you more than two days a week.” she said. “Oh, which
reminds me... I won't be needing you tomorrow because everything
should be done today.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I was thinking
that.” Daniel replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But you are entitled
to paid holidays so you'll still be paid.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“For tomorrow?”
Daniel quizzed. Mrs Haverthwaite nodded. “Really?!” he exclaimed.
She informed him that as a part time worker, he's not entitled to the
full twenty-eight days but working a couple of days a week means he's
entitled to around twelve days a year. “Oh, thank you.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't thank me, dear
boy. It's the Law.” she smiled, explaining that he earns one day
holiday a month and since he's worked for her for almost two months,
he's got a couple of days in hand.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Wow... paid holidays
never once crossed my mind.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you're entitled
and as your employer, it's my duty to oblige.” she said, placing a
bowl of soup in front of him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">They enjoyed lunch and
chit-chat about this and that, and before long, Daniel was back to
work spring cleaning Mrs Haverthwaite's home office. He dusted and
wiped the tops of the bookshelves, ran the vacuum hose along the tops
of all the books and down their spines. He pulled out her PC and
wiped the dust from all the leads and cables, before rerouteing them
in the most orderly fashion. He cleaned her monitor and mouse and
keyboard, the telephone handset, desktop and chair. The filing
cabinets were too heavy to move but he managed to dust behind them
using the vacuum hose, and finally he vacuumed the carpet and put
everything back where it should be. “All done?” Mrs Haverthwaite
asked as he shuffled the vacuum cleaner into the hallway.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes Mrs
Haverthwaite.” he replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Wonderful.” she
said as she cast her eyes around the office. “It's a lovely
afternoon so I thought we'd have some refreshments on the patio
before you get yourself off?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm, OK.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">On the patio table is a
large jug of fruit juice flanked by two tall glasses. He sits and she
pours. “Thank you.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're welcome.”
she smiled, filling her own glass. “This is probably one of the
last nice days of the summer.” she said as they sat in the sun.
“...before autumn fully sets in.” she added. “Are you OK with
no tights on?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I'm fine.” he
replied, although his shins and knees did feel a little bit on the
cool side.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And how do you feel
about your uniform?” she asked, acknowledging that he was
apprehensive at first.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's OK.” he
replied. “I'm used to it now.” he told her. </p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good.” she said.
“You wear it well. I notice how you always sit with your knees
together.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's instinct I
suppose.” he said, not really having thought about how he sits.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Shaving your legs
isn't instinct.” she stated.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No but... they
looked ridiculous when they were hairy.” Daniel replied, kicking
out his foot. “Apparently around a third of men either shave or
trim their leg hair these days... according to the internet.” he
added with a dry chuckle.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That wouldn't
surprise me.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “My late husband and all
his cycling buddies shaved their legs.” she said, adding. “You'll
have to work on getting them tanned next summer. They're awfully
pale.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah... I don't wear
shorts very often.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you should.”
she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I did cut those
pants I ruined with bleach down to a pair of shorts.” he told her.
“I'm not much of a sewer so I bonded the hems with some Wonderweb.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good thinking. Much
better than throwing them out.” she smiled. “And your shoes...
how are they? Not rubbing I hope.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No they're fine...
so much better than slippers.” he told her. “I'm amazed you got
such a good fit.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So am I.” she
smiled. “They do look much better with your uniform.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
gulped, sipping at his juice. “I just hope no one from the DWP or
my probation officer doesn't do a spot check, to make sure I am
working where I say I am.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Are they likely to?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't think so but
you never know.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I think it's more
likely that they'll just ring me and check that I'm employing you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I suppose.” he
concurred. “I keep having conversations with myself, so I can
justify it just in case.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Such as?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... just what
you told me really... that it's a housekeeping uniform rather than
dressing as a woman, and that lots of employers insist on a uniform,
and that it helps me focus. When I'm wearing it I know there's work
to be done.” he replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You did seem more
focused that day you got soaked to the skin.” Mrs Haverthwaite told
him. “Not that your work was sloppy before hand... I just saw a
distinct improvement.” she explained. Daniel smiled but didn't
really know how to reply. “I'm glad that you've accepted it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So long as you're
happy Mrs Haverthwaite.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I want you to be
happy too Daniel.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I am. Very much so.”
he replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">They chatted for a
while longer, enjoyed the afternoon sun and fresh air, before Daniel
got changed and prepared to leave. “Don't forget this.” Mrs
Haverthwaite said, handing him his wages in a small brown envelope,
on which she'd written his name and details of this week's earnings
which totalled £180.00.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Compared to his usual
£60 a week, it seemed like an awful lot. As he walked back down the
hill, past the post houses of Plushton and through the greenbelt
before entering town, he wondered what he could spend his money on.
He's got enough clothes and recently bought a new raincoat. He
considered buying a second hand tablet to save him from going to the
library to use the internet, but that would mean forking out every
month on his own data usage and would ultimately be an expense he
could do without. “I've still got plenty of tights.” he told
himself, gulping at how odd it feels to think such things. He
imagines a world where it might be normal for someone like himself to
to work and dress as a housekeeper... so normal that he'd think
nothing of walking to and from Mrs Haverthwaite's house wearing his
uniform, apron and little lacy headband.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He passes a charity
shop which has a window display full of vibrant summery dresses. For
one who spends much of his time wearing a drab housekeeper's frock,
he imagines being enthused by the bright colours and fancy patterns
on display, or daring to wear a pair of red heeled shoes like those displayed.<br /><br /><br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Jq763mrPizTHNwJWMQGA_2rm6Hj_U7ItGBOYqh5Mxf4WJQPVTSTkZCGuBtxSuirsW9DEhrIQ1tupnJo0CfXcdSvRlF3ZEx2K-TH_Aw5UBHMgyCTEMxdnrRywL8p9hRpO8Ih8VWYq/s1029/charity_shop_window.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1029" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Jq763mrPizTHNwJWMQGA_2rm6Hj_U7ItGBOYqh5Mxf4WJQPVTSTkZCGuBtxSuirsW9DEhrIQ1tupnJo0CfXcdSvRlF3ZEx2K-TH_Aw5UBHMgyCTEMxdnrRywL8p9hRpO8Ih8VWYq/w622-h640/charity_shop_window.jpg" width="622" /></a></div><br /><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel quickly deduced
that those dresses were all to busy and bright for someone such as
himself; a lowly housekeeper, but his imagination ran away with him.
In reality, the shop window was behind him, but in his vivid
imagination he was inside browsing the frocks, wondering if he dare
ask permission to try one on. “Oh no.” the imaginary assistant
replied, looking him up and down. “You're just a housemaid... these
dresses are for <i>ladies</i>.” she sneered. Daniel smiled to
himself and the ridiculous scenario. The prospect of wearing a dress
never once crossed his mind before Mrs Haverthwaite suggested he
should wear Jolanta's old housekeeping uniform and now he's imagining
wearing all sorts of different styles and colours.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--The next few weeks-->On
Friday, he went to the DWP to declare his weekly earnings, and his
Job Search Advisor seemed happy with his documented efforts to find
more work. Daniel also had a meeting with his probation officer who
was pleased that his hours had increased. “They'll be back to the
normal two half-days from next week though.” Daniel explained. “Mrs
H. just wanted me to do a deep clean of the whole house.” he said.
“Next time I guess will be spring.” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hopefully by then
you'll have found a proper full time job.” the probation officer
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Or another part time
job that fits around the hours I do for Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel
suggested. “I like working for her and she trusts me.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes but six hours a
week isn't much is it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.” Daniel
replied. “I'm still looking for more but not getting much apart
from the occasional odd job.” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well just keep on
doing what you're doing, and keep logging your efforts for the DWP.”
the probation officer advised. The meeting ended after the usual bag
and pocket search.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Things
went back to normal for the next few weeks. Monday, Wednesday and
Thursday were spent either applying for jobs in the library or going
door to door looking for odd jobs. Daniel worked for Mrs Haverthwaite
for his usual three hours on Tuesday, doing his regular chores before
tackling a large pile of ironing, and three hours on Friday which
began with changing Mrs Haverthwaite's bedding and ended with
whatever additional chores she had listed on the fridge.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Having worked for Mrs
Haverthwaite for a good three months, Daniel barely gives his uniform
a second thought. Occasionally one of her friends or neighbours will
call round and whilst they seem a little bemused that a teenage boy
is cleaning her house dressed in a woman's housekeeping uniform, they
don't say anything untoward about it, not to Daniel anyway. Daniel
presumes Mrs Haverthwaite has explained that he's dressed for his job
rather than his gender and providing none of her visitors ridicule
him, he doesn't feel ridiculous in his uniform.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As the autumn takes
hold, Daniel finds himself having to rake the leaves off the lawns
both front and back of Mrs Haverthwaite's home, and sweeping the
driveway too. “Hard at it I see.” One of Mrs Haverthwaite's
neighbours says as he's scooping up the leaves and dropping them into
a green wheelie bin.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
replied as she looked him up and down. On his feet are his own
outdoor shoes, his calves are clad in thin black nylon and his black
short sleeved frock with it's white collar and cuffs seems totally
inappropriate for the task at hand. He casts his eyes upwards.
“There's still plenty more up there though.” he says, looking at
all the dead and drying leaves, still clinging on to the trees that
line the pavement.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Is Marion home?”
the neighbour asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“She is.” Daniel
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Aren't you cold in
short sleeves?” the neighbour asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm fine so long as
I keep busy.” Daniel replied</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well I’ll let you
get on.” she smiled. The neighbour strobe up the driveway and
Daniel returned to his task; scooping up the leaves with a pair of
plastic grabbers and dropping them in the bin, before dragging the
wheelie bin to the next pile of leaves.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh hello.” Mrs
Haverthwaite smiled, upon answering the door and inviting the lady
inside. “Tea?” she offered.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh yes please.”
the neighbour replied. Following Mrs Haverthwaite to the kitchen.
“Doesn't Daniel mind being out there where all and sundry can see
him?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't think so.”
Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “My close neighbours all know who he is
and anyone else will likely think he's a <i>she</i> with a
pixie-cut.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“..and a flat chest.”
the neighbour grinned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“A <i>very</i> flat
chest.” Mrs Haverthwaite concurred.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He is rather
effeminate in his mannerisms.” the neighbour thoughtfully added..
“A glance from a distance could be quite convincing.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He always crouches,
never bends, and always keeps his knees together.” Mrs Haverthwaite
smiled. “He says it's instinct because he's wearing a dress, but I
think he's actively trying to be lady like.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Do you think he
likes it?” the neighbour quizzed. “Dressing as a woman?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I think he just
accepts it, as part of his job.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “At
first he was very apprehensive, but he's very pliant.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He must be!” the
neighbour replied. “It's quite sweet really... how he just takes it
in his stride.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well he was down on
his luck and desperate for work. I only hope he doesn't find a full
time job and has to leave me.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You could always
give him a bad reference.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh that would be
cruel.” Mrs Haverthwaite retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The leaves are all
done Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel announced as he entered through the
back door, kicking off his own footwear and slipping his stocking
feet into his indoor shoes.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you Daniel.”
Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “There's tea in the pot if you'd like
one.” she suggested as he washed his hands.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No but thank you.
I've still got a stack of ironing to do.” he told her as he dried
his hands, then donned his frilly apron, tying a perfect bow at the
small of his back.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You iron as well?”
the neighbour exclaimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Daniel excels when
it comes to ironing.” Mrs Haverthwaite complimented.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I thought youngsters
these days didn't bother.” the neighbour retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well Daniel's not
your average youngster.” Mrs Haverthwaite proudly stated. Daniel
smiled appreciatively before heading into the utility and tackling
the large stack of laundry that needed ironing. When he'd finished,
the neighbour had gone so he washed the cups left by the two ladies
and wiped the table and worktops, then popped his head into the
lounge and asked Mrs Haverthwaite if anything else needed doing. “Oh
just those cups please Daniel.” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I've done those.”
he told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh you are good.”
she said. “Why don't you take the weight off your feet for a
moment.” she asked. Daniel sat and straightened his apron over his
lap. “I'm thinking of getting you a new uniform for the winter...
one with long sleeves.” she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And long trousers?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well I'd like to
keep you in a dress, Daniel.” she replied. “If that's OK with
you?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... I guess so.”
he replied. “But I'd much prefer long pants.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm sure you would
Daniel but you did say you'd got used to a dress and that it helps
you focus.” Mrs Haverthwaite reminded him. “And you do spend a
lot of time on your knees. The knees would quickly fade and wear
through. You're better off in a skirt and tights.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I suppose Mrs
Haverthwaite.” Daniel said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">She could sense that he
felt somewhat disappointed, but felt that his sense of disappointment
was more with himself than anything else. “Good. Right.” Mrs
Haverthwaite chirped. “I'll have to take some measurements.” she
said, “...and you can jot them down.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">She handed him a note
pad and pen, with <i>hips</i>, <i>waist</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,</span>
<i>chest</i>, <i>arm length</i>, <i>nape to waist</i> and <i>waist to
knee </i>already listed on the page. She unravelled a dressmakers
tape measure and proceeded to take each measurement in turn. She made
small talk as he jotted down his details such as asking his height,
to which he replied “About five-eight I think.” Then Daniel asked
if she was having his new uniform specially made.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh no.” she
replied. “That would be far too expensive for a mere housekeeping
uniform.” she replied, before explaining the boys are broad on the
shoulders whilst slight on the hip and that might have to have it
taken in to compensate. “Oh, and you should buy yourself some
thicker tights now it's getting colder.” she added, suggesting
fifty or maybe seventy denier.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel soon found
himself back in the utility room, removing his uniform and folding it
neatly, before pulling off his slip and pulling on his jeans and
jersey. He felt somewhat disappointed that he hadn't been more
insistent on a trousered uniform, but then persuaded himself that Mrs
Haverthwaite was probably right with regards to the knees wearing
through.<br /><br />The next day, Daniel went to M&S and bought two
packs of tights; one being fifty denier and the other seventy denier,
just as Mrs Haverthwaite suggested. He tried a pair on as soon as he
returned to his flat and loved how cosy they felt. He could still see
his toes through them but not so clearly as he could though the thin
fifteen denier tights he's become accustomed to. “These are like
schoolgirl's tights.” he mused. “...or the sort girls wear with
little denim shorts.” he thought, and with that, he got his oldest
pair of jeans out, cut off the legs with a pair of kitchen scissors
and wore them for the rest of the day... but struggled to justify the
'why'. At least at Mrs Haverthwaite's he's wearing a uniform that's
suited to his role. Wearing a pair of little denim shorts and thick
black tights at home has no such explanation.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--A new uniform-->It
took almost a fortnight for Mrs Haverthwaite to introduce Daniel to
his new 'winter' uniform. Like the housekeeping frock he's used to,
it has a white rounded collar, but no matching cuffs on its long
black sleeves. “Now it differs a little from your 'summer' uniform
Daniel...” she began, holding it proudly on a clothes hanger.
“...as this one has its buttons on the back.” she informed him,
turning it around to reveal a row of eight or ten big black buttons
running all the way down the back. “You might find them a little
bit fiddly but I'll be here to button you in if need be.” she said,
turning it again so the front of the frock faced him. “And these
buttons here...” she began, pointing out two smaller black buttons
on either side of the chest. “...are what your new apron attaches
to.” she told him, before revealing his new apron. It doesn't have
a a broad frilly trim like his usual apron but it is trimmed with an
inch-wide band of broderie anglaise and it does have a bib. “I
didn't bother getting you a new headband.” she told him, adding
that she's fond of the one he wears, before enthusiastically asking
“What do you think?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... it's very
er... traditional looking.” Daniel replied, imagining how he'll
look with a bibbed apron.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes that's exactly
what I thought.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “It'll be warmer
too... especially when you're out sweeping the driveway.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
gulped. “Did Jolanta have a winter uniform too?” he quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No but Jolanta
didn't sweep the leaves.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “Just make
sure you take the apron off beforehand because the can stain when
they're mulching.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Will do Mrs
Haverthwaite.” Daniel replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well, here you are.”
she said, handing him the hanger. “It's been pressed.” she told
him. “And let me know if you need any help with the buttons.” she
smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite left
Daniel alone in the utility room where he apprehensively removed his
own clothes and pulled on his slip before unfastening the buttons on
his new housekeeping frock. He stepped into it and pushed his hands
through the sleeves, realising that they too had buttons on the cuffs
that needed unfastening. After a little faffing, he got the dress
onto his shoulders and began trying to fasten the buttons starting at
the small of his back and working upwards. He fastened as many as he
could and tried to reach the rest from above, but could only reach
the top two buttons. Daniel felt frustrated that he couldn't reach
them all, leaving a couple of buttons in the middle unfastened. He
slipped his feet in to his shoes and fastened the new apron around
his waist, before buttoning the bib to the front of his frock. “I
feel like a belong in Downton Abbey.” he muttered as he looked down
at himself and noting that this frock is a good few inches shorter
that the frock he'd become accustomed to. He donned his little lacy
cap, took a breath and plucked up some courage before stepping out of
the utility room.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh that looks
perfect Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite immediately exclaimed. “I see
you bought some new tights too.” she added, noticing his thicker
fifty denier hosiery. “They look nice.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you.” Daniel
meekly replied. “I err... couldn't reach all the buttons.” he
humbly confessed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh never mind. Turn
around. I'll do them.” she said. Daniel felt more servile than ever
as Mrs Haverthwaite fastened the final buttons for him, effectively
trapping him in his new uniform. “Perfect bow as usual.” she
noticed, checking the bow on the back of his apron.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's a bit shorter
than my other uniform.” he commented.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” she said.
“The skirt's a little straighter too... it's a little more stylish
I think.” she added as he turned to face her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel shyly
agreed, although he was clueless with regards to such things. “I
supposed I’d best get started.” he said, glancing at the time.
It's three minutes to ten. As usual, he began upstairs and with the
vacuum cleaner in one hand and his cleaning caddy in the other, he
climbed the stairs. The first thing he noticed was how the skirt
becomes taut as he ascended each step and on reaching the landing,
he put the vacuum cleaner and caddy down and spent a brief moment
looking at his reflection in the large mirror. The thicker tights
make his legs look as black as both his shoes and dress ,and being
straighter in style as well as a few inches shorter, the frock
follows his slender frame much more closely than his A line 'summer'
uniform. Having an apron with a bib, he looks and feels more like a
proper housemaid then ever before, and as he observes himself from
this way and that, he notices a small slit on the back of his skirt,
through which he can detect the white slip he wears beneath it.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">As usual, he wonders
what his parents or probation officer would think if they could see
him now, before putting such thoughts out of his mind. He begins, as
usual, in Mrs Haverthwaite's bedroom; straightening her bedding,
plumping up her pillows, then tidying her dresser, wiping all the
surfaces and windowsill, before finally vacuuming the carpet. He
makes sure the door handle, latch plate and hinges are gleaming
before thoroughly cleaning the bathroom.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">It's doing this that it
becomes apparent just how different his new uniform is. The narrower
skirt gives him less freedom to move than his roomier 'summer' frock
did, and the lace hem of his slip becomes visible as he crouches to clean
around the toilet. He dusts and vacuums the landing before getting on
his knees and sweeping the stair carpet with a dust-pan and brush.
Again his slip emerges from the hem of his skirt, which he mentions
to Mrs Haverthwaite as she passed through the hallway. “Oh I
wouldn't worry. It's just because it's a shorter frock.” she told
him. “Is ti comfortable?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's different...
but yes I think so.” he honestly replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good.” she smiled.
“And if you're too warm with those thick tights on, you can always
take them off.” she added as he mopped his brow. “You have shaved
your legs haven't you?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes of course.” he
replied. “But I'll be OK I think.” he said. “I'll need them
when I’m sweeping the leaves.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“True... it is a bit
chilly out.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel gave the hallway
and lunge a good clean, then Mrs Haverthwaite suggest he break for
some tea and biscuits, which as usual, he prepared and served. “You
do look very smart.” she said as he placed the tea tray down,
before asking where he bought his new tights from.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Marks &
Spencers.” he replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They do do the best
ones.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” he shyly
agreed, but really had no idea. “They're nice and cosy.” he
added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just what you need
for winter.” she said, before asking how his job hunting was going.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Same as usual.” he
replied. “Lots of applications but no offers.” he said. “I'm
still going door-to-door but apart from the occasional odd job,
there's nothing happening there either.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Ooh.” she cooed.
“Well you've always got a reference from me should you need one,
but I'd hate to lose you, Daniel.” she told him. “If I could
employ you full time, I would.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know.” he said.
“Another part time job would be ideal if I could fit it around the
hours I work for you.” he told her. As he sat, he kept glancing
down at his bib and noticed that unless he keeps himself absolutely
upright, at goes baggy and frankly looks odd.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well I'm glad to
hear that Daniel. It means a lot to me that you're happy, despite my
er... somewhat unusual conditions.” she replied, glaring at his
uniform.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh I don't mind
really.” he said, running his hands over his apron. “Having to
wear a housekeeper's dress is a small price to pay for regular,
reliable work.” he told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm glad you think
that way Daniel.” she replied. “It's actually a waitress dress.”
she informed him. “I thought something a little shorter and more
fitted would make a nice change.” she added. “Has it been
comfortable to work in?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” he replied.
“Shall I pour the tea before it stews?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Please do.” she
smiled. Her eyes became fixated on his legs as he stood and began to
pour. Jolanta's housekeeping frock has a fuller, knee length skirt
whereas this skirt is more fitted, and around five inches shorter.
“You do have lovely slim legs.” she said as he sat himself down.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... thank you.”
he bashfully replied. “I think they look better with tights than
without.” he added, cupping his knees with his palms then pulling
them over the nylon, before smoothing his apron. “The skirt feels
really short when I'm sitting.” he timidly told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's not <i>short</i>
short.” she told him. “But shorter than you're used to.” she
smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
replied. “You'll be having me wearing make-up next.” he jovially
added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Would you like to
wear make-up?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh no Mrs
Haverthwaite... I wasn't suggesting... I mean... I don't know... not
really.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't think it
would be appropriate.” she replied, adding “...considering.” as
she glanced at the white bib, buttoned onto his frock, then his head
and the servile little cap he obediently wears. '<i>Considering I'm a
teenage boy?</i>' Daniel openly presumed. “I was more considering
the notion that traditional housemaids never wore make-up because
they were supposed to be presentable rather than pretty.” she
retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes of course.”
Daniel replied. “One day I'm going to slip up and say <i>housemaid</i>
when some asks what I do.” he playfully said as he dunked a bourbon
biscuit into his tea cup.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“<i>Housekeeper</i>
is a more neutral term.” she suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
smiled. “Really I just say I'm a cleaner.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're much more
than a cleaner Daniel.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After their break for
tea, Daniel set about cleaning the kitchen, downstairs loo and
utility room, then he removed his apron and donned his own footwear
before heading to the garage to get the rake and broom so he could
clear the fallen leaves from the lawn and driveway. Halfway through
this chore, he realised that long sleeves and thick tights do make a
difference. “I can't even undo a couple of buttons.” he sighed as
he stood and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Oh bloody
'ell.” he grumbled, feeling the trim of his little lacy headband
brush the back of his hand. He keeps forgetting he's wearing it and
fears that it's only a matter of time before he walks home with it
on.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">With all the leaves
raked and swept into neat little piles, Daniel strides up the
driveway to fetch the leaf grabbers and wheelie bin. He can't help
but look at his legs, clad in thick black tights through which the
pinks of his knees are barely visible. Without his apron on, the new
black frock looks and feels much more 'smart' than it does servile.
The slimmer skirt becomes taut with every stride and Daniel makes a
conscious decision to take shorter steps. “All done?” Mrs
Haverthwaite asked as he entered the kitchen via the back door.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not quite.” Daniel
replied. “I'm just popping this in.” he said, removing his little
lacy headband. “I keep forgetting I'm wearing it.” he confessed
as he hung it with his apron. Mrs Haverthwaite smiled warmly, but
didn't reply. Daniel went about his chore, fetching the grabbers from
the garage and pulling the wheelie bin down the drive and around the
lawn, scooping up the neat piles of fallen leaves. He notices Mrs
Haverthwaite watching from the lounge window. He sends her a smile,
then casts his eyes up to the tree tops and tried to gauge just how
many leaves are yet to fall... and there's quite a lot still up
there. “I'm gonna be doing this for a good few more weeks.” he
tells himself as he drags the wheelie bin back to where it belongs,
before returning indoors.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That looks so much
better Daniel. Thank you.” Mrs Haverthwaite said as he joined her
in the lounge.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're welcome Mrs
Haverthwaite.” he replied. She told him that his new uniform looks
very smart, and that he wears it well. “Thank you.” he said. “Not
that I really know what that means.” he added. “I'm just wearing
it.” he bashfully added. She smiled warmly on him, but didn't
reply. After a moment he said he'd give the kitchen a 'quick
once-over' before getting changed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes of course.”
she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel washed the few
pots by the sink, wiped the worktops and table and went to change
into his own clothes. “Oh dang.” he grumbled to himself. He's
forgotten that he can't unfasten the buttons on his own, and sought
out Mrs Haverthwaite. “Erm... could you help with the buttons,
please.” he meekly asked. “It seems strange wearing something
that needs someone else to get me in an out of.” he said as she
slowly unfastened the buttons for him. “It would make more sense to
just put the buttons down the front.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I suppose it
would.” she said. “But a back fastening is very smart, I think...
especially from the front.” she added. “...and I'll always be
here to button you in.” she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So long as you're
here to let me out again.” he nervously added as an unwelcome
scenario popped into his mind... <i>Daniel, I' need to go out for a
the evening, you'll be OK locking up won't you? </i>She might say one
day. “I've have to be a contortionist to get to all the buttons.”
he mused.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite
chuckled. “There you are.” she said. Daniel bashfully thanked
her, before returning to the utility room; the back of his dress hung
open, revealing his slinky satin slip.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--As the days and weeks passed by-->As
the days and weeks passed by, Daniel soon got used to being butted in
and out of his new housekeeper's uniform, but he much preferred being
let out of it than being buttoned in. He knows that Mrs Haverthwaite
doesn't have a malicious bone in her body, but can't help but feel
that he's stuck in this dress until she decides otherwise. He can't
help but imagine a variety of scenarios which might lead to him
having to walk all the way back to his gloomy little bedsit flat
wearing it. These include a sneak thief creeping in and snatching the
first thing they find, which is his bundle of clothing and backpack
in the utility room... or the aforementioned 'leaving him to lock up'
scenario, which is infinitely more likely... and a marginally less
likely scenario in which Daniel and Mrs Haverthwaite have a
disagreement and crossed words which results in her saying something
like <i>I've a good mind to make you walk home in your uniform... in
fact you'll be doing just that young man! Then you might realise who
is subservient to whom.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Such a
fall out is highly unlikely since Daniel and Mrs Haverthwaite get on
so well, but since he does need her to let him out of his dress at
the end of the day, he's consciously playing the obedient little
housemaid and pandering to her whims all the more.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Tuesday (lunch invitation)-->It's
Tuesday morning and they're making small talk as Daniel is being
buttoned into his housekeeping frock. She asked if he enjoyed the
weekend and he described not doing much other than watching TV and
tidying his flat. She asked what TV he watches, and he enthused over
the historical reality shows such as Victorian Farm and The Edwardian
House. “It's amazing how they managed without vacuum cleaners and
washing machines.” he said. “The maids started work at 6am and
didn't leave 'til sundown.” he added. “I guess I'm lucky only
having to do a few hours a week.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We do live in an age
of convenience.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied as she fastened the final
two buttons. “There you are.” she said. Daniel thanked her and
donned his apron; tying a perfectly presentable bow before buttoning
the broderie anglaise trimmed bib to his frock. He checked his
reflection, front and back before straightening his little lace cap,
just a fraction. In addition to his usual Tuesday chores, there's a
short list of additional chores stuck to the refrigerator door. These
include sweeping the leaves and doing the ironing, plus tidying the
garage and making space for the patio furniture. Since September's
'spring' clean, keeping on top of the house is far easier and quicker
which leaves more time for extra chores. Sometimes he wonders if Mrs
Haverthwaite invents little jobs to keep him occupied. Does the
wrought iron patio furniture really need to go indoors for the
winter? And do the leaves really need sweeping twice a week? He
doesn't complain though. He gets paid relatively well and it keeps
the DWP off his back.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">After tidying her
bedroom, cleaning the bathroom, dusting and hoovering the landing,
polishing all the door handles, latch plates and hinges, sweeping the
stairs and polishing the balustrade, he breaks for tea with Mrs
Haverthwaite. They talk about all sorts of nothing, then out of the
blue, Mrs Haverthwaite says, “Now Daniel I’ve been meaning to ask
for ages... Would you like to come for Sunday lunch this weekend?”
she paused, briefly. “It's OK if you've got plans.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No... no plans.”
he replied. “I'd like that.” he smiled. “Thank you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh it's nothing
really. Just an informal meal.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Does that mean I
have to dress smartly?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No that's formal.”
she told him. “<i>In</i>formal means you can dress down.” she
said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes... sorry, I
misheard.” he bashfully replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'll be a nice
change having you around when I don't have a list of chores for you
to do.” she chirped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
smiled. “But I insist on doing the dishes afterwards.” he told
her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And I insist on you
doing nothing of the sort. You'll be my guest, not my servant.” she
said, glancing from his eyes to his attire and back again.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well if you insist
Mrs Haverthwaite.” he smiled. “...and seeing as I'm your servant
today, I'd best get on.” he said, draining the last of his tea
before beginning to clear the table.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He dusted and hoovered
the hallway and lounge, cleaned the kitchen and downstairs loo,
tackled the huge pile of ironing in the utility room, swept and raked
the leaves, tidied the garage and shifted the patio furniture into
the space he'd cleared. Being wrought iron, he built up a proper
sweat shifting the table. “I would have helped you with that
Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite said as she appeared</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh that's OK... I've
done it now.” Daniel said as he shoved it into its resting place.
“It's heavy.” he said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand,
then placing his palm flat on the top of his head. “And I've
forgotten to take my cap off again!” he grimaced. “It's only a
matter of time before I walk home with it on.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That <i>would</i> be
a sight down on the Foundry estate.” Mrs Haverthwaite smirked,
before telling him that she wouldn't let that happen. “You almost
did the very first time you wore Jolanta's uniform... do you
remember? The downpour when you got soaked to the skin?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes... how could I
forget.” he said, recalling the very same day. “It felt so
strange wearing a dress and apron.” he reminisced. “I must have
looked ridiculous... I didn't have any tights and hadn't shaved my
legs.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You looked fine.”
she told him. “You wore it well. You still do” she said. “If
you didn't I’d never have asked you to wear it again.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And here I am...
three months later.” he said, glancing down at the clothing he's
become so accustomed to wearing.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Is it that long?”
she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm... maybe two.”
Daniel reconsidered. “I never imagined I’d get so used to it.”
he told her, looking down at his frock and apron once more. “In a
weird way I feel kind of proud when I'm wearing it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Jolanta always felt
it demeaned her.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I can understand
that. I suppose she bigger ambitions whereas I'm happy to be offered
any work at all.” he replied. “Even if it is just housework.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You must have
ambitions though.” Mrs Haverthwaite quizzed. “What did you want
to do when you left school?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Anything... I might
have done an apprenticeship as a plumber or electrician, or just got
a job in a supermarket or warehouse or something... I didn't give it
much thought and then all of a sudden I found myself inside.”
Daniel sighed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you're not
inside any more and you're making something of yourself.” Mrs
Haverthwaite reminded him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm only a cleaner
though.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're much more
than that, Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite told him. “Society needs
cleaners because cleaners provide a great deal of society's welfare
and you mustn't consider it a lowly position. It's as important and
essential as heart surgery.” she claimed. “Without cleaners we'd
be overrun with rubbish, filth and detritus.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I suppose Mrs
Haverthwaite.” Daniel said. “I guess I need to stop looking down
on myself.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You need to take as
much pride in yourself as you do your work.” she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” he replied,
grabbing hold of the yard brush. “I'll give the patio a sweep.”
he said. “I'm getting chilly just standing around.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes it is getting
colder.” she replied. “Would you mind giving the furniture a
proper wash down when you've done?” she asked, running her index
finger over the ornate iron table top.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">After
sweeping the patio, Daniel began washing the patio furniture. As he
did so, he thinks of his mother and wonders how impressed she'd be
with all his new-found domestic skills. The last time he lived at
home, Daniel could wash dishes and just about push a vacuum cleaner,
but nothing more. Now he knows how to dust, polish, mop, launder and
iron. He knows exactly how to remove a variety of stains in fabric,
from red wine to turmeric, and is a whiz with the kitchen chemistry
set when it comes to cleaning the oven and bakeware. “At least she
couldn't accuse me of slobbing around the house if I did go back.”
he mused, imagining himself back at home and willingly doing all the
housework and amazing his mother with his ironing skills. What's not
quite so amazing is where he came across those skills, and with that
thought, Daniel remembers that his parents haven't been in much of a
forgiving position since his conviction, or release.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-style: normal;">This
weighs heavy on Daniel's mind as he walks back to his dank little
flat. His parents only visited once whilst he was inside, but
separately so two visits all in all. Both his mother and father
talked of how he's let everyone down, brought shame on the family,
how they always knew he'd never get to university but.. prison! They
never expected that either and they're never going to let him forget
it. Even after release the phone calls have been blunt and resentful.
They made it clear that he would not be welcome to live with them,
but may visit on occasion, providing he lets them know in advance.
Daniel hasn't visited them but intends to. It's a ninety minute bus
ride and is therefore easy to put off... and he knows he won't be
made to feel welcome, at least not at first. </span><i>And are you
making a living?</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> he imagines his
father ask. He envisages the look of disappointment in his father's
face as he proudly explains that he's a cleaner and lives in a
gloomye bedsit above a take-away that features the stench of chips
and kebabs filtering up though the floorboards, and the occasional
drunk pissing in the doorway.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--The take-away fire.-->It's
early on Sunday morning when Mrs Haverthwaite receives an unexpected
phone call from Daniel. She lets it ring for a moment, wondering if
he's calling to cancel Sunday lunch and presuming he must be. She
glances at the clock before picking up the telephone. “At least
he's giving me plenty of notice.” she thought, since it's barely
past 7.30am. “Hello.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Mrs Haverthwaite!”
Daniel said, sounding very panicked. “I'm sorry, I didn't know who
else to call.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Daniel! Is
everything OK?” she asked</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes. I'm err... at
the hospital.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh my word! You're
not hurt are you? What's happened?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There was a fire at
my flat... but I'm OK... the fire brigade got me out.” he told her.
The fire was in fact in the take-away below Daniel's bedsit at around
2am. The bedsit was filled with smoke, he could barely see or breath,
the fire brigade got him out via the window. As the fire took hold of
the two stories above the take-away, Daniel was sat in the back of an
ambulance, wrapped in a blanket and being treated for smoke
inhalation. “They brought me in just in case... but I'm fine,
really.” he told Mrs Haverthwaite.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll be right over
Daniel... is there anything you need?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... some
clothes, but err... not my uniform.” he cautiously replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes of course.”
she chuckled. “I'm sure there'll be some jeans that should fit you
in Emma's room.” she said. “I'll be about half an hour... which
ward are you on?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... it's Ward 3.
Thank you Mrs Haverthwaite.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's the least I can
do Daniel.” she said. “I'll be as quick as I can.” Mrs
Haverthwaite arrived at Ward 3 about forty minutes later, apologising
for taking so long. “I hope these will be suitable.” she said,
removing a bundle of clothing from her bag, followed by a pair of
trainers. “These should fit, they're the largest I could find.”
she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks Mrs
Haverthwaite.” Daniel said, trying not to seem to disheartened by
the baby pink details on an otherwise white pair of training shoes.
She left him alone to change and Daniel found placed discreetly
between the jeans and the top,a pair of relatively plain white
knickers, a lace trimmed vest and a pair of black ankle socks with
pink and purple polka dots. Under the circumstances, he figures she
did the best she could. The boot-cut jeans fit him really snugly
around the bum and thigh but have plenty of stretch in them, and the
grey hooded pullover has the <i>Pineapple</i> logo emblazoned across
the front in purple lettering. The trainers do fit and the boot-cut
jeans just about conceal their pink details.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Are they OK?” she
asked as he opened the curtain.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel nodded. “Yes,
thanks.” he meekly said. After filling in a few discharge forms,
they left the <!--Leaving the hospital-->hospital and got into her
car. Mrs Haverthwaite asked if his flat was habitable. “I doubt
it... the entire roof was ablaze.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh dear... I hope no
one was seriously injured.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't think so...
but I think all my stuff will be gone.” he replied. “Not that I
had much anyway.” he mournfully added. “I'll have to find out who
I need to talk to about getting me rehoused.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That could take
time.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” Daniel
sighed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well don't worry
Daniel... you can stay with me for as long as you need to.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Are you sure Mrs
Haverthwaite?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Absolutely.” she
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you... that's
so kind of you.” said Daniel, feeling a little overwhelmed by her
generosity.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's the least I can
do.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">They were soon headed
up the hill to Plushton and Daniel commented on how odd it felt,
being driven the route he's so often walked. When they arrived back
at Mrs Haverthwaite's home and she put the kettle on and Daniel
offered to make the tea as he usually does, but Mrs Haverthwaite
insisted. “You're not at work today Daniel, you're my guest.” she
told him. “Please, sit and let me wait on you for once.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel pulled out a
chair and sat. She offered him toast and cereal but Daniel said he
wasn't hungry. She asked if he got much sleep in the hospital. “Not
really.” he replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well if you need a
few hour's sleep?” she suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I think I might do.”
Daniel sighed. “But I'll have some tea first... might perk me up a
bit.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">They sat and chatted.
Daniel recalled the events and realised just how close to death he'd
been, being sound asleep when the fire broke out. He cursed himself
for sleeping in his birthday suit which meant he had nothing but a
blanket whilst the paramedics checked him out and gave him some
oxygen. “So you really have lost everything.” Mrs Haverthwaite
said. Daniel nodded and frowned. “Well at least there's a few
boyish clothes in Emma's room, which will see you through until you
get some of your own.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes, thanks.”
Daniel smiled, albeit through pursed lips. “I'll have to go to the
bank tomorrow, and the DWP, and my probation officer.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes... I've got a
really busy day tomorrow so you'll have to walk down.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's fine Mrs
Haverthwaite. I'm used to walking and the air will do me some good.”
Daniel replied. They chatted for a while, not just about Daniels
ordeal and predicament, but all sorts of things. Mrs Haverthwaite
suggested him letting his parents know what's happened, but Daniel
was reluctant. “They'll only assume I'm looking for a handout, or
somewhere to stay.” he glumly replied, stifling a yawn.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You've got somewhere
to stay Daniel.” she told him. “Now you're looking tired so I
suggest you try to get a few hour's sleep.” she said. “I'll put
you in the small back bedroom if that's OK.” Mrs Haverthwaite told
him. “...but I don't think there's any pyjamas so you'll have to
make do with a nightie, if that's OK?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll be OK in my
birthday suit.” Daniel bashfully replied. Mrs Haverthwaite was
having none of it and explained why bedclothes should always be worn.
“Yes of course Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He loitered in the
doorway of Emma's old bedroom as Mrs Haverthwaite removed a bundle of
nightdresses from a drawer. Most were satin with thin or broad lace
shoulder straps in feminine colours, some with floral or heart
patterns. “I think this should do.” she said, selecting a blue
cotton nightie with short sleeves. She apologised as she handed it to
him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's fine Mrs
Haverthwaite.” Daniel said, frowning a little at its ditsy floral
print and lace trimmed yoke. “Beggars can't be choosers eh?” he
chirped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">She led him to the
small back bedroom, turn on the light, lowered the blind and closed
the curtains. “I'll erm... leave you to it.” Mrs Haverthwaite
smiled. “Take as long as you need.” she said before leaving
Daniel alone in the bedroom. He glanced around the walls and gulped.
Never in a million years did he ever expect to end up sleeping at Mrs
Haverthwaite's house but here he is.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Pretending everything
was normal (yet knowing it wasn't), Daniel laid the nightdress neatly
on the bed. Not only is it very feminine, it's also rather old
fashioned or maybe middle-aged in style. Not the sort of nightie a
teenage girl or young woman would wear. He pulled off the pineapple
hoodie and folded it respectfully, before glancing at his reflection
in the dressing table mirror. He considers the fact that now he's
lost everything, he's reliant on borrowing borrowing Mrs
Haverthwaite's daughter's clothing, including her underwear. “Only
for a couple of days though.” he muttered to himself, knowing that
he'll be able to withdraw some cash when the bank's open and can at
least buy himself some of his own clothing. On the downside though...
he's only got around fifty pounds in the bank and the hundred or so
pounds in cash he'd saved probably went up in smoke with everything else.
Daniel unbuttoned his jeans and gulped at the nightdress. Surely it
would have been OK for him to sleep in the knickers and vest, but Mrs
H insisted so he'd best wear it.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Tired as he was, it
took Daniel ages to get to sleep. He couldn't help but think of how
lucky he was to be rescued from the fire, but also how bad his luck
has been in recent years. He ended up in prison through no fault of
his own. His family don't want to know him when they should be at
their most supportive. He's lost what few possessions he had and is
having to make do with Emma's old clothes. At least she wasn't a real
girlie girl who'd left nothing but prissy dresses when she vacated
her parental home, so it could be worse, he figured.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel eventually
drifted off to sleep to the sound of his wheezing chest and woke
several hours later, coughing. The digital clock read 10:54am and
Daniel pulled aside his duvet and swung his legs out of bed. The
nightie Mrs Haverthwaite loaned him had ridden up to his waist and
dropped to his knees when he stood. He exited the small bedroom and
went to the bathroom, sighing at his reflection in the mirror above
the sink. Mrs Haverthwaite responded to the sound of the toilet
flushing and trotted up the stairs, telling him that she's put some
clean undies and a T-shirt out in her daughter's bedroom. “You'll
be OK in the same jeans won't you?” she presumed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes Mrs Haverthaite.
Thanks.” Daniel replied, although he figured he'd be OK in the same
underwear too. On the bed is another pair of relatively modest
knickers, another camisole vest and a pale blue T shirt with a white
Reebok logo. The socks are also pale blue but have a slight
scalloping to the cuffs and are quite clearly women's socks. He takes
them to the room he'd slept in and changed. The T-shirt looked
relatively plain until he donned it and realised it's capped sleeves
are gathered and have a slight puffed appearance. Still... beggars
can't be choosers, he figured as he returned down stairs.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That T-shirt's a
good fit.” Mrs Haverthwaite smiled. “Did you get much sleep?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“A couple of hours I
guess.” Daniel replied. He drank coffee and felt like a spare part
whilst Mrs Haverthwaite busied herself preparing the Sunday lunch.
She declined all his offers to help, reminding him that today he's
the guest and not the housekeeper. Sounding somewhat flustered,
Daniel said he had to do something, and asked for a note pad and a
pen so he could make a list of everything he has to do on the
following day, such as visiting the DWP, his probation officer, his
bank, etc. “...and when I’ve got some cash I'll get myself some
clothes.” he said, listing a few essential items including the word
underpants and double underlining it.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There's plenty of
Emma's for you to be going on with if you don't have enough money
Daniel.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes. Thank you...
but I at least need some underpants. It doesn't feel right wearing
your daughter's... erm...” he stammered, struggling to actually say
the word.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're from a pack
that she'd never actually worn.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “Granny
panties, she calls them.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Granny panties?”
Daniel quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes, high waist, low
leg.. rather than the skimpy little things she preferred.” Mrs
Haverthwaite informed him. “How much money have you got in the
bank?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm not sure. Not
much. Fifty pounds maybe?” he guessed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Is that all?” Mrs
Haverthwaite exclaimed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Most of my money was
in cash at the flat... I kept meaning to put it in the bank but...”
he confessed. “All gone up in smoke now I expect.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You need to check
with the fire station to see if you can go in to salvage anything.”
she suggested. “Maybe not everything went up in smoke.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“By the look of the
flames bursting out of the roof, I've got a feeling everything did.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well at least you've
got somewhere to stay and you've still got your job.” she smiled.
“Even if you do have to make do with wearing girls clothes for a
day or two.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes... and at least
Emma left some jeans behind... otherwise I'd have been walking out of
the hospital wearing a dress.” he imagined. Mrs Haverthwaite
smiled. Daniel smiled back, albeit through pursed lips.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A short silence ensued.
Mrs Haverthwaite tended to the various pots and pans simmering away
on the hob. Daniel stared blankly at his 'to do' list. “If you did
want to try something a little nicer... I've no objection.” Mrs
Haverthwaite cautiously said. “Not necessarily one of her dresses,
but a skirt maybe?” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm...” Daniel
apprehensively replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I mean... you've
said quite a few times that you've become accustomed to your
housekeeping dress...” she mused.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes but that's
different Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel interjected.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It is. It's plain
and somewhat drab... purely functional.” she replied. “Surely
you've wondered what a proper dress might feel like?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's what I'd look
like that worries me Mrs Haverthwaite.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well there's plenty
to choose from.” she said. “And I can tell that you're
intrigued... you had a dreamy look in your eyes when you imagined
leaving the hospital wearing one.” she told him. “What did you
imagine?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... I don't know.
Something flowery I guess.” he gulped. “But I don't want to wear
one.” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You didn't want to
wear your housekeeping dress to begin with.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know but...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh come now
Daniel... it'll be fun. And it'll help take your mind off things.”
she said. “Dinner won't be ready for another half an hour or so
which gives us plenty of time.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Just as he had done so
many times before, Daniel conceded and found himself stood in front
of Emma's open wardrobe whilst Mrs Haverthwaite presented him with a
variety of options. “Does it have to be flowery?” he quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhBJjqXu4hwrURrOwRzv61H1y0vaY9yrukH3JT4IkOifwEoV5piQyWS148m4JLAcBbLcThBINm67fEAOr4Aof3VDaQj85efLI6pW0BKW71-_-UPTeV6lEIaERGxNclvNC6qaUUyALT/s1600/ditsy+ls+dress.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhBJjqXu4hwrURrOwRzv61H1y0vaY9yrukH3JT4IkOifwEoV5piQyWS148m4JLAcBbLcThBINm67fEAOr4Aof3VDaQj85efLI6pW0BKW71-_-UPTeV6lEIaERGxNclvNC6qaUUyALT/w300-h400/ditsy+ls+dress.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>“That is what you had
in mind.” she reminded him. “I think this one.” she said,
removing a dark dress peppered with red and white flowers. “...with
some black tights.” she suggested.<p></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” Daniel said,
taking the hanger from her and gulping.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't look so
nervous.” she grinned. “It's just a dress. It won't bite you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know.” he
bashfully said. “It's just a lot more feminine than I'm used to.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Your housekeeping
dresses are just as feminine Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite told him.
She pointed to a drawer in which he'll find some tights and returned
to the kitchen, leaving Daniel to change. He hung the dress and
gulped at it. “I can't believe I'm actually going to wear a proper
dress.” he said to himself, recalling all the times he's imagined
about doing just that.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Five minutes later, he
entered looking bashful and shy. “It looks lovely.” she told him.
“How does it feel?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nice I guess.” he
replied, adding that it feels very different to his housekeeping
frock. The dress fits him closely around the body and its long thin
sleeves reach his wrists. It has a skater style skirt that flares
from his hips and the hem hangs curtain like a few inches above his
knees, which are clad in opaque black tights. “Shall I put my house
shoes on?” he asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“If you like.” Mrs
Haverthwaite smiled, adding that Emma would wear either plimsolls or
Doc Martin boots with a dress like that. Daniel slipped his stocking
feet into the black dolly shoes he always wears with his housekeeping
frock and returned to the table, which is now set with knives and
forks, place mats and a variety of condiments. “It's very swishy.”
he said as he sat, smoothing the skirt at he did so.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It suits you.” Mrs
Haverthwaite told him. Daniel wasn't so sure about that but he felt
comfortable enough. “Now... are there any vegetables you don't
like?” she asked as she began plating up the Sunday roast.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I'll eat anything
Mrs Haverthwaite.” he told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The lunch was the best
he'd eaten in years and he was full of compliments; the gravy was
tasty, the roast potatoes were perfect, the beef succulent and even
the sprouts, which he's not too keen on were the best he'd ever had.
Afterwards, he insisted on washing the dishes but Mrs Haverthwaite
insisted on him doing nothing whatsoever. “Can I put some make up
on you?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... yes, I
guess.” he sheepishly replied. “I've come this far so I may as
well go the whole hog.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel sat with nervous
apprehension whilst Mrs Haverthwaite washed the cutlery and crockery
before putting the ovenware on to soak. Then he followed her up to
the small box room in which he'd slept and she sat him at the small
dressing table. Butterflies were erupting in his tummy as he faced
his reflection. He can't imagine what he'll look like with make-up on
and he can't wait to find out. Mrs Haverthwaite fetched her vanity
case. “Now... I'm not going to put too much on because it's Sunday
afternoon rather than Saturday night.” she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” he meekly
said. She began by placing a band in his hair to hold his fringe off
his forehead, and talked him through the process; a light dusting a
foundation to give him a nice even skin tone, a little eyebrow pencil
to define their shape, a touch of eye-shadow to brighten up his eyes
and some mascara to make his lashes look nice and long. Finally, she
painted his lips in a pinky red which she said matched the flowers on
his dress. “I look so different!” he gasped when he faced his
reflection. “If my hair was long I'd probably pass as a girl!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Let's see if we can
pixiefy it a little shall we?” Mrs Haverthwaite suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Pixiefy?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“When women and girls
have short hair it's called a pixie cut.” she told him, before
applying gel and faffing with it, adding a slide and quickly swapping
it for a different one. “How's that?” she asked, prompting Daniel
to look in the mirror.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... it's
certainly different.” Daniel replied, before bashfully thanking
her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh you're welcome
Daniel.” She replied. “Shall we see if there's a good film on?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Here.” she said,
putting the lipstick in his hand. “I'll get you a purse.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We're not going to
the cinema are we?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No of course not.”
she chuckled. “But lipstick needs reapplying regularly and you've
no pockets, so you need a purse.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Exiting the box room,
Daniel glanced at his reflection in the large mirror on the landing.
He's more than accustomed to seeing himself in his black frock, white
apron and dainty little headband in this mirror, but today's
reflection is something very new. His hair and face looks as feminine
as his clothing. “I expect your housekeeping frock will feel rather
drab on Tuesday.” Mrs Haverthwaite commented. “Here.” she said,
handing him a small satin purse with a little floral embroidery.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thank you.” Daniel
quietly replied. He opened it and put the lipstick inside, then
looked in the mirror once more. The dainty purse only added to just
how feminine he looked, and felt.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite chose
a film called The Parent Trap, which Daniel had never seen. It's not
the sort of film he'd choose to watch but it was enjoyable enough for
a family friendly Disney romp. Mrs Haverthwaite thoroughly enjoyed it
and reminisced going to see it at the cinema when she was a girl..
She used to dream about finding a long lost twin sister and being
able to swap places with her. “Do you have any brother or sisters?”
Daniel asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No I was an only
child.” she replied. “I'd have loved to have a sister though,
which I suppose is why I loved this film so much.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I kind of feel like
I've switched places with a long lost twin sister.” Daniel jovially
mused as he observed his attire. Mrs Haverthwaite didn't say
anything, but they did share a smile.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">A while later, Mrs
Haverthwaite put the kettle and Daniel popped to the toilet. On his
return, he noticed his 'to do' list on the kitchen table.”You were
right about this taking my mind off things.” Daniel said, lightly
grabbing his skirt. “I'd forgotten all about this.” he added,
putting his fingers on his to-do list</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh I hoped it would
Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite smiled. “Now I tend to go for a stroll
on a Sunday... you're welcome to stay here but if' you'd like to join
me, you might want to change into something else.” she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... where do you
go?” Daniel asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Just along Church
Lane, up Station Road, through the recreation ground and back down
Windy Lane... it takes about forty minutes.” she said, adding that
the fresh air will do him some good.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
agreed. “I'd best put some jeans on.” he said. “Will it be
muddy?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.” Mrs
Haverthwaite replied. “But those are your house shoes remember.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes... I was
thinking about Emma's white trainers. She mightn't be too happy if I
got them muddy.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel changed into the
stretchy boot cut jeans, pulling them on over his tights and donned
the sporty T shirt. Mrs Haverthwaite fetched him some make-up wipes
“I thought you might want these.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh er... thanks.”
he said. He sat himself at the dresser and wiped away the lipstick.
“It seems a shame to take it off after you put so much effort into
putting it on.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It has to come off
at some point.” Mrs Haverthwaite smiled. “I'll see if I can find
you a jacket.” she said, leaving him alone to remove his make-up.
“Is this OK?” she asked, returning a few minutes later with a
quilted down jacket; charcoal grey with purple piping.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes, thanks.” he
said. She handed him a comb and he handed her the diamanté hair
slide. “Back to being a boy again.” he said as he brushed his
pixiefied hair back into it's usual style.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Danielle becomes
Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite smiled. Daniel chuckled nervously. He may
no longer be wearing a dress or make-up, but every stitch of clothing
he wears belongs to Mrs Haverthwaite's daughter. He grabbed the
pineapple hoodie thinking he might need that too, but Mrs
Haverthwaite told him the down jacket was very warm and he'd be fine
with just his T shirt. “Do you want a hat?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Is it cold out?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It can get chilly,
and you can always put it in your pocket.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">She rummaged through
the coat cupboard under the stairs, saying there's plenty of hats but
not many to choose from, before offering him a knitted lilac beanie
with the Kangol logo in pink. “It this OK?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah.” Daniel
said. “I'll wear the logo at the back.” he added as he donned it.
Mrs Haverthwaite told him the colour suited him. The jacket fitted
his slender frame snugly and unlike a man's down jacket, this one is
shaped to define the waist. Daniel felt his clothing was androgynous
enough that he wasn't worried about it, yet figured from a distance,
anyone might think he was a teenage girl.<br /><br />They set of whilst
the sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the lane. The
trees are mostly leafless and the mulch has mostly gone. “I love
the old buildings.” Daniel said as they passed a converted barn. “I
often try to imagine what it was like when it was just a hamlet
surrounded by a few farms.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There's some old
aerial photographs in the Village Hall... and in the Queen's Head.”
Mrs Haverthwaite told him. “We could pop in for a pint.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm only seventeen
Mrs Haverthwaite.” he reminded her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well, the village
hall then, when it's open.” Mrs Haverthwaite said. She pointed out
where the old train station used to be before Dr Beeching dropped his
axe, and told him that the park above the recreation area used to be
a limestone quarry. The view over the village was lovely, yet this
high exposed vantage point is rather breezy. The town below fills the
valley and Mrs Haverthwaite described how it used to be littered with
tall chimneys before the industrial decline. “That was all long
before my time though.” she added. “Are you warm enough?” she
asked as she buttoned her coat.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes plenty.”
Daniel replied. “This jacket's really warm and I've still got my
tights on.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Very wise.” she
smiled. “You did look nice today.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks.” he
bashfully replied. “Not that I can take any credit... you did my
make-up.” he said. “...and hair.” he added. “I wouldn't have
known where to start.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... one can't
make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.” she said. “You're a
handsome boy Daniel.” she told him. “Do you think you'd wear
another dress?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I will on Tuesday.”
he knowingly replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I mean another nice
one.” Mrs Haverthwaite grinned.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh I don't know.”
he coyly replied. “What if one of your friends called round?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They'd understand
under the circumstances.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And if Emma
visited?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“She seldom calls
unannounced.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It'd be a bit weird
if she did though.” Daniel mused.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's highly unlikely
Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “Not that I'm twisting your
arm.” she added. “I just got the feeling that you enjoyed being
someone different than your usual self.” she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It did help take my
mind off things.” Daniel replied. “And it was nice wearing a
dress that isn't a housekeeper's dress.” he admitted. “I just
worry that if I try another one that I might become trans.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're not trans
Daniel... if you were you'd know it in your heart.” she replied.
“It's not something you become.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah I guess.” he
replied. “You remember the day I got drenched and you gave me
Jolanta's uniform?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Of course.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why didn't you give
me a pair of Emma's jeans instead?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And risk ruining
them with a splash of bleach?” Mrs Haverthwaite countered. “Truth
be told I'd been considering giving you Jolanta's uniform ever since
she returned it.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Even though I'm a
boy?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're a young man
Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite said. “But had you been a young
woman...” she mused. “...I'd have insisted you wore it and the
more I thought about that, the more I felt I was displaying double
standards; one rule for her and no rule for him.” she explained.
“Then when you got caught in that storm I figured it was now or
never.” she smiled. “...and I figured if you <i>really </i>didn't
want to wear it than you wouldn't have, but you did and you seemed
comfortable enough.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“At the time I felt
like I didn't have much choice.” Daniel recalled. “But you're
right... it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.” he said. “I
couldn't believe it the next time I came and you told me it would be
my permanent uniform.” he added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I couldn't believe
it when you said you'd shaved your legs.” she told him. “But I'm
glad you did.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yeah me too... I
can't stand it when they get stubbly.” Daniel told her. “...and I
quite like wearing tights.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They are cosy.
Especially at this time of year.” Mrs Haverthwaite said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
agreed. “It's a shame about that cloud.” he said, looking toward
the horizon. “It's ruined what might have been a good sunset.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Ahhh.” Mrs
Haverthwaite sighed. “Sod's Law.” she said. They soon exited the
recreation ground and strolled down Windy Lane which leads back into
the village of Plushton. They passed the pub and the post office and
before long the small row of shops, all of which were closed apart
from the convenience store. A couple of people said a cheery hello as
they passed but other than that, no one was encountered on their
evening stroll.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I presume that's the
village hall.” Daniel said as the passed a building with Plushton
Village Hall written above the entrance in big plastic letters. The
notice board advertised a twice weekly coffee morning, a bi-monthly
astronomical society meeting, a weekly bridge club and an indoor car
boot sale. They continued along Church Road and back to Mrs
Haverthwaite's home. “I enjoyed that.” Daniel said as he unzipped
his jacket. “There's nowhere nice to stroll down on the Foundry
Estate.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hopefully you'll be
rehoused somewhere not quite so bleak.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And ideally not
above another kebab shop.” Daniel added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">They enjoyed an evening
meal concocted from the leftovers of the Sunday lunch; bubble 'n'
squeak, reheated beef and a roast potato each. Having barely slept
the previous night, Daniel took himself to bed early and slept very
soundly indeed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">On Monday morning,
Daniel was faced with the daunting task of trying to sort his life
out. But first he has breakfast; a bowl of cereal and several cups of
tea, wearing the blue floral calf length nightdress he'd slept in.
Mrs Haverthwaite apologised for not having any pyjamas to offer him.
“I don't mind Mrs Haverthwaite.” he replied. “I did wear a
dress most of yesterday.” he reminded her, before musing on buying
some pyjamas when he gets some cash from the bank.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know you don't
have much money Daniel, so only spend it on things you actually
need.” she advised. “If you don't mind sleeping in a nightie then
don't waste money buying pyjamas” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I suppose you're
right Mrs Haverthwaite.” he said. “I best get dressed.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel donned clean
underwear and socks and wore the same slim fit bootcut jeans he wore
the previous day, with a plain jumper and the same down jacket. The
baby pink details on the training shoes were his main concern but the
jeans mostly concealed those. Daniel was slightly worried that he was
wearing girls clothes yet felt he looked androgynous enough not to
raise any eyebrows.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'd drive you down
into town but Monday is such a busy day for me.” Mrs Haverthwaite
told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh that's fine Mrs
Haverthwaite... I'm used to walking and the fresh air will do me
good.” he replied, wheezing a little.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Good luck.” she
said. “And don't worry.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Thanks.” he said.
It's overcast and chilly as he walks down the hill but the cold
fresh air feels like it's doing his wheezing lungs the world of good.
Daniel heads directly to his bank and explains the situation and asks
to withdraw whatever fund he has in the account, but without his bank
card, passport or driving licence, they refuse to give him any money.
He suggests bringing them a letter from the DWP or Probation Service
confirming his identity, but they reiterate what he needs and Daniel
reiterates that his bank card would have been lost in the fire, and
he doesn't have a passport or driving licence.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Disheartened, he heads
to the DWP and tells them his story. They put him on the housing
register, update his address to the temporary one up in Plushton and
he asks if they can give him a crisis loan as he's lost everything.
They can give him a loan, but that would have to go to his bank
account and under no circumstances can they give him it in cash.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Doubly disheartened, he
heads to the Probation Service and tells his probation officer all
about the unfortunate turn of events. “You're lucky to be alive
Daniel... and lucky that Mrs Haverthwaite has offered to let you stay
with her for a while. I can contact the housing department and let
them know that you need rehousing ASAP but I can't do anything about
your finances... sorry.” the probation officer tells him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel goes to the fire
station and tells them who he is. They have his name on record but
unfortunately, there is no chance that he or anyone can enter his
flat to try to find his bank card because the roof is unstable and
presents a serious health and safety risk.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He walks back up the
hill to Plushton feeling very down in the dumps. “How did you get
on Daniel?” Mrs Haverthwaite enthused.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... I'm on the
housing register and they'll be in touch when they've found me
somewhere, but I couldn't get any money from the bank without any
ID.” he frowned. “...and I can't go back to my flat to see if my
bank card survived the fire because the roof's about to fall in.”
he informed her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh dear.” Mrs
Haverthwaite said. “I suppose I could pay you tomorrow instead of
on Friday, then you can get yourself a few bits in the afternoon.”
she suggested.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That would be great
Mrs Haverthwaite. Thank you.” Daniel smiled. “But I'll have to
pay you some board and lodgings.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Did he housing
department give you any idea of a time scale?” she asked. Daniel
shook his head. “Will it be days or weeks?” she quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I've honestly no
idea Mrs Haverthwaite... but I honestly don't expect you to house me
for nothing.” he told her. “Plus there's food to consider.” he
added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” she said.
“You're a proud boy Daniel and even if I insisted you don't worry
about any of that, you'd insist otherwise.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I certainly would
Mrs Haverthwaite. You know I can work but I don't think my two
mornings would be enough to cover the cost of a rented room down in
town, let alone up here in Plushton.” he replied. “Plus there's
food to consider.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How much is a rented
room in town?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“At least eighty
pounds a week including bills.” he mused. “I suppose housing
benefit would cover that... but if they know I’m renting a room off
you they'd take me off the housing resister.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm.” she replied.
“I'll have to have a think.” she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel ironed his
housekeeping frock and apron before bed on Monday and took it up to
the box room so he could don it first thing. He rose early on Tuesday
morning and after visiting the bathroom, he pulled on a clean pair of
knickers and a lace trimmed vest, slipped on his slip, rolled a pair
of tights up his legs and donned his frock. He didn't want to disturb
Mrs Haverthwaite so endeavoured to fasten all of the buttons running
up the back himself and after some very awkward and tense stretches
he managed to fasten them all. “Phew.” he said to himself,
feeling really quite proud. He donned the apron and tied the bow,
checking it was perfect in the dressing table mirror, before sitting
down and positioning his daily little lace trimmed head band. In
stocking feet, he quietly crept downstairs and slipped his feet into
his house shoes. It's barely 7.00am and by rights, isn't due to start
his chores for another few hours. He made a cup of tea for himself,
trying to be a quiet as possible.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You're dressed
already.” Mrs Haverthwaite said when she appeared soon afterwards.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
replied, offering to make her some tea or coffee. “I wasn't sure if
I should start my chores early?” he asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I think we stick
with your usual routine, Daniel.” Mrs Haverthwaite said as he
placed a cup of coffee in front of her. She thanked him. “I'm not
much of a morning person Daniel and need a good hour to 'come
round'... so, would you mind staying in your room until say,
eight-thirty?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not at all Mrs
Haverthwaite. Sorry.” he sheepishly said. He spend a very long hour
feeling confined to the box room before returning downstairs at
around 8.40am. Mrs Haverthwaite seemed much chirpier and noticed that
he'd fastened all the buttons on his frock by himself. “Yes... it
was a bit of a struggle but I managed it eventually.” he replied.
“Can I do anything?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... you can fetch
the milk in from the doorstep.” she suggested. “I'll draw up a
list of additional chores for you.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Apart from actually
waking up in Mrs Haverthwaite's house, Tuesday was a normal working
day for Daniel. He spent to morning meticulously cleaning, tidying
and straightening. He served her tea and biscuits and took the weight
off his feet for twenty minutes at around 11.00am. They chatted as
they always do and Daniel continued working down the list of
additional household chores until the early afternoon. Mrs
Haverthwaite spent much of the day in her study, typing letters,
updating spreadsheets, telephoning her clients and doing whatever
else her job involves. She did tell him that she'd pay him today but
Daniel was too polite to ask. “Is there anything else Mrs
Haverthwaite before I change?” he asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't think so.”
she said. “Oh, actually.... you'll have a few pairs of socks and
knickers that could do with a quick hand wash.” she suggested. “No
point putting them in washing machine.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He hand washed the
socks and underwear, all the while wondering if she'd forgotten about
giving him some money so he could go down to town and buy himself
some of his own underwear and maybe a cheap pair of trainers or some
jeans. He reminded her countless times about it, but only in his mind
because he felt too shy and polite to actually ask. He put the
knickers and socks to dry over the radiator in the box room and
changed out of his housekeeping uniform. This time though, Mrs
Haverthwaite unfastened the buttons for him. “I think you should
wear your other dress on Friday.” she suggested. “That'll make a
nice change.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
replied. “I'll have to get myself some clothes of my own too.” he
added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh yes. I meant to
give you an advance didn't I?” she replied. “But I completely
forgot to get some cash and I never keep any around the house.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's OK.” Daniel
timidly replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You've got plenty of
underwear to be going on with.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel
blushed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">On Wednesday he walked
down top town and tried and failed once more to withdraw some money
from the bank. But the bank clerk was helpful and advised him to
order a replacement card which would be delivered within a week, but
only to his registered address and not Mrs Haverthwaite's. He calmly
explained that his flat burnt down and suggested the card be
delivered to the bank instead and he could come and collect it. That
apparently would be fine but he'd need to bring some ID such as a
valid passport or driving licence. “But I don't have either of
those.” he replied. The best the clerk could do was advise him to
get a passport. “But... they cost a fortune and take ages to
arrive.” he informed the clerk.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Next he went to the DWP
and asked if there'd been any progress in rehousing him. The answer
was no and Daniel stressed that he was in dire need of rehousing.
“According to our records you have found lodgings up in Plushton.
We have homeless single mothers who really are in 'dire need' and
they'll always be prioritised over someone who has accommodation.”
he was told.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel stressed that
it's only temporary but they didn't seem to care. “So... you're
telling me that I won't be rehoused unless I’m actually homeless.”
he asked. They told him he'd be higher up the list and stressed that
there is a nationwide housing shortage, so being homeless doesn't
actually guarantee being rehoused. They also suggested that he sign
up with various letting agencies and try to rehouse himself, which he
did but all the agencies want fifty pounds to register, charge thirty
pounds to do a credit check and some also levy viewing fees.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Once again he returned
to Pluston feeling very down in the dumps. “I don't want to be a
burden on you Mrs Haverthwaite.” he said. “You've been too kind
already. But they're telling me that I can't get my money without a
new bank card and I can't get that without some ID, and I can't get a
passport without any money nor can I even register with a letting
agency. I honestly don't know what to do.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you'll get paid
on Friday from me...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I know but, you have
to take my room and board into account. I don't want you thinking I'm
a sponger.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes there is that to
consider.” Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “But you're not a sponger
Daniel and I would never think that.” she stressed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Thursday was spent in
his room, but he also went for a stroll around the village at Mrs
Haverthwaite's insistence. On Friday he works as normal, wearing
Jolanta's old uniform which does make a nice change from the housekeeping dress Mrs Haverthwaite bought for him. Once he's finished,
Mrs Haverthwaite gives him his sixty pound wage in full, despite
Daniel trying to give her some money back to cover his food and the
bills. “Don't worry about that this week.” she told him. “You
go and get yourself the things you need.” she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes. Thank you Mrs
Haverthwaite.” Daniel said. For the first time since the fire he
felt delighted and was eager to go to town.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... Daniel!”
she chirped as he headed toward the door. “Aren't you forgetting
something?” she said, looking him up and down.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel looked down and
gasped. His own eagerness meant he'd completely forgotten that he
hadn't changed out of his housekeeping uniform and he almost headed
down the hill wearing it; apron, lace cap and all! He changed into
Emma's jeans, trainers and a top, donned her snug down jacket and
headed down the hill. He wondered how far he would have got before he
realised he was still dressed as a housemaid if Mrs Haverthwaite
hadn't stopped him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">He went to the DWP to
declare his earnings for the week, and the stern woman behind the
desk informed him that he'd failed to turn up for an appointment the
previous day. “No one told me I had an appointment.” Daniel said.
“I was in here on Wednesday and on Monday.” he stated.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'd have been
informed by post... and it would have been delivered on Monday.”
she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“But my flat burnt
down on Saturday night... that's why I was here on Monday, to get on
the housing register and to give you my temporary address.” he told
her. “Why didn't you tell me about the appointment then?” he
quizzed. “It was pretty obvious I wouldn't be going to my flat to
pick up my mail!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Don't take that tome
with me young man!” she spat. “I didn't speak to you on Monday so
what you was and wasn't told has nothing to do with me!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't mean you
personally!” Daniel said. “I mean whoever I spoke to on Monday...
they should have told me about the appointment. The person I saw on
Wednesday could have told me too!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Maybe they did and
you forgot?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How can I forget
something I didn't know about in the first place?” Daniel retorted.
“What was the meeting anyway?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Your twelve week
claimants case review.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... can't we
reschedule it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“We'll have have to.”
she said, tapping away at her keyboard and huffing. “But failure to
attend a meeting means I have no choice but to suspend your payments
for six weeks.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What?!” I yelped.
“You can't so that! My flat burnt down!!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">To cut a short story
even shorter, Daniel was escorted from the DWP office by a security
guard. He was furious and went for his weekly probation meeting and
told the officer all about the woes he's facing. His probation
officer listened and empathised but ultimately told Daniel to count
his blessings. When Daniel returned to Plushton, he just wanted to
cry when I he told Mrs Haverthwaite what had happened at the DWP.
“...and to top it all, they suspended my payments for six weeks!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh dear Daniel.”
Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “I've read countless reports about how
they stop payments at the drop of a hat... it really is awful they
way they treat people.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And that woman just
wasn't interested that I wouldn't have got their letter due to my
flat burning down... she just didn't care!” Daniel sighed. “I
wouldn't mind but I was there on Monday and Wednesday and they knew
full well that I wouldn't have received any letters... yet no one
thought to inform me that I had a claims review on Thursday!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They're beyond
incompetent.” Mrs Haverthwaite said. “What are you going to do?”
she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't know. But if
I don't get any payments for six weeks, I cant register at a letting
agency and I can't offer you any money for my room.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well like I say,
don't worry about that Daniel.” she told him. “Did you buy
yourself some things?” she asked, changing the subject.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel looked startled
and clenched his eyes. “No.” he sighed. “I completely forgot.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well never mind...
there's plenty here to keep you going.” she said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes. Thank you. I
don't know what I'd do without you Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel
sighed. “You've given me a room, put food in my belly and clothes
on my back... how can I ever repay you?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You don't need to
repay me Daniel.” she said. “But I have been having a think about
your board and lodgings.” she added. “How about you become my
full time housekeeper?” she suggested. “You can work for your
room and board and I’ll give you a small allowance so you'll have
some money of your own.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Really?!” he
gasped. She nodded and stressed that the allowance wouldn't be much.
“Thank you Mrs Haverthwaite... you're so kind!” he said, almost
welling up.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well you will be
working everyday so we'll spread your Tuesday and Friday chores out
accordingly. You'll have to help with the meals and learn to cook...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Anything Mrs
Haverthwaite.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You'll have to be in
uniform everyday.” she stated. Daniel gulped. “...which means
I’ll have to get you another one so you can wear three in rotation;
one to wear, one to wash and one spare.” she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel gulped and
nodded. “But I'll be able to wear my own clothes too?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Mrs Haverthwaite
nodded. “When you've got some.” she said. “Lets have a sort out
of Emma's things so you've got a few things to tide you through.”
she suggested. “But if you are going to be my full time
housekeeper, I don't want you spending your down time milling around
in tatty jeans and an old sweatshirt.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No Mrs
Haverthwaite.” he glumly agreed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I want you looking
nice.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes Mrs
Haverthwaite.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The dress you wore
on Sunday was nice on you so we'll put that in your wardrobe.” she
said. Daniel gulped. “..and there's a couple more I think you'd
suit.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm.... I can't <i>just</i>
wear dresses Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel cautiously stated</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Like I say, when
you've got your own clothes, you can wear what you like, providing
you look smart and presentable... in the mean time, I'd like to dress
you, if that's OK?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm... yes I
suppose.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“My house, my
rules...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes Mrs
Haverthwaite.” Daniel hesitantly agreed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“...my housekeeper.”
she added, smiling wryly.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes
Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel humbly said.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Right
well... let's begin as we mean to go on.” she said. Daniel is sent to
his room and removed his housekeeping dress from the wardrobe. Mrs
Haverthwaite fetched a bundle of underwear, plus a few flowery frocks
to add to his wardrobe; the dark long sleeved dress he wore on
Sunday, plus a pale blue frock with bold lilac flowers, and a leaf
green tea dress with a ditsy print in white. She buttoned him into
his housekeeping dress and laid down some ground rules. “I don't
want you inviting any friends round and I don't want you going out
without permission, or coming home late at night...” she said.
Daniel timidly agreed, adding that he doesn't really have any
friends. “I know it's bit of a trek but I'd rather you used the
downstairs lavatory, particularly at night.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes
Mrs Haverthwaite.” he replied as he buttoned his apron and tied its
bow.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
may wear a little make-up in your own time but none when you're in
uniform.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes
Mrs Haverthwaite.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“In
fact put yourself a small make-up bag together to keep on your dressing
table.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm
err... not sure I really er... want to wear any make-up Mrs
Haverthwaite.”</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Like
I said, I want you looking presentable in your down time. It'll just
be a little powder, a touch of mascara and some lipstick... nothing
drastic.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“OK.”
he meekly agreed.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel
spent an hour dusting and wiping the already spotless shelves and
furniture in the hallway. Part of him felt relieved that he needn't
worry about his housing or work situation but part him felt demeaned
by his new full time position. But having lost absolutely everything
he called his own and being totally reliant on Mrs Haverthwaite's
good nature, what choice does he have? Mrs Haverthwaite called him
into her study and handed him a bundle of brown envelopes and a pack
of 2<sup>nd</sup> class postage stamps which needed sealing and a
stamp putting on each one. “...and if you don't mind, would you pop
them in the post box by the village hall?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Erm...”
Daniel grimaced and glanced down at his servile attire.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I hope you don't mind running me the occasional
errand Daniel?... be it posting a few letters or popping to the shops for
groceries.” she told him. “It's not like I'm sending you into
town... it's just at the end of the road.” she smiled.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZSLnrVFbzxo-FZizxn9lcVTyDrKJFoP272vCQEVVyh8cbKzryzdpqWQDygjfO60S4zT9rvydY6yRAmm1qr6w8VtjH0r87yiySpNTkDscdno0xdHfzN9yxoT2UYtPoOzb5TxW0iJuk/s736/loafers2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="702" data-original-width="736" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZSLnrVFbzxo-FZizxn9lcVTyDrKJFoP272vCQEVVyh8cbKzryzdpqWQDygjfO60S4zT9rvydY6yRAmm1qr6w8VtjH0r87yiySpNTkDscdno0xdHfzN9yxoT2UYtPoOzb5TxW0iJuk/s320/loafers2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>“Erm...
I suppose not Mrs Haverthwaite.” he glumly replied.<p></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll
get you a coat.” she said. "...and you'll need some outdoor shoes." she added, glancing at his feet. She returned a moment later with a black coat over her arm and a pair of shoes in hand. "I hope these will be OK." she said. "They're an old pair of Emma's so they should fit." she told him.</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">"They've got heels Mrs Haverthwaite." he hesitantly observed.</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">"Barely more than an inch." she replied. "I'm sure you'll be fine in them."</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel took the shoes and placed them on the floor, sliding his stocking feet out of his house shoes and into the low heeled loafers. They fit him well but the prospect of walking up to the village hall in such feminine footwear terrified him. "I do appreciate this Daniel." Mrs haverthwaite said as she handed him the coat; double breasted with brass buttons and a belt about its waist. "I'd go myself but I'm waiting on a phonecall from a very important client." she told him, adding that the post is due to be collected in fifteen minutes and the letters need to be posted today.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">"I understand." he timidly replied as he buttoned up the dress coat. A
hoard of butterflies erupts in his tummy as he walks down the drive, taking care to be aware of the heels.
“What have I got myself into?” he whispers to himself as he
reluctantly heads toward the village hall and the post box opposite
it.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">The
chilly autumn air nibbles through his tights and he ups his pace,
stopping briefly at the corner of Woodridge Place to allow a car to
pass before crossing. “Hello Daniel!” A voice chirps from behind
him. “It's not often we see you out and about.” Mrs
Haverthwaite's friend Denise looks him up and down.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm
just err... posting some letter for Mrs Haverthwaite.” he bashfully
tells her.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I
was just going to call round. Is she in?” Denise asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes,
she is.” Daniel replied. Denise thanked him and smiled wryly,
looking him up and down one last time before continuing along Church
Road.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">He
continued to the post box and pushed the letters through the slot. He's raked the leaves on Mrs Haverthwaite's lawn and swept the drive numerous times wearing his housekeeping frock, but this is the first time he's ventured so far wearing women's clothes. Daniel looks down at his feet and gulps, wondering what his probation officer would think if he knew just what working for Mrs Haverthwaite involved, or what his parents might say if they knew how his life has turned out since his release from prison. </p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">Daniel returned home to find Mrs Haverthwaite telling her friend Denise all
about the recent developments. “Being able to stay here must be such a relief after everything that's happened.” Denise said to Daniel as he
unbuttoned his double breasted coat.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes.” Daniel sheepishly replied as he revealed his servile uniform. "Mrs Haverthwaite's been very kind to me." he said as he swapped his footwear.</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">"How were those shoes Daniel?" Mrs Haverthwaite asked.</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">"Fine thanks." he replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You
should try him in some stilettos.” Denise smiled.</p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">"He wouldn't be much use to me if his twisted his ankle though." Mrs Haverthwaite replied. “Shall
we go through to the lounge?” Mrs Haverthwaite suggested. “Daniel,
would you mind serving us a pot of tea and some biscuits?” she
asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes
Mrs Haverthwaite.” Daniel obediently replied. He assembled a tea tray and boiled the kettle, all the while wondering if it would only be a matter of time before he is tottering around in high heeled shoes. After all Mrs Haverthwaite is very persuasive and Daniel knows he can be easily led, and she has brought him this far. </p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-39201587713667143212021-04-03T07:44:00.002-07:002021-04-05T07:27:54.832-07:00The Nanny Van (a short story)<p>Very little goes
unnoticed when you're living on a quiet cul-de-sac in the suburbs,
and some middle aged and middle class couples have nothing better to
do than to keep an eye on all the comings and goings on their quiet
little street; people walking, someone mowing the lawn, a parcel
being delivered, a car reversing from a driveway, kids playing or
being noisy, a dog running free and so on. Nothing much happens in
suburbia and little observations help keep the residents occupied and
give them something to talk about.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There's a van
pulling up outside number fifty-four.” Harry mentioned to his wife.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What sort of van?”
Maud replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Delivery van I
guess.” he said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What colour is it?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Grey.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Does it say anything
on the side?” Maud asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't know! I
can't see from this angle.” Harry impatiently retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Let's have a look.”
Maud said, appearing by his side and peering out of the front bedroom
window.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“There's some women
getting out.” Harry remarked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nannies... by the
looks of them.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“They look more like
prison wardens.” The two women wore smart grey skirt suits, black
nylons and sensible shoes. Maud insisted that they were nannies. “Why
would they be going to fifty four?” Harry wondered. “Them kids
are too old for a nanny.”</p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It depends on the
nanny.” his wife knowingly replied. “You keep watching... I'll
call Denise.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why are you calling
Denise?” Harry quizzed, keeping his eye on the van and the women.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“To tell her that the
nanny van has turned up at fifty-four.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Maud and Harry are
middle class which means they have a telephone in the bedroom <u>and</u>
in the hall. “Let me know if they bring the boy out.” Maud told
Harry. “Denise! You'll never guess what's just pulled up outside
number fifty-four. … I can't quite see the side but it looks like a
County Domestic van. … The boy I presume. … You were telling me
he'd been getting into bother. ...” Maud said. “Can you see
anything Harry?” He shook his head. “They haven't brought him out
yet.” Maud said the Denise. “Go and have a look from your bedroom
window!” Maud instructed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Denise was already
halfway to her bedroom. Slyly, she parted the net curtain and peered
down at the van. Emblazoned on the side is County Domestic Services
in large letters, under which the nature of their service is stated;
Debreecher & Petticoater. “Yes I can see.” Denise replied to
Maud's line of enquiry. “The nannies must be inside.” she said,
peering at the front door of number fifty-four.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes... I saw them go
in.” Maud said. “...then called you straight away!” she added.
“Mind if I pop round for coffee?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Nosey more like!”
Harry dryly stated. “What's going on?” he asked. “What's a
county domestic van?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“You don't know what
a County Domestic van is?” Maud asked. Harry shook his head.
“Didn't your mother threaten to call one when you were a boy?”
she quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Harry shook his head
and looked outside. “They're putting the boy in the van!” he
stated. “Where they taking him?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“He's not going
anywhere.” Maud replied. “...but he's about to embark on a
journey.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's that supposed
to mean?” Harry asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Watch and learn.”
his wife said. “I'll be back in a while.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Maud left leaving him
clueless and perplexed. He watched the van for a while. His wife had
a good long look as she strolled past, heading to Denise who lives
opposite number fifty four.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZrtgAGbu4rq-aFIbl6kwc3DBFJi19YtR3nSgkoBLWpQr7G1SBOn5NPeva-4fYhDae1OzLrcfuBKFTSA5EDmnjvjfkmbXH6B3u_4z21sArjuzekE0pnX322P5yoJcafFiSXnCiCnF/s605/CDS+van.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="451" data-original-width="605" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZrtgAGbu4rq-aFIbl6kwc3DBFJi19YtR3nSgkoBLWpQr7G1SBOn5NPeva-4fYhDae1OzLrcfuBKFTSA5EDmnjvjfkmbXH6B3u_4z21sArjuzekE0pnX322P5yoJcafFiSXnCiCnF/s16000/CDS+van.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Intrigued, Harry looked
from the window but it didn't move and no one got in or out of it.
After as few long minutes, he put the kettle on, made a cup of tea
and returned to the window. Nothing. Just a van on the street. Harry
soon got bored and read the paper instead.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Meanwhile his wife and
neighbour Denise didn't once take their eyes off the van. They sat
peering out of the bedroom window; gossiping, speculating,
expectantly waiting. Almost an hour had passed before something
happened. The van's rear door opened. One of the nannies emerged and
stood to attention. “Here he comes!” Denise cooed. The women
sniggered as the twelve year old boy stepped out. He nervously
glanced around before hanging his head.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I love the way they
dress them.” Maud commented as she observed every detail of his
prissy party dress.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Like a seven year
old.” Denise replied as she also admired the dress; big collar,
puffed sleeves, a bow on the back and clearly a voluminous petticoat
beneath it. The boy reached into the van and took hold of something
large, yet clearly not heavy. “What's that?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“His nappies I
presume.” Maud replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh yes.” Denise
realised. “I always felt putting them in nappies was rather cruel.”
she said as the boy mournfully walked toward his family home, flanked
by the two nannies.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's just part of
the process.” Maud stated. “Imagine being a boy and you're told
you've got to wear frilly knickers from now on...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I imagine they'd
refuse.” Denise presumed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Imagine being a boy
and having to choose between wearing a pair of very frilly knickers, or a
nappy.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'd choose the
knickers.” Denise replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Exactly.” Maud
said. “The nappies are just for bedtime really... but refuse to put
your knickers on and you spend the day in a nappy instead.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I see.” Denise
realised. “That makes sense.” she said. “But they won't really
need them at bedtime.” she added.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not to begin with...
but the beauty of petticoating is that they'll come to rely on them.”
Maud said. Denise quizzed what benefit that would have and Maud
explained. “The main problem with adolescent boys is they have too
much bluster, too much backbone and too much bravado...”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Too much of
everything.” Denise interjected.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Quite.” Maud
agreed. “So we put them in a dress to knock the wind out of their
sails, and send them to bed early, wearing a nappy, like big baby.”
she stated.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“That's the bit I
struggle with.” Denise interrupted. “He's long past the bed
wetting age.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well if you'll let
me finish.” Maud impatiently sighed. “The nappies they wear won't
easily come off so they have no choice but wet themselves. Of course
they hang on for as long as they can but they know it's inevitable...
but as I understand it, after a few weeks of regular bedtime nappies,
they psychologically adapt and stop waking up. After a month or so,
they wake every morning in a wet nappy and have no recollection of
doing it.” Maud paused and sipped her coffee.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“So... they're
trained to wet the bed again?” Denise queried.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Maud nodded. Denise
reiterated that she felt it was cruel. “Sometimes one has to be
cruel to be kind.” Maud said. “But imagine being a teenage boy
who wets the bed.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It must be awful.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It must.” Maud
agreed. “How much bravado do you think you'd have? How much bluster
or backbone?” she asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Not much at all.”
Denise nervously chuckled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Exactly.” Maud
stated. She turned her eyes to the window and the house opposite
“Give it a couple of months and the last thing that boy will want
is to get himself into bother. He won't be getting mixed up with the
wrong crowd. He'll keep out of the allotments and won't kick the
heads off next-door's daffodils. His school grades will improve
because he'll be getting a good night's sleep without
interruptions...” she explained. “...and he certainly won't be
sneaking out after curfew.” she added, since Denise had reported
seeing him doing just that last weekend.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I always thought
simply dressing them as girls resolved most of that.” Denise
replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Most but not all.”
Maud stated. “Putting them in dresses won't assure a good night's
sleep, but training them to become nocturnally incontinent will.”
she informed Denise. “...and they only wet themselves. It's not
like they wake up soiled.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Yes I suppose.”
Denise concurred.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“And you said
yourself he had it coming to him.” Maud replied.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I did.” Denise
replied. “I didn't expect the Nanny Van though. I didn't think the
Jackson's were the sort. Whenever I've spoken to his mother about his
behaviour she just says 'boys will be boys'... and the father's not
much use either. He's not the type who'd put him over his knee and
give him a good hiding.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't really agree
with beating children.” Maud stated. “Does more harm than good in
many cases.” she added. “Petticoating is harmless, yet humbling.”
she said, looking over at number fifty-four.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Eventually the nannies
left number fifty-four and drove away. Maud returned home. “Did you
see, Harry?” she enthused.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“See what?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The boy from number
fifty-four coming out of the van?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Oh him... no. I
watched for a while but nothing happened so I read the paper
instead.” Harry replied. “Why, what did I miss?” he quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“The most exciting
thing to happen on this street for years!” Maud exclaimed, then
explained.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Harry could scarcely
believe his ears! “They dressed him as a girl?!” he gasped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Mmm hmm.” his wife
replied. “So if you ever see a girl in a very prissy dress coming
or going from number fifty-four... it's that boy!” she told him.
“And when you do, make sure you let me know because I don't want to
miss anything.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'm sure Denise will
keep you posted darling.” Harry replied before returning his
attention to the newspaper. A few moments passed before Harry asked
“What good is dressing him like a girl supposed to do?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How would you feel
if it was you when you were his age?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Humiliated.” he
said. “Embarrassed.” he added. “Ashamed.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Exactly!” Maud
replied. “It's the perfect antidote for boisterous boys.” she
stated.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Hmm... I suppose.”
Harry mumbled.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Maud, Harry and Denise
weren't the only people on that sleepy little cul-de-sac to see the
Nanny Van parked outside number fifty-four. At number thirty-six,
Kevin, an eleven year old boy sat peering out of his bedroom window
and saw a girl get out of the van and go into the house. A few
minutes later, his mother entered with a bundle of laundry. “Some
girl's moving into number fifty-four.” he told her.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What makes you think
that?” his mother asked.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Because she came in
a delivery van and carried a big box, and the women who were with her
had some cases too.” Kevin said.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">His mother peered out
of the window and across the street. “There is a van.” she said.
“But I don't think it's a delivery van.” she added. “Go and
fetch the binoculars please Kevin.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What is it?” he
asked as his mother made some murmured remarks as she peered through
the binoculars. “Let me see!”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It's not a delivery
van... it's a County Domestic Services van.” she told him.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“What's that?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“A debreecher and
petticoater.” she replied. Kevin remained clueless. His mother
lowered the binoculars. “It's what happens when boys can't behave
themselves.” she told him. “I think that girl you saw might have
been the boy from number fifty-four.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“It can't have been.
She was wearing a dress... with a big bow on the back.” Kevin
described. “And a big ribbon in her hair.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“If it says
debreecher and petticoater on that van, then it only means one
thing.” his mother told him. Once again, Kevin asked what it meant.
“Well... debreeching means to take a boy out of breeches, or
trousers as we call them these days.” his mother told him. “And
petticoating means putting a boy in petticoats, or dresses... girls
clothes.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Why?” Kevin
gasped.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“To make them behave
themselves.” his mother said. “I think that boy over there
must've been getting into trouble.” she assumed. “Do you know
him?”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“No.” Kevin
replied. “I see him at school but he's not in my year.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Well... best to
steer clear. He'll be a bad influence.” his mother warned. “...or
would have been.” she added. “He'll be on his very best behaviour
from now on I expect.”</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“How does wearing a
dress make him behave?” Kevin quizzed.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I'll buy you one
then you can find out.” his mother replied, smiling.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“I don't want a
dress!” Kevin retorted.</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">“Most boys don't.”
his mother replied</p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Many other curtains
twitched whilst the County Domestic Services van was parked outside
number fifty-four. Those who didn't know what it was presumed it must
be a plumber or possibly an appliance repair service, and those who
did know watched with intrigue until the van had gone. In the days
that followed, the residents and neighbours would stop and gossip in
the street. “Did you see the van outside 54?” one would ask. “No
but I heard about it!” another might reply. “Have you seen the
boy since?” one might ask. “Not a glance. Have you?” the
response could be. “I heard that he's been put back in nappies
too!” one might say. “I've no sympathy!” one might retort.
“Serves him right!” another might agree. “Nappies at his age!
Whatever for?” someone might ask. “That's beyond cruel!” they
might claim. “Social Services should be informed!” they could
rant. “Social Services probably sent the nanny van!” some would
retort. “A few years in petticoats will keep him out of trouble.”</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">I told you it was short :)</p>PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-63460553285137570122020-12-23T08:37:00.003-08:002020-12-23T08:51:48.400-08:00Karen's Café: part three<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> New to this story?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">You'll probably want to read parts <a href="https://forcedfeminisationstories.blogspot.com/2019/11/karens-cafe.html">one</a> and <a href="https://forcedfeminisationstories.blogspot.com/2020/04/karens-cafe-part-two.html">two</a> first.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">~o0o~</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The
first thing I thought of when I woke was the weather. I checked the
forecast before bed which stated that Wednesday was going to be 18ºC,
but checking the forecast again, it's saying it's gonna be 19º
now. “What if it reaches
twenty?” I thought, knowing that the forecasts aren't always
entirely accurate. Mum noticed that something was on my mind over
breakfast, but I assured her I was OK. “Having second thoughts
about joining in with the protest?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Kind
of.” I said. “But it's stupid that we can't wear shorts when the
girls can choose.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Boys
can choose too.” Mum said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah
but...”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And
they all wear shorts under their skirts so it's not like you'd just
be wearing a skirt.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah
I know.” I frowned. I tried to imagine what it would be like as I
walked to school. I envisaged everyone giving me a second glance, and
giggling at my legs, and wondered (worried) how I’d justify the
fact that there's no hair on my legs. I considered mentioning the summer shorts protests to my friends, but thought better of it. They'd only think I was weird, or worse, so I kept it to myself all day.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The
girl approached me after school and showed me a weather app
on her phone. “You're sailing close to the wind, Simon.” she
smugly told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “<span style="font-weight: normal;">The
forecast said 18 last night.” I glumly replied. </span>“I know.”
she said. “It's supposed to be nineteen tomorrow.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And what if it turns
out to be twenty?” I grimly asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Hannah explains the rules of play--><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well
it wouldn't be fair if the forecast is wrong would it now.” she
smugly replied. “I'll play by the rules if you will.” she said,
telling me that whatever temp the weather forecast states the day
before determines whether or not I wear a skirt the next day.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But... what if it
says twenty and it turns out only be eighteen?” I gulped.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Then I hope you'll
be wearing a skirt.” she told me. “It wouldn't be fair if the
forecast is wrong.” she reiterated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But... what if we're
looking at different forecasts?” I asked. “The weather on the BBC
isn't always the same as ITV.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Tell you what...
give me your number so I can text you the forecast from my weather
app.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'm not giving you
my number!” I retorted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Just so you know I'm
not cheating.” she replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Huh... cheating?!”
I sneered. “You're blackmailing me!” I snarled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's hardly
blackmail... there's no money involved.” she replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What is it then?”
I growled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Encouragement.”
she answered. “We love it when the boys wear skirts and I think
there should be more of it.” she told me.</span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Why though?” I
sighed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Why not?” she
asked. “You're clearly not averse to wearing skirts... and for the
record, I think you look cool dressed as a waitress.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Thanks.” I dryly
retorted. “It should be my choice if I wear one for school though.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well if you don't
want to play then don't.” she snarked. “You choice is entirely
yours.” she told me. “Now are you going to give me your number or
not?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I sighed the longest of
sighs. “07555...” I began.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She keyed my number
into her phone and said she'd send me a text. It arrived within
seconds. “Got it?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hannah Bannanna?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “At your service”
she confidently replied. “See you tomorrow.” she grinned as she
began to walk away. I almost jumped out of my skin when a car behind
beeped its horn. I turned to see my sister, smiling and waving at me.
I climbed inside.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Who's that you were
talking to?” she asked, presumably having witnessed us exchanging
numbers.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Just some girl.” I
shrugged as I put my phone away.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“She looks nice.”
Karen commented.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hmm.” was my
non-committal reply. If only she knew! I thought as she drove me to
the uniform supplier on the edge of town.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I wish the boys did
this when I was still at school.” my sister commented as she pulled
up outside.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Why didn't they?”
I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Dunno?” she
quizzed. “I guess because we didn't have gender neutrality.” she
said. “These days wearing a skirt isn't breaking the rules.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Shopping--><span style="font-family: arial;">The
store assistant greeted us with a cheery hello before asking if she
could help. “We're looking for a skirt for Broadoak High.” my
sister replied. “...for my brother.” she added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The assistant didn't
seem at all phased but I could feel myself blushing. Karen informed
her that I'll be taking part in the protest against the shorts ban
this year. “I see.” the assistant replied. “We'll have to get
you measured up.” she said, grabbing a tape measure from behind the
counter. I stated my waist size as she unrolled the tape. She smiled
and told me that my actual waist isn't the same as my trouser waist,
before asking me to put my arms up so she could measure me. The tape
sat a good few inches higher than my trousers, and the size she
declared was a couple of inches smaller than that I'd stated. “Can
you put you hands flat on your lap.” she asked. “Arms dead
straight.” she said. “That's right.” she smiled, before
measuring from my waist down to just beyond my fingertips.
“Twenty-seven, twenty-four should be a nice fit for you.” she
smiled, before heading to a rail which held numerous skirts in
several styles; the girls grammar school, the City Academy,
Headington High, Northfield, St Andrew's and Broadoak. I gulped as
she selected a skirt in the distinctive grey plaid. “The changing
room's just here.” she said, opening a curtain. Bashfully, I
suggested that I needn't try it on, but my sister insisted I should.
The assistant agreed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">This is soo
embarrassing, I thought as I shut the curtain behind me and kicked
off my shoes, followed by my trousers. I was as nervous as hell as I
opened the curtain. “It's too short.” I claimed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's the perfect
length for Broadoak.” the assistant told me. “Their skirts are
thigh length rather than knee length.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“She's right Simon.”
Karen told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Put you hands flat
on your lap again.” the assistant asked. I did. “Two inches
beyond your fingertips is a good rule of thumb and that's absolutely
perfect.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I think so to.”
Karen smiled. “He'll take it.” she said, before asking the price.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Two for thirty
pounds.” the assistant replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I don't need two.”
I stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“We tend to sell them
in pairs so you've got one to wash and one to wear.” the assistant
replied, adding that they're twenty pounds each.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh well in that case
we'll take two.” my sister replied, turning her eyes on my skirt
and legs. “Your shoes look really clumpy.” she told me, screwing
her nose at my boyish footwear. I looked down at my shoes they do
clumpy... but I didn't think I'd need new shoes too. “We may as
well have a look whilst we're here.” she said, adding that she's
not going to suggest ballet shoes. “These look nice.” she said,
removing a pair of black lace-up shoes in the brogue style from the
girls' display.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But they're girls.”
I replied. The assistant said it was definitely a unisex style and
after a bit of toing and froing, I ended up trying a pair in my size.
My own shoes have a thick padded collar and tongue, plus a chunky
raised seam around the toe whereas these are much more slender in
style and feel both light and comfortable, so I hesitantly decide to
buy them too.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“How about some of
these.” my sister grinned, gesturing to some white knee high school
socks.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Err... no.” I
bluntly replied, knowing full well she was teasing me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Or these.” she
chuckled, removing a pair of those horrendous ankle socks with the
frilly lace cuffs.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum is a little
overwhelmed that I've not only bought two skirts, but new shoes too.
Having to try them so Mum could see how I looked was inevitable.
“Trainer liners would look better than ankle socks.” Mum
commented.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” I
hesitantly agreed. “I'm beginning to regret shaving my legs.” I
added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You'd look
ridiculous with hairy legs.” Mum replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I know but I think
that's the whole point of these protests.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well you can always
stop shaving if you want to look silly... nothing wrong with
protesting in style.” my mother smiled. “How much did you spend?”
she asked. “That's quite a lot!” she exclaimed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well I've still got
plenty of money in the back after working for Karen over Easter.” I
replied. “...and I can't exactly expect you to pay for this.” I
added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“At least I don't
have to buy you new school shoes for next term.” Mum smiled, adding
that my brogues look very smart.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They don't look too
girlie do they?” I queried.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Not at all... why?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Because they are
girls.” I said. “They've got floral insoles.” I stated. <!--Texts from Hannah and talks with Mum-->I
went to my room and removed the skirt and shoes. I never imagined
that accepting a job in my sister's café would have led to this, I
thought as I hung the two skirts in my wardrobe, alongside my black
waitress skirts which are actually a couple of inches shorter.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The prospect of
actually going to school wearing a skirt sends me into a mild panic
every time I think about it. That girl has got me over a barrel and I
don't half know it. I grab my phone as I never had chance to read the
text she'd sent me before Karen picked me up. I suspect <i>Bannanna
</i>isn't her surname, but at least I know her first name. The text
she sent me wasn't just any text... she sent me the video she'd taken
through the café window. I wonder when she shot it. Over Easter or
more recently? It's been a good three weeks since I covered a shift
at the café. I watched the video several times, partly cursing the
fact that it exists and partly just observing myself at work. The
little white apron really stands out against my all black outfit,
especially the perfect bow on the back as I walk back towards the
counter.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">An hour or so later I
receive another text from Hannah. It's a screen shot from her weather
app showing that tomorrow's forecast is a predicted high of 17ºC
with a low of 9ºC.
I texted back with the message “I presume it's the high we're going
by?” she replied with “Of course.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Are you going to
wear your skirt tomorrow?” Mum asked over supper.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No.” I told her,
stating that the temperature is only seventeen degrees.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Aren't you worried
about what your friends will say?” Mum quizzed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“A bit.” I replied.
“But I've been worried about what they'd say if they ever found out
I've been working as a waitress.” I added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Are you going to
tell them about that?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Not if I can help
it.” I said. “My waitress uniform is far more incendiary than a
school skirt... and at least I can justify my school skirt because of
the shorts ban.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes but we all know
it's got nothing to with the shorts ban and everything to do with the
fact that you enjoy dressing as a girl.” Mum stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I wanted to come clean
about being blackmailed there and then... but my pride got in the
way. I didn't know what to say and thankfully, my sister said
something. “Are you going to tie your hair up?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Err.... probably
not.” I replied. “I think the other kids would read too much into
it if I wore a ponytail as well.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Or bunches.” Mum
grinned. I frowned at her. “After school.” she added. “When
you're doing your homework.” she smiled, probably imagining me with
my hair in bunches.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I didn't see Hannah at
school the next day, but I received a text from her in the evening. A
screen-shot of her weather app accompanied with a sad emoticon. The
predicted high is a mere 14ºC.
“Phew!” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
did see her on Friday and the first thing she said was “Shame about
the weather.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It
can stay like this all summer for me.” I retorted, before asking
which class she was in.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“9C.”
she replied. “Why?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You're
in year nine?!” I exclaimed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So I'm not only
being blackmailed by a girl, but one in the year below me!”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's not blackmail
Simon.” she replied. I raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I see it as
more of an agreement.” she told me. “Between friends.” she
said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“We're hardly
friends!” I retorted. “I didn't even know you before Tuesday.”
I stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And we're texting
each other already.” she grinned. One the one hand I despised this
girl but on the other, I was in awe of just how brash she was being
with me. “Have you err...” she began. “...actually got a school
skirt?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“None of your
business.” I grumbled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well it's supposed
to brighten up next week, so I suggest you ask your Mum to get you
one.” she told me as she began to slope away. “See you Monday.”
she chirped, adding that she'd text me on Sunday.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I turned and began to
walk, only to see a group of my classmates watching from a short
distance. “That your girlfriend?” one asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No.” I bluntly
stated. Typically, they jeered and sneered at my denial. Initially I
walked past them, but backtracked and said, <!--Starting a rumour-->“Hey...
any of you gonna join in with the shorts protest this year?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“The what?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“The protest against
the ban on short trousers.” I said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Err.... nah.” they
replied, seeming a bit bemused.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Apparently they're
taking place whenever the temperature is forecast for twenty degrees
or more.” I told them. “Spread the word.” I suggested, before
wondering off.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Sometimes, a really
great idea pops into one's head and out of their mouth at the very
same moment, and that, I think is what just happened. If I can spread
a rumour about when this years protest will go ahead, then it won't
seem so weird if/when I turn up to school wearing a skirt... even if
I'm the only one, others would have heard the rumours. “Genius!”
I said to myself. Or not... I thought as I focused on a couple of
girls walking ahead of me. My legs are as hairless as theirs! How am
I supposed to justify that? I tried not to think about it.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As usual, Mum asked how
school was when I got home. “OK.” I replied. Predictably, she
asked if I had much homework and as usual I replied, “A bit.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Are you going to put
your school skirt on?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Err... I wasn't
planning on it.” I said. “Why?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No reason.” Mum
replied, adding that she figured I would wear it after school, to get
used to it if nothing else. “How are your new shoes?” she asked,
looking me up and down.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“OK.” I replied.
“I've been half expecting someone to point out that they're girl's
shoes but...” I shrugged.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They don't look like
girl's shoes.” Mum replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I know.” I humbly
agreed. “I guess I'm just worrying about nothing.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I didn't wear my skirt
whilst doing my homework, but I did spend a lot of time thinking
about how I could spread the rumour about the shorts protest. I very
much doubt the three lads I told at school will do it for me.
Spreading it via FaceBank is the key, I figured... but I don't want
to be seen as the primary source. I cast my mind back to previous
years. The protests were featured on several national news websites
and those articles got thousands of shares and retweets in the days
following. I decided that I could open up a Twitter account under a
pseudonym, and sign up to The Student Room forum and post my tweet on
that, from which I could get retweeted or shared on FaceBank. I began
thinking about what to put on Twitter. <i>Fight for the right to wear
shorts for school!</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> ...followed
by info on which days the protests would be held. The hard part is
saying everything I need to say whilst keeping it under 280
characters.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I put my school books
away and changed into a T shirt and some cargo shorts before going
down for dinner. Afterwards, I returned to my room, booted up my
laptop and typed in a few google searches to see if there were any
planned school protests but found nothing. I did find numerous
reports from previous years' protests on both local and national news
websites, and as far as I could tell, not one school had given in and
permitted short trousers to be worn. Several, it seems had done
precisely what my school had done and stated that boys are welcome to
wear skirts if their trousers are too warm, effectively calling their
bluff. Some schools, I discovered, don't permit long trousers and the
boys wear shorts all year round. I wonder how they cope in the middle
of winter?</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I got so engrossed in
my online search for information that I almost convinced myself that
I was joining the fight to lift the ban on short trousers, but then
it dawned on me why I'm really putting so much thought into this. I
picked up my phone and watched the video Hannah had sent me... the
video of me working as a waitress. I gulped at the thought of that
being posted on FaceBank. My little black skirt and bright white
apron, long thin stockinged legs and my hair tied in a high pony
tail. It's not obvious that I'm wearing make-up but it is obvious
that it's me. I sat back and sighed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Maybe it wouldn't be so
bad if the video did get out. At least I wouldn't have to lie to my
friends any more... not that I really done since Easter as the
evenings I cover are few and far between. But I can imagine them
flocking to my sister's café to point and jeer at me... or do as
Hannah did and take covert pictures of me. I'd like to think that my
friends wouldn't be so mean but I can imagine other kids from my
class or year doing just that. I know it's best that that video
doesn't get out and I return to thinking about how I can start a
rumour to justify me wearing a skirt to school. I check next weeks
weather forecast and it seems likely that it might reach at least
twenty degrees later in the week, which gives me less than a week to
think of something.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I have a look in
FaceBank just to check that Hannah hasn't broken her word and posted
the video. She hasn't, thankfully. I scroll through my timeline; the
messages, photos, rants, ramblings, music videos and memes...
clicking 'like' and posting smilies here and there as one does. Then
it dawned on me! <!--Making a poster-->Instead of a text tweet, I
should make a poster instead. They say an image travels far quicker
than text, so I boot up photoshop and get to work.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Under the banner of
<i>Fight for the Right to Wear Shorts at School</i>, I position a
cartoon image of a boy and a girl in school uniform; her in a skirt
and him in shorts and ask the question <i>Why are her legs accepted
but his are banned?</i> I feel incredibly proud of myself as I add
the statement <i>Stop skirtnig the issue!</i> followed by <i>What's
the difference?</i> I loose track of time as try different fonts,
sizes, positions and colours until I'm happy with the layout. Beneath
the image I put <i>We DEMAND the right to wear shorts for school!
Join the Protest, Wear a Skirt!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
...and in small letters at the very bottom, I put </span><i>when the
temprature is 20</i><i>º</i><i>
or more</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
I've chuffed with what I've done but am slightly shocked that I've
spent over three hours doing it.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
head downstairs and make myself a drink and a snack. Mum asks what
I've been doing. “Just playing on my laptop.” I casually reply.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You
boys and your video games.” she sighed, rolling her eyes and
smiling.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
decided to let Mum believe that's what I'd been up to all evening,
but part of me wanted to show her the poster I'd spent all evening
doing. I stayed up for another hour or so watching TV with my mother.
Karen returned home as I was preparing to go to bed. She looked
shattered and being the friendly brother, I offered to make her a cup
of tea. She graciously declined, went straight to the fridge and
poured herself a glass of wine. “How was work?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Typical
Friday.” she replied. “Run off our feet from start to finish.”
she told me. “We probably could have done with you tonight.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Was
someone off?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No
but the weekends are getting busier and busier.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You
need a bigger café.” I replied. “More than three waitresses
would mean we'd be bumping into each other.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“True.”
she replied. “You still up for coming back next month?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Is
it next month?” I quizzed, adding that the summer holidays are two
months away.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Universities
break up in June.” she told me. “In four weeks time.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Really?
I didn't think it'd be that soon.” I said. Karen nodded and said
she needs to know, otherwise she'll have to start advertising. “No
I'm up for it... I like having a healthy bank account.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Cool.”
she smiled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Karen
took the weight off her feet and sat with Mum. I took myself upstairs
and had another look at the poster I'd designed and corrected a few
glaring spelling and grammatical errors before putting myself to bed.
I imagined the poster going viral on FaceBank. I imagined people
printing it to paper and fastening it around lamp posts on the
streets around school... not just my school but up and down the
country! I knew it wouldn't happen but one can dream can't they?</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The
next day, I looked at my design with a fresh pair of eyes and didn't
like the fact that it stated '</span><i>the
right to wear shorts for school</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'
twice. I'd also used four different fonts which didn't look as good
as I'd initially thought. I did a bit of tweaking here and there and
came up with a genius headline to replace </span><i>Fight
for the right to wear shorts in school</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
I sat back and felt very very proud of myself. <!--Twitter-->Now
all I have to do is try to get it to go viral on social media, so I
signed up to Twitter with an obscure username and watched a few
online videos which explained all about the hashtags, trends and how
to get people to follow me.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
returned to twitter and had two followers already! I haven't even
tweeted anything yet. I typed #schooluniform into the search box and
was presented with loads of pictures of Japanese school girls, anime
and manga school girls and some pictures that I wouldn't want my Mum
to see. I added #uk to the search and got fewer dodgy pictures but
not what I was looking for. I tried #shortsban and really wasn't
expecting much but... bingo!</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAhEhUAqa56sDUFCLIfP4FmMtM8tnqqsYZcLdDy5ewDspBSeiVURdqj87NJvyB4A1e7hdy8C8cAxjsaD4Jjh7aiFBcZMoAK5ZYokMj0SncwPXql2RyZlBLgVFYHg2CW7CWNLkb2Moi/s1369/twitter+shortsban.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1369" data-original-width="688" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAhEhUAqa56sDUFCLIfP4FmMtM8tnqqsYZcLdDy5ewDspBSeiVURdqj87NJvyB4A1e7hdy8C8cAxjsaD4Jjh7aiFBcZMoAK5ZYokMj0SncwPXql2RyZlBLgVFYHg2CW7CWNLkb2Moi/s16000/twitter+shortsban.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">All the tweets were
from two years ago but what I was looking for was the hashtags that
would hopefully get my poster seen and retweeted... #shortsban
#school #uk #schooluniform #dresscode #protesting #skirts #british
#schoolboys #skirtingtheissue #heatwave #ukweather ...I added a few
of my own hashtags to fill up the 240 character limit, then hesitated
before attaching my image to my very first tweet. I double checked
the grammar one last time and took a deep breath.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIbbtSR_Hl9aw2H8tLYTc9dacpUaGg8EATwL324z48HUvTJThJnO3TWIdR9YOMCFcHkC3iNVnHiwjX_ZPdqctRltuXdPmnWY0QIF0iuU-RXI2Hj-6NeKXtR3vhqCheodJH-PFEqCz8/s901/twitter+poster.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="901" data-original-width="590" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIbbtSR_Hl9aw2H8tLYTc9dacpUaGg8EATwL324z48HUvTJThJnO3TWIdR9YOMCFcHkC3iNVnHiwjX_ZPdqctRltuXdPmnWY0QIF0iuU-RXI2Hj-6NeKXtR3vhqCheodJH-PFEqCz8/w420-h640/twitter+poster.jpg" width="420" /></span></a></div><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">...and there it was, up
in the Twittersphere or whatever they call it. Next I created an
account at the student room using a completely different pseudonym
and made my first post on that forum.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Hi
guys... new here. Does anyone know anything about the shorts protests
this year? Just seen a tweet about them. Looks like a national thing.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The first reply came
within seconds. “What you on about dude?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">High
school boys protesting because they can't wear shorts in the summer.
It won't let me post an image, but look on twitter for #shortsban or
#shortsprotest.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I logged out of The
Student Room and returned to Twitter. Lo and behold, my post had been
retweeted six times. “Is that good?” I muttered to myself. It's
better than nothing, I figured.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Karen's shorts & garden--><span style="font-family: arial;">I
turned off my laptop and went downstairs. Mum was pottering as usual,
both in the house as well as out in the garden and asked if I'd mow
the lawn. “Sure.” I replied. She glanced down at my legs and
suggested I put a pair of my sister's shorts on instead of the cargo
shorts I wore. “Why?” I cautiously asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“To get some sun on
your legs.” she replied. “Plus you don't seem to have worn
anything nice for a while.” she smiled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I don't want to go
rooting in Karen's room without her permission.” I said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'll find you some.”
my mother suggested. She returned with a pair of fitted black denim
shorts and a more relaxed pair in cornflower blue, along with a grey
capped sleeve T shirt. I questioned the T shirt. “Well if you're
going to wear nice shorts you may as well wear a nice top too.” she
replied, adding that it's not overtly girlie. “Which shorts do you
want?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Err... the blue ones
I guess.” I replied. She handed them to me and said she'd get the
mower out. “Thanks.” I bashfully replied and went to change.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That's better.”
Mum smiled when I returned. “Seems a pity to shave your legs if
you're not going to get them out once in a while.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” I shyly
agreed. Mum didn't mention the fact that I'd tied my hair up in a
pony tail, and applied just a little bit of make-up, but if I'm going
to wear nice clothes, I may as well put a little bit of extra effort
in. I looked down at my long hairless legs. “I'm not sure what my
mates will say when they see my legs.” I mused.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Surely they've
noticed during PE?” Mum quizzed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I always wear my
trackies.” I told her.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well they're going
to see them when you wear your skirt for school.” she retorted,
adding “If...”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I know.” I gulped.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Are you having
second thoughts?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” I
mournfully replied. “...but I'm not going to back out.” I
confidently stated. “It's ridiculous that boys can't wear short
trousers.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“The headmaster made
it perfectly clear a couple of years ago that boys are welcome to
wear skirts if they prefer.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“He's just trying to
call our bluff.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I don't recall you
getting involved in these protests before.” Mum replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Only because I
hadn't put much thought into it, but the more I think about it, the
more unfair it is.” I told her. “Girl's legs are perfectly
acceptable but boys legs are banned.” I stated. “It's not right
and it's not fair.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes, I suppose it's
not when you put it like that.” Mum agreed. I suspected, however,
that Mum felt the real reason I was joining the protest had nothing
to do with shorts... and she'd be absolutely right. Only Mum probably
thinks I'm going to wear a skirt because since working for my sister
over Easter, I've developed a liking for skirts. I wish I could tell
her the truth but I'm too proud to admit that a girl in Year 9 is
coercing me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum said something but
I was miles away. “Sorry what?” I said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
said, be careful what you wish for.” she repeated. I asked why. “I
seem to remember reading about a school a couple of years ago where
the boys did win the right to wear short trousers... but they had to
wear them all year round, summer <i>and</i> winter, rain or shine.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Really?”
I grimaced. Mum nodded and said that the story is probably on the
internet somewhere, before reminding me that the lawn mower's waiting
for me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
wondered out into the sunshine and immediately realised that the
temperature wasn't as warm as it appeared. My thighs erupted in
goose-pimples and my sister's shorts felt very short indeed. Being
the 'man' of the house, mowing the lawn is one of <i>my</i> jobs,
although Mum or Karen do do it on occasion. The lawn is long and
narrow with a few fruit tree to navigate around. It's far easier with
the new cordless lawnmower but after ten minutes and barely a third
of the lawn mowed, the battery conked out, meaning whoever last mowed
the lawn hadn't put it on to charge. “Oh never mind.” Mum said.
“We can sit out whilst it charges.” she suggested.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's not that warm.”
I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's plenty warm
enough.” Mum insisted, adding that it's too nice to sit inside. She
made a jug full of fruit juice, soda and ice and fetched it out. She
smiled at me as she set it down on the patio table. “Are you going
to tie your hair up when you wear your skirt for school?” she asked
me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No.” I replied
with jovial abruptness. “A boy in a skirt is definitely the look
I'm aiming for when that day comes.” I stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And when is <i>that</i>
day?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Whenever the
temperature is twenty degrees or more, apparently.” I informed her.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That could be most
days in July.” Mum replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I know.” I
grimaced. “I think the idea this time is rather than just
protesting for a day or two, it's going to be more prolonged.” I
said. “If the Headmaster sees boys wearing skirts day in day out
for several weeks, he'll realise how ridiculous it is and will have
to reconsider his position.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“When you worked in
Karen's café three nights a week over Easter... that proved to me
that there's <i>nothing</i> ridiculous about a boy wearing a skirt.”
my mother replied. “...or a bit of make-up for that matter.” she
added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I could feel myself
begin to blush as my mother looked lovingly at me, or more
specifically, the little make-up I wore. “I won't be wearing any
make-up at school.” I mumbled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's nice that
you're wearing some today though.” she said. “It's a pity it
didn't really catch on in the eighties.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Men wearing
make-up.” she replied. “It was all the rage for a few years when
the new romantic scene was big.” She told me about Duran Duran, The
Human League and Depeche Mode, adding that one of the members used to
wear skirts and lace tops. “...and not forgetting Boy George who
everyone thought was a girl.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Seems it's more
acceptable if you're a celebrity.” I said. “I can't see it going
down well for the average guy on the street.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well that's the
thing, back in the early eighties when I was your age, the average
guy on the street would wear make-up.” Mum told me, adding
“Certainly not all of them. Nowhere near. Only the ones in the new
romantic scene... but the pubs and clubs were full of them on a
Friday and Saturday night.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You didn't go to
pubs and clubs when you were my age though.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Somewhat bashfully, Mum
told me that she did go to pubs and clubs when she was still at
school. “It was different back then... we didn't have to show ID
because there wasn't any ID. Barmen just had to guess and we could
easily dress to look a few years older than we were.” she
explained. “I'm not condoning under age drinking mind... I'd be
livid if you started pubbing it before you're eighteenth.” she told
me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was fascinating
listening to my mother talk about her youth and had no idea the new
romantic thing had filtered down to street style, if only for a short
while. I tried to imagine a world in which guys routinely wore
feminine garments and make-up and on the one hand I imagined it would
be really weird, but on the other, knew it would be entirely
normal... especially after the best part of forty years.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Karen came home from
work mid afternoon and pretty much the first thing she said to me was
“Are those my shorts?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I timidly admitted they
were and Mum told her it was her idea, so I could get some sun on my
legs. “You don't mind do you?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My sister didn't mind
and said that she liked seeing me wearing something nice for a
change. “...it's been a while.” she added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Can't have too much
of a good thing eh?” I bashfully replied. “Hey do you do
Twitter?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Sure. Why?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Can you have a look
at hashtag shorts ban?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Karen pulled her phone
from her handbag and began swiping. “What are looking for?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Just wondering if
there's anything about the school protests.” I replied. “Someone
mentioned on The Student Room that there's something going 'round on
Twitter.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She tapped in the
search and smiled at the results, swiping down through them. “This
what you're looking for?” she asked, showing me the screen.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDxPpypABq1OPLFa63-lKaL1C42qTD4GNJBTX53FPGJeyqEP-J8rD-YKbcLzjLwu8gMIBuQrLjixExYxDPtcjxdoXSoQHExDSDFqPdGk_rRCCI2T24KXzHv_mbEWW3clValN0rMpe/s678/karen%2527s+phone.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="650" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDxPpypABq1OPLFa63-lKaL1C42qTD4GNJBTX53FPGJeyqEP-J8rD-YKbcLzjLwu8gMIBuQrLjixExYxDPtcjxdoXSoQHExDSDFqPdGk_rRCCI2T24KXzHv_mbEWW3clValN0rMpe/s320/karen%2527s+phone.jpg" /></span></a></div><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I think so... is it
from this year?” I asked, playing ignorant.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well looking at the
Comic Sans font it could be from twenty years ago.” she grumbled.
“But looking at the date... it's very recent.” she told me,
before reading the last bit aloud. “Join the protest. Wear a
skirt... whenever the temperature is twenty degrees Celsius or
higher.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Can you retweet it?”
I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Why?” she
cautiously replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Because I don't want
to be the only boy who turns up wearing a skirt on the first day the
temperature is high enough.” I told her.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I don't think any
boys from your school will see any of my retweets.” she dryly
informed me. “Why don't you do it?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'm not on Twitter.”
I lied. “...and if was I wouldn't have a clue how to share things
locally.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That's easy.... just
use hashtag and the name of the town or city.” my sister casually
said, tapping at her screen and adding the relevant hashtags.
“There... town, county and school.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Can you share it on
FaceBank too?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Shall I say my
brother's joining the protest?” she asked as a wry smile swept her
face.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Erm... I don't
know.” I shyly replied. Karen told me she was joking and only
shared the image, adding no further information.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Thanks.” I coyly
said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So... what do you
do? Just keep an eye on the next day's forecast?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Pretty much.” I
replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I think you should
wear white knee socks.” she grinned. “And bunches.” she
giggled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'm fifteen Karen...
not eleven.” I groaned. “It's gonna be embarrassing enough being
the only boy with shaved legs.” I gulped.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Have you thought
about how you're going to explain that?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well... I thought
about buying myself a road bike after Easter.” I replied, adding
that cyclists shave their legs. “...but a decent one costs more
than I've got and I didn't want to spend all my earnings at once.”
I told her. “So...” I sighed. “...I guess I'll just say that
hairy legs looked ridiculous with a skirt so I shaved them.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Makes perfect sense
to me.” Karen said, eyeing my legs.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's not you I have
to convince.” I frowned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I wouldn't worry too
much if I were you.” she said. “I've read that around forty
percent of men shave their legs these days.” she told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Really?” I
quizzed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Karen nodded and said
that most just trim them down to around a centimetre, and quoting
from memory, said that fifteen percent of men admitted to shaving
them completely, like me. “I'll see if I can find the article...
it's in one of my magazines.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">That made me feel a
little bit better. I imagined a group of ten or twenty boys, all
turning up to school wearing skirts and considered how nerve racking
it's going to be because I'm the only one with shaved legs. Who am I
trying to kid?! I thought. I'll be the only boy who turns up at
school wearing a skirt on the first day the temperature hits 20ºC
and everyone's going to think I've turned trans! The true meaning of
<i>stuck between a rock
and a hard place</i> dawns
on me. If I don't dress as a girl at school, everyone will find out
that I dressed as a girl at work... and all the while I'm worrying
about this, I'm dressed as a girl in my back garden.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
gulp at my little fitted T shirt and cute blue shorts. I know my legs
look good but that's the problem... boys aren't supposed to have good
looking legs. Part of me wishes I was a girl. Working at my sister's
café wouldn't have been such a big deal and Hannah would never have
shot that video of me. I could be cute one day, sassy the next, a
plain-jane at school and a tom-boy at play. I saunter indoors and ask
my mother what we're having for dinner. Karen had brought home a tray
of lasagne that was left over from lunch, and we had that with a side
salad.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Afterwards,
Karen headed back to the café to work the evening shift and I went
up to my room to see how my tweet was doing. On my bed lay a magazine
which my sister must have left, titled Boutique. The model on the
cover has short frizzy hair, deep sultry eyes and glittery pink
lipstick and wears a short vibrant pink satin dress. She smiles
confidently at the camera and is surrounded by numerous headlines;
spring style, bohemian chic, festival fashion, easy up-do's, gossip
girls, discover the true you, etc. I notice the Karen has bookmarked
a page with a metal hair slide, decorated with a sparkly heart. I
open it to that page and the article is titled <i>The
Guys That Groom</i> and
halfway down the page is the sub-headline; <i>40%
of men admit to shaving their legs</i>.
It's slightly misleading, and just as Karen had told me, 40% of men
admit to trimming their leg hair whilst 15% shave them smooth. That's
more than one in ten, I tell myself as I begin to read the various
opinions on whether or not men should shave or trim their leg hair.
The article also discussed chest, belly and back hair (not applicable
to me), armpit hair and eyebrow shaping. My eyebrows haven't been
touched since Karen tidied them when she first gave me a make-over
and no one seemed to notice that they'd been shaped. No one mentioned
them anyway. I only shave my pits if I'm covering a shift at the
café, which hasn't been for a few weeks now, but my legs I tend to
when the stubble annoys me, which is every four or five days.
According to the article, most women approve of men tending to their
body hair so maybe I've got nothing to worry about... but I’m not a
man (just a boy) and I a can't help but worry about people knowing
that I regularly shave my legs.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
become engrossed in the magazine and flick through the fashion and
style guides and peruse the make-up tips. The so-called <i>easy
up do's</i> don't look
that easy and my hair isn't long enough for most of them. There's
features on sandals, handbags and accessorising, plus music and movie
news. I briefly turn back to the cover and note that the magazine is
over a year old, and wonder if I could carry off a bright pink dress.
I snort at this thought, knowing that I can't.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A
knock on the door draws my attention. It's Mum. She pops her head
round the door and tells me that there's a film about to start. “I
thought you'd be on your laptop.” she said, seeing me slumped on my
bed reading a magazine.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That
was my intention but I got sidetracked with this.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
see you've caught the sun on your legs.” she said, smiling.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My
legs look blushed but nowhere near burnt. I suggest getting changed
and giving Karen her clothes back. Mum suggests I keep them on 'til
bedtime. “I just feel a bit under-dressed.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Put
some tights on. That'd look nice.” Mum replied. “You've still got
some haven't you?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah a couple of
pairs I think.” I said. “Do you like me more when I'm dressed as
a girl?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I like you
regardless of how you're dressed Simon.” she smiled. “I also like
that you seem to like not dressing as a boy all the time... even if
you do need a little prompting.” she told me. Her eyes flitted from
my legs to my top, my hair and the magazine in front of me. “Is
that a hair slide?” she knowingly asked, noticing the small
glistening object on my duvet.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... Karen used
it a bookmark for an article in this.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh I see.” she
smiled. “Have you tried it?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Nah... sparkly
hearts aren't really my thing.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Ooh.” Mum frowned.
“You liked those sparkly butterflies I put in your hair.” she
reminded me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” I
cautiously admitted. To cut a short story shorter, Mum put the slide
in my hair, using it to hold my fringe in a high side parting. It
looked quite cute and I kept it in for the rest of the evening. We
watched the movie which we'd both seen before and both enjoyed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I didn't don any tights
in the end. Instead I figured I'd get accustomed to feeling
under-dressed and seeing my entire legs on display rather than just
half of them. I'd forgotten all about the hair slide until Karen
mentioned it when she arrived home soon after 10pm. She also
mentioned that my legs had caught the sun. “Can I dress you
tomorrow?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well you could...”
I cautiously replied. “...but I'm going bowling with Jack and Ben
and Tom at one.” I told her. “Maybe afterwards?” I suggested.
“We'll only be a couple of hours.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“OK.” she grinned.
“Did you read that article?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes.” I said. “Do
you want the magazine back?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No you keep it if
you want.” she said. “I've got loads.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Thanks.” I said.
“Should I put these shorts and top back in your room?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'll get them
tomorrow.” Karen replied. “You off to bed?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I went to my room but
didn't go directly to bed. I booted up my lap-top and checked The
Student Room to see if anyone had replied to my post. There were six
replies:</span></p>
<ul>
<li><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Not
this again! It's just attention seeking. Sad little boys trying to
get their picture in the paper. Try doing something original for a
chagne!</span></p></li></ul>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Try
spelling 'change' properly.” I muttered in response.</span></p>
<ul>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p>
<li><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
agree that it's attention seeking, but that's what protesting is.
Why is it such a big deal in the UK? Here in Australia most boys
wear shorts for school. I'd prefer that to the daggy dresses us
girls have to wear.</span></p></li></ul>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">One
vote of approval from down under, I thought as I visualised the high
school uniforms the girls wear on Australian TV shows. A style only
worn by junior school girls here in England.</span></p>
<ul>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p>
<li><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Was
that poster going round on Twitter designed by a seven year old?</span></p></li></ul>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">This comment prompted
me to look at Twitter. Maybe my tweet has gone viral! Maybe not.
It's been retweeted twenty three times which as I understand it, is
next to nothing.</span></p>
<ul>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p>
<li><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">This
is sooo two years ago! Any boy who wears a skirt for school is a
fag. Get a life!</span></p></li></ul>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The reply to that
trolling comment made me smile.</span></p>
<ul>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p>
<li><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">You're
so last century! If anyone needs to get a life it's you, you
pathetic troll. I agree with AuzzieGrl. Boys should be allowed to
wear short trousers. And that poster raises a good point... why are
girls legs acceptable but boys legs are banned?</span></p></li></ul>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The final reply could
have been posted by my school's headmaster.</span></p>
<ul>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p>
<li><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Boys
legs aren't banned. They can wear skirts just like the girls. It's
called gender equality. Girls can't wear short trousers either!</span></p></li></ul>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I replied to the last
comment stating that giving boys permission to wear skirts is an
attempt to stop the protests by calling their bluff. I explain that
we don't want to wear cargo shorts or cut off jeans, but smart short
trousers similar in style to the long trousers we have to wear. I
also ask if someone can post the poster from Twitter, as I'm a new
member to the forum and can't post any images yet.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I log out of The
Student room and check FaceBank. I scroll down through the usual
drivel; rants about refuse collection, noisy neighbours and cyclists,
the same old memes and people who feel the need to tell everyone what
flavour crisps they're eating today. A smile sweeps my face when I
see my poster, shared by my sister to the local town group. There's
an awful lot of comments and a lot of them are awful. I decide not to
spend the next hour reading them and shut down my laptop.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I only wore a bit of
eye-liner and mascara today, and lipstick of course, but it still
needs removing before going to bed. This is one chore I expect can be
tiresome for girls when they have to do it every night before bed. I
position my make-up mirror and remove a handful of wipes from the
pack and stare at my reflection as I clean my face, wiping away the
girlie me and revealing the boy I'm supposed to be. I pull out my
pony tail and kirby-grips and finally the glittery heart hairslide,
putting them neatly to one side, before brushing my hair and
undressing and finally getting into bed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Sunday, bowling.--><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum
mentioned the heated debate about the protests on FaceBank over
breakfast. I casually mention that I'd seen it last night, but keep
quiet about the fact that it was me who'd created the poster that's
getting everyone so flustered. I don a pair of skinny jeans and a
baggy T shirt when I go to meet my friends. We chat about this and
that as we head to the bowling alley. Tom asked what I did on
Saturday and I said I mowed the lawn, but left out the fact that I'd
dressed as girl beforehand. I wondered if I should mention the
discussion about the school protests on FaceBank, or the poster
that's on Twitter, but decided to wait in case any of them mention it
first.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I enjoy bowling but it
always makes me cringe when I put on the bowling shoes. How many
pairs of minging feet have been inside them recently? None of us are
great at the game. Any strikes we get are more through chance than
skill but we're good enough to stay out of the gutter. A mobile phone
eventually comes out when one of us is waiting for our turn and I'm
delighted when Tom exclaims “Hey look at this!” and shows my
poster to us all. “What's that?” Ben asked. Tom replied saying
it's a campaign getting us to protest against not being allowed to
wear shorts in the summer. “...there's no way I'm gonna wear a
skirt though.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I might.” I
replied, quickly and confidently. Although deep down I was crapping
myself, anticipating their reaction. “It's ridiculous that we can't
wear shorts.” I added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Wearing a skirt is
even more ridiculous!” Tom sneered</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah, and last time
the Head made it perfectly clear that shorts will never be allowed.”
Ben stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I know but... if
loads of us turn up wearing skirts, day after day after day, he'll
have to reconsider.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Jack's turn ended and
he joined us on the bench. “You're up Tom.” he said, before
asking what we were talking about. “That was all over FaceBank last
night.” he stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“My sister said she'd
seen it on Twitter.” I fibbed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Simon said he's
gonna take part.” Ben stated, snorting somewhat.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I said I <i>might</i>.”
I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“My mum was telling
me to get involved too.” Jack replied. “Not that I'm gonna.” he
stated. “I'd look a right prat in a skirt.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I think that's the
point.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The sound of Tom
cheering himself drew our attention. He'd scored a strike but was
annoyed because none of us saw it. My turn was next and my
performance was average at best. I returned to the bench and they
were debating whether the poster was designed by a kid or an actual
graphic designer. Tom claimed that no professional would use Comic
Sans, whilst Jack and Ben reckoned that it's definitely the work of a
pro and its childlike design makes it more eye-catching to school
kids. “Your turn Ben.” I said, before falsely claiming that when
I saw it on Twitter, it had been tweeted by some <i>equality in
education</i> group.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You don't use
Twitter.” Jack stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No but my sister
does and she showed it to me.” I replied, bending the truth, of
course.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The school protests
weren't mentioned again until we headed home. Tom and Jack went in
one direction, Ben and I in the other. “Are you really gonna wear a
skirt for those protests?” he asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well you don't get
anything unless you fight for it.” I replied. “...and polyester
trousers are horrible when it's twenty-five degrees.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I thought it was
twenty-degrees?” Ben recalled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That's when the
protests are supposed to happen.” I said. “...which doesn't seem
particularly hot to me.” I added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Have you actually
got a school skirt?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No but my sister
has.” I lied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's gonna be well
weird if you do wear one.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I know. Funny
though... and all for a good cause.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“If you say so... I'm
not bothered either way... I hardly ever wear shorts.” he shrugged.
We soon went our separate ways and I continued home alone. I was
pleased with myself because now I have a viable excuse fro when I do
inevitably turn up at school wearing a skirt. Since Saturday I've
been putting so much thought into the school protests that I have to
keep reminding myself what's really going on. I check my phone for a
text from Hannah but there's nothing yet. I wonder if she's got wind
of the campaign I've started?</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Sunday, dressing up.--><span style="font-family: arial;">“How
was bowling?” Mum asked when I returned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Good thanks.” I
replied. “I didn't win though.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well it's the taking
part that counts.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah I know.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Karen said to send
you up the moment you get home.” Mum informed me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I gulped. My sister's
proposition that she wants to dress me today had completely slipped
my mind. I climb the stairs wondering what she's got in store for me
and knock on her door. She gleefully greeted me me with an elongated
'hiyyyaaaaa', before asking if I'd enjoyed myself at the bowling
alley. “Yeah it was cool.” I said. “They've all seen that
poster about the school protests.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Are they joining
in?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I doubt it.” I
replied. “Knowing my luck it's just going to be me.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So... is it because
you want to wear shorts or because you want to wear a skirt?” Karen
proposed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's a bit more
complicated than that.” I told her. “Bit of both I guess.” I
added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Fair enough.” she
smiled. “Right...” she said, grabbing a lipstick from her
dresser. “...you'll need this.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I took it and pulled
off the lid. “It's a bit dark.” I hesitantly stated, seeing a
deep, dark burgundy shade.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Mmm hmm.” Karen
agreed. “You're an Emo right?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Kind of.” I
replied. No true Emo actually admits to it.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So today, I thought
it would be fun to be yourself.” she said. “There's an outfit on
your bed. When you're dressed, come back and I'll do something with
your hair.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What about make-up?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Just do what you
normally do... but use the darker eye-shadows.” she told me. “And
put this on first.” she said, handing me a small tube of something
labelled <i>The eyes have it! Base Coat</i>. I asked what it was and
predictably she told me it was a base coat for my eye-shadow. “Oh,
and black plimsolls.” she added as I left.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">On my bed is a variety
of mostly black garments; a black denim mini skirt with a distressed
hem, footless black tights, a pair of black fishnet ankle socks, a
dark purple lace bra-top and a black racer back vest with with a
gloomy gothic print on the front. The footless black tights come to
just below my knees and my calves and shins look pale in comparison.
The skirt is short and sultry, with its frayed unkempt hem. The
purple lace bra top looks far too feminine but with the vest, only
its thin lace straps are visible, so it's not too bad. I pull on the
fishnet anklets and slip my feet in to my black lowtop plimsolls. I
look more Goth than Emo but I guess if I was me and a girl, I might
dress like this on occasion. I spend ages applying my make-up; a full
face of foundation, plus the base coat on my eyelids which, according
to the blurb on the tube, stops the powder from sinking into the
pores, thus enabling it to be completely removed. Usually I wear the
lighter shades of eye-shadow. The darker shades give me that
black-eye look which looks a bit too deep and heavy. I apply
eye-liner and mascara and finally the darkest shade of lipstick I've
ever worn. I'm more used to seeing myself wearing pale pinks so this
deep burgundy is a complete change. But it does compliment the the
weight of my eye make-up and does look quite good, I think.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Karen says I look 'ace'
when I return to her room. She places bangles around my wrists that
jangle with every movement. A silver chain and a dark red velvet
choker goes around my neck, and a thin studded belt hangs loosely
around my waist. She sit me at her dresser and asked if I brush my
hair before bed. “Yeah. Why?” I reply.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Because you're going
to hate me for this.” she replied as she proceeded to back-comb my
hair. It looks big and punky and I'm not sure if I like what I see,
but the addition of a dark purple scarf tied in my hair softens what
she's done. “Let's show Mum.” she grins.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh Karen... I was
expecting a pretty Sunday dress.” Mum moaned when I was presented
to her.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I think he looks
ace.” Karen replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You've turned him
into a goth.” Mum stated. “All he's lacking is some black nail
varnish.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'd forgotten about
his nails.” Karen said, sounding disappointed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I declined that offer
as I'd only have to remove it for school tomorrow. Karen's phone rang
which left Mum and I alone. I sat myself down in the arm chair. “So
you don't approve of this?” I asked, gesturing to myself.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No I was only
teasing... you look great.” my mother replied. “If you were a
girl your age you'd be experimenting with all sorts of different
looks.” she said, smiling.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah I guess.” I
replied, gulping. “I do feel a bit ashamed of myself... it's not
normal for a boy to like dressing up.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I think if more boys
had the opportunity, they'd enjoy it just as much as you do.” Mum
replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah maybe.” I
said. “We were talking about the school protests at the bowling
alley.” I told her, adding that I'd told my friends that I 'might'
be taking part.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And what did they
say?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Not much really...
apart from stating that they'd never wear a skirt.” I said. “I'm
not sure of they believed me.” I added. “...and Jack said that
his Mum was telling him to get involved, but he seemed adamant that
he wasn't going to.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum smiled to herself.
“He is a very pretty boy.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Am I pretty?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No you're handsome.”
she told me. “...but nicely applied make-up can make anyone look
pretty.” she said, adding “Jack's naturally very pretty.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hmm.” I replied.
I've never really considered it myself. My phone, which lay on the
coffee table alerted me to an incoming text message. I grabbed it and
my bangles all jangled as they slid down my forearm. It's from
Hannah, sending me a screen shot of her weather app, accompanied with
the message. 'oh drats... only 19 :( hope it hots up by Tuesday! :)'</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-style: normal;">I
smiled to myself as I sarcastically replied, 'My heart bleeds for you'.</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Who's that?” Mum asked.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh
no one.” I said as I put the phone down. My bangles jangled again
as they slid back to my wrist. “These are really noisy.” I
commented.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum
just smiled at me and turned her eyes back to the TV and the episode
of Antiques Roadshow. She cracks the same joke every time they come
to value an item. “It's worth a million pounds.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Throughout
the evening, I kept forgetting how freaky my hair looked until I
caught my reflection in a picture frame or mirror. My skirt is
narrower than those I’ve worn previously. It digs into my thighs as
I stride or climb the stairs, which feels kind of nice in a weird
sort of way. I frequently fiddle with my bangles, or twist the chain
that hangs around my neck, and occasionally thumb the ends of the
scarf tied in my hair. I reapply my lipstick after our Sunday roast
dinner and Mum says I suit that shade. “You always say that.” I
noted, adding that I think it's too dark for me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You
prefer your pinky ones?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They're just a bit
more natural looking.” I said as I tidied my lipstick with my
little finger.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You do have a knack
for make-up... it's a pity boys can't routinely wear it.” she told
me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I felt proud, and
bashful. “Yeah... I wish this was as normal for us as it is for
girls.” I said as I pushed the lipstick back into my skirt pocket.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well it's normal in
this house Simon.” Mum replied. “You can dress up when you want
or dress down if you like... so long as you're happy, I'm happy.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Thanks.” I said,
hiding a gulp with a smile.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Later, as I was getting
prepared for bed, I recalled my sister's words just before she began
playing with my hair. It's never felt so knotty and brushing it
actually hurt, so much so that I googled 'brushing out back combed
hair' ...and one of the top results was a thread on The Student room
forum. Following the advice, I stopped brushing, got under the shower
and used plenty of conditioner to tease out the knots. Being a girl
is such high maintenance, I realised. Life is so much easier when I
can just have a quick wash & brush and slip under my duvet,
without going through the rigmarole of removing my make-up and
de-styling my hair. Is <i>de-styling</i> even a word? I wondered as I
stood under the hot torrent of water. “You were ages in there.”
my sister said when I emerged from the bathroom. I replied telling
her that it took ages to get all the knots out of my hair. “Yeah...”
she said, biting her lip. “...I did warn you you'd hate me.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Can I use your hair
dryer?” I asked, thumbing the damp ends of hair.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's best to let it
dry naturally.” Karen told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That'll take ages
though.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Not if you use a
hair towel.” she told me, grabbing my wrist and pulling me into her
room. I told her that I've already used a towel, but she had a
special towel, specifically for drying hair. She demonstrated how to
wrap it on herself, before handing it to me. “It's super-absorbant
micro-fibre and should dry your hair about half an hour.” she told
me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's also pink.” I
frowned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It is.” she
replied, glancing at my navy blue bathrobe. “Which means you'll
also need this.” she grinned, handing me her fluffy pale-pink
bathrobe. “Do you want to borrow a nightie as well?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I get the feeling
that if I say no you'll only talk me into it.” I frowned as she put
the super-soft robe into my hands.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I take it that means
yes.” my sister smiled, opening a drawer and rummaging. “There
you go.” she said, putting a pale pink tie-dyed item in my hands</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No fluffy slippers?”
I dryly asked. She offered me some fluffy socks. “I was being
sarcastic.” I told her. She claimed she was too.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You're going to have
to start buying your own clothes at this rate.” Mum said when I
appeared wearing my sister's fluffy pink bathrobe and her pink
hair-towel wrapped around my head.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“All I asked for was
a hairdryer and I ended up with this lot.” I replied, opening my
robe to reveal the pink tie-dye Tinker Bell nightie. Mum chuckled and
said I looked nice in pink. I felt nice. Karen's robe is not only
super soft and fluffy, but fragrant too.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Monday and Tuesday--><span style="font-family: arial;">The
following morning, Mum commented on how nice my hair looked. “I had
to use <i>loads</i> of conditioner to get the knots out last night.”
I replied. A group of girls in my class also commented on my hair.
Some of my class were also talking about the potential protests which
were being discussed on FaceBank over the weekend. Hannah approached
me at lunch time and told me that it's highly likely that the
temperature will be exceeding 20ºC
towards the end of the week, and that she hopes I've got my skirt
ready. “The way things are looking, I won't be the only one.” I
told her. “Have you seen the campaign on Twitter?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I've
seen it on FaceBank.” she replied. “It's gonna be ace if loads of
boys wear skirts.” she grinned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Fabulous.”
I dryly retorted. “Can I still trust that you won't show anyone
that video of me?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So
long as you stick to your part of the bargain.” she replied. “And
it's not just this week remember... the deal stands 'til the end of
term.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's
not a deal Hannah... it's blackmail.” I reminded her.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's an agreement.”
she insisted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah whatever... I
guess it won't be so bad if it's not just me.” I sighed. She
fluttered her lashes, smiled and said she'd text me tonight before
walking away. I gulped as I watched her swishing skirt and slender
tanned legs. That's gonna be me soon enough, I thought.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Hannah did text me that
evening with the screenshot of her weather app and the message:
'Looking very promising for Wednesday but no fun tomorrow :('.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">School assembly is held
on Tuesday and Thursday mornings and on Tuesday morning, the
headmaster himself mentioned the potential imminent protests. He
claimed that the idea of a national protest that's going around on
social media is a prank. “Don't fall for fake news boys.” he
warned. “I've made it perfectly clear in recent years that we shall
not be changing the school uniform rules and that still stands, and
anyone who partakes in this pointless protest will end up with egg on
their face.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was really nervous as
he spoke about something on social media that I myself had initiated.
Part of me expected him to state my name and instruct me to stay
behind after assembly. But he didn't. “You still gonna join the
protest Simon?” Jack asked as we headed to our first class.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well I've always
been in two minds about it.” I claimed. “Still am I guess.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“After that I think
we should.” Jack replied. “He sounded like Donald Trump...
dismissing it as fake news.” he stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You've changed your
tune since Sunday.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well I've had more
time to think about it and you're right... it's not fair that boy's
legs are banned.” he replied. “Plus I've got my mum twisting my
arm... but she loves a good protest.” he said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You got a week's
worth of detentions for the climate change strike.” I reminded him.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah but that's not
gonna happen this time... wearing a skirt isn't breaking the school
rules.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No but it does break
the unwritten rule that boys don't wear skirts.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It would be quite
funny if loads of us did though.” Jack replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... but what if
you were the only one?” I asked, chuckling nervously at the
prospect.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hmmm.” Jack mused
as we entered our class.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">That evening I got a
text off Hannah. The screenshot of her weather app predicted a high
of 21ºC.
Her message was nothing but a sunshine emoticon. I replied with a sad
face :(</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
quickly sent Jack a text asking if he was 'on for tomorrow'. He
replied with a triple question mark. 'The protest'... I
replied. ...'it's supposed to be 21 degrees and they're supposed to
take place when its 20 or higher.'</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Jack
didn't immediately reply. For the next few hours I kept checking my
phone every five minutes. “You seem anxious.” Mum commented. “Is
everything OK?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah...
the protests start tomorrow.” I gulped.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
see.” Mum replied. “I'm sure it'll be fine once you've got over
your stage fright.” she said, adding that she thinks I'm being very
brave.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
didn't feel at all brave as I got myself ready for bed that night. I
removed the skirt from my wardrobe and hung it from the door knob,
ready and waiting for the morning. So far as I'm aware (and hope!),
only two people know the real reason why I'm doing this and if anyone
else knew that a girl in Year 9 is calling all the shots, no one
would describe me as brave. Weak and gullible is how I feel as I pull
my duvet over me and shut my eyes.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Wednesday, it's 21ºC.--><span style="font-family: arial;">The
first thing I saw when I woke was the school skirt waiting for me. My
heart sank. A big part of me wanted to leave it until the very last
minute before getting dressed for school but I figured the sooner I
wear it, the sooner I'll come to terms with it. I place the skirt on
my bed before washing and brushing my teeth. I emit a long mournful
sigh when I return to my room.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0cmzW1dRNp7I7P3rLoZjpozuh-rUQnaiz2iPTAF4p-thui8JG0fBK26_q_M5mYImYAGmvKQfAtCvhbTvAAykgBCnauIlEYgwRgA_pKGvD8ZJG_5Ts_0yjpajkIZQOrBiITGjgY7sn/s1200/plaid+skirt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="940" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0cmzW1dRNp7I7P3rLoZjpozuh-rUQnaiz2iPTAF4p-thui8JG0fBK26_q_M5mYImYAGmvKQfAtCvhbTvAAykgBCnauIlEYgwRgA_pKGvD8ZJG_5Ts_0yjpajkIZQOrBiITGjgY7sn/s320/plaid+skirt.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well it's either
this or everyone see me dressed as a waitress.” I mumble to myself,
before dressing.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I still can't
believe you're doing this.” Mum said as I poured a bowl of cereal.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Me neither.” I
said. “I've put some PE shorts on too... just in case.” I added
as I sat myself at the table.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Good idea... it's
inevitable that someone's going to flick it up.” Mum replied, just
as my sister strolled into the kitchen.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Have you got it on?
Let's have a look!”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I only just sat
down.” I sighed as I stood and stepped away from the table so she
could see me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Karen smiled
approvingly. “So what's the plan... you wear it everyday the
temperature's over twenty?” she asked. I nodded. “You do know
it's going to be this warm for the rest of the week don't you?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.... I've seen
the forecast.” I mournfully replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You'll probably
spend more days wearing that than trousers between now and the end of
term.” Mum claimed. “It's only going to get warmer after
mid-summer.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... I hadn't
really considered that before committing myself... but we'll never
get the headmaster to change his mind if we don't stick with it.” I
replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well I hope it
doesn't back fire and they ban skirts altogether.” my sister
replied. “Some schools have done that.” she told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum mentioned the
school that banned long trousers after the boys protested for the
right to wear shorts. “...they certainly got more than they
bargained for.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So they have to wear
shorts all year round?” my sister quizzed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I bet all the boys
who didn't protest despise the boys who did.” I mused.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And those who did
are kicking themselves.” Karen said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... but if girls
can cope in short skirts all year then surely the boys can cope in
shorts.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You'd think so...
but boys are the weaker sex.” my sister chuckled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“None of his is
helping my confidence you know.” I said. “It's scary enough
wondering if I'm going to be the only boy wearing a skirt... now I’m
worried that the whole protest might backfire.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'm sure it won't
love.” my mother replied. “Do you want a lift to school?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No.” I sighed.
“I'd best brave it out.” I said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Good for you.” Mum
said. “Now are you sure you don't want bunches?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Nooo!”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I've got a nice
Alice band you can borrow.” Karen jested. I responded with a look.
She grinned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">After rinsing my
breakfast bowl, I made sure I had everything I needed in my rucksack
and prepared to leave. I paused before the hallway mirror and gulped
at my reflection. “Wish me luck!” I nervously said before opening
the door and shyly stepping outside.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The sun shone brightly
and the sky was clear blue. The breeze was practically non-existent
but it certainly didn't feel like it was twenty-one degrees. My legs
were covered in goose pimples for the first few minutes and it dawned
on me that the predicted high temperature is most likely in the
afternoon, not at half past eight in the morning. I couldn't help but
hang my head and watch my legs. “Brrr.” At least my shirt has
long sleeves but I wish my skirt had pockets. My hands feel awkward
as they swing by my sides, brushing my pleats. I exit the side
streets and see other kids heading to school. Short skirts and long
pants. I suppose with my longish hair I look like one of the girls at
first glance, but it's only a matter of time before someone
recognises me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hey look at him!”
I hear some girls giggle and glance across the street. They point and
laugh at me. I wave back and smile and hope to god that I’m not
alone. The school gates come into a view and there's a relatively
large group of kids assembled. They laugh and jeer and point their
phones towards me. Maybe Hannah has told everyone that I'll be
turning up to school in a skirt and they're ready and waiting to
ridicule me. I can feel myself blushing.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hey nice legs
Simon!” a girl from my class hollered. “Fuckin' faggot!” a boy
bellowed. I disguised my embarrassment with a broad grin as I strode
by. No sign of Hannah, I noted as I passed through the gates. As I
approached the building, I realised to some relief that I'm not the
only boy wearing a skirt today. I spotted three at least, all getting
full attention from the kids nearby. I entered the corridors and was
met with more whooping and hollering. “At least someone's had the
sense to shave his legs!” one of my classmates exclaimed as I
joined the queue outside my form room. “You've shaved your legs?!”
Jack's familiar voice called out as he stepped from the line. He too
is wearing a skirt.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” I bashfully
admitted. “They looked stupid.” I gulped. With some fifteen
people all glaring at me, sniggering, grinning, commenting and
laughing, I said “You could have texted me back last night.” to
Jack.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah soz... I meant
to.” he replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So I guess it's just
us?” I said, glancing down the line and seeing no other boys
wearing a skirt.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So far.” Jack
replied. “There's a few outside.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah I saw them. Did
you come through the front gate?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... we're gonna
be all over FaceBank.” he frowned as he looked me up and down. “I
can't believe you shaved your legs.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oi!” I yelped as I
felt my skirt get flicked up.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Cheat! You're
wearing shorts.” the girl who'd lifted it giggled as I put my hands
firmly on the back of my skirt, then my back firmly against the wall.
I glanced down at Jack's legs, clearly hairy with a pair of white
socks scrunched down to his ankles and his usual school shoes on.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I gulped at my own
feet. No one noticed last week that I had new shoes on and I'm more
worried than ever that someone might recognise them as a pair of
girl's shoes. “Why did you shave your legs?” Jack sneered.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Because they looked
stupid.” I said. Since it was Friday that I last shaved them, I
claimed that I hadn't actually shaved them, but went over them with a
pair of hair clippers last night just to remove the bulk of my
unsightly leg hair.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“At least you've made
an effort.” one of the girls said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Thanks Alice.” I
smiled, just as Ben and Tom joined us. Both, predictably wore
trousers. They just shook their heads at Jack and I, suggesting that
we should become Jacqueline and Simone for the day. The form teacher
wasn't far behind them. He shook his head as me and sighed in
disbelief. “I'm in uniform Sir.” I stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes Simon. I can see
that.” he replied as he unlocked the door. He instructed us all to
take our seats and told everyone to ignore the 'class clowns'. “I
don't know what you're hoping to achieve.” she said as he opened
the register.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“The right to wear
short trousers in the summer Sir.” I stated. The class burst into
gasps and giggles, but not at me. Two more boys entered the class,
both wearing skirts. Four of us... that's good, I thought.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Take your seats
boys.” the teacher groaned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes Sir.” Sam and
Oliver replied. “I just need to put this up.” Sam stated as he
unrolled a sheet of A4 and pinned it to the class notice board. I
smiled proudly to myself as he stepped aside to reveal my poster. The
class laughed out loud as he dropped a curtsey before heading to his
seat. The teacher spent a moment looking at the poster before
removing it. “Oh Sir!” Sam moaned. “We're allowed to protest
peacefully.” he stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That maybe true
Samuel... but I decide what goes on the notice board.” the form
teacher replied as he rolled up the poster and returned to his desk.
Jack, myself, Sam and Oliver all grinned at one another in
solidarity. I wondered how many more of us there were.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The corridors were more
boisterous than usual as we filtered from our form room to our
respective classes. Double history was first for us and much like the
form teacher, our history teacher just rolled her eyes as we entered.
“Pull your socks up Jack.” she said. “You know we don't allow
scrunched socks.” she told him.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Erm...” Jack
gulped. “Do I have to Miss?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“If you're wearing
knee socks then they need to be pulled up to the knee.” she
informed him. “It's written quite clearly in the school handbook.”
she said, before telling him that if he wants to dress like the girls
then he needs to read and follow the rules laid out for them.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Jack gulped and frowned
and pulled his socks up. They're clearly girl's knee socks, with a
vague yet noticeable patterned knit. The class sniggered when they
noticed. Jack looked mortified. I presumed they weren't his preferred
choice of hosiery today.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Halfway through the
class, a prefect entered and gave the teacher a message. This wasn't
unusual as prefects often run errands between classes, but at the end
of the lesson when the break-time bell rang, Jack, myself, Sam and
Oliver were told to report to the deputy head in the assembly hall.
“We can't get into trouble.” Oliver said as we made our way
there. “We're not breaking any rules.” We all agreed but were
worried that we had to report to the deputy head.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Measuring up.--><span style="font-family: arial;">My
jaw dropped when I entered the hall... there must be at least thirty
boys all wearing skirts. This is far better than I ever expected. We
were instructed to join the queue. “What are they doing?” Jack
asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Measuring our skirts
by the looks of it.” I noticed. Most boys wore skirts that were
closer to knee length than mid thigh which left me feeling that my
skirt is a little bit on the short side. And most wore their usual
clumpy school shoes and black or grey ankle socks. However a
significant number were wearing white knee socks just like Jack. I
noticed that Jack had pushed his down to his ankles again. “Why
didn't you wear ankle socks?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I would have but I
haven't got any white ones and Mum got me these.” he frowned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The queue moved quickly
and at the front, the deputy head is measuring each boy's skirt
length in turn. I notice that some boys are given a letter and would
later learn from Sam and Oliver, whose skirts were deemed too long,
that the letter is for their parents stating that their attire is in
breach of the school uniform regulations and that if they do not have
a skirt that falls within the acceptable length, then trousers must
be worn. The letter also states that the rule for girls is either
white socks or black or navy tights, and that all boys who chose to
attend school wearing a skirt must also adhere to this rule.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Both mine and Jack's
skirts are considered acceptable, but Jack is told to pull his socks
up and keep them that way, otherwise he could face a detention. Sam
and Oliver loiter by the door and we all leave the assembly hall
together. “I bet they're not telling any of the girls that their
skirts are too long.” I said once we were dismissed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They only get these
letters when they're too short.” Oliver replied. “My sister was
threatened with suspension last term.” he added as we headed to the
yard for the remainder of our morning break.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I heard a wolf-whistle
from behind me and turned around to see Hannah grinning from ear to
ear. “You didn't have to shave your legs.” she said. “But I’m
glad you did.” she smiled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Happy now?” I
grumped.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'm delighted.”
she grinned. “I never thought there'd be so many.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well there is that
social media campaign.” I replied. I noticed my friends loitering.
“I'll catch you up.” I told them. “So... you gonna delete that
video?” I asked once they'd gone.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“There's the rest of
term to go yet.” she said. “This is just day one.” she reminded
me. I gulped. “Don't worry... I'll stick to my half of the bargain
if you will.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What choice do I
have?” I frowned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well at least it's
not just you.” she said. “And well done for getting your friends
involved.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I honestly thought
it <u>was</u> going to be just me.” I told her. “They read about
it on FaceBank or Twitter.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Odd that the social
media campaign states the very same rule that I laid down for you.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Huh?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“The temperature
being twenty degrees or more.” she stated</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Just a coincidence I
guess.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Maybe.” she said.
I get the sneaky feeling that she's already worked out that I'm
behind the online campaign. Hannah broke the awkward silence saying,
“Well... I'll text you later.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“There's probably no
need... it's supposed to be even warmer tomorrow.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well I will anyway.”
she said. “I like our little chats.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They're hardly chats.”
I said as she turned away.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Who's that girl?”
Jack asked when I rejoined him</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh err... just some
girl, she knows my sister... sort of.” I evasively replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Not surprisingly, we
were all the centre of attention between classes and during break
times. In our lessons, the teachers played the protest down, advising
the class to focus on the lesson, rather than Simon's legs... which
are very nice, according to Miss McGuire the geography teacher. When
the school bell rang to signal the end of the day, loads of kids hung
around at the school gates to laugh, jeer and in some cases, cheer us
on as we left the school grounds. Jack walked with me part of the
way. “Well that could have been worse.” I said. “Thanks for
joining in.” I added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“My Mum decided that
I'd be joining in the moment she heard about it.” he replied,
adding that whilst we were bowling on Sunday, his mother was shopping
for his skirt.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I reckon there won't
be as many tomorrow.” I glumly said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... it was only
one day last time.” Jack recalled. “But it's a lot more organised
this time, so who knows?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I was thinking about
all the boys who got given a letter.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah there is that.
I can't believe how petty they were being.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I can.” I said.
“They'll have seen it on FaceBank and got scared.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We soon went our
separate ways and I walked the rest of the way home alone. It's
certainly a lot warmer now than it was this morning, I thought as the
warm sun shone on my legs. <!--Home from school-->“How did it go
love?” Mum asked when I returned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Great... there' must
have been fifty of us!” I claimed, exaggerating a little. I told
her that we all had to go to the assembly hall at morning break to
have our skirts measured and that the boys who's skirts were too long
were given a letter to take home.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What about?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Saying that if they
don't have a skirt that falls within the regulation then they have to
wear trousers.” I replied. “..and Jack got threatened with
detention for scrunching his socks.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Jack joined in too?”
Mum exclaimed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... and he had
knee socks on!”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You could do with
some too... it didn't seem that warm this morning when you set off.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It wasn't!” I
replied. “But I can't see knee socks doing much.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You'll be
surprised.” Mum replied. “Have you got much homework?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah loads.” I
said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Good.” she said.
“Why don't you go and put a bit of make-up on... I'll clear a space
on the kitchen table, and you can do it down here.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Why?” I asked.
Normally I have to do it in my room where I'm not in the way.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Because I want to
see you looking all sweet in your uniform.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh Mu-um.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh Simon.” she
parroted. “Indulge me won't you?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“OK.” I mournfully
replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As I sat applying a
little eye liner and mascara, I thought of all the girls who start
putting their make-up on from the moment they're leaving the school
grounds. I also though about jack and Sam and Oliver and all the
other boys who'd work a skirt today. I expect they're eagerly
changing into boy's clothes whilst I'm making myself look even more
like a girl. I apply my palest pink lipstick and take it downstairs
with me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum smiles as I return
and start unpacking my bag, laying my books on the table. I sit
myself down and my mother steps behind me. “Can I just do something
before you start?” she said, taking to my hair with a brush.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh Mu-um... you're
not going to give me bunches are you?” I moaned. She complimented
my posers of perception and put my hair in bunches, wrapping a length
of white ribbon around each one and tying them in bows. “Aren't I
bit old for ribbons?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No.” she smiled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Can I go and have a
look?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No you've got your
homework to do.” she grinned. “But take it from me, you look very
cute.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It felt very weird
having two bunches bouncing around my ears. And the ribbon rustled
too, somewhat annoyingly at first but I soon filtered it out. I
imagined what Hannah would say if she could see now, or any of my
classmates.. then wondered how many boys would turn up wearing skirts
tomorrow. More? Less? Or 'fewer' as my English teacher would correct.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Half an hour later my
sister returned home. “What have we got here?” she asked, seeing
me from the back. I must have been blushing when I turned around. I
could feel the heat in my cheeks. She asked how the protest went and
I told her that loads of boys wore skirts. Then Mum asked if she
still had any white knee socks. “Yeah I think so, why?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Because it wasn't
that warm at half eight this morning and you brother could do with
some.” Mum replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Knee socks won't
make any difference.” I stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You'd be surprised.”
my sister replied. A few minutes later she came down from her room
and presented me with a pair.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'm not wearing
those at school!” I said, noticing a distinct pelerine knit.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Why not?” Mum
asked. “You said Jack wore knee socks.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I know but they're
too girlie.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Says the boy with
pink lips and his hair in bunches.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But I'm not at
school now.” I defensively replied. “The whole point of the
protest is we're wearing skirts because we're banned from wearing
shorts... it's not about dressing as a girl.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But the reason
you're getting involved this year Simon is because you<i> do</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
like</span> dressing as a girl.” my mother informed me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's not just that.”
I claimed, considering Hannah and her video. But if I didn't like
dressing as a girl I would never have accepted a job as a waitress in
the first place, and Hannah would never had shot that video... so for
all the wrong reasons, Mum's absolutely right. I reiterated that the
right for boys to wear shorts is something worth fighting for.
“...and the fact that I like girl's clothes is a bonus.” I said.
“I can wear a skirt in public without actually going public.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes I understand
that love.” Mum replied. “But I'd still like to see you in knee
socks.” she said, reminding me that I let her put my hair in
bunches.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I untied my shoes laces
and removed my trainer liners, before pulling on my sister's girlie
white knee socks. The pelerine pattern stretched over my legs,
revealing stripes and diamond shapes. I made sure they weren't
twisted and the tops were level, before glumly looking up at my
mother and sister. “I don't think I've got the guts to wear these
at school.” I said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You had the guts to
wear a skirt.” my sister stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And if Jack's
wearing knee socks...” Mum added, before asking what his were like.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“A bit like these.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Not plain then?”
she asked. I shook my head. “Well there you go... if Jack's got the
guts.” she proposed as I pulled my shoes back on.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They were the only
white socks he had though... his mum got him them when she bought his
skirt.” I informed them. “I'm sure he'd have preferred normal
socks if he had the choice.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Those are normal
socks.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You know what I mean
though... plain ones, like those.” I said, pointing to the white
trainer liners I'd been wearing.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“We're any other boys
wearing knee socks?” Mum asked. “Or just Jack?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I recalled the queue in
the assembly hall and guessed maybe ten or fifteen out of around
forty skirted boys. “Forty! That's loads!” my sister exclaimed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah it was a good
turnout.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What were you
queueing for?” she quizzed. I explained that we were having our
skirt lengths measured and some boys were given a letter to take
home. “That's ridiculous! I could understand it if they were too
short but too long?!” Karen growled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well you did say
they're quite strict when we were getting my skirts.” I reminded
her. “Mid thigh and not knee length.” I added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes... but I don't
recall any girls ever being pulled up for wearing one a bit too
long.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That's what I
said... I reckon the headmaster's doing what he can to dissuade us
from wearing skirts.” I replied. “Jack got threatened with
detention for scrunching his socks down to his ankles.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... they were
very strict on socks when I was there.” Karen told me, before
grumbling about the letters again.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes it does seem a
bit much Karen.” Mum agreed. “But Simon's got lots of homework to
do.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I returned to my
homework assignments but couldn't help but intermittently kick out my
foot and look down at my socks. They're so overtly girlie that I'd
get teased so much of I did wear them at school... but thinking about
it, Jack only got teased to begin with and he wasn't the only boy
wearing girl's knee socks.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">By the time I’d
finished my homework, I decided that I did quite like how my girlie
knee socks looked, but figured that they're far too girlie for
school. I packed up my books and went through to the lounge. “Have
you seen the pictures on FaceBank?” Mum asked. She handed me her
iPad and I looked at some twenty pictures taken of us at the school
gates that had been posted on the local group. “There's none of me
are there?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No...
unfortunately.” Mum replied. “But I'd quite like to take one.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh no Mum!” I
whined. “...not with my hair like this.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But you look cute.”
she grinned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Can I take them
out?” I asked. “I've finished my homework.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I suppose...
spoilsport.” she frowned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I'd got so used to them
dangling around my ears that I'd forgotten to have a look in a
mirror. I paused in front of the hallway mirror on the way to my room
and looked more like a school girl than most girls in my year... even
those who do wear bunches don't wear white ribbons tied in perfect
bows. I stepped back so my socks came into view. With their patterned
knit they look as girlie as my hair, but being bright brilliant
white, my legs look nicely tanned. I went to my room and removed my
ribbons, bunches and make up. I brushed my hair about fifty time
until the kink was barely visible, before removing my school uniform
and dressing as the boy I am. Part of me couldn't believe that I'd
actually worn a skirt at school as I clipped it to its hanger... and
I can't quite believe that I'll be wearing it again tomorrow. But I
was proud of what I'd achieved. I never imagined that so many other
boys would also wear a skirt today. Making that poster and getting it
circulated on FaceBank was a stroke of genius.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Come morning, I didn't
have the guts to wear the knee socks. <!--Thursday-->I felt just as
nervous when I stepped outside as I had yesterday. It took a while
for my legs to become accustomed to the mere fourteen degrees that it
was at half past eight.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Once again I was teased
and cheered at the school gates, and today being Thursday, the school
assembly was held. The headmaster claimed that some of us had fallen
for a prank that was going around on social media and stated that any
attempts to get the school's uniform policy changed, were futile.
“Boy's who opt to wear a skirt must abide by the same rules as the
girls regarding length and hosiery. Socks <u>must</u> be <i>white</i>
and tights <u>must</u> be <i>plain</i> charcoal grey.” A few
sniggers were heard at the thought of boys wearing tights. He went on
to say that anyone breaching the school's uniform rules will first be
warned and continued breaches will result in detention and
potentially, suspension</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Jack and I were the
only boys who wore skirts in our form room and as such, were the
centre of attention again. Sam and Oliver were back in their long
trousers and were both annoyed that they couldn't continue the
protest. “You could have just hitched up your skirts.” Jack
suggested, but like slouched knee socks, rolling the top of a skirt
isn't allowed and is stated quite clearly in the school rules. One of
the girls suggested we should have to play netball instead of cricket
in our PE classes. The form teacher said it was a very good idea, but
I guess he was teasing us rather than being serious.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Once again we were
instructed to go to the assembly hall at break time, and the number
of skirted buys was around half that it was yesterday. “Are you
going to do this everyday Miss.” I asked as the deputy head
measured my skirt.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“We need to make sure
that your uniform complies with the regulations Simon.” she
replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I don't see any
girls in the queue Miss.” I sneered.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The deputy head scowled
at me, before casting her eyes down the line. “I see only girls in
the queue... miss.” she hissed before dismissing me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I waited whilst Jack
had his skirt measured and like mine it fell within the accepted
length. The deputy head did insist that he straightened his socks and
put the tops of them level. “She's certainly got a bee in her
bonnet.” I grumbled as Jack and I exited the assembly hall.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I think they're just
trying to embarrass us into compliance.” he replied. “That's what
Mum reckoned when I told her they were measuring our skirts.” he
added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's a bit annoying
that there's not so many today.” I moaned. “But I suppose that
was to be expected... even if they didn't hand out all those
letters.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh I dunno... I wish
I’d got one.” Jack nervously chuckled. “This is more my mum's
idea than mine.” he said. “She even made me keep it on whilst I
did my homework.” he sighed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I always have to
keep my uniform on 'til my homework's done.” I told him, but I
didn't mention the make-up or bunches or knee socks.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There was much debate
throughout the lunch break as to whether the social media campaign
was a prank or not. I figured the less I said about it the better,
and when asked I replied with certainty that it's not a prank. “If
I thought it was I wouldn't be wearing this.” I stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Ben wanted proof that
it wasn't a prank, I suggested he prove that it was. “I might do
that... it's far too warm out here.” he replied. I stated that I
wasn't too warm and asked Jack if he was too warm. Jack shrugged and
shook his head. I asked Tom if he was too warm. “A bit.” Tom
replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well you'll know who
to thank if we're allowed to wear shorts next summer.” I smugly
told them. Tom and Ben reckoned it would never happen and whilst
they're probably right, I remained hopeful. Jack told us that when
his Mum was at school, the girls all campaigned for the right to wear
trousers and won. That shut Tom and Ben up, but they maintained that
there's no way they're going to join us.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum didn't put my hair
in bunches after school and didn't have me doing my homework at the
kitchen table. I did keep my uniform on 'til it was finished
though... as that is the norm. I got a text off Hannah with the
screenshot of her weather app. Her message read; '20ºC tomorrow.
Three in a row! :D'. I texted her back saying; 'Thought you'd have
checked up on me today', as I hadn't seen her at school. She replied
with 'Don't worry... I saw you! :)x'.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">After
supper we sat in front of the early evening news which was followed
by the weather. The presenter stated that things are beginning to
cool down for the bank holiday weekend and reported a potential high
of only twenty degrees tomorrow, and bank holiday Monday will be a
mere fifteen degrees. With all the excitement over the last two days,
I'd forgotten that it was half term and felt relieved that my
clothing wouldn't be dictated by a manipulative girl in Year 9 for
the whole of next week... but Mum suggested I wore my knee socks
tomorrow since it's going to be a couple of degrees cooler. I wasn't
keen and reiterated that they probably wouldn't make much difference.
“But that's what I want you to find out... knee socks do make a
difference.” Mum replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'd
try them if they were plain.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Jack's
are knitted aren't they?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah
but...”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“...and
looking at those photos on FaceBank, plenty of other boys were
wearing pelerine socks.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Not that many.” I
claimed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Friday – knee socks--><span style="font-family: arial;">It
turns out that Hannah isn't the only person with an influence on what
I wear for school. Mum managed to persuade me to wear my knee socks
on Friday and whilst my legs felt significantly warmer as I walked to
school, I was teased by my classmates for wearing girl's knee socks.
It didn't help that Jack wore trousers and I was the only boy in my
class dressed like a girl. Jack claimed that the forecast was only
nineteen degrees and seemed surprised that I was wearing a skirt
today. Yet again I had to go to the assembly hall at break where some
fifteen or twenty boys stood in line, waiting to have their skirts
measured by the stern deputy head. I counted seven other boys wearing
knee socks and all but two were patterned like mine.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Knee socks today!
Nice!!” Hannah grinned as she approached me at lunch time.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I made the same lame
excuse that I’d made during registration. “It's not that warm
today.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's warm enough.”
she smiled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Now maybe... but not
at half past eight in the morning.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Us girls seem to
manage OK... I'm sure a big boy like you can.” she retorted in a
both sarcastic and patronising tone. I replied with a sigh. “I'll
text you next Sunday with the forecast.” she told me. “Hopefully
it'll be scorching.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You don't have to
keep texting me... I've pretty much signed up to the Be Cool In
School campaign.” I told her.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“<i>Stay</i> cool in
school.” she replied, correcting me. “But all that aside... we
still have an agreement.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I know.” I gulped.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Hannah looked me up and
down and smiled approvingly as she began to turn away. “See you in
a week I guess.” she chirped</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“See ya.” I
muttered.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I made my way over to
Ben and Tom. I knew they'd been watching me talking with Hannah. “She
fancies you.” Tom claimed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Nah she doesn't.”
I said, explaining the her sister and my sister are friends. I made
damn sure that I mentioned nothing of the café, but Tom still
reckoned that Hannah has a crush on me, and could tell by the way she
was looking at me. “She was probably just thinking '<i>what the
heck?</i>' at this get up.” I replied. “I wish I'd never let my
mum talk me into wearing these socks.” I claimed as I sat myself
beside.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Just like you wish
she hadn't talked you into shaving your legs.” Ben sneered, looking
at my knees.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That was my
sister... and I didn't shave them, I trimmed them with hair
clippers.” I replied, bending the truth significantly. “You guys
got any plans for half term?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Going to Darlington
to stay with family.” Tom replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Not much.” Ben
said. “You?” he asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Apart from not
wearing this for a week... not really.” I told him.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You gonna wear that
when we come back?!” he exclaimed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Depends on the
weather.” I shrugged. “If I backed down the headmaster and deputy
head would think they’ve won... which means the last three days
would have been pointless.” I gulped.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Do you like wearing
a skirt?” Ben asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Erm... not really.
But it's not that bad. I've got shorts underneath so it's not like
I'm 'just' wearing a skirt.” I sheepishly replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You sit like a
girl.” he told me, glancing disapprovingly at my knees, which I
kept together.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It is quite short.”
I retorted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But you've got
shorts on... and you always smooth it under you when you sit.” he
said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Just so it doesn't
get creased.” I impatiently stated. “If you've got a problem just
say so... and if you had the guts to join the protest you'd probably
do the same.” I told him.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“To be fair I have
noticed that Ben... Jack was doing it yesterday, and Sam and Ollie
the day before.” Tom said. Ben wound his neck in, but I guess it
was only a matter of time before one of them asked me if I liked it.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--After school--><span style="font-family: arial;">After
school, Jack and I left the school grounds together. “Sorry I
didn't join the protest today.” he said. “It must be weird being
the only one in class.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Ah it's OK... it was
pretty weird when there were a few of us.” I replied. “At least I
wasn't the only one in school.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... how many
were in the assembly hall this morning?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“About twenty...
maybe a few more.” I told him. “You got any plans for half term?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Visiting relatives
in Winchester.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Seems like
everyone's visiting relatives... Tom's going up to Darlington.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What about Ben?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Dunno... he was
getting really shirty with me earlier.” I grumpily replied,
mentioning Ben's judgemental assumptions and criticisms.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Take no notice.”
Jack replied. “He's probably jealous.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Jealous?” I
quizzed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You've been getting
an awful lot of attention from the girls recently.” Jack stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Not just me... and
it's not the right sort of attention.” I frowned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Jennifer Eccles
fancies you.” Jack claimed. “...and who's that cute year nine
girl?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hannah doesn't fancy
me!” I blurted, before claiming the same about Jennifer.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I overheard her
saying you looked cute in knee socks.” Jack stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That doesn't mean
she fancies me.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“She thinks you look
cute though.” Jack said, adding that my legs look better than his
because I shaved them.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Jack and I soon parted
company and I made my way home alone. I was bit disgruntled when I
got home and told Mum that I was the only boy in my class who took
part in the protest. “Well I suppose it's a novelty for most.”
Mum replied. “They only lasted a day or two last time.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah but this time
it's supposed to be 'til the end of term... every time the temp hits
twenty.” I sighed. Mum asked if anyone mentioned my knee socks.
“Yeah... course they did.” I replied, recalling the snorts and
sniggers from the boys and the sarcastic compliments from the girls.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And how were they
this morning? Make much difference?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” I admitted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“See I told you.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” I conceded.
“Don't think I'll wear them at school again though.” I said,
looking down at the knitted patterns that stretch around my shins.
“Socks like this belong in Year 7, not Year 10.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes I know what you
mean... but sometimes girls like dressing a little on the young
side.” Mum replied. “Remember those ankle socks with the frilly
lace they were all wearing a couple of years ago?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They were
horrendous!”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Very cute though.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Too cute.” I
replied, looking down at my feet. “These don't seem so bad now
you've mentioned those.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“There's nothing
wrong with them.” Mum insisted. “Do you want to get changed
before you do your homework?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Nah I'll just get on
with it.” I said. “What happened to <i>school's not over 'til my
homework's done</i>?” I quizzed, that being one of Mum's rules.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well it's half term
and Karen's chosen an outfit for you.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh.” I replied,
somewhat surprised. “Is she in?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No she's at the
café... she said she'd put it on your bed.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What's it like?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I haven't seen it...
not another Goth outfit I hope.” Mum grinned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I went to my room and
found a dusty pink dungaree dress in corduroy, along with a stripy T
shirt and a pack of tights. They're not black like I’m used to but
'bamboo' like Mum would wear, and they're only seven denier. I keep
my school uniform on whilst I do my homework, and apply a little
make-up first, then tie my hair in a high bouncy ponytail. I work
through my assignments but can't help but recall Ben asking if I
liked wearing a skirt, and pointing out that I sit like a girl. Would
it have been so bad if I was honest and said yes, and went on to say
that I sometimes wear a dress, and know how to apply make-up and do
simple hairstyles? I'd only have explain why and that would mean
telling them that I accepted a job in my sister's café and agreed to
work as a waitress... which is how it all started. Then I considered
Tom's claim that Hannah fancies me... I don't believe that for a
minute! All she does is tease me and she's been nothing but
manipulative and mean... if she wasn't such a bitch she might be
quite pretty... I suppose, before putting that whole string of
thought out of my mind.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I complete my homework
and pack up my books, then picked up the dusty pink dungee-dress my
sister left for me. Dungaree dresses are one of those items of
clothing that I've never really warmed to, and given the choice I'd
have preferred a denim one. I pick up the T shirt which is off white
with thin horizontal burgundy stripes, and to my surprise, beneath it
is another lacy crop top. This time in cream with inch wide lace
shoulder straps. Like the purple crop-top my sister loaned me, this
looks a bit too much like a bra for my liking, but I wear it anyway.
The T shirt has a broad neck but still hides the lacy straps beneath
it. It has short sleeves, gathered at the shoulder seam and one of
those wobbly, girlie hems. I pull on the dungee-dress and fasten the
short zip to the side and try to see how it looks in my small make-up
mirror. I'm not so sure. I perch on my bed and carefully pull on the
thin skin coloured tights, before coyly going downstairs. “Oh that
looks nice.” Mum smiles when I present myself. “I'd forgotten
Karen had that dress.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum asked if I liked it
and I said it was OK. “...maybe a bit plain.” I added as I looked
down at myself. “The sort of thing I imagine wearing to a museum.”
I supposed. Mum grinned and agreed. “These tights are weird... it's
like I've got Barbie's legs.” I commented.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum chuckled and again,
agreed. “I've got some shoes that might look nice.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Erm... OK.” I
replied, and swiftly followed Mum up to her room. She had two pairs
in mind; one in a muted pink suede that matched my dress, and another
in burgundy velvet to bring out the stripes on my T shirt. Both are
flat ballet style shoes and both fit my feet snugly. Mum lets me
choose and I opt for the suede pair since the velvet ones look more
like slippers than shoes. “Can I suggest a different lipstick?”
she asked. “...and can we paint your nails?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Sure.” I shrugged.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The lipstick looked
very dark in comparison to the pink I wore, but Mum assured me that
it wasn't too dark, explaining that it will go nicely with the
stripes on my top. The nail varnish is also burgundy. “...and if we
were going to visit a museum, I'd suggest a burgundy handbag as
well.” she said as she painted my nails.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I always wondered
why you and Karen needed so many bags.” I said. “Now I understand
why.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Would you like to go
out somewhere dressed up?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What, you mean
like... school.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">um grinned. “I was
thinking more of a day out... to a museum maybe.” she replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Kind of... at school
I've got my excuse. When I work for Karen I've got an excuse... but
dressing as a girl to just go somewhere like a museum would make me
feel like I'd have to pretend I was a girl, which I’m not.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That was going to be
my next question.” Mum said. “About possibly pretending to be a
girl.” she clarified. “You'd need a name and... some boobs.”
she said. I gulped and grimaced. “...and a bra of course.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Couldn't I just be a
boy who wears girl's clothes?” I supposed. “I can imagine someone
asking my name and I said... say... Hannah or something, and they
turn 'round and go <i>you're not a girl!</i>”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes. That would be
awkward.” Mum replied, adding “Hannah's a nice name though.”
she said. “That's the girl who keeps texting you.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I gulped. “Err....
yeah.” I replied. “She's not my girlfriend!” I stated, before
quickly making up a cock and bull story about her being a kind of
co-ordinator for the protests. “She sends out texts with tomorrow's
forecast so we know whether it's on or not.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It sounds all very
organised.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... it is this
year.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Do you honestly
believe the headmaster will change his mind and let the boys wear
shorts?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I dunno... probably
not.” I honestly replied. “It's not just the boys though. I
reckon a lot of girls would like to be allowed to choose shorts
instead of a skirt.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well whatever
happens... I think the best thing is that it's allowed <i>you</i> to
chose a skirt instead of trousers.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah I guess.” I
smiled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I wore the outfit all
evening. Mum and I watched TV and chatted and generally had a nice
evening. Karen came home from work soon after 10pm and was delighted
that I'd worn the outfit she'd chosen. “You're giving all my old
clothes a new lease of life.” she said, before asking if my shoes
were Mum's. “You've painted you nails too.” she noticed. “That
colour's perfect.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Mum chose it.” I
bashfully confessed. “To match the stripes on my top.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes I noticed.”
Karen smiled. “Did you wear the little bra-top too?” she asked. I
blushed and nodded.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I didn't know you
were wearing a bra.” Mum said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's not really a
bra.” Karen stated. “It's from one of those little lacy crop top
sets I've got.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh I see.” Mum
replied. “Didn't they have matching pants?” Mum quizzed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes but I didn't
think Simon would want to wear my knickers.” Karen replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They'll be clean.”
Mum retorted. I bit my lip. “Sorry I'm embarrassing you love.”
Mum said to me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Just a bit.” I
said, feeling myself blushing. “I'm not a girl so I don't need
knickers.” I bashfully stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I know.” Mum
conceded.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It depends what
you're wearing though.” Karen began. She reminded me of the spotty
pedal pushers I wore a while back and whilst I looked nice, she said
I was suffering from VPL. “Boys undies tend to have quite thick
hems around the leg holes whereas girls are a lot flatter.” she
explained.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah I guess.” I
hesitantly replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Eventually I took
myself up to bed and went through the rigmarole of removing my
make-up before undressing. I put my sister's dungee-dress back on its
hanger and folded the T shirt. I carefully removed my tights and hung
them over the back of my chair. Ben's comments about me sitting like
a girl sprang into my mind and I wondered what he'd have to say if he
could see my room right now... my school skirt hangs from one
wardrobe door knob, the pale pink dungaree dress from the other. A
pair of skin coloured tights are slung next to the pelerine knee
socks I'd worn for school today. My desk is littered with lipstick,
eye-liner, foundation, mascara and eye-shadow, plus bobbles,
kirby-grips and a sparkly heart hairslide. A pile of folded laundry
sits on my chair and on the top is the tie-dye pink nightie with a
playful sketch of Tinker Bell printed on it. I wonder how I'd explain
it all, before putting my worries out of my mind and climbing into
bed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Back to school after half term--><span style="font-family: arial;">The
half term break came and went and with Jack and Tom both visiting
family that week, and Ben in my bad books, I was actually pleased to
receive a text from Hannah on the Sunday evening before school.
'Only 19ºC tomorrow', she
wrote, adding a sad face smiley. I replied with a one word; 'Phew!'</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Ooh
he's wearing trousers today!” one of the girls cooed when I arrived
at school on Monday morning. “Why the change of heart?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Today's not a
protest day.” I casually replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I trust you're not
thinking of continuing with this pathetic protest are you Simon.” a
passing teacher asked. “You and your comrades have wasted enough of
our time already.” he sneered.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“All due respect Sir
but the protest isn't for your convenience.” I retorted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“All due respect <i>Boy</i>
but you're fighting a lost cause.” the teacher countered. “Short
trousers will never be permitted.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“We'll just have to
carry on wearing skirts when the weather dictates then.” I
confidently replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well if you want to
look ridiculous that's up to you.” the teacher sighed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“We didn't think he
looked ridiculous did we?” one of the girls announced.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“We did.” Ben
sneered. I just gave him a look.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“At least he shaved
his legs.” another girl snorted as I joined the end of the line.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Can you make that a
rule Sir... all boys who do wear a skirt <span style="font-style: normal;"><u>must</u></span><i>
</i>shave their legs.” the girl next to me suggested. The teacher
rolled his ayes and went on his way. “So how come you're not
wearing your skirt today?” she asked me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“We only protest when
it's hot... when the temperature's twenty or more.” I replied.
“Surely you've seen the campaign online?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah, course.” she
replied. “I just didn't know the rules. I was trying to talk my mum
into making my brother join in.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's gotta be up to
him surely.” I claimed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“He doesn't want to
but I think he should.” she replied. “Fight for your rights and
all that... plus... boys act different when they're dress like
girls.” she added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“How?” I quizzed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I dunno... less
boisterous I guess.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The bell rang and we
filtered into the form room. The teacher also commented on my
trousers, before adding that it's supposed to warm up again by the
end of the week. “So make sure you shave your legs again!” one of
the girls blurted, causing a wave of sniggers and giggles to erupt.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The form teacher
jovially calmed the class before calling the register. <span style="font-weight: normal;">All
day long, I was frequently reminded that I wasn't wearing a skirt and
each and every time, I simply said “It's not warm enough.” If I
had a pound for every time someone suggested that I could have worn
tights, I'd have earned at least a tenner that day.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Hanna approached me and
asked if I'd had a 'pleasant' half term break, before saying she
missed our nightly text exchanges. “It was a welcome break for me.”
I dryly replied, pretending I'd enjoyed the whole week in boy's
clothing whilst recalling the skirts and frocks I had worn. “I hope
this weather holds out.” I said. “Warm but not too warm.” I
smugly added</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hmm.” Hannah
sighed. “According to the forecast it's gonna be highs of eighteen
or nineteen all week.” she frowned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Good.” I grinned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But the moment the
forecast says twenty... you're back in your skirt.” she stated.
“Unless of course you want everyone to know you're a waitress.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'm not.” I
stated. “That was just over Easter.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Plus the occasional
evening when someone's sick.” she knowingly replied. I skewed my
jaw. “I'll text you later.” Hannah said before turning and
leaving.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Over the course of the
next two weeks, Hannah texted me every night before school with a
screen grab of her weather app. 19º,
18º,
19º,
17º,
then 13º,
13º,
14º,
14º,
18º. Every sub-twenty
forecast was accompanied with a sad face smiley and comments such as
'so close but so far', 'this is turning out to be a shit summer', and
'I bet your legs are well hairy again'. “If she only knew.” I
thought, having just shaved my legs when that message came through.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My
sister asked if I was looking forward to working in her café again.
“Yeah I guess... not for another month though is it?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No
it's next week.” Karen informed me. “The uni's broken up and the
students are heading home.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
thought that was July.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No,
June.” she told me. “I've already done your rotas. Tuesday,
Wednesday, Thursday... same as last time.” she said. “If that's
OK with you.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah...
sure... it's just sooner than I expected.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">On Sunday evening I got
the text off Hannah with another 19º
forecast, along with the message “This is getting infuriating now!”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Sorry
'bout that.” I smugly texted back.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">On
Monday evening, the forecast for Tuesday was only 18º and Hannah's
accompanying message to the screenshot of the weather app was a
simple 'grrrr'. I replied with a grinning smiley.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Back to work and back in the school skirt.--><span style="font-family: arial;">On
Tuesday evening I was busy working the tables at my sister's café
again, wearing the same black plimsolls, thin tights, little skirt &
apron and scoop neck vest that all her waitresses wear. It was nerve
racking to begin with but I soon got over my stage fright and the
café soon got so busy I didn't have time to worry about anything but
taking the orders and delivering the meals. The punters didn't seem
bothered and some of the regulars remembered me from Easter. “Oh we
wondered what happened to you.” one lady smiled as he took their
order.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
just provide cover when the students are away.” I replied. “Plus
the occasional day that someone's off sick... it's my sister's café
so I'm a handy replacement.” I told them. Nothing changes much. The
first half hour is quiet, then it's packed out, then quiet again and
before I knew it, we were clearing up and stacking the chairs. Karen
divvied up the tips and gave us each an equal share, and as usual,
Karen and myself are the last to leave. “I thought it might be dark
by this time.” I said as I stepped outside.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's
the middle of summer.” Karen replied. “You feeling shy?” she
asked, looking down at my legs.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah
a little bit.” I bashfully replied. “I should have put my jeans
back on.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She
smiled at me as she pulled down the shutter and set the alarm. I felt
very exposed as the warm evening breeze whipped around my legs and
made my pleats flutter. I slung my handbag over my shoulder and
glanced at my reflection in the shuttered window; my hair is tied in
a high pony tail, my make-up is subtle yet obviously there. A casual
hoodie covers my top half and half of my pleated skirt. My nylon clad
legs look long and slender and it's only when Karen says “You look
fine!” do I realise that I'm glaring at myself.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
certainly look better in this than I do in a school skirt and knee
socks.” I told her.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You
rocked those knee socks!” she said, grinning, before asking if and
when I was going to wear it again.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Whenever
the temperatures twenty degrees or more.” I replied. “That's the
rule.” I said. “Which reminds me...” I added, opening my
handbag and removing my phone. There's four texts all from Hannah;
the first is a short 'Getting warmer... 19º tomorrow. Grrr!'. The
second reads 'Did you get that?'. The third and fourth say 'Are you
there?' and 'Why aren't you talking to me?'. I reply with 'Calm down
H! ...been at work all evening.'</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Who's
that you're texting?” my sister asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Just
a girl from school.” I replied. “She sends out the weather
forecast so we know whether to wear a skirt or not.” I lied,
implying that Hannah contacts everyone and not just me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So
it's girl who's behind the protests?” Karen quizzed. “Maybe she
just wants to see the boys all wearing skirts.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
think there is a bit of that.” I honestly replied as I put my phone
back in my handbag.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So
what's the forecast?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Eighteen
degrees.” I replied. “Thankfully.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What
do you mean... thankfully? You love it.” Karen teased.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Not
when half the class is going <i>oooh Simon’s wearing a skirt... is
he a girl?!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” I replied. “No...
I’m just a guy wearing a skirt.” I added, as if replying to the
kids in class. “At least in the café everyone treats me like one
of the waitresses.”</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You
are one of the waitresses.” my sister replied as she unlocked her
car.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
climbed into the passenger seat, smoothed my pleats and laid my
handbag on my lap. My phone 'knocked', alerting me to an incoming
text. I sighed as I opened my handbag and removed it. Predictably,
it's from Hannah and reads 'Waitressing? ;)'. I didn't reply, but I
did reapply my lipstick.<br /><br />“I like that shade.” Karen said.
“It suits you.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Thanks.”
I bashfully replied. “I dunno why I’m reapplying now though...
I'll be taking it all off in half an hour.” I added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“A
girl's gotta look her best.” Karen grinned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“This
would be so much easier if I was a girl.” I grumbled as I dropped
the lipstick back in my handbag. Karen said that I make it look easy,
which felt like a compliment. “Thanks.” I coyly said as she
started the engine.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Wed 19th June--><span style="font-family: arial;">The
next day at school, Hannah approached me in the corridor looking very
smug. “Hey Simon, guess what?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What?”
I dryly retorted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Set
to be twenty tomorrow!” she grinned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh
great.” I groaned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Make
sure you shave your legs.” she said. “Oh but... you probably
already have done.” she winked. “You working again tonight?”
she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Why?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Because
yesterday I thought you were ignoring me.” she replied, before
apologising for the string of 'shirty' texts she'd sent me. “You're
still game aren't you?” she asked. “I know it's been a few
weeks.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah
I'm still game.” I half-heartedly replied. “I only hope it's not
just me.” I added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">After
school, I got straight on social media. I logged into the Student
Room and found the thread about the shorts ban. No one had commented
on it for weeks, but now I've been a member for a while, I posted the
poster and typed 'temperatures set to soar in the UK tomorrow... join
the protest!'. I added a load of hashtags, then logged out and logged
into my secret Twitter account, then tweeted my post from the Student
Room, then logged into FaceBank and waited... and waited. I changed
out of my school uniform and had a quick wash, checked FaceBank, then
got a clean pair of tights and a vest, checked FaceBank again, got
myself dressed for work, checked FaceBank again, put my make-up on,
got out my homework, checked Facebank, tied my hair up, got on with
my homework and intermittently kept checking FaceBank to see if my
post from the Student Room had worked its way around Twitter and
ended up on the local social media group where parents, pupils and
teachers would see it. “Oh... you're changed already.” Mum said
as she popped her head around my door. “You usually wear jeans
until you get there.” she noted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah
but I don't know why.” I glumly replied. “My hair's tied up and
I'm wearing make-up and a pair of jeans won't magically detract from
how girlie I look.” I said. “...and all the neighbours will have
seen me walking to and from school on protest days.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Very
true.” Mum smiled. “Is that a new lipstick?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Not
new but I've got a few.” I replied, glancing at them. Nine
lipsticks in their distinct cylinders, neatly lined up beneath my
make-up mirror. “I just try a different one each night.” I
casually added. Mum asked which it was and bashfully I confessed
“Dusty blossom.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It
suits you.” she smiled. She always says that, I thought. “It's
just popped up on FaceBank that your protest is on again tomorrow.”
she told me. “So I'll iron your skirt shall I?” she said, opening
my wardrobe. <br /><br />“Oh erm... yeah I guess.” I replied,
activating my phone, tapping the FaceBank icon and immediately seeing
the post...</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6s8goBhSyrd-JedFMFTVXVvBTjunzwG9p6ippq9N1hiCfPScQb4xIzUNPRs8nuiLXVVirRaOeEqyK6SDyHmaQmKLOjet5iQcqyClls8GY4HXK3XDz_ayELkVMD6N01JcCX6IlHC6k/s856/simon%2527s+phone.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="856" data-original-width="818" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6s8goBhSyrd-JedFMFTVXVvBTjunzwG9p6ippq9N1hiCfPScQb4xIzUNPRs8nuiLXVVirRaOeEqyK6SDyHmaQmKLOjet5iQcqyClls8GY4HXK3XDz_ayELkVMD6N01JcCX6IlHC6k/s320/simon%2527s+phone.jpg" /></span></a></div><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What
are the comments like?” I asked.<br />
</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Some
positive, some negative, but mostly just idiots ranting about PC gone
mad.” Mum replied. “Have you got clean knee socks?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
prefer ankle socks.” I said as she pulled open my sock drawer.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
like you in knee socks.” she said, removing a pair.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“If
anything I’d rather wear tights.” I added. “But they kind of
defeat the object.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That
depends what the object is.” Mum replied. “If you're
demonstrating that it's too hot for long trousers, then yes, I
suppose they do.” she said. “If you're embarrassing them into
submission, it doesn't matter if you wear socks or tights.” she
explained. “You could keep this going all through the winter if you
wanted to.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
don't fancy wearing a skirt in the winter Mum.” I gasped. “It'd
be freezing.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well
the girls seem to cope.” she added, before asking if I had much
homework.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Nah
it's nearly done now.” I replied, just as my phone 'knocked',
alerting me of an incoming text. It's from Hannah and is accompanied
with the screen-shot of her weather app showing tomorrow's predicted
high is twenty degrees. The message reads 'Finally!!! can't wait to
see your legs again :) x'. I finished my homework before replying
with 'lucky me' and added a suitable emoticon.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
went downstairs where Mum was ironing my school skirt and my sister
complained that she always had to iron her own. “Yes but you
weren't working as a waitress when you were at school.” Mum
reminded her. <br /><br />I reflected on that as Karen drove me to the
cafe. “<i>He</i> should be ironing <i>his</i> own school skirt …
But <i>he</i> works as a wait<i>ress</i>.” I paraphrased, mimicking
their exchange. “It sounded so normal but it's anything but
normal... a teenage boy wearing a skirt for school by day <i>and</i>
working as a waitress at night.” I noted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well
it's normal for us.” Karen replied. “I can't help but think <i>my
brother would look great in that </i>when I’m shopping for
clothes.” she told me. “And if it's OK with you... I <i>might</i>
by you something nice when your birthday comes around.” She
emphasised the 'might'.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You
mean a dress or something?” I hesitantly asked. She nodded. I
gulped but I don't know why. I've become so accustomed to Karen
choosing outfits for me to wear around the house and garden that I
feel just as comfortable in her clothes as I do my own. I suppose
it's the prospect of actually having my own dress that worries me..
but my school skirt is my own, even bought with my own money.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You've
gone quiet all of a sudden.” Karen said. “Would you rather I
didn't buy you a dress for your birthday?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Ooh
I don't know... it's months away anyway.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well
have a think.” she said. “I'd rather buy you something you liked,
so if you see anything...”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She
parked the car at the back of the café and we walked around to the
front. I felt brave yet fearful wearing my skirt so early in the
evening. What if someone from school sees me? I knew that was
unlikely because a different high school serves this side of town...
but someone could happen to be passing. With their shutters still
open, I checked my reflection in each shop window we passed. I like
my outfit, although it does look a bit top heavy, being a baggy black
hoody from which the pleats of my my skirt emerge, and those long
slender legs of mine. “You like your legs don't you.” Karen
noticed. I played ignorant. “You're always looking at them.” she
told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
guess I am.” I bashfully admitted as she unlocked the shuttered
door, giving me another perfect reflection of myself. “The girls at
school keep gushing over them.” I told her. “When I’m wearing a
skirt.” I added, gulping.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“How
does that feel?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'd
rather they didn't.” I replied. “Some of them have really great
legs but I don't tell them that.” I told her. “I'd only get
accused of leching.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They're
probably only doing it because plenty of boys do lech.” she
suggested as the alarm beeped impatiently. Silencing it, she added
“You just have to ignore it... but if it goes too far, report it.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh
yeah I can imagine that... <i>Sir! Jennifer Eccles keeps staring at
my legs!!</i> … <i>Well don't wear such a short skirt, Simon!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">”
I said, mimicking myself and a random teacher.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Once
inside I hung up my handbag and hoodie, checked my reflection as I
donned my little white apron, and reapplied my lipstick. The rest of
her staff soon arrived and we busied ourselves for the imminent
opening. In many ways, working in a café is like groundhog day; the
first half hour is easy going, then gets stupidly busy for an hour or
so, then quietens off and we close. We wipe the tables, stack the
chairs and sweep the floors, chatting about this and that; pop music,
films, soap operas, boyfriends. “Have you got a girlfriend Simon?”
they asked, adding 'or boyfriend'. <br /><br />“No.” I bashfully
replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“There's
a girl from school who keeps texting him.” Karen told them.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hannah's
not my girlfriend!” I exclaimed, which was met with a series of
coos from Olivia and Trish. “she's really not.” I insisted.
“She's a girl at school who sends out a text every evening, letting
us know if the protest is on tomorrow.” I explained.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Protest?”
Olivia quizzed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“About
boys not being allowed shorts.” Trish stated. “It's all over
social media.” she said, listing Twitter, FaceBank, Instagram,
Watsapp. “...surely you've seen it?” she asked. Trish got her
phone, logged into Twitter and showed the tweet to Olivia.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I've
seen that!” Olivia exclaimed. “That's sooo last month!” she
stated.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It
was doing the rounds again last night.” Trish replied. She looked
at me and knowingly asked if I was involved.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
err.... wear a skirt but don't have anything to do with the
campaign.” I said. “I think it's a national thing.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Derr...
yeah... I didn't think you were the mastermind behind it.” Trish
said to me, belittling me somewhat. “Only a woman could be so
devious.” she added to no but herself, seemingly.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“How
so?” Olivia asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Because
no male would concoct a campaign that essentially gets schoolboys all
over the country going to school dressed like girls.” Karen
replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">How
wrong she was, I thought. I wondered if they'd be impressed if I told
them that it was I, a male who created the poster that's all over
social media. But I can't take any credit for the concept. Boy have
been protesting in skirts for a few years now, and Hannah came up
with the 'twenty degrees or more' threshold. In fact if it wasn't for
Hannah, I'd have never made that poster and if it wasn't for Karen,
Hannah would have never blackmailed me. “Do you think you'll ever
be allowed to wear short trousers?” Olivia asked. “Or is it just
because you like wearing girl's clothes?” she added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Erm... I don't know.
The headmaster says he won't budge but if say... half the boys in
school turned up wearing skirts, day in, day out... he'd have to
reconsider. If only to keep the press away from the school gates.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I read about one
school a couple of years ago where the boys did a similar thing.”
Trish said. “They eventually won the right to wear shorts.” she
announced, before dropping the bomb. “...but lost the right to wear
long trousers and have to wear shorts all year round!”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Even in winter?!”
I quizzed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yep.” Trish said.
“...and they're short shorts which means the boys have no choice
but to wear tights in the middle winter.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Don't tell me!”
Karen said. “It was a headmistress at that school?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah I think it
was.” Trish recalled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“See!” Karen
exclaimed. “It's women... they love dressing boys like girls.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You're including
yourself in that, I presume.” Olivia said, somewhat cuttingly.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Err.... yeah I guess
I am.” she admitted, looking me up and down and smiling. “And
whilst reluctant at first... they soon come round, don't they Simon?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah I guess.” I
glumly admitted, quickly recalling my journey. If I'd known that
agreeing to cover some shifts in Karen's café would lead to me
having to dress like a girl at school, I'd never have agreed to it, I
mused. But then I’d have never got to try all sorts of different
outfits and looks. I'd have never learned to do my hair and
make-up... or experienced high heeled shoes. Of course I didn't share
any of that with the others. I apathetically told them that working
in the café <i>and</i> taking part in the protest at school means
I'll spend the whole day wearing a skirt tomorrow.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well you wear it
well.” Olivia replied. “What's you school skirt like?” I
described the knife pleated plaid skirt and placed my fingers midway
down my thigh to demonstrate its length. “With white knee socks I
hope.” she teased.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'd prefer just
liners but Mum prefers knee socks.” I glumly replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You're kidding!
White ones?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Pelerine.” Karen
added. Olivia and Trish were a little blown away by the fact that
I've worn a skirt and white pelerine knee socks to school on several
occasions. “Mum was the same when I was at school.” Karen said.
“She kept making me wear white pelerine knee socks right up to to
year eleven.” my sister confessed. “Not everyday, but often
enough.” she added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Didn't you like
them?” I asked. <br /><br />“Not at the time because I was a teenage
girl and wanted to be fashionable... and white pelerine knee socks
when you're fifteen aren't.” she told me. “But looking back I can
see where Mum was coming from.” she said. “They are quite cute.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That's what worries
me.” I replied. “Girls clothes are OK but I don't do cute.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“He says, wearing a
little frilly apron.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And pink lipstick.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was no match for
their quick comebacks so didn't bother trying to explain myself.
Olivia asked what shade my lipstick was. I chuckled and said Dusty
Blossom, before wondering aloud what names they'd give lipstick
shades if they were aimed at teenage boys “Martian Dust” I
suggested. They giggled and Trish said 'Vader's Sabre' for a bright
red, which made us all belly laugh. “It'd probably be really boring
with like... Arsenal Red, Man U Red, Liverpool Red.” I mused.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Do you follow
football?” Trish asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I don't. She does. And
it was a really short conversation.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My sister divided the
tips and gave us all an equal share. I stacked the last of the chairs
whilst Trish straightened the place mats and Olivia rattled through
the cutlery. I'd tied my hair in a ponytail on the back of my head
which kept coming loose, and discovering the my bobble has broke, I
let my hair down completely. I thought nothing of it until Trish and
Olivia claimed they'd never seen me with my hair down. “I only tie
it up when I'm here.” I told them, although that wasn't strictly
true... I always do something with my hair when Karen chooses a nice
outfit for me to wear at home.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You should wear an
Alice band or something if you're wearing a skirt for school
tomorrow.” Olivia suggested.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Bunches.” my
sister said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No!” I jovially
protested. “I'll get enough flack as it is from the other kids for
shaving my legs.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I bet the girls love
you for that.” Olivia cooed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They like that I
make an effort but that's about it.” I shrugged.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It wasn't long before
the cook, Trish and Olivia were getting their things together and
leaving. I loitered whilst Karen sorted some paperwork and killed a
few seconds reapplying my lipstick, which was just the moment she
emerged. I did that 'rabbit in the headlights' and froze for a
second. Karen grinned. “I think I've created a monster.” she
said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well I'm certainly
not taking any responsibility.” I said as I recapped my lipstick
and dropped it in my handbag. I raised my eyes to the big mirror
behind the counter. “I'm not sure this shade suits me.” I said.
<br /><br />“It's OK.” Karen replied. “You've got nicer ones.”
she added. “You ready?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” I said,
slinging my handbag over my shoulder.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You feeling a bit
braver tonight?” she asked as she secured the shutter. <br /><br />“A
bit.” I said, glancing up and down the broad pavement, then down at
my legs. “It's always a little bit nerve racking when I first step
outside.” I confessed. “I'm worried that it's only a matter of
time before I step outside and bump straight into someone from
school... or a teacher comes in to eat.” I grimaced.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I've ironed your
school skirt and out some socks out.” Mum told me when we returned
home.<br /><br />“Thanks Mum.” I apathetically replied. She asked how
my shift had been and I said it was fine. She asked Karen if was
working hard and she said I was, before asking if it was busy... all
the stock questions we get upon our return.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Despite informing me
earlier today, Hannah texted me the screen shot of her weather app
with the message 'hope it's a good turn out' and a grinning smiley.
“Better had be!” I replied. I checked FaceBank and Twitter before
getting into bed; shares and retweets were in the hundreds, which was
excellent... but having not worn a skirt at school for some four
weeks, the prospect is just as nerve racking as it was the very first
time.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Thur 20th June--><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum
smiled approvingly when I emerged the next morning. “I do like you
in those knee socks.” she said. “But you'd look even nicer if you
put a band in your hair.” she added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'm not trying to
look nice Mum.” I glumly replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I know you're not
Love.” she smiled. “But I like you looking nice.” she said.
“Here.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She handed me a white
plastic headband and told me to put it on. “Oh Mu-um.” I moaned
as I slipped it over my head and pushed it into position.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That looks so much
better.” she said. “Go and have a look.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I strode to the hallway
mirror and... blimey that does look so much better! Who'd have
thought that an inch wide plastic band would make so much difference?
“I look like a girl Mum.” I mournfully exclaimed as I returned.
“Everyone'll take the mick out of me if I wear this.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I think the teachers
will be even more outraged if the boys protesting actually dressed
like girls rather than just wore a skirt.” Mum replied. “I think
you need to up the ante if you're going to win this battle.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I think you just
like seeing me dressed as a girl.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And I also know that
you like dressing as a girl.” Mum replied. “This protest is the
perfect cover for you being who you want to be and all being well,
the teachers won't budge and you can do it all again next year.”
she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'll be too busy
with my exams next year.” I said. “Do I have to wear this?” I
asked, turning my eyes upwards.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You'll probably take
it off the moment you're round the corner.” Mum replied. And that's
exactly what I did.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was a huge relief to
see other boys wearing skirts as I approached the gates. The girls
were being boisterous, cooing and complimenting our legs. A teacher
accompanied by a PCSO is talking to a photographer, telling him that
he cannot take photographs of children. The children however have all
got their phones out and gleefully film and photograph the scene
seemingly unchallenged. “Shaved your legs again I see Simon.” one
of the girls from my class commented.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Gotta try my best.”
I shrugged. Hannah caught my eye, turned her phone towards me for a
moment, before lowering it as I approached. “Satisfied?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I think this might
be a better turn out than the first time.” she grinned. “You
don't mind do you?” she asked, gesturing with her phone.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You've got a worse
video of me.” I quietly grumbled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I deleted that weeks
ago.” she said. <br /><br />“Really?” I asked, not actually
believing her. “Why?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Because I promised
you no one would see it and the only way I could guarantee that was
by deleting it.” she told me. “The only copy left is the one I
sent you.” she told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Really!” I said,
believing her. “Wow... thanks.” I said, glancing coyly at my
skirt, legs and knee socks. “Guess you got what you wanted.” I
said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And more!” she
gloated. “Whoever's behind that Twitter campaign is a mastermind.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Do you reckon it's
like this at other schools?” I wondered. <br /><br />“Must be... it's
all over social media.” she told me. “And guess what?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“The long term
forecast predicts a heatwave 'til the end of term... the<i> lows</i>
are gonna be in the twenties!” Hannah excitedly informed me. “This
could go on for weeks.” she sniggered.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Great.” I
apathetically replied as the school bell rang.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The six of us in skirts
entered the form room to a cheer, only for the teacher to quieten the
class before sending us directly to the assembly hall. “Blimey!”
I gasped, seeing around fifty boys all wearing skirts and a
significant few wearing knee socks too. They stood in line waiting
for the deputy head to measure their skirts but at a glance, they all
look within regulation. I notice a few boys being given a letter,
presumably about breaching the uniform regulations but their skirts
look the right length, their socks are white and shoes are black so
what rule they've broken I’ve no idea. Eventually I got to the
front of the queue and huffed impatiently as the deputy head
stretched a tape measure from the hem of my skirt down to my knee.
“Have you got something to hold your hair off your face?” the
deputy head asked. “It states quite clearly that where a fringe is
longer tha...”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I dipped my hand into
my bag and removed the plastic Alice band. “You mean like this
Miss?” I smugly interrupted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes... exactly like
that... <i>miss</i>.” she snarled. “Long hair must be held off
the face during class.” she stated, presumably quoting the school
rules verbatim.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes Miss.” I
replied. She jolted her head, signalling me to go. “Thanks Miss.”
I cheerfully said, slipping the band onto my head and waiting for
Jack and the others to have their skirts measured. They all have
short hair so weren't asked of they had a band or a bobble, but they
asked me why I had a headband. “I had a feeling they'd be even more
finicky over the rules this time so I read them.” I claimed,
wondering if Mum knew or if it was just chance that I had a headband
in my bag.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Of course my Alice band
got a lot of attention but since it's one of the rules, I have the
perfect excuse to wear it. There are another long haired boys in my
classes, but only those involved in the protests have been asked to
produce and band or bobble, and the girls aren't being asked either.
“Miss?” I asked the geography teacher, Miss McGuire. “How come
it's only those of us protesting have to wear a hair band?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I think it's an
attempt to ridicule you into submission.” she replied. “Well done
for thinking ahead.” she said. “But as you know I’m not allowed
to condone your actions, but I’m not going to condemn them
either.”<br /><br />“Thanks Miss.” I bashfully replied. “You
won't get into trouble if I take it off will you?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No Simon.” she
smiled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I removed the Alice
band and only wore it when one of the more disapproving teachers
cited the rule about long fringes, at which point I'd proudly produce
my Alice band and shut them up in an instant. I had my skirt flicked
up a few times but had shorts on beneath it, which disappointed the
flickers because they wanted to find us wearing knickers. As if that
was ever going to happen! There were rumours though... such and such
from Year 8 was and a few in Year 7. Jack and I walked part way home
together and yet again he was moaning about his Mother making such a
fuss about him taking part in the protest. “It's got nothing to do
with the shorts ban for her...” he whined. “...she just wants to
see me dressed like a girl.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Mine's similar.” I
confessed. “She knows it's all for a cause and she supports me, but
when I get home it's like <i>oooh, don't get changed, I like seeing
you... straighten your socks</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.”
I mimicked as Jack took advantage of a secluded park bench. “What
are you doing?” I asked as he sat.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Takin'
my shorts off.” he said. “Mum made me wear knickers and I just
know she's going to check when I get home.” he told me as my jaw
dropped open. I turned my back and kept lookout as he rummaged under
his skirt. “You won't tell anyone will you?” he asked. I shook my
head. “Thanks.” he frowned. “Mum's seeing this protest as a
chance to pretend she has a daughter.” he told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That
might be happening quite a lot.” I said. “I reckon all of us in
knee socks were pestered into it by our doting mothers... or
sisters.” I added. Jack agreed. “And apparently there's supposed
to be heatwave so it's gonna be above twenty more often than not
between now and the end of term.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">Do
you reckon the headmaster will ever budge?” Jack asked. <br /><br />“I
dunno. I hope so... otherwise we'll have to do it all over again next
summer.” I replied. “But apparently a school up north won the
right for boys to wear shorts but lost the right to wear long pants.”
I told him. Predictably, Jack asked what they did in the winter.
“They wear tights I guess.”</span><br /><br />“Blimey!” Jack
gasped. “Well... I'll see you tomorrow I guess.” he said as we
approached the end of his road.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah see you
tomorrow.” I said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Part of me felt a
little guilty for not confessing to my secret evening job as a
waitress. I almost did after he confessed to being sent to school
wearing knickers. I can't believe that his mother would do such a
thing, but I guess my sister was right when she said that women love
seeing boys dressed as girls. “How did it go?!” Mum chirped when
I returned home. “It's been all over the news again.” she told
me. “And all over FaceBank too.” she added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Did you know they
were going to enforce the rule about long fringes?” I asked, before
explaining what happened in the assembly hall this morning. She said
it was a good job I had my headband and asked if I wore it, before
presuming I removed it the moment I was around the corner. “Course
I did.” I admitted. “But then when the deputy head started
spouting the school rules, I just put it on and shut her right up.”
I proudly stated. “Miss McGuire reckons they're trying to shame us
into submission.” I said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh I'm sure they
are.” Mum concurred, before urging me to stick to my guns.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The national news that
evening reported that schools 'up and down the country' saw
'hundreds' of boys turning up wearing skirts today after a social
media campaign urged them to protest against the shorts ban. It was
also the main topic of discussion when we had time to chatter at the
café too. I described how the head teachers are issuing warning
letters for the slightest breach of the uniform guidelines such as
skirts being an inch too long, socks not being white and today's
exorcise in pettiness; not having a headband or bobble if we have a
long fringe. “...but it's only those of us protesting that are
being targeted. Not one of the metal heads were told to tie their
hair back.” I explained. “...or girls!” I added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well you stick to
your guns Simon.” Trish said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That's what Mum
said.” I replied. “At this rate the only days I’ll be dressed
as a boy are Saturdays and Sundays.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh yeah... there's a
heatwave forecast isn't there!” Olivia exclaimed. “You may as
well pack away your school pants 'til September.” she grinned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hopefully the long
term forecast isn't that accurate.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But it is
midsummer... high twenties is normal from here on.” Trish reminded
me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... I hadn't
really considered that when I got myself involved. I thought it'd
just be a few days at most.” I glumly confessed as we stacked the
chairs and swept the floor.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“...and now you've
committed yourself.” Olivia stated. I glumly nodded. “Well at
least you've got decent legs and longish hair... I bet most of the
boys look ridiculous.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Some of 'em do.” I
said. “But after the first wave before half term... it seemed
almost normal today... about as normal as seeing a girl wearing long
trousers anyway.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That'd be an
interesting outcome.” Trish mused. “The normalisation of skirts
for men.. it'll be dresses next.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Have you ever worn a
dress Simon?” Olivia asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Erm...” I replied,
glancing nervously at my sister. “Yeah.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“He looked great.”
Karen told them. “I did his hair and make-up and he wore high
heels.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You should wear a
prom dress!” Olivia suggested.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“My prom's not 'til
next year.” I dryly replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I haven't tried you
in my prom dress yet have I?” my sister said. <br /><br />“You say it
like he's tried loads of your dresses.” Trish observed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Only a few.” Karen
claimed, somewhat falsely. “...and always begrudgingly.” she
added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“...and I don't even
get paid.” I added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You only get paid
when you're wearing an apron.” Karen told me, winking and grinning.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So... are you
wearing a skirt for school tomorrow?” Trish asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Prob'ly.” I
replied. I checked my phone as Karen drove us home. She asked if I
was texting my girlfriend to which I bluntly replied. “No!”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Is it the girl who
tells the boys what to wear tomorrow?” she knowingly asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” I glumly
replied. “I seem to be surrounded by women who insist I have to
dress like a girl.” I sighed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's a good job you
like it.” she teased.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah I suppose.” I
replied, considering my classmate Jack and explaining his
predicament. “He reckons his mum's treating him like the daughter
she doesn't have.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Whereas I treat you
like the sister I don't have.” Karen confessed, grinning.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I don't mind being
your sister... so long as it's not <i>too</i> often.”<br /><br />“I
know you don't.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--Friday 21st June--><span style="font-family: arial;">The
next day was the same rigmarole at school... all of us boys in skirts
were sent to the assembly hall for inspection and most of us passed
muster, much to the annoyance of the deputy head. “How long are you
boys planning on keeping this up for?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“For as long as it
takes Miss.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You do realise that
some schools have banned skirts, and one I know of banned long
trousers as a result of action like this.” she told us.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Some schools let the
kids wear their PE kit when it's hot Miss.” one boy claimed</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Sports wear is for
sports.” she bluntly replied. “You'll get no such concessions
here.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She expressed her hope
that she'll see fewer of us tomorrow before sending us to class. My
history teacher told me to remove 'that stupid band from my hair'.
Which I did, whilst informing him that the deputy head told me that I
have to wear it due to the length of my fringe. He sighed and shook
his head as I put the plastic Alice band back on. I felt empowered as
my classmates giggled and sniggered. “I think you're enjoying
playing the schoolgirl a little too much young man.” the teacher
said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Just obeying the
rules Sir.” I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Love the Alice
band.” Hannah said as she approached me at lunchtime.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Regulations
apparently.” I shrugged.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It suits you.” she
told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Thanks.” I dryly
replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I am a little
surprised that you're still wearing a skirt.” she said. “Don't
you believe that I deleted the video?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'm kinda committed
to the cause now.” I told her, before asking if she really has
deleted the video.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I wouldn't lie to
you Simon.” she told me. “...but I guess I did blackmail you
so...” she added, somewhat bashfully.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Ah don't threat
about it.” I said. “Once the protest got going I'd pretty much
forgotten about that.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You doing anything
tomorrow?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Erm... no. Why?” I
asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I thought we might
meet up... go for a burger or something?” she suggested.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Like a date?” I
queried, somewhat sneeringly.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” she
replied, smiling coyly.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Erm... OK.” I
said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Cool.” she smiled.
“I'll text you later.” she told me, before turning on her heel
and leaving</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I immediately began
having regrets. Not so long ago Hannah was the bane of my life;
threatening to expose me as a waitress unless I went to school
dressed like a girl. Clearly she's quite devious in her nature, but
had she not blackmailed me I'd have never created my poster and got
so many other boys to wear skirts... not just in my school, but at
plenty of others too. I suppose I have a devious streak too, I mused
as I pushed the door open to the yard. There's small groups of boys
wearing skirts dotted here and there. We're a definite minority but a
significant one and I can't help but feel proud of myself.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I joined Tom and Jack
and Ben who were loitering around a bench and enthusiastically
discussing last night's footy match. I hadn't watched it so had
little to contribute, not that football is my thing anyway. They
asked what I was doing whilst 'half the country' was watching
Everton's 3-0 defeat. I lied and said I was watching episodes of
South Park back to back. Why I don't just tell them I don't really
know. ...in fact, scrub that... I know exactly why I don't want to
tell them that I've got a job as a waitress. I guess it's only a
matter of time before someone finds out and eagerly spreads the word,
but I suppose I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.
“You doing owt tomorrow?” Jack asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Nah.” I replied.
“Oh... err... yes.” I said, recalling my 'date'. I'd only get
teased if they knew I was meeting up with a girl from Year 9, so I
lied again and said we were visiting my grandmother. “Why?” I
asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I told my Mum I was
going fishing but now I can't find anyone to go fishing with.” he
replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Why did you tell
your Mum you were going fishing?” I quizzed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'll tell you
later.” he said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">On the way home, Jack
told me why he'd lied to his mother about a fishing trip on Saturday.
“Mum said she wanted to take me shopping, to Shrewsbury of all
places and I just know she's going to buy me a dress.” he told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Did she say that?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No but she keeps
dropping hints and... why Shrewsbury?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Do you know any one
in Shrewsbury?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No... and that's the
point.” Jack replied. “Can't you not go to your gran's tomorrow
and come fishing instead?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Just go fishing on
your own... tell her you're meeting a group of guys from school. You
can always say they didn't turn up. That's not much of a lie.” I
shrugged.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah I suppose. I
hate lying to my mum though. She always knows.” Jack frowned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Maybe you've got the
wrong and of the stick. Maybe there's another reason to go to
Shrewsbury?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Such as?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I don't know... You
like history so maybe she's taking you to see the castle... or maybe
there's a heritage railway or something there?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Maybe.” Jack
apathetically mused. “But whenever we're watching TV she's like <i>ooh
isn't that a nice outfit</i> or <i>I doo like those old fashioned tea
dresses</i>.” he said. “And when she's flicking through magazines
she'll show me a page and say <i>these look nice</i> and it's always
an advert for Teen Scene or Poppie or some other girl's shop.” he
frowned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“My mum does stuff
like that too.” I told him. Part of me wanted to come clean about
the café. Part of me wanted to tell him about Hannah. “I guess
this is my fault... I encouraged you to join in the protest in the
first place.” I said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Nah... Mum got wind
of it from FaceBank.” Jack replied. “Stay Cool in School.” he
sighed, quoting the slogan from my poster. “I should've flat
refused from the outset.” he grumbled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.” I
concurred. I felt pretty bad but what could I do? There's no way I'm
going to tell him that I got the ball rolling on FaceBank too!</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Eventually we went our
separate ways. Mum asked how my day was. “Yeah... Good... Thanks.”
I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She asked if I'd worn
my Alice band all day long. “...or did you put it on round the
corner for my benefit?” she presumed. I'd gotten so used it being
there that I'd forgotten about it. I found my reflection and said it
made me look like Alice in Wonderland. “Well that is why they call
it an <i>Alice</i> band.” Mum told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh yeah.” I
realised as I removed it.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Surely you knew
that?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'd never thought
about it before.” I said as I refitted the band. “I am just a
boy.” I added as I slid it into position. “Kind of.” I smiled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Was it a good turn
out today?” Mum asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“About fifty.” I
replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That's loads.” Mum
said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah... but it
averages to ten in each year group, and only two or three in each
class... so we're still a minority.” I said. “I'm not sure if
that's enough to make the head teachers back down.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Thank nationally
though... fifty boys in a hundred high schools is thousands.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Five thousand.” I
stated. “Yeah I guess it is a lot.” I mused.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Ooh!” Mum said. “I
got you something.” she said, handing me a small paper bag.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“What is it?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Open it.” Mum
said, adding that it's nothing much.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I slipped my hand in
the bag and removed... “Tights.” I read.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I got you navy ones
because... well... I think they're a bit more <i>academic</i> than
black.” Mum said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They look black.”
I said, thumbing the nylon bundle at the bottom of the pack.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's a very dark
blue but they're definitely blue.” Mum said. “Are you going to
try them?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Now?” I asked. Mum
nodded.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“OK.” I said. “I
guess I'll be doing my homework down here where you can see me.” I
knowingly added. Mum smiled and nodded and said I could wear a bit of
make too if I wanted to.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
wonder if Jack's mother encourages him to wear make-up? I thought as
I went to my room. I wonder what Jack would say if he saw my room? I
thought as I looked at my desk, complete with vanity mirror, a
selection of lipsticks, eye shadow, mascara, etc. My black pleated
mini skirt hangs from the wardrobe door handle. Yesterdays baggy
black tights hang over the back of my chair with my black vest. I
imagine casually telling him that it's what I wear at work,
pretending it's completely normal for a teenage boy to work as a
waitress.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They
are blue.” I mutter as I stretch the so called 'school' tights up
my legs. I'd have preferred black ones because like white knee socks,
navy blue tights aren't exactly fashionable or trendy. Like mum said,
they're 'academic', I think as I slip my navy blue nylon clad feet in
the my black leather school shoes. The tights do feel nice and soft
and velvety. I imagine them feeling nice and cosy in the winter.
Coyly I return downstairs, knowing that my mother will be looking at
me approvingly.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They
look nice.” she said. “I like that lipstick too.” she smiled.
“I've made you a coffee.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Thanks.”
I bashfully replied as her eyes hovered around me skirt and legs.
“You don't have to stare Mum.” I said a few moments later.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Sorry.”
she replied. “You just look nice... I wish boys could wear skirts.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“This
one can.” I replied as I got out my homework.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes
but you know what I mean... routinely.” Mum replied. “I wish it
was as normal as a girl wearing jeans and a T shirt.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah...
at least then I wouldn't feel like I have to keep my job a secret.”
I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Do
none of your friends still not know?” Mum asked. I shook my head.
“Only Hannah.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“The
one who keeps texting you?” Mum quizzed. I nodded. “Who is this
Hannah?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“She's
in Year 9... her sister had a Saturday job at the café over Easter.”
I replied. “She's also the girl who co-ordinates the protests at
school.” I added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Girlfriend?”
Mum enquired.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Nooo!”
I insisted. “But we are meeting up in town tomorrow.” I said.
“Just for a burger.” I shrugged.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Ooooh.”
Mum cooed. “Is she pretty?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah...
but she's also pretty annoying.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But
you're going on a date with her.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's
not a date... well, it kind of is... she asked me and I said yeah.”
I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh.
What are you going to wear?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well...
I thought about borrowing one of Karen's dresses. But then I thought
about those really cute denim shorts, or my pink dungee-dress and
those burgundy tights.” I enthused, falsely.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Really?!”
Mum seemed surprised.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No
mum. I'm dressing as a boy.” I told her.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So
where you going?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
dunno, she said she'd text me.” I told her.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So
how come Hannah knows you're a waitress but no one else?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Coz
her sister worked at the café.” I replied. “She says she won't
tell anyone.” I added.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well
it's only a matter of time before other people find out. I'm
surprised you've kept it from your friends for this long.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.
So am I.” I replied, nervously chuckling.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
got on with my homework and Mum pottered around, sorting laundry,
tidying and making preparations for the evening meal. Karen returned
home and said she loved my tights. “Very academic.” she said,
before asking if I wore them for school.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No.”
I replied. “It'd defeat the object of wearing skirts when it's
hot.” I said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That's
a shame. They look nice.” Karen said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You
used to hate navy tights when you were at school.” Mum interjected.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
know but I was too busy trying be trendy.” Karen said. “I didn't
appreciate the preppy look back then. I wash I had embraced my white
knee socks and navy tights.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So
Mum was right all along?” Mum said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Isn't
she always.” my sister replied. “Anyway... Simon, I've thought of
the perfect outfit for you tomorrow.” she enthused. “I found a
really nice tea-dress in a charity shop...”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mum
let her go so far before finally getting a word in. “It sounds
lovely Karen but your brother's got a date tomorrow.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It's
not a date.” I insisted. “What's a tea-dress?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You've
got a date! Who with? Is it Hannah?” Karen quizzed.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.”
I nodded, before claiming that it's not really a date and that we're
just meeting up for a burger.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“She's
the girl who co-ordinates the protests at school?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.”
I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So
you could wear a tea dress then.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Noo!”
I insisted. “What is a tea dress anyway?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Karen
removed an uninspiring fabric from a carrier bag and unfolded it.
“That's horrible!” I said at the exact same time as my mother
saying how nice it is.<br /><br />“Looks like Laura Ashley.” Mum
commented.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It
is Laura Ashley!” my sister exclaimed. “Bit small for me but
perfect for Simon so I snapped it up... it was only a fiver.” she
enthused. I expressed my opinion once more. “Laura Ashley dresses
usually go for forty or fifty quid second hand.” my sister
excitedly told me. “Oh thanks.” she chirped as Mum passed her a
hanger.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
can't see why.” I sneered as she hung it from the pantry door.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It'll
look much nicer on.” Mum said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“It'll
look much nicer in the last century too.” I sighed. “No offence
Mum but it looks like something my mother would wear.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“None
taken.” Mum smiled. “You can wear it on Sunday.” she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But
I won't be here on Sunday.” Karen said. “But I guess it is more
of a Sunday dress.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Oh
it's definitely a Sunday dress.” Mum insisted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Don't
I get a say in this?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Of
course you do.” Mum replied. “But I think you'll like it when
it's on.” she reckoned, turning her eyes to the floral frock.
“Dresses like that have a timeless style and it's not everyday you
get to try on an actual Laura Ashley dress.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well...
I’ve no idea who Laura Ashley is but I’ll take your word for it.”
I replied.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So
what'cha wearing for your date tomorrow?” Karen asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Boy's
clothes.” I bluntly stated. “And it's not a date.” I coyly
insisted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It
being a Friday, I don't have to work tonight but being the
owner/manager of a café, my sister does. Before long Mum and I were
on our own and having completed my homework, I'd changed into my own
clothes. I quite like it when I revert to dressing as boy after
dressing as a girl. I didn't bother cleaning off my mascara and even
topped up my lippy when I changed out of my school uniform into some
casual clothes; a pair of cargo shorts and a baggy tee. I feel like a
boy who's a girl who's a tom-boy... if that makes sense? Straddling
genders rather than crossing them. Playing the girl and taking a step
back to boyhood. I can't help but wonder if I was a girl, would I be
a girlie girl or a tom-boy? And I can't help but wish that I lived in
a world where being a girlie-boy was just as normal as being a
tom-boy.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
imagine a variety of outfits that I 'could' wear tomorrow; the s</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">atin
cowl neck dress, the f</span></span><span style="color: black;">loral
ditsy summer dress with angel sleeves, those spotty pedal pushers and
that thin white blouse, or those casual cornflower blue shorts and a
capped sleeved T shirt, or the p</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">owder
pink corduroy dungaree dress and stripy T shirt? Too daggy, I think.
And the satin dress is too Saturday night rather than Saturday
afternoon... which leaves the summer dress or the pedal pushers. I
had no intention of wearing any of those outfits, but enjoyed
pretending I could. I wondered what Hannah might wear. I've never
seen her out of school so I've never seen her in anything but her
school uniform. “What if she's a goth?” I wonder as I recall
Mum's expression when Karen gave me a gothic make-over.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Later
that evening I received a text from Hannah suggesting we meet at
eleven thirty by the bus stops on High Road, opposite the park. I
reply with 'OK c u then :)', but immediately begin to worry that she
might have something up her sleeve. After all the first time she
approached me was to blackmail me into going to school dressed as a
girl. Maybe she's got a video of Karen and I locking up the café;
midsummer, still daylight, me with my thin tights, slim legs, short
skirt, baggy hoodie and handbag, with my hair in plaits or a high
pony tail... and plenty of make-up. Maybe she'll have an outfit of
her own for me? </span></span><span style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Wear
this or everyone sees the video!</span></i></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
she might threaten. I imagine a really humiliating dress; some
super-cute kawaii or Lolita style thing. “I'm not wearing that!”
I might reply. “At least I look cool in your video... so show
everyone!” I might bravely add.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;"><!--Saturday 22nd June – the date--><span style="font-weight: normal;">As
it happened, Hannah didn't have devious intentions. After spending
ages trying to decide what to wear, I chose a pair of denim knee
length shorts, an old pair of powder purple baseball boots procured
from my sister's wardrobe, and an airy sleeveless T shirt with a
graffiti print on the front. Cool yet casual, I figured as I checked
my reflection. It's been warm all week but today, the sun screams
from the sky. I put some sun-block on my shoulders and calves and rub
the excess into my face.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
set off early and walk into town, arriving opposite the park with ten
minutes to spare. It being a Saturday, the bus stops are bustling
with people coming and going. A bus comes and goes, but no sign of
Hannah. I check the time as another bus arrives and watch the
passengers alight. No sign of Hannah. I glance around and frown.
Check my watch and begin to feel anxious, hoping she'll be on the
next bus. I check my phone. Maybe she's sent a text? It's only one
minute past. No text. I frown and glance around. “Hey.” a voice
chirps from my left.</span></span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">“Hannah!”
I yelped. “I didn't recognise you.” I said, looking her up and
down. I'd noticed the 'woman' in the striped dress alighting the bus
but didn't consider for a second that she might be Hannah so didn't
really give her a second look. “You look older.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">“Oh
thanks.” she dryly, yet jovially replied. “Cool sneakers.” she
said as I glared at her heeled shoes; a rusty reddy brown to match
her dress. Her handbag, nails and lipstick all seem to match too.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">“Thanks.”
I replied. “I feel a bit too casual.” I confessed. “I knew I
should've worn something smarter.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">“You
look fine.” she told me, before asking if I'd like to sit in the
park or stroll around the shops.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">I
looked up at the clear blue sky and felt the sun on my shoulders.
“It's definitely a park day.” I said. “...unless you'd...?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: arial;">“No...
the park's good for me.” Hannah smiled.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Cool.”
I said. “I can't believe how different you look.” I told her,
observing her hair and make-up, her stylish yet rather conservative
dress, her handbag and kitten heels. I commented on the fact that her
nail varnish matches her shoes, handbag and dress.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Most
boys wouldn't even notice little things like that.” she said,
splaying out her fingers. We settled on a bench by the lake and
chatted about music, discussed some of our favourite films and TV
shows. I fetched us a couple of cheeseburgers from the stall, plus a
portion of fries to share and as we ate, we gossiped about school.
“Do you reckon they'll ever back down on the shorts ban?” I
asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
doubt it. That FaceBank campaign that's doing the rounds is quite
powerful... and a lot of the teachers agree that it's stupid that us
girls can wear short skirts but the boys can't wear short pants.”
she said.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Hmm.”
I pondered. “So you reckon it's all a waste of time?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Not
at all!” Hannah exclaimed. “I love seeing boys in skirts.” she
said. “If it was up to me I'd make them compulsory.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Good
job it's not up to you then!” I grinned, before admitting that
wearing a skirt to school hasn't been anywhere near as bad as I'd
imagined.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You
wear one at work.” she shrugged.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah
but that's different... they're mostly grown-ups at work. At school
it's just puerile point scoring... but oddly, not as much as I
expected.” I said. “Even when I turned up wearing knee socks.”
I added. “Which were my mum's idea, by the way... I didn't choose
to wear them.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
was a little surprised!” she grinned. “Pelerine ones too.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah.”
I cringed. “Mum made Karen wear them when she was my age and she's
using that as an excuse to make me wear them... it wouldn't be so bad
if they were plain white, but pelerine!”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
think they look cute.” she said. “Quite a lot of the first and
second year boys have been wearing them.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Probably
not through choice either.” I mused, considering Jack's predicament
as I popped a couple of fries in my mouth.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We
soon finished eating and I watched Hannah as she wiped her lips, then
reapplied her lipstick. “Wanna try some?” she asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Nah.”
I replied. I imagined adding <i>I've got my own</i> and removing it
from my pocket, applying a more subtle, natural shade to my lips. I
imagined Hannah asking to try it and handing it over. I heard Hannah
ask if she could kiss me. “Erm.” I croaked, before she planted
her lips squarely on mine and held them there, just for a second.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She
pulled away and smiled sweetly at me. “There's no shame if you got
it from kissing a girl.” she grinned.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Got
what.” I asked, feeling myself blushing.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“My
lipstick.” she replied. “It suits you.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I
resisted the urge to wipe my lips with the back of my wrist. I was
dying to see my reflection and I felt myself blushing like crazy.
“Did you do that so you could put some lippy on me, or because you
wanted to kiss me?” I bashfully asked.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Bit
of both.” she smiled as her fingers curled around mine. “Shall we
stroll?” she suggested.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah,
sure... I'll just...” I began packing up our polystyrene trays and
tissues. I kept glancing at Hannah, trying to imagine what her
lipstick looks like on me and reliving the blissful moment she kissed
me and held my hand, over and over. It wasn't the last time we kissed
that day but we did nothing more than kiss, and hold hands, and talk
and laugh. Hours pass. Time Flies. Inevitably we part company. Mum
appears to know something happened when I returned home, basking in
the blissful glow of a new found crush. I spent the entire remainder
of the weekend thinking about Hannah. I tried to pinpoint the moment
when I stopped despising her and began to fancy her. I know I tried
to fight my feelings and had many valid reasons to not like her. She
blackmailed me for a start... I really should hate her for that, but
I can't.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We
exchanged texts that evening, and the next. Each of us now adding xx
to the end of every text. <!--The following week-->Monday was an
absolute scorcher and a record turn out for the protest... it seemed
like half the boys had turned up wearing skirts, although I’m sure
the reality is nowhere near that. The deputy head was clearly
overwhelmed and dismissed us all from the assembly hall without
measuring one single skirt. That in itself felt like a victory. I
sought Hannah out during break. She asked if I'd told anyone about
Saturday and I told her I hadn't, adding that I didn't want to
presume. “Have you told anyone?” I asked. She shook her head.
“I'd like to meet up again, the cinema maybe, or shopping?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That'd
be cool.” she said. “I'll dress like a goth instead of a
librarian...” she grinned. “...to see if you still like me.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I
like you no matter what you're dressed as.” I told her.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She
looked me up and down and said “You too.” There's a strict 'no
petting' policy at school and the teachers, hall monitors and support
staff come down quite hard, even when hands are held. Such displays
of affection have no place on school grounds, is the mantra... so we
obediently keep our distance. “Forecast for rain tomorrow.” she
told me.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah...
temp's still twenty though.” I said. She asked if I was going to
wear a skirt. “Course.” I replied. She said I didn't have to, to
which I replied “I've never worn one in the rain before... it'll be
an experience.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Knee
or ankle socks?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Up
to you.” I shrugged.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Well...
much as I love seeing you in knee socks...”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You're
as bad as my Mum.” I interrupted.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“...but
skin dries quicker than socks when it's wet.” she told me, advising
on shoe liners or ankle socks.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Ooh.”
I said, sounding enlightened. “Thanks for the tip.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You're
welcome.” she chirped. “Can I come and sit with you at lunch?”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah
course.” I casually replied. “You might have to put up with my
mates though... and they'll probably be dicks.” I said. “Might be
better if I come and sit with you.”</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And
risk my friends flirting with you?” she retorted. “No chance!”
she exclaimed. We agreed to meet each other in the middle and let our
respective friends gossip from afar.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The
three day heatwave did indeed come to a crashing end on Tuesday when
it rained all day long. I was in a definite minority that day, but I
didn't care and used the 20º rule, as stated on 'that' poster as my
excuse. It was drizzle more than rain but it lasted the whole day
long and damp legs weren't so bad... worse if they were hairy, I
figured. I texted Hannah when I get home, reminding her that
I'll be at work tonight so won't be able to reply until after my
shift has ended. Hannah quickly replied with the forecast: a mere 19º
for Wednesday. I replied with jovial sarcasm: Baltic... better put
some tights on! xx. I quickly followed this with another text: joke!
xx. Hannah responded with a sad face emoticon, punctuated, of course,
with a couple of Xs.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;">That
Wednesday, it turned out, was the only sub-twenty degree forecast for
the next three weeks and the only day I wore trousers for school for
the rest of term. The numbers of fellow protesters were at an all
time low after the hot Monday and wet Tuesday, but I got Jack and
Hannah and my sister and the other waitresses to tweet and share the
<i>be cool in school</i> poster, urging everyone to give it one final
push to the end of term... and it worked!</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><!--The end.--><span style="font-family: arial;">The
numbers grew, steadily yet not astronomically. The poster I'd
anonymously designed was doing the rounds on most social media
platforms and sparked many heated debates. Come the last week of
term, I figured about one out of every four boys at my school wore
skirts which apparently made the deputy head's blood boil. In the
final assembly, she reflected on the summer of disobedience (as she
put it) and claimed that those involved only made fools of
themselves, and seemed to glare directly at me. “You're more than
welcome to make fools of yourselves again next summer!” she
announced, to which seemingly all of the girls responded with a
cheer. The deputy head glared at them. A good handful of boys
sniggered, which annoyed her all the more. She stepped aside and Mr
Greene, our head of year took the podium. He recalled a couple of
'silly' protests from his own school days, such as a student picket
line at the gates and another at the refectory because the school
meals were so bad. He told us that sometimes opinions differ, but
rules are rules. He told us that his opinion regarding the protests
differs from that of the deputy head, and commended us on conducting
a peaceful and non disruptive protest and that we should all be proud
of ourselves... which to be honest, came as a complete shock. The
deputy head must've been spitting feathers by this point. Ultimately,
we didn't win the right to wear short trousers in the summer, but I
did get the girl... and so far as I can tell, none of my friends know
that I work a waitress. Two out of three ain't bad.</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The End.</span></p><p class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p>PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-50113169920959105802020-06-30T11:58:00.002-07:002021-09-18T09:04:17.593-07:00The Pageboy<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum?” I asked.
“How old should a pageboy be?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Any age.” Mum
said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But how old are they
usually?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“About six or seven I
guess.” Mum replied. “Why?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because when I tell
people that I'm going to be the pageboy at Natasha's wedding, they
keep saying I'm too old.” I told her, slumping my chin into my fist
and sighing. “...and if they're usually six or seven... then I'm
way too old.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're only eleven.”
Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But I'll be twelve
when Natasha gets married.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll still be a
boy and that's the only qualification you need.” Mum smiled.
“You're going to look ever so smart.” she smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't even know
what I'm wearing yet.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Neither does Natasha
but she's still keen on a short suit of some sort.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I puffed out my cheeks
and sighed. “So long as she doesn't make me wear white knee socks.”
I grumbled, recalling a potential outfit my sister showed me a while
back; a royal blue velvet waistcoat over a white shirt, with narrow
velvet knee length shorts. The waist coat and shorts looked pretty
bad but the boy modelling it also wore girls white knee socks and
shiny black shoes. I disapproved of the velvet outfit but detested
the girlie knee socks.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's Natasha's big
day so you'll wear what she chooses.” Mum reminded me. “Think
yourself lucky that she's not asking you to be a bridesmaid.”<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>I snorted and said
“Boys can't be bridesmaids!”<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFaPnG4m-aMoVTlnTOnv7emw_ntjdx-LgZ5N4ndDrn13lJ-do5b3SO9RnwTDFWM_BjFSG92KdofuQSwN6ZyXhZ3Cyn06tPtr9sYIc_tLOQ25_63qTjKMWRx1tG0o8FAXj4oQI7g1JX/s1600/mag+-+BRIDES.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="728" data-original-width="535" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFaPnG4m-aMoVTlnTOnv7emw_ntjdx-LgZ5N4ndDrn13lJ-do5b3SO9RnwTDFWM_BjFSG92KdofuQSwN6ZyXhZ3Cyn06tPtr9sYIc_tLOQ25_63qTjKMWRx1tG0o8FAXj4oQI7g1JX/s320/mag+-+BRIDES.jpg" width="233" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'd be surprised.”
Mum replied. She rummaged in the magazine rack, removed one of
Natasha's wedding magazines. “Look.” she said, drawing my
attention to the final featured article on the cover, titled Boys in
the Bridal Party. “There's a whole feature if you want to have a
look.” Mum said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” I
grimaced, reading the tag-line; <i>Being a bridesmaid or flower girl
is no longer just a girl thing</i>.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well if you're
worried about looking like Little Lord Fauntleroy...” Mum suggested
as she flicked through the pages, then held the page up for me.
“Imagine how worried these boys were.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But they wouldn't
have been a bridesmaid if they didn't like dressing up.” I said as
my eyes hesitantly looked at the handful of featured photographs.
“Are they trans-kids?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No... according the
the article they're all typical boys just like you. Boys with a
wedding to attend, just like you.” Mum said. “Would you rather
wear this..." she asked, tapping on a picture of a bridesmaid. <span style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;">"...or a Fauntleroy suit?”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcfrKN6cP3DRYBbyVmxdTDNzDy72tUivwBeCLQInl4hfMqNWWMBRGtaXfxq7FMW_7QYBT82x9EuMWdr2bppVg-lD5GRdb9Czc5gmv8kriviJRRmId4fYtSbGg8yE36QWZHeFdjDqjJ/s1600/boy-bridesmaid.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="382" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcfrKN6cP3DRYBbyVmxdTDNzDy72tUivwBeCLQInl4hfMqNWWMBRGtaXfxq7FMW_7QYBT82x9EuMWdr2bppVg-lD5GRdb9Czc5gmv8kriviJRRmId4fYtSbGg8yE36QWZHeFdjDqjJ/s320/boy-bridesmaid.jpg" width="196" /></a>I gasped. <span style="font-weight: normal;">“Are
you sure that's a boy?” I asked. Mum confirmed he was and drew my
attention to the text which stated that 'Paul wears a white taffeta
dress with a pastel pink sash'</span>, and suddenly the thought of
wearing a pair of girl's knee socks doesn't seem so bad. “Is he
wearing make-up too?” I grimaced.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He is part of bridal
party... so yes.” Mum replied. “...but he's only
wearing a little bit.” she added as she peered at the picture and
commented on all the flowers in his hair.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Those sleeves!" I grimaced, before noticing what appeared be a massive pink bow on the back of his dress. "Is he wearing girl's shoes too?" I quizzed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"He is a bridesmaid." Mum casually reminded me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A few weeks later,
having completely put the whole thing out of my mind, I could hear
Mum and Natasha enthusing over something as I sauntered into the
sitting room. “...with some tulip shorts.” my sister said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What are tulip
shorts?” I asked. Natasha leaned over and showed me her phone. I
gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<b></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Seeing the style she likes--><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCa9Zx6txtWq7gLQCtjApawc1CkKJba-76OKe1lrNvini4JdWp-VW-FpySQgCo0e7gV35YoIyRkot2FF5gEKYbzN5FX_Dvebbxw2UMQyzqqBokJ79XUyAy1IgfR6qN41R6P8tPuMo3/s1600/tulip+shorts+2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCa9Zx6txtWq7gLQCtjApawc1CkKJba-76OKe1lrNvini4JdWp-VW-FpySQgCo0e7gV35YoIyRkot2FF5gEKYbzN5FX_Dvebbxw2UMQyzqqBokJ79XUyAy1IgfR6qN41R6P8tPuMo3/s400/tulip+shorts+2.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="297" /></a>“Cute
aren't they?” she said, adding that she's not sure about the shirt
and tie... but the shorts she <i>really</i> likes.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You want me to wear
those?!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well not these
specifically.... but that style.” Natasha replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I imagined wearing the
bulbous monstrosities. “People will think I'm wearing a nappy!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No they won't...
they'll think, ooh he's wearing tulip shorts, isn't he fashionable!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why can't I wear
normal shorts?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because it's not a
normal day.” my sister replied. Mum reminded me of what she'd told
me the other day. “What did you tell him?” Natasha asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“To think himself
lucky that you're not asking him to be a bridesmaid.” Mum informed
her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it had crossed
my mind.” my sister told me. “...and if you were a couple of
years younger I might have had you as the flower boy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“More than a couple!”
I stated, adding that the only flower girls I've seen have been no
more than five or six years old.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes but it's
different for flower <i>boys</i>... they can be eight or nine... ten
tops.” my sister claimed, adding that I'll be twelve by the time
she gets married and way too old to be a flower boy, which is why I'm
being a page instead. “..unless you'd rather be a bridesmaid?” my
sister mused. “Lottie could be the page girl... she's about your
size.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Noo!” I moaned. My
sister grinned and said she was only teasing me. “But if you <i>really</i>
don't want to be the pageboy... I <i>could</i> ask Lottie.” she
suggested. “A page-girl would be quite novel.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No it's OK... I'll
do it.” I replied. Natasha grinned and told me that I'll look <i>so
cute</i> in tulip shorts. “I don't want to look cute.” I
grumbled. “I'll be twelve.” I pleaded.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll look smart
too.” my sister insisted. “...with a little jacket and a bow tie
and shiny patent leather shoes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And girlie knee
socks, too.” I glumly thought.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The wedding is still
months away and to be honest, I seldom thought about it until someone
else mentioned it... which, more often than not was my mother and
sister discussing the arrangements. One afternoon I came home from
school and at first glance, I presumed Mum and Natasha were playing a
game of drafts... but they were deciding where everyone would be
sitting during the reception and moving mock-tables around a plan of
the dining hall. I found it bizarre because the wedding is still
months away and does it really matter where everyone sits? Apparently
it does. “Where am I sitting?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“With Uncle Carl,
Auntie Heather, James, Thomas and Lottie.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh... why aren't I
sitting with you?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because I'll be on
the head table with Natasha and Jess and her parents.” Mum told me.
“You'll be OK with them won't you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes, I guess.” I
mused. Cousins James and Thomas are aged eleven and thirteen and
sister Lottie is nine years old. In recent months she's had a massive
growth spurt and is marginally taller than me now. I know I'm not
tall but I don't think I'm particularly short, but both James and
Thomas are taller then I am and have started teasing me because I'm
shorter than a ten year old girl. I wouldn't mind but James is almost
a year younger than me. I like them but being brothers, they gang up
on me a bit, which I guess is why I tend to gravitate towards cousin
Lottie when we visit. She's only nine but she's really smart and a
tom-boy to boot. We used to climb trees together and she's a real
monkey... but her mum went bananas when she realised how high we
dared to climb. The next time we visited, Lottie was wearing a big
frilly dress to stop her from climbing the trees with me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Aren't you
interested?” my sister asked, dragging me out of my memories. She
swiped her phone and turned its screen toward me. I gulped. “Not
the shirt.” she told me. “But those shorts.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zs4d2cQwBB0jzsCx5zbSp9CqVw0MyTvZvGxj4M5FvzQdOldnlqZ1Uu2ZQxuiH6AaINlBuJR2Ghqdhr10Z1SnjBVX0LffQCvlfOjleiZXAvgk8OHRL0k6m6bfVxrLGgKniRlxdx0a/s1600/tulip+shorts+4.fw.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="255" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zs4d2cQwBB0jzsCx5zbSp9CqVw0MyTvZvGxj4M5FvzQdOldnlqZ1Uu2ZQxuiH6AaINlBuJR2Ghqdhr10Z1SnjBVX0LffQCvlfOjleiZXAvgk8OHRL0k6m6bfVxrLGgKniRlxdx0a/s320/tulip+shorts+4.fw.png" width="219" /></a>“They're horrible!”
I gulped. “And that's not a shirt, it's a blouse!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Boys shirts have
ruffles and bows too you know.” Natasha stated. But not like that!
I thought. “Anyway I don't like that shirt... it's too.” she
said. “But I love the shorts.” she gushed. “Don't you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” I gulped.
“Sorry.” I said as she frowned. “Good news about the shirt
though!” I jovially added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She swiped her phone
and turned it to me again. “I really like this one too.” she told
me as I gazed at the screen.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsy_2AoZ3PID4PP6gNYG6LuzuTllYTmPi-VJm3q30qs1va5arSmp9Ss-kZlxBA2Iy4On0UHzQHmkr4NrO7llj_lEbdet2YbiNFXWE9ukYuP8Pn6ml6gPu1gqpfCQ4tC4cB8Ut0tphW/s1600/tulip+sailor.fw.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="584" data-original-width="346" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsy_2AoZ3PID4PP6gNYG6LuzuTllYTmPi-VJm3q30qs1va5arSmp9Ss-kZlxBA2Iy4On0UHzQHmkr4NrO7llj_lEbdet2YbiNFXWE9ukYuP8Pn6ml6gPu1gqpfCQ4tC4cB8Ut0tphW/s320/tulip+sailor.fw.png" width="189" /></a>“That's for a girl!”
I exclaimed. Natasha claimed it wasn't. “Look at the sleeves!” I
proclaimed. Natasha proved it was a boy's outfit by swiping back the
top of the page and showing me the breadcrumbs: Shop > Wedding >
Bridal Party > Pageboy. “But girls can be pageboys too... that's
definitely a girl's outfit.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But they have a
girl's version in the bridesmaid's section... the top has a proper
bow instead of a tie, and the shorts are a skirt, with a really
frilly petticoat.” my sister informed me as she swiped back to the
sailor suit. “Jess prefers the other one.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think I agree.”
I gulped. “But not with that shirt!” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh no... I'll find a
much nicer one than that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And much plainer...
too... please?” I requested, hoping, as I recalled the monstrously
flouncy blouse. “In fact!” I exclaimed, recalling the first pair
of tulip shorts my sister had shown me. “...the first pair you
showed me looked better than either of those.” my sister swiped her
screen this way and that and showed me the image. “The shirt's too
plain though... it has to be little bit blousy.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So long as it
doesn't have a massive bow like that other one.” I said, glancing
ominously at her phone. Those grey tulip shorts are horrible... but
worryingly preferable in comparison to those black shorts with brass
buttons and a stupidly high waist, and that loathsome nautical
outfit. “This is for a girl too!” I noticed. “Look, the
mannequin's got boobs.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's probably on a
girl mannequin because they didn't have a spare boy mannequin.” my
sister told me. “It's at least unisex and look... it's in the
page<i>boy </i>section.” she showed me. At the time I thought she
was browsing through a retail website. I only got a glance at the now
familiar logo and the board titled Pageboy and the top few tiles. It
meant little to me, but in retrospect and knowing what PinBoard is,
she was browsing a self made page full of ideas on how to dress
me.... and what I did see in that brief glimpse <u>did</u> look a
little too blousy.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Sizing me up-->A
week or two later. Mum said I needed to be measured for my suit and
followed a very detailed checklist; collar, shoulders, chest, waist,
hips, thighs (?), inside leg to knee, then ankle, shoulder to elbow,
elbow to wrist... then the circumferences around my upper arm, above
the elbow, below the elbow and wrists. I figured we were finished but
Mum still hand to measure the length of my back from nape to waist,
and the height of my 'rise' from perineum to waist, plus the length
of my neck. “Why do you need the length of my neck?” I quizzed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because in the
Victorian and Edwardian eras, shirts had high, stiff collars.” Mum
replied. “If it's too high it will wrinkle.” she added. Having
filled in the form, Mum asked me if I was certain about the plain
tulip shorts. “Not the ones with the pockets, and not the nautical
ones with white trim?” she clarified. I nodded. “Good.” she
said, adding some additional info to the form. “Now would you be a
trooper and dash this round to the wedding dress shop?” she asked
as she picked and sealed an envelope. “It'll only take you five
minutes on your bike.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't want to be
seen going into a dress shop Mum!” I moaned. Mum rolled her eyes,
told me to make sure that no one's watching, then quickly pop in...
and offered me a pound for my troubles. “OK.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I cautiously approached
the shop, making sure no one I knew was around and trying to appear
as if I wasn't approaching it. Once more glance and I quickly leant
my bike outside and darted in. “Erm... Mum told me to give this to
er... Hattie.” I said, pulling the folded envelope from my pocket.
The woman asked what it was. “Measurements.” I replied. She asked
who my mother was. I replied. She asked if it was for a wedding
outfit. “Yes.” I replied. She asked my name. I told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So these are <i>your</i>
measurements?” she exclaimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well if you'd told
me that to begin with we wouldn't have needed twenty questions.”
she retorted. “Don't worry I'm only teasing you.” she smiled.
“Boys always look so nervous when they come in here and quickly
engaging them helps break the ice.” she said. “I'm Hattie.” she
informed me. “And you must be the pageboy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I
mournfully sighed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh don't sound so
glum about it.” Hattie said. “Most boys who come through my door
are being fitted for a bridesmaid's dress.” she smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I guess I'm one of
the lucky ones.” I murmured.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I suppose you are.”
she replied. I loitered nervously for an uncomfortable moment,
hesitantly glancing at all the rails, packed with floaty feminine
frocks. “If there's nothing else... you'd best run along young
man.” she told me, adding that she'd see me again when it's ready
for a fitting. I gulped and turned on my heel, glancing at the
mannequins in the window display and thinking how awful it would be
if I was going to be a bridesmaid instead.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Weeks passed and the
prospect of being a pageboy mostly slipped from my thoughts.
Christmas came and went. We welcomed the new year with frosty cheer
and put the bleak mid-winter behind us, anticipating the onset of
spring as the evenings began drawing out. I was nervous as I returned
to the wedding dress shop, this time with my mother and sister. They
were all smiles and chatty. I felt like a nervous wreck and for good
reason.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A few weeks ago I
caught a glimpse of a PinBoard gallery on Natasha's iPad headed
'pageboy'. The shorts looked as offensive as ever and the sailor suit
I'd declined now looks more appealing than the rest. All the shirts
are definitely blouses because they're mostly modelled on women... in
fact, all the tulip shorts are modelled on women too... I think. It's
hard to tell on all but one. I only got a minute before the screen
powered down... but since seeing that, I've been more worried about
my outfit than ever.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKT3hZqudLM6clqWRUo9WpprB7LtqQWPsrBJ-wxBLR_omjIz8ligPj9DfRUdFzGVaIjGD2gpz0x3jOmpE8I2UUBIjA_faI4LLTtUqIJnkYX_kYElIFl_W9jYXPMyDelukEIPM1Wovh/s1600/ipad.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKT3hZqudLM6clqWRUo9WpprB7LtqQWPsrBJ-wxBLR_omjIz8ligPj9DfRUdFzGVaIjGD2gpz0x3jOmpE8I2UUBIjA_faI4LLTtUqIJnkYX_kYElIFl_W9jYXPMyDelukEIPM1Wovh/s640/ipad.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I also learned that the
style of shorts I'm having made are also known as pumpkin shorts,
bloomer shorts, bulb shorts and bubble shorts and having googled most
of those... I'm starting to think that I might have been better off
wearing a bridesmaid's dress! I didn't really believe that, it's just
that I knew my outfit was going to be horrible before I'd even seen
it... and I wasn't disappointed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Trying the outfit for size-->I'd
never known such a deep sense of disappointment was possible before
the outfit was revealed to me. The bubble shorts hang from a pair of
braces. As the name suggests, they're short and bulbous but my
attention is drawn by the blouse... wispy and white with ruffles and
frills and a floppy satin bow tied at its lace trimmed collar. The
fabric looks thin but I didn't realise how thin until I noticed that
I could clearly see the clothes-hanger through it. That explains why
Mum insisted I wore a vest today.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Hattie, the seamstress,
removes the garment from its hanger and reveals that the shorts are
more of a contraption than an item of clothing. At the back of their
high waist is some corset lacing to ensure a perfect fit. The waist
fastening isn't in the middle like normal, they're on each side, and
on the inside of the shorts are some suspender style straps
connecting the waistband to the leg cuffs to give the shorts their
bubbled appearance. Hattie explains to my mother and sister that the
straps can be adjusted to make the legs a little shorter or longer.
“Just make sure they're both the same length otherwise he'll look a
bit silly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think I'll look
more than a bit silly in those!” I moaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They'll look a lot
nicer when they're on.” Mum told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I didn't have to wait
long to find out. Hattie took me into her dressing room where I
stripped down to my vest and underpants. The shirt, which is
definitely a blouse has it's fastening down the back, so I stand
gracelessly whilst Hattie buttons me in. The shorts have an awkward
way of fastening too, with a trio of brass buttons on either side
where the pockets should be. “It's easier if you put the braces on
first.” Hattie advised as I struggled to hold them up and fasten
the buttons. Once done, she drew the waist in snugly with the lacing
on the back, faffed with my blouse and presented me to my mother and
sister. “Oh you look wonderful!” Mum exclaimed. “Like something
out of a fairytale.” Natasha gushed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Or a pantomime.” I
dryly added. “I can't believe you're making me wear this.” I
moaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Would you rather be
a bridesmaid instead?” my mother smugly asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” I replied.
Hattie said she'd had a few boys in recently being fitted for
bridesmaid's dresses and said it was lovely that times were changing
the way they are. “I'm glad I’m not a bridesmaid.” I muttered
as Hattie faffed with my braces and took more measurements.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well stop moaning
then.” my sister told me. I nervously looked down at myself; my
legs looked like two thin twigs sticking out of the bulbous shorts.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My mother and sister
began directing me to walk around and turn around and then sit down.
“Nicely... keep your knees together... that's better.” Mum said
before asking me to stand again.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My sister noted that
they'd gotten squished after sitting and said I'd have to make sure I
pull them out to maintain their 'nice' bulb shape. I huffed and
puffed as I faffed with the shorts and Hattie said she'd have a think
about how she could rectify that.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I only wore the
horrendous outfit for about fifteen minutes and getting back into my
own, normal clothes came as such a relief. On the way home, they kept
telling me how nice my outfit looked and how well made it was and the
little details such as the corset lacing on the back really set them
off. “My legs looked ridiculous.” I grumbled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They'll look OK with
a bit of fake tan or something.” Mum told me. “...and I'll get
you some cream to put on them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“To get rid of those
fuzzy hairs.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My legs aren't
hairy.” I claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They are a little
bit.” Mum said. “Anyway the wedding's still weeks away... you
don't need to worry just yet.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's easy for you
to say... you don't have to wear it.” I moaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh stop worrying.”
my sister said. “Everyone's going to be dressed up; the brides, the
bridesmaids, the maid of honour, the ushers, the ring bearer and the
flowergirl... you won't be the only one wearing something fancy and
you won't be the centre of attention.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I suppose she's right.
I'm just one part of a large bridal party and most people will be
looking at the two brides, since they're the people getting
married... and when it comes to the inevitable wedding photos... I'll
just have to try to hide behind the bridesmaids.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The prospect of wearing
my page-boy outfit in public weighed heavy on my mind. However after
seeing some pictures depicting everyday life in Elizabethan times, I
noticed that the men's bulbous breeches were very similar to my
bubble shorts. With that in mind, I managed to convince myself that
my page-boy outfit was just an Elizabethan costume... and considering
their fancy shirts and those ridiculous ruffs... my blouse could have
been a whole lot worse.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What was I thinking?!
When we returned to the wedding dress shop a couple of weeks later
for my final fitting, I was reminded just how bad my so-called
'shirt' really is. The sheer fabric is far more see through than I
recalled, and I hadn't noticed the tiny white polka dots covering
the back and sleeves. The front is as ghastly as I remember, with
ruffled lace, broderie anglaise, faux buttons, a flappy round collar
trimmed with more lace and big floppy bow around the neck. It's just
a costume, I convinced myself as I was buttoned into the blouse for a
second time.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The ghastly bubble
shorts hang waiting, but they're not quite the same as I remember
them. “Where's the braces gone?” I asked. Hattie told me they'd
been taken off because my shirt would look nicer without them. With
or without braces, my shirt's going to look like a blouse, I thought.
I glanced around Hattie's dressing room which doubles as her cutting
room, and sewing room, and store room. Several dressmaker's dummies
wear partially made garments. Pure white petticoats and pinafores
hang where countless bolts of shelved fabric create a resplendent
backdrop. My thoughts return to those ghastly bubble shorts as the
final few buttons are fasted. “There you are.” Hattie said,
patting my shoulders.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.” I meekly
reply, reaching for the hanger on which my shorts hang. The sooner I
try them on, the sooner I can take them off... I figured.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia5FL5hi-U3q5z_G0UCPd4t-3xRjbhmWg0V9dewlzF7xunEoZLqJCpuryVvaYkDbht6_Kdk3WwVTEYoPXh5fE-TmYdS0BLy_w4rKKnrmgAhMOvqX2twsz-nnhqHYhrXhprnBImdgkz/s1600/petti-shorts.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="380" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia5FL5hi-U3q5z_G0UCPd4t-3xRjbhmWg0V9dewlzF7xunEoZLqJCpuryVvaYkDbht6_Kdk3WwVTEYoPXh5fE-TmYdS0BLy_w4rKKnrmgAhMOvqX2twsz-nnhqHYhrXhprnBImdgkz/s320/petti-shorts.jpg" width="243" /></a>“Not just yet.”
Hattie said. “I made you some petti-shorts.” she proudly stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped so hard I
almost swallowed my tongue. “I can't wear those!” I gasped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course you can.”
Hattie replied. She acknowledged that they were very girlie, but all
those ruffles of frilly lace are necessary so my shorts will maintain
their bubble shape. “...you wear them over your underpants...”
she told me. “...and you'll have your shorts on top.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Pulling the
petti-shorts on was easy if a little embarrassing. Putting my bubble
shorts on over them was frustratingly fiddly, trying to get all the
layers of frilly lace to lay properly inside the shorts. I fastened
the awkward buttons and Hattie drew in the lacing on the back before
faffing with my flouncy blouse. The reaction from my mother and
sister was much the same as last time, only this time they comment on
how the petti-shorts give my shorts the perfect shape after sitting
and standing. “Those petti-shorts make all the difference.” my
sister said. “You're so clever Hattie.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It looks like I’m
wearing a nappy.” I grumbled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nobody's going to
think that.” my mother insisted. “Everybody knows what tulip
shorts are.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're more
pumpkin.” my sister commented.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I thought they were
bubble shorts.” I said as Hattie claimed they we're bloomer shorts.
“It still looks like I'm wearing a nappy.” I grumbled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No it doesn't!”
they claimed, before letting me finally get changed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I whined about the
outfit all the way home, claiming it to be ten times worse now I’ve
got to wear those petti-shorts. “No one's going to see them!” my
sister retorted. “...and before you say it... no one's going to
think you're wearing a nappy either!” she added, putting a stop to
my next point of objection. I quietly grumbled to myself, recalling
being buttoned into that delicate and seemingly weightless shirt.
Everything about my outfit is worse than I ever imagined... and to
think I thought the worst bit would be having to wear girl's knee
socks!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--The hairdressers-->The
weeks and days rolled by and all of a sudden the wedding was only
seven days away. Mum had been delaying getting my hair cut for months
and finally, she took me to for a haircut. “This isn't the
barbers!” I whined as we approached a hairdressers.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A barber can't do a
proper pageboy cut.” Mum told me. “And it's not just a ladies'
hairdresser, they do children too.” Mum added, drawing my attention
to the sign above the window stating:<i> Ladies and Children's
Hairdresser</i>. I've been shown enough pictures to know what a
pageboy haircut is and to be honest, it was the least of my worries.
All the hairdresser did was tidy up my dishevelled mop and it looked
OK until she took a hairdryer and brush to it and all of a sudden, my
head looked like a mushroom! Mum certainly approved of the style, and
said she couldn't wait to see it finished, which puzzled me somewhat.
A very long hour and a half later and my mid-brown hair is now blond.
“You look like a proper pageboy now.” Mum told me. “I can't
wait to show your sister!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well at least it's
the school holidays so no one has to see how stupid I look.” I
grumbled, before seeking clarification that I will be allowed get it
cut properly after the wedding.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course.” Mum
replied. “If that's what you want.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I don't want to
look like Little Lord Fauntleroy when I go back to school.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just remember that
Little Lord Fauntleroy is exactly what your sister wants.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How could I forget?”
I thought as Mum paid the bill. The stylist smiled at me and told me
to make sure I brush my hair one-hundred times every night to make
sure it stays nice. “A hundred times!” I gasped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“At least.” she
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll make sure he
does.” my mother said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped and glanced at
my reflection in the car window, before climbing inside. “You could
have told me I was getting it dyed blond.” I grumbled. Mum claimed
that I knew, or at least should have known. On reflection, however,
every picture I'd been shown of a boy sporting a pageboy style had
blond hair... so maybe I should have guessed. When we got home, my
sister was in two minds about my haircut. Mum said it was a perfect
pageboy cut, pulling up a picture on her phone. My sister found
another image of the type of pageboy haircut she preferred and I
found myself looking at both...</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpkvq9O7TscF5Pop2Sd6ggf20pWHaFNOMxYxSlc-gRDLyXJNz3yRX-ZbMDMXyn61tdy3LOqZ8blyr7Dq9OeMXm_QJYVLx9xRDkaw0ekyb9L1lvJRUGmYoGcoTFpUZyQqdf4e67kgO/s1600/pageboy+cuts.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpkvq9O7TscF5Pop2Sd6ggf20pWHaFNOMxYxSlc-gRDLyXJNz3yRX-ZbMDMXyn61tdy3LOqZ8blyr7Dq9OeMXm_QJYVLx9xRDkaw0ekyb9L1lvJRUGmYoGcoTFpUZyQqdf4e67kgO/s1600/pageboy+cuts.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
...the style I have is
the longer one on the right. The style my sister prefers is the
shorter one on the left. Mum proclaims the short one to be a bowl cut
rather than a pageboy but my sister disagrees and for once, my
opinion was sought. Not wanting to return to the hairdresser, I said
I preferred it longer and my sister conceded. Then Mum conceded and
said that it's Natasha's wedding, and if she wants me to have a
shorter hairstyle, then I should. My sister mulled over the photos
indecisively and I was left not knowing if I’d be returning to the
hairdresser or not.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum did make me brush
my hair one hundred times before bed, which gave me much cause for
complaint. It seemed to take ages and my arm began to ache after a
couple of minutes. I falsely claimed I'd done it but Mum told me I'd
only done forty. Who knew she'd be counting?
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next morning Mum
made a big fuss over brushing my hair, despite the fact I'd already
done it myself. Mum said she enjoyed brushing my hair and begged me
to indulge her, before asking if I was going to meet my friends
today. “No!” I retorted. “I don't want anyone to see me until I
get my hair cut properly.” I grumbled. “I look like a girl.” I
sulked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You look nothing
like a girl.” my mother insisted. “They way you've been going on
and on and on this last few months, anyone would think you'd been
asked to be a bridesmaid instead of a pageboy.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My outfit's so
girlie I may as well be a bridesmaid.” I mumbled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well if Lottie's
dress fits you and your outfit fits her, I'm sure you could swap
places... if that's what you want?” Mum asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nooo.” I
whimpered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are you sure?” Mum
asked. “It's not <i>that</i> unusual for a boy to be a bridesmaid
these days.” she reminded me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't want to be a
bridesmaid!” I insisted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well stop
complaining about being a pageboy.” Mum retorted. “It's just one
day and you're going to be on your best behaviour... I don't want any
sulking or moaning... do you understand?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yesss.” I moaned.
I knew there and then that it was an empty promise. Months ago the
prospect of being a pageboy seemed perfectly normal... it was only
when people suggested that I was a bit too old to be a pageboy that I
began having second thoughts... and only when the Fauntleroy inspired
outfit was revealed to me did I realise just what I was letting
myself in for.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--The worst day of my life-->It
felt like the worst day of my life from the moment I woke up on the
morning of my sister's wedding. Mum or Natasha must have crept into
my room as I slept because the first thing I saw after peeling my
eyes open was my outfit hanging from various hangers on my wardrobe
door handles. I gulped at it but figured that after today, I won't
have to think about it ever again. I sat up and swung my legs out of
bed, yawned and stretched and rubbed my head, then emitted a combined
groan and growl at the prospect of wearing those horrendous
petti-shorts. With so many ruffles and lacy frills, there's no
denying what they really are and even if I am wearing underpants
beneath them and shorts on top, I'll still feel like I'm wearing a
big pair of frilly knickers, I mournfully mused as I got myself out
of bed. “What the...?!” I gasped as I noticed an ominous item on
my desk. “I'm not wearing those!” I grimaced as I opened my
bedroom door and took myself to the bathroom.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSZffZQY69MNhaV6vRbNtRfzNetqK4oACcATnmyRkTBKLW85Hkyk_2ThNxl4Wv0kanV9EqR8Y7rOVk7eRZYn15bGY9XV01slRI2FQr5BzdLClvGz89sZZTXNBEZu7B-xK_Ynw3uURX/s1600/tights%252C+white+heart.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="804" data-original-width="607" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSZffZQY69MNhaV6vRbNtRfzNetqK4oACcATnmyRkTBKLW85Hkyk_2ThNxl4Wv0kanV9EqR8Y7rOVk7eRZYn15bGY9XV01slRI2FQr5BzdLClvGz89sZZTXNBEZu7B-xK_Ynw3uURX/s400/tights%252C+white+heart.jpg" width="301" /></a>When I exited the
bathroom, Mum was lurking on the landing. “Why are there some girls
tights on my desk?!” I protested.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“To wear with your
outfit.” my mother innocently replied. “You were quite adamant
that you didn't want to wear knee socks.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But that doesn't
mean that I want to wear tights!” I retorted. Mum explained my
Fauntleroy inspired outfit and claimed the in the period I'm dressing
for, boys wore tights “...but they called them 'hose' in those
days.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But they're not for
boys Mum!” I moaned, pointing to the photograph and the 'for girls'
statement on the packaging. “...and they've got hearts on!” I
noticed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They haven't quite
started making tights for boys yet... so you'll have to make do with
girl's ones.” my mother replied, adding that they bought a few
pairs to chose from and Natasha liked these the best, purely because
of their love heart pattern. “They're perfect for the occasion.”
Mum said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It wouldn't be so
bad if they were just plain.” I sulked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What did you say
about moaning on Natasha's big day?” Mum asked, rhetorically, of
course.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but you keep
springing things on me... first it was shorts and a shirt and knee
socks. Then it was bubble shorts and a frilly blouse... then those
petti-shorts... and now you're telling me that I've got to wear
tights!” I grulped (that's a combination of a grumble and a gulp).</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm sure tights were
mentioned when you said you didn't want to wear knee socks.” Mum
replied. “It all seems so long ago now.” she added. I couldn't
remember one way or the other, but I was inclined to believe that had
tights been mentioned, I would have remembered and would have
probably settled for knee socks after all. “Well either way...”
Mum retorted. “...you're wearing tights and that's that. It might
be sunny but it's early April. You'll be covered in goose pimples
otherwise.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I admitted defeat with
a sigh and a frown. Mum smiled. “Have you seen your shoes?” she
asked. They'd been placed on the carpet beneath my outfit and no, I
hadn't seen them.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Lp0MLj09PgUclqmF-_ErWMsYhIrwd0uvH1_-FDYN__aNnBZ8JREBiGsfN26N_Tkjdhc-_d3OtQhB2l0S7ZEBFECuNbhTe4xQ2dSHM6fw4TWSZVjuWQ-fHdAoGQjWrbXsVff22_oU/s1600/ivory+satin+dolly+shoes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Lp0MLj09PgUclqmF-_ErWMsYhIrwd0uvH1_-FDYN__aNnBZ8JREBiGsfN26N_Tkjdhc-_d3OtQhB2l0S7ZEBFECuNbhTe4xQ2dSHM6fw4TWSZVjuWQ-fHdAoGQjWrbXsVff22_oU/s400/ivory+satin+dolly+shoes.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're
definitely girls!” I exclaimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They
are... but boys wore slippers like this in the olden days so they're
perfectly in keeping with your outfit.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
gulped and recalled seeing some pictures of historical boy's clothing
and some of them did wear dainty little slippers with their elegant
outfits. “...but those tights aren't!” I sighed. “Their tights
weren't anything like those!” I stated, snarling at my pack of
tights.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know.” Mum agreed. “But they didn't have the technology to make
patterned tights back then.” my mother smugly claimed, adding that
they bought a few pairs and Natasha likes these the best.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What
are the others like?” I glumly asked. Mum fetched them from her room and placed two more pairs of patterned tights on my desk.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQIUvbvvH5iLMbpupSV43kOkbUvIB1_JxJSRB1Dsh42OsgftfIE4wJdmAw67jWCA2lGrlQJrXW0191GF2tMjaxHooAt-2T0i4HLFB7HgaHdOE8cXnLPelWcnoUY47auXjQRSV43uCN/s1600/CHOICES.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="804" data-original-width="647" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQIUvbvvH5iLMbpupSV43kOkbUvIB1_JxJSRB1Dsh42OsgftfIE4wJdmAw67jWCA2lGrlQJrXW0191GF2tMjaxHooAt-2T0i4HLFB7HgaHdOE8cXnLPelWcnoUY47auXjQRSV43uCN/s640/CHOICES.jpg" width="515" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd
rather wear those Monaco ones than tights with hearts on.” I
mournfully stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The
spotty ones?” Mum asked. I nodded. “Are you sure?” she quizzed.
“They are called 'princess ballerina'.” she patronisingly
informed me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“At
least they haven't got hearts or flowers on.” I muttered.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
your sister likes the heart ones best.” Mum reiterated, reminding
me that it's her special day, then suggesting I go downstairs and ask
my sister. “But if she says no... I don't want you moaning.” Mum
added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
up?” My sister asked as I mournfully sauntered in to the lounge,
where she sat in her bathrobe, sipping a coffee.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
didn't tell me I'd have to wear tights.” I mumbled. Natasha gave me
the same spiel as Mum had about me not wanting to wear knee socks.
“Can I wear the spotty ones instead?” I humbly asked. “Those
ones with the hearts on are far too girly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're
all girly.” she gleefully retorted. “Have you seen your shoes
yet?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I mournfully answered, gulping. “I'm gonna look like a girl either
way but...”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll
look like a pageboy.” my sister insisted. “No one's going to
mistake you for a girl if that's what you're worried about.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
worried about looking stupid.” I sulked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll
look lovely.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Too
lovely.” I muttered. Natasha smiled and told me that there's no
such thing. “So... can I wear the spotty tights instead?” I asked
after what felt like a long moment of silence. “Please?” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
sister sighed and said “I suppose so... but if they get laddered
you'll have to wear the heart tights.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
returned to my room and told Mum that could wear the spotty tights
instead. “Do you want a shower or breakfast first?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
made scrambled eggs with toast and bacon and for a few moments I
wasn't worried about looking ridiculous. Mum and Natasha discussed
the order of the day; the bridesmaids are due around 9.30am, the
hairstylist and make-up artist are coming at 10.00am and the wedding
car is due at noon. “...we'll save your make-up 'til last so you've
less chance to ruin it before the ceremony.” Mum said. I presumed
she was talking to Natasha, until my sister said “I'm sure he
won't.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not wearing make-up am I?” I gasped.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just
a little bit... you'll hardly notice it.” my sister told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But...
I'm supposed to be a boy.” I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
sure I told you months ago.” Mum replied. “Everyone in the bridal
party wears make-up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
didn't think that would include me though.” I replied. “I'm not a
bridesmaid.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No,
you're the pageboy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
starting to wish I was a bridesmaid now.” I muttered.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After
breakfast I took my miserable self up to the bathroom where I
showered and brushed my teeth. Mum was waiting in my bedroom and
handed me a pair of underpants. She had a vest ready and waiting.
“Arms up.” she smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not a kid Mum.” I mumbled as I slipped out of my bathrobe. “I can
dress myself.” I moaned as I put my arms through the vest and Mum
pulled it over my body. “This is a girl's vest!” I protested.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
is... if they made nice vests for boys I'd have got you one.” Mum
told me as she untwisted its broad lace shoulder straps. The stretchy
figure hugging fabric has a discreet floral pattern in the knit and
is hemmed with an inch of stretchy lace. “Why can't I wear a normal
vest?” I huffed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because
a normal vest wouldn't look as nice under your blouse.” Mum
replied. “Now what did I tell you about sulking and moaning today?”
she asked, before telling me that today is not all about me. “It's
your big sister's wedding day. She's put an awful lot of time, effort
and money into making sure that everything is perfect and that last
thing she wants is for you to ruin it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not going to ruin it.” I replied. “I just wish I'd been told at
the beginning that I'd be dressed as a girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“For
the umpteenth time... you're not dressed as a girl.” Mum retorted.
“I'm beginning to wish you were a bridesmaid too... I’m sure you
wouldn't be putting up this much fuss if you were.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“At
least I'd have known what I was letting myself in for.” I grumbled
as Mum began pulling a comb through my damp hair. She spent ages blow
drying my hair into a perfect pageboy style and as she did so, Mum
told me that if I was a bridesmaid, I'd have had my hair curled, my
ears pierced and would have spent the last week or two getting used
to walking in high heeled shoes and asked if I'd prefer that. “Not
really.” I mournfully replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
thought not.” Mum replied. “You'd have also been wearing knickers
and a bra instead of a vest and underpants.” she added. I gulped. I
suppose a girls vest is better than a bra... marginally.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Just
when I figured there were no more surprises, Mum helped my into my
tights and I quickly realised that they weren't just spotty. “I
glad you chose these ones.” Mum smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6e5WQKM0Z8O3TEuIyn3Ra-dccPeIshRcWmyUMM6YKOmHM-tLWz5fPvp_q0rcgMZjEoWpu1wi34LuBUF1EFqv1tpuh-fZE3MYHPHv5T9YA0aLFoBBFwyt2hPYn3Qh1PAGo79vjC4Ul/s1600/tights%252C+spotty+ballerina.fw.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="520" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6e5WQKM0Z8O3TEuIyn3Ra-dccPeIshRcWmyUMM6YKOmHM-tLWz5fPvp_q0rcgMZjEoWpu1wi34LuBUF1EFqv1tpuh-fZE3MYHPHv5T9YA0aLFoBBFwyt2hPYn3Qh1PAGo79vjC4Ul/s400/tights%252C+spotty+ballerina.fw.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
didn't know they had a different pattern on the feet.” I grimaced.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're
going to look lovely with your little shoes on.” Mum said, before
asking if they felt nice.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They
feel weird.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
suppose they will at first.” Mum replied. “Now they're very
delicate so you mustn't pinch or grab at them or they'll snag and
ladder.” she told me. “Then you'll<i> have</i> to wear the love
hearts.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Petti-shorts
next.” she said, picking them up.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Surely
she could have made those out of foam or something.” I frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'd
get all hot and sweaty if they were foam.” Mum smiled, holding the
super-frilly shorts open for me to step into. She pulled them all the
way up and stepped back to admire me. I gulped, hung my head and
looked down at myself. My legs look long, pale and thinner than usual
with the bulbous frilly petti-shorts. Thankfully they're only
underwear so no one's going to see them. Mum holds the blouse open
for me and reluctantly I push my hands through the sleeves and turn
around so she can button me in. With so many fancy details on the
front of my thin gauzy blouse, the lace trimmed vest I wore beneath
it wasn't so noticeable. But I knew it was a different story from
behind.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How's
he getting on?” Natasha asked, sneaking a peek.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's
fine.” Mum replied in a chirpy tone.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Under
normal circumstances I' have blurted 'get out' without hesitation,
but under these circumstances, I silently turned my eyes toward my
sister and grimaced. I daren't even glance down at my clothing as
Natasha ran her eyes up and down me. “You were right about those
tights... they are nicer.” she complimented. I winced at the
suggestion that I'd chosen my tights, but that's precisely what I
did. I gulped and glanced down... frills, bows, frills, ruffles,
lace, frills and a few more frills... all the way down to the very
tops of my legs, where the wispy white nylon tights are decorated
with sparse white spots down to my ankles.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
wish this blouse had a zip instead of buttons.” Mum commented,
complaining that they're too fiddly. “Worth it when they're done
though.” she enthused, running her fingers down the numerous
closely-set pearl buttons that run up the back of my blouse.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Definitely.”
my sister added. “His vest looks nice too.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
does.” Mum replied. “He put up a little fuss.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Understandable.”
my sister said. “It's almost a pity those petti-shorts are going to
be covered.” she added. Personally... and I never thought I'd say
this, not even to myself... but I can't wait to get my bubble shorts
on! My mother and sister continued to chatter about me, or more, chat
about my outfit as Mum fastened my buttons. I felt like the
dressmaker's dummy; a mere object onto which things are hung. Mum
told me to put my head up straight as she fastened the final few
buttons. “Has he got a clean robe to wear?” Natasha asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's
got a robe but whether it's clean or not...” Mum replied. My sister
said she find me one.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why
do I need a robe?” I asked in a whiny piny voice</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because
you'll probably feel a bit more comfortable in a robe when everyone
arrives.” Mum replied. “Unless you'd rather they see you as you
are.” she added as my sister returned with one of her own bath
robes. “There you are.” Mum said having finally fastened all of
the buttons on the back of my blouse.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
turned me to face her. I could feel myself blushing as Natasha cast
her eyes over me. A beaming smile swept her face. She told me that I
was going to look absolutely perfect as she handed me her robe.
Thankfully it was a plain white one, with a cotton waffle weave
rather than something overtly girlie. “Don't I need my shorts on?”
My sister checked the time and said there's still three hours yet, so
I'll put my shorts on later, after I've had my hair and make-up done.
Eager to conceal my petti-shorts, I casually suggested we put my
bubble shorts on now, but my sister said I'd just be sitting around
and she doesn't want them to go all flat on the back. “So... if I’m
not wearing them 'til later... I won't need these on.” I replied.
“They'll go flat too if I'm just sitting around.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“True.”
Natasha replied. Removing my petti-shorts felt like a small victory.
I pulled on the robe and fastened it as my mother and sister admired
the incredibly frilly 'shorts' before hanging them from a door knob</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
a pity they'll only be worn once.” Mum said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
sister agreed, adding that it's same for bridesmaid's dresses and
bridal gowns. “He could wear them as pyjama shorts, maybe.” she
mused.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes...
with a nice little night-shirt.” Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not going sleep in them!” I gasped. “They're practically a pair
of knickers!”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Bloomers.”
Natasha stated. “No one would know.” she added, winking at me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
knew she was teasing me but that didn't stop me from assertively
stating “I'm <u>not</u> sleeping in them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
only teasing you.” my sister grinned. “But I do want you to know
that you're the best little brother anyone could hope to have...
you're going to look just like I'd imagined and I can't thank you
enough.” she said, clutching my fingers and peering lovingly into
my eyes.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
OK.” I timidly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
I know you'd have rather been a bridesmaid...”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
never said that!” I stated. My sister claimed I had, on the day I'd
been to the hairdressers. I recalled something said but could quite
remember what. “...I didn't say I'd <i>rather</i> be a bridesmaid.”
I claimed. “I said I <i>may as well</i> be one... or something.”
I tentatively replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Same
thing really.” my sister replied. “Anyway... what I was going to
say was that I’d much rather have you as a pageboy than a
bridesmaid.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Dryly,
I replied “Me too.” Thankfully both my mother and sister picked
up on my sarcasm.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The
fact that you hate it so much makes it all the more special.”
Natasha said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How?”
I bluntly responded. Had they deliberately found me the worst outfit
I could imagine?</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because
you're doing so something selfless, just for me. It's pure altruism.”
she smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
could sense what she was saying but... “I don't know what either of
those words mean.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
means you're doing something nice for someone with want for nothing
in return.” Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh.”
I meekly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
you didn't once make me compromise.” my sister said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
I did say I wouldn't wear knee socks.” I timidly reminded her.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know but I wanted you in tights anyway.. so I guess we both got what
we wanted.” she informed me. “Do they feel nice?” she asked,
adding “I love wearing tights.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
don't know.” I replied. “I can hardly feel them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
what's so nice about them.” she said, smiling at my feet. “Has he
tried his shoes on yet?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
yet.” Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“If
they don't fit can I wear my trainers?” I asked, jovially yet
hopefully.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They'll
fit.” Natasha confidently stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
knew they would and once they were on, I felt all the more girlie.
Mum and Natasha gushed over how cute they looked and once again my
sister complimented 'my' choice of tights. Anyone would think I went
to the shop and bought them myself. “Now be careful you don't
ladder them.” she warned. “They're very delicate.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They
certainly felt delicate. I could barely detect the minuscule amount
of pressure they placed on my legs, but it was there. As I descended
the stairs I could feel them stretch and ever so slightly slip around
my hips and knees. I couldn't help but glance in the hallway mirror.
I could barely see the tiny white spots on my tights, but the ballet
slipper lacing around the feet and ankles appeared as plain as day.
They keep saying it's an old fashioned boy's outfit, inspired by
Little Lord Fauntleroy... but I can't help but wonder if they're
deliberately dressing me as girlie as possible without actually
putting me in a dress.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
watched TV whilst my mother and sister flustered around. The phone
seemed to be ringing every five minutes and as 9.30 approached,
Natasha anticipated the arrival of her bridesmaids. So did I and it's
going to be horrendous... look at his hair, look at his tights, look
at his shoes, ooh just look at that blouse, and those shorts! The
doorbell didn't ring until 9.45 and my sister sounded disgruntled
that it wasn't one of the bridesmaids. “I'm sure they'll be here
soon.” she said. “I told them half-past nine.” she added as she
led two women into the lounge, pointing out the large adjoining
dining room where they can set-up. One of the women smiles at me and
supposes I'm the little sister. “No this is my brother, the
pageboy.” Natasha told them, adding that I’m not fully dressed
yet. “He's not used to wearing make-up so I think we should leave
him 'til last so he doesn't ruin it.” she said. “But if the
others don't turn up soon...” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“His
make-up will only take a tick.” the make-up artist replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
he'll just need a blow-dry.” the hairdresser presumed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
sister explained her reservations about my haircut and that she'd
imagined a much shorter pageboy and asked if curling the ends right
under would do the trick and before the hairdresser could answer,
Natasha supposed that pinning it up at the back would work, then
suggested curls!</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
almost swallowed my tongue I gulped so hard when the hairdresser
replied, “Curls would be nice. But do <i>you</i> want curls?” she
asked me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm...”
I gulped. I wanted to say no but I didn't want to actually say it and
disappoint my sister. “...will they brush out?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They'll
wash out.” the hairdresser replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's
getting it cut anyway... he only grew it for his sister's wedding.”
Mum said, adding that I’m not a natural blonde either, pushing up
my fringe to reveal my naturally brown eyebrows. “Which you might
want to do something with.” my mother said to the make-up lady.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Natasha
glanced at her watch then sighed toward the door. “Where are
they?!” she gulped, before looking at me. “Are you OK with
curls?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
guess.” I gulped. I wasn't... but I felt as if I was being swept
along and felt inclined to just say yes to everything despite my gut
feeling screaming <i>noooo</i>.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Right
well lets get started.” the hairdresser said. She sat me down at
the table and put what I thought was a vanity case in front of me,
and plugged it in to the nearest socket. I could feel my spine
tingling and she and my sister talked curls; tight ones, loose ones,
big ones, little ones and most worryingly, angel curls.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
for a boy.” my sister said. “He's wearing a blouse with a
beautiful lace collar...” she explained, loosening my robe and
dropping it off my shoulders. “...and I'd like it hang short enough
so it doesn't touch his collar.” she said, lifting the back on my
hair.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
stylist made a few suggestions as she played with my hair and I felt
inclined to say something, if only to remind then that there’s a
person attached to the hair they're discussing. “Did Little Lord
Fauntleroy have curly hair?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
that I'm aware of... but there's hundreds of photographs online of
boys in the Victorian era with their hair in ringlets.” the
hairdresser replied. “It is a Victorian theme?” she quizzed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Kind
of... Victorian, Regency, Steampunk, Fantasy.” Natasha said,
describing the bridesmaid's dresses as regency style with little
puffed sleeves. She described her corseted tailored wedding dress and
the hairdresser presumed it was either white or ivory. Natasha
revealed that Jess, her wife-to-be is wearing white today, adding
that she'll be wearing grey twill that matches my little puffed
shorts. I gulped, trying not to imagine just what I'll look like when
all this is over, but doing just that. The hairdresser began
sectioning off my hair and I stopped worrying about what my outfit
will look like and began worrying what my hair will look like.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
vanity case turned out be a set of heated rollers, which the
hairdresser swiftly rolled one by one into my hair. I found myself
focusing more on biting my lip than what was happening to me... then
some of the bridesmaids arrived and everything got really noisy. Two
by two all six of them arrived and I began to wonder if they'd ever
notice me. I could see them out of the corner of my eye as god knows
how many rollers were put in my hair. The other lady; the make-up
artist began unpacking all her stuff on the other end of the dining
table. I watched, presumably with an expression of fear on my face
because she looked up and told me not to look so worried. “...you
only need a little bit, and it does wash off.” I tried my best to
convey my sense of fear and dread with a gulp and a smile.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are
you the make-up lady?” I heard an all too familiar voice ask. Here
we go, I thought as Lottie, my confident ten year old cousin entered
my field of vision. Lottie turns to me and says “Hi.” but she
doesn't appear at all bemused by my predicament. I replied with a
barely audible 'Hi' but Lottie was more interested in the make-up
lady's huge vanity case. “I wish I had so much make-up.” my
cousin said, before asking who's make-up the lady would be doing
first.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“This
handsome young man over here.” the lady replied, “When he's got
his rollers in.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Won't
be long.” the hairdresser replied, “Just a few more to go then
he's all yours.” Mum sauntered in and asked how I was getting on.
“Almost done.” the hairdresser told her as she put the final
roller in. “Just needs some setting solution.” she added, before
shaking an aerosol and asking me to shield my eyes.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ooh
that smells nice.” Mum said as my head was doused in whatever the
setting lotion contained. “Is it lavender?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Lavender
and honeysuckle.” the hairdresser replied. “These solutions have
come a long way... not so long ago they smelled of nothing but the
chemicals they're made of.” she said, spraying a few extra little
bursts here and there.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Has
he been been any trouble?” Mum asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“None
at all.” the hairdresser said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why
don't you go back in the lounge with the other ladies Lottie.” Mum
said to my cousin.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
like watching.” Lottie replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know, but he's shy enough without you watching him have his hair and
make-up done.” Mum told her, ushering her back to the lounge.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Right
young man... I'll see you in an hour or so.” the hairdresser told
me as she removed the towel from my shoulders. “Don't touch them or
you'll get the setting solution on your fingers.” she told me,
peeling off a pair of protective gloves.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I said. “Thank you.” I meekly peeped as I stood.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're
welcome.” the hairdresser smiled, glancing down at my feet. I
couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking. Maybe in her line of
work, she's styled the hair of plenty of boys who were going to be a
bridesmaid so doing my hair is nothing out of the ordinary for her...
maybe.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
headed around the dining table to the make-up lady. “Thanks.” I
timidly gulped as she pulled a chair out for me. I sat and saw my
reflection, all but my fringe was held in numerous white rollers, set
closely and neatly in horizontal rows. “I look like a barrister.”
I said. The make-up lady chuckled and said I do a bit, before asking
me to look up at her so she could see what I'd need. “I'm not going
to wear loads am I?” I bashfully asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
suppose if you're used to wearing no make-up then even a little bit
will feel like a lot.” she replied, gently pushing my fringe off my
forehead. “Have you worn make-up before?” she asked. I shook my
head. “Not even for a school play?” she quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.”
I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
believe it or not... make-up isn't just for girls.” she told me.
“Every boy you see in a magazine, and every man you've seen on TV
and all the famous actors all wear make-up.” she said. “You won't
need any eye shadow or blusher. We're not trying to make you look
like a girl.” she claimed, adding “...just a little eye-liner to
enhance the shape of your eyes, and some mascara to make your lashes
look nice and long.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I shyly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“...and
some foundation and a little bit of lipstick.” she added, causing
me to gulp.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She
grinned and told me that boys always look scared when she mentions
lipstick. “Have you done this to lots of boys?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A
few.” the make-up lady told me as she carefully tucked some sheets
of kitchen roll into my collar. “I'm just going to clip your fringe
up so I can see your eyebrows.” she said. “There that's better.”
she smiled. “Now this won't hurt but it's not exactly comfortable
either.” she told me as she pinched a small pair of tweezers
together. “You've just got a trust me.” she added, informing me
that it'll take a good few minutes.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I meekly said, letting her position my head before leaning in with
the tweezers. It wasn't as bad as ripping off a sticking plaster, but
it did hurt a little bit as she quickly plucked my eyebrows. She
worked in several bursts, plucking for five or ten seconds, then
leaning back to look before resuming the discomforting plucking. Her
calming voice assured me that she's only taking a little bit off,
despite it feeling like quite a lot. Apparently there's around
three-hundred hairs in each eyebrow and she's taking no more than
about fifty of them. “One at a time?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sometimes
I'm lucky and get two or three at once.” she humoured.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Will
they grow back?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Unfortunately.”
she replied. “But I wouldn't make much money if they didn't.” she
smiled. After five minutes or so, she asked me to have a look. I
gulped and faced the mirror and to be honest, they didn't look much
different. Just a little bit tidier I guess, thinner and more
defined. The make-up lady suggested taking just a little more off.
“Erm... OK.” I said. She proceeded to spend another four orfive
minutes plucking my eyebrows and when I looked at my reflection a
second time, I really could see the difference! The make-up lady
asked if they were OK. “Err... yeah.” I told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
make-up lady revealed a tube of Bonjella and said, “You're probably
more used to putting this on mouth ulcers, but it's ideal for plucked
eyebrows too.” she told me, before smearing some over each eyebrow.
“Shall we paint your nails whilst that's settling in?” she asked.
I gulped and nodded. The make-up lady complimented my fingernails and
told me that it's rare to see a boy my age who doesn't bite his
fingernails. I told her that my sister gave me a manicure earlier in
the week, and gave me strict instructions not to chew them. “When I
was a girl, my Mum made my brothers wear nail varnish to stop them
from biting their nails.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Did
it work?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of
course.” she grinned as she selected a tiny bottle of varnish from
a large collection. “Now I'm going to put some pink on because your
fingernails are naturally pink, and when that's dried, I'll put a
tiny crescent of white on the tips so they'll look perfectly
natural.” she explained.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I timidly replied. I didn't know I’d be wearing nail varnish too
and I really didn't want to... but considering everything else, pale
pink fingernails aren't going to make any difference.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One
of the bridesmaids entered and sat in the hairstylist's chair. She
smiled at me. “You must be Tasha's little brother?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm...
yes.” I bashfully replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She
introduced herself as one of Jess's close friends. “The pageboy.”
she stated. “You must be very excited.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
a bit nervous.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll
be fine. All you have to do is lead the bridesmaids down the aisle.”
she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know.” I said. “I just hope I don't trip up or...”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fart.”
she grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
laughed, briefly. The main source of my nerves is the prospect of
everyone sniggering and laughing at me when I lead the bridesmaids
down the aisle... but I also hope I don't fart. My nails soon dried
and I was told not to chew them. “I won’t.” I said</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know you won't... it worked for my brothers.” the make-up lady said
as I looked at them; glossy pale pink with shiny white tips and not
at all natural looking. She began rummaging in her huge vanity case.
She removed several flat round tins and a bag full of small
triangular sponges. “This is called foundation. It hides any
blemishes on the skin and will give you nice even tone.” she
explained as she began removing the lids. “All I need is one that
matches your natural tone, and you'll hardly see it.” she told me.
She began applying it around my eyes and eyelids, then my nose and
cheeks, forehead, chin and neck. She selected some mascara and told
me not to worry if I flinch. I flinched. Several times in fact but
the make-up lady didn't mind. I wasn't quite so jumpy as she applied
the mascara to my other eye. She let me see my reflection and I
couldn't help but flutter my lashes. They looked a little bit longer
and bit more distinct, but I expected something more drastic. She
explained how she'd apply my eye-liner and advised me not to look at
the pencil, otherwise I'll flinch, which I did, but she didn't mind.
I apologised. “Oh don't worry... it's a lot easier putting make-up
on you than it is a fidgety five year old.” the make-up lady said.
She turned me toward to mirror again and the eye-liner made a big
difference. It only covered the outer half of my lower lids but it
made my eyes look huge, like an animé or manga character. Next she
used a pencil and a tiny comb on my eyebrows that made them look even
more defined and feminine... but then she unclipped my fringe and
arranged it over my forehead and my new girlie eyebrows.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwviKHog8Jddb_GQx4Yh6dvr-7aIk93MpYk31kbWJjYutH-vesm5y6TAFxhT8NlQmA5gsYd-59OX2X2TIC2RPo4VzVST_xk57ZaBkdZOpYfuMO2V3BYvwsaBTbEm0NiexS6htzABam/s1600/c1ba0f406c98e9cae9d914325cafeb8e.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="376" data-original-width="563" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwviKHog8Jddb_GQx4Yh6dvr-7aIk93MpYk31kbWJjYutH-vesm5y6TAFxhT8NlQmA5gsYd-59OX2X2TIC2RPo4VzVST_xk57ZaBkdZOpYfuMO2V3BYvwsaBTbEm0NiexS6htzABam/s320/c1ba0f406c98e9cae9d914325cafeb8e.jpg" width="320" /></a>Finally,
she revealed the lipstick I'd be wearing. “It matches your
fingernails.” she smiled, before asking me to say 'oh'. I've been
put in a pair of tights, buttoned into a girl's blouse, had my hair
put in rollers, my eyebrows plucked, eye-liner and mascara applied...
but for some reason, the lipstick petrified me more than anything. I
froze as she applied it and gulped before rolling my lips together as
instructed. “I think that's you done.” the make-up lady told me.
“Now I can't stress enough how important it is that you don't rub
your eyes or wipe your mouth... otherwise you'll ruin it.” she
said. “And try not to lick or chew your lips... in fact, just try
not to touch your face at all.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I meekly replied. She told me to run along and put the lipstick in my
hand, suggesting I keep it in my pocket. “Erm... I don't think I've
got any pockets.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
give it to your mother then... it'll need topping up every hour or
so.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oooh!
You look nice!” my mum said when I sheepishly wondered into the
lounge. The other women all agreed. One drew attention to my rollers
and make-up, another to my shoes and the other to my tights. I gave
Mum the lipstick and asked where Natasha was. “Getting dressed.”
Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“When
are you getting dressed?” one of the bridesmaids asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
for a while yet.” Mum replied. “The bridesmaids need to get ready
first and we don't want his bubble shorts to loose their shape.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ooh...”
the bridesmaid frowned. “I can't wait to see you wearing your
suit.” she said. It's hardly a suit, I thought. “Tasha's been
showing us the photographs.” she told me. “Very steampunk!” she
added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Steampunk?
I thought. I know what steampunk is and I wouldn't use it to describe
my outfit... but I wasn't going to argue. “Can I go to my room?”
I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
love.” Mum replied. “The bridesmaids are using your room as a
dressing room.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But...
what's wrong with your room?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Natasha's
using my room.” Mum told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
wrong with her room?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
too small. It's only a box room.” Mum said.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxfq-9vieubqwMywzsnGm_eo4YtOzV9n20lU6LD2nRGQLKRLTXUJKpGRgnXFX4rpF4AY88Z8f2mKvMt8twmQPmsIo7yRol133pMtp3Hr0wiJEKWPDqcHyEVnY5ohQHEhSarBUMoG3f/s1600/pettishorts.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="623" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxfq-9vieubqwMywzsnGm_eo4YtOzV9n20lU6LD2nRGQLKRLTXUJKpGRgnXFX4rpF4AY88Z8f2mKvMt8twmQPmsIo7yRol133pMtp3Hr0wiJEKWPDqcHyEVnY5ohQHEhSarBUMoG3f/s200/pettishorts.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But...”
I gulped. My bubble shorts <u>and</u> my super-frilly petti-shorts are hung
from my wardrobe door which means all the bridesmaids will see
them. Mum asked if I needed anything from my room. “No.” I glumly
replied, realising that there's also two packs of girls tights on my
desk. I'm never going to live this down.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKa5WyQ92Tpe7vG1Sdb_V3DCzDpatWczpdhqBRXkT6yTRki2pyUsP3OhYJWz81_9QtVljKKWr9VQtK97Ms8CY618VtEldnMk3n-uSNJV6kCTHMZ8UeE0NKGOgXbqbnRirzwH8Abyv5/s1600/bubble+shorts.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="600" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKa5WyQ92Tpe7vG1Sdb_V3DCzDpatWczpdhqBRXkT6yTRki2pyUsP3OhYJWz81_9QtVljKKWr9VQtK97Ms8CY618VtEldnMk3n-uSNJV6kCTHMZ8UeE0NKGOgXbqbnRirzwH8Abyv5/s320/bubble+shorts.jpg" width="320" /></a>The
sound of footsteps on the stairs grabbed my attention and seconds
later, my cousin Lottie and one of the other bridesmaids entered the
lounge wearing their identical dresses. Pastel blue satin with little
puffed sleeves and a plain scooped neckline. The hem hung just below
the knee and neither wore tights. A pair of pale blue heeled shoes
hung from Lottie's fingers whilst the other bridesmaid wore her
shoes. I must admit I was a little bit envious because unlike my
outfit, their regency style dresses aren't at all fussy. I'm going to
stand out even more than I imagined.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
look nice with make-up on.” Lottie told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.”
I bashfully replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
can't wait to see what your hair's going to look like.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
think she speaks for all of us there.” Mum said, before directing
the other two bridesmaids up to my room. The hairdresser popped her
head in and said she was ready for another one. “Do you want to go
next Lottie?” Mum asked. My cousin was a lot more eager to sit in
the hairdresser's chair than I was, but she's a girl and girls are
supposed to like this stuff. “Would anyone like another tea or
coffee?” Mum offered, before asking me if wanted something to
drink.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Am
I allowed?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of
course you are.” she replied. “Are you worried about ruining your
lipstick?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
but... won't it come off?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
smiled. “Not all of it.” she said, removing my lipstick from her
pocket. “I'll top you up when need be.” she told me, before
asking if I wanted a hot drink, some juice or some fizzy pop. Mum
told me to make sure my robe was completely covering my blouse before
giving me a glass of juice, and advised me to sip rather than gulp.
“In fact, you'd best use a straw.” she suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
what us girls do.” one of the bridesmaids said. “It saves a lot
of reapplying.” she smiled, looking me up and down. “Did you
shave your legs as well or are you just wearing tights?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm...
just tights.” I shyly replied. “My legs aren't very hairy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Lucky
you.” one of the others said. “I suppose being so fair helps.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
he's not a natural blonde.” Mum said. “He was a brunette until
last weekend.” she added, parting my fringe to reveal my brown
eyebrows. I expected them to comment on how thin they were, but no
one did... but I guess they hadn't seen my eyebrows before the
make-up lady plucked half of them off.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
first of the bridesmaids returned having had her hair and make-up
done. She looks ever so glamorous, and her hair is tied up with
flowers and sparkles and.... I hope I'm not going to have flowers in
my hair. Then the bridesmaids who'd been getting changed in my
bedroom returned wearing their enviably simple knee length dresses.
“We were just admiring your bloomers.” one of them said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
could feel myself blushing and I didn't know how to respond. “They're
just for under my shorts.” I meekly informed them.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“To
give them their bubble shape.” Mum added. “They're gorgeous
aren't they.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Delightful.”
the others agreed. The attention soon shifts away from me as Lottie
returned with her hair and make-up done. Being a girl, she's
naturally pretty but even I can't deny that she looks lovely with her
hair tied up with flowers and sparkly jewels. “We're wearing the
same lipstick.” she proudly tells me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.”
I bashfully reply, observing the differences between her make-up and
mine. Her eye-liner goes all the way around her eyes and she's also
wearing lots of eye-shadow and blusher too. She asks if I like her
make-up and choosing my words carefully, I reply “It looks nice on
you.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Over
the course of the hour, the conveyor of bridesmaids entering and
exiting the dining room ended and everyone had their hair and make-up
done. Which is when my sister came down wearing her wedding dress and
everyone cooed and gasped. Being a gay marriage, my sister is playing
the groom and wears a tailored grey twill dress with corset lacing, a
flouncy white blouse and little fitted waistcoat. On her feet is a
pair of block heeled Chelsea boots and brown fishnet tights stretched
around her exposed calves. It's her turn in the hairdressers chair
and I begin to feel increasingly nervous because I know that I'll be
next. Lottie was really sweet with me. Not once did she tease me or
say it was weird that I was wearing make-up and had a head full of
rollers. Nor did she snigger at my tights and girlie shoes... but
there's time yet because she's not seen my full outfit... well. Not
on me anyway.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How
are we doing for time?” the hairdresser asked, popping into the
lounge.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
bad.” Mum replied, adding that we've got an hour before the cars
are due.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shall
we get the pageboy dressed before I finish his hair or...?” the
hairdresser asked. “It should only take ten or fifteen minutes.”
she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
in that case.” Mum replied, and I soon found myself sat in the
hairdressers chair once more, having my rollers removed one by one.
With a mirror in front of me I had no choice but to watch as my hair
was carefully teased into a mass of tight spiralling curls. My sister
sat with the make-up lady having her face painted. Occasionally our
eyes would meet and she'd cast me a beaming smile, to which I’d
nervously smile back and gulp. Mum entered and gasped. “Oh my that
looks beautiful!” she exclaimed as she swept in and glared at me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why
have you brought those?” I asked as she put my balloon shorts on
the back of one chair and my petti-shorts on the back of another.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
you may as well get ready in here.” Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd
rather get ready in my bedroom.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
there's no need now I've brought these down.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
hairdresser adjusted my robe so it was snug around my neck and asked
me to hold it closed at the collar. “I just need to trim your
fringe a little and we don't want any cuttings on your blouse.” she
told me as she straightened it with a comb, told me to shut my eyes
before snipping away at my fringe. I opened my eyes to see my shapely
brown eyebrows on display beneath a high straight fringe and lots of
blonde ringlets. “All you need is a ribbon to hold it up at the
back and you're done.” she said, placing a long length of half inch
satin ribbon at the base of my skull and tying it around my head, in
a neat little bow right on top, then snipping the tails with her
scissors. “I'll just pop some bobby-pins in to hold your ribbon in
place.” the hairdresser told me, before placing them covertly
behind my ears, two on each side.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
that's wonderful!” my sister exclaimed. “That ribbon holds his
hair above his collar perfectly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
don't mind wearing a ribbon do you?” my mother asked me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm...
I guess not.” I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shall
we get your shorts on?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
suppose.” I mournfully replied. Thankfully my robe gave me plenty
of privacy as I pulled on my petti-shorts and bubble shorts, but I
had to remove it so Mum could make sure all the frills weren't
crumpled before the buttons were fastened. “It's going to be a pain
going to the loo with all these layers.” I said, realising that I'm
wearing shorts, petti-shorts, tights, and underpants. And with that
thought, I realised that my underpants are the only item of boys
clothing I’m wearing. Mum tucked my blouse into my shorts for me,
which frustrated me as I'm old enough to dress myself... then after
stepping back to admire me, Mum knelt in front of me and began
faffing with the legs of my shorts. “What are you doing?” I
moaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just
tending to the details.” she told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
looked down to see an inch of frilly lace emerging from the legs of
my shorts. “Hattie didn't do that the last time I wore them.” I
stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
sure she did.” Mum replied. “That's why she made your bloomers a
little bit longer than your shorts.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
looked to my sister who confirmed this to be the case and gulped.
“You look wonderful.” Natasha told me. “I can't wait for Jess
to see you. She's going to be delighted.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
All
the bridesmaids gushed and cooed over me when I was presented to
them; my hair a mass of bouncy curls apart from my fringe which is
short and straight. A small pale blue bow sits on the top of my head
and the frills and pussy bow billows out of the front of my blouse.
I'm asked to turn and they just love all the tiny pearl buttons
running up the back of my blouse and the pretty vest I'm wearing
beneath it. My sister draws their attention to the corset lacing
detail on the back of my shorts which echoes the corset style of her
supposedly 'masculine' wedding dress.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
love his tights... the little bow detail on the backs of his ankles
are so cute.” one of the bridesmaids said. My sister told them that
I had a few pairs of tights to choose from and I chose those. “Yes
we saw the other pairs in his room.” the bridesmaid said. “And I
love how his knickers stick out of his shorts.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're
not knickers.” I moaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're
called petti-shorts.” Mum stated. “Like a petticoat but shorts
instead.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Too
cute.” they gushed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
knock at the door drew everyone's attention. “Ooh that'll be the
florist!” my sister exclaimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
answered the door and a large tray of bridal bouquets were fetched
in. My sister is given the biggest one and the bridesmaids are each
given a small pink bouquet. “Which one's the pageboy?” the
florist knowingly asked, before handing me a small blue bouquet of
flowers. I gulped then forced a smile and said thank you. “I love
your nails.” she said. In all the excitement I'd forgotten about my
nail varnish.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
maid of honour began handing out some small paper handbags; pale pink
for the bridesmaids, white for Mum and a pale blue one for me. “What
is it?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
your confetti.” she replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With
a dainty little paper handbag in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in
the other, my outfit was complete. Mum showed me how to carry the
confetti bag in the crook of my elbow, and that I should hold my
bouquet with both hands when I lead the procession. “Perfect.”
she said. “Now that cars should be here shortly so let me top up
your lipstick.” she added. Everyone seemed to fall silent as my
mother lifted my chin and gently reapplied the pale pink lipstick,
before carefully faffing with my blouse, hair and the ribbon tied in
it. I could feel everyone watching me and I've never felt so humble.
Being the only boy in the bridal party, and the only one who isn't
wearing a dress, I can't help but wonder why my outfit is by far the
girliest.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It
wasn't long before the wedding cars arrived and I prepared to take my
first, nervous steps outside. Some of the neighbours come out of
their houses to watch us get into the cars. I try not to look and
just keep my eyes dead ahead. My hair feels light and bouncy in the
gentle breeze, which feels cooler than expected on my nylon clad
legs. I observe how the breeze gently wafts the bridesmaid's simple
calf length dresses and I can't help but wish that I was one of them,
instead of being the prissiest pageboy that anyone has ever seen.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
ceremony is in a swanky country hotel and the registrar quickly goes
over the order of service with Mum and Natasha. Since my sister is
playing the part of the groom, she'll be waiting at the front with
her maid of honour, and when Jess, the bride arrives, I'll be leading
the procession. “Oh what a beautiful pageboy.” the registrar
exclaimed. “I've seen plenty of boys as bridesmaids but never a
girl as a pageboy.” she smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
was dumbstruck. My sister pointed out her error. “...this is my
little brother.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
I am sorry.” the registrar smiled. “I think it was your bouquet
and handbag that confused me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
wanted to be the pageboy.” Lottie announced. I'd have rather been a
bridesmaid, I thought for the umpteenth time.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
mother and sister had to go indoors and I had to wait outside with
the bridesmaids for the bride, her parents, the ushers, the flower
girl and the ring bearer to arrive. But first, Mum had to fuss with
my shorts again, making sure that my lacy bloomers were sticking out
of my shorts. “Now remember not to rush when you lead the
procession.” she told me. “Slow steps so everyone can have a good
look at you and bridesmaids.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
Mum you did that before we left.” I moaned as she got my lipstick
out of her handbag. Regardless, she put another coat of lipstick on
me before she and my sister went indoors, leaving us to wait for the
bride. When they did I was gutted because the ring bearer (one of
Jess's nephews) was just wearing a normal suit. Jess gushed over how
lovely I looked and told me that Natasha had been keeping my outfit a
big secret from her. “Me too.” I mournfully replied. “I thought
it was just going to be a pair of smart shorts and a shirt.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
exactly what you are wearing my dear.” Jess smiled, adding “Love
the hair by the way... you should keep it like that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Of
course everyone was more interested in Jess's dress than they were my
pageboy outfit. She wears a traditional bridal gown in white, with
satin and lace and big puffed sleeves. The flower girl wears
something similar yet much much smaller since she only six years old
and next to those, I suppose that my pageboy outfit is the third
girliest outfit in the bridal party.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Within
minutes we're heading indoors and I have to stand at the entrance to
the grand reception hall as the bridesmaids assemble themselves
behind me, the ring bearer and flower girl behind them, and finally,
the bride and her father. The moment the music starts, I begin to
walk.. slowly of course, in time with Bach's <i>Air on a G String</i>.
All eyes are on me as I lead the way and I feel incredibly nervous. I
can hear people cooing and murmuring; <i>look at his hair, he's
wearing lipstick, doesn't he look sweet, ohh how cute, aren't the
bridesmaid's dresses lovely, here comes the bride, oh look at the
flower girl, look he's wearing tights</i><span style="font-style: normal;">...
as I near the front I see my mother and sister waiting with the
registrar. Mum gestures for me to smile and as nervous and self
conscious as I am, I try my best.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well done love... you were perfect.” Mum said once we'd taken
our seats. She faffed with my hair and its little bow, before
straightening the ruffles on my blouse. The service began with the
registrar welcoming everyone and introducing the bride and bride by
name. The ceremony wasn't too long, maybe fifteen minutes, but it was
tiresome. After exchanging their vows, the brides kissed and everyone
cheered. I breathed a sigh of relief that it was finally over, but
then realised that this was only the beginning.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Everyone filtered outside and we all tossed our confetti as the newlyweds made their exit. People mingled and chatted, photographs were
taken, both amateur and professional and I was constantly being
called to stand here or there before having my hair and blouse faffed
with, not to mention my mother making sure that the frilly legs of my
bloomers were sticking out of the legs of my shorts. A family friend
sauntered over and said how nice I looked, before stating that
pageboy's don't normally carry a bouquet. “No but we thought it
would be nice.” Mum replied, pointing out that my bouquet of
flowers is blue whilst the bridesmaids' are pink. Then she reapplied
my lipstick in front of everyone, then sent me off to stand with the
bridesmaids for yet another group photograph.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After an hour and god knows how many photographs, we returned indoors
for the wedding banquet. I had to sit on the same table as Lottie, my
cousins Thomas and James, and their parents; Uncle Carl and Auntie
Heather. The boys couldn't help but comment on just how girlie I
looked and despite their parents frequently telling them not to tease
me, they just couldn't help themselves. “Take no notice of them.”
my aunt said. “They're only jealous.” she claimed. I didn't
believe her for a moment. Who'd be jealous of such a prissy outfit?
Not Thomas or James, that's for sure.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">After
the meal came the speeches which went on for ages. I got a special
mention in Jess's speech for being </span><i>the best little
brother-in-law in the world</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and
everyone clapped. Once the speeches were over, Mum came to our table
and asked if I'd behaved. “He's been as good as gold.” Auntie
Heather replied. “Unlike these two.” she added, scowling at her
sons. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You haven't been teasing him have you?” my mother asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” they lied in unison.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I hope not.” Mum replied, before removing my lipstick from her
handbag. Both Thomas and James began sniggering as my mother
repainted my lips in front of them. Their mother berated them but not
so much that she caused a scene. My mother took hold of my hand.
“Come on.” she said, leading me away from the table.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's going to have his nappy changed.” Thomas snorted. James
giggled. As we walked I overheard Lottie telling them not to be so
mean and that I'm not wearing a nappy, but a pair of very frilly
bloomers.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Take no notice of those boys.” Mum said. “They'll get their
comeuppance one day.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I told you people would think I'm wearing a nappy.” I grumbled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No one thinks you're wearing a nappy.” Mum insisted. “They're
just teasing you. Ignore them.” she stated. That's easy for her to
say.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We approached another group of our extended family who said they
hadn't recognised me when I led the bridal procession. I was told
that I really suited my blonde hair and curls, but I figured they
were being tactful, in the same way one comments on a ghastly dress
by describing it as really nice. Almost everyone we mingled with
mentioned my lovely shoes, cute tights, little shorts and blonde
curls, before dwelling on the details such as my glossy pink
fingernails, the bow in my hair and the lace trimmed vest that's
clearly visible beneath my thin wispy blouse. The women and girls all
cooed over my outfit whilst the boys and men just looked at me with
bemused expressions. <!--PROOFED--></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum spotted a middle aged lady with a blue rinse and enthusiastically
caught her attention. “You remember Aunt Audrey don't you?” Mum
said to me as we approached.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” I replied, before saying hello to the lady. She's my
mother's aunt which makes her my great aunt and we only really see
her at events like this. Aunt Audrey is one of those stern yet
affable people and predictably, she tells me how lovely I look.
“Thank you.” I politely replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Has he had a nice day?” she asked my mother.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it's been a bit daunting for him, having such an important
role in the bridal procession, but I think he's enjoyed himself,
haven't you?” my mother replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh that's good.” Aunt Audrey smiled before I had chance to
reply. I wouldn't have known what to say anyway, but I'd have hardly
described my day as enjoyable. “Ooh and here comes Charlotte!”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I turn to see cousin Lottie approach. “Hello Auntie.” Lottie
smiled. “You forgot this.” she said, handing me my bouquet.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Haven't you grown!” Aunt Audrey exclaimed. “She's taller than
you are.” she noted as Lottie stood beside me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I am wearing heels.” Lottie stated, flattening her skirt and
peering down at a pair of heeled sandals, before turning to me and
telling me that neither James or Thomas will dance with her and asked
if I would.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... there's no music on.” I informed her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but when there is, will you dance with me....
pleeaaassseee?” Lottie asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't really know how to dance.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm sure Charlotte can teach you a couple of simple steps.” Aunt
Audrey suggested.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course he'll dance with you Lottie.” my mother told her.
“Won't you?” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I suppose.” I mournfully replied as Lottie's face lit up. Mum
and her Aunt Audrey began twittering amongst themselves. I felt like
a spare part. “Thanks for sticking up for me before... when your
brothers were teasing me.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's OK.” Lottie replied. “Boys can be so mean sometimes.”
she said. “I think they're jealous.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Who'd be jealous of this?” I replied, looking down at my
horrific attire.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think it's because of all the attention you're getting.”
Lottie said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's not me who's getting the attention, it's my outfit.” I
replied. “All anyone says is how nice I look.” I frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's nothing to be glum about. Its nice wearing nice clothes.
Don't you feel special?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I suppose so.” I replied. “I just feel a bit silly too.” I
said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only because you're not used to looking so nice.” Lottie
replied, adding “It must be weird being a boy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It is when you're dressed like this.” I mournfully replied. Aunt
Heather appeared along with James and Thomas and said they we're
going to take a walk around the grounds before the brides have their
first dance. “Would you like to come?” she asked me. I envisaged
the boys sneering and teasing me so I politely declined. They left
and I loitered whilst Mum and her aunt chatted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“...why wait six months when things are going so well?” Aunt
Audrey enthused.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It does make sense I suppose.” Mum replied, glancing at me.
“Where did Lottie go?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“For a walk with auntie Heather.” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Didn't you want to go?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“James and Thomas were going too.” I glumly said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh well never mind.” Mum replied. “I wonder if Aunt Audrey
will be able to tell you the names of all those flowers.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Let's see.” Aunt Audrey said as I handed her my bouquet.
“Hmm...” she mused, before pointing out and naming delphinium,
cornflower, lavender and sweet peas.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thank you.” I politely said as she handed it back to me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What they need is some damp tissue and some tinfoil, otherwise
they'll begin to wilt.” Aunt Audrey said. “I bet if you go to the
kitchens and ask nicely...”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The last thing I wanted to do was go to the kitchens and ask nicely
for something to keep my bouquet alive, but that's exactly what I
did. I returned with the stalks wrapped in foil and damp tissue.
“Good boy.” Aunt Audrey said. “They'll last for days providing
they've got something to drink.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Where's Mum?” I asked. Aunt Audrey said she was mingling, before
telling me that I do look nice with my hair in curls. “Thanks.” I
timidly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your mummy said you'd need some of this.” she said, revealing
the all too familiar lipstick and removing the lid. “Chin up.”
she chirped. I did nothing but gulp as Aunt Audrey lightly lifted my
face and painted my lips in the soft pink shade. “Now roll your
lips together.” she said. “Good boy. That looks lovely.” she
smiled as she faffed with my lacy collar and pussy bow. “You must
feel very privileged wearing such a fancy outfit. Expensive too.”
she said to me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I guess.” I replied. Aunt Audrey asked me about school and my
hobbies and whilst she was being nothing but nice to me, I couldn't
help but feel intimidated by her. She said I was looking a little
tired, adding that I've had a long day and that an early night might
be in order. “I'm OK.” I replied, although it did feel like a
very long day was finally coming to an end. Some loud pops and
crackles burst through the PA system which made everyone more alert.
The bright white ceiling lights dimmed and the dance floor lit up in
orange, red, pink, purple and blue. Everyone began to assemble and
Mum rejoined Aunt Audrey and myself. She began faffing with my hair,
arranging my curls and more annoyingly, fiddling with the ribbon tied
in it. “Oh Mu-um.” I moaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm just making sure you look nice.” she said. “Let me see
your lips.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Aunt Audrey's already done them.” I told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes I can see.” Mum smiled. “Did he moan?” my mother asked
her aunt.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course he didn't.” Aunt Audrey proudly replied. “You're
being a good boy today aren't you?” she said to me. “You must be
very proud.” she said to my mum.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">With
everybody assembled and waiting for my sister and her new wife to
have their first dance, the DJ introduced the newlyweds and they
took to the floor. It was very romantic watching Jess in her
traditional white wedding dress and Natasha in her more masculine
grey wedding dress dancing in each other's arms to Robbie's </span><i>She's
The One</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. They looked into each
others eyes and smiled, sang the occasional lyric to each other,
whispered sweet nothings in one another’s ears and occasionally
kissed. Everyone watched with smiles on their faces, swaying along to
the music and as their first dance song came to an end, the brides
beckoned everyone else onto the dance floor and all of a sudden,
Lottie appeared by my side.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
really didn't want to dance but what choice did I have? She pulled me
into the lights and I told her that I didn't know what to do. “Just
do this.” she said, taking hold of both my hands as the opening
notes of </span><i>Here Comes The Sun</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
rang through the speakers. Lottie looked down at her feet and stepped
left with her left foot, then brought her right foot to join it. Then
she stepped right with her right foot and brought her left foot to
join that. “Come on... it's easy.” she prompted with a smile, so
I began doing the same simple side step she was doing, trying my best
to keep in time. “You don't have to keep looking at your feet.”
Lottie said as the bright disco lights flashed red, green, blue and
purple on my tights. I looked at her instead, then glanced to my
mother and aunt Audrey who stood smiling and watching. It felt like
the longest, most self-conscious three minutes of the day. Everyone I
glanced at seemed to smile down on me, more than likely they were all
thinking how cute the girlie pageboy looks, dancing with the youngest
of the bridesmaids. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
next song began... </span><i>Just a small town girl... living in a
lonely wor-orld... take a midnight train going an-ny-where</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
...and Lottie told me she liked this one and kept tight hold of my
hands. I felt trapped on the dance floor. Stuck in the same simple
sidestep, feeling like a complete dork. If only my friends could see
me now, I thought as I realised what I must look like. The disco
lights illuminated Lottie's shimmering lipstick and I knew that my
lips must look just as vibrant in the flickering resplendent glow. My
blonde curly hair bouncing about my head, the beams of light shining
through my wispy blouse. I gulped and looked down at myself. Those
dainty shoes with their little bows which have been nothing but
comfortable all day long, and the lacy legs of my petticoats peering
out from the legs of my bubble shorts, casting little lacy shadows on
my tights that flashed in time with the music. ...</span><i>don't
stop, believin'</i><span style="font-style: normal;">... the chorus
sang as Lottie let go of one hand and cast me into a twirl under her
arm. She span me around and we grinned as our eyes met. ...</span><i>he's
such a girl</i><span style="font-style: normal;">... But that wasn't
the song. I looked around and spotted James and Thomas in the
shadows, pointing and laughing at me from the edge of the dance
floor.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Not one single moment on that dance floor was even vaguely enjoyable,
but seeing my cousins openly mocking me made my heart instantly sink.
I pulled my hands from Lottie's grasp and ran into the shadows. “Mum
they were laughing at me!” I sulked, looking back toward Lottie who
just carried on dancing on her own.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh take no notice.” Mum told me. “Go back and dance with
Lottie.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No... I don't want to.” I grumbled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think this ones getting tired.” Aunt Audrey said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not tired.” I stated as I pulled out a chair and sat.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you're getting stroppy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I sat in a sulk for ten, maybe fifteen minutes whilst my mother and
her aunt chatted and watched everyone else enjoying the party. Every
now and then they'd both look toward me and say something, so much so
I got the feeling they were talking about me specifically. My mood
only lightened when Mum asked me if I'd like Aunt Audrey to take me
home. I nodded. Aunt Audrey smiled and asked me when it was that I
last stayed at her house. “We're going to your house?” I
excitedly exclaimed. She has a wonderful big old house. I remember
playing the best game of hide and seek there once, and in the huge
garden there's trees to climb and bushes to play in and a croquet
lawn.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He hasn't got an overnight bag.” Mum said. “But you'll be OK
won't you?” she asked me. I nodded and after saying goodbye to
various guests including my big sister and new sister-in-law, I was
finally putting the worst day of my life behind me.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-44919034174832065692020-04-23T13:13:00.000-07:002020-06-30T12:14:26.512-07:00The Guardian<br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>A very
short story inspired by a picture by Vancy.<br />It's a bit grim!</i> :(</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
~o0o~</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A mother and her son
are moving across the country, From Catterick to Cornwall. Their
estate car is packed to the brim with boxes and cases, the roof rack
too. As the mother is strapping the last few things to the roof rack,
the new tenants of their home arrive and they chat. Mum introduces
herself as Maggie and amongst the small talk, tells them that she lost the boy's father in
Helmand six months ago, hence the move.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The boy appears at the
open front door, holding a vacuum cleaner. “Maggie!” he hollers.
“I've finished the hoovering, does this need to go in the car?”
he asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No that belongs to
the house Peter.” his mother replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He uses your first
name... how modern.” the woman says.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm his
step-mother.” Maggie replied. “Peter's mother left when he was
five and I met his father when he was six.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh I see.” the
woman says. “And how old is he now?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Eleven.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So for all intents
and purposes, you are his mother.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I like to think so.”
Maggie smiled. “He doesn't remember his real mum and I'm all he has
now.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh bless him... it
can be easy losing his father at his age.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No but he's tough.
Like his Dad, a real trouper.” Maggie smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Here he comes.”
the woman said as Peter exited the house.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
Maggie's phone rings.
“I've got to take this... excuse me.” Maggie says, wondering down
the drive, out of earshot and answering the phone.<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You must be Peter?”
the woman smiles when the boy exits the house and approaches the car.
They chat whilst his step-mum is clearly having a heated
conversation. “So you're moving to Cornwall I understand.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” Peter
replied. “Maggie's going to teach me to surf... it's gonna be
really cool.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So it's Bude you're
moving to?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just outside...
Stratton.” Peter replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ah... I don't know
it, but I do know that Bude is excellent for surfing... you'll have a
lot of fun there.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” Peter
replied, glancing it Maggie who seems frustrated on the phone.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's a long drive
from Catterick.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know... we're
stopping at my aunt's in Chedworth for the night then continuing to
Cornwall tomorrow.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Chedworth rings a
bell... where's that?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In the Cotswolds.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Lovely!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... but my
aunt's really bossy... I don't like her much.” Peter replied. “But
she's my dad's only sister and I know she wants to see me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes... I'm sure she
does.” the new tenant replied. “Your mum told me about your
father... I'm sorry.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's OK.” Peter
replied. “She's my step-mum.” Peter stated. “That's why I call
her Maggie and not Mum... but she is my Mum really.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes, she said.”
the new tenant replied as Maggie returned, having hung up. “Is
everything OK?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ohhh I hope so.”
Maggie replied. Peter asked who she was talking to. “Your Aunt.”
she sighed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Maggie shows the new
tenants around the house, checking that everything is clean and that
they haven't forgotten anything. She tells them about the local area,
the town, the school and the neighbours and wishes them all the best.
“They seem nice.” she said to Peter as they drove away from their
old life, embarking on their new one.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What was Aunt Sarah
saying?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“All sort of things.”
Maggie sighed. “But nothing to worry about.” she assured. “I
just need to pop into Catterick before we head off.” she told him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He waited in the car
whilst Maggie was in the solicitors... for almost half an hour he
waited. “You were ages.” he moaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes I'm sorry.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Some thing's wrong?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nothing that can't
be fixed.” she smiled, clutching his hand.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
His step mother was
clearly very stressed as they drove from Yorkshire, down through the
Midlands, past Nottingham, Leicester and Coventry and through miles
and miles of open rolling countryside and into the picturesque
Cotswold hills.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They arrive at their
destination; a large detached house. Aunt Sarah is on the doorstep as
the car slowly crunches over the gravel driveway. “Hello Aunt
Sarah.” Peter says, giving her a hesitant hug. His aunt sends him
inside where the housekeeper has sandwiches prepared for their
arrival.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Maggie and Sarah have a
stern exchange outside, before both enter the house. Both pretend
that everything is normal for a while, but Peter knows that something
is wrong. After they've eaten and drank some tea, Maggie says that
she and Peter should have a stroll around the garden. “What were
you and her arguing about?” Peter asked when they were outside and
out of earshot.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Maggie doesn't reply
until they're sat. “You know that your father and I weren't
married.” she states.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes but you're still
my Mum.” he replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know... but in the
eyes of the Law, it's not quite so simple.” Maggie sighed. “I
know I should have told you before now, but ever since your father
died, your Aunt has been trying to apply for custody of you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why?” Peter
retorted. “She doesn't even like me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She loves you very
much in her own way... and she is your closest blood relative.”
Maggie replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Was it her on the
phone this morning?” he asked. “When you were arguing.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” Maggie told
him. “That's why I had to go the solicitors.” she said. “I'm
sorry Peter but she won...” Maggie hung her head. “You have to
stay here.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But why?” he
whined. “I don't want to stay here!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She's your legal
guardian now.” Maggie told him. “I'll do everything I can to get
you back but... according to my solicitor, I've done everything I can
do and the decision has been made.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Maggie doesn't stay the
night as arranged, but she does have all of Peter's things packed up
in the car, which will need to be unloaded. “He has everything he
needs and anything he hasn't got I'll provide.” Aunt Sarah sternly
states. “A fresh start is best for the boy... not his old toys...
and certainly not that mountain bike thing.” she says, glaring at
his bike strapped to the roof rack.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They share a tearful
goodbye. Maggie promises she'll come and visit in a few months. Peter
asks his aunt if he can go to stay with Maggie in Cornwall, in the
summer maybe. “...you can teach me to surf like you promised.” he
enthused.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Surf?!” Aunt Sarah
exclaimed. “In the sea?!” she sighed. “That's far too
dangerous. The boy's much better off here where he'll be safe and
cared for.” she spat.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm perfectly
capable of caring for him Sarah... I've been his mother for five
years.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've barely been a
<i>step</i> mother.” Aunt Sarah retorted. “...since Robert never
actually married you.” she sniped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why you think he'll
be better off with such a vindictive woman like you I'll never know!”
Maggie growled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because he's my
blood.... you're just some floozy his father picked up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd better leave
before I do something you'll regret, Sarah.” Maggie snarled. And
with that, the boy and his step-mother were parted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
~o0o~</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Eight months later,
Maggie has finally been allowed to visit...</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtKX0rzSrrjTRri8laqSlmdmACtZcsN3jDZiLrwHcDyQrTxu9ivHZddPk5r5QpUW0qFIqpZG73IMSNSab9S9MC4VO3yRY8ifM-R4JSa4ty_u8RtT1VKR-NvGXI4vD41-ujfSjfzzxZ/s1600/guardian+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtKX0rzSrrjTRri8laqSlmdmACtZcsN3jDZiLrwHcDyQrTxu9ivHZddPk5r5QpUW0qFIqpZG73IMSNSab9S9MC4VO3yRY8ifM-R4JSa4ty_u8RtT1VKR-NvGXI4vD41-ujfSjfzzxZ/s1600/guardian+1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What
have you done to him?!” Maggie gasped. </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Surely you've heard
of petticoating?” Sarah replied, before prompting the boy to put
his doll down and say hello. He appeared almost brainwashed as he did
as asked, carefully putting the doll down in a seated position,
before curtseying and saying “Hello Maggie.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's not how we
address grown-ups Peter.” Aunt Sarah sternly told him. “Say hello
properly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hello Miss Slater.”
Peter said, curtseying once more.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why is he dressed
like that?” Maggie exclaimed. Sarah reiterated that he's been
petticoated, and this is how petticoated boy's dress. “But he's not
even wearing a dress!” Maggie gasped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not whilst he's
playing... it would only get creased, so he takes it off first...
don't you Peter?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes Auntie.” he
gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you need to see
Nanny about your nappy?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No auntie.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are you sure?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes Auntie.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well put your dress
back on. Playtime's over for today.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes Auntie.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Maggie and Sarah return
downstairs. “Why on earth is he wearing a nappy?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because he
misbehaved yesterday.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's eleven years
old! ...almost twelve!” Maggie remarked. “Making him wear a nappy at his age is
cruel!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's the rule.”
Sarah replied. “Nothing helps a boy reflect on his behaviour more
than stewing in his juices.” she stated, adding “Would you rather
I spanked him?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course not!”
Maggie exclaimed. “But making him dress like a girl must be
humiliating enough... let alone treating him like a baby.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only when he acts
like one and misbehaves.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm going to speak
to social services about this.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“By all means. I'm
acting well within the Law. Hundreds of case studies have been done
which prove that petticoating is both a proactive and harmless form
of discipline for adolescent boys.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He acts like you've
brainwashed him.” Maggie retorted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's merely learned
some manners... manners that he didn't have when you brought him to
me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You took him from
me!” Maggie spat. “His father would be beside himself if he was
here.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“His father isn't
here. The boy is being raised as I, his legal guardian, sees fit.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And what about
school?” Maggie asked. “He doesn't dress like that at school does
he?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I felt it best to
have him home schooled.” Sarah informed her. “A governess comes
everyday during term time... you needn't worry about his education.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm worried about
everything!” Maggie replied. “What you're doing is inhumane!”
she stated. “Now I understand why you wouldn’t let me visit!”
she said as the sound of footsteps drew her attention. Click. Clack.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack. The slow, regular sound of a solid heel
on a hardwood floor seemed to go on for an age before the boy
appeared in the doorway.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheHYUZ3_RoBRZUnVccDYysRYUjKFCBQNAXpTm-sWJRifa6TksTyse1IKXWluFflaHROnJquKs7oePfy7GQVOc4OTcLXXDS0lXI5xYp2z7zPrY_5E6vKn_LaaxG5LJCam5nP34E6UO/s1600/guardian+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="563" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheHYUZ3_RoBRZUnVccDYysRYUjKFCBQNAXpTm-sWJRifa6TksTyse1IKXWluFflaHROnJquKs7oePfy7GQVOc4OTcLXXDS0lXI5xYp2z7zPrY_5E6vKn_LaaxG5LJCam5nP34E6UO/s640/guardian+2.jpg" width="398" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
His bright yellow dress is trimmed with white lace and looked humiliatingly short. Peter looked mortified to be wearing such
an infantile outfit. In his hair is a big bright yellow bow and his
lips are painted in a bright pinky red. Maggie gulps as her eyes drop
to his feet; black patent Mary Jane shoes and a pair of lace trimmed
ankle socks. He stands absolutely to attention, with his hands behind
his back and Maggie can tell that he's not in the least bit happy
here.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well don't just
stand there Peter... say hello then you may sit.” Sarah instructed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The boy gulped and
dropped a curtsey, lifting his dress a little to reveal a glimpse of
his frilly over-knickers. “Hello Miss Slater, Auntie.” he meekly
said, before perching himself not on a chair, but a small stool.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll leave you to
chat.” Sarah said. “If you need anything. Just call.” Sarah
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh Peter.” Maggie
said, sounding on the verge of tears. “What's she doing to you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Auntie says it's for
the best.” Peter timidly replied. “I'm OK really.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Wouldn't you rather
be with me in Cornwall?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course I would
Maggie... but I can't.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Maggie glanced to the
open door. “Come on... I can take you away from this right now. We
can jump in the car and we'll drive off... she won't have time to
stop us.” Maggie said, holding out her hand. “I'll get you some
new clothes.... boys clothes... and won't have to dress like that
ever again.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No Maggie... I
can't.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You can. We can!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“This is what she
wants.” Peter replied. “You to come and take me away.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't think so.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She does... that's
why I'm in trouble... for eavesdropping.” he told her. “She wants
you to abduct me, then she'll call the police and we'll get caught
and I'll be brought back here and you'll be arrested.” he claimed.
“That's the only reason she let you visit me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But you can't stay
here... not like this.” Maggie said, knowing in her heart that his
every word is true.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't have a
choice.” Peter replied. “When I'm sixteen I'll be able to
leave... then I'll come... then you can teach me to surf.” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But that's five
years Peter... five years of living like a....” she paused, unable
to find a suitable word.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Little girl.”
Peter said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Worse than that if
she's making you wear nappies!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only when I'm
naughty.” he replied. “I've learned to behave myself now.” he
gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's like she's
broken you Peter... if there's anything I can do?” Maggie said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Peter shook his head
and stared at his hairless knees. Then he looked into her loving
eyes. “I'll come one day.. when the Law's on my side.” he told
her. “Will you wait?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll always be
waiting for you Peter.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know.” he
smiled. Peter stood and brushed his hands down his frock. “I think
about you every day Maggie.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And me you too!”
Maggie gushed, taking the boy in her arms and hugging the air out of
him, before coughing on his perfume, which he appeared to be doused
in.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How are you two
getting on?” the boy's aunt asked as she interrupted their embrace.
Maggie glared at her. “Maybe Peter can show you around the garden?”
she suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's OK auntie...
Miss Slater was about to leave anyway.” he said. “Weren't you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm.... yes.... it's
a long drive back to Cornwall.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you need some
fresh air young man... and make sure you play where we can see you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes Auntie.” Peter
replied, before turning to Maggie, dropping a curtsey and bidding
farewell to 'Miss Slater'. His heels clicked and clacked on the
flooring, all the way down the corridor.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So I trust you're
contented with what you've seen?” Sarah asked. “That he's happy
and healthy and well looked after.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He may be healthy
but he's certainly not happy.” Maggie scowled. “The poor boy.
You're robbing him of his formative years... making him live like
this. You're doing nothing but humiliating him.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Humiliation makes
for a humble soul.” Sarah replied. “He's come on leaps and bounds
from that boisterous brat you brought to me.” she said. “Now...
unless there's anything else?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sarah gestured toward
the door. Maggie clutched her handbag and made her way through it,
down the long corridor towards the front of the house. The sound of
gravel crunching in quick repetition filled her ears as she exited,
and there on the drive is Peter, playing with a skipping rope. The
bow on his head bounces like a butterfly and his short yellow frock
reveals his bulbous frilly over knickers with each and every skip.
Maggie gulps and gets in the car. She looks at her step-son one last time
before reversing onto the street. She stops and sobs until all
her tears are dry.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-31859039035078560132020-04-04T13:11:00.002-07:002020-12-23T05:14:14.109-08:00Karen's Café: part two<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You might want to <a href="https://forcedfeminisationstories.blogspot.com/2019/11/karens-cafe.html">read part one</a> if you haven't done so already</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~o0o~</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'd
agreed to work in my sister's café for a few weeks to provide cover
over the Easter holidays. This comes as a great relief to my sister
as she's been struggling to find cover, and my mother's happy that
I've found myself a part time job, even though it is only temporary.
It means Mum won't have to give me any pocket money for a while and
I’ll get seven pounds an hour which will add up to around
one-hundred pounds a week... that's a whole lot more than the ten
pounds pocket money I currently get. I've no idea what I'm going to
spend it on; video games, movies, music, apps or maybe save up and
buy a PS4 or a swanky e-bike, or a maybe a huge TV for my bedroom.
I'm getting giddy just thinking about the money... but the prospect
of working in my sister's café is beginning to fill me with dread.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
was feeling reluctantly confident when my sister talked me into it,
but that was yesterday and today, all I feel is reluctant. My
confidence ebbed away over night and in the cold light of day, the
idea of working as a waitress when I’m a fifteen year old boy
doesn't seem like such a good idea after all. I express my concerns
over breakfast and Mum tells me I've nothing to worry about; no one
will bat an eyelid. My sister reminds me of not only how great I
looked when I tried the uniform on, but also the fact that I
admittedly liked wearing it. I wash my face and brush my teeth and
despite having removed all my make-up before bed, I can still see a
trace of the eye-liner and foundation I wore. Not only that... my
sister tidied my eyebrows a little and I'm worried that they now look
a little too feminine. At least my long floppy fringe covers them
most of the time, but I'm still worried about them.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
please don't get cold feet Simon.” my sister said. “You know how
much I’ve struggled to find cover for Samantha and Bronte.” she
pleaded.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know... it's not covering for them I'm worried about, it's the
uniform I'll have to wear.” I whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
loved it last night.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
didn't 'love' it.” I stated. “I liked the tights.” I replied,
before admitting to also liking the satin dress she'd let me wear.
“But I'm having second thoughts now.” I told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
that's fine... having second thoughts is normal. I had nothing but
second thoughts before I opened my café but I knew I had to take the
plunge.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
different.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
is... I borrowed and invested thousands. I'm up to my eyeballs in
debt and will be for the next few years if all goes well.” she told
me. “But what I’m saying is, don't worry if you're having second
thoughts.” she reiterated. “I am too... but I have absolute faith
in you. It's hard work but you'll be absolutely fine.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
not the work though... it's the uniform.” I reiterated. “Working
as a waiter wouldn't bother me. It's working as a waitress I'm
worried about.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
one's trying to pass you off a girl Simon.” she told me. “Waiters
and waitresses do exactly the same job.” she stated. “In fact
these days the preferred term is 'server'.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why
can't I just wear a shirt and trousers?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We've
already had this conversation... my servers wear skirts.” she
bluntly stated. “And you wore it just as well as any of them.”
she reminded me. “I know you had reservations but you did say you'd
do it last night.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know but... it was OK last night when it was just you and Mum … but
in your café I'll be dressed as a waitress in front of all your
staff <i>and</i> customers.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll
be wearing exactly the same thing as my staff and the customers will
know you're a member of staff... which is the whole point of having a
specific uniform.” she said. “You won't have have to wear make-up
if you're worrying about looking too girlie.” she added. “So long
as you're clean shaven and your hair's tied back, you can go as you
are.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
I just looked like a boy in a skirt without make-up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
were a boy in a skirt <i>with</i> make-up Simon.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know but... I felt like it suited me more with make-up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Then
wear make-up.” she shrugged. “I honestly don't mind either way...
but please don't back out.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wearing
a waitresses uniform worried me. Wearing make-up worried me. Letting
my sister down worried me... especially after I'd told her that I
would help and would wear the uniform. “OK.” I said, swallowing
my pride. I huge grin swept her face. She told me I was 'the best'
and advised me to think of the money I'll be earning rather than the
uniform I’ll be wearing. She had a point. I would be getting paid a
very good wage for someone my age and I'd be able to buy myself all
sorts of stuff that I can't afford with my pocket money.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Later
that day. Mum came home from town and said “I got you these.” she
said, handing me a small carrier bag.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.”
I glumly said, removing a pack of 15 denier black tights. “Will I
need five pairs?” I asked, perusing the box. Mum said I probably
would over the course of four weeks. She also told me I'd have to
shave my legs. “Yeah I know.” I replied, having worked that out
for myself.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Sunday, shaving-->On
the Sunday, my sister knocked on my bedroom door. I guess Mum had
told her she'd bought me some tights and mentioned my legs. “I
thought you might want these.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
was just gonna use my Mach 3.” I said as she handed me not only an
electric LadyShave, but a woman's Venus razor too. She said my Mach 3
would be fine, but using the electric shaver to remove the bulk of my
leg hair first would make it a lot easier. The Venus razor is an
unused gift she had laying around and since my sister waxes, she has
no use for it. She explained how it's better shaped for armpits than
a men's razor. “Do I have to do my armpits?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll
be wearing a vest... so yes.” she told me, reminding me that
everything will grow back in no time.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I know.” I said, before reluctantly thanking her. A few hours
later, after trimming my legs and armpits with the electric
LadyShave, I sat in the bath and shaved my body hair for the very
first time. I thought my legs felt nice when clad in a pair of tights
but after pulling a razor over them, they felt fantastic! Having no
armpit hair felt a little weird though. I dried myself and donned my
bathrobe before rinsing and washing the bathtub. I returned the
LadyShave to my sister, but she said I could keep it since she no
longer uses it. “I don't want to keep it.” I said. “I won't use
it again.” I stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
she smiled. “Do your legs feel nice?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I guess.” I replied, playing down my true feelings. “My arm pits
feel a bit sticky though.” I added. I returned to my room and was
tempted to put a pair of tights on over my silky smooth legs, but
decided not to. I kept my bathrobe on for a while though.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
found myself daydreaming quite a lot throughout my day at school on
Monday. So much had happened since Friday and I can't tell anyone
about it. Part of me wanted to confide with one of the girls that I'd
worn a dress and tights and heels, had my hair 'done' and worn
make-up and really liked it, but I feared such a confession would
spread like wildfire. Part of me wanted to boast to my friends that
I've got a job for a few weeks and will earn a really good wage, but
they'd only want to know what the job is. Of course I could lie and
say I was going to be a waiter but they'd want to know where and when
and I couldn't risk any of them coming to my sister's café and
discovering the truth... so I kept everything to myself.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Tuesday... first day nerves-->On
Tuesday I found myself worrying about tonight's first shift at my
sister's café. Karen's told me that I'll soon forget about my
uniform but that's easy for her to say... wearing a short skirt and
tights is nothing new. Mum tells me to get straight on with my
homework when I get home, reminding me that I’ve got a 'big night'
ahead of me. “How could I forget?” I glumly retort. I have supper
an hour earlier than usual and my sister helps me get ready. I shower
and pull on a pair of tights. They feel so much nicer than they did
on Friday. “What are these for?” I asked as she handed me a tiny
pair of black shorts along with a black vest.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“To
wear under your skirt.” she said, reminding me that the skirts are
quite short and saying that all the girls wear a little pair of gym
shorts beneath. I pull on the shorts and vest and she tells me to put
some pants on. “You can change into the skirt when we get there.”
she suggested. I wasn't going to argue with that. “Do you want
make-up or not?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I guess.” I apathetically replied, recalling how I looked like a
boy in skirt without it, and significantly better with it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Instead
of doing my make-up for me, Karen coached me through doing my own.
This was daunting prospect, but she reassured me and claimed that
it's easy enough to apply. “A quick dusting of foundation, a little
eye-shadow, eye-liner and mascara.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
did the foundation and eye-shadow with ease. They're not exactly
rocket science. And I'd learned not to flinch away from the eye-liner
pencil and mascara brush on Friday, so applying those was a lot
easier than I’d anticipated. I was quite chuffed with my first
effort, although I didn't look half as good as had on Friday when my
sister applied it. She handed me a pink lipstick. “Is this the one
I wore on Friday?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
she said. “You seemed to like it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because
it looks like my own lip colour.” I said, taking it. She told me
that was precisely why she chose it for me. I looked at my reflection
and applied it and whilst it is a very similar shade to my natural
lip colour, it's perfectly obvious that I'm wearing lipstick. I
smiled at myself but didn't feel at all confident. Karen gave me a
bobble and I tied my shabby Ramone hair style into a high ponytail.
Leaving my fringe forward. She dealt with the straggly strands with a
few hair-slides, before telling me I was done. “Thanks.” I
nervously said. “I am crapping myself.” I confessed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll
be fine.” she assured. “The best boy waitress in all of
Christendom.” she claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The
only one more like.” I glumly added. I dropped my eyes to my
stocking feet, sticking out from my long pants. “Which shoes am I
wearing?” I asked. “Mum's heels again?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
no. Plimsolls.” she told me, specifying my all black baseball
shoes.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Karen
nodded. “I thought I'd told you that?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Maybe
she had. In all the fear and excitement I guess I began to fear the
worst and imagined myself tottering around on kitten heels, ferrying
plates and trays to and from the tables. Either way, the prospect of
wearing plimsolls was a huge relief, although they felt a little
loose with only a thin pair of tights and no socks on. “You all
set?” Mum asked as we descended the stairs.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I guess.” I replied, forcing a smile. “Karen said I could put my
skirt on there.” I added as Mum glared at my long pants. She wished
me luck as I donned my coat. “Thanks.” I replied. “I'll need
it.” I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll
be fine.” my sister said. “It's just a trial remember... but I
have every faith in you.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We
left and drove to the café in Karen's car. “Do the rest of your
staff know I’m working tonight?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of
course.” my sister replied. “They're a bit baffled that I managed
to talk you into it but they're looking forward to meeting you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>I'm</i>
a bit baffled that you talked me into it!” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
didn't take much persuading.” she claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes
I did!” I stated, but thinking about it... maybe I didn't. “I'm
still having second thoughts now.” I told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We
soon arrived at the café and Karen parked her car around the back. I
felt more than a little self conscious as we walked all the way round
to the front door. I glanced at my dull reflection in the shop
windows we passed and despite wearing pants and an overcoat, I looked
like a girl with my face painted and a little ponytail tied high on
my head. Karen raised the steel shutter and unlocked the door. The
alarm system began to beep and she darted to the console and inserted
the key, silencing it. I glanced around the unlit space. Inverted
chairs sit on the tables tops. “You can get changed in the back.”
my sister said. “Did you remember to bring your lippy?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I replied, pulling it from my jacket pocket.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
sister smiled and led me through to the back of her café where
there's a small staff room and loo, a store room, the kitchen and a
pantry. “The others should be here in ten or fifteen minutes.”
she told me, before leaving me alone whilst she turned on the ovens.
“You all set?” Karen asked when she returned a few moments later.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I guess.” I timidly said as she looked me up and down. “This
skirt feels shorter than I remember.” I added. My fingers hung
nervously about its knife pleated hem.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
it's the same skirt.” she smiled. “Come on... lets put the chairs
out.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There's
twenty tables with four chairs each so a total of eighty chairs
needed putting in place. My sister left me to it whilst she put out
the menus. It didn't seem too daunting a task but after the first
twenty, I certainly warmed up and began to feel a little breathless.
One by one her staff arrived; one cook and two waitresses named Jan,
Olivia and Trish. Karen introduced me to them and shyly I shook their
hands and said hello, feeling incredibly self conscious as each
looked me up and down. But none of them commented on the fact that I
was a boy wearing make-up, a skinny black vest, short pleated skirt
and thin black tights. Olivia & Trish were dressed exactly the
same as Karen and myself but being young women, they wore the uniform
far better than I felt I did. My sister showed me the ropes,
explained the table numbers, the little note pad and the simple
shorthand for various orders such as C for coffee, T for tea, HT for
herbal etcetera. “Right, you need to top up your lippy and put this
on.” she said, handing me a small white apron.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
gulped at it. “I thought you didn't want aprons?” I said,
recalling the extensive discussion all those months ago. Karen told
me she didn't initially but the waitresses needed a pocket to put
their pen and pad in and Stephanie, whom I’m covering for is
apparently a dab hand with a sewing machine and made the dainty
little aprons out of old serviettes and table cloths. They even had
frills around the hem and what my sister called a faux-bow; that
being a perfect and permanently tied bow on the back, with a discreet
hook & eye fastening on the side. Once I’d donned the little
apron, the uniform went from sassy and stylish to traditional with a
hint of tart.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
was as nervous as hell when the first customers came through the door
and doubly so when I took my first order from a family group; mum,
dad, son and either an aunt or grandmother. Olivia shadowed me and
said I needed to speak more clearly and confidently, but other than
that, she said I'd done well. “That boy was glaring at me.” I
said as we gathered the place mats at cutlery.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Think
nothing of it.” Olivia advised. “When you're a girl, people
glare.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
I'm err....” I gulped. “...not a girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know, but you are a waitress.” she smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
first hour was relatively quiet, then the café got rather busy and
just like my sister claimed, I didn't have time to worry about my
attire as I juggled taking the orders, laying out cutlery, delivering
meals, taking payments, clearing tables... it was like a whirlwind
that lasted ninety minutes but the time flew and before I knew it we
were seeing off the last few customers. The sign on the door was
switched from open to closed and Olivia & Trish both removed
their frilly little aprons. I followed suit, gulping at the perfectly
effeminate bow that I've worn on the small of my back all evening.
“So how do you think that went?” my sister asked as she took my
apron and folded it.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er...
apart from getting a couple of orders mixed up, and taking the wrong
bill to the wrong table, and almost dropping a bowl of soup on
someone...” I listed, panting and feeling flustered. “...erm... I
don't know.” I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
considering you've never worked tables before, you did OK...<i>ish</i>.”
Karen told me. Olivia and Trish agreed, before each offered some
constructive feedback. I knew I'd slipped up a handful of times but
it soon became apparent that I'd slipped up more than I thought.
Both, incidentally, were asked by separate customers if 'that
waitress' was a boy and my sister said she'd also been asked the same
thing. I grimaced and gulped. “Don't worry... I just said you were
covering for one of our regular waitresses and that I have a strict
uniform policy.” my sister told me. “...and they didn't seem at
all bothered.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Didn't
they think it was weird though.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
more unusual than weird... it is 2019 after all.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
and they probably think I'm trans.” I frowned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“If
anything they probably think I’m a harshly inflexible café owner.”
my sister smiled. “They looked a little perplexed when I said we
can't have one rule for us women and another for the boys.” Karen
added. “But they did drop a five pound tip.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
said much the same to mine.” Trish stated. “Equality in the
workplace, I said.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They
probably <i>do</i> think I'm trans if you put it like <i>that</i>!”
I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
yeah.” Trish grimaced. “Next time I'll say we have an equal
uniform policy... or something.” she bit her lip. “Still... they
seemed OK with it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is
there going to be a next time?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What
do you think?” she asked Trish and Olivia. “Will we loose custom
having a boy working as a waitress?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
I doubt it.” Olivia replied. “Some of 'em might think you're
trans but if they ask we can always explain.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
had a few reservations at first.” Trish stated. “But you did OK
considering.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Considering
what? I wondered. The fact it's my first time or the fact I'm just a
boy. Olivia and I wiped down all the tables and stacked all the
chairs whilst Trish helped in the kitchen. My sister cashed up the
register whilst the glass-washer whirred away behind the counter.
“Did you enjoy it tonight?” Olivia asked me as we cleared up. I
wasn't sure if 'enjoy' was the right word. Endure would be more apt.
“I was surprised at just how tiring it was when I first started.”
Olivia said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“To
be honest I was more daunted by dressing as a waitress than working
as one.” I replied, adding that my sister made it perfectly clear
that it was going to be hard work.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
bet you were.” Olivia grinned. “I can't help but admire your guts
though.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
think I'm nuts for agreeing to it, but I'm just doing my sister a
favour.” I bashfully replied. “I'd have preferred a shirt &
trousers but...” I shrugged, pursing a reluctant smile.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
just think of the money.” Olivia said. “None of us do this for
fun.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“True.”
I replied. “To be honest the uniform ain't so bad. I'd have
probably overheated if I was wearing a shirt & trousers.” I
said. “Plus, I didn't have time to worry about it once it got
busy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Once
we'd wiped the tables and stacked all the chairs, I swept the floor
and Olivia mopped it. I asked Karen if she had anything else for me
to do, and was sent to the kitchen where I emptied the dishwasher and
sorted all the crockery and cutlery. “So what's it like being a boy
and working as a waitress?” Jan the cook asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I'm not planing on telling any of my mates.” I dryly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ashamed
of doing women's work?” Trish asked, somewhat cuttingly.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
not at all... I don't think it is women's work... I just don't want
them to know that I have to wear a woman's uniform.” I said,
glancing down at my pleated skirt and nylon clad legs.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fair
enough.” Trish smiled. “You wear it well.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.”
I shyly replied. “I don't know if I was being paranoid or not but I
got the distinct feeling that everyone was glaring at my legs.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The
whole point of a short skirt is to draw attention to our legs.”
Trish retorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I guess.” I replied as my sister entered clutching her iPad. She
asked what we ware talking about.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your
brother's legs.” Jan grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're
far too nice to hide.” my sister said, before asking if she could
borrow me. “Can you finish off the cutlery and crockery please
Trish?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sure.”
Trish replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
followed my sister into the small staff / storeroom. She shut the
door and said she wanted to run through the list of errors I'd made.
I sat, smoothing my skirt and clutching my knees together. “It's
essential that you remember who ordered what... giving someone a soup
spoon when they've ordered <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">pâté</span>
isn't at all professional, and taking the bill to the wrong table is
absolutely unacceptable.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry.”
I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just
make sure you don't do it tomorrow.” she sternly told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
will.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
hope so.” Karen said. “I don't expect you to get everything right
on your first night but I do expect you to learn fast and I won't
tolerate repeated mistakes.” she told me. I gulped and nodded.
“Right.” she said, standing up and opening a cupboard. “You'll
need these.” she told me as she handed me some cellophane wrapped
packages. “Two more vests and another skirt.” she said. “Make
sure you wear a clean vest every shift.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err...
OK.” I said. “Thanks.” I gulped.<!--Heading home--> Karen
smiled and sent me back to help clear up whilst she finalised
tomorrow's food order. Afterwards, seventy eight pounds worth of tips
were divided between the four of us, equalling almost twenty pounds
each. Everyone left leaving myself and my sister, who checked the
windows and bolted the doors before setting the alarm. “Do you want
to grab your coat and pants?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
I'd forgotten about those!” I said as I hovered, waiting and day
dreaming about something along the lines of <i>what would my friends
think</i>?
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've
got two minutes... I’m setting the alarm.” she said as I darted
into the back. “Aren't you going to wear them?” she asked when I
returned, pulling on my overcoat with my pants folded under one arm.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
didn't think I’d have time.” I said. “...and no one I know'll
see me round here.” I added. The café is a good few miles away
from my school and most people I know, plus it's dark outside.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fair
enough.” my sister said, setting the alarm and ushering me out onto
the broad pavement. It felt both nerve racking and thrilling stepping
outside. I watched my dimly lit reflection disappear as the security
shutter slowly lowered. My legs looked ever so thin. Being mid March
when the days are warming, I realised that we're still at the tail
end of winter and the clear evening was rather chilly. “I didn't
think it'd be this cold.” I said as the light breeze nibbled
through my thin tights.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
not that cold.” my sister said. Her legs are just as exposed as
mine.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know but you're used to it.” I said. “I'm not.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
you're being very brave.” she smiled. “I would have waited if you
wanted to put your pants on.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know but... it's dark and I wanted to know what it felt like... just
wearing tights outside.” I said, glancing up and down the mostly
deserted pavement. “They're not very warm are they.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're
only fifteen den.” she said as we began to stroll. “But better
than nothing.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?”
I quizzed. “Because it kinda feels like I’m wearing nothing.” I
said as my legs strode through the cool evening air. “It must be
freezing in the middle of winter.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
can be... but like you say, us girls are used to it.” my sister
replied. “Which means we're just that bit tougher than boys.” she
jovially yet proudly stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I guess.” I replied, glancing at our reflection in a darkened shop
window. “Do you think I'm weird for wanting to know what it feels
like?” I asked, adding “...just wearing tights.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
at all.” Karen replied. “If anything I think you're cool for
wanting to try something new.” she said. “There's so many
different clothes we can wear but social norms restrict what boys are
allowed... if I was you and I'd spent my whole life wearing pants,
I'm sure I'd want to know what a skirt or dress felt like ...or a
pair of tights for that matter.” she mused as we entered the back
alley.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I replied. “Growing up we're almost brainwashed into hating
anything remotely girlie but maybe that's what makes it all the more
intriguing.” I said, before confessing to trying on one of her
<!--The confession-->party dresses when I was a kid.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?
Which one?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
described a pale blue frock with lilac flowers. She'd worn it for
some family function, maybe a 50<sup>th</sup> birthday party or a
ruby wedding anniversary and I remember her kicking up a fuss
beforehand. “I couldn't work out what was wrong with it.” I
recalled as we approached her car. “It was just a dress and girls
like dresses but for some reason you hated that one.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Karen
remembered it well. It was an aunt and uncle's silver wedding
anniversary. She described her dress having a big square collar and
little princess sleeves. “I was almost thirteen and it was like
something an eight year old would wear.” she grumbled. “Loads of
people sniggered at me that day.” she said. “You'll have only
been about seven or eight.” she figured. “I bet you looked well
cute.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
dunno. I was about ten when I tried it on.” I said. A load of stuff
was stacked in the spare bedroom destined for the charity shops and a
number of coats and dresses hung on a clothes rail. Mum had to drive
Karen somewhere so I was home alone for maybe twenty or thirty
minutes. “I was intrigued because you thought it was so awful but
to me it was just a dress... plus it was the only one that'd fit me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
it would have suited a ten year old more than thirteen year old.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
a ten year old boy.” I replied. “If anything I was underwhelmed
with it ...but I only wore it for a few minutes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Have
you worn anything since?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
before last Friday.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
there was me thinking I was putting you in your very first dress.”
she grinned, pulling out her car keys. “I wish I'd seen you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd
have been mortified if you had.” I said. “I remember getting into
a right panic because the zip was a lot easier to pull up than pull
down.” I reminisced. “I thought I was stuck in it!” I nervously
chuckled as the car beeped and flashed and unlocked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
the worst thing about dresses with a back fastening when you're a
kid.” Karen said as we got in the car. “You quite literally <i>are</i>
stuck in them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fortunately
I managed to get out of it. “ I said. “I'd have been in so much
trouble.” I recalled as I straightened my pleats over my lap. “But
in light of this... you'd have probably encouraged me to try even
more of your cast off's.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
probably would.” she grinned. “But it would have been Mum who'd
caught you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know... at least on Friday I had an excuse when she walked into your
room.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
thought I was in so much trouble.” Karen said. “She had a face
like thunder at first!”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know... imagine how she'd have reacted if she caught me when I was
ten... alone in the house wearing your party dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She'd
have probably reacted exactly the same way... shock and surprise
followed by realising that you looked really nice.” my sister mused
as she started the engine. “All my cast-off's could have been your
hand-me-downs.” she grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Eeek”
I grimaced, briefly re-imagining the last five years of my life. “You
won't tell mum that I tried one of your dresses on years ago will
you?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
don't think she'd mind.” Karen replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know but I don't want her thinking I'm a closet tranny.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
sure she won't... but I won't say anything.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.”
I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Home.-->We
soon arrived home and I strolled into the sitting room.“How did it
go?” Mum asked, looking me up and down.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I said. “I stopped being a bag of nerves after half an hour or so.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
the first day of any job is always a bit daunting.” Mum said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The
uniform worried me more than the job.” I replied. “Especially
when Karen told me I had to wear an apron.” I exclaimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Didn't
you know about those?” Mum quizzed. I shook my head. My sister
entered the lounge. “Did he got on OK?” Mum asked her.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
he was fine.” my sister said, before listing many of my numerous
errors.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
did the customers say anything about him?” Mum enquired.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah...
I just explained that he was covering for a regular waitress and I
have a very strict uniform policy.” my sister replied, adding that
none of them seemed to have any reservations about a boy working as a
waitress.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
sure some of them thought I was a transvestite.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I suppose some people might.” Mum replied. “Boys working as
waitresses isn't exactly the norm.” she said, before suggesting I
get myself to bed and reminding me that I have school in the morning.
“And don't forget to wash your make-up off.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
won't.” I said, before bidding my sister and mother goodnight. I
spent a moment just looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror
before removing one of the make-up wipes from the pack on the
windowsill. I removed the make-up from one half of my face first and
spent a moment comparing each side. The left side looked like me
whilst the right side looked like a better looking me, with brighter
eyes and longer lashes. I removed all of my make-up using the wipes,
then thoroughly washed with soap and water a few times until I was
convinced it had all gone.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
returned to my room and unpacked the vests and the skirt from their
cellophane wrapping, folded the vests and hung the skirt, before
undressing and getting into bed. Frankly, I was knackered and drifted
off to sleep in no time.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Wednesday-->The
next morning I woke and washed my face again using both make-up wipes
and soap. Mum asked if I'd slept well. “Like a log.” I said,
before asking if she could tell I'd been wearing make-up.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
really.” she replied. “Did you remember to hang your skirt up?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I said, before nervously chuckling and saying how weird that sounded.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
sure we'll get used to it before long.” Mum smiled. “I was rather
surprised that you wore it home last night.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I bashfully said, explaining that I thought I only had a minute when
Karen set the alarm and didn't have time to put my pants on.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are
you going to tell your friends that you've got a job?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.”
I stated. “They'd only want to know what and where and I'd have to
lie because there's no way I'm going to say I’m working as a
waitress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fair
enough.” Mum smiled. “Just be careful about flaunting your money
because they'll wonder where it came from.” she advised.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
If
I'd gotten myself a normal job, I'd have quite happily boasted to my
friends and classmates that I was earning my own money and got almost
as much in tips as I'd earned in wages last night, along with
anecdotes such as taking the wrong bill to the wrong table and almost
spilling a bowl of soup over a customer... but since I’m a teenage
boy working as a waitress in my sister's café, I feel it's probably
wise to keep quiet about it. With the school breaking up for Easter
on Friday, most of my classmates were looking forward to that and a
couple asked if I had any plans for the two week break. “No not
really.” I told them, suggesting we could maybe meet up at some
point, but deliberately kept it loose.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
arrived home at the usual time and got straight on with my homework.
I didn't have much to do so it only took an hour. I changed out of my
school uniform, pulled on a new pair of tights, a clean vest and the
tight gym shorts. “Yeah?” I said, hearing a knock on my bedroom
door.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hiya!”
my sister said, entering.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Karen
I'm getting changed!” I whined.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've
got shorts on.” she said, before inviting me to her room. “Don't
forget your bobble and hair slides.” she said. I grabbed them from
my bedside cabinet and followed my sister to her room.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Karen
sat me at her dressing table. First I tied my hair into a high
ponytail and Karen coached me in clipping up the straggly bits with
the hair slides and suggested I pinned my fringe back today. “Why?”
I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“For
a change.” she said. Reluctantly, I took her advice but wasn't too
keen on having my eyebrows on display since she'd plucked them as
part of my make-over on Friday. “They're hardly Greta Garbo.” she
said, before asking if anyone at school had noticed I'd had my
eyebrows shaped. They hadn't, thankfully. “Well there you go.” my
sister smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
my fringe covers them at school.” I claimed as she handed me some
hairspray and told me what to do with it. I shielded my face and
coughed in the cloud of fumes. “This'd be so much easier if I was a
waiter.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
as much fun though.” Karen replied. “I enjoy getting myself ready
to go out.” she said, listing doing her hair, doing her make-up,
choosing her jewellery... “All you boys do is brush your teeth and
brush your hair.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
shave.” I stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Have
you shaved?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
this morning.” I replied. Unlike some of the lads in my class at
school, I develop my five o'clock shadow every three or four days.
Karen ran her finger down my cheek, then asked if I'd shaved my legs
since Sunday. “No.” I replied. “Should I have?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Depends
if they feel smooth or stubbly.” she shrugged as I began to apply a
light dusting of foundation, followed by just a touch of eye-shadow.
“Is make-up expensive?” I asked as she handed me her eye-liner
pencil.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
can be... why?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
I was thinking... maybe I should buy some of my own.” I said. “It's
not fair to use yours all the time.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
don't mind.” she told me. “Unless you <i>want</i> some of your
own?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
like I said, it doesn't seem fair to keep using yours.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
could put you little bag together... I’ve loads and I certainly
don't use all of it.” she offered.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err...
OK... if you don't mind.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My
pleasure.” my sister smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Cool.”
I said, before turning to my reflection and carefully applying my
eye-liner. “Ooops.” I grimaced. “Have you got some cotton
buds?” My sister handed me some and I tidied up my mistake.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
learn quickly.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
saw you doing this yesterday.” I told her. “Does that look OK?”
I asked. Karen grinned and nodded. “Cool.” I said, putting down
the eye-liner and picking up the mascara.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Right...
I'll do this for you.” she said, picking up another pencil.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
that one?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
an eyebrow definer.” she told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
faced her rather than the mirror when she applied it, but expected to
see a pair of shapely and overtly feminine eyebrows when she'd
finished. I prepared myself before turning to the mirror. “Oh that
looks OK.” I said. Although having a clearly defined shape, my
brows looked fuller than before. “I thought you were going to make
them look really girlie.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
can if you want.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.”
I chuckled. “They're fine as they are.” I said, looking at my
reflection. On the dresser in front of me is a single lipstick. “Is
this one mine?” I asked, recognising the sculpted shiny container.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.”
my sister said. “But you can try a different shade if you like.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
I’ll err... stick with this one, thanks.” I timidly replied,
bashfully adding that I 'kind of' like it.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
like that you like it.” Karen said as I applied the lipstick. “Are
you going to be brave and wear your skirt or change when we get
there?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll
change when we get there.” I said, putting the lid back on the
lippy. “It's still light outside so...”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fair
enough.” Karen smiled, before telling me to go and put my pants on.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Supper
will be ten minutes!” Mum hollered up the stairs.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
pulled on some pants and pushed my stocking feet into my black
plimsolls. Mum said I looked nice when I sheepishly sauntered into
the kitchen. “Thanks.” I timidly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
nice seeing <i>all </i>of your face for a change.” my mother added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not so sure.” I replied. “It feels a bit weird not having a
fringe.” I said, raising my fingers to my exposed forehead. A few
minutes later, Karen joined us and made a pot of tea. Over supper,
she reminded me of some of my errors the previous day and hoped I
wouldn't make the same mistakes again. “I'll do my best.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know.” my sister smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After
supper I reapplied my lipstick and put it in my jacket pocket. “You
ready?” I asked my sister. She said she was but spent a good five
minutes parping about before we actually left. She said I seemed a
lot more relaxed today, but I still had butterflies in my tummy. “My
biggest worry is one of my classmates finding out I'm a waitress.”
I told her. Karen said it would be unlikely as teenagers don't tend
to frequent a classy café like here, plus, it's on the far side of
town, a good four miles away from our neighbourhood and my school.
“Yeah I guess.” I replied, yet still felt nervous.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wednesday's
shift was much the same as Tuesday’s. I changed into the skirt and
donned an apron on arrival, then began putting the chairs out whilst
Karen turned on the ovens. Jan the cook arrived first, soon followed
by Olivia and Trish. “Your hair looks nice.” Olivia said.
Bashfully, I thanked her. One thing about being a boy is people
seldom say things like that but since last Friday when Karen gave me
a make-over and talked me into working as a waitress, I've had no end
of compliments about my hair, my make-up and my legs. I find them
both daunting and encouraging. Trish down-stacked the chairs with me.
We chatted as we worked about this and that and she asked if I'd ever
considered getting my ears pierced. She was wearing a new pair of
earrings that she was particularly proud of, hence it coming into
conversation. “Err... not really.” I said. “I usually wear my
hair down so no one really sees my ears.” I added. She asked if I
wore 'skirts & stuff' at home. “Not really.” I replied.
“Karen put me in one of her dresses last week.” I confessed,
adding that it was quite nice.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Cool.”
she smiled. “If I was a guy I know I'd cross-dress.” she claimed.
“It'd be so boring just wearing pants all the time.” she added,
glancing at my legs.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I timidly said. “I keep telling myself that this isn't
cross-dressing because it's the only uniform Karen has... but it is
really.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
wear it as well as anyone.” Trish smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Yet
again I felt nervous and self conscious when the first customers
entered, but the more I served and the busier the café became, the
more I relaxed into my role of waitress. I frequently found myself
glancing at my colleagues Olivia and Trish; their short pleated
skirts swished from side to side as they marched between the tables
and serving hatch, and the bright white bow on the back of their
aprons looked perfectly dainty. I seems preposterous that I'm dressed
the same as them and no seems too bothered. Of course some of the
customers look a little bemused when I’m taking their orders but
other than that, it seems that a boy working as a waitress is mostly
acceptable if a little unusual. I get the feeling that it's me who
finds the concept more questionable than anyone else.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
two busy hours flew by as we dashed from table to table and before I
knew it, the last few customers were leaving. We wiped the tables,
stacked the chairs, swept and mopped the floor, loaded and unloaded
the dishwasher, dried the cutlery and got everything ready for
tomorrow morning. Tonight’s tips only equalled twelve pounds each
but I wasn't grumbling. In two evenings I've earned over fifty pounds
in wages and over thirty in tips which is more than two months pocket
money. If any of my classmates do find out and ridicule me for
working as a waitress, at least I can claim that I'm being well paid
for it. “You gonna put your pants on?” my sister asked after the
others had gone.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah.”
I replied as I removed my apron. “I'll only have to take them off
again when we get back.” I said. Karen bolted the doors and set the
alarm and I stood in the cool night air whilst the security shutter
slowly lowered. “It's windy tonight.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know... that's why I suggested you put your pants on.” she grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
if a girl can cope I’m sure I can.” I confidently replied as the
chilly breeze cut through my thin tights. Bravado aside... my legs
didn't half feel the cold as we walked round to the alley behind the
back of her café. “Brrrrr.” I said as I shut myself in the car,
rubbing my hands briskly over my lap. “I'm glad it's not December!”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
if us girls can cope I’m sure you can.” my sister teased.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
beginning to think its us that's the weaker sex.” I jovially
replied. My sister confirmed that we are as she started the engine.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's
not much point you taking those pants if you're not going to wear
them home.” Mum said when we returned. I explained that I'd feel
too exposed wearing my skirt when it's daylight and the streets are
busier. “Fair enough.” Mum smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The
wind was really cold tonight though.” I said as I perched on the
edge of the sofa. “Maybe I should have put them back on.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
sure even a boy can brave the elements between the café and the
car.” my mother smugly stated. “It's good that you're not
entirely timid about your uniform though.” she said. “Were the
customers OK tonight?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah...
I don't think any of them are bothered about a boy being a waitress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
it is 2019.” Mum shrugged. “It's high time workplace equality
worked both ways.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
one way of looking at it.” my sister said, overhearing our mother
as she entered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
can't help but wonder what I'm going to say if any of my mates find
out I'm a waitress... I’m not sure if saying it's equality working
both ways is enough to justify it.” I mused. Mum said I should
cross that bridge when I come to it and added that since it's a
temporary position, I mightn't even have to cross that bridge. “Yeah
true... I think I'm more worried about it than anyone.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
probably are.” my sister said. “But you've nothing to worry about
really... Mum's right. It is 2019 after all.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I guess.” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
soon went through the rigmarole of removing my make-up and letting
down may hair before taking myself to bed. I reflected on what my
sister said about enjoying the process of getting ready. Guys have it
so easy compared to girls but I'm beginning to enjoy the routine;
removing my eye make-up, foundation and lipstick, washing and
cleansing my face, taking out my hair-slides one by one, pulling out
my bobble, brushing my hair and carefully removing my tights before
slipping my smooth legs under my duvet.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Thursday-->On
Thursday at school, everyone was looking forward to the last day of
term and the two week Easter break. My friends were planing cinema
trips and eagerly anticipated going to see the new blockbuster movie
on its opening night... but I suggested seeing it a few days later
would be better. For obvious reasons I couldn't tell them that I'd be
working on the night they wanted to go, so instead argued that it'd
be packed on the opening night and going to the cinema on a Friday or
Saturday would be better than a Wednesday. But they were dead set on
going on the opening night, so I changed the subject slightly and
suggested going to see something else at the cinema tomorrow night,
but no one could agree which movie to go and see. Then one friend
said he couldn't see it either because he was going to see Dumbo on Friday. We teased him and defensively he claimed he had to take
his little sister.<br />
<br />
“How was school?” Mum asked when I returned
home.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I replied, before telling her about my friends wanting to go to the
cinema on Wednesday and Mum reminded me that I'd be working. “I
know... but I couldn't tell them that.” I replied. Mum said I could
just say I’ve got a job as a waiter and be vague about where. “It's
easier just to say nothing.” I replied. “...plus they all know
that Karen's got a café so they'd presume it was there.” I said.
“This would be so much easier if I was a waiter.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
as much fun though.” Mum smiled, before asking if I had any
homework.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
but it's not due back until after Easter.” I stated. Mum suggested
I get it out of the way. “Well I was thinking about having a bath
before work.” I replied. Mum suggested a quick shower. “But my
legs are getting stubbly.” I confessed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
smiled. I felt myself blush. “It's noting to be embarrassed
about... plenty of men shave their legs these days.” she claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'd
read something similar on the internet, but I'll bet none of them do
so because they're working as a waitress. I took myself to my room,
changed out of my school uniform and ran myself a bath. My legs
weren't very stubbly at all but felt so much nicer once they were
perfectly smooth again. I returned to my room and pulled on a clean
vest and slid a clean pair of tights up my super smooth legs, before
pulling on the little gym shorts and some long pants. Yet again I
found myself sitting at my sister's dressing table. “This is for
you?” she said, holding a small black handbag.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm...
I don't think I need a handbag do I?” I said as I took it from her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Karen
reminded me that she'd said she'd give me some make-up so I'm not
using hers all the time. “...all my make-up bags are pink &
girly so I rooted out an old handbag to keep it in.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh...
OK... thanks.” I bashfully replied as I opened the slightly
feminine bag. Inside is a compact, some eye-liner, mascara and an
eye-shadow palette, plus three different lipsticks. “Do I need
three lipsticks?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
nice to have a variety.” my sister said, reiterating that she's got
loads of cosmetics that she'll never use. “Now I didn't put your
favourite in because it's one of my favourites too... but those are
pretty close.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
OK.” I said, removing the contents.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
should get a vanity mirror for your desk.” she suggested as I tied
my hair up.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
was thinking that last night.” I replied as I tied my hair in a
bobble and pinned up my straggly ends. “Shall I pin my fringe back
again?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
up to you.” Karen replied, adding that it looks nice either way.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
decided to leave it down and began applying my make-up. After a light
dusting of foundation, I did my eye-shadow, liner and then my
mascara. “I feel like I'm rushing.” I said. “Does it look OK?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
it looks perfect.” she said. “I like that you don’t put too
much on. I used to plaster it on when I started wearing make-up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
guess the fact that I’m a boy helps.” I said. “The last thing I
want is the kids in my class being able to see that I've been wearing
make-up.” I explained. “Which of these shall I wear?” I asked,
removing the lids from each of the three lipsticks.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Whichever
you like the look of.” she replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They're
all similar shades of pink. Nothing too bright or shocking. One is
called <i>peach blossom</i>, the next <i>coral bliss</i> and finally
“Shy girl!” I sniggered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Try
it.” my sister said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just
so long as no one asked what colour I’m wearing.” I replied
before applying it. “Does that look OK?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
sister smiled and nodded. I slipped the lipstick in to my pocket, but
my sister said I should put it in my handbag. “It's probably worth
putting a spare pair of tights in too... just in case you get a
ladder.” she advised.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err....
yeah I guess.” I gulped. I had absolutely no intention of taking
the handbag to work with me but after supper, that's exactly what I
ended up doing, and without question. Mum didn't mention it as we
left, but she might not have noticed the small black bag hanging from
my shoulder.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Olivia
noticed that I was wearing a different shade of lipstick tonight but
thankfully didn't ask what it was called. I'd have made something up
anyway rather than saying '<i>oh it's called Shy Girl... does it suit
me?</i>'. The café was busier than the previous two nights but I
felt I had everything under control. I was rushed but not run off my
feet, so to speak. Once the café had closed and we'd cleared and
tidied everything, Trish asked my sister if that was her handbag
hanging on the staffroom. I felt myself blush when Karen casually
said it was mine. Trisha asked me where I’d got it because she was
after nice small handbag and mine looked perfect. “Errr... Karen
gave it to me.” I timidly told her. “I think it's an old one she
had.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
sister divvied up the tips and gave us twenty-six pounds each. Having
earned over fifty pounds this week in tips alone, it's well worth
having to dress like a waitress, I thought as I considered the
prospect of my friends finding out about my job... not that that
would justify it to them. I know they'd tease me relentlessly if they
knew. Again I didn't bother putting my pants on to walk round to the
car. I like feeling the air through my tights and having shaved my
legs today, it feels all the nicer, if a little fresher. “Well
that's one week out of the way.” my sister said after pulling down
the shutter.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I replied. “Still can't quite believe I'm doing this.” I said as
I looked down at myself. “I shaved my legs again today.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good.”
she replied. “You'll have to get them out in the summer and get
some sun on them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Maybe.”
I replied. “I read on the internet that loads of blokes shave their
legs these days.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
don't blame them... hairy legs are horrible.” Karen said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I agreed as we turned into the alley. “I didn't give them a second
thought until I shaved them the first time... I'm not sure I could go
back to them being hairy again.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Karen
unlocked the car and I climbed in the passenger seat, smoothing my
skirt beneath me and placing the handbag square on my lap. I wondered
what my friends would think if they knew and chuckled nervously.
“What?” Karen asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
nothing.” I replied, before confessing that I'd left my lipstick in
my coat pocket yesterday. “Had it with me all day at school.” I
grimaced.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ooops!”
she grinned. “I'm a bit worried that I might have turned you onto
cross-dressing.” she said. “Not that there's anything wrong with
that.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
not cross-dressing when it's compulsory workwear.” I claimed,
albeit not too seriously. “But I think I’ve always been a bit
curious.” I told her. “I did try on your party dress when I was
ten remember.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
did.” she replied. “But if I hadn't talked you into trying on one
of my uniforms... then gave you a full on make-over and put you in a
dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“...and
heels.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum
put you in heels.” she reminded me. “And you took to them like a
duck to water.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They
weren't exactly high though.” I recalled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
but they were kitten heels.” she said. “Would you wear them
again?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
don't know. Are you planning on putting me in a proper dress again?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd
like to.” my sister replied. “Would you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I cautiously replied. “Not sure when though... I think I need a few
days just dressing like a boy though.” I said, noting that over the
last seven days I’ve worn a skirt and make-up on four of them.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only
for a few hours each day though.” Karen stated. “But I see what
you mean.” she said. “If we're not careful you'll end up like me
and not feel dressed unless you're wearing a bit of make-up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--End of term, cinema & the following week.-->School
broke up on Friday afternoon and a few of us did go to the cinema
that evening. Some girls from our year were also in the queue and it
was unusual seeing them all dressed up; wearing heels and make-up
with fashionable outfits and elegant hair-styles. They looked so
different than they do at school, whilst us boys looked more or less
the same as we always do. Of course we wore jeans instead of
trousers, trainers instead of shoes and T shirts under our usual
overcoats instead of a school shirt. I cast my mind back to the
previous Friday when my sister styled my hair, did my make-up and put
me in that gorgeous dress. I envied the girls for living in a world
where they can get all dressed up to the nines. I'm sure they had a
lot more fun getting ready than I did tonight, even if all they're
going to do is sit in a darkened room and watch a movie.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They
weren't girls we knew well and they weren't the sorts of girls who'd
hang with a bunch of alternative/emo boys like myself and my friends,
so we didn't chat or even say hi before or after the movie, but
glances were exchanged. We went to KFC and debated the movie's high
points, low points and plot holes. It was also mentioned how very
different the girls from school looked, all dressed up. “What's the
point of getting all dressed up to sit in the dark?” one of my pals
quizzed. I didn't offer an opinion other than saying that girls like
getting dressed up and stating that my sister spends ages getting
ready when she goes out. Those that had sisters said the same. “I'm
glad we don't have to go through all that.” another friend
commented. I agreed, but part of me wished I had the choice... not
that I said anything. We soon parted company and they arranged to go
and watch the new blockbuster movie on Wednesday. I lied and said I
couldn't afford two movies in one week.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
strolled home through the darkness. The stars were out and a half
moon shone brightly in the sky. It being a Friday night, plenty of
people were out and about; blokes in long pants and long sleeves
whilst the women wear little sleeveless dresses, tottering about in
dainty, elegant footwear. Some wear thick tights and some wear none
at all. I recalled my sister claiming that women and girls have
toughened up to the elements and I guess she must be right. I've
always wondered how the girls at school cope in December and January.
Some of then don't even wear tights and brave the freezing weather in
just knee socks. The few boys who do wear skirts at school wait until
the occasional scorching summer day when it's too hot for long
trousers and claim they're protesting against not being allowed to
wear shorts. I wonder how they'd cope if they had to wear skirts all
year round?</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Over
breakfast the following morning, my sister handed me a small brown
envelope. “What's this?” I quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your
wages.” she matter-of-factly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'd
gotten so much in tips each night I'd worked that I'd almost
forgotten that I got wages too. The details were stated on the back
of the envelope; ten and half hours at seven pound per hour equals
seventy-three pounds and fifty pence. With just over fifty pounds in
tips I'd earned around £125 in the three short shifts. “Thanks!”
I gleefully said the Karen.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've
earned it.” she replied. “And if anything I should be thanking
you... most boys wouldn't step up to the mark as you've done.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
mean most boys wouldn't work as a wait<i>ress</i>.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Karen
nodded and smiled. “So what are you going to spend your wages on?”
she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
dunno.” I replied, listing inexpensive items such as music and
video games, as well as more expensive things such as a wide screen
TV for my bedroom. “...or I could get some new clothes.” I
supposed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd
like to go clothes shopping with you.” Karen enthusiastically
suggested.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'd
probably have me looking round all the girl's shops!” I jovially
retorted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Too
right.” she grinned. “You look loads better as a girl than you do
a boy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Right
well that's settled.” I stated. “You're <u>not</u> coming clothes
shopping with me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
only teasing.” Karen smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's
many a true word said in jest.” Mum said, before telling me to put
my money somewhere safe.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
did put it somewhere safe, that being in my savings account when I
went into town that afternoon. Karen was at work all day and Mum
stayed home, pottering as mothers do. As I sauntered around the
shops, I did find myself frequently glancing at all the 'wrong'
window displays; specifically the fashion stores and in particular
the items displayed on the female mannequins. Skinny jeans, patterned
leggings, little shorts, strappy tops, sassy skirts, little dresses
and all sorts of accessories; bags, scarves, bangles, chokers,
headbands, you name it. I figured one good thing about being a boy is
that the very limited choices we have keeps things simple. Girls have
so much to choose from I expect it's quite overwhelming. Every time
Karen buys a new outfit she always seems to buy a new bag and
earrings to go with it, sometimes shoes too. I honestly wouldn't know
where to start.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
met up with some friends on Sunday and Monday; listened to music,
played video games and chatted about all sort of things. My secret
job seemed to be constantly on my mind and I feared I might slip up
and say something at any moment... especially when going bowling on
Thursday evening was mentioned. I lied and said that we always go to
my Gran's on Thursday.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
three shifts at my sister's café were pretty much the same as last
week, although getting ready wasn't quite so rushed since I didn't
have any homework to do. Mum dug out an old desktop mirror from the
attic which meant I didn't have to sit at my sister's dressing table
whilst I did my hair and make-up. As usual, I went to work wearing a
pair of pants over my tights and returned home wearing my short
pleated skirt.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On
Wednesday, Karen put my hair in French braids which I thought looked
really cool. The girls at the café said so too. On the way home in
Karen's car, she suggested that I keep the plaits in over night and
take them out in the morning which meant on Thursday, my hair was all
wavy and overtly girlie. So much so that I spend the entire day
dressed as a girl, albeit not in a dress. Karen loaned me a cute pair
of denim shorts which I wore with thick black tights and a pale blue
fitted T shirt with a pink CND print on the front. I wore make-up all
day too, and Mum jovially suggested they call me Simone for the day.
I wasn't keen and Mum began suggesting other girl's names. Apparently
if I had been born a girl, I'd have either been Emma or Donna. I
suggested that instead of pretending that I'm a girl, that we pretend
it's normal for boys to wear tights and make-up... that way I can
still be called Simon and not Simone or Emma.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We
visited our aunt, uncle and cousins on Good Friday and whilst it was
mentioned that I'm helping my sister out in the café, it wasn't
revealed that I'm working as a waitress. I met some friends on
Saturday in town and once again found myself covertly eyeing the
window displays of the girl's fashion stores. Grandma and Grandpa
came for dinner on Easter Sunday and again, me working at my sisters
café was mentioned but no further details were given, thankfully.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Easter monday-->Easter
Monday was a quiet day. Mum and Karen planned to spend the afternoon
watching an epic movie that's about five hours long. Most of my
friends we're spending the day with their families and I felt at a
loose end. By lunchtime I was bored senseless until Karen suggested
painting my nails. Not only did she do my fingers, but my toenails
too. We sat on the sofa with my legs on her lap and one of those foam
things squished between my toes. Karen noticed that my calves were a
little stubbly and suggested I have a nice long bath when my nails
are done and pamper myself. “I don't really know what that is.” I
confessed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
you light a scented candle and use plenty of bubble bath, you take
your time, have a soak, shave your legs, soak some more, wash your
hair, relax, shave your pits, have another long soak, condition your
hair, rinse and relax.” she told me in a dreamy tone of voice,
adding that I should use her nice Roseberry toiletries.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
did as she suggested and I did enjoy spending the best part of an
hour in the bath. The fragrant candle filled the air as I carefully
pulled a razor over my skin. Seeing my fingernails and toenails
painted in a glossy pink varnish elated me. The fragrant shampoo and
conditioner left my hair feeling smooth and silky and smelling of
roses. I wallowed in the bubbles until the water cooled and the suds
thinned, then dried myself in a big fluffy towel. It seemed odd
having a bath in the early<b> </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">afternoon
</span>but with the sun streaming through the window and the floral
fragrance filling my senses, everything seemed perfect and the water
gargled down the plughole.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After
rinsing out the bath I returned to my room, stalling in the doorway
to let my jaw drop a little. On my duvet lay a satin camisole in
ivory with delicate lace trim and a pair of matching French knickers,
and from my wardrobe hung a pretty floral dress... far too pretty for
someone like me. On my desk sits a round vanity mirror on a chrome
stand with a post it note saying <i>Don't forget your make-up! xx</i></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
was too scared to wear the knickers alone, so pulled them on over a
pair of my underpants, then donned the camisole. It felt so light and
silky next to my skin. I didn't wear the dress just yet, instead I
pulled on my bathrobe and sat at my desk, opened my handbag and
removed the small selection of cosmetics my sister had given me,
choosing the lipstick that most closely matched my nail varnish. I
don't know why but I felt more nervous applying my make-up today than
doing so to work in Karen's café. I kept glancing at the dress and
gulping. It's nothing like the strappy charcoal dress I wore a
fortnight ago. The light cream fabric is decorated with large bold
blooms in pink and pale green foliage. It has short floaty sleeves, a
broad round neck and a full layered skirt. I return to my reflection
and continue applying my foundation. My damp hair holds itself off my
face. I wonder what to do with it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After
carefully applying my eye-shadow and eye-liner, I brush my lashes
with mascara and finally apply my lipstick. I gulp at the frock once
more before standing and facing it. Several deep breaths later, I
remove my robe and pull on the dress. The hem of its skirt lands a
few inches above my knees. It short sleeve float midway on my upper
arm. Given the choice, I'd have never worn something so flowery but
now that I am, I can't help but feel that I’m wearing something
very beautiful. I'm a bag of nerves as I descend the stairs,
anticipating their reaction.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm
met with two broad grins. Mum tells me I look lovely and my sister
says that she just knew it would suit me. “I didn't know what to do
with my hair.” I shyly told them.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We've
been discussing that.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And?”
I asked after a moment.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
want to give you something like you had last time, but Mum wants an
up-do.” Karen replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
an up-do?” I quizzed. Karen explained and Mum nodded approvingly,
but then Karen reminded me how great I looked the first time she put
me in a dress and suggested doing something similar with my hair.
“Well I guess the up-do.” I replied, adding that I may as well
try something new.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fair
enough.” my sister said. “He's all yours Mum.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
was kind of hoping that Karen would be doing my hair, since she's
taught me everything so far and I feel comfortable with her. Being
led to my mother's bedroom felt very daunting, and it was there that
I got my first proper look at myself, reflected in her huge mirrored
wardrobe. I stopped and gulped and stared. “Do you like it?” Mum
asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm...
I think so.” I timidly replied. “I wouldn't have chosen a flowery
dress myself but... it does look nice on.” I said, adding that it
feels really light.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Who'd
have thought that helping your sister our would have led to this.”
Mum smiled as she pulled out her dressing table chair.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
pretty much started with something like this.” I replied, recalling
the charcoal dress I'd worn after trying on the uniform.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“True.”
Mum smiled. “I'm quite enjoying having <i>two</i> girls around the
house.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not a girl Mum.” I reminded her. “But I'm enjoying trying out
girl things.” I confessed. “It's just annoying that it's so
antisocial.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How
do you mean?” Mum asked as she began playing with my hair.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
last week when we went to the cinema, there were some girls from
school in the queue all dolled up in heels and make-up and little
dresses. They looked more like young women than schoolgirls and we
we're all saying how good they looked. If it was me who'd got all
dolled up... the judgements wouldn't have been positive.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The
customers in the café have been OK though?” Mum quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah...
although some do seem quite bemused by me.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Would
you like to go out all dressed up? ...to the cinema maybe?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
dunno... boys clothes seem so boring compared to this.” I said,
smoothing the floaty skirt over my hairless lap. “...and if I'm
feeling a bit bland or ugly, I can just paint someone better looking
on my face.” I added, looking at my reflection. “...or, girls
can.” I stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your
sister and I are both impressed with how quickly you've learned to
apply make-up.” Mum said as continued sectioning off the back of
my hair, twisting and pinning it in place.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The
hard part was learning not to blink or flinch when doing my eyes.”
I replied. “Everything else is fairly easy.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes
I suppose.” Mum said. “Can I suggest a different lipstick?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Don't
you like this one?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
I think it's nice... but one that matches the roses on your dress
would be nicer.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
chose this one to match my nails.” I replied, splaying out my
fingers and noting that it's not a perfect match. Mum began working
with my fringe and I sat an watched what she was doing with my hair.
“Ooh I like that.” I said when I saw what she'd done; a kind of
braided side parting to hold my fringe off my face, held in place
with a couple of hair-slides. Another small braid style the hair over
one ear, and a few more slides and twists and finally a cloud of
hairspray and Mum declared me done. I couldn't really she what she'd
done at the back but the sides and front met with my approval.
“Thanks Mum.” I bashfully said, biting my lip.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're
welcome.” she replied. “I've been wanting to play with your hair
ever since you grew it long.” she smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
were always telling me to get it cut.” I reminded her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only
because you only ever wore it hanging loose, and never brushed it
properly.” she retorted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
well.” I coyly surrendered. “I like it loose and unkempt... it's
cool... when I'm dressed as a boy anyway.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
how do you like it now?” Mum asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
love it!” I told her. “Can I see the back?” Mum passed me an
oval hand-held mirror and told me to turn my back to her dressing
table mirror. “Are they butterflies?!” I gasped, seeing about
eight or nine small silver clips decorating all the twisted sections
of my hair. Mum nodded. “I feel like I'm dressed for a wedding or
something.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
grinned. “Not quite... you need something on your feet.” she told
me, opening her wardrobe and adding “Don't worry... I'm not
planning on taking you out anywhere.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
don't think anyone would recognise me if I did go out.” I retorted
as I admired my reflection. “Not that I'm suggesting we do.” I
added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
chose a pair of cream strappy sandals with a small block heel, barely
an inch in height. Whilst I fiddled with the buckles, she rummaged
through her huge selection of lipsticks. “Try this.” she said,
handing one to me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can
I put it on top or?” I asked before applying it. Mum already had a
make-up wipe ready to hand me. “That'll be a no.” I smiled,
taking the wipe from her. “How's that?” I asked a moment later.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Much
nicer.” Mum smiled. “Try this.” she said, removing a small pale
pink handbag from her wardrobe.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
handbag?” I quizzed. “I thought we weren't going anywhere.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We're
not... but accessories make the outfit and this goes with your frock
and lippy.” she told me. I stood in front of the large mirrored
wardrobe and looked at my reflection from head to toe. My hair looks
so different being held in place with pins, twists, clips and a
couple little loose braids; short yet full of style. Mum was right
about changing my lipstick, and the matching handbag really does
belong, even if I don't need it. My painted toe nails remain on full
view, and the low heeled sandals look safe and sedate. “The only
thing I'm missing is earrings.” I commented.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
it's not uncommon for men to have both pierced these days.” Mum
replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I know... I might get them done one day... if that's OK?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
is... but if you do, I want to go with you.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can
I go and show Karen?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of
course.” Mum grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
practically skipped down the stairs but slowed and prepared my
entrance as I neared the sitting room door. Mum was close behind me.
She mouthed the words <i>don't be shy</i> and ushered me in. “Simon
you look like you're going to a wedding!” Karen gushed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
exactly what your brother said.” our mother told her as they both
admired me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your
hair looks gorgeous.” Karen exclaimed, asking me to turn around.
“Oh Mum I love that!” she announced, before asking where she got
the butterfly clips from and commenting on my little braids and
complimenting my shoes and handbag and finally, my new shade of
lipstick.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can
I sit or do I have to stand here like a mannequin?” I dryly asked
after a few long moments. I sat and gulped and smoothed my frock over
my lap. Karen asked what was in my handbag. “Err... nothing... it's
just a prop.” I replied, placing it on the chair arm.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
a shame you've got all dressed up just to stay inside.” Karen
smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know... I guess it's my fault for being a boy.” I wryly retorted.
Mum went to make a pot of tea. “I enjoyed my bath.” I said,
having never really pampered myself before.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good.”
Karen smiled. She glanced at the door before discreetly asking if was
wearing the underwear she'd put out for me. I gulped and nodded,
before bashfully telling her that I was wearing the French knickers
over my own underpants. Karen smiled approvingly. “I wasn't sure if
that dress would be too flowery for you.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
way to flowery for me.” I told her. “But nice though.” I said.
“Part of me really does want to go out somewhere.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We
could sit in the garden. It's a nice day.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The
neighbours might see me though.” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only
from their upstairs windows... and from there they'll just think
you're one of my friends or Mum's niece or someone.” my sister
supposed. “You really don't look like you Simon.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I guess.” I replied. I also considered that the neighbours might
have already seen me getting into Karen's car with my hair in a pony
tail and a face full of make-up when heading off to work, and if they
have. No one's said anything as far as I know.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
returned with a tea tray, saying “It's a lovely day out there... we
really should be in the garden instead of sitting inside watching
telly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We
were just talking about that.” Karen replied. “I think I've
convinced Simon that he's got nothing to worry about.” she added,
smiling at me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
isn't there a big film you wanted to watch?” I reminded them.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I've seen it countless times and I'm not sure if it's Karen's thing
really.” Mum replied, adding that it'll be on again at some point.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
didn't spend a great deal of time out in the garden since she has a
tendency to potter, but Karen and I were out there for hours. I was
nervous at first and kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to see
someone glaring at us... but I soon got over my stage fright and
relaxed. My thin floaty dress felt perfect for such a warm spring
day. I loved its loose light sleeves as they wafted in the breeze. I
imagined being on holiday somewhere, strolling along the shoreline
with my sandals dangling from my fingers as the waves lapped over my
bare feet. Karen and I listened to the radio and chatted as we
flicked through magazines. I did have a couple of my own gaming and
movie mags but found myself flicking through my sister's fashion
magazines and pretending it was normal.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In
one is a feature on the young cast of Stranger Things, a show both I
and my sister have enjoyed. There's an out of character photoshoot of
the various actors, and I noticed that even the boys are wearing some
make-up and pointed it out to my sister. She told me that every boy
and man in a magazine or on TV wears make-up, adding that the only
difference is they don't wear 'glamour' make-up, so not so much
around the eyes save for a little mascara on their lashes, but plenty
of face powder and a subtle shade of lipstick, dusted to make it
appear more natural. I began paying more attention to the guys in the
magazines and Karen was right, they are all wearing make-up. “I
don't feel quite so weird now.” I said, grinning at my sister.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your
not weird Simon... I bet loads of guys would love to explore their
femme side given half the chance.” she replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
sun eventually sank behind the rooftops and we returned indoors.
Karen suggested I put something else on. “Oh but I like this.” I
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know but when a girl gets home after day out, she likes to change out
of her nice dress into something a bit more casual, then she can
relax and sob about.” Karen told me. “I've got some nice pedal
pushers you might like, and little blouse that goes with them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What
are pedal pushers?” I asked. Karen said she'd show me and whisked
me up to her room. Pedal pushers, it turns out are short pants
cropped below the knee, and these are pale blue canvas with a white
polka-dot print. The blouse is white with short gathered sleeves. I
change in my bedroom, taking care not to ruin my hair when I removed
the dress. I unbuckle the sandals and notice that I've caught the sun
as I've got tan lines showing where the straps were. I remove the
French knickers and pull in the pants which unusually fasten at the
side with a button and zip. I leave the camisole on and button myself
into the blouse, which is fiddly as the buttons are the wrong way
around. It's thin. The camisole can be seen through it, lace trim and
all. I put the sandals back on (as instructed) and return the dress
to my sister, along with her underwear. “I've got tan lines on my
feet.” I tell her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've
certainly caught the sun on your legs.” she replied, suggesting if
it's sunny again tomorrow she'll lend me some little shorts and a
strappy top.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er...
maybe not the top... those tan lines might be a bit too telling.” I
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
really because you wear a strappy top one day and a halter neck the
next and avoid getting any tan lines at all.” she replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
I'm a boy... I could just sunbathe topless.” I smugly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
yeah... I'd forgotten about that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
wasn't too keen on the pedal pusher pants but Mum said I looked nice.
They did feel far more casual than the pretty dress mind, I just
wasn't keen on the baby-blue colour. The following day wasn't quite
so sunny but I wore the little shorts my sister loaned me until it
was time to get ready for work. I pulled on my my tights too eagerly
and managed to ladder them, which was annoying. Mum did say they
don't last forever. The shifts in the café were much the same...
quiet to begin with, then a busy hour in which we're all rushed off
our feet, followed by a busy close down, cleaning the tables and
sweeping the floor and stacking the chairs. Getting ready each
evening and seeing myself wearing make-up, with my hair tied in a
feminine style began to feel quite normal. When I removed my make-up
before going to bed I sighed at myself, seeing my face looking so
bland and boring. I now understand why girls complain that they're
not allowed to wear make-up in school.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
fortnight break came to its inevitable end and my friends wondered
where I'd got to over Easter, having only met up with them a couple
of times at the beginning of the school holiday. I told them we'd
visited a lot of family and stuff and pretended that I’d had a
mostly boring two weeks. Little did they know that I’d spent more
days dressed as a girl than as a boy. This was also my final week
working at my sister's café as her student staff would be returning
so I was no longer needed.. but Karen did say I'd be her first port
of call if anyone was off sick and she needed someone to cover the
occasional shift. And not only that... the students would be away for
the best part of three months over summer so I’ve got that to look
forward to, providing I'm willing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Once
my regular shifts ended I kind of reverted to being a normal boy
again. I did continue shaving my legs on a regular basis, but only
did my armpits when I felt they needed it. April turned into May and
I did cover a couple of shifts at Karen's café. I was quite happy
that my fascination with dressing as a girl all the time had waned
somewhat... I was beginning to worry that I was turning into a full
on tranny. I did however wear the occasional bit of make-up at home
and Karen would chose me something to wear once in a while which was
nice.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
All
was well in my world until a girl at school approached me one day on
the way home and asked if my name was Simon. “Yeah.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She
asked if I worked in a café, which I denied. “Yeah you do.” she
said, telling me exactly which café and stating that I work as a
waitress. “I've even got proof.” she told me, removing her phone
and showing me a video, shot covertly through the front window of me
serving some customers.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
face is clearly visible, my skirt, apron and tights are in full view
and it's obviously me who's dressed, and working as a waitress. I gulped. She told me that her sister works
there and she'd heard about the boy who works as a waitress. She
heard what school he went to and soon worked out who the boy was. “You
won't show that to anyone will you?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She
put her phone back in her bag. “I think it's cool that you work as
a waitress.” she told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
tried to explain that I’m not really a waitress and only cover the
occasional shift, and that they have a very strict uniform policy
which just happens to be a skirt and vest, and that my sister's the
owner and I only do it to help her out. “...but please don't tell
anyone.” I almost begged.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why
would I do that?” she asked. From her tone I could tell it was a
loaded question. I gulped. “It's no big deal really.” she said,
reminding me that some boys wear skirts for school when the weather's
too warm for long trousers.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“True.”
I replied. “But I'd still prefer it if no one knew about my job.”
I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...”
she began. “...I'll keep your job as a waitress a secret on one
condition.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
that?” I gulped. “I can't do that!” I exclaimed. “Everyone
would laugh at me!”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They'd
laugh even more when I put the video of you on FaceBank... and link
it to the school blog.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
blackmail!”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Call
it what you want.” she smugly replied. “You want to keep your job
as a waitress a secret, then you'll wear a skirt for school whenever
it's hot... say, a forecast of twenty degrees or more.” she told
me. I was clearly flustered by her proposition. “It's no big
deal... loads of boys wear skirts in the summer.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
they don't!” I retorted. “Only a handful.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
you're going to be one of them.” she smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why
are you doing this?” I asked. “I don't even know you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“For
fun.” she replied. “..and I know you.” she said. I frowned. “We
might have another crappy summer for all I know... you might not even
have to do it.” she said. “But rest assured, if there's a weather
forecast for the next day exceeding twenty degrees and you <i>don't</i>
come to school in a skirt... then your video goes viral.” she told
me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
don't even have a skirt.” I retorted. “Not a school one.” I
added, visualising my two waitress skirts that live in my wardrobe.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
you'd better make sure you get one.” she stated as she began to
walk away. “And don't forget to check the forecast.” she grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
cripes!” I gulped as she left me. Would she really post the video?
I wondered. Probably, I figured. She's got nothing to lose. I
sauntered home feeling incredibly glum. The video she showed me
played over and over in my minds eye. There's no denying it's me
wearing a waitresses uniform so I couldn't deny it. I also knew that
I'd be a bigger laughing stock if everyone knew I worked as a
waitress than if I wore a skirt for school... at least I could
justify that by claiming I'm protesting against the ban on short
trousers.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
OK love?” Mum said when I returned home. “You look glum.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah
I'm OK.” I lied. “Is Karen home?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes
she's in her room.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
sauntered up the stairs and dropped my school bag off in my room,
before gently knocking on my sister's bedroom door. “Who is it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just
a tick.” she replied. I waited a moment until she opened the door.
“Hiya.” she smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err...”
I gulped. “...do you err... still have your old school uniform?”
I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nooo.”
she cautiously replied. “Why?” she asked, just as cautiously.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
was err... thinking about joining in the protests at school... you
know... against shorts being banned.” I told her, gulping.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're
going to wear a skirt for school?” she asked, beaming slightly.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I'm just thinking about it... only if it's a really warm day.” I
said. “Not everyday.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Cool.”
she grinned. “Have you told Mum?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err...
not yet... I thought I’d ask if you still had one first.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry...
all my school stuff went to charity when I left.” she told me.
“I'll take you shopping if you want though... unless you'd rather
go with Mum... or on your own.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Go
where with Mum?” Mum's voice asked. She has a habit of creeping
around unheard until she speaks!</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Simon's
thinking about wearing a skirt for school.” Karen told her. “...as
part of those protests the boys do.” she added, somewhat
sarcastically.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?!”
Mum quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I'm toying with it.” I sheepishly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
is this because you want to win the right to wear short pants or
because you'd like to wear a skirt for school?” Mum quizzed. I
tried to reply but couldn't find the right words, and I didn't want to
tell the truth... Mum continued, “Because as I understand it... the
headmaster has made it perfectly clear that short trousers will not
be permitted and that boys are more than welcome to wear a skirt if
they wish.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeahhhh.”
I agreed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
if you feel brave enough to wear a skirt for school then we'll have
to get you one.” Mum replied. “Pity we got rid of Karen's uniform
when she left school.” Mum added. “That would have saved me some
money.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll
buy it.” I said, gulping and realising just how keen that made me
appear.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're
not worried about what your friends will think... or say?” Mum
asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
I guess they'll tease me a bit... but loads of boys wear skirts when
it's hot.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
it's fine by me.” Mum shrugged, suggesting we go to the uniform
shop on Saturday.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
might need one before then.” I said. The threat of the video was in
the forefront of my mind and the girl, who's name I didn't think to
ask, was quite clear. “The protests are on the days when it's
hotter than twenty degrees.” I told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
hadn't realised these 'protests' were so organised.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
it's err.... more of an unwritten rule.” I said, gulping.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
if you want me come with you, you'll have to wait until Saturday.”
Mum told me. “If you 'need' one before then, you can always go on
your own.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll
go with you.” Karen said. “I'll pick you up after school.” she
suggested. “...unless you'd rather go on your own.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err
no... that'd be great. I'd feel a bit weird buying a skirt on my
own.” I replied. I paid particular attention to the weather
forecast that evening; seventeen degrees tomorrow (Wednesday),
eighteen degrees the day after and the same on Friday. Mum paid
attention too and told me that there's no rush, but my sister said
she was looking forward to taking me shopping.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
spent the evening in a silent panic. I felt really guilty for lying
to my mother, and sister as to why I want (need!) a school skirt...
but I felt I’d dug myself into a rut and it's too late now. The
fact that a girl is threatening me is the last thing I want to
reveal, and part of me is excited by the prospect of wearing a skirt
for school. Hopefully I won't have to wear it too soon... but it's
the middle of May and the days are only going to get warmer between
now and the end of term.
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-37193868814428401162020-01-08T11:54:00.001-08:002021-09-24T05:56:31.009-07:00Marty's New Look<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uYFIfkfiWTbyp0EHxC5OHXGMXKBIZ1Vm6A6et29VoW3DIiA-zLXECjjj-w9O31_3bt6sjQpPQ-IuAQvUWsmL66idp-dg5VerPndT14iTKNDzxA55drpQ3sbGbevjeE9mPs5ZYq9m/s1600/marty%2527s+new+look.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0uYFIfkfiWTbyp0EHxC5OHXGMXKBIZ1Vm6A6et29VoW3DIiA-zLXECjjj-w9O31_3bt6sjQpPQ-IuAQvUWsmL66idp-dg5VerPndT14iTKNDzxA55drpQ3sbGbevjeE9mPs5ZYq9m/s1600/marty%2527s+new+look.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Within minutes, the
likes and comments began. I didn't want to update my profile picture
and I certainly wasn't a cross-dresser... but my sister blackmailed
me into doing it. The alternative would have been worse and there's
no way I'm going to say what that was. Initially the reactions were
'likes' and 'loves' but it didn't take long for the laughing smilies,
the wows and angry faces to start appearing, along with some
derogatory and downright abusive comments. "Please let me change
it back Laura!" I pleaded. "I've got people saying they're
going to give it me up the ass and asking for blow jobs."</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"No... the deal
was a month." my sister stubbornly reminded me. "You can
report the abusive comments to FaceBank and they'll be removed... but
your profile picture stays." she replied. I hung my head. "Don't
worry... your secret's safe with me... providing you pay the price."</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"It's only been
twenty minutes... a whole month of these sorts of comments is going
to be a nightmare!"</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Most of them are
nice... and you must admit you do look cute." she grinned.
"Anyway it'll die down after a few days, you know how fickle
FaceBank is."</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"But everyone's
going to see it... mum, dad, gran, uncles, aunties, cousins." I
listed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Friends,
neighbours... everyone." my sister proudly added. "What are
you going to tell them?" she wondered aloud. "I very much
doubt you'll tell the truth... and if you tell anyone that it's got
anything to do with me, the deal's off, remember!"</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
~o0o~</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Explaining myself-->My
sister was right about FaceBank... the abusive and threatening
comments were quickly removed but reading and reporting them felt
like a full time job for the first few days and after that, the
trolls got bored and comments on my new profile picture did soon
cease, but I found myself having to explain it to all and sundry.
Fortunately everyone seemed to believe my story, that being that I
just thought it would be funny if I was dressed as a girl in my
FaceBank picture. Most people did think it was funny but then again,
they also thought I was a cross-dresser and a lot of kids at school
started calling me a fag and tranny and a freak.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Laura made it very
clear that I wasn't allowed to tell anyone that she'd done my hair
and make-up so I felt I had no choice but to claim that I’d done it
myself. I told Mum that I'd watched loads of YouTube videos about
hair and make-up and did it when I was home alone over the weekend.
She said I looked lovely but was disappointed that I'd borrowed my
sister's clothes, make-up and jewellery for the prank, and made me
apologise to Laura for 'stealing' her things, then Mum sat me down
for a long talk about honesty, gender and 'the closet'. She didn't
believe that it was the first time I’d worn make-up or styled my
hair because I'd done such a good job, so I lied and said I'd dabbled
a few times previously. “...and what did you put in the bra?” Mum
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A couple of pairs of
tights.” I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well they certainly
look convincing.” Mum replied. “You could have talked to me about
this.” she said. “You didn't have to out yourself so publicly.”
she told me, glancing at my profile page on the iPad. “Your
grandmother nearly had a heart attack.” she sighed. “She thought
you'd had a sex change.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I tittered. “I'm not
going to have a sex change Mum.” I said. “I just did it for a
laugh, that's all.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well everyone's seen
it now.” she said. “Why don't you change it back? Or put a
different picture up... one that <i>won't</i> worry your
grandparents.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” I said. “I
can't.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why not?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Why not indeed? I
thought. I had to think of an excuse quickly. “Because I don't want
to.” I said. It was all I could think of. “It's funny.” I
added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's not that
funny.” Mum said, lifting her iPad and observing the picture. “If
you were pulling a pout or grinning inanely it might be but...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That was the only
one in focus.” I lied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How many did you
take?” Mum asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not many.” I told
her, before adding a cock & bull story about having to quickly
put the clothes back and remove my make-up and wash the style out of
my hair before someone came home that day.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So in a mad panic,
you changed back into a boy before someone caught you, then posted
the picture on FaceBank for everyone to see?” Mum quizzed. I didn't
blame my mother for questioning my motives. One lie contradicts
another and my mother is understandably baffled by it all. But I
couldn't tell her the <!--The truth and the forfeit-->truth. She'd
hate me forever. Everyone would. I wish I'd never confessed to my
sister that it was me who was responsible for this...</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Under the headline
ARSONISTS DESTROY PAVILION, the fire brigade confirmed that the fire
had been started deliberately but I didn't intend to burn it down.
The pavilion had been boarded up for years. I'd broken in and was
getting stoned alone when a combination of stupidity and recklessness
meant the small fire I'd lit for no particular reason quickly got out
of hand and I scarpered. According to the newspaper report, the
police had fingerprint evidence but the culprit wasn't on their
database, so they were asking for any witnesses to come forward so
the offender could be found and prosecuted. The evidence would have
been my stash tin that I'd left when I ran.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
If a rumour got out
that I was involved, they'd come and take my fingerprints which would
link me to the tin and I'd have to come clean about starting the
fire... then I really would be in deep shit. I'd have a criminal
record for arson, and for possession, and possibly for breaking and
entering too... I'd have to pay a fine and do several hundred hours
of community service and might even face a custodial sentence.
Compared to all that, changing my profile picture and putting up with
all the offensive and abusive comments that followed was nothing.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was a few months
after the fire that I told Laura and I trusted that she wouldn't tell
anyone but what I didn't expect was for her to make me 'buy' her
silence. At first I thought she'd want money and when she said it
would be a forfeit of some sort, I agreed. She spent a couple of days
thinking before she told me that she wanted to dress me up as a girl.
It didn't sound like much of a forfeit. I thought she'd have me doing
all her chores or have me at her beck and call or something. I
figured she thought the idea would fill me with dread, but it didn't
really, and after seeking Laura's assurance that she wouldn't make me
go out of the house, I agreed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She put me in a bra and
gave me a cute little top to wear. She spent ages doing my hair and
make-up and to be honest, I enjoyed being pampered. A necklace and
bracelet and a barrette in my hair and finally I got to see my
reflection. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was fit! I didn't think I'd
look as good as I did. I almost fancied myself. Laura told me that I
should take a selfie and thinking little of it, I grabbed my phone,
stood in front of the mirror, framed myself and took a photograph. In
fact I took about ten and Laura chose the one she liked the best and
deleted the rest, then she told me what my actual forfeit was;
changing my profile picture on FaceBank to one of me dressed as a
girl... and the photo had to stay on FaceBank for a month and not a
day less. I should have known that there'd be more to her forfeit
that a simple make-over! At first I flat refused but given the choice
between everyone seeing me dressed as a girl on FaceBank or everyone
seeing me on the front page of the Evening News when the police
charge me with arson... I felt I had no choice but to upload the
picture to FaceBank and within minutes the comments began.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I trust that my sister
won't say anything about the fire to anyone. She's having too much
fun watching me squirm and no matter how much I plead and try to
bargain with her... she won't let me take the picture down until it's
been up for a whole month. My mother doesn't believe that I did for a
laugh and instead believes that I decided to come out. I don't think
she thinks I'm gay because she's done a lot of reading in the last
few days and is encouraging me to join some online support groups, to
get in touch with 'the real me' and says if I want, she'll buy me
some girls clothes and some make-up and shoes and blah blah blah.
What my mother can't understand is why on the one hand, I'm telling
her that I don't want to dress like a girl again, but on the other,
I'm refusing to change my profile picture back to one of me dressed
as a boy. One white lie trips over the next and the more I try to
explain myself, the deeper into the rut I go.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Two weeks later-->It's
been two weeks since I changed my profile picture which means I've
been wrapping myself up in a web of lies for far too long. I
mournfully tell my sister that things are getting beyond a joke.
“Mum's only gone and bought me some underwear and put it in my
drawer.” I gulped. Laura wanted to see it and said it was gorgeous,
but I was adamant that I wasn't going to wear it because if I do, the
next thing will be a skirt or a dress, then shoes and hairdo’s...
“It's not funny!” I whined as Laura sat giggling.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It is quite funny.”
she replied. “And you do look cute as a girl... I think you should
indulge her.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But then she'll
think I really am a tranny.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She already does. No
one believes that you changed your profile picture for <span style="font-style: normal;">a
laugh</span>.” Laura said as she sat on my bed, admiring my new
lacy boy shorts and matching crop top.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What else could I
say? I couldn't tell them that you blackmailed me... which you did!”
I reminded her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh stop being so
dramatic. I didn't blackmail you, I gave you a choice.” she said.
“What would you prefer? Everyone thinking you're a transvestite or
everyone knowing that you're an arsonist?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Neither.” I
sighed. “But I can't have anyone knowing about the fire.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well there you are.”
my sister said. “It's no big deal really... Mum's cool with it. I
think she likes the idea of having two girls.” she told me.
“...she's hardly talked about anything else to me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's she been
saying?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just that you need
support and gentle encouragement, and asking if I ever suspected
anything and wondering if I've noticed any items of clothing or
cosmetics going missing in recent months.” Laura replied. “Of
course I hadn't and told her that changing your profile picture was
as much a surprise to me as anyone.” she told me. I groaned and
sighed. “Mum said she wasn't surprised though.” Laura added,
somewhat gleefully.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I sighed the deepest of
sighs. “Tell me about it.” I mournfully murmured. “She told me
that she suspected something when I decided to grow my hair long and
started wearing skinny T shirts.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why didn't you say
that you changed your profile picture for a bet or a dare?” my
sister asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My head dropped into my
hands. “I wish I had.” I groaned. “Then I wouldn't be in this
mess now.” I said, gulping and glancing at the underwear on my
sister's lap.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I wouldn't call it a
mess.” Laura smiled. “It's more of a misunderstanding.” she
jovially suggested. “It's quite sweet really.” she added, running
her fingers over the lacy crop top.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's a nightmare.”
I groaned. “Why didn't I say it was dare?!” I sighed, cursing
myself. That excuse didn't cross my mind and in hindsight, I really
really wish it had.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Laura laughed at me and
said she didn't know. “Honestly Marty... I just thought it'd be
funny... the last thing I expected was you to lie yourself into a
corner and leave everyone thinking you're a cross-dresser,”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What did you expect
after dressing me as a girl and making me put the picture on
FaceBank?” I asked. “...then telling me that I couldn't say you
did it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... like I said,
I thought you'd say you'd done it for a bet or something.” she
shrugged. “But as they say, you've made your bed, and now you have
to lay in it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... wearing a
nightie.” I grimaced, nervously chuckling.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Has Mum bought you a
nightie too?” Laura asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No just them.” I
grumbled, glancing at my new girlie underwear on my sister's lap. “I
hope not anyway.” I added, before shifting myself and opening the
drawer in which my pyjamas are kept. “Oh for fucks sake!” I
groaned, finding not a nightie, but a pair of girl's satin pyjamas in
there.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh wow!” my sister
gasped as I unfolded a short sleeved pyjama top in baby blue satin
with white lace trim and a matching pair of shorts. “Is there
anything else?” she asked. “Have you checked all your drawers and
wardrobe?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nothing else was found
apart from the underwear and pyjamas. Later when mum came home I told
her that I'd found the underwear and she smiled and asked if I'd
tried them. “No.” I whined.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well in your own
time.” she smiled. I told her I'd found the pyjamas too. “I
thought you might.” she said. “There's nightie under your pillow
too.” she added. “I thought about buying you a skirt or a
dress... but maybe that's something we could do together one day...
when you're ready.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum I only put that
picture up for a laugh... I don't really want to dress like a girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you did say
that you'd practised doing your hair and make-up a few times
beforehand... and you don't seem at all keen to take that picture
down.” she replied. “I understand that it's hard to admit but a
picture really does speak a thousand words.” she told me. “Have
you spoken to Laura?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And what does she
think?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She thinks that you
like the idea of having two girls and that I should indulge you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're not a girl
Martin... you're a transvestite, and I'm absolutely fine with that.”
Mum replied. “I understand that I might have been a bit
presumptuous, buying you some nice underwear and nightwear... but I
thought it might make you happy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Part of me wanted to
come clean and tell the truth about the circumstances behind me
changing my profile picture... but if I did, Mum would be livid, and
as things currently stand, she's being really nice to me. The
question Laura posed popped into my mind; what would I prefer? Mum
thinking I'm a cross-dresser or Mum knowing that I set fire to the
cricket pavilion all those months ago. “It does. Thanks Mum.” I
said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--One small step-->The
following morning over breakfast, Mum waited for Laura to leave the
breakfast table before asking me if I'd worn my nightie. Bashfully, I
told her I had and said it was nice. “You didn't say it came with
knickers too.” I added, just as my sister returned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What came with
knickers?” Laura asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I felt myself going
bright red and Mum guardedly informed my sister that she'd bought me
a nice little nightie and some 'night-knickers'. “A nightie?”
Laura quizzed. “I saw the pyjamas.” she stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It was a summer
sleepwear set... shortie PJs and a little nightie.” Mum replied.
“I'd hidden the nightie under his pillow as a surprise.” she told
her, before turning to me and saying “Since it's Saturday, why
don't you try your new underwear?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh I don't know...
maybe it's a bit too soon.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No one will know.”
Mum said, reminding me that I slept in my new nightie.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's nothing to be
afraid of... you've worn a bra before today so it's hardly a big
step.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And this time it'll
at least be your own.” Laura snidely added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's apologised for
that Laura so don't rub it in.” Mum said to her, before telling me
that the crop top she bought me isn't even a bra. “...it's just a
little vest really.” she claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.” I replied.
“Just... don't make a big deal about it.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We won't even
mention it.” Mum smiled. She cleared the breakfast dishes and I
went to my bedroom.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Laura followed me up.
“Can I see your nightie?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh Laura...” I
moaned. Tightening my bathrobe.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've got it on?!”
she exclaimed. She pestered me into letting her have a look, so
reluctantly, I opened my bathrobe and revealed my short baby blue
nightie to her. It has thin, white lace shoulder straps and a band of
lace trim around its skirt. I didn't want her to see the
night-knickers but she wanted to see them.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're really
girlie.” I timidly confessed before lifting my nightie a little to
give her a fleeting glimpse. Laura grinned and said they were 'well
cute' and I guess they are, being baby blue satin and rather baggy in
their fit, with gathered and elasticated leg-holes trimmed with
ruffled white lace.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I shut my bedroom door
behind me, removed my robe and looked down at myself. It felt really
nice sleeping in satin. I drifted off to sleep gently stroking the
fabric and when I woke, I felt like I'd not slept so well for weeks.
Part of me feels guilty for liking the nightie. Being someone who'd
never even considered cross-dressing before my sister coerced me, I
felt like I was betraying myself. Especially when I opened my drawer
and removed the white lace boy-shorts and matching crop top. Even if
it is just underwear worn beneath boy's clothes... I'll still be
dressed like a girl all day. I remove my little nightdress and the
matching night-knickers and lay them neatly on my bed before donning
the underwear. The elasticated lace hugs me snugly. It looks and
feels nothing at all like my usual underwear. In fact I never give my
usual underwear a second thought whereas this I’m going to be
thinking about all day long. I fold my nightwear and place it under
my pillow before selecting a pair of jeans and a T shirt, then I
spend a while just pottering in my room, tidying, straightening and
sorting things but really I'm just enjoying getting accustomed to how
this underwear feels.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Eventually I return
downstairs and bashfully smiled as my mother casts me a knowing
glance. “You OK?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I shyly
reply. Neither my mother or sister mention my underwear but I know
they know I’m wearing it. I can tell by the way they look at me,
glancing at my hips and chest with a knowing smile. Much later, when
Laura's gone out clubbing, Mum asks if I've had a nice day and
casually I reply “Yeah it was all right.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is your crop top a
good fit?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I guess.” I
said, feeling my cheeks redden. I knew she'd have to mention my
underwear sooner or later.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good.” Mum smiled.
“They actually came in a pack of three but I only snuck one set
into your drawer so you didn't feel overwhelmed.” she told me as my
jaw dropped a little. “There's some clean ones for tomorrow if you
want to dip your toes in again.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh... er... thanks.”
I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're welcome.”
she smiled. “You've got pale blue and lilac.” she told me. “I
thought you'd prefer those to white, pink and peach.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... yeah.” I
gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Have I gone too
far?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't know.” I
frowned. “No.” I timidly said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good.” she smiled.
“One set wouldn't be enough.” she said. A little flutter of
butterflies erupted in my tummy. “Have you got any plans for
tomorrow?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” I
said. “I've got a bit of homework to do for Monday.” I told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I was
thinking...” she said. Here we go, I thought. <span style="font-weight: normal;">“Laura
could maybe have a rummage and find you something nice to wear...
she's got so many hand-me-downs I'm sure there'd be something you
might like.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-weight: normal;">You
mean a dress?” I grimaced, biting my lip.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-weight: normal;">Or
a skirt and top, shorts maybe, or some pants or skinny jeans.” she
suggested. “You could do your hair again, and wear some make-up and
I'll make a special supper.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-weight: normal;">Oh
I don't know Mum... I don't want to rush into anything... I was only
dabbling when I dressed myself up last time.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-weight: normal;">Yet
you put the photo on FaceBank so everyone could see the result.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-weight: normal;">As
a joke though.” I gulped.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-weight: normal;">Well
there's many a true word said in jest.” Mum replied. “And that
picture really does speak a thousand words.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;">I
sighed and gulped. There's no point trying to dig myself out of this
hole. I’m in too deep already and it's only getting deeper. Today
I’m wearing my own lacy underwear and tomorrow I’ll probably end
up wearing a dress or something. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
took myself to bed earlier than usual and slept in my birthday suit.
At around 8.30am, Mum tapped on my bedroom door and popped her head
in. “I'm making bacon and eggs if you want some.” she told me,
before frowning and saying “Oh... I thought you'd be wearing your
nightie.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not a girl Mum.” I moaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know you're not but...” she paused and frown smiled. “Breakfast
in ten minutes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Something nice for Sunday-->I
pulled on my bathrobe and got myself to the kitchen just as Mum was
plating up bacon and scrambled eggs on toast. After a late night out
clubbing, Laura looked like she'd been dragged through a hedge. Mum
made small talk, asking each of us what plans we had for the day.
“Nowt.” I shrugged. Laura's day was equally empty. Mum said she
was going to visit her mother, our grandmother, for an hour and asked
if we wanted to come. “Nah.” I replied. Laura said she was too
hungover. Mum prompted me to go, since I haven't been for three
weeks. “She'll just give me the third degree about my FaceBank
picture though.” I sighed. “And you'll probably want me to wear
one of Laura's dresses.” I grumbled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Wearing
a nice Sunday dress had crossed my mind Martin... but not for a trip
to Gran's.” Mum replied. “But if you're not going anywhere and
you've nothing to do, why not?” she asked. I shrugged and sighed.
“You seemed happy enough dipping your toes in yesterday.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
that doesn’t mean I’m ready to take the plunge today.” I
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
took the plunge when you changed your FaceBank photo... that was a
fortnight ago.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm
beginning to wonder if coming clean about burning down the cricket
pavilion would be more tolerable than this. “OK...” I sighed.
“I'll wear whatever you want.” I grumbled. “Just don't start
asking me to visit Gran with you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Calm
down grumpy pants.” Mum retorted. “No one's forcing you... we're
just trying to be supportive.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I could do your
make-up if you want?” Laura suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's perfectly
capable of doing his own make-up.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Errr.” I
croaked. “I might not want to wear any make-up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I was just reminding
your sister that you can do your own make-up... you look lovely in
your profile picture.” Mum replied. “If anything <i>you</i> could
teach <i>her</i> a thing or two.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I glanced at Laura and
gulped. “He probably could.” my sister said. “I loved what you
did with your hair.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It wasn't that
good.” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How did you do it?”
Mum asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I just put loads of
gel in then plaited it and left it to set.” I said, pretending that
I'd done what my really sister did. “Then took out the plaits and
it was curly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And you learnt that
from a YouTube video?” Mum said. I nodded. “Hmm.” Mum
responded.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Having finished her
bacon and eggs, Mum went for a shower and left us to clear the table
and wash the dishes. “So which dress do you want to wear?” my
sister wryly asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't.” I
grimaced.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you're going to
have to sooner or later... or come clean about why you really changed
your profile picture.” she said. “It's no big deal really... it's
just a dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's easy for you
to say.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But you enjoyed
having a make-over and you did say that you fancied yourself.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but... you
know what Mum's like... if I wear dress today, one thing'll lead to
another.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“One thing already
has led to another Marty.” Laura stated. “Mum thinks you're a
closet cross-dresser and for all intents and purposes, your are now.”
she told me. “Plus you've already said you will.” she reminded
me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I sighed
consigning myself to the fact that I didn't really have a choice. “If
only I'd said that I'd changed my picture for a dare instead of a
laugh.” I grumbled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I bet you're really
kicking yourself.” my sister grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It should be you I'm
kicking.” I frowned, wishing I could somehow turn the clock back.
My sister smiled a triumphant smile.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We tidied the kitchen
and washed & dried the breakfast dishes. Laura asked if I was
going to have a shower. “Yeah I guess.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mind if I go first?”
she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah.” I replied.
She asked if I wanted to choose something to wear myself or if I
wanted her to choose. “I don't know... I’m trying not to think
about it at all.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I've got
something in mind... you can choose something else if you don't like
it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm pretty sure I
won't like it.” I grumbled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you never
know... you loved yourself last time.” she reminded me. “Or is
that what you're afraid of?” she smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Will I have to shave
my legs?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I was just thinking
that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thinking
what?” Mum asked as she entered the kitchen wearing a bathrobe,
hair damp and dripping.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Marty shaving his
legs.” Laura quickly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And I was thinking
that might be a step too far.” I added. “I've got to consider
doing PE.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“True.” Mum said.
“Maybe in the holidays 'eh?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah maybe.” I
gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are you going to let
Laura find you something nice to wear?” Mum asked. “Then you can
show me how you apply your make-up.” she chirped</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh Mu-um... you're
being too pushy.” Laura stated. “Gentle persuasion you said.”
she glanced at me and smiled. “Give us an hour and if Marty gets
cold feet today, then that's the way it is.” she said, looking at
me and asking “OK?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.” I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Laura went for a
shower. Mum apologised for being pushy, before asking if I'd rather
she spurned me. “Noo.” I replied. “I just didn't think you'd
encourage me quite so much.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm trying to do the
right thing Marty... the last I want is to get this wrong.” Mum
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know... and you're
not doing anything wrong.” I said. “If anything I'm the one who's
wrong.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You haven't done
anything wrong Martin.” Mum said, looking me directly in the eyes.
“I don't want to you even thinking that.” she insisted. “It
doesn't say 'ladies only' on a lipstick or mascara.” she informed
me. “It doesn't say 'no boys allowed' on the door of Tammy Girl or
Dorothy Perkins.” she added. “Plus... girl's clothes are a lot
more varied and interesting... I'd hate to be stuck in a shirt and
trousers or jeans and a T shirt for my whole life.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I glumly
agreed. “Thanks Mum.” I said, smiling and feeling more guilty
than ever. She really is going to hate me if she finds out why I
really changed my FaceBank picture.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Laura hollered my name
when she was out of the shower so I took myself upstairs. I hung my
head as the hot torrent of water splashed against the back of my
neck. I sighed repeatedly, each deeper than the last as if somehow
hoping one might free me of the guilt that hangs heavy in my gut. If
only I hadn't lit that fire all those months ago. If only my stash
tin was in my pocket when I fled. If only I hadn't confessed to
Laura. If only I said I'd changed my profile picture for a dare...
that'd easily explain why it had to stay up for a month and Mum
wouldn't think I'm a closet cross-dresser. I tipped my head back and
let the torrent of water cascade through my long dark hair and
anticipated getting dressed as a girl again. I enjoyed it the first
time but had I known why Laura wanted to give me a make-over, I'd
have been a lot more hesitant. After washing, rinsing and
conditioning my hair, I washed the rest of myself and tried to
imagine having no hair on my legs. Thankfully I got myself out of
that... at least for now.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After shaving my face,
I exited the bathroom and entered my bedroom to find some clothes
laid neatly on my bed; a pair of black spotty cotton shorts and a
white top, plus a pair of black tights. I got cold feet and gently
knocked on my sister's door. “I don't think I can do this today.”
I nervously told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh don't back out.”
she whined. “I thought choosing some shorts would make it easier
than say... a flowery dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But... tights.” I
grimaced. Laura reminded me that I didn't want to shave my legs. I
sighed and said that I felt like I was diving in at the deep end.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah... it's just a
pair of shorts and a top... you're dipping your toes in.” she said.
“Come back when your dressed. You don't have to knock.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm as nervous as hell
as I pulled on some clean underwear. Today the boy-shorts and cropped
vest are pale blue, but other than the colour, they're identical to
yesterdays. They hugged my hips and chest as I sat and struggled to
get my first pair of tights on. A fortnight ago Laura only
transformed me from the waist up. Today it's going to be head to
toe... but at least she didn't give me a skirt or dress to wear. Then
again, these shorts are equally girlie in the way they hang and
flounce from my waist. The top is white, thin and simple. The outline
of the lacy crop top beneath is visible. Its sleeves are short and
gathered, and it has two long thin laces which I guess tie in a bow
behind my back. I don my robe before first peeping out of my bedroom
door to check the coast is clear, then scurrying across the landing
to my sister's room. “You look ace Marty.” she grinned when I
removed my robe.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I can't believe I’m
doing this.” I said as she beckoned me to her dressing table.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Neither can I.”
she said as I timidly sat. “Just remember how much you enjoyed it
last time.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That was <i>before</i>
you told me <i>why</i> you were dressing me up.” I dryly reminded
her as she gave me some hair gel and a wide toothed comb. “I can't
do everything myself!” I exclaimed when she told me that I’d have
to do everything myself. “I haven't got a clue how to plait hair.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But you told Mum
that you did, so you're going to have to learn... quickly.” Laura
replied. “It's easy enough.” she said, before coaching me to do
exactly what she'd done two weeks previously. After combing in the
gel, I was all fingers and thumbs as I separated my hair into ten or
twelve equal sections, tying each off with a bobble close to my
scalp. Plaiting each section wasn't easy at first, especially trying
to keep the plaits really tight... but I surprised myself as I soon
got the hang of it and after maybe half an hour, I looked like
Medusa. Then I wrapped each plait around itself into a small tight
bun and secured them with a couple of bobby pins.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How you getting on?”
Mum quietly asked, creeping into Laura's room as I’m applying my
foundation.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum you're supposed
to be downstairs.” Laura impatiently told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You look like
Bjork.” my mother grinned as I turned my head.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm gonna get him to
do my hair.” Laura said, before ushering my mother out, saying
something about her giving me stage fright.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's bad enough
having Laura watching over me.” I added as I opened the eye-shadow
palette as if I knew what I was doing.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK... sorry.” Mum
smiled as Laura shut the door on her.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I had half an idea of
what needed to be done; foundation all over, eye-shadow on the upper
lids, eye-liner on the lower ones, mascara on the lashes, a bit of
blush on the cheeks and lipstick on my lips. Only this time I had to
learn to do it all myself because stupidly, I'd told my mother that
I'd done my own make-up a few times before I changed my FaceBank
picture... and Laura's right, one day my mother will expect to see me
applying my own make-up. “This isn't the last time I’m gonna have
to do this is it.” I said after applying my mascara, finally
without flinching.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” Laura agreed.
“Mum's dead excited... best bet is just play along for a few weeks
or months and then lose interest and say it was just a phase.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And in the mean
time... Mum's bought me more girl's underwear and some frocks and
skirts and shoes and make-up of my own.” I dryly supposed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She's more likely to
start rummaging through all my old things and giving you my
hand-me-downs.” Laura said. “She's already mentioned it to me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?” I
grimaced as I prepared to apply my blusher. My sister nodded. “I
really should hate you for making me change my profile picture.” he
sighed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you couldn't
get away scot-free after what you did. I figured it'd be a
humiliating yet harmless punishment for you... and it wasn't me who
talked Mum into thinking you really are a cross-dresser.” she said.
“You did that all by yourself.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Don't I know it.”
I grumbled, looking down at myself; my simple little top, girlie
spotty shorts and opaque black tights. Mum's going to love seeing me
dressed like this. “Still...” I said as I put the blusher brush
down. “...it's better than Mum knowing the truth.” I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“True.” Laura
replied. “You don't hate me do you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” I replied. “I
just wish you'd thought of a different forfeit.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” Laura
agreed as she began rummaging through all her lipsticks. “So do I
in a way.” she said. “Do you want to wear pink again?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I guess.” I
gulped. “I'll need some tits too.” I said, glancing down at my
flat chest.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I was wondering when
you were going to ask.” Laura grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A broad grin swept my
mother's face when I presented myself to her. “You look even more
gorgeous in real life!” she said, looking me up and down,
complimenting my legs before asking if I chose the shorts and top.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No Laura did.” I
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And how long does
your hair have to stay in all those knots?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... about an
hour.” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Who did you say he
looked like?” Laura asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Bjork.” Mum
replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Who's that?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum described the
Icelandic singer and showed us the video to Big Time Sensuality on
her iPad, which we all enjoyed. “I didn't think anyone would wear
their hair like this to go out.” I commented as I watched the video
of Bjork dancing around on the back of a truck. “It looks quite
cool.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It was a fleeting
trend back in the 90s.” Mum said. She had that reminiscent look in
her eyes.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum had plenty of
pottering to do so she was in and out, up and down all over the
house. She couldn't keep her eyes off me when our paths crossed.
Neither could my sister. For the bag of nerves that I was, I actually
felt quite comfortable in my thick tights, little flouncy shorts and
simple top. “You're going to have to let your hair down soon.”
Laura said. “...and Mum's going to want to see you doing it
yourself.” she added, before reminding me how she carefully unwound
my plaits and teased out the curls a fortnight ago. “Just try to
remember what I did and Mum won't suspect a thing.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.” I gulped. I
felt so self conscious as I stood in the lounge, facing the mirror,
removing the bobby pins and placing them on the mantle. Mum said I
looked like Medusa with all my random plaits. “I know.” I replied
as I began removing all the bobbles.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mind if I watch?”
Mum asked as I began unravelling my plaits. I said I didn't mind but
I'd rather she didn't watch as I carefully separated each one. Laura
joined the audience as I began teasing out all the curls and pushing
my fingers up my scalp to give my hair some body, just as she'd done
a fortnight ago. I spent a good five or ten minutes before facing
them and asking if it looked OK. “It's the nicest your hair's ever
looked.” Mum said. “...and you learnt that from YouTube?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I casually
lied. “But I did steal the gel, pins and bobbles off Laura.” I
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Plus my bra and
top!” Laura added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Jewellery too if I
remember correctly.” Mum said, before asking if I was wearing
shorts or a skirt or something else in my profile picture. “...the
picture only shows your top half.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Jeans.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your own or some of
Laura's?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mine.” I replied.
That fact felt like the first truthful thing I'd said all day.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmm.” Mum
responded. “I'd have thought you'd have worn a skirt... after going
to all that trouble with your hair and make-up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I quite like it when
say... Janelle Mon<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">á</span>e or
Taylor Swift wears a pair of scruffy jeans and trainers with a little
top and still look fantastic.” I said, speaking entirely off the
top of my head. “Bottom half is dressed down, top half dressed up.”
I added. “That's what I was going for.” I claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I see.” Mum
replied. “So you have a few style icons then?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I dunno... no one in
particular.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've certainly got
style Marty.” my sister said. “You look great and Mum's right...
that's the best your hair's ever looked.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I turned toward my
reflection. “It looked better last time.” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You wore a barrette
didn't you?” Mum quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I said. Mum
told me I look just as good today and bashfully, I thanked her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Gosh is that the
time?” Mum exclaimed, reading her wristwatch. “I'd best go and
see Gran.” Mum said. “Are you both sure you don't want to come?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I certainly wasn't
going dressed as I was and Laura cited her hangover and wanting to
hang out with me as her reasons. “Tell her I'll come next week.”
I said. “And please don't tell her I’m dressed as a girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She's seen your
FaceBank picture.” Mum chuckled. “Everyone has.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum left, saying she'd
only be a couple of hours and complimented my appearance one last
time. Laura suggested I make some coffee, insisting on proper coffee
instead of instant. She went to her room and returned five minutes
later with my black plimsolls hanging from her fingers. “Put these
on.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why?” I cautiously
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So we can sit at the
end of the garden and smoke this.” she said, revealing a joint.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I didn't know you
smoked weed!” I exclaimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I'm good at
keeping things secret.” she smugly stated. “Come on.” she
chirped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our back garden is long
and apart from the patio section right at the back of the house, it's
relatively secluded at the far end. I pulled on my plimsolls and tied
the laces. “This feels really daring.” I said. “Going outside
dressed like this.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You look ace.”
Laura said. “I wish the world was more tolerant and allowed guys to
wear girl's clothes.” she mused. “No one bats an eyelid when
girls dress like boys.” she said, glancing down at herself.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're hardly
dressed as a boy Laura.” I commented. She too wears plimsolls,
along with a little pair of frayed denim shorts, yet her legs are
bare and tanned and smooth. Her fitted T shirt is baby blue and
peppered with tiny purple butterflies. Her hair is brushed into a
high ponytail and plaited and unlike me, she wears minimal make-up.
“But compared to me...” I added. She grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was a bag of nerves
as I stepped outside. The paved patio has a table and chairs and is
in full view of the neighbour's windows. A tall trellis up which a
huge clematis climbs marks the boundary between the patio and the
rest of the garden, and beyond this a long lawn, a few fruit trees,
the garden shed and a secluded seating area with raised flower beds
at the far end where a tall privet hedge grows. Once beyond the
trellis I can relax, but with my bouncy hair and flouncy shorts, a
simple stroll over the lawn and down the garden is nothing short of
thrilling. The warm summer sun streams right through my thin top.
Its heat is warm and welcome on my back. At the end of the garden,
we put our coffee cups on a wall and sit on the bench. “You like
those tights don't you?” my sister tells me. “Every time you sit
you can't keep your hands off them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They do feel nice.”
I confessed. “They look OK too.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They look more than
OK!” Laura said. “Your legs are easily as good as mine.” she
reckoned. I disagreed. “Shave them and get a tan and they would.”
she advised. I watched in awe as she lit the spliff and took a toke.
“I've been looking forward to this all morning.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you smoke down
here often?” I asked. She nodded and exhaled. “Does Mum know?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Course.” she
replied, handing the spliff to me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Doesn't she mind?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She was nineteen
once... she'd rather I smoke down here than in the house.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Or in an abandoned
cricket pavilion.” I added before taking a toke. “Is that
supposed to happen?” I asked, seeing my glossy pink lipstick
imprinted on the roach.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” she grinned.
“You're not going to set fire to the shed are you?” she jokingly
asked as I took a second drag.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No!” I chuckled.
“I've not smoked any weed since the pavilion.” I told her.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How come?” she
asked as I handed the spliff back.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I explained that I'd
left my entire stash in the pavilion and after reading the newspaper
report, I knew the police had my tin with my prints on it. All they
needed was my fingers and if I got nabbed buying weed they'd get my
prints. “...so I decided not to buy any more weed and not do
anything that might result in the police getting my finger prints.”
I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Smart.” she said.
“Then you told me.” she grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... I regret
that more than burning the pavilion down.” I dryly retorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No you don't.” she
grinned. “Even you didn't know you were a tranny 'til I dressed you
up.” she said. “And now look at you... you look fuckin' ace
Marty.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I coyly
replied. “It does feel nice.” I said, taking the spliff from her.
“This is taking the edge of my nerves.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good.” Laura
smiled as I took a toke. “Just don't tell Mum... she'd go bananas
if she found out I’d got you stoned.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I might have
make you buy my silence.” I said, jovially. “Give me a few days
and I'll dream up a fitting forfeit for you.” I grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-30545692920848186122019-12-25T00:36:00.001-08:002021-09-24T06:01:53.900-07:00Christmas yet to come...<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's December and the
high street is lavishly decorated with festive lights and Christmas
trees. The shop window displays feature Santa outfits, snowflakes,
reindeer, elves, candy canes and gift boxes and all sorts of festive
décor. Mark is shopping with his mother who frequently comments on
the outfits in the shop windows. “I wish they had things like that
when you were little.” she said, admiring a display of Santa's
Little Helper outfits on some boy mannequins in the window of
Debenhams. Mark said they did but they were for girls. “Not
many girls wore dresses when you were little.” she reminded him. “I
wonder if they do them for older boys.” she mused.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not going to
dress like Santa's Little Helper mum!” Mark whined. “I'm
fifteen.” he reminded her. The mannequins, depicting boys aged
about eight or nine wore an elf themed red and green frocks with red &
green stripy tights and a stupid looking hat with bells. Another wore
a pair of green dungaree shorts with a red blouse and lace collar, with the
same stripy tights, and the third wore a bright red Santa dress with
fur around its hems and plain white tights. They're OK for little
kids, Mark thinks, but teenagers don't do fancy dress if they can
help it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Inside one of the
stores, his mother points out a sweatshirt with 'Just a Boy'
embroidered in a graffiti style font on the front. His mother says
it's nice. “It's horrible.” Mark whined. The sweatshirt is white
but the design is in purple and lilac and the 'o' of boy is a heart
shape. His mother says it's 'sweet' and Mark reminds her that he's
fifteen and far too old for clothes like that. His mother points out
a padded down jacket. “That looks nice and warm.” she said. It
might look warm, Mark thought, but that shade of pastel purple is far
too nice, and the fake fur around it's hood is the palest pink. Mark
doesn't like it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
His mother picked up a
hat, gloves and scarf set. Pink, lilac and baby blue stripes
shouldn't belong in the teen boys department but they do.“This is
cute.” his mother smiled. That's exactly what's so bad about it,
Mark thought. Too many boys clothes these days are cute and strolling
the boys department with his mother is always embarrassing,
especially when she insists on just looking at the limited selection
of skirts and frocks that seem to have been commonplace for a few
years now. Thankfully there's still plenty of traditional boys
clothes and Mark's mother knows what he prefers, but she always
describes them as plain and boring when buying him something that he
likes. “We may as well get you some undies whilst we're here.”
she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.” Mark
apathetically replied. “Just don't get me any more nice ones...
I’ve got loads already.” </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The problem is, his mother likes nice
underpants and since no one else will see them, she pays little heed
to his preferences. She always picks him a pack with lacy elastic and
pastel shades or pretty patterns and despite the fact he doesn't like
them, he wears them. “OK.” he moaned when she chose him a pack of
five spotty pairs of 'boys panties'. “Will you unpick the bows
though.” he timidly requested. His mother sighed and told him that
unpicking the little satin bows from the waistband was too much faff
for something no one will see. “But they're high waisted.” he
whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It is winter
though... big pants are warmer than little ones.” his mother
reminded. “Just keep your vest tucked in.” she told him as she
removed the matching pack of boys vests which also have elasticated
lace trim. They slowly stroll toward the tills and his mother
frequently stops to look at various items; a long nightie, a floral
pyjama set and a fluffy pink bathrobe... all in the boy's department.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With Christmas fast
approaching, the queue for the tills is long and slow. Mark holds his
plain beige jumper, a plain brown body-warmer and conceals his 'nice'
underwear beneath them. In front of them is a boy aged about twelve
with his parents. His mother holds a powder pink corduroy dungaree
dress and a burgundy blouse on a hanger. The boy is sulking and his
father explains that he's still a child and to a certain extent, has
to wear what he's told. The mother turns to her son and says. “It's
hardly your first dress Charles and with some nice thick tights
you'll be plenty warm enough.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Poor kid.” Mark
thought. “If I was his age my Mum'd probably be foisting frocks
onto me.” he mused. Being fifteen going on sixteen, Mark's own
mother lets him choose his own clothes for the most part... although
she did buy him a skirt once.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He's an average teenage
boy in his final year of high school and like most boys his age, he
faces few prospects when he does leave school. Mark will probably end
up in college for a couple of years earning a menial qualification
that'll get him a job as a cleaner, sweeper or dishwasher. Girls have
better prospects and apart from a few exceptions, they exclusively
sit GCSE and A level exams and go onto university. Mark doesn't feel
hard done by. It's just the way things are. Women wear the trousers,
sit in the boardrooms and fill the majority of seats in the House of
Commons these days.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Being an average
teenage boy, Mark has an apathetic approach to fashion and prefers
comfort over style. He baulks at the latest trends and for good
reason... he remembers when skirts and frocks and shoes with heels
were only worn by women and girls and seeing those things becoming
commonplace in the boys' clothing departments is very discomforting
indeed. But like most teenage boys, Mark shuns the latest trends and
remains comfortable in his old jeans, trusty trainers and comfy
jumpers. He did however endure the humbling experience of having to
wear a skirt and heels for a family wedding in the summer. That was
six months ago and was the first and last time he wore something
<i>trendy</i>. It cemented his opinion that the new styles aren't his
thing at all.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They return home from
town and his mother picks up the post from the doormat. Mark tries on
his new jumper and body-warmer before removing the tags. He likes it
but his mother wishes he'd stop being such a stick in the mud and
wear something 'trendy' occasionally. She unpacks his new underwear
and after admiring them, tells him to take them to his room and put
them away. “OK.” he sighed. His underwear drawer contains normal
boys underwear and 'nice' stuff with lace trim and pastel colours.
It's been a few years since he only had what he considers 'normal'
boys underwear but he's got used to having the nice stuff too, but
given the choice he knows what he prefers. At least it's just
underwear. All his other clothes are plain and boyish and just what
he likes... apart from the skirt he wore that one day in the summer
and hasn't worn since. That, along with the smart 'reverse' shirt
with its buttons running up the back still hangs unloved and unwanted
in his wardrobe.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
~o0o~</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Xmas morning-->It's
Christmas morning and Mark is unwrapping his gifts one by one. Being
fifteen, most gifts are practical presents rather than toys and
games. Amongst other things, he unwrapped a boxed table-top mirror on
a chrome pedestal. “Oh a shaving mirror.” Mark presumed.
“Thanks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I was thinking it'd
be handy to have in your bedroom... when you're brushing your hair
and stuff.” his mother replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh, OK.” Mark
smiled as his mother hands him yet more gifts. He's chuffed with the
new alarm clock, a book about sci-fi films and a pair of mittens that
a crafty aunt had hand-knitted. A sizeable gift is wrapped in shiny
purple paper and tied with a candy pink bow. He suspects a new
bathrobe or maybe a coat as he read the label and thanked his mother.
She eagerly watches as he carefully unwraps it. “Oh Mu-um you know
I don't like this stuff!” he whines as he opens the wrapping and
unfolds a green velvet dress with a glittery snowflake pattern
peppering the skirt.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think you're just
shying away from fashion.” his mother tells him. “It comes with a
little hooded cape too.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark shifts the dress
out of its wrapping and finds a little velvet cape that sits around
the shoulders and hangs just above the elbows, with a large fake fur
lined hood. “Oh mu-um... that's really girlie!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not in this day and
age it isn't.” she chirped, handing him another gift. “These also
go with your dress.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He unwraps the small
parcel, also wrapped in purple with a pink bow to find a pair of
tights. “Oh Mu-um.” The tights are off white, knitted, quite
thick and feature glittery snowflakes just like the dress.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're very
welcome.” she smiles. Mark is no stranger to wearing tights because
he often wears them under his long pants in the winter when it's a
particularly chilly day... but these, with their knitted pattern and
sparkly details are made to be seen.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next gift is also
something he'd rather not have been given, being a pair of suede
winter boots with a chunky sole and a three inch block heel. “I
wasn't sure if they'd be a little too high or not... but they're only
a bit higher than the sandals you wore for George & Betty's
wedding in the summer.” she told him “...and a lot more boyish.”
she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As far as Mark is
concerned, there's nothing at all boyish about them, but compared to
the pair of two-inch kitten heeled sandals... “Thanks mum.” he
frowned. “But you know I don't like dresses or shoes with heels.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You said the same in
the summer when I bought you a skirt remember?” she reminded him.
“You didn't mind it once you'd got over your shyness.” she
claimed, adding that he took to wearing heels in no time and liked
being a little bit taller. But that was only because his mother had
him practising for a fortnight beforehand. He hasn't worn heels since
and isn't confident that he'll be able to walk in these chunky high
heeled boots. “It's just like riding a bike.” his mother says.
“Once you learn you never forget.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's easy for you
to say... you never wear heels.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I did when I was
your age.” his mother replied. “I'm sure you'll be absolutely
fine.” she smiled. “I can't wait to see how you look.” she
said, running her fingers over the soft velvet fabric of his dress.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you want me to
wear it now?” he mournfully asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not right now.”
she replied. “Later, when we go to the Robson's.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh Mu-um... I don't
want to wear it there.” he whined. “I'll wear it in the house if
I have to but...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But what?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Jacob'll laugh at me
for a start.” he replied. “Plus I might slip in the snow... I've
only worn heels once and that was six months ago.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I very much doubt
you'll slip in the snow Mark.” his mother said, upending one of the
boots to reveal the rugged sole. “...and what makes you think Jacob
would laugh at you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because he took the
p.... micky out of me in the summer when I had to shave my legs.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And once you'd
started you didn't stop.” his mother smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only because I don't
like it when they get stubbly.” Mark replied. “If I didn't have
to wear that skirt I'd have never had to start.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Does Jacob still
tease you for shaving your legs?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” Mark said.
“But he will if I turn up wearing a dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Alfie wears
dresses.” his mother reminded him. Alfie is Jacob's little brother.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but he's six...
I’m fifteen.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Please don't take
that tone Mark. It doesn't matter how old you are. Lots of boys wear
dresses these days and you will be wearing yours when we visit the
Robson's later.” she sternly stated. “Now can we put an end to
all this moaning and carry on opening presents?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... sorry.”
Mark conceded. His mother handed him another gift and informed him
that it was also to go with his dress... a handbag, in green velvet
too. “Thanks Mum.” he frowned, gulping.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Have a look inside.”
she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Inside is two small
bags; one is a purse and the other contains a small selection of
cosmetics. “Make-up?” he gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just a few bits to
get you started; eye-liner, mascara, eye-shadow, foundation and a
couple of lipsticks.” she told him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't know what to
do with any of this stuff.” Mark confessed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well the foundation
goes on like a moisturiser, and lipstick's no different to applying a
chapstick.” she said. “...and I’ll help you with the eye
make-up.” she said, adding that it's been a few years since she's
worn it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not so sure
about wearing make-up as well Mum.” Mark replied. “I didn't at
George & Betty's wedding.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You wore foundation
and lipstick.” she reminded him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But not eye
make-up.” he replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No but it wasn't
really thing for boys back then.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It was only six
months ago.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And fashion moves
fast.” she told him. “I was reading in Woman and Home only last
month that lots of boys are going for full on glamour make-up... not
that that's what I have I mind... I was thinking of something more
subtle and natural, just to make your eyes sparkle a bit.” his
mother said. Mark wasn't so sure. “But it's Christmas.” she
reminded him. “...and I've bought it now.” she smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Okay.” Mark
apathetically conceded. “I just hope Jacob doesn't laugh at me for
going all femme.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just tell him your
mother pestered you into it.” she smiled. “That's usually what
happens.” she said. “...and I think this stuff is more 'homme'
than 'femme'.” my mother added. “Being feminine means minimal
make-up if any at all in this day and age.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Don't I know it, Mark
thought. He was livid when his mother bought him a skirt and a
reverse shirt for the wedding in the summer, but at least he wasn't
the only one since the bride had three boys and two girls in her
bridal party, all wearing dresses, tights and tiaras and holding
bouquets, plus a flowerboy. It's still very much the norm for the
bride to wear a gown and the groom to wear a suit but the groom's
nephews who weren't in the bridal party both wore dresses too. In
fact Mark's outfit was relatively plain compared to theirs, being an
ivory circle skirt with black polka dots and a white shirt with its
buttons running up the back, worn with thin 'nude' tights and a pair
of his mother's old sandals. “What are you thinking about?” his
mother asked, pulling Mark from his memories.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The wedding.” he
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You looked lovely.”
his mother said. “Pity there's not been another occasion for you to
wear your skirt again.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thankfully!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh it wasn't that
bad.” his mother claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah.” Mark agreed.
He recalled the groom's nephews (poor things) who wore matching lilac
party dresses with white satin sashes and looked like seven year old
girls despite the fact they were both teenagers. And at least he
wasn't in the bridal party dressed in a pale pink chiffon frock, or
the flowerboy who was an eleven year old wearing an all white satin
and lace dress! “...it was still embarrassing though... all the
women and girls saying <i>ooh doesn't Mark look nice</i> whilst all
the boys and men were giving me bemused glances.” Mark added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You did look nice.”
his mother stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Probably too nice.”
Mark frowned. “It's not so bad for say... Jacob's little brother
who's pretty much grown up thinking boys can wear dresses but for
boys my age it's different.” he explained. “We can remember when
only girls had frocks and heels and handbags.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I understand what
you're saying but you've got to move with the times.” his mother
replied. “You're still very young... it's not like you're your
father's age.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Does my dad know you
bought me a dress for Christmas?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No but I'm sure he
won't mind.” Mark's mother replied. “I'm not sure what Granddad
will think though.” she added. “Are you going to tell your Dad?”
she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I dunno.” Mark
frowned. “Probably not.” he mused. Mark's parents separated
several years ago and his father lives in a small apartment in a
satellite town. They continued to have a good relationship but only
meet up once or twice each month, and Mark will be spending a couple
of days with his dad between Christmas and New Year.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it's entirely
up to you.” his mother said. “But don't presume he'll think
negatively... he knows as much as anyone how the world is changing.”
she told him. “I wouldn't be at all surprised if, after another
decade or so, the groom will wear the wedding dress and the bride
will wear the suit.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I hope not!” Mark
grimaced.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Being a single parent
of an only child, Mark's mother easily manages to hold down a full
time professional career by working from home when he's not at school
and visiting the office and clients when he is. In previous decades
professional women were not afforded such a flexible approach to
their careers, and that was one of many reasons why the old
patriarchy ultimately failed. As women and mothers began to fill the
boardrooms of many companies and organisations, they recognised that
many archaic workplace practises needed to be rethought and
overhauled and as a result, western society entered what would soon
be dubbed the genderquake. Women and mothers became the main
breadwinners. Men and husbands found themselves struggling to
progress through any career and found themselves working the most
menial of jobs. Mark's father had a decent office job until the
company restructured and he found himself in a junior position on the
minimum wage. His new responsibilities were restocking the stationery
cupboard and shredding non-confidential documents. His wife, Mark's
mother wanted him to quit work and become a full time househusband
but pride would not let him stoop so low... and that's when the
marriage began to break down.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After a delightful
Christmas breakfast of smoked salmon, scrambled egg, croissants and
bucks fizz, Mark and his mother watched some festive TV shows until
the early afternoon. “Right...” she said. “...shall start
getting ready to visit the Robson's?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We're not due 'til
three.” Mark said, glancing at the time.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but you need
a bath and a shave before you get dressed.” she told him. “When
was the last time you shaved your legs?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The day before
yesterday.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh well they should
be OK.” she replied, suggesting a quick shower instead. “We've
got your make-up to do remember and we don't want to be late.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do I <i>have</i> to
wear make-up?” he frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're wearing a
dress, so yes.” his mother stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark sighed before
taking himself upstairs, grumbling “Why is she making me wear a
dress today of all days?!” to no one but himself as he grabbed his
bathrobe. He showered and shaved his face as closely as he dare
before conditioning and rinsing his hair. On returning to his
bedroom, Mark found the dress laid out on his bed, along with his new
pair of festive tights and some 'nice' underwear.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
His mother popped her
head around the door. “I've put your vanity on the desk.” she
told him. He responded with a blank expression. “Your new mirror.”
she said in layman's terms.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh er... thanks.”
he gulped, seeing the mirror and his new handbag on his desk. “Do I
have to wear those undies?” he asked, turning his eyes back to his
bed. The set she'd selected is one he's hardly worn because it's far
too lacy; ivory lace boy shorts with a satin front panel and a
matching vest with wide lace shoulder straps. A little lace trim he's
used to but lots of lace is something he'd rather avoid and apart
from the stretchy satin front panels, this underwear set is all lace.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nice outerwear means
nice underwear.” she told him. “Let me know when you've done your
foundation and I’ll help you do your eyes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.” he mournfully
replied. Mark sighed at the dress but knew he'd have to wear it
whether he liked it or not. At least it's not an infantile style like
many boys frocks are so it could have been far far worse. He pulled
on the lacy boy shorts before removing his robe and pulling on the
matching vest. Mark couldn't help but look at his reflection in the
small oval mirror on his desk. He knows it's boys underwear but why
does it have to be so girlie, he thought as he perched on the edge of
his bed and opened the new pair of tights he'd been gifted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Whilst there's nothing
unusual about boys wearing tights as a thermal base layer under long
pants, Mark, like most other boys would never choose to wear a pair
that could be seen. However he did have to wear a pair of really thin
skin coloured tights at that wedding in summer and felt doubly self
conscious because of them. Unlike the tights he wears under his pants
in the winter, which are fleece lined and black, these are ivory in
colour with a knitted ribbed pattern and a peppering of small
glittery snowflakes all over them which will perfectly complement the
festive pattern on his dress. After gathering up each leg, he pushed
his toes in them and pulled them up to his knees, before inching each
leg up over his lacy boy shorts. The ribbed knit stretched around his
knees and calves. The snowflakes sparkled and the boy breathed a long
deep sigh. He sighed again as he picked up the dress and pulled it
on. The polyester velveteen fabric fit snugly around his arms and
torso, then flared out into a circle skirt, the hem of which landed a
good few inches above his knees.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The thick fabric had a
downy texture and a weight that made the frock feel warm and cosy. If
it was just a jersey he'd have liked it but it being a dress makes
him feel sheepish and self conscious. The glittery snowflake details
begin sparsely at the waist and fill the skirt more and more toward
the hem. “How are you getting on?” his mother asked as she opened
his bedroom door. “Ooh that does look nice.” she smiled. “Very
festive.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I feel stupid.”
Mark moaned. “It's too swishy.” he said as the heavy skirt swayed
this way and that as he moved. “...and it shows my vest.” he
noticed. The dress has long sleeves and a broad 'boat' neck that
leaves the broad lacy straps of his vest on display.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's why I chose
that vest.” his mother told him. “It's the little details that
make a big difference.” she said, before complimenting the sparkly
pattern on his new tights. “Are they nice and warm?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ask me in a bit when
we're out in the freezing cold.” Mark dryly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm sure you'll be
fine.” she told him. “It's only a ten minute walk.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In heels!” he
reminded her.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll be fine.”
she stated. “Walking in heels is like riding a bike.” she
claimed. “I haven't worn them for years but I'm sure I still
could.” she said. “Shall we do your make-up?” she suggested.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I guess.”
Mark glumly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
His mother stroked his
cheek and asked if he'd had a good close shave. Mark nodded. “Good
boy. Sit down. Foundation first.” she said. “I'll see what I can
do with your hair.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark sat and his mother
stood behind him, combing his damp hair whilst he applied the pale
foundation powder. First she combed it back off his forehead, then in
a centre parting. His hair is styled in a typically boyish short back
and side with only the fringe to play with which doesn't leave much
leeway. “How about that?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not keen.” he
said, seeing his hair parted dead centre and dead straight, with a
diamanté hair slide placed symmetrically on each side. His mother
said she'd like to get the hairdryer and tongs out and give it some
body but his hood would ruin it. “Can't I just have a side parting
or something... without any slides.” he requested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You need something
in it.” she told him, adding that the diamanté slides go nicely
with the glittery snowflakes on his dress and tights. As requested,
she combed it in a side parting and held his fringe high off his
forehead with the two slides. “That looks nice.” she said. It
looked better to Mark than it did with the clips placed symmetrically
so he apathetically agreed. Then she began faffing around his ear.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's that?” he
asked in a whiny voice.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Magnetic ear studs.”
she said, revealing a single small sparkly stud on his earlobe.
“Earrings without the piercings.” she added, before asking if
he'd done his foundation.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” he replied,
looking up at his mother for approval. She told him that he needs to
powder his forehead as well. “I hope Jacob doesn't laugh at me.”
he frowned, smearing the fine pale powder over his forehead.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm sure he won't.”
his mother said, stepping around him and attaching the other magnetic
earring. “Right... this is where it gets a little bit tricky.”
she said, emptying the little cosmetic bag on his desk.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark looked at his
reflection, turning his head a little so he could she how the tiny
ear studs twinkled in the light. His mother arranged the various
cosmetic items in front of him. “I don't know what to do with any
of this stuff.” Mark gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You know what to do
with these.” his mother said, standing the two lipsticks on end and
putting them to one side. “Eye shadow is for your eyelids.” she
said, opening the little plastic palette. “Mascara is for your
lashes.” she said, revealing the tiny brush. “...and this is the
eye-liner.” she told him. “The trick is learning not to flinch.”
she added, demonstrating on herself before handing the pencil to her
son.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I thought you was
going to do it for me?” he hesitantly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's best that you
learn to do it yourself.” she replied. “We've still got a couple
of hours so there's no rush.” she added. Much of the following hour
was spent with Mark being coached in the art of applying eye make-up
and after many flinches and failures and an awful lot of wipes, he
finally managed to apply eye-liner, eye-shadow and mascara. He gazed
in the mirror and fluttered his lashes. “I didn’t' think it'd
make me look so different.” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You don't look that
different.” his mother replied. “But you do look lovely.” she
told him. Mark shyly lowered his eyes and they turned upon the two
lipsticks. He asked which he should wear. “Whichever you like.”
she replied. “I got you a pale pinky one and a darker nutty shade.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He was naturally
opposed to the pinky one so selected the shade she described as
'nutty'. “Don't you think it's weird Mum?” he said after removing
the lid and winding up the stick to reveal a reddy brown colour that
reminds him of a conker. “One minute women are shunning all this
stuff and the next they're saying it's for boys.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's just a case of
the times changing.” she replied. “When women were subservient to
men we were encouraged to prettify ourselves. The pendulum's just
swung the other way, that's all.” she told him. “Plus, there's
nothing new about males wearing make-up... just look at the glam
rockers and new romantics in the nineteen-seventies and eighties.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But they weren't
wearing dresses.” Mark replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Some were... but it
was different back then.” she said. “It's a lot more normal now.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's not that
normal.” Mark gulped. “If it was I wouldn't be so nervous.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're only nervous
because you're not used to looking so nice.” she said. “On
reflection I suppose I should have started putting you in dresses a
couple of years ago when they first appeared in the boys'
department.” she figured. “You'd feel a lot more confident now if
I had.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm glad you
didn't... they were so prissy.” he retorted, recalling the
infantile styles that initially entered the boy's clothing
departments. “At least this is normal.” Mark said, running his
hand over his thick velveteen skirt. “Relatively.” he added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So you approve
then?” his mother asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It could have been
worse.” Mark replied. “It's not so bad bearing in mind some of
the frocks some boys have to wear.” he sighed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I guess hoping
you'd be over the moon with it was a bit much to expect.” his
mother said. “Are you going to apply that lipstick?” she
prompted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er....” Mark
gulped. He regularly wears a moisturising lip balm so the application
isn't unusual, what he's not used to is seeing his lips painted a
different colour and the change from his natural lip tone to the
reddy brown is quite drastic. “Does it look OK?” he meekly asked.
“Or should I try the other one?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It looks perfect. I
was going to suggest that one.” his mother told him. “But you can
wear the pink if you prefer... it's up to you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah this'll do.”
he sheepishly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Now make sure you
don't rub your eyes otherwise you'll ruin it.” she advised. Mark
gulped and nodded. “Are you feeling a bit more confident now?”
his mother asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” Mark bluntly
stated. He looked up at his mother pleadingly. “I can't believe I'm
going round to Jacob's wearing a dress and make-up.” he gulped. “I
suppose it's too late to say I want to wear something else.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think you're just
getting a little bit of stage fright.” his mother said. “It's not
unusual to get nervous wearing a new outfit for the first time.”
she claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's more than a
little bit of stage fright.” Mark apprehensively replied. “I'm
cacking myself.” he told her. “I hope Jacob doesn't tease me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm certain he
won't” his mother assured.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Maybe not today but
he might when we go back to school.” Mark said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And I'm sure plenty
of boys at school all have dresses of their own.” his mother
assured.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“If they do they're
keeping quiet about it.” Mark grumbled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you know what
boys are like.” his mother replied, before suggesting he pack up
his make-up as she picked up his new handbag. “Where's your wallet
at?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... in my coat
pocket.” he replied, nodding to the back of his bedroom door where
it hung. “Why?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So I can put your
money and your bank card and whatever else in your purse.” she
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd rather carry on
using my wallet.” Mark grimaced at the dainty little purse, clad in
shiny green satin. “I won't need it today anyway.” he added as
his mother rooted through his coat pockets until she found his
wallet.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I didn't buy it
just to be left unused.” she said. “Plus it matches your bag and
your frock.” she added as she transferred the few notes and his
bank card into it. Mark began to bundle the cosmetics into the little
bag they came from. “You won't need the lipstick you're not
wearing.” she told him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I wont need any of
it will I?” he retorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“When you're wearing
make-up, you carry make-up.” she informed him. “You'll at least
have to re-apply your lippy.” she said. “It won't stay on
forever.” she added. “Especially if you keep biting your lip like
that.” she giggled as he grimaced. Having dropped his little satin
purse into his green velvet handbag, she held it open so he could put
his make-up bag in too. “You'll need a pack of tissues too.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I haven't got any.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it's a good job
I have.” she said. “Come on.” she chirped, handing him the
dainty little bag.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It has a pair of small
hooped handles rather than a shoulder strap. It felt uncomfortable
hanging from his fingers. “Do I have to take this?” he whined. “I
feel like such a girl.” he moaned. His mother gave him one of those
looks. “Well you know what I mean.” he said. “Boy's don't use
handbags.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They do when they
haven't got any pockets to put their things in.” his mother
informed him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll have my coat
pockets.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll be wearing
your cape.” she told him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd forgotten about
that.” he frowned. “It'll never be warm enough... it barely
covers my elbows.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It'll be fine.”
his mother grinned. “I can't wait to see how it looks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll freeze.” he
frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll be as warm as
toast.” his mother claimed. “It's only a ten minute walk.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In the middle of
winter with just a pair of tights covering my legs.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We managed perfectly
well when we wore skirts and frocks.” she reminded him. “...and
we were supposed to be weaker sex.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They still had an hour
before heading round to the Robson household for Christmas dinner and
Mark donned his new shoes so he could get himself accustomed to
wearing heels. “Do they fit OK?” his mother asked as he stood.
“Not too tight?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No they fit fine.”
Mark replied. “Apart from being high.” he said. “I feel really
tall.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You said that last
time too.” she recalled before suggesting he make them both a
coffee.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark cautiously strode
to the kitchen in his new high heeled boots. Dressing like a girl
feels so very different than wearing boys clothes and it's been a
good while since he wore a skirt. Unlike the high heeled sandals he
had to wear in the summer, his new boots make hardly any noise at all
on the tiled kitchen floor, but they do make the kitchen worktops
seem significantly lower. In the days running up to that wedding,
Mark's mother had him wearing the high heeled shoes she'd loaned him
as often as possible so he got quite accustomed to them. Today is the
first time he's worn heels since then and it's all coming back to
him; back straight, head up, walk from the hip and know where your
heel is. His new shoes, or ankle boots which is what they really are
resemble walking boots, albeit walking boots with a high chunky heel.
The green suede matches his frock and his ivory tights lead neatly
into their sheepskin lining, and having laces rather than buckles,
they're not really that girlie... unlike the sandals he wore for
George & Betty's wedding. His weighty frock swished and swirled
as he walked from fridge to cupboard to kettle. His knitted tights
slid and stretched over his legs. For a dress, it didn't feel so bad
but he's indoors with only his doting mother to see him. It's going
to feel very different when he's out in the cold December air and
when visiting the Robson's and his schoolmate Jacob for Christmas
dinner. With that in mind, Mark begins to feel nervous once more.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ooh thanks Love.”
his mother smiles as he hands her a nice hot cup of coffee. He placed
his own cup down before sitting, scooping his frock first and keeping
his knees together. “Those glittery tights do look nice.” she
tells him, and not for the first time.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark gulped and smiled.
He wasn't at all keen on them, but didn't want to appear ungrateful
on Christmas day of all days. He reached for his coffee and took a
sip. “You'd think they'd be able to make one that doesn't come off
like that.” he said, noticing the imprint of lipstick on the rim of
his mug.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They probably
could.” his mother said. “But then you wouldn't have to keep
re-applying it and they wouldn't sell as much.” she cynically
suggested.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah true.” Mark
replied. “Don't you miss wearing make-up?” he asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” she
replied. “I used to like it but it was a chore because we were
expected to wear it all day everyday... not just for special
occasions like boys do.” she said. “Do you like it?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't know.” he
replied. “It's weird because I can't see it, but I know it's
there.” he said. “I can feel the mascara on my lashes.” he
added, wondering if that was just an illusion or not. A tiny amount
of mascara can't weigh anything at all but he can feel it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They look lovely and
long.” his mother said as he fluttered them. “I'll bet the young
women at school would be queuing up for a date if they could see how
nice you look.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh I dunno.” Mark
bashfully replied. “We're not allowed make-up at school.” he
stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No but... out of
school.” his mother said. “Going 'round town on the weekends,
trips to the cinema or the bowling alley.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're hardly
special occasions Mum.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No but if you want
to stand out from the other boys...” she mused.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmm.” Mark gulped
as he visualised a scene; Saturday afternoon in market square, dolled
up to the nines as he totters about on his heels, swinging his dainty
little handbag with some girls from school cooing over him, and some
boys splitting their sides in laughter.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They soon finished
their coffee and Mark's mother sent him to the kitchen to wash the
mugs. Once that was done, she asked him if he'd wrapped Jacob's
Christmas gift, which Mark had. It was up in his room and his mother
suggested he fetch it. It may be a good six months since the last
time he wore high heels but they don't feel as awkward or ungainly as
he'd expected. Maybe his mother was right about high heeled shoes
being like riding a bike? Once you learn you don't forget. He trotted
down the stairs with with Jacob's gift and noted how his skirt
swished and swayed. His mother had assembled the rest of the gifts
she'd bought for Jacob's parents, sister and little brother and put
them in a festive themed paper bag, along with a big box of chocolate
truffles for the table. “Have you got your handbag?” she asked
her son as they prepared to leave.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” Mark
replied, grabbing it. “I suppose I should redo my lipstick.” he
sheepishly suggested as he opened the bag.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I was just about to
say that.” his mother said. She felt so proud as he timidly applied
his lipstick then sought approval. “Lovely.” she told him. She
donned her coat and handed Mark his new hooded cape that matches his
dress. It's a quarter cape that hangs around his shoulders, down to
his elbows and fastens with a single button. Whilst its fabric is
thick and cosy, its short length feels inadequate and its vintage
style feels overtly feminine. “Where's those new mittens?” his
mother asked as he picked up his handbag.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I was gonna wear my
gloves.” he replied. Being bright blue, his mother told him that
his trusty winter gloves wouldn't go with his outfit and since the
woollen mittens one of his aunts had gifted him are grey with green
cuffs, they'll look much nicer. “But they won't be as warm.” he
whined.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mittens are warmer
than gloves.” his mother told him. Mark muttered that he hasn't
worn mittens since he was a little kid as he slid them on. They
looked and felt infantile. His mother grabbed the bag of gifts and
they walked into the hallway. She parked him in front of the large
mirror and told him that he looked very festive. Mark gulped and
sighed at his reflection. The glittery snowflakes on his skirt
sparkled, and landing halfway down his thigh, left much of his ivory
tights on display. They also sparkled as he turned this way and that.
“I look like a girl Mum.” he frowned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You look nothing
like a girl.” she told him, claiming that he looked like a
fashionable teenage boy. “Put your hood up... and be careful you
don't mess your hair.” she told him as she opened the door.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The oversized hood
covered his short boyish hair and framed his painted face. “I'm
really nervous Mum.” he timidly said as he looked outside.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What on earth for?”
his mother asked. “It's Christmas so there'll be hardly anyone
out.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Stepping out.-->“I
know but...” Mark gulped. “..I'm just not used to looking like
this.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You look fabulous
Mark, and if it's Jacob you're worried about, I think if anything
he'll be jealous of how nice you look.” she claimed. Mark was
unconvinced by his mother's supposition. “Come on, we're letting
all the heat out.” his mother said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark stepped out into
the chilly December air. An inch of snow covered the lawn. The leaves
in the trees and hedgerow were tinged with frost. The garden path is
white and potentially icy. The cold nibbled right through his tights.
“It's freezing.” he said as his mother locked the door.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll be fine once
we get moving.” his mother said. “And I expect it's just your
legs.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark nodded. His rugged
soles sank into the frosty snow with a satisfying crunch and his
breath condensed into an icy cloud. He shifted his handbag to the
crook of his elbow and huddled his arms in close, cupping his elbows
in his mittened hands. “Brrrr.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Optimistically, it's a
mere ten minute walk to the Robson's but realistically, it's a good
fifteen minutes. Walking cautiously through the thin layer of snow in
his high heeled boots would likely add another few minutes. His
hooded cape felt warm and cosy and his thick velvet frock did its job
in holding off the cold, but landing mid thigh, he only had his
knitted tights to protect him from there down to his ankles. By the
end of the road he'd acclimatised somewhat and it being Christmas
day, the streets were practically deserted. His nerves ebbed a little
but not a lot.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Meanwhile at the robsons-->Meanwhile
at the Robson household, Mark's school friend Jacob is becoming
increasingly nervous. “Charlotte and Mark should be here any
minute.” Jacob's mother told him. “...so can you get this
wrapping paper tidied up?” she said before checking on her husband
who was busy preparing their festive feast. “Alfie, will you tidy
up your toys.” she instructed. “And you can set up your laptop
later Claire.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jacob stuffed the
tattered and torn shreds of wrapping paper into a bag and helped his
little brother tidy his toys. He'd long since stowed most of his own
gifts in his bedroom so didn't have those to worry about.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark and his mother
strolled across the park. “It does look lovely in the snow.” she
commented, before pointing out some children in the distance sledging
down a modest slope. “Have you warmed up a bit now?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah a bit.” Mark
said. “Still nervous though. Jacob's never seen me wearing a dress
and make-up before.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's seen the
wedding photos.” his mother reminded him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In real life I
mean.” Mark gulped, recalling how Jacob teased him for wearing a
skirt, blouse and heeled sandals at the summer wedding.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They crunched their way
through the shallow snow and eventually exited the park, crossed the
road and turned onto the street on which his school friend lives. A
hoard of butterflies erupted in Mark's tummy they neared the Robson's
house. The grand entrance to their home features a glazed front door
flanked with leaded windows on either side, through which their
hallway can be seen. “Doesn't it look lovely.” his mother said,
complimenting the Christmas decoration in their large hallway.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Arriving at the Robson's-->“That'll
be Charlotte and Mark.” Jacob's mother said as the doorbell rang.
“Will you let them in Jacob.” she told her son.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh not me Mum!”
Jacob whined. “Can't Claire do it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Claire's upstairs.”
his mother said, and straighten your socks, they've gone wonky.”
she told him. Mark huffed and puffed as he straightened his socks.
“Why don't you let them in?” he whined.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because I’m
telling <i>you</i> to let them in.” his mother snapped. Jacob
swallowed his pride and tried to suppress his nerves as he
reluctantly entered the hallway. He could see Mark and his mother
Charlotte through the glazed front door and Mark could see Jacob too.
Mark's jaw dropped as his friend opened the door, Jacob's cheeks
looked as crimson as his dress!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Jacob you look
lovely!” Marks mother smiled as she stepped inside. “Mark's
wearing a dress too.” she proudly stated as her son wiped his feet
on the doormat before stepping inside.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yours looks better
than mine.” Jacob frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You both look
delightful.” Mark's mother insisted as Jacob's mother entered the
hallway to greet her guests. “Merry Christmas Lydia.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Merry Christmas
Charlotte!” Lydia replied, giving her friend a hug. She greeted
Mark and complimented his dress. Bashfully, Mark thanked her as he
removed his hood. “You hair looks nice.” she commented.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum did it.” Mark
bashfully told her, glancing nervously at his friend. Jacob's mousey
blond hair is in short lose curls and decorated with a white headband
sporting a red bow. His dress, unlike Mark's relatively sedate frock
is very fancy and very infantile; pillar box red with a white bib,
trimmed with lace and a fancy collar with a pussy bow and short
puffed sleeves. Its skirt is shorter than Mark's with a layers of
white lace protruding another inch or two. His pale legs are hairless
and clad in a pair of knitted knee socks with frilly lace around the
tops, and on his feet, a pair of shiny red Mary Jane’s with a
modest kitten heel.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shall we take our
shoes off?” Charlotte asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh no... we're fully
laminated on the ground floor.” Lydia replied as Mark unbuttoned
his cape. “That looks nice as warm.” she commented as he removed
it, before complimenting his tights and footwear.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.” Mark
shyly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your make-up looks
lovely too.” Lydia said. “Jacob refused to wear his.” she
sneered. “Come through.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark and his mother
walked through their large lounge where little Alfie sat playing with
his doll's house, wearing a frock that matches his brothers, only
with plain white tights rather than fancy knee socks. Claire, Jacob's
thirteen year old sister is wearing jeans and a jumper. She sniggers
at Mark before telling him how pretty he looks. Jacob's dad pops his
head in and greets the guests. He's wearing trousers and a shirt and
a white bib apron. “So... did you get lots of lovely presents
Mark?” Lydia asked as he sheepishly sat on the sofa; scooping his
dress, keeping his knees together and resting his dainty little
handbag on his lap.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er, yes.” Mark
gulped, listing an alarm clock, some books, his mittens and some gift
vouchers. Then his mother prompted him to list his dress and tights
and shoes, his handbag and some make-up, before asking Jacob what
he'd been gifted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just clothes and
stuff.” Jacob mournfully replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I love those socks.”
Charlotte said, describing them as cute, before adding that his red
shoes look lovely with his red dress.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.” Jacob
blushed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jacob's mother pointed
out that he and Alfie are wearing matching dresses. “Yes I
noticed.” Charlotte grinned. “You both look delightful.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark and Jacob glanced
at each other and gulped. They both felt utterly embarrassed as their
mothers complimented their outfits. Mark pitied his friend but was
thankful that he wasn't having to endure such a prissy outfit. Lydia
tells of how she put Jacob's hair in rags last night to make it nice
and curly today. Charlotte says she couldn't do much with Mark's hair
because it's a little too short. “It looks nice though.” Lydia
complimented. “I love those diamanté barrettes... and you've had
your ears pierced!” she noticed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're err
magnetic.” Mark confessed, adding that they're his mothers.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They look lovely.
Very sparkly.” Lydia complimented, before commenting on the
glittery snowflakes that decorate his dress and tights. Mark did his
best to receive the comments and compliments as graciously as
possible but they made him feel like an object; something inert on
which eye-catching things are displayed... much like the Christmas
tree in the window. It was the same in the summer when he had to wear
a skirt and heels. People commented on the colour of his lips, his
blouse and skirt, his shoes and hair and his 'lovely long legs'.
Mark's mother once again compliments Jacob's appearance, but in
greater detail; the heart shaped buckles on his shoes, the tiny white
polka-dots on the bow in his hair and how his loose curls frame his
'pretty' face. Jacob is clearly mortified, but tries his best to put
a brave face on.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Charlotte turns her
attention to little Alfie, or rather, his outfit and then toward
Claire who'd been gifted a new laptop, a scientific calculator, hat,
scarf and gloves, some jeans and winter boots, some book tokens and
pyjamas. Six year old Alfie got a dolls house and some play make-up,
lots of dresses, shoes and tights and a lovely nightie. “You got a
nightie too didn't you Jacob.” his mother added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” Jacob glumly
replied, before being told to ask how his dad was getting on
preparing the Christmas dinner. He stood and sheepishly grabbed the
back of his frock before tottering toward the kitchen. His kitten
heels clacked noisily on the laminate floor.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“This'll be the first
time you've seen Jacob wearing a dress won't it Mark.” Lydia
stated. Mark nodded. “He's got a wardrobe full but he's still very
shy about them.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
understandable.” Mark replied. “I've only got this and I'm quite
shy about it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He was a bag of
nerves leaving the house.” Charlotte stated. “I told him he had
nothing to worry about, knowing Jacob would be wearing a dress too.”
she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You could have told
me.” Mark moaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It was a surprise.”
his mother told him. “Plus if he'd decided not to wear a dress
you'd have felt let down.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh there's no chance
of that.” Lydia replied. “I packed all his old clothes away so
he's only got nice clothes now.” she proudly stated. “He's even
got a pinafore for school next term.” she told them, adding that it
wasn't a Christmas gift but that it is about time he dressed like a
modern boy should. “I was just telling Mark that you'll be wearing
a pinafore for school next term.” Lydia said to Jacob as he
returned, before asking how his father was getting on with the
Christmas dinner.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It'll be about half
an hour.” Jacob said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Laying the table-->“Well
why don't you start laying the table?” Lydia suggested. “You'll
help won't you Mark?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... yeah, sure.”
Mark said, sheepishly standing and wondering what to do with his
handbag. Having earlier told him to keep it with him at all times,
his mother told him that it'd be OK left on the sofa. Mark bashfully
followed Jacob to the dining area, well out of earshot of their
mothers. Jacob opened a drawer and removed the posh cutlery. There
was a frosty silence until Mark asked if Jacob knew he'd be wearing a
dress. Jacob nodded. “I didn't know you would be.” Mark added. “I
was crapping myself all the way over here.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“At least yours isn't
really prissy.” Jacob frowned. “And Mum's chucked all my boy
clothes away.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah she said.”
Mark replied as they began laying the table. “I hope my mother
doesn't have any ideas like that.” he fearfully mused. “When did
she do that?” he asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Most of 'em went
about five weeks ago.” Jacob said. “All I had left was my school
uniform and that went when we broke up for Christmas.” he added as
he grabbed a pile of placemats “I'm dreading going back.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I would be too.”
Mark agreed. A few boys at school wear what they consider the girl's
uniform but most of them are in the first and second years. Only a
small handful of boys in the fifth year dress like girls, although
all the girls in the entire school wear trousers and have done for as
long as they've been in high school. “Did you get any cool
prezzies?” Mark asked as Jacob put the mats in position, hoping to
change the topic.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah just loads of
girl stuff.” Jacob frowned. “But Mum insists it's all boy's
stuff.” he mournfully added. “You?” he asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A few.” Mark
replied, listing the alarm clock, the numerous high street vouchers
and the woollen mittens. “...and a book about sci-fi movies...
that's quite cool.” he added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The only book I got
is a hair & make-up book.” Jacob frowned. “It's bad enough
having to wear dresses... there's no way I'm going to start wearing
make-up as well.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I didn't want to
either but Mum insisted.” Mark replied. “How did you curl your
hair?” he asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum tied it in
rags.” Jacob glumly replied. “I hardly slept a wink last night.”
he claimed, looking up toward his headful of short loose curls and
sighing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How does that work?”
Mark asked. Jacob described having a small section of his hair rolled
into a strip of cotton then tied in a knot, over and over and over
again until all of his hair was rolled into knotted rags and left
over night. “No wonder you couldn't sleep.” Mark commiserated.
“I'd have been the same if I knew I’d be dressing like this
today.” he added. “I didn't know I was getting a dress until I
unwrapped it this morning.” Mark frowned. “Are there some napkins
too?” he quizzed, having laid all the cutlery.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” Jacob said,
pointing to the drawer they should be in.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You boys are being
ever so domesticated.” Mark's mother said as she sauntered over.
“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked her son as he folded
the napkins into an upright fan.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In housekeeping
class at school.” he replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ah of course.”
Charlotte smiled. “Have you enjoyed the Christmas break so far
Jacob?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's been OK.” he
glumly answered. “I miss wearing pants.” he frowned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You look nice in a
dress though.” she said, looking at his bare legs and fancy knee
socks. “Are you going to wear socks or tights when you go back to
school.” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Tights I hope.” he
frowned. “But I'd rather wear trousers.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you've got to
move with the times.” Charlotte said, casting her eyes toward Mark.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Dinner will be five
minutes if you want to get yourselves seated.” Jacob's dad
announced from the kitchen door.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Will you help Alfie
with his pinny Jacob.” Lydia told her son. “There's one for you
as well Mark.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“One what?” Mark
quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A pinafore... to
keep your dress clean whilst you're eating.” Lydia replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jacob removed some
white items from a hanger and handed one to Mark. He then beckoned
his little brother over and put him in a Victorian style cotton
pinafore. It completely covers his dress and fastens with three
buttons high on the back. Marks mother took his pinafore and held it
for him to slip his hands through its arm holes. “How is this a
pinafore?” he asked as his mother turned him around and fastened
its buttons. “It's nothing like the school pinafores.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're thinking of a
pinafore dress. This is a pinafore apron.” his mother replied as he
turned to face her. “It's like you've stepped back in time.” she
smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... to when
these really were girl's clothes.” Mark frowned as they all seated
themselves.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Actually lots of
boys wore dresses in Victorian and Edwardian times.” Lydia told
him, claiming that there's plenty of old photographs on the internet.
“They wore them for church and Sunday school, summer fêtes and
holiday outings, all sorts of reasons.” she reckoned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've never heard of
that.” Mark replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Maybe Claire can
find the pictures on her laptop after dinner.” Lydia suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll be busy
installing all the software I need for my studies.” Claire replied.
“Anyway Jacob's already seen them. Haven't you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” Jacob
glumly said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So what do you want
to do after you've left school Claire?” Charlotte asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Go to university.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Obviously.”
Charlotte replied, before asking what she'd like to study.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Engineering.”
Claire confidently replied. “Or management.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You can always do
both, a bright young woman like you.” Charlotte suggested. “Mark
hasn't got much idea what he wants to do.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know what I’d
like to do but chances are I won't be able to.” Mark replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He has this wild
idea about working in the movie industry doing special effects.”
his mother told everyone.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That'd be well
cool.” Jacob said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes but he's got to
be realistic. There's no movie studios around here and he'd have to
go to college first, then get the relevant industry training...
you're best focusing on doing a domestic science course and getting a
cleaning job somewhere.” Charlotte explained.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But I don't want to
be a cleaner.” Mark groaned as Jacob was called into the kitchen.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well there's not
much else for boys these days.” his mother reminded him. “And
once you're married you'll probably be a house-husband like Harry.”
she said as Jacob's dad appeared with plate of steaming food in each
hand. Jacob followed, also carrying plates of steaming food.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Someone mentioning
my name?” Jacob's dad said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We were just talking
about job prospects for boys these days.” Lydia replied. “They
don't have the same choices young women have and will most likely end
up a house-husband like you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Aye... it's all
changed since when I was a lad.” Harry said as he set one plate
down in front of his wife and the next in front of Charlotte. “Back
then we had a good chance of getting into university, but little
chance of getting a graduate job afterwards.” he frowned. Jacob put
a plate in front of his sister and another in front of Mark before
following his dad back to the kitchen to fetch the remaining plated
meals. With dinner served and everyone seated, they all tucked in to
a scrumptious Christmas dinner.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Roast potatoes, roast
parsnips, mashed carrot & swede, mashed potato, cabbage, sprouts,
pigs in blankets and roast turkey... all doused in a thick meaty
gravy. “This is wonderful Harry.” Charlotte commented. “How do
you keep the turkey so moist and succulent?” she asked. “It's
always dry when I cook it.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Harry jovially declined
to reveal his culinary secrets. “I've been sending him to cookery
classes.” Lydia proudly revealed. “Doesn't Mark do any cooking at
home?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He helps with the
peeling and chopping and washing up.” Charlotte said, before adding
“I must say I do like the boys' pinafores... I was a little worried
that Mark would get gravy on his new dress but now I can relax.”
she smiled. “Did you buy them locally.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Jacob made them at
his sewing club.” Lydia replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Jacob goes to a
sewing club!” Mark silently exclaimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You go to a sewing
club?” Charlotte said. Jacob nodded, albeit not very proudly. “Well
you must be very clever, making all these pinafores.” she
complimented, yet also patronising the boy somewhat. To be fair, with
the frilly trim around the arm holes and more around the hem, they
would have taken some needlework know-how.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He made his father's
apron and the napkins too.” Lydia proudly added, before explaining
that he's only been going a couple of months.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So what's the best
thing you've made?” Charlotte asked the boy.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I dunno... Dad's
apron was probably the most complicated.” Jacob shyly answered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's your modesty
shorts too.” his mother said. “A lot of work went into those.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What are modesty
shorts?” Mark ignorantly asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The answer made both he
and Jacob blush, but only Jacob's blushes showed since he wasn't
wearing foundation to hide them. Modesty shorts, it was explained,
are a small pair of shorts to wear with short skirts or dresses which
conceal ones panties when one bends over or the wind catches and
lifts their skirt. To Mark they seemed like a sensible idea until the
garment was described in more detail; having elasticated legs trimmed
with frilly lace, then row upon row of even more frilly lace covering
the bottom half of the shorts on both back and front... they sounded
horrendous.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--After dinner-->After
dinner, they pulled crackers and groaned at the jokes. Some contained
paper crowns and some contained plastic tiaras which the boys had to
wear. Little Alfie wasn't at all fazed but teenagers Jacob and Mark
felt ridiculous having to wear a little plastic tiara. Next came the
gifts which Charlotte and Mark had brought. Jacob was delighted with
the inexpensive moon lamp that Mark had given him. It was the only
gift he'd been given that wasn't something prissy. There were also
gifts from the Robson's and Jacob discreetly apologised to Mark as he
unwrapped his gift. “Oh thanks Jacob.” Mark said, feigning
gratitude.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What is it?”
Mark's mother asked. “Oh lovely... you haven't got any nail varnish
have you.” she smiled. Mark perused the gift; a long plastic box
containing five small jars of nail varnish in pale pink, candy pink,
bright red, pinky red and reddy brown. The packaging claimed it was
hard wearing and quick drying and Mark's mother offered to paint
their nails after pudding. Both vaguely responded yet neither
committed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They were given a
choice of traditional Christmas pudding with brandy sauce, sticky
toffee pudding with ice cream and pear & ginger trifle. “Now
it's Christmas remember so you're allowed more than one pudding.”
Harry said as he prepared to serve, and after they'd all eaten far
too much, Charlotte suggested that Mark help Jacob and his father
tackle the mammoth pile of washing up.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Claire fiddled with her
laptop, downloading and installing software. Alfie played quietly
with his dolls whilst Charlotte & Lydia sat chatting and enjoying
a glass of warm mulled wine. “Remember when we were young and Mum
used to do everything?” Lydia said. “It's so much easier now the
boys are house trained.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” Charlotte
smiled, recalling Christmas when she was young. “My mum used to
bung everything in the dishwasher.” she said. “Don't you have
one?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes... it's called
Harry!” Lydia laughed, before saying such labour saving devices are
perfect for single women but when you've got a househusband you need
to keep them busy, otherwise they'll get sloppy.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've certainly got
yourself a good one there.” Charlotte said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes I have.” Lydia
smiled. “...and if you don't find anyone you've always got Mark.”
she added before trotting out the old saying <i>a son is a son 'til
he finds a wife</i>.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes true.”
Charlotte replied. “But seeing him looking so pretty in his dress
and make-up, I expect he'll be snapped up quite quickly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He does look nice.”
Lydia said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“As does Jacob... I
love his dress, especially with those frilly knee socks.” Charlotte
smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They are very cute.”
Lydia said. “Jacob's not keen on them though.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you know what
boys are like.” Charlotte smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.... they want
plain everything.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mark's the same.”
Charlotte concurred. She glanced at Alfie playing on the floor. His
frock has managed to work its way up to his waist, revealing the pair
of extremely frilly panties he's wearing over his tights. “Are
those the modesty shorts that Jacob made?” she quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” Lydia
replied. “They're lovely aren't they.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Divine!” Charlotte
replied. “I used to dress my dolls in knickers like those when I
was little.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmm.” Lydia
smiled, quietly adding. “Just be careful what you say... boys don't
like hearing the K word.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Overhearing this,
Claire loudly stated, “Alfie you're flashing your knickers!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're not
knickers!” Little Alfie moaned, shuffling his dress down beyond
them and mumbling “Boys don't wear knickers.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes they do.”
Claire stated. “Knickers is short for knickerbockers which are boys
clothes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's that?”
Jacob asked, returning from the kitchen. Mark followed. Claire
reiterated her point about Alfie's knickers being a boys garment.
“They're not knickers they're modesty shorts.” Jacob insisted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Claire grabbed at her
brother's short dress and lifted it. “Well they look like knickers
to me.” she giggled, revealing the pair of very frilly 'modesty
shorts' he also wore beneath his dress. Mark's jaw dropped at the
sight of them.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hey get off!”
Jacob yelped, leaping away from his sister's reach.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh stop being such a
fuss pot Jacob.” his mother said. “Your shorts are made to be
seen.” she reminded him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But that doesn't
mean she can go lifting my dress up!” Jacob whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know... but it's
not as if you've only got your panties on.” his mother stated,
before asking if the kitchen had been tidied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... dad's just
wiping the worktops.” Jacob replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thank you for
helping Mark.” Lydia said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes well done Mark.”
his mother added as he perched on the sofa beside her. She grabbed
his handbag and put it in his hands. “You might want to redo your
lipstick.” she quietly suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do I have to?”
Mark shyly asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you've just
eaten, so yes.” his mother told him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sheepishly he opened
the bag and removed the small make-up bag, and from that he retrieved
the compact (for its mirror), and his lipstick. “Oh don't all stare
at me!” he protested when he realised that everyone but Alfie was
watching him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think Jacob wants
to see how it's done... then he might start wearing his own.” Lydia
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Have you got some
make-up?” Charlotte asked. Jacob gulped and blushed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's got loads.”
Claire informed her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But he's reluctant
to try it.” Lydia added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't know what to
do with it.” Jacob muttered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've got your
<i>make-up for boys</i> book.” his mother reminded him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but I only got
that today.” Jacob replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Maybe Mark can show
you.” Lydia said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum did mine.”
Mark claimed</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You did it
yourself.” his mother stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but you told me
what to do... I wouldn't have had a clue otherwise.” Mark said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I can show you
what to do Jacob.” Charlotte offered. “It needn't be <i>the
works</i>... just some lipstick and foundation, to help hide your
blushes.” she suggested. “It'll only take a few minutes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh that's kind of
you Charlotte.” Lydia said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jacob wasn't so keen.
“It's bad enough having to wear a dress. I don't want to wear
make-up as well.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're beginning to
sound awfully ungrateful Jacob.” Lydia stated. “On Christmas day
of all days.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry.” Jacob
said. “It's just hard you know.” he frowned. “I'm not used to
all this stuff.” he said, glaring down at his infantile attire.
“I'm used to long trousers and no frills.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well women wear the
trousers these days Jacob.” his sister stated. “And there's
nothing you can do about it!” she snorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It wasn't so long
ago we both wore trousers.” Jacob grumbled. “Until Mum put all
mine in the bin.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It was the only way
I could get you to wear your dresses.” his mother replied. “And
once you've learned to wear them without moaning about them, I'll
<i>occasionally</i> let you wear pants again.” she added. “I'll
bet Mark didn't moan when he was getting dressed today.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I did.” Mark told
her as he put his make-up bag back in his handbag (having discreetly
applied it when everyone was talking to Jacob). “I'd rather wear
boys clothes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You are wearing
boy's clothes.” Claire interjected.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You know what I mean
though.” Mark replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes but you can't
fight progress.” Claire retorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Claire's right
Mark.” his mother said. “And you didn't moan that much when you
were getting ready today.” she claimed, adding “Not so much I had
to threaten to take your pants away.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But his dress is
nice.” Jacob said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And so is yours
Jacob.” Charlotte replied. “A very different style but lovely
none-the-less.” she said. “In fact I’d love to get a photo of
you both.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh no Mum.” Mark
frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh go on.” she
pestered. “You didn't think I wouldn't take a photo of you wearing
your first dress did you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Didn't you get him
one in the summer... for a wedding or something?” Lydia quizzed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That was just a
skirt.” Charlotte replied. “...and one of those reverse shirts,
with the buttons up the back.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh I see.” Lydia
said. “Well if you do take a photo, I think Jacob should put some
make-up on first.” she suggested. “If you wouldn't mind helping
him?” she asked Charlotte.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So long as Jacob
doesn't mind.” Charlotte replied. “It does wash off you know.”
she said to Jacob.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jacob glanced at Mark
who sheepishly gulped and forced a smile. “OK.” Jacob sighed.
With all his make-up in his bedroom, Charlotte and Jacob left and
Mark was left alone with Lydia, Claire and little Alfie.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So apart from your
lovely dress, what else did you get for Christmas?” Lydia asked.
Mark listed the alarm clock, the book about sci-fi movies and loads
of gift vouchers. “So what are going to spend those on?” Lydia
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't know yet.”
Mark replied. “Most of 'em are clothes vouchers.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So maybe another
dress or two?” Lydia said. “You need more than one.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmm.” Mark
evasively replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Harry entered the
lounge with a tray of mulled wine and handed a glass to his wife.
“Where's Jacob?” he asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Upstairs with
Charlotte. She's showing him how to apply his make-up.” Lydia said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I see.” Harry
said, setting the other glasses on the coffee table. Its alcohol
content is negligible so the kids (except Alfie) are each handed a
glass. “I hope you're not going to get any ideas about putting me
in frocks.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're too old and
too ugly.” Lydia replied, grinning.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thank heaven for
small mercies.” Harry jovially said as he sat. “How you getting
on with the laptop Claire?” he asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fine thanks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well if you need any
help...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“From a man?!”
Claire interrupted. “I don't think so.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In my day we used to
have something called equality.” Harry retorted. “Whatever
happened to that I wonder?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It failed, like the
patriarchy.” Claire dryly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So how are things
with you Mark?” Harry asked. “Got yourself a girlfriend yet?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” Mark replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your mother thinks
you'll be snapped up in no time now you're learning to look pretty.”
Lydia told him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh I don't think I'm
ready to start all that.” Mark bashfully said. “I'm only
fifteen.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In my day we were
all playing the dating game by the time we were teenagers.” Harry
stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes but that was the
dark ages Harry when boys were too pushy... it's different now.
Patience <u>is</u> a virtue.” Lydia replied. “You do right to
wait until a young woman takes notice of you Mark.” she said.
“Assertiveness isn't something that young women find attractive
these day.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know.” Mark
replied. He knows all too well that the consequences of approaching a
girl without invitation often ends with a knee in the balls... in
fact, even calling a girl of high school age a 'girl' results in
being kneed... <i>young woman</i> is the accepted term yet boys are
<i>boys</i> well into their twenties.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh!” Lydia
chirped, hearing the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mark gulped as Jacob
sheepishly returned. It must be awful having to wear such a short
prissy dress, he thought... and those frilly knee socks are
absolutely horrendous. Jacob isn't wearing much make-up, a thick
layer of pale pinky foundation, some mascara to bring his eyelashes
out and a bright red lipstick to match his dress. His mother tells
him he looks cute. His dad says he looks fine. Mark says he looks
nice and bashfully Jacob says thank you. “Where's the lovely gift
Jacob gave you Mark?” Charlotte asked. It was on the sideboard.
“Well bring it over to the table and I'll paint your nails.” she
told him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Then we should all
play a game!” Lydia suggested.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can I have my nails
painted too?” Alfie asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course you can.”
Charlotte smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Put your dolls away
first Alfie.” Lydia told him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Harry helped Alfie tidy
up his toys whilst Charlotte sat the two reluctant boys at the table.
From his nail varnish selection box, she asked Mark which colour he
thought he might wear. With a choice of pale pink, candy pink, bright
red, pinky red and reddy brown, he opted for the reddy brown colour.
“Why that one?” his mother asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I dunno.” Mark
shrugged. “It's the nicest.” he diplomatically said, although the
real reason was because it was the least abhorrent.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's also the one
that most closely matches your lipstick.” his mother replied with a
smile, before suggesting that Jacob should wear bright red nail
varnish because that matches both his lipstick and his dress.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Does it take long to
dry?” Mark timidly asked as one by one, his mother painted his
nails.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it says 'quick
dry' so we'll just have to wait and see how quickly it dries. Some
can take less than a minute and others can take up to ten minutes or
longer.” she told him. “When I used to wear nail varnish I used
to sniff it and when you can't smell the solvents, it's pretty much
dried.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Does it come off?”
he asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course.” she
said, adding that she'll have to pick up some nail varnish remover
the next time they go shopping. “Now you've got to keep you hand
flat until it's dried.” she told him, before painting the other
hand. A few moments later, Mark is sat with both hands flat on the
table whilst his mother paints Jacob's fingernails in a bright red
nail varnish. “Do you bite your nails Jacob?” she knowingly
asked. “Well this might help you stop.” she said. “You don't
want to be chewing on nail varnish.” she told him.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Meanwhile, Lydia is
asking Claire and Harry what game they should all play. Claire is
keen on Commopoly. Harry suggested Pictionary. Lydia said that a good
old fashioned game of charades is ideal for all ages.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh not charades!”
Jacob whined, overhearing the discussion. The last thing he wanted to
do was stand in front of everyone trying to mime the title of a song,
TV show, film, etc. wearing his prissy little dress and fancy frilly
knee socks. But he was overruled and Jacob tried his best not to get
anything correct, thus avoiding having a turn. Mark correctly
identified the film Toy Story 2 which mean it was Mark's turn. Mark
introduced a new category by pretending to use a games controller
instead of miming a book, TV screen, camera or curtain. A video game
title with one word and two syllables... Mark mimed the first
syllable and held up four fingers. “Fortnight!” Jacob blurted
before realising what he'd done.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your turn Jacob!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ohhh.” he grimaced
as he stood in the centre of the lounge and tried to think of
something to mime.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The family rule if
someone takes too long deciding is to be given a random mime from the
charades smart phone app. It generates the title a song, film, play
or book and that's what he must mime. He grimaced at the title he was
given. Jacob mimed a movie camera, then held up three fingers. He
made a T shape with his hands for the first word and everyone yelled
'the'. He moved onto the second word and all he could think of was to
curtsey. “It's a good job you're wearing your modesty shorts!”
his sister giggled as he lifted his skirt a little too much as he
curtseyed. Jacob felt himself blushing but no one noticed thanks to
his foundation. He tried his best to mime the shape of a crown on his
head. “Princess?” his sister suggested. She was right.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jacob moved onto the
third word and wondered how he could mime it. “Bride?” Mark
guessed. He was wrong.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Diaries!” Harry
figured after his son pretended to write on the palm of his hand.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The Princess
Diaries?” Claire quizzed, having never heard of it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Harry was correct and
it was his turn next. Jacob sheepishly sat himself down, embarrassed
that he'd unwittingly revealed his very frilly modesty shorts. His
father decided to also mime the title of a video game and it took
ages for the rest to guess FIFA.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After an hour they'd
had enough of playing charades and having finished her fourth glass
of mulled wine, Charlotte suggested it was probably time for her and
Mark to leave but Lydia detained them for a little longer after
suggesting they have some coffee first. Unfortunately for Mark, his
mother soon remembered that she wanted to get a photograph of he and
Jacob in front of the Christmas tree. Alfie wanted to be in the
photograph too and several ended up being taken by both Charlotte and
Lydia. The nicest, they agreed as they reviewed the photographs over
a coffee, was the one with Mark and Jacob each resting a hand on
Alfie's shoulders, showing their painted fingernails and smiling
nicely rather than grimacing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Heading home-->They
soon finished their hot drinks and prepared to leave. Charlotte and
Mark thanked Lydia for a wonderful Christmas day and complimented
Harry's exquisite Christmas dinner. Lydia told Mark how lovely he
looked and Charlotte gave Jacob the same compliment. “Thank you.”
Jacob bashfully replied, gulping and glancing at Mark. “See you at
school I guess?” he glumly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” Mark
replied. “Thanks for my gift.” he said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They said their final
goodbyes as Charlotte donned her warm winter coat and Mark pulled on
his cosy hooded cape. “You need to do your lipstick before we go.”
she advised her son.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do I?” Mark asked.
“We're only going home.” he said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“When you're wearing
lipstick you need to keep topping it up.” his mother told him.
“...and we're going outside so you need to make sure you look
nice.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh err...” Mark
bashfully mumbled, opening his handbag, facing the hallway mirror,
swallowing his pride and re-applying his lipstick as Jacob and his
mother watched. His painted fingernails do indeed match his lips, he
noted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's a lovely
colour.” Lydia said as he replaced the lid. “What's it called?”
she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not sure.”
Mark inverted the lipstick. “Chestnut blush.” he timidly read
from the base.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'd suit that
shade.” Lydia said to Jacob, who gulped and probably blushed
beneath his thick layer of foundation. “Be careful in those heels
Mark.” Lydia advised as Charlotte opened the door.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I will.” Mark
replied as they stepped outside.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Brrr it's freezing
out here.” Jacob said from the doorway, standing with his legs
together and huddling his bare arms.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well get yourself in
and shut that door before all the heat escapes.” Charlotte smiled.
Lydia gave them a final wave and shut the door. Mark and his mother
trudged down the garden path. The thin layer of snow crunched beneath
their feet.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Didn't Jacob and
Alfie look lovely in their matching party dresses?” Charlotte said
to her son as they strolled through the darkness.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Alfie looked OK but
Jacob was dressed like a six year old.” Mark glumly replied. “I'm
glad you didn't get me anything like that.” he added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Party dresses are
nice for boys of all ages.” his mother said. “Back in the day
we'd have never put a young woman in anything like that but it's
different for boys. Jacob looked lovely, especially with his hair in
curls and those fancy knee socks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Jacob clearly didn't
think so.” Mark stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think he did.”
Mark's mother replied. They walked in silence for a while; back
through the park which apart from a sole dog walker, was deserted.
The lucent layer of crisp white snow under the darkness gave the
sparsely lit park an eerie air. The trees stood tall and slender.
Their naked branches reached up to the sky, silhouetted against a
thick layer of charcoal grey cloud. “It's chilly.” his mother
said. “How are you feeling?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK” Mark said.
“This time I know what to expect from just a pair of tights.” he
figured. “My dress is nice and warm though... especially with this
cape.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Velvet is warm.”
his mother smiled. “That's why I bought it.” she said. “...and
you'll soon acclimatise to just wearing tights.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” Mark glumly
agreed. He watched his feet as they strolled, encased in his new
sturdy suede boots, perched high on a pair of chunky three inch
heels. He recalled how awkward high heels felt when he first wore
them in the summer. It's been a good six months since then and he's
both surprised and relieved at how easily he's taken to wearing them
again. The sparkly snowflakes that decorate his skirt twinkle and
glisten with each forward step and the heavy velvet swishes and sways
against the backs of his legs. His sturdy boots crunch into the
frosty ground and whilst he can feel the wintry air through his
knitted tights, his legs don't feel as chilly as they had earlier in
the day.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Penny for your
thoughts?” his mother asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh nothing.” he
replied. “I'm just enjoying the stroll.” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Despite the fact
your mother made you wear a dress?” his mother replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's not so bad.”
he replied. “It feels quite nice actually... now I've got used to
wearing it.” he confessed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm glad to hear
it.” his mother smiled. “Part of me misses wearing dresses and
heels.” she said. “I used to feel so elegant.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why don't you still
wear them?” Mark asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because the world
changed.” she replied. “Women who dress up are looked down on
these days.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's not fair...
especially if you liked getting dressed up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it's just the
way things are.” she said. “Women aren't taken very seriously in
the workplace if they spend too much time preening themselves.” she
explained. “Whereas boys...” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I know.” Mark
replied, somewhat glumly. “It all just feels so new... and a little
bit scary.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I understand.” his
mother said. “In a lot of ways it's my fault... if I'd bought you a
dress when they they first appeared...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You did try to.”
Mark interjected. “It was me who was too frightened to wear one...
I wouldn't even try one on.” he said, emitting a nervous chuckle
and recalling the horror every time his mother drew his attention to
a boy's dress in a shop window.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You were just being
a typical boy.” his mother said. “You did wear a skirt for George
& Betty's wedding.” she reminded him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Even that petrified
me.” Mark recalled. “I wonder if women were scared of wearing
trousers in the olden days.” Mark mused. “...when all they wore
was skirts and petticoats.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't know.” his
mother replied. “We'll have to have a look to see if we can find
those pictures of boys wearing dresses that Lydia mentioned.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmm.” Mark
responded. “If boys did wear dresses years and years ago... I
wonder why they stopped?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It just fell out of
fashion I guess.” his mother replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They exited the park
and crossed the usually busy road, but being Christmas day, it's all
but deserted. They headed up the hill toward home. His mother asked
how he was getting on in his new boots. “Fine.” he replied.
“They’re really warm.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good.” his mother
replied. “Jacob seemed quite impressed by them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It was weird being a
bit taller than him for a change.” Mark said. “...and you were
right about wearing heels being like riding a bike.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm always right.”
his mother jovially replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” Mark
bashfully agreed as they turned onto the cul-de-sac where they live.
The hedgerows are capped with a thin layer of snow and the pavements
are peppered with footprints. Their garden path bears the distinctive
prints of Mark's block heeled boots and his mother's flat footwear.
“Home again.” Mark said as his mother unlocked the door.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” his mother
grinned. “I've had a lovely day.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Me too.” Mark said
as he unbuttoned and removed his cape, then turned toward the large
hallway mirror and carefully smoothed his hair.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good.” his mother
smiled. “I suppose you'll be wanting to get changed.” she said as
he crouched to untie his boot laces.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Maybe later.” he
replied, pulling off his boots and planting his stocking feet flat on
the floor.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
His mother smiled as he
stood, running his hands down his velvet frock. “So it's not the
worst Christmas you've ever had?” she asked as he looked up at her.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” he gulped.
“Maybe the scariest.” he confessed. “I'm glad Jacob was wearing
a dress as well.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I knew he would be.”
his mother said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I wish you'd told
me... I was petrified all the way over there.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I wanted to surprise you.”
she grinned. “...and you'd have been petrified anyway. Your first
dress is a big step, especially for a boy your age.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” Mark
replied. “I guess it's not my last dress either.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I hope not.” his
mother smiled.
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-51624629305127659732019-11-07T12:24:00.002-08:002021-09-24T07:00:41.684-07:00Karen's Café<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666;">I was only going to post one more story this year and I'm saving that for Christmas.<br />BUT... since my blog is about to pass the milestone of TWO MILLION page views</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;">I feel it's necessary to give my readers a little something extra to celebrate. </span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666;">I've been trying to write this story for several years with varying degrees of failure.<br />It's one I've really struggled to finish and it's still not finished. This is chapter one.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666;">I hope you enjoy it. I'll work on the second half in the new year. </span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
~o0o~</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My sister Karen is so
cool. When I was in my first year of high school, she was in the fifth
year and she was the fittest girl in school. All the boys fancied
her and some of the girls too. When she was in sixth form everyone admired her all the more;
good grades, great looks, superb style. There was nothing that she wasn't good at; art, dance, drama, maths, science, you name it. I thought she'd go into graphic design because she always doodling, but instead she did a degree in management and graduated with a first. When I was in the fifth year
Karen got a business start-up grant and opened her own café. This
surprised many people because she could have got a great post-grad
job in management earning at least £25K a year, but she wanted to
put her degree into practice by building a business from scratch. If she makes a success of one café, she'll open another, and
another and the long term plan is be the owner/manager of a
successful café chain.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There was so much for her to
think about... aside from sorting out the rent, rates, insurance and
contracts, there's buying or hiring the equipment, planning the
menus, hiring staff, buying all the cutlery, crockery, cookware, plus
tables and chairs, place-mats, napkins, etc. One of my sister's
biggest headaches was deciding what her staff would wear. Such a
trivial detail she felt was one of the most important. Well dressed
staff are as crucial as a well made meal and an inviting environment.
I remember she and Mum and one of her friends spent a whole weekend
deciding between thigh or knee length skirts, straight or pleated...
with either a white blouse or black top. My sister was adamant that
her staff would all wear exactly the same uniform, and for some
reason, she didn't want them wearing aprons. “Too old fashioned.”
she said when Mum questioned this. “I want them looking
distinctive, stylish, casual... in something that doesn't scream
<i>uniform</i>.” she explained. She described an all black outfit
of a pleated mini skirt, a fitted vest and black tights but
definitely not thick ones. “...and I want them all exactly the
same.” she said, stating that she doesn't want one wearing 10
denier tights and another in 20 denier. "...and they've got to be black tights, not barely black or nearly black." she insisted. she doesn't want one waitress wearing a box pleated
skirt and another with kick pleats... they've all got to be knife pleated. “...and round necked
vests, not a camisole or spaghetti straps.” she specified, showing Mum a sketch she'd done.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoPpdh950pwndcVlAlZ1S3E0-wSrReB-fgtqBE-vDIKyiXwfR4rpHEK3BPuBFDaY8DClVKGc6wjhn6sFLFPVfyVd_oZPFVxrTyxO9AZzQJCO0q7mSpuZKPJQQEMk-kGNb5NFVlhcLJ/s1600/karens+sketch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="733" data-original-width="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoPpdh950pwndcVlAlZ1S3E0-wSrReB-fgtqBE-vDIKyiXwfR4rpHEK3BPuBFDaY8DClVKGc6wjhn6sFLFPVfyVd_oZPFVxrTyxO9AZzQJCO0q7mSpuZKPJQQEMk-kGNb5NFVlhcLJ/s1600/karens+sketch.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"I do like your illustrations." Mum smiled. “You'll probably have to
provide the uniforms if you're going to be that specific... which will be another expense.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I see it as an
investment rather than an expense. Dressing the staff is as important
as the quality of the food and the decor. Everything has to be considered and that's what will make my café stand
out from the others.” my sister explained. I suggested American style
diner uniforms because I thought they were cool and a little bit different in our part of the world, but my sister didn't like that idea as it would look
like a theme café and people would expect waffles and maple syrup on
the menu. “Sassy and stylish is what I want and a little pleated
skirt and a nice black vest ticks those boxes.” she replied. "They can provide their own plimsolls and tights and I'll provide the skirts and vests... and probably some modesty shorts because I do want the skirts to be short." she stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The café opened in
August with a skeleton crew and by October it was busy enough to open
day and night, seven days a week. After six successful months, she
hit a hurdle which meant she'd be short of staff over the Easter
break. She's advertised locally for some temps to cover the four
weeks that her student waitresses who worked the evenings and weekend would be away, but hasn't
had enough takers, and she really really really needs some help over
that period. She turns to me, her fifteen year old brother and asks
if I'd be willing to cover the shifts for one of her waitresses.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'd already been toying
with getting a part time job and the extra money would come in handy,
so I was more than happy to help out in my sister's café until the
students return. I figured my black school trousers and a white shirt
would be fine, but my sister said I'd look like a schoolboy without
his tie on. “What should I wear then?” I asked. She casually told
me that I'd wear the same uniform as the rest of her staff. “I
can't wear that.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why not?” she
asked. “You know how finicky I am about my uniforms.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
happy to help but not if I have to wear the same uniform as your
waitresses.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
you'd be covering for one of my waitresses. What else did you think
you'd wear?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shirt
& trousers.” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
in my establishment.” she stated. “It's black shoes, black
tights, black skirt and black vest... as well you know.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know that but that's what your waitr<i>esses</i> wear.” I said,
stressing the 'esses' bit. “I'd be a waiter, surely?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Waiter
or waitress, the uniform is black shoes, black tights, black skirt
and black top.” she reiterated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do
you have any waiters?” I asked, knowing the answer.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
know I don't.” She replied. “Tell you what... Why don't you try
the uniform on... see how it feels and then decide?” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd
be a lot more concerned with how it looks than feels.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
the one who'll be employing you so I'll be deciding if it looks OK or
not.” she retorted. “You're the one who'll be wearing it so you
need to decide if it <i>feels</i> OK or not.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
didn't want to, but my very persuasive sister talked me into just
giving it a try and the following afternoon she brought one of the
uniforms home. I didn't mind the vest at all, but the short black
pleated skirt felt too short and I felt too exposed... but after
donning a pair of black 15 denier tights, it felt a lot better and
the tights felt quite nice, like a second skin. I couldn't keep my
hands off them. I stood in front of her floor standing mirror and
summed up my reflection. “It looks OK from here.” I said,
standing close enough to the mirror so I could only see myself from
the shoulders down. “...but from here...” I added, stepping back
and bringing my head into view. “...I just look like a boy in a
skirt.” I sneered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
that's what you are.” she said. “I think it looks fine.” she
claimed. “Does it feel OK?” she asked. “Does the skirt feel
tight?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
it's fine.” I said. “It might be a bit short but with tights on
it's not so bad.” I told her.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'd
have to tie your hair back.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd
still look like a boy in a skirt though.” I frowned. I stepped
closer to the mirror again. “It looks OK when I can't see my head.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">I
think you wear it well and I </span><span style="font-style: normal;"><u>can</u></span><span style="font-style: normal;">
see your head.” she told me. “Honestly Simon you look fine... if
you didn't I'd say so... and I certainly wouldn't want you waiting
the tables in my café.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
still wasn't so sure and tried my best to articulate that it's not so
much the uniform itself but the boyish head on top of it. I stepped
back from the mirror, bringing my head in to view and pulled my mop
of hair off my face. “Have you got a bobble?” I asked. “Thanks.”
I said. I tied it back but my long fringe was nowhere near long
enough, and several strands around the sides weren't quite long
enough either</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Here
let me.” my sister said. “It just needs to be higher.” she
said, tying my hair in a high ponytail and dealing with the straggly
bits with a couple of Kirby grips. My fringe stayed where it was and
my hair did look quite girlie. “Or...” she said, grabbing a few
more Kirby grips. “...we could take your fringe off your face
altogether.” she said, pinning it back to reveal my full face.
“That's quite nice.” she said. “Can I put some make-up on you?”
she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--The make-over-->“Make-up?”
I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
she grinned. “I wanna see if I can make you look like a girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Even
if you could I'd still sound like a guy when I’m taking orders.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not thinking about the café.” she said, looking me up and down. “I
just wanna put some make-up on you.” she grinned. “I bet you'd
look well cute.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
I dunno.” I groaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
go on... you've come this far.” she said, looking me up and down,
from my stocking feet to my short pleated skirt, vest and hair tied
in a high ponytail. “We may as well go all the way.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
sister has a way of getting me to do what she wants (in a nice way)
and it wasn't long before I found myself sat at her dressing table,
smearing my face with foundation before she painstakingly painted my
eyes. It was painstaking because I couldn't help but flinch when the
eye-liner pencil got anywhere near my eyes... but after much
perseverance, I learned to relax whilst she painted my face. What
surprised me was just how tranquil it felt as the soft foam brush
gently swept my eyelids and the tiny bristles of the mascara brush
combed through my lashes. She tidied my eyebrows just a little before
defining them with a pencil, and finally she painted my lips in a
soft, glistening shade of pink. I gasped when I turned to the mirror
and saw what she'd done to me. “Wow!” I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
like?” my sister asked, grinning proudly.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err...”
I croaked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Stand
up... have a proper look in the big mirror.” she suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I said. I stood and put myself on front of the mirror. My legs are
clad in black fifteen denier nylon that makes them appear longer and
thinner than usual. My fingers hovered nervously about the hem of my
short pleated skirt. The black vest leaves my exposed arms and
shoulders looking slight and weedy... but my face... my face. “I'm
glad I didn't make a bet that you couldn't make me look like a girl.”
I said as I looked myself up and down. “It's like you've painted a
girl's face on top of mine!”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is
she pretty?” my sister grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah!”
I said, gulping at the reflection.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
wanna put you in a proper dress and style your hair.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“As
if this skirt and top isn't girlie enough.” I said. “And my
hair's already styled isn't it?” I added as I bobbed my head this
way and that so I could see the ponytail perched high on my crown. I
liked the way it bounced about my head.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
sister didn't spend too much time convincing me into letting her go
further with my make-over. She sat me back at her dresser and took to
my nails with a file before painting them to match my lipstick. “Is
that what you do?” I asked as I waited for my nails to dry. “Match
lips and fingernails?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sometimes
yeah.” she replied. “Although sometimes I'll match my nails to my
handbag or earrings.” she added as she plugged one of her devices
into the mains.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
that?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
a hot air styler.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
it do?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
smooths, straightens, waves, curls and volumises.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
permanently though.” I feared.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah...
it'll either brush or wash out.” she said as she released my hair
from its ponytail and began to run a damp comb through it. I didn't
even realise that I was emitting a low lengthy hum until my sister
said “You're enjoying this aren't you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
am actually... it's nice having someone comb my hair for me.” I
said, before adding “...and paint my nails and do my make-up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good.”
she replied. “I was expecting you to try the uniform for all of
thirty seconds and take it off.” she grinned. “Not that I wanted
you to do that... I like that you like the tights, they do feel
nice.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
sniggered. “Yeah... I didn't see that coming.” I said. I've
barely spent a moment not feeling the nylon on my lap since pulling
them on. “It's weird seeing my leg hair all squashed beneath
them... I thought they just hid it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thick
ones do.” she told me. “They'd feel much nicer if you shaved your
legs.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmmm.”
I mused. “Nah.” I said as she grabbed the hot air styler. “What
are you planning on doing with that anyway?” I asked. It looks like
a cross between a hairdryer and brush, but there's other attachments
and I’ve no idea what any of them do.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not sure really... I tend to just start brushing and curling and
waving and styling and see what happens.” she replied. “Turn to
face me than you can't see it 'til I've finished.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I said, shuffling round in the seat. She began pulling the brush
through my hair, twisting bits around it then activating the heat
blower. I had no idea what she was doing so could only wait patiently
as she worked her magic.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
sat for maybe ten or fifteen minutes before she said my hair looked
OK. I turned to the mirror to see my former rebellious Ramone cut
transformed into a very feminine set of loose waves and curls that
seemed to spiral away from my face. I thought it looked girlie when
she tied it up in a high pony tail. “Blimey.” I gasped. “I
thought I looked hot before!” I exclaimed. “I think I actually
fancy me!”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
amazing what can be done with a few cosmetics and a hair brush.”
she said. “Right... you need a dress next... I've got the perfect
one in mind.” she said as she opened her wardrobe and began to
rummage. “This one.” she said, removing a satin charcoal grey
frock that I'd seen her wear on a couple of occasions.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
gulped at the thought of wearing it. My sister looks fantastic in
that dress and I can't imagine I'll do it any justice. “I can't
wear that!” I gasped.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why
not?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Its
gorgeous.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know.” she grinned. “Take your vest off... and try not to mess
your hair up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
took a deep breath before removing the vest and revealing my bare
chest. I stood and unfastened the skirt before stepping out of it. I
had my own underwear on, plus a pair of her tights so I wasn't shy
about my semi state of undress. She held the dress open and I stepped
into it. She turned me around and lifted its thin spaghetti straps
onto my shoulders, before pulling up its zip fastening. The
relatively high cowl neck gave my flat chest some shape and it didn't
look like I was missing a cleavage. The fitted bodice hugged my
slight frame down to my hips where the mid-thigh length skirt flared
out in a skater style. I looked down at myself and liked what I saw.
I took a really deep breath before stepping in front of the big
mirror.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--The mother-->“Here
you are!” our mother's voice said just as I looked at my
reflection. “I was beginning to think the house was...” my mother
stopped dead in her tracks when her eyes landed on me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
gulped and bit my lip. “Doesn't he look amazing?” my sister
gushed and my mother looked me up and down.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Care
to explain what's going on?!” our mother sternly asked. Her face
was like thunder as she tore her eyes from me and cast her gaze
toward my sister.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
instantly felt really guilty and sheepishly perched on the dressing
table's stool. My sister nervously sat on her bed and by the look on
her face, she knew she was in big trouble. Mum remained stern but
emitted a sigh. “Well I supposed I’d better sit down too.” she
said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm...”
my sister began as Mum glared at her. “... it was all my idea.”
she confessed. “I'm a bit short on staff at the café and I was
telling Simon that he could do a few shifts for me.. but he'd have to
wear the uniform... so we tried that to see how he looked..” she
haphazardly explained. “...and he looked great.” she added. “Then
I put some make-up on him and did his hair and....” she ran out of
breath and paused.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
turned her head and looked down her nose at me. “Since when did
your staff dress like that?” Mum barked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They
don't.” my sister replied. “But he looked so good with his hair
and make-up done, I just had to put him in a proper dress.” my
sister said. “If you'd come home five minutes ago he'd have still
been wearing my uniform.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
I suppose if I'd returned five minutes later he'd have been wearing
stilettos as well.” Mum said as she looked down at my stocking
feet. My toes are clearly visible through the thin black nylon.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er...
not really.” my sister replied. “I'm not sure any of mine would
fit him.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
sighed at me and forced a frown. “Well stand up. Let's have a
proper look at you.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
shyly stood as my mother and sister watched my every move. My hair
seemed to bounce around my head as I put myself upright, smoothing my
frock as I stood. I took a deep breath, lifted my head and gulped.
“You look awesome Simon” my sister said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
do look very convincing.” my mother added. “And dare I say it...
very nice too.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Who
couldn't in this dress.” I said in trembling tones. I'd hoped the
comment would lighten the mood but it was delivered with such fear it
had quite the opposite affect. “We were just having a bit of fun
Mum.” I said after a moment. “I've no intention of being one of
her waitresses, but Karen talked me into just trying the uniform and
one thing led to another.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
you'd be a waiter rather than a waitress.” my mother pedantically
corrected.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Either
way... I was just trying the uniform and that led onto this.” I
said. “Then you walked in.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
it all sounds innocent enough.” Mother said, lightening her tone
considerably. “Have either of you eaten?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err..
no.” Karen Replied. “Have you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
but I fancy a take-away tonight and I was about to ask what you
wanted when I noticed it was Simon parading in front of the mirror
and not one of your girlfriends Karen”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry.”
I grumbled. I guess it must have been a bit of a shock.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
don't apologise.” Mum smiled, looking me up and down. “What do
you fancy?” she asked, listing Chinese, Indian, KFC, pizza,
burgers.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
easy I guess.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
sister fancied either Chinese or Indian and Mum's casting vote
settled us on an Indian take-away. “Come on let's have a look at
the menus.” Mum said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just
order me a dansak or bhuna.” I said. “I'd best get changed.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
don't get changed Simon” my sister pleaded. “You've only had it
on for five minutes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
wasn't planning on wearing it all evening.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
we've spent at least an hour doing your hair and make-up.” Karen
said. “It'd be a waste not to keep it on for a while longer.” she
pleaded. “If that's OK with you Mum.” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I suppose there's no harm in keeping it on... and you really do look
very pretty.” Mum replied. I felt myself begin to blush as she she
looked me up and down. “I wonder if I've got some shoes that would
fit you.” she mused.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
don't need shoes mum.” I shyly replied. “I'm not planning on
going anywhere.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know but some suitable shoes would complete the look.” Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thankfully
we didn't go directly to my mother's room and her shoe collection. We
went to the kitchen and our collection of take-away menus first. I
ordered a lamb rogan josh with a pashwari naan for myself, a chicken
jelfrazi with pilau rice for my sister, and a king prawn korma with
boiled rice for Mum, plus a plain naan and some poppadoms. “Is it
for delivery or collection?” the gent on the phone asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Delivery
please.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK...
that's nineteen pounds and seventy pence, and it will be about thirty
to forty minutes.” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
fine. Thanks.” I said. I hung up and looked at my mother and sister
who were both grinning from ear to ear at me. I chuckled. All the
while I was making that call, I couldn't help but think about how my
voice didn't match my appearance. Mum and Karen were thinking much
the same thing.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Right.”
Mum said. “I know it's only a take away but I think we should lay
the table.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
think me and Mum should dress up too.” Karen said. “I feel under
dressed next to you Simon.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
can if you want Karen... I've had a busy day and just want to relax.”
Mum said before asking me to help lay the table.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
put out the place mats and a tray of condiments; mango chutney, lime
pickle and a sweet chilli chutney. Mum quickly made a raita whilst I
gathered a handful of knives, forks and spoons and laid them out.
Karen returned wearing a cream floral dress and a touch of make up.
On her feet is a pair of beige strappy sandals, and dangling from her
fingers is several pairs of much darker shoes. “I took the liberty
of rooting through your shoes Mum.” she said. “You're a seven
right?” she asked me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er...
yeah.” I timidly replied. “Couldn't you find any flat shoes?” I
asked as my sister placed three pairs of my mother's shoes on the
floor.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
for a dress like that.” she said, as if it was obvious. “They're
not high so you should be OK.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They
are high!” I grimaced. “And narrow!”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're
only kitten heels.” she said, insisting I'll be fine
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
gulped and glanced at my mother. “Go on.” Mum prompted. “You
won't break your ankle.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
might twist it though.” I retorted. “Then I'll have to lie about
how I twisted it.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
and Karen chuckled and assured me that I wouldn't twist my ankle in a
pair of low kitten heels. I tried them and the fit me well and whilst
the heels did make me feel a little uneasy, they were OK. I tried the
other two pairs on as well, but Karen was right... the kitten heels
did look best with my dress. “I mean <i>your</i> dress.” I
corrected. Karen grinned at me and could feel myself blushing. “Can
you tell I'm blushing under all this make-up?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
really.” she grinned. “Mum... can you tell that Simon's
blushing?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No...
why?” Mum asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He
just called my dress his dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
was a slip of the tongue.” I claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Or
wishful thinking.” my sister teased.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
is nice.” I said as ran my fingers over its silky smooth fabric.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
gorgeous.” my mother gushed, before telling me that I wear it well.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.”
I bashfully replied. “Not as well as Karen does though.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
wear it just as well as I do.” Karen complimented.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do
I 'eck.” I said. “I don't have any...” I gestured to my none
existent breasts. “...curves.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
think that cowl neck works well with a flat chest.” Mum said.
“There's certainly worse dresses a boy could wear.” she added as
she cast her eyes over the table. “Are you warming some plates?”
she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're
waiting in the microwave.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What
about napkins?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
didn’t think we'd need any but Mum said we should avoid getting
curry on our dresses, so I fetched some napkins. “Are they supposed
to be this noisy?” I asked as I crossed the tiled kitchen floor.
They quietened a little on the laminate flooring of the dining room.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
my sister replied. “How are they?” she asked as I placed a folded
napkin under each set of cutlery.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err...
OK.” I said. “These little heels do feel quite... rooted.” I
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Told
you they'd be fine.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We
sat around the table and chatted for a while. I say 'we' sat and
chatted. It was mostly Karen telling mum about my make-over; how I
kept flinching until I finally relaxed. “It was quite nice being
pampered.” I confessed, recalling having my hair done and nails
manicured.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
always nice being pampered.” Mum said as she admired my face. She
told me that my lipstick suits me. I told her that Karen chose it,
then felt myself blushing again. “Would you do it again?” Mum
asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What?
Let Karen talk me into letting her dress me up in her clothes?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
just dressing up as a woman.” Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--The meal-->“Oh
I dunno.” I bashfully replied. “It's been a nice experience
but...” I tailed off, and thankfully a knock at the door drew
everyone's attention away from me. “I'm not answering that.” I
stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll
go.” my sister said. “Where's my purse?” she added before
grabbing her handbag.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
glad they only deliver to the door and not the table.” I said to
Mum as Karen dealt with the delivery guy.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
don't think they'd think you were anything other that a pretty young
woman.” Mum claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah...
'til they noticed my flat chest and deep voice.” I dryly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Pretty
young man then.” Mum smugly said as Karen ferried the two carrier
bags through. “Here... let me serve.” Mum said, taking the bags
from her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
sure?” Karen quizzed. Mum said the spices might stain her pale
frock and reminded us both of the napkins. Unaccustomed to wearing a
dress, I had to ask if I should put the napkin down my top or just on
my lap. “It'll be fine on your lap.” Karen grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
take-away was served and as we all tucked in, the conversation
thankfully drifted away from my appearance and attire. We talked
about Mum's work and my sister's business. We talked about our
extended family and plenty of neighbourhood gossip, but all the while
I couldn't help but observe myself. The way my hair felt light and
bouncy. They way it brushed against my bare shoulders. The sight of
my glistening nails each time I tore a piece of naan bread. The
unfamiliar height of my knees under the table, perched on a pair of
kitten heels and the slight draft through my thin nylon tights. My
slinky satin frock occasionally drifted a little on my lap and the
thin spaghetti straps dug comfortably and constantly into my
shoulders. I could even feel the weight of the mascara on my
eyelashes. I imagine what a necklace might feel like, or a pair of
dangly earrings similar to those my mother is wearing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
observe my sister. She certainly suits her pretty dress with its
pink blooms scattered across a pale cream background. Like mine she
has a cowl neck, only hers is lower and reveals a little of her
cleavage. I glance down at my chest and wonder what it might be like
to have a pair of my own. That's a discomforting thought so I put it
behind me. I look at Karen's hair and imagine mine being that long.
My rebellious 'Ramone' cut is long for a boy but it's not 'long'.
It's also come a long way from that rebellious Ramone style since
Karen took to it with her heated brush thing. Mum's got a short
'middle aged' bob that always looks the same. Karen can wear hers in
a different style every day and she often does. “Your hair looks
nice like that Karen.” I said when she noticed me looking.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.”
she said. “All I did was...” She demonstrated how she'd simply
grabbed it and gathered, lifted it and twisted it and clipped it to
the back of her head with a big plastic hair grip. “It's a quick
and easy 'up' do.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Did
you use your new <i>air</i> styler?” Mum asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
did on Simon's hair.” Karen replied. “It's great. It curls,
waves, straightens, dries, sets...” my sister listed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With
both their eyes staring at my hair and I began to feel self
conscious. I know I look pretty but without a mirror in front of me,
I can't see it. I can feel my make-up though; my slightly weighty
eyelashes, slightly sticky lips and the delicate dusting on my
cheeks. I tried to imagine how I'd look if I was sat opposite me. I
know I look like a girl but what about my mannerisms? Am I eating
like a bloke, I wondered. “Sorry what” I said, hearing my mother
state my name for a second time.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
said can I try a bit of your naan bread?” my mother said, possibly
for the third time.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er..
yes... course.” I replied. My sister bore a bemused smile and asked
if I was OK. “Yeah, fine... I was just miles away... I can't help
but think just how different I feel all dressed up.” I timidly
said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He
couldn't stop feeling his legs when he put his tights on.” Karen
said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They
do feel nice.” I admitted. “Like a second skin.” I added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They'd
feel even nicer if you shaved your legs.” my sister said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not gonna do that.” I replied. “I might never wear tights again.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
now you've discovered that women's clothes are quite nice, have you
had any more thoughts about helping me out in the café for a few
weeks?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In
all the excitement of having my hair and make-up done and wearing a
really nice dress, I'd forgotten all about the uniform I'd initially
tried on. “Erm... it wouldn't work coz I'm a guy.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
don't have a rule about only employing girls Simon.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
have a rule about your employees wearing a very specific uniform
though.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
you looked great in it.” my sister said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd
like to see how it looks... it'll only take a minute to change.”
Mum said. “Me and Karen can clear up here.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
thought you wanted me to keep this on for a while.” I said. Mum
said I could if wanted too, but reiterated that she would like to see
how the waitress uniform looks on me. “OK, I'll put it on later.”
I conceded. “...but there's no way I could work as a waiter and
wear a waitresses uniform.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In
this day and age I think it should be perfectly acceptable for a guy
to work as a waitress.” my sister said. I wasn't sure if she was
being serious or not. She sounded serious.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
agree.” Mum said. “Aren't we supposed to be living in an age of
equality? Aren't we supposed to be putting a stop to gender specific
workwear and uniforms?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
but... that's about not insisting that women should wear skirts and
heels in the office.” I stated. “We discussed that at school a
few months ago as part of the social science module.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
works both ways Simon.” my sister claimed. “How many boys wore
skirts to school last summer?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
different... that's coz we're not allowed to wear shorts. It was a
protest.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
boys are allowed to wear skirts.” my sister retorted. “...and
didn't the headmaster say that boys are more than welcome to wear
skirts if they don't want to wear long pants?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
but...”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your
sister's right Simon... uniform rules can't specify one rule for boys
and another for girls, and it doesn't matter if it's a school or a
workplace.” Mum said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My
waitress uniforms are non gender specific.” Karen stated, grinning.
“...and if you remember, I did suggest you tried the uniform on to
see how it feels and then decide.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I cautiously replied. “And it did feel OK.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
there you go then.” Karen smugly replied. “I'm not going to press
you for an answer, I'm just asking you to think about it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.”
I sighed. “But just because it felt nice doesn't mean I want to
wear it for work.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Like
Karen says, have a think.” Mum said. “You have been after a part
time job.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know.” I said. “But waitress wasn't exactly at the top of my
list.” I chuckled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Having
eaten our fill, Mum cleared the table and Karen washed the dishes. I
watched TV but mostly looked at my dress and my nails and felt how
nice my tights felt. All the while I tried to imagine working in
Karen's café, wearing her uniform and how her staff and customers
might react. No one takes much notice at school anymore when a handful of
boys protest against the shorts ban and wear skirts for a few hot days in the summer, so maybe it
doesn't really matter in this day and age... plus it'd only be for
four weeks and I've got the perfect excuse if anyone asked why I'm
dressed as a waitress. I’m just helping my sister out and she has a
very strict workwear policy, and believe it of not, the uniform is
non gender specific.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm
soon joined by Mum and Karen. “What you watching?” Karen asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nothing
much.” I said. "I'm not really watching it to be honest."<br />
<br />
"Deep in thought?" she knowingly asked. I gulped and nodded.<br />
<br />
We
sat mostly watching TV and sometimes making small talk. After a while my mother reminded me about her wanting to see me wearing the waitress
uniform. "OK." I said, deliberately trying to sound apathetic. I took myself up to my sister's room and removed the dress, putting it on a hanger then looking at my reflection. Tights don't
look great without a dress or skirt to conceal the bodice, but my
hair and make-up still looked amazing. Once again I donned the short pleated skirt and fitted vest. I faced the mirror and whilst I
didn't look as pretty as I did in my sister's dress, I did look like a
waitress. I took a deep breath before returning downstairs to present myself.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Simon
you wear that so well.” Mum said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He
does doesn't he.” my sister agreed as she looked me up and down.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How
does it feel?” Mum asked. “Those skirts are quite short.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
feels OK.” I bashfully said as my fingertips hovered timidly around its knife pleated hem. “I am wearing tights.” I
added, feeling the fabric for a brief moment.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
can already imagine you in Karen's café.” Mum said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Aren't we forgetting that I'm a boy?”
I reminded them. All I can imagine is the bemused glances from my sister's staff and her customers.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We
all know that that doesn't matter.” Mum said. “Not in this day
and age.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
you clearly like it.” my sister said. “And I am desperate for
staff.” she reminded me. “And you did say you needed a part time
job.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know but...” I gulped as a hoard of butterflies erupted in my
tummy. “What would the punters think?” I asked. “What would
your other waitresses think?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
the twenty first century Simon... not the nineteen sixties.” Mum
said. “A teenage boy working as a waitress isn't exactly common but
it's hardly criminal either... the most anyone will say is 'oh'.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
what if my mates find out I’m a waitress of all things?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They'll
only find out if you tell them.” Karen replied. “I don't see any
school boys dining in a classy café of an evening... they'll be in a
greasy spoon if anywhere.” she said, before temping me with the seven
pound an hour wage.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How
many hours would I have to do?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not sure... about eight or ten a week I guess.” she mused. “And
its just over Easter remember... 'til the students come back.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Earning
around sixty quid a week is tempting, I thought... I could buy
an awful lot of stuff in a short space of time if I was earning that
sort of money. “Would I have to pretend I'm a girl?” I asked.
“Because that really wouldn't work.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Course
not, you'd just have to wear the uniform and work hard.” Karen
replied. “Give it a try for one night and see how it goes.” she
said. “I promise the other girls will be fine with it.” she
insisted, claiming that they're young and liberal. “You might be
addressed as 'miss' by some of the customers but that's no big deal.”
she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll
be allowed to wear make-up?” I timidly asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Absolutely.”
she told me. “So long as it's natural and not glamorous.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
this?” I asked, referring to my current cosmetic palette.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
ideal.” Karen smiled.<br />
<br />
I looked at my feet. "Will I have to wear heels?"<br />
<br />
"Absolutely not... I insist on all black canvas plimsolls." she said. That was a relief. “So you're game?” she asked. I gulped and
said I’d give it a try... for one night. “Oh Simon you're a life
saver!” she exclaimed, jumping up and hugging me. “It's so hard
getting reliable staff... you'll be perfect, I know you will!” my
sister gushed.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've
only agreed to trial.” I reminded her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know but I know you'll be great... and think of the money!”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is
this OK with you Mum?” I asked when my sister finally let me go. “I
mean... it's not exactly normal for a boy to work as a waitress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
both know that I have no objections whatsoever!” Mum replied. “If
you looked ridiculous I would but you honestly don't Simon.” she
smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
it's just for a month?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.”
Karen said. “Although when the students break up for summer I might
ask you again... providing you pass your trial.” she added. “If
you're not a good worker it'll just be one night.” she sternly reminded me. "I expect a lot from my waitresses and you'll be no exception."</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
sure he won't let you down Karen.” Mum said. “Won't you Simon?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped and nodded and wondered what I'd let myself in for. All sorts of second thoughts flooded through my skull but it's too late now. Like it or not, I'll be working at least one shift in my sister's café as a waitress.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The end of the beginning</div>
<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-4603647886022557552019-10-16T11:56:00.001-07:002021-09-24T06:12:26.428-07:00Rock Chicks<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My sister managed to
get her hands on four tickets to see AC/DC at the EnormoDome. I was
really jealous because they'd sold out in minutes and being almost
sixteen, I didn't have the money to book one... and even if I did,
Mum reckoned I was a little too young for such a big concert venue.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--The golden ticket-->On
my sixteenth birthday my sister gave me a card along with an
apathetic apology for not getting me a gift to go with it. I was a
little disappointed. She normally buys me a CD or something but this
time she gave the impression that my sixteenth birthday wasn't
important... certainly not important enough to warrant spending more
than a pound or two on a birthday card. Of course I feigned gratitude
as I peeled the envelope open... but felt utterly disappointed having
only received a card from her. I opened the card to read her message and
couldn’t believe my eyes... for there, inside the card is one AC/DC
ticket for the EnormoDome in six weeks time. </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuyCj5TSltMz5wtIkQiP4g1Aje2vwW5l87F694F6BXzLiFv3ud6-XyG1sJF70XZxl8wS0sqVJYHq0-hSZ7KbxWA3U-AyxCvWtAgnlxpMMdKiXKamThQgQabRwYdulv7EN8d9ZJ_6zF/s1600/2821341.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="382" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuyCj5TSltMz5wtIkQiP4g1Aje2vwW5l87F694F6BXzLiFv3ud6-XyG1sJF70XZxl8wS0sqVJYHq0-hSZ7KbxWA3U-AyxCvWtAgnlxpMMdKiXKamThQgQabRwYdulv7EN8d9ZJ_6zF/s320/2821341.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was over the moon that
I'd be going along with my sister and her friends and could barely
contain my excitement... in fact I couldn't!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Now there are
conditions Matty.” my sister told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I know... no
drinking, keep away from the mosh pit.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Definitely no
drinking!” she said, winking at me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum surprised me and
said I could drink if I wanted, providing I was sensible. “But
please don't wander off... I know how hard it is to find people in a
place like that... you pop to the loo and spend about an hour trying
to find your place in the crowd again.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My excitement only grew
as the weeks passed and the big gig got nearer and nearer. There'll
be me, my sister Isabel (or Izzy), her best friend Terrie, who'll be
driving us and Cat, or Catherine, another of my sisters close
friends. I've known them since I was that annoying little brother but
they're really nice to me these days.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The doors open at 7pm
and the EnormoDome is a three hour drive. Mum's booked us a double
room in a Travelodge and drives us over to <!--Terries House, getting ready-->Terrie's
house long before noon on the day of the gig. If the traffic's bad it
could take four or five hours, so we're planning to set off in good
time so there's plenty of time for them to get ready.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Izzy and I chat in the
lounge whilst Terrie's getting herself ready, although Izzy is called
upon to help, leaving me alone in the lounge. Cat arrives and goes up
to Terrie's room. Izzy comes down. After twenty minutes, Cat and
Terrie are still upstairs. I’m watching the clock. It's nearing
noon and I'm eager to set off. “Why can't they get ready when we
get there?” I whine. “We'll be booking into the Travelodge
anyway.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but the rooms
are tiny... they won't have a proper dressing table and we'd have to
take straighteners, hair dryers, vanity cases...” she said,
explaining why it's best to get ready first.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Izzy!” a voice
hollered from upstairs.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah?” my sister
hollered back.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You two coming up?”
the voice hollered.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Izzy stood but I said
I’d best stay down, not wanting to invade whilst they're busy
getting ready. “They're ready, it's fine.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but you'll be
getting ready.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“...and so will you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I am ready.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not quite.” she
said, grabbing the small travel case we'd brought.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Being a sixteen year
old fan of rock music, my hair hangs dankly on my shoulders. I'm not
so bothered if it looks tidy so long as it looks long and therefore,
I look like a rocker. I've got my AC/DC T-shirt on, a pair of
stonewashed boot cut jeans and my trusty Converse plimsolls. I looked
as good as I wanted to look, and I certainly looked like I'd belong
at a heavy metal concert... however my sister offered to straighten
my hair, which she's done before and it did look good. My concern was
that it'd take ages and the clock is ticking, but Izzy assured me
that we've got loads of time, and the gig won't start 'til 8pm
meaning we've got the best part of eight hours to do a three hour
journey, and we don't want to arrive too early. “OK.” I replied,
before following her up stairs.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When I arrived in
Terrie's room, I first complimented her posters; Maiden, Sabbath,
Saxon and Priest... the four cornerstones of British heavy metal,
before casting my gaze around her room. My sister opened our case
and put a short leather skirt and a black vest top with a glittery
AC/DC print on the bed. “Is that what you're wearing Izzy?” I
asked as she put an unopened box of fishnet tights alongside them.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... you remember
when I said there's certain conditions to us taking you to see
AC/DC...” my sister began.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well this is one of
them.” she told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What is?” I
ignorantly asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your outfit.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I can't wear that!”
I gasped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Course you can...”
my sister told me. “...and when we've finished with you, no one
will think you're a guy.” she claimed, putting some black underwear
items with the skirt and top.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But... I am a guy
Izzy!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes, but tonight
Matthew...” Isabel said, mimicking the <i>Stars in their Eyes</i>
catchphrase, “...you're going to be ...a rock chick!” she
grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not dressing as
a girl.” I fearfully exclaimed, gulping at the formerly 'cool'
outfit on the bed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've done it
before.” she stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but... that was
just for a laugh.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's the only way to
guarantee that you won't leave my side.” Izzy replied, “...and
that's one condition that Mum laid down.” she added, explaining
that the girls toilets are on one side of the EnormoDome and the guys
are on the other and she's not prepared to escort me every time I
need the loo. “Plus... I don't really want my little brother in
tow... I wanna turn you into a rock chick.” she grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I couldn't believe she
was being serious. I looked at Cat and Terrie who both bore beaming
grins. “Go on Matty.” Cat encouraged. “You'll look ace.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And you've done it
before.” Terrie added. “You looked well cute.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I was ten!” I
whined. My sister reckoned I was twelve when she and Teresa dressed
me as a girl. Mum was out, I was bored and wanted to hang out with my
sister and her friend, but they didn't want to hang out with a boy
so... thinking about it, I guess I should have expected something
like this from them.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My sister has dressed
me up in her old clothes on several occasions before and since then
when we've been home alone. Usually I've been bored and pestering to
hang out with her. She's dressed me in her old school uniform, a
bridesmaid dress, one of her party dresses, little shorts and cute T
shirts.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We can either spend
all afternoon talking you into it and risk missing the start of the
concert, or you can back out and I'll tout your ticket on the door...
or you can get changed now and you'll have plenty of time to get used
to being a rock chick.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You are joking
aren't you?” I asked. My sister smiled and shook her head. She
reminded me that I said the outfit she'd put together looked cool.
“It does... but not on me.” I grimaced at the ensemble. “That
skirt looks awfully short all of a sudden.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well if' it's too
short, we'll find another one.” Terrie said. “...and if you're
not keen on wearing fishnets, I've got normal tights.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not keen on
wearing tights at all.” I grimaced.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you don't have
to.” my sister Izzy said, reminding me that I've already shaved my
legs and it'd only take five minutes to give them a 'quick whiz' to
get them smooth.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've shaved your
legs?” Cat exclaimed. I felt myself blush as she added, “You're
halfway there!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A couple of weeks
earlier I'd entered the junior category of a triathlon; a ten mile
bike ride, five mile run and half mile swim... I did far worse than
I’d hoped and didn't get anywhere near the podium... but I did
consider myself a serious competitor and in order to relay that to
the other competitors, I shaved my legs. Plenty of male athletes
shave theirs and it was my sister who'd talked me into shaving mine.
She even convinced me to shave my armpits too, and all of a sudden I
know why!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I can't go to the
EnromoDome dressed as girl Izzy!” I stated. “What will people
think?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They'll be too busy
watching the stage to even notice you.” she replied. “No one will
think anything and like I said, it's not optional.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But!” I frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've always let me
dress you up in the past.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But that was inside,
behind closed doors... not outside where people will see me!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We're going to
London... no one will know you and for all anyone knows, you're one
of four girls going to a concert.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“'til I speak, then
they'll know I'm not a girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Who?” my sister
quizzed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“People.” I
retorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What people?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“People in the hotel,
people in the shops, people at the concert.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We'll do all the
talking when we're booking in and buying food... you can be the cute
shy type... just smile and nod.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I wasn't at all keen on
dressing as a girl but my sister told me that it wasn't optional. If
I'm adamant that I wont, then I wont go to the concert, it's as
simple as that. “Mum won't be happy if I go home and tell her that
you wouldn't let me go unless I dressed as a girl.” I stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll just tell her
that it was to ensure we don't get separated.” my sister replied.
“And it was me who bought your ticket, not Mum... so it's me who
calls the shots.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I wanted nothing more
than to go and see AC/DC and knew I'd regret it if I did back out...
so with a heavy heart and huge sulk, I agreed. It took ages to remove
my leg hair for the triathlon, today it's just a quick ten minute
whiz in the bath to remove the stubble from both my legs and pits. I
sit wearing Terrie's bathrobe whilst she paints my nails in a really
dark purple shade. Meanwhile, my sister is straightening my hair
whilst Cat cleanses, then powders my face ready for my make-up. “I
can't believe I’m doing this.” I said as all three of them
simultaneously tended to me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Once my hair was done
they began working on my make-up. It was a committee run process with
plenty of bickering and disagreements over how my eyes could look,
what shade of lipstick I should wear, what to do with my eyebrows...
My sister asked my opinion and I suggested that they do what they
like. “...so long as I don't look like a sixteen year old boy when
you've finished.” I said, suggesting just one of them does my
make-up because the clock really is ticking.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Terrie ended up taking
charge and for no other reason than expediency, I allowed her to tidy
my eyebrows rather than waste another ten minutes discussing it.
“Just don't take too much off.” I pleaded. “I don't want to
look like a guy tonight but I really don't want to look like a girl
tomorrow.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Don't worry.”
Terrie said. “You're in good hands.” she assured, before taking a
little more off.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I honestly thought
having my eyebrows plucked would hurt more than it did, but it was
OK. My main fear was how much of them she'd left behind. She handed
me a mirror. I bit my lip but agreed that my eyebrows looked tidy
rather than overtly feminine, however once she'd defined them with an
eyebrow pencil, they looked very feminine indeed. My smoky black
eye-liner at first looked like I had black eyes, but theirs was
similar to mine; dark, moody, vampish and most definitely 'rock'. My
lips were painted a deep dark red which next to my pale even skin
tone reminded me of gothic chic rather than rock chick, but it's near
enough. Once my make up was done, my sister decided that she wanted
to put my hair in French plaits but I wasn't keen... until she
reminded me that the girlier I can look, the better and plaits are
girlier than wearing my hair down, she claimed. “But how long will
it it take?” I asked, glancing at the time.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It'll be quicker if
we skip the twenty questions.” my sister dryly stated. She parted
my hair in the centre, then parted each half again and began
braiding. I winced as she tugged at my hair. She told me to stop
whining and assured me that tight braids would look 'cool'. A good
twenty minutes passed before she was done. I looked at my reflection
and wasn't disappointed. With my pale even skin and heavy dark
make-up, the four tight plaits looked great. “I look mean.” I
said. “Like a Klingon.” I grinned. They grinned too and Terry
asked if I was ready to get dressed. I bit my lip and gulped. “No.”
I grimaced. “But...” I hesitantly added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll take that as a
yes.” my sister said. “Now you'll have to wear control knickers
to flatten your boy-bits.” she told me. “...and a bra to
un-flatten your chest.” she smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A bra!” I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're supposed to
be a sixteen year old girl remember.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but...”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No buts Matty...
you're wearing a bra.” Terrie told me. I grimaced as I took the
underwear from my sister. The straps confused me. “Did he wear a
bra the last time you dressed him up?” she asked my sister.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” Izzy replied
said. “He didn't even wear knickers.” she added before turning to
me. “Don't just look at them Matt, we haven't got all day.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With
my back to the girls and Terrie's bathrobe to hide behind, I pulled
on the control knickers. “These are really tight.” I said as I
arranged myself inside their strong elasticated grip.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're
supposed to be.” I was told. My sister had already unpacked and
gathered the tights. She held them ready for me to put my toes in.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think I’d prefer
normal black tights.” I said as I pulled the black fishnets up my
legs “These look too...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Tarty?” Cat
suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Something like
that.” I frowned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Matthew they look
great.” I was told as the short leather skirt was handed to me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I stepped into the
skirt and pulled up the zip. It has jeans style pockets on the back
and front, all of which seem to too small to be of any practical
purpose. I hesitated before removing the bathrobe and revealing my
bare chest to my sister and her friends. Donning the bra didn't make
me feel any more comfortable. I put my arms through its straps and
got them onto my shoulders before my sister stepped in and fastened
it for me. “I can't believe I'm doing this.” I grimaced as I
looked down at the unfamiliar garment.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So you keep saying.”
my sister replied. Terrie and Cat grinned as my shoulder straps were
adjusted to the correct length. Its straps and chest band are about
10-12mm wide. Its padded cups are trimmed with a little black lace
and sit unconvincingly on my chest. I pull the stretchy lace crop top
on over it which makes my chest look a little more convincing.
“You're looking pretty hot Tilly.” Izzy grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Tilly?” I quizzed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you need a girl
name and I figured Matilda would be a good one as it can be shortened
to either Matty or Tilly.” she told me. “I like Tilly best but if
one of us slips up and calls you Mat or Matty...” she shrugged.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've really though
this through haven't you.” I dryly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've been planning
it for months.” she grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well thanks for
finally letting me know.” I replied, somewhat sarcastically.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you think he
needs a bit more padding?” she asked her friends.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Try the vest first.”
Cat suggested. I timidly suggested my own trusty AC/DC T-shirt but
was told in no uncertain terms that I'd be wearing a girl's one. Izzy
hands me the vest and I pull it on. It's skinny fit hugs my new
curves. Its racer back style leaves the broad lacy straps of my crop
top and the thin black straps of my bra on display. It's scooped neck
reveals more of my crop top which conceals the fact that I don't have
a cleavage. Taking the girls' advice, I tuck the top into my skirt
and bashfully receive their compliments. “You look loads better
than I thought you would!” Cat grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh I knew we'd pull
it off.” my sister said. “This is gonna be a night you'll never
forget.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You can say that
again!” I frowned. “I've no idea what I’m going to say at
school on Monday... I’ve been boasting about this for weeks.” I
said. “<i>How was the AC/DC concert?</i>... <i>what did you wear?</i>
Err....” I mimicked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I very much doubt
your friends will ask what you wore Matty.” my sister retorted.
“They won't even ask.” she reckoned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I guess.” I
frowned. “...and shouldn't it be Tilly?” I said, casting my eyes
longingly towards the jeans and T-shirt I thought I’d be wearing.
My eyes found my trusty old Converse plimsolls. “You're not gonna
make me wear heels are you?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you want to?”
Terrie asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really... won't
my Converse do?” I asked. The style is as common amongst guys as
well as girls.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but....
depending on what size you are, how about <i>my</i> Converse?”
Terrie asked, revealing a pair of all black knee high baseball boots.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're kidding?!”
I gasped. “They're awesome!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I had a feeling
you'd you'd like 'em.” Terrie grinned, enquiring my shoe size.
“What’s that in European?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Forty.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“These are 39 so they
should be OK.” she replied, unfastening the side zip and handing
one to me. “And be careful not to snag your tights when you're
zipping them up.” she advised as I pushed my foot inside.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Have you any idea
how strange it is hearing advice like that?” I chuckled as I pulled
the zip.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How does it fit?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fine.” I said as I
stood with just the one boot on. “Thanks.” I said as she handed
me the other. “These are well cool.” I said as I stood with both
boots on.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You look well cool.”
they told me. “All you need is some accessories.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Accessories?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... belt,
bangles, rings, a necklace or three.” Terrie replied, adding
“Earrings.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't have my ears
pierced.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You don't need to.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Whilst I'm having
numerous metal and leather bangles placed around my wrists, a black
velvet choker fastened around my neck, and some clip on earrings
attached to my ear lobes and a studded belt slung around my hips, my
sister is quickly changing her clothes. “Wow!” I exclaimed. She's
wearing a pair of short black denim shorts with four short suspender
straps attached. From these a pair of black stockings hang. On her
feet is a pair of ankle high biker boots with chunky heels, and on
her back is a sheer black mesh top which leaves the black lace bra
beneath fully exposed. She tells me that had I refused to wear my
skirt, then I’d have been wearing her shorts instead, with the
stockings. “I think you wear those far better than I could.” I
claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And you wear that
just as well as any of us.” Izzy complimented. Terrie and Cat
agreed. “Right... are we ready?” she asked. It's now gone 2.00pm
and we're getting into the territory of cutting it fine. My sister
still needs to do her make-up but says she can do it in the car on
the way. “We've got Matthew ready and that's the main thing.” she
said</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Tilly.” I
corrected.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry... Tilly.”
Isabel grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We headed downstairs
and Terrie quickly said goodbye to her mother</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Now drive safely
Teresa.” Terrie's mother said as she cast her eyes over us. I'm
wearing my hair in braids, the ends of which brush my shoulders. Like
the others, my face is pale and make-up dark, stark and maybe a
little bit scary. Cat's gone for an Angus inspired schoolgirl look;
black over knee socks, a short plaid skirt with punky buckles and a
little exposed netting beneath its knife pleats, a white blouse and a
loosely tied boy's school tie. My sister's wearing her daring
suspender shorts with stockings and a see-through top and Terrie's
wearing a short distressed denim skirt, thick black tights and a
skinny fit AC/DC T-shirt. “You've got your tickets and everything?”
Terrie's mother checked, before commenting on my sister's very
'daring' outfit.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... not sure
what Mum would say, but it's not everyday we go to see AC/DC.” my
sister replied, “...and my brother's being most daring of all.”
she added, resting her hand on my shoulders.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh my gosh Matthew I
didn't recognise you!” Terrie's mother exclaimed. “I thought you
were still upstairs!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Errr.” I gulped,
not really knowing what to say. Terrie informed her mother that
today, for one day only, I'm Matilda, or Tilly, or maybe even Matty.
Her mother looked me up and down and asked if I was wearing Teresa's
boots. “Yeah.” I bashfully replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Does your mother
know you're going dressed like that?” Terrie's mother asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... no.” I
timidly replied. My sister told her that if we're all 'girls'
together, I won't get lost going to the loo or anything.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh... right.. well.”
he mother cautiously replied. “Have a good time.” her mother
said, clearly perplexed at my appearance. “...and drive safely
Teresa.” she told her daughter.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I will.” Terrie
assured.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We bundled into the
car. “I don't think your Mum was too impressed with what you've
done to me.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think she was just
shocked.” Terrie replied, chuckling.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think she was more
than shocked.” I replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Look at it this
way.” Cat said. “If Terrie's mum didn't recognise you... you've
nothing at all to worry about.” she added before asking if I was OK
and reiterating that I look great.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Setting off-->“Well
it's too late to go back and change.” I said as the engine started
and the car rolled off the driveway. Izzy and I shared the back seat.
She grinned at me and I nervously smiled back. “I can't believe I'm
actually doing this.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I can.” Izzy
replied, grinning even more.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You really do look
great... no one's going to suspect you're a boy.” Cat told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not until I speak.”
I said. “I don't exactly sound like a girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's gonna be so
loud that no one's going to hear anything over the guitars, bass and
drums.” Cat said, before suggesting that if I’m planning on
shouting my appreciation, to try to scream rather than bellow.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... good
advice.” I replied describing a scene; me bellowing 'Angus … ...
Angus … ... Angus' at the top of my voice and people looking round
and thinking<i> It's coming from that cute girl</i>!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“At least you know
you're cute.” my sister said. “I know I keep saying it but you
look way better than I thought you would.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We chatted, listened to
music, watched the scenery all the way down the M1. My sister
apologised because she couldn't help but glance at my chest. “You
suit being a girl.” she said. “What's it like wearing your first
bra?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Weird.” I replied,
glancing down at my chest. “It does make me feel kinda girlie
though.” I coyly added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good.” she
grinned. “I can put some more padding in if you'd like bigger
tits.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... no thanks,
these are big enough I think.” I said, putting my hand on my small
yet noticeable boobs. My eyes dropped to my fishnet tights and short
leather skirt. It's the very last thing I expected to be wearing to
my very first rock concert. I was already both anxious and excited at
the prospect of seeing AC/DC at the EnormoDome, and I'm now feeling
that tenfold. “I'm glad I’m wearing this and not those shorts.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After a couple of hours
driving, we stopped at a service station so Terrie could have a break
from driving and the rest of us could stretch our legs. I felt a
little too shy to actually go into the service station, so loitered
in the car park with Cat and smoked a cigarette. “Is that supposed
to happen?” I asked, seeing my deep red lipstick imprinted on the
filter.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Cat grinned and nodded,
showing me the red imprint on her cigarette. “That's why we spend
so much time reapplying it.” she asked, before asking if my sister
knows I smoke.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I think so...
Mum doesn't, so far as I know.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
An articulated lorry
trundled past, it's deep bellowing horn sounded and the driver
whistled and gestured at us as he passed. “Does that happen often?”
I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Often enough.” Cat
replied. “You've probably done it yourself when you see some fit
girls in short skirts.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah... wolf-whistles
are really cheesy and that fist gesture belongs in a Carry On film.”
I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are you cold?” she
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No... I just need a
piss.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ahhh...” she said.
“Come on, I'll take you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Doesn't one of us
need to wait with the car?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Errr... yeah... can
you hang on?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I nodded and sucked on
my cigarette. Cat looked me up and down... again. “What?” I
asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh nothing... just
liking your look.” she said. “I think guys look great in girl's
clothes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I dunno.” she
shrugged. “It kinda knocks the alpha out of the male.” she said,
describing a former boyfriend who could be a real tosser at times. “I
used to get him to wear my lingerie... under his own clothes.” she
informed me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Like what?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Stockings,
suspenders, a satin teddy.” she grinned. “He was always really
timid when we went out, nothing like the tosspot he could be sometimes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He was probably
petrified that someone would find out what he was wearing
underneath.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Maybe... he dumped
me on Valentine's Day last year... after I bought him some lingerie
of his own.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So he wasn't into it
then?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah.” she frowned.
“I think he was more worried that people might find out...” she
said. “Oh, here they are.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I turned to see my
sister and Terrie crossing the car park with a tray of Starbucks
coffees. Cat and I approached. “Four sodding fifty for a coffee!”
Izzy exclaimed. Cat gave Terrie the car key. “Where you two going?”
Izzy asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just taking Tilly to
the loo.” Cat replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh, OK.” they
chuckled. “Don't forget to sit down.” my sister teased.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Very funny.” I
groaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm being serious.”
she chuckled</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Service station-->Entering
the service station was a fearful experience. It's wasn't hugely busy
but the few people who were coming and going through the double doors
worried me. All it needed was one of them to spot the female imposter
and out me, then everyone would be looking in my direction and
ridiculing me. <span style="font-weight: normal;">I focus on the
reflection of Cat and I as we approach approach the glass doors. I
think I prefer her pleated skirt to my leather one. She tells me to
be brave. “Is it that obvious how nervous I am?” I asked</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're
breathing pretty heavily.” she told me. “Just relax.” she said
as we pushed the doors open.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm trying to.” I
said as we stepped inside and headed directly to the toilets. I feel
like a total impostor as we enter the ladies. There seems to be no
one else in there and I quickly enter a cubicle, lock the door and
wipe the seat before hitching up my skirt, pulling down my tights and
knickers and sitting. In my brief moment of solitude, I ran my
fingers over my knees; fishnet clad and supper smooth. After a moment
I'd finished and pulled up the knickers... blimey they're tight, I
thought as I tucked myself into them. I exit the cubicle and wash my
hands. I can barely recognise my reflection in the mirror. If I saw a
rock chick who looked just like me I’d fancy her, which is a pretty
weird thing to think. Cat leaves her cubicle and we soon exit the
ladies, past the arcade machines, news stand and coffee shop,
eventually out into the car park and back to the car where my sister and
Terrie stand smoking cigarettes.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You OK Tilly?”
Izzy asked as we approached, looking me up and down. I smiled and
nodded. “You do look cool.” she said before sucking on her
cigarette then handing it to me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.” I shyly
replied, glancing down at my knee high boots, fishnet tights and
short leather skirt. “Is this a joint?” I asked, noticing it
wasn't a normal cigarette. She nodded and exhaled. I took a couple of
tokes and handed it to Cat. She asked if I’ve smoked pot before and
I nodded.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Cool.” Cat said,
drawing on it herself and handing it to Terrie.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah.” Terrie said.
“Driving.” she added. We passed it around the three of us then
chucked the roach into the bushes. “Shall we get going?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We climbed back in the
car and I shuffled in my seat. “These things aren't exactly
convenient.” I commented as I pulled my skirt down over my lap.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No but it looks
good.” Izzy said. “...and you wear it well.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?” I
quizzed. She said she'd noticed how I’ve sat with my knees together
for the entire journey so far and said she'd expected to have to keep
reminding me not to sit like a guy. “Well it is pretty short...
short enough to remind me that I'm not dressed like a guy.” I
replied, before asking if my tights were supposed to provide warmth
of just supposed to look good.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They provide a bit
of warmth, much like a string vest.” she told me. “Do they feel
OK?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I guess.” I
said, running my fingers over my lap. “But I've never worn normal
tights so what do I know?” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you think you'll
dress up as a girl again Matt?” Terrie asked as she reversed out of
the parking space.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He'll have to
tomorrow because his own clothes are at your house.” my sister
quickly retorted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... I don't
know.” I said. “I can't see there being another reason to.” I
mused.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're enjoying it
though?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think I'm still in
a state of shock.” I dryly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm glad you went
for it.” my sister said. “...and you totally pass as a girl.”
she claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I better.” I
grimaced.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You know you do.”
Cat told me. “No one batted an eyelid when we went to the loo.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I guess.” I
replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Izzy began rummaging in
her handbag. I watched as she placed various items of cosmetics on
her lap and began to apply her make-up. I was fascinated at how
adeptly she applied it... in a moving car!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Does it take years
to learn how to do that?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I guess.” she
replied. “I'll teach you if you like.” she suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Errr.... I’m not
really planning on making this a regular thing.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Loads of guys wear
eye-liner.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Guy-liner!” Terrie
said. “Man-scara too.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“...and concealer.”
Izzy claimed. “In fact, pretty much every guy you see on TV will be
wearing make-up, from pop stars to news readers... they say it's
because of the studio lighting but it's really so they look their
best.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think more guys
should wear make-up.” Cat claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You think guys
should wear dresses and lingerie though.” Terrie said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They should... and
not just when they're trying to pass as a girl.” she said, glancing
over her shoulder at me. “Jean-Paul Gautier says that the only item
of clothing that's made specifically for a woman is a bra...
everything else can be worn by either sex.” she stated. I wasn't so
sure, but Cat went into lecture mode. High heels, she claimed were
first made for men. When on horse back, the heels enabled them to
stand in their stirrups and fire a bow & arrow more accurately.
After that, Louis XIV popularised heels, and make-up, and wigs... she
claimed. The skirt was a male garment and its feminine equivalent
was called a petticoat. Knickerbockers were worn by boys and girl's
knickers were modelled on them, although they resembled big bloomers
back then... and in Victorian times, it wasn't uncommon for boys to
wear dresses as their Sunday best. My sister disputed some of Cat's
claims and Cat got out her smart phone, googled a page and showed her
a picture of some Victorian school rules which clearly stated '<i>if
boys wear frocks on Sundays, they must be clean</i>'.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you learn
something new every day.” my sister said. “Imagine that.” she
said to me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I grimaced and bit my
lip. “I suppose it must have been quite normal back then.” I
said. I took a sip from my coffee and just like the cigarette I'd
smoked, there's a dark red imprint on the rim of the cardboard cup
and its plastic lid. “I guess I'd best top up my lipstick when I've
finished this.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You will.” my
sister smiled. She routed 'my' lipstick from her bag and handed it to
me. “Keep it in your pocket.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.” I
bashfully replied. “These pockets are tiny.” I commented as I
pushed it into one of the small front pockets.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Big enough for your
lippy.” Izzy smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A short while later,
after finishing my coffee, I asked my sister if she had a mirror. I
felt nervous as I prepared to re-apply my lipstick. I can't see my
whole face in the tiny vanity mirror, only bits and none of them look
like me. My smoky eyes and shapely eyebrows belong to someone else.
Even my skin is free of the spots and blemishes I’m used to seeing.
My lips are deep and dark and red, apart from where the lipstick has
come off on the cigarettes and cup rim. I take a deep breath before
applying it and once done I ask my sister if it looks OK. “Perfect.”
she grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--Travelodge-->The
motorway got considerably busier as we neared our destination... but
we avoided any big tailbacks and arrived at the Travelodge in good
time. “That's a relief.” I said after we electronically checked
in. “I was dreading a proper receptionist looking at our booking
details and saying that we're supped to be three girls and one boy.”
I said as we entered the elevator. Terrie grinned at me and my sister
revealed that she'd put me down as <i>Miss</i> M. Phillips when she
booked the rooms. “Have you been planning this all along?” I
asked, knowing that she'd booked the hotel when she'd secured the
tickets months ago. Izzy nodded and told me that it was our mother
who'd given her the idea. “How?!” I quizzed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum so was worried
about you getting lost coming back from the toilets in the EnormoDome
and said <i>it wouldn't matter if you were all girls</i>... which got
me thinking, we could<i> all </i>be girls.” my sister told me. “I
did think of running the idea by her but...” she paused. “...she
wasn't happy when you wore my bridesmaids dress that time.” she
added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I frowned,
recalling the day, all those years ago.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I bet he looked well
cute.” Cat said. “What was it like?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I felt myself blushing
as my sister described the dress; lilac with a lace bodice and an
ivory sash. I claimed I didn't like it and had only tried it for a
laugh and admitted that it did feel special. “Then Mum came home
earlier than expected and found me wearing it.” I stated. “She
went bonkers.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only because it was
an expensive dress.” my sister claimed. “She wasn't bothered
about you cross dressing.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I wasn't cross
dressing. It was you dressing me up.” I stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Same thing... and
you have let me do it loads of times.” my sister reminded me as the
lift landed at our floor.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We ceased chatting as
we strolled down the long deserted corridor and found our rooms.
Terrie and Cat went into their and my sister and I went into ours.
The room is small with two single beds taking up much of the
floorspace. There's a tiny en-suite bathroom, two small bedside
cabinets and a minuscule wardrobe. “How far is it to the
EnormoDome?” I asked as I peered out of the window at the
unimpressive view of the back of the building next door.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“About half an hour
according to Google maps.” Izzy replied as she opened our trolley
case. “Here.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's that?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Some PJs.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I took the neatly
folded items. “Girl's ones?” I presumed as I unfolded them.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course.” my
sister replied. “What else?” she grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Supergirl.” I
groaned. There's a blue T-shirt with the familiar logo in a glittery
print. It's sleeves are short and gathered with that lettuce edge hem
that adorns many girl's garments. The shorts are red with a yellow
waist band and a lettuce edge hem around the legs. “Thanks.” I
dryly said, adding “I guess I'm lucky you didn't bring me a pink
nightie.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it had crossed
my mind.” she teased as she checked her phone.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How we doing for
time?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We've got an hour
before the gates open... and I guess we should grab a burger or
something beforehand.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... I am pretty
peckish.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum's asking if
we're here yet.” Izzy said as she replied by text saying we'd just
arrived at the hotel.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I sighed and perched on
one of the beds. “I can't believe I’ve let you do this to me.”
I said, staring at my fishnet clad knees and short leather skirt.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You can't believe
how great you look.” she grinned, tossing her phone on one of the
beds and going into the small en-suite.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Her phone began ringing
and the words 'mum calling' flashed on the screen. “It's Mum.” I
hollered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Will you answer it.”
my sister hollered back.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I took a deep breath
before swiping the screen. “Hi Mum.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh, I was expecting
Isabel.” mum said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She's in the
bathroom.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How was the
journey?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fine.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You sound nervous.”
Mum said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped and glanced at
my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe door. “Just excited about
the concert.” I replied, wondering what Mum would say if she could
see me now; hair in braids, face covered in make-up, visible bra
straps, leather mini skirt, fishnet tights and knee high boots.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well make sure you
don't get separated.” Mum advised.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I will.” I said as
my sister emerged. “Izzy's here now... I'll pass you on.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK... have fun, be
good and do exactly what your sister tells you!” Mum said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I will.” I coyly
replied, glancing at my reflection as I passed the phone to Izzy.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hi Mum.” my sister
said. “Yeah it's fine... tiny.” she added, presumably talking
about the hotel room. “I'm sure he won't.” she said, grinning at
me. “Course I'll look after him... he is sixteen!” she said. “I
know ... OK ... See you tomorrow … we will … about tea time I
guess … OK … bye.” she said before the call ended.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That was weird.” I
said. “Talking to Mum dressed like this.” I grimaced.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Izzy chuckled as she
straightened her stockings. “You look ace Tilly.” she told me as
she faced her own reflection in the narrow mirror. “Do you need a
piss or owt before we go?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I better had.”
I said. She reminded me to sit. “I don't need to in here.” I
claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're supposed to
be a girl, Matilda.” my sister retorted. “Act like one.” she
grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.” I sighed as I
took myself into the tiny en-suite. I sat and squeezed out a pee,
before wiping myself, squashing my bits into my constricting control
knickers and pulling up my tights. I can't help but admire my dark
red nails as I wash my hands. After drying them I face the mirror and
my very feminine face, before digging into my pocket, removing my
lipstick and carefully re-applying it, rolling my lips together just
like I should. I'm nervous. Very nervous but what can I do? I
convince myself that even if someone does recognise me as a female
impersonator that I'll just have to grin and bear it or shrug it off.
No one knows me in London and my sister and her friends will have my
back... I hope!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My sister is touching
up her make-up when I return and suggests I do the same. “I've just
done my lippy.” I bashfully admitted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ah sweet.” she
smiled. “Shall I touch up your mascara or do you want to do it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... you'd best do
it... I'll only make a mess.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's not that hard.”
she told me. I watched as she demonstrated on herself, explaining
that if I look 'through' the brush rather than at it, I'm less likely
to blink and flinch when it's right next to my eye. “You try.”
she said, handing me the mascara.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You sure?” I
asked. She nodded and let me sit at the compact dressing area. I
confessed to feeling nervous. My sister told me to relax and reminded
me to look through the brush at my reflection. I couldn't relax but
went for it. It seemed strange brushing my own eyelashes. “hows
that?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good... try the
other one.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My other eye was
trickier to just get the brush in the correct position. “Being
ambidextrous would probably help.” I commented as I contorted my
wrist. Izzy agreed but said I was doing OK. I brushed my lashes twice
before seeking approval.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're a natural.”
she smiled. “Are you enjoying yourself?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I sighed. I feel torn
between excitement and embarrassment. “Ask me tomorrow when it's
all over.” I replied. “I'm more nervous than anything.” I
admitted. “I wish you'd told me I'd have to dress as a girl.” I
frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'd have got cold
feet and backed out.” Izzy replied. “Anyway you're not dressed as
a girl, you're a rock chick.” she grinned. “Tell you what... I'll
make us a wee doobie to smoke on the way to the concert... that'll
calm your nerves.” my sister suggested. “Why don't you give Cat &
Terrie a knock?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm.” I gulped.
“OK.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I very cautiously
opened the door and covertly peeped down the corridor. Thankfully it
was deserted. I knocked on the room next door. “Who is it?” A
voice said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Me.” I replied,
trying to sound feminine.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Who?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped. “Tilly.”
I replied in a similar high register. The door opened. “Izzy wants
to get going soon... you ready?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“More or less.” Cat
replied, inviting me in and looking me up and down.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hi Terrie.” I
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hiya.” she chirped
as she tended her hair. “Are you ready?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't think I'll
ever be ready for this.” I nervously replied. “But I'm as ready
as I'll ever be I suppose.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's the spirit
Tilly... this is going to be night to remember.” Terrie said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It'd be a night to
remember without me being dressed like this.” I replied, looking
down at my rock-chick clothing. “We're going to see AC/DC!” I
exclaimed. A moment later my sister joined us and double checked that
Cat and Terrie had their tickets and ID cards. ”Have you got my
ticket?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yep.” she said,
pulling both from her handbag.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What if someone asks
for my ID?” I quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You don't need it.”
Izzy replied. “I've got mine and you're my little sister.” she
grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We left the Travelodge
and headed toward the EnormoDome, stopping at a burger bar for some
fast fatty food which we ate perched on a wall overlooking the
Thames. We had burgers and chips which were overpriced and
underwhelming. The bite marks in my bun were rimmed with my lipstick
and I asked if it was actually edible. “Well I wouldn't eat a whole
one.” Cat jovially replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Izzy told me that I’d
have to reapply, and once we'd finished she did her lipstick before
handing me the vanity mirror. “You don't have to stare.” I
bashfully said after painting my lips.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah we do.” Cat
grinned. “I think you've taken to being a girl like a duck to
water.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Terrie and Izzy nodded
in agreement. Coyly and quietly, I told them that they're making me
blush as I stuffed the lipstick back into my skirt's tiny front
pocket. “Only because you know it's true.” Terrie said as she
touched up her lipstick.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm just trying not
to look too much like a...” I lowered my tone right down. “...boy
in a skirt.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You looking nothing
at all like a bloke in a skirt.” my sister insisted as she dipped
into her bag and pulled out her phone. I asked what she was doing as
she tapped the screen. “Just checking the time.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What time is it?”
I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Selfie time!” she
grinned before holding the phone aloft, leaning into me, framing all
four of us and taking a selfie. She showed it to me and I grimaced.
“What's wrong with it?” she defensively asked, before showing it
to Terrie and Cat.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nothing... it's just
weird seeing a picture of four girls and I'm one of them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think it's cute.”
Izzy said. <span style="font-weight: normal;">“I bet I could show
this to Mum and she wouldn't recognise you.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Don't
you dare!” I gasped.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I won't show her tomorrow... but in a few years time I don't think
she'd mind.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd
mind.” I whined. “I know I look good but I don't really want
anyone knowing that I went to see the worlds best rock band dressed
as a girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fair enough.” my
sister said. “I can still take photos though?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I guess...
just, can we keep them between us?” I asked, glancing at Cat and
Terrie and seeking their assurance. They nodded.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We stuffed our food
wrappers in a nearby bin and continued toward the EnormoDome. Izzy
pulled a pre-rolled spliff from her handbag. We shared it, then Cat
lit another one and we shared that too. I became increasingly nervous
as the gathering crowds of fans thickened; all headed in the same
direction. Being a little stoned took the edge off and I just kept
telling myself that I'm just one of four girls in a gathering crowd
of thousands.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--The EnormoDome-->A
strong sense of excitement filled the air the closer we got to the
venue. A tsunami of AC/DC T-shirts swept through the gates. Izzy
grabbed my hand and held it tightly as we surged through the
barriers. I didn't let go as we became packed like sardines, stopping
only to have our tickets scanned by the grumpy looking security
guards. Once through, metal fans of all ages began to canter and
gallop toward the stage, all hoping the get a good spot close to the
stage. It was quite scary to be honest... not because I’m dressed
as girl but because we could have so easily become separated from
each other and in a crowd of god knows how many thousands of people,
finding them again wouldn't be easy. But alas, we stayed together and
found a decent spot where we wouldn't get too squashed and our view
of the stage or big screen wasn't obscured. My sister grinned at me
and I grinned back. I could barely believe that we were about to see
the rock legends play live. Cat and Terrie went to the bar, leaving
my sister and me to wait. “I can't believe we're actually here.” I
said. “This is gonna be ace.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It is.” my sister
said. “Can I just do something?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... yeah.” I
cautiously replied. She placed her hands about the sides of my body,
took hold of my bra's chest band and tugged it down a little. I could
feel myself blush when she told me that my tits had risen and that
I'd need to keep an eye on them. In all the excitement of entering
the arena I’d more or less forgotten that I was dressed as girl,
let alone had a pair of 'tits'. I glanced nervously around the
gathering crowds, half expecting to see eyes staring or fingers
pointing in my direction... but none did, not that I could see
anyway. I felt lost in the crowd and completely insignificant. In
amongst all these people, there's only one who's bothered about the
fact that I’m a guy dressed as a girl and that's me. As for
everyone else in this huge auditorium, they either don't care, don't
know or haven't even noticed me. The huge sound system blasts out
rock classics including Maiden, Saxon, Sabbath, Priest and many more.
A group of older guys wearing ancient denims are headbanging whilst
playing air guitar. I smile. They've probably been to tons of gigs
like this and probably saw Angus and Malcolm when they really were
young. Another group, much younger; teenagers like us, catch my eye.
One has her hair in braids much like mine and she looks really cool.
I didn't stare. Cat and Terrie join us with two pints of lager each.
“Eight pounds!” Terrie exclaimed as she handed Izzy a pint.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Cat handed one to me.
“Thanks.” I smiled, cautiously sipping it. We chatted and nodded
our heads to the rock DJ's set, observing those around us but not
really engaging. I found myself often glancing at the girl with the
braids but couldn't always spot her as the venue filled. My sister
asked if I was OK. “I'm fine.” I said. “I can't thank you
enough... this is the best birthday present ever.” I grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Half an hour passed and the DJ played all the hard rock classics, plus the odd soft rock shocker by the likes of Bon Jovi and Heart. Then, the lights began to dim and the music began to fade. The show was about to start and everyone faced the empty stage. I've never known anticipation like it. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife as thousands upon thousands of people waited with bated breath.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The crowd erupted as
the first note from Angus's SG burst out of the wall of speakers that
flanked the stage. A second later the legend himself strutted on
stage wearing his school boy outfit and the rest of the band were
flooded in spotlights. Lead singer Brian Johnson entered to a roar of
approval. It was the loudest thing I'd ever experienced and even if
this moment deafened me, it would be worth it! His gravelly vocals
filled the EnormoDome and the entire crowd singing<i> running right
off the track</i> in response to the chorus of Rock 'n' Roll Train.
We punched their air. We jumped. We bounced. We rocked. Life cannot
get better than this, I thought... then it did when the awesomeness
of <i>Back in Black's</i> opening riff filled the air!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nothing mattered but
the music. The band had the crowd in the palms of their hands. They
called, we responded. There's nowhere on earth I'd rather be than
right here, right now. “Angus! … Angus! … Angus! … Angus!”
we chanted. Fists punched the air. My bangles rattled up and down my
forearms. The band barely stopped between songs; <i>Big Jack, Dirty
Deeds</i> and <i>Shot Down in Flames</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
came at us like a juggernaut and finally we had chance to give the
band our raucous appreciation.</span> Terrie, Cat, Izzy and I grinned
at each other. “This is awesome!” It was so hot in the crowd.
“I'm so glad I'm not wearing jeans!” I said to my sister.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Me too!” she
grinned, looking down at my little skirt and fishnet tights. “A
night to remember?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Definitely!” I
said, glancing around the crowd. I spot the girl with the braids and
we make eye contact, sharing a momentary smile before <i>Thunderstruck
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">begins with its infectious
opening</span> and drew everyone's attention. We punched the
air in time with the bass drum, chanting “Thunder … Thunder.” I
glanced over to the girl with the braids. She pounds her fist against
the sky, chanting with the rest of us. She glances back and smiles. I
bashfully avert my eyes. For moment there I thought I was a guy.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<i>I was caught...
in the middle of a railroad track... I looked 'round... and I knew
there was no turning back” </i><span style="font-style: normal;">burst
out of the speakers. Everyone chants 'thunder' in time. I glance back
toward the girl with the braids. She knows all the words. She glances
back and again I look away. What if she thinks I'm a lesbian? What if
she's a lesbian? That could be really awkward! I thought, before
worrying that she could have just as easily seen through my make-up
and braids to the sixteen year old boy beneath. I made a conscious
effort not to glance in her direction from that moment on.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">After
ten, maybe fifteen songs I began to feel like they'd never stop. I
don't think the crowd would let them even if they wanted too. AC/DC
really did shake us all night long! We knew the end was coming when
all their really big anthems came one after another... </span><i>T.N.T,</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
</span><i>Whole Lotta Rosie, Let There Be Rock, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and
finally the encore</span><i> Highway to Hell </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and
</span><i>For Those About to Rock</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
AC/DC left the stage to chants of “Angus, Angus, Angus.” which
morphed into chants of “Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As
the crowd began to thin, I glanced around the auditorium, hoping to
see the girl with the braids but I guess she must have gone. “Do I
still look OK?” I asked my sister. “Have I sweated all my make-up
off?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
look fine Tilly.” she told me. Getting out into the chilly night
air was such a relief after several hours in the hot and sweaty
EnormoDome. A multitude of coaches and taxis awaited the exiting
crowds. People seemed confused, not knowing which was theirs or
where to go whereas we just had a half hour walk back to the hotel.
Cat offered me a cigarette. “Thanks.” I said, taking one. Izzy
and Terrie spotted a nearby convenience store and went to get some
beers. Cat and I waited away from the crowds near the golf centre
we'd passed on the way in. I told her that it got so hot in there I
was glad I wasn't wearing jeans. “You know what's funny?” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What?”
Cat replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
didn't need to loo anyway.” I chuckled. “That was Izzy's
reasoning for dressing me like this.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Cat
chuckled. “It wasn't the only reason though.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What
do you mean?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
Izzy's dressed you up as a girl loads of times so you obviously enjoy
it.” she told me. “This was the ideal opportunity to do it
properly... you know, full make-up, in public, somewhere no one knows
you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
wasn't sure how to respond to that. My sister has dressed me up as a
girl on a handful of occasions but I wouldn't say I enjoy it that
much... but then again, If I didn't I wouldn't give in to my sister's
pestering quite so easily. “It's not so much that I like it... in
fact I’ve been really petrified all day.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Excited
too though.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Kind
of.. but I was more excited about seeing AC/DC than seeing them
dressed like this.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
you did say you were glad you weren't wearing jeans.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“'coz
of the heat.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
but even still... I think you're just afraid to admit it because
you're a guy.” Cat claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I don't want people thinking I'm something I'm not... you know?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I get that. I just wish guys could wear whatever like us girls can.”
Cat said. “They're taking their time.” she added, casting her
eyes in the direction my sister and Terrie should be coming from.
“Shall we have a doobie?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Have
you got one?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've
got a few... well hidden so the security guards didn't find them when
they searched my bag.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Blimey...
that's a bit of a risk innit?” I replied. “You might not have got
in.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
they were well hidden.” she said, removing a mobile phone from her
bag and opening the battery compartment.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is
that a fake phone?!” I exclaimed, noticing a large cavity inside
it, filled with about seven single skin joints. She nodded and lit
one. “Cool.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She
had a few tokes and passed it to me. I had a few and passed it back.
“Thought you two would arrive the moment I sparked up.” she said
as Izzy and Terrie finally rejoined us.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
was packed in there!” Terrie said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are
you warm enough Tilly?” my sister asked. “I've got a top if you
want one.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
was getting a bit chilly in only my racer back vest. She pulled a
black top from her bag, but it wasn't a conventional top. “Err...
what's this?” I asked, seeing sleeves and not much else.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
a bolero.” she told me, before helping me into it. It covered my
arms, shoulders and my upper back and nothing more than that.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Have
you got something?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
but I’m fine for now.” she told me. “Us girls are used to not
wearing much.” she said. “Is that warm enough?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We
walked down to the riverside and found a secluded spot where we sat,
enjoyed a beer and smoked a couple of joints between us. We
enthusiastically recalled pretty much every moment from the gig. The
intro to Thunderstruck. Hells Bells. The encore. “I didn't need to
loo after all.” I said to my sister.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.”
she smiled. “Still glad that you got dressed up though.” she told
me. “I don't think anyone suspected you were really a boy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thank
god.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We
finished the beers and strolled along the river bank. We certainly
weren't the only ones using that path and I did get nervous each time
we passed other people. I guess for all anyone knows we're just four
teenage girls. The only people who address us directly was a couple
of beat coppers. “All right girls?” they said. “Been to the
EnormoDome?” one knowingly asked due to two of us wearing our AC/DC
Tops.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
it was awesome.” Izzy said. “Just heading back the hotel.” she
added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not
from London then?” the other asked, recognising out Midlands
accents.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Derbyshire.”
Terrie told her. “Heading back tomorrow.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
safe journey girls.” they said before heading on their way.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Izzy
linked onto my arm and we continued along the bank-side path to the
Cutty Sark. It looked spectacular all lit up. From there we cut up
through the busy streets which even at midnight were bustling with
night-clubbers. Again, no one really paid much attention to us,
although we did hear a few wolf-whistles but they could have been
directed at anyone. There were women in tiny frocks and huge heels;
all cleavage and eyelashes. Four rock chicks were almost scruffy in
comparison. “I'll dress you up like that next time.” Izzy teased.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Next
time?” I grimaced.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
this has hardly been the first time and I'm hoping it won't be your
last.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
my first time in public.” I said. “I really don't know how people
can walk in heels that high.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
not so hard.” I was told. “It's not so comfortable either but you
know what they say.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Beauty
knows no pain.” my sister grinned. “I'll try you in a pair of
mine one day.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I'm going to decline but I know you probably will.” I glumly
replied. No sooner we'd left the busy bar and club area behind, our
hotel was in sight. “I thought it was a bit further than this.” I
commented.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
just glad Cat knows where we're going. I wouldn't have had a clue.”
my sister said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Me
neither.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We
gained access to the hotel using our key cards and took the lift to
our rooms. Terrie was knackered and turned straight in. Cat hung out
in our room and had another tin of lager with us. I pulled off my
knee high boots and Izzy gave me a pack of moisturising make-up
wipes. “I'm gonna look like a boy again.” I frowned as I removed
one.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
gonna let him do his own make-up tomorrow.” my sister told Cat.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Am
I wearing make-up tomorrow?” I quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
you don't have any boy's clothes so I'd advise it.” my sister
reminded me. “But don't worry... it won't be quite so full on.”
she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
he wearing?” Cat asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“This
again.” I shrugged, referring to my current outfit.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
you're not... you'll stink.” my sister told me, before telling Cat
that she's packed me a cute ditsy dress.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
a ditsy dress?” I exclaimed. Izzy was already on her feet and
opening the minuscule wardrobe.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
I know that one.” Cat said when Izzy removed it. “It's really
nice!”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
gulped at the sight of the short flowery frock. “Yeah it's cute...
you'll look great in it.” my sister told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
not flowers!” I groaned. “I thought I was supposed to be a
rock-chick?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only
for the concert... tomorrow you're going to be cute.” she grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
imagine he'll be more sassy than cute.” Cat said, smiling at me. “I
can't wait to see your hair when it's out of those plaits.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
ran my hand over my tightly plaited hair. “Why?” I asked. “It
won't be all curly will it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hopefully.”
my sister said. “Not like, curly curls.” she said. “Loose
ones.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is
that why you put it in plaits?” I asked, somewhat defensively. She
nodded. “You could have told me!”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'd
have only got cold feet and told me not to.” my sister replied.
“And you did like it when I'd done it.” she reminded me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
know.” I said. “I just feel like you've got all sorts of stuff
worked out for me and I'm the last to know.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
all for the right reasons though.” she replied. “You wanted to go
and see AC/DC. I wanted to surprise you on your birthday.” she
said, adding “I like dressing you up. You like being dressed up,
albeit reluctantly.” she paused. “...and you did say it was so
hot in the EnormoDome that you were glad you were wearing a mini
skirt and a vest instead of jeans and a T shirt.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I know.” I admitted. “Should I take these plaits out now or in
the morning?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Definitely
in the morning.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I'd best turn in.” Cat said, draining her can of lager.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
we're not far off either.” my sister said. “Gimme those make-up
wipes.” she said, snatching a few from the pack in front of me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Cat
left and we were alone. “You don't hate me for bringing you that do
you?” Izzy asked, referring to the flowery dress.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No
I'm just a bit overwhelmed.” I replied, trying to imagine what it'd
look like on me. “Do you want the bathroom first or second?” I
asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“First.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">I'd
best get these on then.” I replied, grabbing the Supergirl PJ's
she'd packed for me. I wasted no time getting undressed and pulling
on the shortie pyjamas. The shorts were rather full and resembled
Supergirl's little skirt whilst the T shirt fitted me snugly. I
didn’t realise how used to having a small feminine chest I'd become
until it was flat again. I folded my clothes and put them to one side
then checked my reflection in the small vanity mirror and cleansed my
face with yet another make-up wipe. Traces of eye make-up remain, but
other than that, I'm back to being plain old me again. Eventually
Izzy returned wearing pyjamas and no make-up. She grinned at me and
told me I’d been a super girl today. “I've had a super day.” I
told her. “Despite being a girl.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Izzy
smiled. I think she's smiled at me more today than she has in her
entire life, although thinking back... she did smile a lot on the
other occasions she's dressed me up. “Can I retie your plaits?”
she asked. “Just the ends. They're looking frizzy and it might not
curl properly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
not entirely sure if I want curls.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're
a girl.” she smiled. “We all want curls.” she said. “C'mon...
indulge me.” She said, crossing onto my bed. “They'll brush out
of you don't like them... it's not like I'm giving you a perm.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Same
thing innit?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A
perm's permanent.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ah...
so that's why it's called a perm!” I realised as she began faffing
with my hair. One by one, she untied each of my four plaits just as
far as my head and plaited them again, neatly and tight. “I do like
being pampered like this.” I said, reminiscing back to Terrie's
house when they did my hair and make-up and nails. “I guess that's
one of the benefits of being a girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“When
you're a girl you have to do your own hair and make-up.” Izzy
retorted. “Everyday.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah
I guess.” I said as she tugged and tightly plaited my hair. “I
suppose I’ve got it easy having you doing it all for me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll
be doing you own make-up in the morning.” she reminded me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll
probably make a mess of it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll
be showing you how.” she said. “If you get it wrong I'll make you
do it again.” she said, resting her hands on my shoulders. “All
done.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
turned and coyly thanked her. When I returned from the en-suite
bathroom my sister was tucked up in her bed. She told me I looked
cute. “These PJs are cute... I’m not sure I am.” I modestly
replied as I pulled aside my duvet and slid inside the bed. “See you in
the morning ...and thanks for tonight... it's been a blast.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're
more than welcome, Matilda.” she grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
drifted off to sleep with AC/DC riffs ringing in my ears.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
~o0o~</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sleep
well?” was the first thing I heard after turning onto my back and
peeling my eyes open. Isabel was already up and dressed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What
time is it?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Almost
nine.” she said. “We've got to check out by half-ten you'd best
get yourself up and showered.” she advised, adding that I must wear
a shower cap because she really doesn't want my hair getting wet. I
had a long hard look at myself as I brushed my teeth. Yesterday my
skin looked smooth, healthy and even toned. Today it looks normal,
slightly blotchy and my chin is feeling ever so slightly stubbly.
There's a trace of black eye-liner under my eyes which I could excuse
by admitting to wearing eye-liner... lots of guys of the rock
persuasion do. I gave my face the closest shave before getting in the
shower, donning the plastic cap as instructed. The shower gel my
sister had left smelt of roses and afterwards, so did I. “You took
your time.” my sister said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
was having a shave.” I said. She told me that I didn't have to
shave my legs again, since I'd done them only yesterday. “No my
face.” I replied. “It felt a bit stubbly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
yeah.” she grinned. “I forgot about that.” She pointed out a
pair of clean knickers and a bra on my bed. Like yesterdays, the
knickers are of the control variety, only...</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're pink!” I
gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Girls like pink.”
my sister grinned. I donned them in the en-suite and sat at the
titchy dressing table (which is more of a shelf under a mirror)
wearing a bathrobe. An array of cosmetics waited for me. “Now we're
not going for anything drastic like yesterday.” she said, opening
the compact. “Today you're going to look a lot more natural and
hopefully quite pretty.” she told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is that even
possible?” I grimly asked before applying a layer of foundation.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Make-up makes
anything possible.” she told me. Izzy then explained how I should
apply my eye make-up which was tricky at first. I failed a few times
before I got my eye-liner right and unlike yesterday, it was a very
subtle application. Next I apply the eye shadow which is a palette of
pale brown and beige. Unlike yesterday's dark and heavy application,
today's seems to enhance rather than change how I look. In comparison
to yesterday's rock-chick, it barely looks like I’m wearing make-up
at all until I define my eyebrows with a pale brown pencil and
finally apply a pretty shade of lipstick in a pale pink tone. “How
do I look?” I timidly asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Like a girl.” she
smiled. My sister then began taking out my plaits which had been in
place for some twenty hours. I faced my reflection as my hair was
gradually revealed, one section at a time. Normally its long and
straight and hangs a little beyond my shoulders. Today it's full and
wavy and hovers an inch or so above my shoulders. “This is going to
look so nice!” my sister tells me as she faffs and fiddles with my
hair. I failed to respond. “Don't you think?” she prompted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... it's so
different to what I’m used to I really don't know.” I replied,
glaring at my reflection. “Mum'd go mental if she could see this.”
I nervously chuckled. My sister failed to respond, other than smiling
at me via the mirror. She faffed a little more, separating the
spiralised strands, scrunching it, arranging it and wondering aloud
whether or not she should tie a scarf in it, or maybe a slide or two.
“Doesn't it look OK as it is?” I said. “I don't think you could
make me look any more like a girl if you tried.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“...and you're not
even dressed yet.” Izzy replied, turning her eyes to the frock that
hung in wait.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It looks awfully
short all of a sudden.” I gulped as she held it against herself.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your skirt was
shorter.” she claimed, rummaging in the case. “Put these on
first.” she said, handing me a pair of thin nude tights.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I think I'd have
preferred thick black tights but kept this to myself. I pulled them
carefully up my shins. “Pulling on a pair of tights with painted
nails is so weird but it must be so normal for you.” I said,
observing how the honey tones nylon gave my pale hairless legs a sun
kissed hue. “It's quite nice too.” I added, enjoying how the
nylon effortlessly slid over my calves.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I hope we get to do
this again sometime.” she said, turning her back so I could pull
the tights all the way up in privacy. She sent me to the bathroom to
don the dress. I slid out of the bathrobe and looked down at my
underwear. The big pink control knickers grip me from hip to waist.
The unsightly bodice section of my tights obscures them a little.
Today's bra isn't a perfect match but it is pink and padded. I guess
it's another of my sister's old ones from before she fully blossomed.
I pull on the frock and smooth it over my hips. I looked down at
myself and all of a sudden I understood why so many girls wear little
ditsy dresses like this.. it's comfy, it hangs well, it feels nice. I
face the mirror and stare at myself. The dress, coupled with my
frizzy curls and modest make-up looks great... even on me! I take a
breath and step out into the bedroom. “Matty you look ace!” my
sister exclaimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Tilly!” I
corrected.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry... Tilly.”
she grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's no point
going to all this effort if you're just going to blow it by calling
me by my real name.” I told her.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know... but Matty
can be short for Matilda just like Tilly is.” she replied. “That's
why we chose it remember.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I know.” I
conceded. “I just prefer Tilly when I'm dressed like this.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fair enough...
Tilly.” Isabel grinned, glancing at her watch.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is it check-out time
yet?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You sound keen.”
she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm crapping
myself.” I claimed. “But I know I look even more like a girl
today than yesterday and yesterday went OK so...” I paused before
asking the time. We've still got a good forty minutes before our
check-out time. “Where did I put those boots?” I mumbled, finding
them by the side of my bed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've got some shoes
for you.” my sister said, revealing a pair of dark burgundy suede
ballet flats. “And these.” she added, opening a small suede
handbag and removing a tiny plastic baggy.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What are those?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Magnetic earrings.”
she said, beckoning me to sit with her so she could fit them. The
tiny fake diamond studs looked very convincing. “You need this
too.” she said, handing me the bag.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A handbag.” I
grimaced.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mmm hmm.” she
replied, dropping the lipstick, eye-liner, mascara and foundation
inside. “It matches your shoes.” she said as she handed it to me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.” I
bashfully replied, putting my phone in the bag. I slipped my feet
into the footwear. “I always wondered how these stay on.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do they fit OK?”
she asked. They did. “Thought they would.” she smiled. “You
know it's only a matter of time before I put you in a pair of heels.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not today though.”
I hoped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” she grinned.
“It did cross my mind though.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I bet it did.” I
replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shall we give Cat
and Terrie a knock.” she suggested, having packed the case.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I guess.” I said,
feeling nervous all of a sudden.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We vacated the room and
knocked on Cat & Terrie's door. “Wow Tilly you look great!”
they said as we stepped into their twin room.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.” I timidly
replied. Terrie's wearing a T-shirt and a burgundy button through
corduroy skirt. Cat's sporting a long sleeved tee with short shorts
and opaque tights, and my sister Izzy wears ripped skinny jeans and a
gothy looking top. Of our four outfits, I’m wearing the girlie one.
I felt increasingly bashful as they complimented my make-up, my hair,
my sparkly magnetic ear studs, my dress and my legs. “I think these
tights make them look better than they actually are.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Once they'd packed
their bags, I nervously stepped into the corridor, which thankfully
was clear. We entered the elevator and I was presented with a group
reflection on three sides. “How come I’m by far the girliest?”
I said as I looked at the reflection of all four of us. My sister's
skinny jeans, Terrie's corduroy skirt and Cat's denim shorts all look
very casual next my my pretty dress.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because you're the
only boy.” Izzy grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It took seconds for the
elevator to descend the two floors. The hotel's lobby was also
deserted, but the pavement outside wasn't. “Tilly.” my sister
said as we approached the door. “You should carry your handbag like
this.” she suggested. “In case someone tries to snatch it.” she
added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I hung my bag across my
body and kept my hand on it, just as Isabel does. “Thanks.” I
said, looking down at myself. “I'm getting a bit scared now.” I
grimaced as I pulled the glass door open.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll be fine.”
they assured. “We're just four girls from out of town going for
breakfast.” my sister said. “Yeah.” Cat and Terrie agreed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We put the cases in the
boot of Terrie's car and left it in the hotel's car park, before
heading toward the river bank and Cutty Sark. I couldn't help but
glance in almost every shop window. Not to observe the goods on
display but to catch my reflection. Feeling confident that I
convincingly pass as a girl, my main fear was being chatted up by
some guy. I don't know what I'd do in that situation. Probably just
run.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We head towards the
river because they've decided they want to eat somewhere with a view.
We pass numerous greasy spoons that I'd have been more than happy to
dine in, but under the circumstances, a taxi drivers' café is
somewhere a 'girl' like me wouldn't be seen in. I began wondering
what kind of girl I am. I'm a long way from the rock chick who
watched the greatest rock band ever last night. Maybe I'm doing a
hairdressing course at college, or maybe travel and tourism... girls
do that. Or maybe I'm just doing my A levels (which I am). I figure
that's as good a cover story as any, should anyone ask. My name's
Matilda, I'm in sixth form... at an exclusive girls' school with a
horrific uniform... no! I'm getting carried away with myself. “You
OK?” my sister asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah just... day
dreaming a bit.” I confessed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What about?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I dunno.” I
fibbed. “Just stuff... coming to terms with being an honorary
girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's nice having a
sister... even if it's just for the weekend.” Izzy replied as she
linked onto my arm.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“...and she's not
really a girl.” I smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That bit doesn't
bother me.” she replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know.” I smiled.
“These shoes are really comfy.” I said, watching my legs and
feet.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They are.” Izzy
agreed. “That's why almost every girl has a pair.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We approached the Cutty
Sark and in light of Terrie's ignorance of its significance, Cat gave
us all a quick lecture... the fastest clipper, Indian Tea Company,
almost destroyed by fire, blah blah blah. None of us wanted a Nando's
breakfast but a little further along was a riverside café with a
decent looking menu and prices to match the view of the Thames. At
fifteen pounds for a full English, we went for eggs Benedict at a
mere £11.95. It was expensive but my oh my it was good. The waitress
cleared our plates and we ordered another pot of tea.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Another group of eaters
occupied the table beside ours as our tea was delivered. I didn't pay
much attention because I didn't want to draw much attention to myself
but... “Hey weren't you guys at the EnormoDome last night?” one
of them asked. We all turn. Cat and Izzy reply, confirming that we
were and that it was an amazing gig... and I land my eyes on the cute
girl with the braids! She smiles the broadest smile. I gulp before
responding with an affable, yet pursed smile. “Hi.” I meekly
peep, thrying to sound as feminine as possible and shyly thumbing the
ends of my hair.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hiya.” she
confidently responds. “I'm Jenna.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Tilly.” I gulp.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Matilda.” my
sister added, grinning at me before engaging Jenna in conversation.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I smiled at Terrie who
was rolling herself a cigarette, which, once made she offered to me.
I gulped and smiled and took it from her. She rolled another and we
quickly escaped to the café’s veranda which overlooked the river.
“Do you think they know I'm not a girl?” I asked after exhaling
my first drag.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you look like a
girl and can sound like a girl...” Terrie shrugged. “...so I
doubt it.” she said. “Plus Izzy jumped in before you could say
too much.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thank heavens!” I
said as Terrie lit her cigarette.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We leant on the
balustrade and looked down at the muddy bank. Even at low tide,
numerous small boats make their way up and down the river. Terrie
hands me her cigarette. “Can you hold that, I'm bursting for the
loo.” she said. I took it and she darted indoors. I turned my eyes
to the river and enjoyed the sun on my face and the breeze in my
hair.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“AC/DC were amazing
last night weren't they?” a voice said. I turned to see Jenna stood
beside me. She opens a pack of L&B and removes a cigarette.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... I stammer,
trying to find my girl voice. “...yeah, excellent!” I gulped. She
smiled and lit her cigarette. I nervously toked on mine. She
complimented my nail varnish.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.” I
bashfully said, splaying out my fingers to glaring at my nails.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She smiled at me. “I
noticed you in the crowd last night and thought <i>she looks cool</i>...
then almost in an instant I realised you weren't a girl and
thought... <i>he looks cool!</i>” she told me. My jaw dropped a
little. “S'okay.” she assured. “I think guys should be able to
wear whatever they want.” she said. “Us girls can wear boy's
clothes and I’m all for equality.” she smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I could feel the blood
rush to my head. “Cool.” I croaked, before taking a trembling
toke on my roll-up. She looked me up and down. “I've never done it
before yesterday.” I told her. She looked surprised. “Well... my
sister and her friend dressed me up a couple of times when I was
younger.” I added. “I don't make a habit of it.” I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You should.” she
said, glancing down at my floaty frock and slender legs. “You wear
it well.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.” I coyly
replied. I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks. She complimented
my hair. “It's not usually like this.” I gulped, nervously
thumbing a strand or two. I didn't know what to do but something
inside me did. I opened my handbag and removed my phone and showed
her a photo of me. “That's how I normally look.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A broad grin swept her
face as she looked at the selfie of me and my sister. It was taken on
my birthday. I'm grinning proudly, showing off my AC/DC ticket. “Cool
T-shirt.” she said, pointing out the Saxon tee I'm sporting in the
photograph. “My dad's got a few of their albums.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“On vinyl?” I
asked. She nodded and handed the phone back. “Cool.” I said.
“Mine are only on CD.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nowt wrong with
that.” she smiled. “Can I ask what your real name is?” she
said. “I'm guessing it's not really Matilda.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... Matthew, or
Matty.” I confessed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ah so that's why you
went for Matilda.” she grinned. “Tilly suits you.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“'specially when I’m
dressed like this.” I coyly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You look nice.”
she said. “I love that dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's my sister's.”
I told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Terrie returned and
greeted Jenna, apprehensively introducing herself again as I handed
her her roll-up. “Err...” I began. “Jenna was just telling me
that she thinks it's cool for guys to dress like this.” I informed
her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh.” Terrie
replied, seeming a little astonished. “Cool.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Terrie did my make
up for the gig last night.” I told Jenna. Terrie told her that I
did my own today. “With plenty of help from my sister.” I
bashfully added. I could feel myself blushing and couldn't think of
anything else to say. Jenna asked which one was my sister. “Izzy.”
I said, briefly describing her attire.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thought so. I can
see the likeness.” Jenna replied. “Soo... you been to any other
gigs?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“This was my first
proper one.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mine too.” Jenna
smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's gonna take some
beating.” I figured.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jenna agreed as some
movement inside the café caught her attention “Looks like our
food's arrived.” she said. “Have you ordered?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We've already
eaten.” I replied. Jenna seemed disappointed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So are err.... you
guys hanging about or heading back up to Derbyshire?” she
cautiously asked, whilst trying to make it sound casual.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err...” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We're gonna hang
out... maybe see the Cutty Sark and go up to observatory.” Terrie
said. “And head back this afternoon.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Cool.” Jenna
smiled. “We'll maybe see you about.” she said, before saying that
the foot tunnel is cool “...if you like that sort of thing.” she
added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We'll check it out.”
I shyly replied, having no idea if we would or not. “Maybe see you
down there.” I added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We've already done
it. Our hotel's over the river.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Where've you come
from?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Atherstone.” she
replied. My blank expression prompted her to add “...in
Warwickshire.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Cool.” I said,
having no idea if Atherstone is indeed cool or not. I raised my hand
and the phone in its palm. I often do a quick map search of places I
don't know... but then decided not to.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...” Jenna
said, glancing indoors. “...if we don't bump into you guys up at
the observatory... can I give you my number?” she suggested,
glancing at my mobile phone. “We could maybe hook up on FaceBank or
something.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... sure.” I
replied, glancing at Terrie. She claimed she was chilly and went
inside. I opened my contacts and began to type Jenna's name. She read
me her number and I punched in the digits. “Saved.” I said,
bashfully smiling at her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Cool.” she said.
“I'd better go in.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Me too.” I replied
and followed her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My sister and Cat were
clearly ready to leave. I checked that the bill had been paid before
we all bid farewell to Jenna and her friends and made our exit. “Were
you two exchanging numbers?” my sister asked as the café door
swung shut.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She gave me hers.”
I said. “She knew I was a guy.” I added</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I see.” my sister
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“...and she thought I
was cool.” I proudly stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well she wouldn't
have given you her number otherwise.” my sister grinned. “Does
she know that your tits aren't real?” she chuckled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd forgotten about
them!” I said. “They're not wonky are they?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Isabel laughed and
assured me they were fine, adding “They're little and cute and they
suit you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Cat and Terrie were a
few paces head. “Where next?” Cat asked. “The boat or the
observatory?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The tunnel's cool...
apparently.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The tunnel of love?”
Terrie grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I bashfully blushed and
pulled one of those faces. Cat told me that I really am girlie
sometimes. I felt myself blush a little bit more and glanced down at
myself. “It comes with the clothes.” I replied. Then I considered
what Jenna had told me and relayed it to them. “Clearly I’m not
that girlie.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It doesn't matter
what people think.” Terrie said. “If they think you're a girl,
fine. If they think you're a guy, fine... so long as they're cool
with it there's no problem.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I suppose.” I
replied. “Makes me nervous though... knowing that I’m not kidding
everyone in this get-up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think you're
nervous coz you know how cute you look... and at least it was a girl
who hit on you... imagine if it was guy!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Let's not think
about that.” I grimaced. We did check out the tunnel and it was
pretty cool with its eerie echo and the way it curved beneath the
river; like walking through the inside of a huge hula-hoop. The Cutty
Sark was expensive so we didn't go in. Instead we strolled up to the
observatory but we didn't bump into Jenna and her friends again. We
strolled and sat and smoked for an hour or so before heading back to
the car and the long drive home.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Cat put on some AC/DC
which blasted out of the speakers as we headed toward the M25. Guns
'n' Roses filled our ears as we headed up the M1. Cat and Terrie sang
along from the front seats. Izzy and I sat in relative silence in the
back, watching the landscape whiz past.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So how do you like
your dress?” my sister eventually asked. “You didn't seem too
keen last night.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's nice.” I
said, agreeing that I wasn't keen to begin with. “It looked a lot
better once I'd put it on.” I said. “It's really comfy too.” I
added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I can tell.”
my sister smiled. “Are you gonna call Jenna?” she enthused.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll text her.” I
said. “...and send her a link to my FaceBank profile.” I added.
“Probably never see her again though.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What makes you think
that?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...” I
shrugged. “...she lives in Warwickshire somewhere.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She lives in
Atherstone... it's only about twenty miles away.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“From here or from
home?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“From home.” she
said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?!” I
exclaimed. My sister nodded. “Cool.” I said, wondering if there's
direct bus.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You could cycle
there in a couple of hours.” she supposed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I suppose I could,
providing Jenna did want to meet up again. I grabbed my handbag and
removed my phone, found Jenna's number in my contacts list and sent
her a message: <span style="font-family: "courier new" , monospace;">Hi Jenna... it's
me, Matty (Tilly). Was really cool talking to you today. Sorry we
didn't bump into each other at the observatory. The tunnel was really
cool tho. Heading home now. If you wanna catch up on FaceBank, search
for Matty Phillips, Melbourne, Derbyshire. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">“Should
I sign off with a kiss or a smiley?” I asked my sister.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Girls
always sign off with a kiss.” she grinned.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Yeah
but she knows I'm not a girl.” I replied. Izzy reckoned on the
kiss, I didn't want to appear pushy, so signed the text with a smiley
and a kiss: </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , monospace;">:) x</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You may as well
reapply your lippy whilst you've got your handbag open.” Izzy
suggested.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Has it worn off?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A bit.” she said.
I rooted the lipstick from 'my' handbag and chuckled to myself.
“What?” my sister enquired.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It still feels weird
thinking about 'my lippy' and 'my handbag'.” I replied before
removing the lid. Today's lipstick looks a lot more pink that I
imagined. I held the vanity mirror up to my face and carefully
applied it and rolled my lips together. Izzy asked I preferred the
pink lipstick or the darker red one I wore yesterday. “Err... I
dunno.” I replied, looking at my nails which perfectly matched
yesterdays lipstick. “This one suits my outfit better.” I
figured, since it's girlie rather than gothy.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It does.” my
sister said. My phone beeped. “You've got a message.” she
grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I put down the mirror
and picked up my phone. One message from Jenna: <span style="font-family: "courier new" , monospace;">Hi
Tilly :D We're still in London. Getting the train home later. Was
great speaking to you too</span>... she left me her FaceBank details
and signed off with a kiss, but I didn't read to much into it as
that's what girls do, apparently.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think you're in
there.” my sister grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Maybe.” I
pessimistically replied. “She might not like me dressed as a guy.”
I nervously chuckled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you can always
borrow one of my dresses if you do meet up.” she grinned. I knew
she was joking but as the old saying goes, there's many a true word
said in jest.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Cat switched CDs and
put on some Sabbath. Before long we pulled into the service station
at Northampton and headed directly to the ladies. I wasn't half as
nervous today as I was yesterday. We grabbed an overpriced coffee and
returned to the car where we enjoyed a cigarette before setting off.
Apart from AC/DC's storming performance last night, I was the other
conversation... or my clothes, hair and make-up were.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!--PROOFED--><br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Which do you
prefer?” Terrie asked. “Yesterday's rock-chick or today's
girlie-girl?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh I dunno.” I
replied. “Yesterday I was dressed for a concert. Today I’m
dressed for a walk in the park.” I said, thumbing the ends of my
curly bouncy hair. “I don't look like Jon Bon Jovi do I?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In that dress?” my
sister chuckled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not in the least.”
Cat insisted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Terrie just laughed.
“Did you notice those old rockers chanting 'poodle perm' when they
played <i>Living on a Prayer </i>over the PA?” she asked, recalling
the DJ set before AC/DC took to the stage.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We did and chuckled as
we recalled the scene. They all waved their downward thumbs toward
the sound booth for the entire track before returning to head banging
when the next track was played.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Terrie pulled her phone
out and frowned at it. “What's up?” Izzy asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nothing... my
battery’s died.” she said. “I was just gonna text Mum and tell
her we'd be back in an hour.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Then you'll just be
plain old Matty again.” Cat frowned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm actually looking
forward to it.” I said. “I'll be able to sit down without having
to keep my knees together all the time.” I jovially stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm quite amazed at
how ladylike you've been.” Terrie said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it comes with
the clothes I guess.” I bashfully replied. “Wearing a bra's been
a constant reminder that I’m not dressed as a guy.” I said,
glancing at my little padded tits.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We soon finished our
smokes and got back in the car. A while later, Terrie commented that
the engine didn't sound very good, but it sounded fine to the rest of
us. She eased off the speed and stuck to the first lane. “What's
wrong with it?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Dunno.” Terrie
said. “Maybe it doesn't like being driven to London and back.”
she suggested. “I'll just stick to fifty-five and hope it doesn't
conk out.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are you in the RAC?”
Cat asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” Terrie
replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“AA?” Cat asked.
Terrie shook her head. “I don't normally go any further than
Darby.” she frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How far away from
Melbourne are we?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only about eight
miles.” Terrie said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?” I
exclaimed. “I thought we were still miles away.” Cat pointed out
the distant planes coming in to land at the East Midlands Airport. I
peered out of the window and saw them, before glancing at my knees
and imagining if we did break down whilst I'm dressed like this.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Within ten minutes we'd
left the motorway and trundled past the airport in a homeward
direction. Terrie was relieved as breaking down on the motorway
without cover would cost a small fortune. Within five miles of our
home town we all began to relax. The engine didn't sound good but we
had faith it would get us back to Terries house. Our faith was
misplaced as the engine got noisier and noisier and Terrie had no
choice but to pull off the road and onto a farm track. “My phone's
dead.” Terrie grimaced. “I don't suppose either of you have Mum's
mobile number?” she asked Cat and Izzy.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've got your home
number.” Cat said, ringing that. After moment of no answer and no
answering service, we were all at odds as what to do next. "I'm guessing you don't know your Mum's mobile number by heart?" Cat supposed.<br />
<br />
"No." Terrie frowned. "I always ring it from my contacts rather than actually dial it."</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm.” Izzy
pondered. “I could call Mum but...” she turned to me and looked
at my frock and nylon clad legs.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can't Cat call her
parents?” I suggested.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They don't drive.”
Cat replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Surely there's
someone else we can call.” I supposed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My sister went through
her contacts but the only viable option was our own mother. “I'll
try Terrie's house again but...” she frowned at me and dialled the
number. There was still no answer. “I'm sorry Matty.” she said.
“I don't know what else to do.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum's gonna go
bananas if she sees me dressed like this.” I frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“At least you're not
wearing fishnet tights and a leather miniskirt.” Cat said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thank the lord for
small mercies.” I grumbled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My sister called Mum
and my heart began to pound. “Mum... hi... it's Isabel.” she
said. “Yeah we're fine... only Terrie's car's broken down.” she
explained. “No not far at all... on Melbourne Road, just by the
county sign... you know were I mean?” she asked. “Yeah, between there and the
hotel.” she confirmed. “Oh you're a star Mum... but...” she
said, opening the car door. “There's something I need to explain
first.” she said, getting out of the car. I was keen to know what
she was saying so I got out of the car too and stood by my sister.
“You remember when you said you were worried Matty might get
separated from us at the concert...” she began. “Well... I came
up with a solution and you might not like it.” she said. I was a
bag of nerves, stood by the car, listening to my sister telling my
mother that I'm wearing a dress and make-up. Izzy soon hung up.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What did she say?”
I nervously asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She'll be ten
minutes.” my sister replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I mean about me.”
I retorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... she didn't
really say anything apart from '<i>oh, I see</i>'.” Izzy said. “I'm
really sorry.” she said. “I think I need a cigarette.” she
said, opening her handbag and offering me one.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I declined. “It's
gonna be bad enough without her knowing I smoke as well.” I said, tucking my hair behind my ear and wondering what Mum's going to say when she sees me with a head full of feminine curls. Cat wound down the
window and asked what was happening.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum's on her way.” Izzy
told them. </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They both got out and lit cigarettes. All four of us waited in
anticipation, but none were as nervous as me. Then I chuckled. "What are you laughing about?" Cat asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"I just wondered if I should re-do my lippy or not." I confessed, biting my lip.</div>
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<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-29364283571163793912019-07-17T11:07:00.001-07:002019-07-17T11:07:40.116-07:00Who'd be a Boy?<br />
Luke got himself his first job working as a hotel porter for the prestigious Marrion Hotel chain. He arrives in good time on his first day, clean shaven, wearing his brand new trousers and shirt, hoping to make a good first impression. He knows there's a uniform provided as he's already been measured for it. It's just a jacket to wear with his own smart trousers and freshly pressed shirt and even if it's a horrible colour, he knows it could be worse. The Waldorf hotel chain had recently decided to make their room attendants wear traditional chambermaid's uniforms and in recent years some of the big cleaning agencies begun making their staff wear housekeeping dresses... and with that in mind, Luke tried his very best to avoid applying for any cleaning jobs. He practically skipped all the way to the Marrion Hotel on the outskirts of town. It was a secure job, not well paid but not many are for boys and men these days. Luke's under no illusions, he knows it will be boring, just carrying bags for the guests and not much else, but it's not a cleaning job and that's the main thing!<br />
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<br />
He arrives, as instructed at the small side entrance where he introduces himself to the concierge. “Luke, I've been expecting you. This way.” she says. After filling out shit loads of forms, Luke is given a cellophane parcel. He frowns at the unusual yet familiar colour that's somewhere between bright burgundy and deep purple. It's the same colour that the Marrion Hotel chain use on all their Marrion Hotel signs. “What's this?” he knowingly asked. “My jacket.” he said, trying not to sneer at the colour. Still, it could be worse, he thinks.<br />
<br />
“Your tunic.” the concierge tells him.<br />
<br />
Tunic, jacket, same thing, Luke thinks before wondering why some people have to be so pedantic. “Shall I put it on now?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“Well unless you want to breach your contract before you've even started work!” the concierge sarcastically retorted. Luke didn't reply, but he did pull open the cellophane and wondered why some people have to be so monumentally sarcastically arsey... “You'll have to take your shirt off.” the concierge says, explaining that it's a fitted garment that's not designed to be worn with a shirt. “It's lined.” she added.<br />
<br />
“Oh... OK.” Luke replied. He unbuttoned his shirt under the watchful eye of the concierge. Like many women in this day and age, she's the sort who simply cannot look at a male. She's the sort who only ever looks down on them and the sort who can somehow humble them with nothing more than a glance. “Shall I leave my vest on?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“If you like.” she said, handing him the jacket... tunic.. whatever!<br />
<br />
It's an unusual garment, Luke noted as he prepared to pull it on. The sleeves looked a little short and one side seems bigger than the other and after humping it onto his shoulders... “Oh I see, it's one of those umm... err... side fastening things.” he said as he began to fasten the seven or eight big buttons that run down the left front side if his torso.<br />
<br />
“Asymmetric, I think is the word you're looking for.” the concierge patronisingly responded.<br />
<br />
The jacket fits perfectly, although it's sleeves stop midway down his forearms. Luke double checks that they're not too short and is told that is the style of the porter's uniform. It fits him closely around the shoulders and waist yet feels a little too snug at the hips. The tailored jacket's longer length means he can't easily slip his hands into his pockets without ruching up its hem a good few inches, and its fitted asymmetrical style doesn't look at all stylish (despite it clearly trying to be very stylish). It could be worse though, Luke thought as he considered the poor guys having to work as room attendants at one of the Waldorf hotels.<br />
<br />
Then it did get worse. Luke was told that he had to remove his trousers! “Erm... is there some other trousers to wear?” he asked, looking hopefully at the empty cellophane wrapping. “No.” he's told. “Pants then?” he quizzed. “No.” he's told.<br />
<br />
“Surely you don't expect me to wear a jacket and no trousers?!“<br />
<br />
“It's a tunic.“ the concierge impatiently reminded him.<br />
<br />
With great reluctance, Luke shyly and nervously removed his shoes and trousers. The concierge looks him up and down. “Did you miss the instruction that stated that you must be clean shaven for induction?” she sternly said.<br />
<br />
“Erm.... I am clean shaven.” he gulped, running his nervous fingers over his smooth hairless chin.<br />
<br />
“Not entirely.” she said, glaring at his legs. “We'll have to do something about all that unsightly hair! Take your tunic off!”<br />
<br />
Luke soon finds himself in only his underpants, in an adjoining shower room, smearing his legs with a pungent stingy cream. “You may as well do your arms and the backs of your hands too.” the concierge suggested.<br />
<br />
“Really?” Luke asked.<br />
<br />
“It's not compulsory but we do recommend it.” she replied. “Armpits too.” she added as he reluctantly began to smear the goo over his forearm.<br />
<br />
He's left to stand (and sting) for ten minutes before being hosed down. The cold torrent removes the gooey cream and the gooey cream removed his body hair. The torrent also left his underpants soaking wet and he was told to take them off, leaving him feeling 100% naked and 90% hairless.<br />
<br />
He's given some underwear which she refers to as 'under-shorts'. They're snug. Very snug and predictably in the very same unusual colour as his tunic, which Luke reluctantly buttons himself into for a second time. He gulped as he looked down at himself. His legs look so very different without any hair. What was once a pair of fuzzy chunky stumps is now a pair of slender, shapely, smooth, shiny legs. They look long, and exposed... entirely, exposed. “I can't believe we're expected to wear just this?!” he exclaimed. “Surely there's some pants or shorts or... god damn it, a pair of tights even!”<br />
<br />
“There's only the shoes.” he's told, before being offered them.<br />
<br />
“I can't wear those!” he blurted. “They’ve got heels!”<br />
<br />
He did wear them. And as he strode down the hall, every uncomfortable, awkward and ungainly step in the unfamiliar footwear was as noisy as it was humiliating. “Where are we going?” he timidly asked as he awkwardly followed.<br />
<br />
“To reception.” he's told.<br />
<br />
“Reception?!” he gulped. That could be quite busy, he thought, glancing down at his uncomfortably short tunic. Apart from the colour, which he cannot put a name on (it straddles burgundy and purple), the tunic seemed fine until he had to take his trousers off. What felt like a long-line jacket quickly became a dress and a ridiculously short one at that... and having just had all the hair removed from his legs, Luke's sense of exposure is two-fold. A potentially bustling reception area is the last place he wants to be!<br />
<br />
“Yes, reception.” she tells him.“Your job as porter is to escort the guests and you'll be escorting them to and from reception.” she bluntly added, punctuating herself with an impatient sigh.<br />
<br />
Eventually they approach a double door. It leads to the reception area and opens automatically. Thankfully it doesn't seem busy at all. At the broad hardwood desk, Luke is introduced to the head receptionist. “You're late.” she said.<br />
<br />
“He was on time but he hadn't shaved his legs.” is the reason given.<br />
<br />
“I didn't think I had to.” Luke glumly added.<br />
<br />
“You'll need this.” the receptionist said, placing a small bag on the reception desk and pushing it toward him.<br />
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The bag looked worryingly similar to one his grandmother always carried. As a child he found it odd that she carried a bag with neither strap nor handle. It seemed inconvenient. His grandmother, he recalled, called it a clutch bag. “What's this?” Luke asked.<br />
<br />
“It's your bag.” he's bluntly told. The receptionist rolled her eyes. “You'll find everything you need inside.”<br />
<br />
Luke peered inside the little bag and instantly recognised one of several items. “Lipstick?!” he gulped. “You do know I'm a guy, don't you?” he somewhat sarcastically asked.<br />
<br />
“I'm aware of that fact Luke.” the receptionist dryly replied. She slid a badge over the counter which stated his name written in large clear letters:<br />
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<br />
“Your pass key is contained in your name badge... any doors you're authorised to go through will open as you approach.” he's told. “It must be worn at all times and must be returned at the end of the day. Under no circumstances must this leave the hotel grounds.” she told him.<br />
<br />
“Why?”<br />
<br />
“Security reasons.” she stated, before stressing that he mustn't forget to hand his badge in at the end of every shift and not doing so is a breach of contract and company policy, and is also deemed as theft of company property.<br />
<br />
“Err... OK.” Luke gulped as he attached the badge to his tunic.<br />
<br />
“The porter's washroom is through that door... I suggest you go and make yourself presentable and for the sake of your job, I hope you're quick about it!”<br />
<br />
“I don't think I want the job any more.”<br />
<br />
“You've already signed your contract. Do you really want to breach it at this early stage?”<br />
<br />
Knowing how much it can cost to breach an employment contract, Luke has no choice but to abide by its terms. “Isn't there a settling in period... you know, in which I can decide if the job's for me or not?” he asked, having heard something about that. “A week or so I think.”<br />
<br />
“Did you request a settling in period at your interview?”<br />
<br />
“Er... no.”<br />
<br />
“Did you request one when the job was offered to you?”<br />
<br />
Luke shook his head. The receptionist asked his concierge if he mentioned anything about a settling in period prior to signing his contract. “Nope.” the concierge confidently replied.<br />
<br />
“Well I'm glad we've cleared that up.“ the smug receptionist said. “There isn't a settling in period, and you're already almost an hour late on your first day, so you really need to hurry yourself.” she said.<br />
<br />
He glared inside the bag at the familiar shapes of the compact foundation, lipstick and the tiny bottle of nail varnish. Familiar because his mother and sisters were always touching up their make-up. “I don't know what to do with any of this stuff.” he gulped.<br />
<br />
“It's just foundation and lipstick... it should be fairly straightforward, even for a boy!” he's bluntly told, before being informed that 'natural' eye make-up is optional and that he'd have to provide his own.<br />
<br />
“I'm not buying make-up!” he growled.<br />
<br />
“That is up to you Luke. You are however required to wear a minimal amount of make-up, which is provided.” she said, turning her eyes on his little bag.<br />
<br />
“This is ridiculous... making men wear make-up.” he proclaimed, glaring down at himself. “...and heels!”<br />
<br />
“We demand the same from our ladies.” she replied. “We are after all, an employer that prides ourselves on our equality policy.”<br />
<br />
Luke tutted and turned toward the washroom door. <i>We demand the same from our ladies</i>, he thought. He can't imagine any woman working in such a menial position as a hotel porter! He pushed open the door. His heels clacked loudly on the tiled washroom floor. It's a tiny room with one WC, one hand dryer and one sink with a mirror behind. He faced his reflection and sighed, then cursed himself for being so naive. He knows that some cleaning agencies have feminine uniforms for male staff, although the phrase 'servile uniform' is the favoured term. The worst Luke expected from a portering job was a 1940s Bell Boy uniform. The last thing he expected was a uniform presumably inspired by 1960s air hostesses! Somewhere in the small print of the contracts he'd signed, it would have stated that a minimal amount of make-up is required and that legs must be shaved. He'd quickly skim read the documents rather than giving each and every page a thorough perusal... and now he's paying the price. “I'd have been better off getting a job as a chambermaid.” he grumbled to himself. At least their dresses are knee length, he thought as he dragged his short tunic down as much as he could.<br />
<br />
There's a booming knock on the washroom door. “Do you need any help in there?!” the concierge yelled.<br />
<br />
“No.” Luke hollered. “Won't be a minute.” he added.<br />
<br />
After the UK broke its shackles with Europe, a great many laws and legislations that initially came from Brussels were no longer applicable. The government called it a clean slate, but one of the consequences meant that many worker's rights were quickly eroded, particularly in the low paid menial jobs. Once upon a time, if you didn't like your job you'd walk away from it and that was that. These days, leaving a job without authorisation is classed as a breach of contract which means your employer can sue and you'll end up having to pay them thousands in compensation. Similarly, deviating from the terms of the contract can also result in what they call a salary sacrifice, which is having your pay docked for the whole financial year. It's just not worth it. All you can do is put up and shut up until your contract is due for renewal and only then, can an employee chose not to renew it.<br />
<br />
If they say that Luke has to wear a minimal amount of make up, he really doesn't have a choice. He dips into the rectangular bag and removes the contents. Foundation, lipstick, nail varnish, a small manicure set, a pack of tissues, a comb and a vanity mirror. “Well this should be easy enough.” he grumbled to himself as he removed the lid of the compact foundation. He'd seen his mother and sister apply the stuff plenty of times so it's just a case of using the application pad to smear the milky pink powder all over his face.<br />
<br />
THUMP THUMP on the door again. “Can't you hurry up?” the concierge yelled. “You were supposed to be at your post twenty minutes ago!”<br />
<br />
“Sorry... won't be a minute.” Luke hollered back. He quickly finished applying the foundation before glaring at his reflection. His face looks pale, bland and blank, like an unpainted canvas. The foundation takes more away than it gives, he figured as he picked up the lipstick. The colour stated on the base is Fuchsia Fandango. He removes the lid and winds up the stick. It's colour is the exact same shade of purplish-burgundy as his tunic, suede loafers and clutch bag. Having also seen his mother and sister apply their lipstick countless times, Luke does what he thinks he should and carefully applied the stark shade to his top and bottom lips, before rolling the two together.<br />
<br />
THUMP THUMP. “Thirty seconds!”<br />
<br />
“Coming!” Luke hollered. He knows he's not wearing the nail varnish but he doesn't have time. He shoves everything back inside his little rectangular bag, quickly rinsed his fingers and shoved them under the dryer. He has a quick glance at his reflection before exiting the washroom. His face is even, pale and almost featureless... save for his striking lipstick. He takes a deep breath.<br />
<br />
The concierge looks Luke up and down as he exited the washroom. “What took you so long?” she barked, tapping on her wristwatch. “Twenty minutes and you haven't even painted your nails!”<br />
<br />
“Sorry I was er...” Luke gulped and timidly looked her in the eye.<br />
<br />
She stared back, but he knew she wasn't looking at him, but his thin layer of pale foundation and the thick layer of lipstick. “This way.” she said, leading him from the reception area to the large vestibule. She stops and turns and gestures to either side of the foyer entrance. “This as Andrew and this is Martin.” she says. Luke gulps at the sight of two guys dressed in the same short tunics and suede heeled loafers, and wearing the same vivid lipstick as he is. “Martin has kindly stood in for you.” the concierge told Luke. Their name badges clearly state their name. He offered an apologetic frown to Martin, but otherwise remained silent. Their fully exposed legs are hairless and, for want of a better word, nervous. Both stand to attention. Head up. Back straight. One hand is behind their back, the other in front clutching their make-up bags. They stand with one foot in front of the other, toes pointing in different directions, like a dancer or gymnast might. They don't appear very comfortable on their peculiar stance, hence their legs looking nervous. “This way.” the concierge said, leading Luke through a door in the vestibule.<br />
<br />
This room is a small waiting room with two rows of plywood chairs facing a small coffee table and very little else. Three of the chairs are occupied. “Boys this is Luke.” she says, before introducing Luke to Paul, Gavin and James. All three wear the same porter's uniform; short fitted tunic, bare legs and suede shoes.<br />
<br />
“Hi.” Luke timidly said.<br />
<br />
“For reasons beyond anybody's control...” the concierge began, “...Luke's over an hour late on his first day.” she told them, before turning to Luke. “Now you were assigned to door duty from 10am 'til noon because that's an easy place to start.” she said. “But since Martin's covering for you, you'll have to step into his shoes.”<br />
<br />
“OK.” Luke said. “What's that?”<br />
<br />
“Portering.” she said as if he should have known. “When a guest books in, one of you will be called to escort them and their bags to their room.” she said. “When a guest books out, one of you will be called to escort them and their bags to their car.” she added. “It's not rocket science.” she sneered.<br />
<br />
“Erm... how do we know which room it is... or where their car is?” Luke asked.<br />
<br />
The concierge rolled her eyes. “Well it's crystal clear why you could only get a servile job isn't it.” she bluntly stated. “You'll be told which room they're in... I only hope you have the brains to find it!” she told him. “The same goes for the car park.” she dryly added.<br />
<br />
“Yes... sorry.” Luke muttered, feeling like he'd been reprimanded for asking stupid questions when he was really trying his best to appear interested.<br />
<br />
“Show me your nails.” she said. Luke held his hands flat and splayed out his fingers. “Well I've seen worse... at least you're not a biter.” she said, before asking if he'd manicured or painted his nails before. Luke said he hadn't. “Gavin, would you show Luke what to do.” she asked. Gavin was sat with his little bag on his lap. He stood and straightened his tunic. “Good boy.” the concierge said, before checking James and Paul's fingernails, then telling James to reapply his lipstick because it's not 'immaculate'.<br />
<br />
“Well you've not got off to a very good start.” Gavin said once the Concierge had left. “Being on the wrong side of her is the last place you want to be.”<br />
<br />
“This whole place is the last place I want to be.” Luke gulped. “These uniforms are ridiculous!” he said, once again trying to drag what little he could over his lap.<br />
<br />
“Tell us about it... up until a couple of weeks ago we wore trousers, shirts and waistcoats.” Gavin said.<br />
<br />
“...and flat shoes?“ Luke presumed.<br />
<br />
“No we wore heels.“ Gavin replied. “Patent court shoes.“ he specified. “These loafers are loads better believe it or not.“ he claimed.<br />
<br />
“Our tunics certainly aren't.“ James muttered.<br />
<br />
Gavin agreed. “They're not so bad so long as you remember to crouch rather than bend when picking stuff up.“ he said.<br />
<br />
“Only you could say they're not so bad Gav!“ James spat. “They're ridiculous! The only reason they make us wear them is to ridicule us!“<br />
<br />
“The only reason I applied as a porter rather than a room attendant was to avoid having to wear a dress.” Luke glumly revealed.<br />
<br />
“Same here.” Gavin said, before gesturing Luke to sit in the seat next but one to him. His tunic felt shorter than ever as he timidly sat. He dragged it as far over his lap as possible, which wasn't very far at all. Gavin laid his bag on his lap. Luke glanced at Paul and James, both of whom had their bags on their lap (presumably for modesty) and Luke did the same. “Have you got a manicure kit?” Gavin asked.<br />
<br />
“Err... yeah.” Luke replied, rummaging in his clutch bag and removing the small zipped case. Inside is a little pair of nail clippers, a small metal nail file, a tiny pair of scissors, a small metal tool presumably for scraping gunk from under the nail, and another similar tool which Gavin singled out. It's a cuticle pusher and is used to push and lift the tiny bits of thin skin where the finger meets the nail, which need cutting off. “Seriously?” Luke gulped. “I have to <i>cut</i> them off?”<br />
<br />
“You won't feel anything.” Gavin tells him.<br />
<br />
“I know but... would anyone notice either way?” Luke quizzed. It's such a tiny bit of skin that's barely worthy of being called skin. Gavin tells him that the concierge will notice and if she doesn't, the receptionists will and reminds him that he's already on the wrong side of the concierge. Luke sighed and began the push back his cuticles, before snipping the thin slithers of skin away.<br />
<br />
A call comes over the waiting room's communication system. “James to reception.” It says. James stands with an apathetic grunt. He grabs and pulls the hem of his short tunic as he faces a large mirror, making sure it hangs straight over his hips. He quickly tidies his already tidy hair, tucks his bag under his arm and confidently strode out into the vestibule, shutting the door quietly behind him.<br />
<br />
“Is that what we do then... just wait in here until we're called?” Luke mournfully asked. Gavin nodded and told Luke to scrape beneath his nails. “Can't you have any magazines or anything?” Luke asked as he scraped under his already clean fingernails.<br />
<br />
“No.” Gavin glumly replied. “Then use the clippers to shape them.” he instructed, showing off his own fingernails. They're short. No longer than the tips of his fingers. They're symmetrical too, and perfectly painted in a satin shade that perfectly matched the tunic, clutch bag, lipstick and footwear.<br />
<br />
“So you're stuck in here, all day with no TV, no radio and nothing to read.... just waiting for a guest to book in or check out?” Luke glumly asked.<br />
<br />
“We're not supposed to chatter either.” Gavin said, handing Luke his nail file. He glanced toward the big mirror. “We can talk... providing it's work related.” he said. “There's usually someone in the reception office so they'll see if we start chattering.”<br />
<br />
At that moment, Luke realised that the large mirror is a two way mirror. “Can they hear us too?” Luke asked.<br />
<br />
“Only if we shouted.” Gavin replied, before answering a previous question. “We're either in here waiting or on door duty.” he said. “Where you were supposed to be.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah.” Luke guiltily said. “I didn't know that clean shaven meant my legs too.” he confessed, before telling of the stingy cream and freezing cold hose that took all but his pubic hair off, although Luke did spare Gavin that detail.<br />
<br />
“It happens to us all at some point.” Gavin said. “If we forget to shave and they think we're a bit too stubbly, that's what we get.”<br />
<br />
“Blimey.” Luke said. “Do you shave your legs every day then?“<br />
<br />
Gavin nodded. Luke looked at his forearms and asked if he shaved those too. “No I get these waxed every month or so... they're not so strict on arms as they are our legs.“ Gavin replied before asking for the nail varnish. “Have you done this before?” he asked. Luke shook his head. “Right... I'll do it for you 'coz you'll only cock it up.”<br />
<br />
Luke felt totally, utterly and completely uneasy as Gavin gently held his hand and carefully applied the varnish. Luke made nervous small talk, asking how long it took to dry and supposing that it's easier doing someone else's that one's own nail varnish. “You'll have to learn... I'm not going to do this everyday.” Gavin bluntly stated.<br />
<br />
“Yeah I know... sorry.” Luke defensively replied. Gavin reminded him that they're not really supposed to be talking, Luke apologised again, before silencing himself. “Thanks.” he eventually said when all ten nails had been painted. “How long 'til they're dry?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“The first hand will be dry already.” Gavin said, “Give that one a couple of minutes.” he advised as he replaced the top of the tiny glass jar and handed it to Luke.<br />
<br />
“Fuchsia Fandango.” Luke muttered, reading the label. “Same as our lippy.“ he sighed.<br />
<br />
“Yeah.” Gavin grumbled. “The amount of times a guest will go <i>Hey I love your lipstick, what shade is it?</i>” he mimicked a valley girl accent, then mournfully added, “You've no idea how many times you'll end up saying Fuchsia Fandango.”<br />
<br />
“I can't believe I'm actually wearing lipstick.” Luke moaned. “I deliberately avoided getting a cleaning job so I wouldn't have to wear a dress or make-up.“<br />
<br />
“You'll get used to it.” Gavin replied. “Just make sure you keep checking it.” he advised, before explaining that guys who aren't used to wearing lipstick don't realise just how often they wipe the corner of their mouth, rub their lips or lightly brush against them when scratching their chin or picking their nose, etc. “...we have to be immaculate.” Gavin stated. “So keep checking.”<br />
<br />
With that, Luke removed the vanity mirror from his bag and raised to to his lips.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
“It's a vile colour.” Luke grumbled as he looked at his reflection in the tiny mirror. “It wouldn't be so bad if was something natural.” he mused, thinking of the lipsticks his mother and sister wear; pale pink, subtle red or a light autumnal brown.<br />
<br />
“Well get used to it... it's the only one we're allowed.” Gavin said. “You've applied it well for a first timer.” he added. “Presuming you are.”<br />
<br />
“Thanks, and yeah. I am.” Luke bashfully replied. “I just recalled watching my Mum and sister applying theirs and did what they did.” he explained.<br />
<br />
“My mother wouldn't let my sister wear lipstick even if she wanted too.” Gavin said. “She thinks make-up is a symbol of subservience, along with the apron, skirt, frock and heels.” he claimed, glancing at his feet.<br />
<br />
“These shoes feel like a symbol of subservience.” Luke moaned. “Surely flats would be safer.”<br />
<br />
“Well... because women managed for well over a century in high heels... they reckon we can too.” Gavin replied. “Believe it or not... these [heels] have been deemed safe for work by the County Council's Health & Safety Executive.” he sighed.<br />
<br />
“I'll bet that's a woman.”<br />
<br />
“It's my mother.” Gavin dryly replied. Luke thought he might be joking and didn't quite believe the claim... but women in such lofty positions have to be somebody's mother, he figured. “What does she think about you working here?” Luke asked. “...err... like this?” he added, glancing at his short tunic and pale hairless legs.<br />
<br />
“She was over the moon when the Marrion Hotel had <i>finally</i> put their porters in servile uniforms.” Gavin replied. “She's a full on matriarch.” he added. “What's your mother think?”<br />
<br />
“Well she doesn't know about the uniform, yet.” Luke replied. “Neither did I until I got here!” he added. He went on to describe his mother as being a bit traditional, in so much as she sometimes wears make-up and the occasional dress, yet so far as the males filling all the servile jobs whether they want to or not, Luke's mother is all for it. “Every time I complain that my life's isn't fair she'll just remind me that women were servile for pretty much all of human history... and that wasn't fair either.”<br />
<br />
The door abruptly opened. “Having a nice chitty-chat boys?!” the concierge said as she shut the door behind her. Gavin instantly apologised. Luke's apology came a couple of seconds later. “Stand.” she said. “Nails.” she said. “Good.” she said. “Sit.” she said. Luke sat, dragging his tiny tunic over what little of his lap it could cover (which isn't much). “If you get bored whilst waiting, comb your hair, check your nails, tidy your lipstick, powder your nose, maybe even check your tunic for specks of dust, bits of fluff or the occasional stray hair.” she listed. “We don't want to see you chatting. We need you to be immaculate and if we want to see you doing anything whilst you're waiting, we want to see you making sure that you're nothing less than immaculate.” she stated.<br />
<br />
Luke gulped. “Yes.” he peeped. She left. He glanced at Paul then turned his head to Gavin. both were removing their vanity mirrors. Paul tended his hair. Gavin checked his lipstick. Paul began brushing his tunic with his fingers, using the mirror to check around his neckline and shoulders. Luke began brushing his tunic too. He opened his mirror and used it as Paul had. He never expected a job as a hotel porter to be in any way appealing or engaging. He knew it was just carting bags about. But just carting bags about is one thing... doing it wearing nothing but a tiny tunic that leaves him feeling half naked, trotting about in unfamiliar heels and wearing a bright vibrant lipstick with a pasty foundation which might hopefully hide his blushes.... well it's a different thing altogether.<br />
<br />
James returned, breathing deeply. He checked his reflection in the big mirror; straightening his hair and brushing his tunic before sitting. “Cheeky bitch grabbed my arse then slapped my thigh really hard!” he grumbled.<br />
<br />
“Does that happen a lot?” Luke asked. James replied with a single tut, before turning away and grumbling to himself. Luke pulled the comb from his make-up bag and began pulling it through his hair. He'd had it cut especially a couple of days previously. Short back and sides, the fringe cut broad and straight, just above the eyebrows from ear to ear where a shallow wedge fades into a shorn nape.<br />
<br />
Luke sighs as he faffs with his hair. Its style feels completely at odds with the rest of him. Shyly, he glances at the others as he puts the comb away. Gavin sits with his legs crossed. One shoe hangs loosely from his toes. Luke peers over his hairless knees and looks at his own shoes. He cocks a foot to one side to get a better look at the heel on which his feet are perched. It's got to be four inches, he reckons. Maybe a bit less, he muses. At least they're not those really narrow heels, he figures as he tries to get his head around that fact that he's been put in high heeled shoes. The nearest he's worn to these were some smart Jimmy James sandals (the boys' version of the old fashioned Mary Jane style) when he was a kid. They only had an inch high heel and he only wore those on special occasions such as a wedding or anniversary.<br />
<br />
Luke recalled the awkward walk from the changing rooms, down the long corridor to the foyer and reception desk. Instinct told him to compensate for the heel by keeping his knees a little bent. “Straighten your legs!” the concierge barked. “You're not a mannequin, walk normally!” she blasted. “Relax the hip, loosen the knee and tighten the ankle.” she advised. He didn't know where to start. Relax the hip? Loosen the knee? What does that even mean? “That's better.” she announced. “Always presume you're being followed. We want to see confident strides and a nice straight leg on the back step.” she said. Again her instructions baffled him, but he did his best. “Good.” she said. “I'm yet to see a boy who hasn't taken to heels within the hour.” she claimed.<br />
<br />
As Luke sits in the waiting room, glaring at his vertiginous heels and wondering if there's anything appealing about a pair of suede loafers with their distinctive toe and broad tiny tongue, in the same garish colour as his tunic, nails and lipstick... he sighed the deepest of sighs. How much time will he have to spend stuck in the waiting room with nothing to do but check his lipstick and comb his hair?<br />
<br />
At least with a cleaning job they're reportedly run off their feet; hard work but the time flies. And so far as he's aware, cleaners get to wear a frock that's close to knee length or maybe longer, which would be far better than his embarrassingly short tunic. “Luke to reception!” comes the call over the Tannoy.<br />
<br />
“Is that me?” Luke blurted as he fell out of his thoughts.<br />
<br />
“There's no one else in here called Luke.” James dryly said, barely even looking up.<br />
<br />
Luke darted to the reception desk as quickly as he dare, past Martin and Andrew who flanked the foyer door in their statuesque stance. There's no one in the foyer or at reception. Not a soul. The door to the reception office creaked open. “Well you got here quickly enough but you failed.” the head receptionist informed him.<br />
<br />
“Failed?! How?”<br />
<br />
He's told that before leaving the waiting room, one should face the mirror, straighten their tunic, tend to their hair, check their make-up and ensure they're nothing short of immaculate from head to toe, then they may leave the waiting room. “It's all about first impressions Luke.” the receptionist told him. “You arrived late. Martin has had to cover you on the door, which he's not happy about. You've failed your first test, which I’m not happy about... which means so far as first impressions go, you suck!” she said.<br />
<br />
“Sorry.” Luke meekly replied. She sent him back to the waiting room with his proverbial tail between his legs.<br />
<br />
Luke glanced at the others as he sat himself down and groaned. They seemed like they couldn't care less... but maybe they're just being quiet because they know they're probably being watched though the two way mirror. After an uncomfortable moment, Gavin chirped up and said, “I would have said something but you darted out so quick I didn't get the chance.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry.” Luke frowned. “The concierge hates me, now the receptionist hates me, and Martin probably hates me too...”<br />
<br />
“Just remember to check the mirror and make sure you look immaculate... we're the first impressions, and first impressions count.” Gavin replied.<br />
<br />
“You really are married to the job aren't you Gavin.” James dryly muttered.<br />
<br />
“I'm just trying to help the guy... he doesn't know what they're like!” Gavin retorted.<br />
<br />
“You're a kitten to those bitches!”<br />
<br />
“Leave it out Jim.” Paul said. “Luke's new.” he stated before gesturing to the mirror and quietly adding. “You know they can lip read.”<br />
<br />
“Can they?!” Luke gasped. Paul snorted.This left Luke feeling uncertain as to whether Paul's claim was a joke or not, but he didn't want to embarrass himself by asking a second time.<br />
<br />
Time passes before the Tannoy bursts into life again. “Gavin to reception.” He jumps up, faces the mirror and straightens himself before leaving. Luke took note. Gavin returned five minutes later, huffing and puffing. “Those cases weighed a tonne!” he said as he sat. “God knows what they had in 'em.” he added as he sat, laid his bag on his lap, removed his vanity mirror and checked his reflection.<br />
<br />
Luke watched as Gavin tended his hair, applied a little powder and reapplied his lipstick, before checking his fingernails. He glanced at the large mirror, felt he was being watched and hung his head. His nervous fingers thumbed the bag on his lap before gently sweeping over his smooth hairless lap. For need of something to do to help the time pass more swiftly, Luke dips into his bag, removes the mirror and checks his reflection. Hair, neat. Skin, pale. Lips, bursting with colour. He brushes his tunic and put the mirror away. That filled all of two minutes. He sighed.<br />
<br />
Half an hour passed, maybe longer. The Tannoy crackled and Luke is called to reception. “Finally!” Luke huffed before standing. He faced the mirror, straightened his tunic, briefly tended his hair, decided that his lipstick was fine and then exited the waiting room. The porters flanking the door didn't acknowledge Luke as he passed. The reception area was empty save for the stern receptionist behind the desk. He presumed another test. “The lady in room 327 is checking out.” she tells him.<br />
<br />
“Yes.” Luke replied. Then he gulped. “Shall I er...?”<br />
<br />
“Shall you what?” the receptionist asked.<br />
<br />
“Err...”<br />
<br />
“Shall you go to room 327 and escort the lady and her cases back to reception, then escort her to her car?”<br />
<br />
“Umm... yes.”<br />
<br />
“Yes you shall.” the receptionist impatiently sighed.<br />
<br />
“Erm... OK.”<br />
<br />
“Well run along boy. We don't keep our guests waiting!”<br />
<br />
Luke trotted on his heels through the door that leads to the lifts and the rooms. He knows the room is on the third floor and frantically pushed the elevator button, but nothing seemed to happen. The receptionist appeared. “Porters use the stairs unless they're accompanying our guests.” she told him.<br />
<br />
“Sorry... no one told me.”<br />
<br />
“Do you need instruction on how to climb the stairs too boy?” she spat.<br />
<br />
“No.” Luke gulped before pulling open the door. His heels echoed loudly in the stairwell as he trotted up the steps as quickly as he dare. What have I got myself into? he thinks. And why isn't anyone telling me what to do? he ponders. He feels like he's being set up to fail as he trots up and up, past the first and second floor doors. By the time he's on the third floor, he's panting. He turns left and follows the hallway through an automatic door that opened as he approached. “Room 327.” he repeatedly reminds himself as he passes door after door; 308, 310, 312... he sighed at the end of the hallway, having not found room 327. He walks back, double checking all the door numbers. A room attendant exits one of the rooms pulling a laundry trolley. “Uh, hi... where can I find 327?“ Luke asked the room attendant.<br />
<br />
“In the other wing.“ the room attendant replied. He wears a bright bib apron (the same colour as Luke's tunic) over a pale lilac frock. His boyish hair is adorned with a tiny maid's style headband; lilac with fuchsia ruffles rather than traditional white. Luke thanks the boy before briskly retracing his steps back toward the elevators. He glances back at the room attendant. His apron is tied with an ornate bow at the back. It's tails hang almost as far as his knee length frock. It's odd, Luke thinks... the room attendant didn't appear to be wearing any make-up.<br />
<br />
Back Luke trots, past the stairs and elevator and though another automatic door. Room 303, 305, 307... and eventually 323, 325 and finally room 327. He faces the door, takes a deep breath and knocks, only to find the door swinging open on his second knock.<br />
<br />
“Ough... About time boy! I thought you'd forgotten about me.” a well-to-do lady said.<br />
<br />
“Sorry Ma'am... it's my first day.” Luke politely replied.<br />
<br />
“Well that's an original excuse if ever I've heard one!” she spat.<br />
<br />
Luke gulped. This is one woman he doesn't want to get on the wrong side of. “Are these your cases?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“No... they're part of the furniture!” she sarcastically retorted.<br />
<br />
Luke grimaced at her overbearing sense of sarcasm and picked the two cases up. “This way Ma'am.” he said, gesturing toward the door.<br />
<br />
She rolled her eyes, glanced around the room and walked. Luke sheepishly followed. The stern silence, save for his heels thumping on the carpet, felt heavy and oppressive. “Have you enjoyed your stay?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“It's been adequate.” she bluntly replied.<br />
<br />
Clearly she had no interest in small talk. Luke followed to the elevators. She glared at him until he worked out that he's supposed to press the button, despite his hands being full. When the doors opened, he stepped inside, put the cases down and once the lady was inside, he pressed the ground floor button. The elevator is mirrored on three sides whilst the door is a highly polished steel. There's no escaping his reflection. He glares at his long smooth legs; pale bare flesh filling the void between his short tunic and high heeled shoes. He gulped at his pale face and vivid lipstick.<br />
<br />
He feels like an extra from some cheesy old science fiction show... a swinging sixties vision of the year two-thousand, a year that came and went some thirty years previously. A year when feminism meant equal opportunities, a decade before the matriarchs took office and declared that no longer shall any woman be servile. Slowly but surely, boys and men found themselves becoming increasingly marginalised; shafted into menial jobs with low pay and few rights.<br />
<br />
The elevator landed and its doors parted. Luke picked up the cases and escorted the lady to the reception desk. The cases weren't particularly heavy but he put them down momentarily whilst she checked out. “Forty three J.” the receptionist said. “Enjoy your day Madam.”<br />
<br />
Luke followed the lady through the foyer towards the vestibule. Martin and Andrew opened the double doors and held them open. “Enjoy your day.” they said in unison, smiling falsely.<br />
<br />
The first thing Luke noticed as he exited the vestibule was the fresh air on his bare legs. He gulped and glanced down. They look paler than ever in the sunlight. “Which one's yours?” he asked as his eyes panned and scanned the vast car park.<br />
<br />
“Shouldn't you know?” the lady bluntly asked. “Weren't you told?”<br />
<br />
Luke bit his lip and tried to recall what the receptionist said. “Forty three J.” he said, wondering where the fuck that was. He found it relatively quickly although the lady was in a bit of a mood after being taken down the wrong lane twice. His heels clacked loudly on the tarmac as he made his way back to the hotel. Martin and Andrew stood ornately in the vestibule. Luke acknowledged them with a nod before pushing the waiting room door open. He glanced at the big mirror. The wind had gotten the better of his hair. He returned to his seat but his clutch bag wasn't where he'd left it. “The concierge has it.” Gavin told him. “And she's not happy.”<br />
<br />
“Where is she?”<br />
<br />
“You’d best ask the receptionist.”<br />
<br />
Sheepishly, Luke approached the reception desk. “Erm... I left my bag in the waiting room and apparently the concierge has it.” he timidly explained.<br />
<br />
“I told you to keep it with you.” the receptionist stated.<br />
<br />
“Yes but... I can't carry the guests' bags if I've got that to hold too.”<br />
<br />
“The other boys manage.” she stated before inviting him behind the reception desk. I say 'invited'. It was more of an order. “The concierge is in the office.” he's told.<br />
<br />
Inside the small office is a large window looking into the waiting room where Gavin, Paul and James sit waiting. One wall is filled with a bank of security monitors that cover the vestibule and foyer, bar and restaurant, the corridors, car park, hallways, elevators, stairwells, everywhere but the hotel rooms themselves. The concierge sits sternly in a big leather chair. Luke's velvet bag lays on the desk beside her. “I'm sorry about the bag.” Luke said.<br />
<br />
The concierge sat back and clasped her hands. “Is that all you have to be sorry about?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Erm... I don't know.” Luke gulped. “I did get lost in the car park a couple of times.”<br />
<br />
“You did.” she said. “Have you any idea how it looks to a guest when one of our porters fails to do the simplest of things?” she asked. “All you had to do was walk to a car and you can't even get that right!”<br />
<br />
“Sorry but it was confusing... and no body told me how the car park's laid out.”<br />
<br />
“Didn't it cross your mind to ask?”<br />
<br />
Luke gulped and hung his head. It might have crossed his mind to ask if he hadn't felt so belittled when he did ask questions. He felt like he was going to be in the wrong no matter what he did. The concierge handed him the bag. “Thank you.” he meekly said.<br />
<br />
“You'd best check it... It's not uncommon for one of the others to steal a lipstick or nail varnish given the opportunity.”<br />
<br />
“Why would they do that?” Luke asked.<br />
<br />
“Because they're expensive and exclusive.” she replied. “You need to keep your purse with you at all times.” she told him, before asking him to check that everything was there.<br />
<br />
Purse is another word that was always associated with a small woman's bag. His grandmother kept one inside her clutch bag. She kept her cash and credit cards in it. These days women have wallets. Luke checked the contents of his bag; lipstick, nail varnish, manicure kit, compact, comb, tissues and his vanity mirror.<br />
<br />
“Well that's something to be thankful for.” she said. “The last thing you want is 'losing company property' adding to your list of misdemeanours today.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry.“ Luke said. “I know I didn't get off to a good start... I didn't realise I had to shave my legs... I thought the uniform was just a jacket and trousers... not a dress!”<br />
<br />
“It's a tunic.” she corrected.<br />
<br />
“Then I had to learn to apply my make-up.” he added.<br />
<br />
“One hardly has to learn to cover their face in foundation Luke, and lipstick is fairly self explanatory don't you think?”<br />
<br />
“Yes but...”<br />
<br />
“I'm tired of listening to your lame excuses boy.” the concierge interrupted. “It seems that even a simple portering job is too taxing for you. Heaven forbid you ever find a more complex job that involves cleaning or making beds.” she sighed. “I doubt I could trust you empty a bin properly.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry.” he gulped. When Luke returned to the waiting room after having a strip well and truly torn off him, he felt more humble than he's ever felt before. He was so looking forward to working as a porter but now he's wallowing in nothing but regret. Even the simple task of escorting that lady from her room to reception, then out to her car he'd managed to get wrong at seemingly every stage.<br />
<br />
Luke sat with his clutch bag on his lap and reviewed his wrongdoings. First, he took too long arriving at the correct room. Next time he'll know that odd numbered rooms are in the north wing and even numbers are in the west. Knocking on the door is a big no-no since the guest is alerted of a porters approach. He should have waited, silently facing the door until it opened. Then, he bent down to grab her cases when he should have crouched, making sure his knees and ankles were together. Fortunately he was facing the guest. Had he had his back to her, she might have seen his under-shorts and underwear is the last thing a guest wants to see. Being a subordinate means he mustn't make small talk with the guests. His role as porter is to 'lead' the guests, not follow them, and similarly, his role of porter is to carry their bags. The concierge had showed Luke the CCTV footage of him escorting the guest. She reprimanded him for putting a bag down when he pressed the elevator button. Again when he put the bags down inside the elevator, and once more when he put the bags down at reception whilst the guest checked out. Apparently, guests' bags must not touch the floor between their room and their transport, but nobody told him that. No one told him anything.<br />
<br />
His final mistakes were getting lost in the car park and failing to keep his purse on his person. The best thing that could have happened would be him getting the sack but that's not going to happen. What did happen was twenty percent of his salary has been sacrificed until such time he can prove himself competent and capable.<br />
<br />
“It's the same for all of us.“ Gavin told him. “We're only told how to do something right after we've done it wrong, then they can say we're incompetent and sacrifice part of our salary.“ he explained.<br />
<br />
James claimed it was nothing more than a cost cutting exorcise. “They wouldn't dare try it with any of the female staff.“ he said. “Just us guys... porters, room attendants, janitors.“<br />
<br />
“I saw one of the room attendants.“ Luke said. “He wasn't wearing any make-up.“<br />
<br />
“They don't.“ Gavin said. “It's just us 'cause we're front of house.... first impressions and all that.“ he shrugged.<br />
<br />
Luke also learned that the room attendants don't have to shave their legs either because they all wear stockings, and their heels are half the height of the porters'. “Blimey... I wish I'd applied for that job instead.“ Luke sighed.<br />
<br />
Luke waited almost two hours before he was called to reception again. This time he felt he got everything right; leading the guest, finding the room, crouching down rather than bending over, not putting the cases on the floor, not making small talk... when he returned to reception he expected some feedback, but got none. He was sternly told by the receptionist to stop loitering and return to the waiting room.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
~o0o~</div>
</div>
<br />
<br />
At the end of a very long day that stretched from 9am until 7pm, in which he escorted no more than seven or eight guests to or from their rooms, and spent two hours flanking the door with James... Luke finally arrived home. “How did it go love?!” his mother hollered when she heard him return. Luke didn't reply. “Oh.” she gasped when she saw him. Luke has never felt such a deep sense of embarrassment as he did when he faced his mother. “Is that the uniform?” she asked. Luke gulped and nodded. “No trousers?” she asked. Luke shook his head. “I thought you said it was a jacket and trousers.”<br />
<br />
“That's what I thought too.” he gulped. “Until I put my tunic on and they told me to take my trousers off.” his sighed. “It's been awful Mum... no one told me what to do and I got everything wrong.” he grumbled. “The concierge hates, me, the receptionist hates me. I was late getting to my post and some other guy had to stand in for me...”<br />
<br />
“You were late? How were you late? You set off in good time.” his mother said.<br />
<br />
“Yeah but I didn't know that clean shaven meant I had to shave my legs as well as my chin.” he sighed, explaining that he got there in good time but then lost a good half an hour having to remove his body hair. “Then I had to put on make-up, which I’ve never done before...”<br />
<br />
“You look very blank.” she told him. “Apart from those lips.” she said, before asking if they supplied the cosmetics. Luke nodded and drew her attention to his bag. “Oh I didn't notice your purse.” she said. Being the exact same colour of his tunic, it didn't stand out. “You've painted your nails too.” she noticed.<br />
<br />
“Yeah.” he gulped. “I thought porters were normal... if I'd known I’d be feminised I wouldn't have applied.”<br />
<br />
“Ahem!” his mother said. “Feminised?!” she quizzed.<br />
<br />
“Sorry... I mean...”<br />
<br />
“I think the word you're looking for is 'subordinated'.” his mother said. “I see they've put you in heels.” she noted as she looked him up and down.<br />
<br />
Luke nodded. “They made me walk all the way home in them too.” he grumbled. “When I went back to the changing rooms only my keys and debit card were in my locker.” he said. “No shirt, no trousers, no shoes or socks! ...and do you know what they said?” he asked. “They've sent them home by courier!”<br />
<br />
“I wondered what the parcel was.” his mother said. “I thought you'd bought something without my permission.”<br />
<br />
“It's here already?!” Luke quizzed. His mother showed him the unopened parcel. The box bore a courier's sticker that boasted <i>same day fast track guaranteed</i>. “That's gonna cost a fortune.” he grimaced. “They said the courier costs will be docked from my first pay packet.” he sighed. “And I've already had twenty percent of it sacrificed because they reckon I'm incompetent.”<br />
<br />
“How can you be incompetent? All you have to do is carry cases.” his mother asked. “I know you're just a boy but you're not completely dim.” she said.<br />
<br />
“Thanks.” Luke dryly replied. “I'd best get changed. This needs laundering and ironing ready for tomorrow.” he said.<br />
<br />
“Oh leave it on for bit.” his mother suggested. “I'm not used to seeing you in servile clothes. They suit you.” she smiled. “Why don't you go and show your sister.” she said.<br />
<br />
“Oh Mu-um do I have to?” Luke groaned.<br />
<br />
“Be a good boy and do as you're told Luke.” his mother said.<br />
<br />
Sheepishly, Luke climbed the stairs and his mother watched him take every step. His feet are perched on four inch heels that appear to give him little trouble. His long pale hairless legs appeal her eyes. The short smart fitted tunic suggests a prestigious employer and as he disappears from view, Luke's mother feels nothing but pride.<br />
<br />
Luke took a breath before knocking on his sister's bedroom door. “Who's that?” she called.<br />
<br />
“It's me... Luke.” he timidly replied.<br />
<br />
“What do you want?”<br />
<br />
“Mum told me to show you my er... uniform.” he said through the door. It opened. He gulped.<br />
<br />
“Wow look at you!” his sister exclaimed. “And your lips!” she exclaimed. “What colour is that?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Er... Fuchsia Fandango.” Luke awkwardly answered.<br />
<br />
“It's very vivid!” she said. “Don't you think a little eye make-up wouldn't go amiss?”<br />
<br />
“I haven't got any.” Luke replied. “They only provide foundation and lipstick.” he informed her.<br />
<br />
His sister lowered her eyes. She appeared to be studying his tunic; every stitch and dart, every button, down, down to its embarrassingly short hem. “Can I feel your legs?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“No!” Luke said, but she ran her fingers over his hairless thigh anyway.<br />
<br />
“Did you shave them?” she asked. “They're really smooth.”<br />
<br />
“It was some cream.” he replied, before moaning about how much it stank and stung.<br />
<br />
“Turn around.” she said. Luke sighed and turned. She commented on his footwear. “How are you finding those to walk in?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“OK.” he replied. “They were a bit tricky at first but I soon got used to them.”<br />
<br />
“Boys do get used to heels quite quickly.” she said. “Apparently it's because they're naturally more suited to servile attire.”<br />
<br />
“Nothing about this feels natural.” Luke grumbled. His heels are unnaturally high. The tunic feels unusually short. His exposed hairless legs feel unfamiliar and although he can't see his face, he can feel the foundation clinging to his skin and the slightly tacky paint that coats his lips. “I've never felt so unlike myself.“ he moaned.<br />
<br />
“That's because Mum's too lenient.” his sister claimed. “I think all subordinates should wear servile clothing.” she stated. “If I have a boy he'll be in heels as soon as he can walk.”<br />
<br />
“You can't put a two year old in heels!” Luke blurted.<br />
<br />
“They <i>used</i> to put little girls in heels so there's no reason why little boys shouldn't be.” she replied.<br />
<br />
Every time someone says <i>you can't do that to a boy</i>, the stock retort is <i>they used to make girls do it</i>, and that's all the justification needed. “Not all the time though.” Luke claimed. “They'd have only worn heels for special occasions.”<br />
<br />
“Were you there?” his sister smugly asked.<br />
<br />
“No but...”<br />
<br />
“So you don't know then do you?” she spat. “Women spent centuries in heels and corsets, kowtowing to their so-called masters, preening and prettifying themselves, living on their knees, begging for basic human rights...”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, spare me the history lesson.” Luke mumbled. He felt a hand strike his face. “Ow!” he whined as his palm reached his smarting cheek.<br />
<br />
“Don't talk to me like that boy!” his sister spat. “Who do you think you are?!”<br />
<br />
“Sorry... but I've heard it all before.” Luke said. “I know women had it bad but we have it bad too.” he told his sister.<br />
<br />
“You don't have it bad at all.” she said. “Boys get all the easy jobs and women have to work for years to get their career.”<br />
<br />
“Doing the chores isn't easy... and I've just had a really hard day at work!”<br />
<br />
“Well I'm not surprised that you think the housework is too taxing... you are just a boy after all.” she said. “But ask yourself this before you think a task is hard... how many years of study do you need to do before you can do it?” she asked him. This was another thing that was often trotted out to stop the boys moaning about their menial labours.<br />
<br />
“They teach domestic science in school.” Luke replied in his defence. “If it was as easy as you make out they wouldn't have to.”<br />
<br />
“Only because boys are hard of thinking.” she retorted. “They don't teach it at university do they?”<br />
<br />
Luke couldn't be bothered arguing with his sister. But she's right. They don't teach domestic science at university, or college for that matter, and these days, the only chance a boy has of getting into a college or university is if he's cleaning it.<br />
<br />
“Was there anything else?” his sister asked. “Or were you just disturbing me to show me how smart you look.” she asked, looking him up and down.<br />
<br />
“Err.. yeah.” Luke glumly replied.<br />
<br />
“Well you may as well take my laundry down whilst you're here.” she said, opening her bedroom door fully so her brother could enter.<br />
<br />
“Don't you have a hamper?” he asked, seeing laundry all over the floor.<br />
<br />
“I do but Dad hasn't been putting it in the hamper.” she said.<br />
<br />
“It's not exactly hard.” Luke said as he grabbed her empty hamper and began tossing her discarded clothing into it.<br />
<br />
“I never said it was hard, I said it was Dad's job.” she sneered. “It's Mum's fault really. She's far too lenient on him.” she claimed.<br />
<br />
“Oh you're a good boy Luke.” his mother said as he returned downstairs carrying his sister's laundry. “Did she like your uniform?”<br />
<br />
“Erm... I think so.” Luke replied, but couldn't recall her actually saying so. “She said I needed some eye make-up.“<br />
<br />
“I was thinking much the same thing.“ his mother replied. “Didn't they give you any?“<br />
<br />
“Just lipstick and foundation... they said eye make-up was optional.“ Luke replied. “Good job really because I wouldn't have a clue how to put it on.“<br />
<br />
“Well when you get paid you'll have to buy some, then either me or your sister will show you what to do.“<br />
<br />
“I doubt she'll show me.“ Luke replied. “She slapped me across the face before!”<br />
<br />
“I thought I heard something... what did you do to deserve that?” his mother asked.<br />
<br />
“Nothing.” Luke claimed. “She just started lecturing me and all I said was 'spare me the history lesson'.”<br />
<br />
“Well you shouldn't speak to people like that Luke.” his mother advised. By 'people' she means 'women' and whenever a woman strikes or otherwise reprimands a male it's always the male who's in the wrong. “Make sure you apologise to her.” his mother advised.<br />
<br />
“Why is it me who should apologise?” Luke defensively whined. “She hit me?”<br />
<br />
“Because you were talking down to her.”<br />
<br />
“She's twelve!”<br />
<br />
“And you're sixteen so you should know better.” his mother reminded him.<br />
<br />
Luke sighed. “I'll take these to Dad.” he said, before heading through the kitchen to the utility room. “Hi Dad.”<br />
<br />
“Hello son... I didn't know you were back. How did it go?” Luke's father enthused.<br />
<br />
“I hated every minute of it.” Luke replied as he put his sister's laundry hamper on the side. “From the moment they made me wear this to the moment I got home.” he said.<br />
<br />
“They're making porters dress like women now I see.” his father observed.<br />
<br />
“Don't let Mum hear you say that.” Luke said, forcing a smile through his frown. He described how no one told him how to do anything but constantly berated him for doing things wrong. He recounted just how tiresomely boring it was, being stuck in the porters' waiting room all day long, waiting for a guest to book in or check out. “We're not allowed to read, there's no TV or radio... we're not supposed to talk so there's nothing to do but tidy our hair, touch up our make up or manicure our nails!” Luke whined before swiftly moving on to door duty. Luke demonstrated how they had to stand; with their feet like this and their hands like that... for two whole hours and the only break they got from their unsteady stance was when they had to open the door for someone. “What a waste of time... all the other doors are automatic apart from those from the vestibule to the foyer.” Luke grumbled.<br />
<br />
“Well a job's a job son.” his dad replied. “Unfortunately these days there's no such thing as a good job... not if you're boy anyway.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah.” Luke glumly agreed. “I'm beginning to think I should have gone for a cleaning job instead.” he said, describing the room attendant's knee length frock. “They don't have to shave their legs or wear make-up!“ he whined.<br />
<br />
“Plenty of them do these days son.“ his dad replied.<br />
<br />
“Not at the Marrion they don't.“ Luke said as he looked down at his long hairless legs and stupidly short hemline. “I feel half dressed in this.“<br />
<br />
“You are showing an awful lot of leg.” his dad said. “How are you finding those heels?”<br />
<br />
“Fine.” Luke honestly replied. “Awkward at first.” he added. “But it is humiliating being perched on high heels, and having to walk all the way home in them! Can you believe that they couriered my own clothes home so I had no choice but to wear this?“ Luke exclaimed. His dad frowned and nodded. “I have to wear it to and from work every day and all I'm allowed is an umbrella if it's raining... no overcoat!“<br />
<br />
“A lot of employers won't let their staff cover or conceal the uniform these days.“ his dad said.<br />
<br />
“I take by staff you mean us males?“ Luke knowingly asked.<br />
<br />
His dad nodded. “Thankfully your mother's spared me the indignity of servile clothing.” he said.<br />
<br />
“Doesn't your tabard count?” Luke asked.<br />
<br />
“Not really.” his dad replied, glancing down at the domestic garment he wears over his casual clothing (slacks and a shirt). Luke told of his father what his sister had said, about Mum being too lenient. “Oh she's always saying that.” his father replied in a jovial yet edgy tone. “She's going to be one formidable woman when she grows up.” he added. “Think yourself lucky she's only your sister... imagine being her being your wife!”<br />
<br />
Luke chuckled. “True.” he said, recalling how she didn't hesitate when reprimanding him with a slap across the face.<br />
<br />
“Does that need washing and ironing for tomorrow?” his dad asked, nodding at Luke's tunic.<br />
<br />
“Err... yeah.”<br />
<br />
“Take it off then.” his father said.<br />
<br />
“Have I got any clean laundry down here?” Luke asked. His dad handed him a small bundle, claiming he meant to put it away earlier but hasn't found the time. “That's OK.” Luke said as he found some underwear, some pants and a top to wear. He gave his tunic and the matching under-shorts to his father who perused the laundry tags. Luke pulled on a pair of pants. “Feels weird wearing pants with no leg hair.” he commented.<br />
<br />
“Well enjoy 'em while you can son.” his father said. “The way things are going you won't be allowed pants for much longer.”<br />
<br />
“Who decided that women's clothes were servile?“ Luke grumbled.<br />
<br />
“The same people that decided that men should be subjugated.“ his dad said, before quietly adding “Women!“<br />
<br />
Luke left his dad to his housework and returned to the lounge.<br />
<br />
“You've changed.” Luke's mother said when he returned from the utility room.<br />
<br />
“Dad's washing my uniform.” Luke replied.<br />
<br />
“Well he could have done that later... I wanted to get used to seeing you in servile attire.”<br />
<br />
“You've got plenty of time for that Mum.” Luke replied. “I signed an eighteen month contract this morning.”<br />
<br />
“Don't sound so glum about it... the Marrion Hotel's an excellent place to work.” she told him.<br />
<br />
“I'm not so sure... I can't do right for doing wrong and I've already lost 20% of my rate.” he replied. “My wages will barely cover my board now.”<br />
<br />
“Only because you failed to apply yourself. You just have to try harder.”<br />
<br />
“I tried my best.” he claimed.<br />
<br />
“Well it clearly wasn't good enough Luke. I know you're only a boy but even you're capable of carrying luggage for a living.” his mother told him.<br />
<br />
“Yeah.” Luke sighed. It was always the same whenever he had something to grumble about. The rules are never wrong, it's just him who fails to follow them. The women are never harsh, it's his fault for getting on the wrong side of them. Nothing's ever unfair, it's just how things are these days. He's only a boy and as such is always in the wrong. He should try harder... and no one expects his best to be very good since he's just a boy after all, but that's no excuse because boys only have to do the easy jobs. No one's asking them to have a career! Who'd be a boy in this day and age?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-54290031559665479522019-06-30T10:25:00.001-07:002021-09-19T00:54:07.195-07:00A Tough Journey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">After a long and mostly silent journey, the taxi cab eventually rolled up outside Aunt Martha's sizeable home and pulled to a halt. They both peered expectantly at the entrance to the house. Its front door opened and Martha, along with her housemaid appeared on the doorstep. David and his mother got out of the taxi cab. "Would you mind waiting a moment?" Valerie asked the driver.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"Good morning Valerie." Martha smiled. "David." she said, smiling down on the boy.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"Hello Auntie." David cheerfully replied. His mother kept a tight hold of his hand.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"You will be gentle with him won't you Martha." she asked.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"That depends entirely on the boy." Martha sternly replied. "David, say goodbye to your mother, then Nanny will take you to your room."</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">A perplexed expression swept the boy's face. He knew the housemaid but didn't know who 'nanny' was. He queried this and his aunt gestured to her housemaid. "But that's Isabel." David replied.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"She's also your nanny and you shall address her as such." his great aunt replied, before telling him to say goodbye to his mother.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"Bye Mom... I'll see you in a few weeks." the boy coyly smiled.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"Goodbye David." his mother said, hugging him tightly and reminding him to be good for Aunt Martha. "I love you... more than you ever know." she added before letting him go. "Can I write to him?" she asked her aunt.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"Of course." Martha replied. "And David will write back, won't you young man."</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"Sure!" the boy replied. His aunt rolled her yes and told him to go with 'nanny'. "Hi Isabel." the boy cheerfully said.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"You shall address me as Nanny and nothing else young man." the usually friendly housemaid retorted.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"I don't need a nanny." the boy confidently replied, before stating his age.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"That's the precise age that all boys in our family get a nanny young man." his great aunt stated. She turned to her niece. "Well you'd best get going Valerie... you don't want to keep the driver waiting."</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"Yes." Valerie gulped. "I'll see you soon David... and please be good." she hollered to the boy as he was led indoors. The taxi driver honked his horn impatiently. "Go easy on him Auntie." she begged, recalling her own brother's experience when he was the same age.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">"The hard part is getting him into his first dress... after that, it should be plain sailing." her aunt replied. "Safe journey." she smiled, before turning and taking herself indoors.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">The taxi horn honked again and tearful Valerie trotted toward it. As she returned home, she feared that her son would hate her for sending him to be petticoated. But she knew she had no real choice. She's reliant on the family trust fund to provide her income and it's a considerable amount... but it does come with strings attached and her son is about to find out just what those strings are.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">~o0o~</span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">A week passed by in which David was seldom out of his mother's thoughts. By way of a distraction, she took herself to the hairdressers and asked for something completely different and was delighted with the results. The next day, she began to pen David a letter that went through numerous drafts before she felt she'd written something appropriate under the circumstances. She told him that she loved him very much, and that she was looking forward to seeing him very soon, but left out the guilt ridden apology for sending him to Aunt Martha's where his normal life as a boy would be turned completely upside down.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Three days later, she received a reply from David; penned in his very best handwriting, on scented writing paper in a delicate shade of pastel pink that featured a pretty floral border. She could only imagine what her son was wearing as he wrote the letter.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Dear Mummy, </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Thank you for writing to me. I miss you very much too and look forward to coming home. Nanny and Auntie are looking after me very well and I'm trying my best to behave myself and do as I'm told...</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">As Valerie read her son's letter, she knew that Aunt Martha must have been stood over him, dictating word for word what he had to write. She recalled the days of her youth when her brother Wilfred was sent to stay with Aunt Martha at the age of eleven. Valerie would have been seven or eight years old at the time and knew nothing about petticoating until Wilfred returned home; wearing a dainty gingham dress, pelerine ankle socks and white Mary Jane shoes. Valerie and her sister loved the fact that their big brother had to wear dresses all the time and they loved to tease him relentlessly... but as Valerie got older, she began to realise just how daunting it must have been for a young boy to all of a sudden have to dress and behave like a girl.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie read the letter from David several times before putting it away in her bureau. She trotted upstairs to check on the decorators who've spent several days stripping the wallpaper and sanding the woodwork in David's bedroom. In the corner of the relatively bare room are the tins of paint that will be applied to the walls, skirting boards, door and window frames. One is a vibrant glossy pink. The other a delicate shade of baby-pink. “You're daughter's going to love this room when we've finished.” one of the tradesmen says to Valerie. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I hope so.” Valerie replied, feeling more than a little guilty. When the decorating is finished, this is going to be the last room her eleven year old son would want to have as his bedroom... but thinking about it, who knows? Maybe David will respond well to being petticoated. He's a thoughtful, sensitive boy who doesn't like football much. He's happier playing with his train set or building model kits than he is playing army or pirates with the neighbourhood kids... not that he'll have a train set in his new bedroom. She tried to imagine how he'll respond when he does return home and sees for the first time just what's been done to his bedroom. Hopefully he'll have put two and two together and worked out that he won't be coming home to a typical boy's bedroom, or a typical boy's life for that matter. “Excuse me Ma'am.” one of the tradesmen said, having worked his way round to the section of wall by which Valerie was stood.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Sorry... I was miles away.” Valerie replied, before leaving them to get on. On the landing is a bundle of boxes containing David's old toys and games, plus his books and comics. At eleven years old he didn't much play with his toys any more, but he did enjoy reading his books and comics. He won't be happy that they've gone, Valerie thought since he'd often reread his favourite stories. She does have a list of new books to get him, and some 'approved' comics... but whether he'll enjoy reading Bunty, Judy and Misty as much as he did Eagle, Hotspur and Victor is yet to be seen. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">As the days pass by, David's bedroom is painted in its delicate pink palette. A cream coloured carpet goes down and floral curtains go up, and after undergoing a makeover, his old furniture is returned to his room. It seemed sacrilegious to paint the teak bedroom suite in white gloss, yet the flower fairy decoupage on the drawer fronts, chest tops, foot and headboard of his bed did look lovely. The old brass drawer knobs had been replaced with pink plastic ones and a large floral heart shaped rug lay in the centre of his new room. But the real focal point is the dressing table with its elegant mirror and ornate stool.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie longed to see her son. They've never been apart for this long before and not even being allowed to call him on the telephone broke his mother's heart. Having witnessed her own brother having to endure being a petticoated boy, along with two cousins and one nephew, Valerie knows that they do eventually come to terms with their new life. Her brother Wilfred became a successful business man and is married with two daughters. Her cousin George works in a posh hotel on the south coast and Melvin married an older woman who has him well and truly wrapped around her finger. Her nephew; David's cousin Michael will soon be turning sixteen and after a very rocky couple of years, he eventually came to terms with his petticoated life by the time he was a teenager. Of course David hasn't seen his cousin since he was about six years old. Under the circumstances, it's best they're kept apart and Valerie has seldom mentioned her nephew Michael in the presence of her son... but now it's David's turn to be petticoated, she'll be able to tell him all about Michael, George and his uncle Wilfred.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">~o0o~</span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">After a fortnight since she sent her son to stay with Aunt Martha, Valerie received a phone call from her domineering aunt one evening. “How's he getting on?” Valerie asked in a most concerned tone of voice. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“He was very naughty for the first few days but that's only to be expected.” her aunt replied. “How's his bedroom coming along?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“It's all done.” Valerie replied. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Oh good.” Aunt Martha exclaimed. “And how's it looking?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Beautiful!” Valerie said. “I only hope David isn't too disappointed with it.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Boys like David need to make do with what they're given.” her aunt bluntly retorted. “He's finally coming to terms with things and all being well, he'll be ready to return home next weekend.” her aunt informed her. “I feared we'd have another Michael on our hands.” she added. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Oh that is good news.” Valerie replied. “Is he there?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“No. It's gone seven so he's tucked up in bed.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes, of course.” Valerie said having glanced at the time. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Now I don't want you being overly lenient with him when he does go home.” her aunt said. “Bath time is six-thirty and bedtime is seven, every night, without fail.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes Aunt Martha.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I don't want to have to employ a nanny to take charge of him... petticoating a boy costs a small fortune as it is!”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“You won't Aunt Martha... and thank you... I know it's expensive, what with all the new clothes and books and toys...”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“That's the tip of the iceberg.” Martha stated, interrupting her niece. “The bulk of the cost is his private tuition... and finishing school certainly isn't cheap!”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes, of course.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Still... we don't have to worry about that for a good few years yet.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“It won't be long before Michael's going to finishing school.” Valerie commented. “He'll be sixteen soon won’t he?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes in a couple of months.” Martha replied. “It remains to be seen what will become of that one. Hopefully he'll be more successful than your cousin George.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“He works in a swanky hotel doesn't he.” Valerie recalled. “On the south coast.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“As a chambermaid!”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I see... I thought he was a concierge or something.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Well you thought wrong.” Martha bluntly stated. “Wilfred did well for himself, and at least Melvin married someone successful.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes.” Valerie agreed. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Right... I'll send a trunk over in the next few days. Make sure everything's unpacked by weekend.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I will Aunt Martha.” Valerie replied. “And thanks for letting me know how David's getting on. I can't wait to see him again.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“He's looking forward to seeing you too... and I'll let him know you were asking after him.” Martha replied in a slightly warmer tone. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Thank you.” Valerie said. “Shell I come and collect him or...”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes. I'll send you a cab on Saturday... providing he doesn't start acting up.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I'm sure he won't.” Valerie replied. The call ended abruptly. “Seven PM and he's in bed already!” she said to no one but herself. David hasn't gone to bed at the time since he was about seven years old, she recalled... “But that's the rule I suppose.” she sighed. “One of them anyway.” she nervously chuckled. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">She poured herself a glass of dry gin, topped it up with tonic water and dropped a couple of blocks of ice in the glass, before climbing the stairs to David's bedroom. “He'd love this if he was a girl!” she thought as she admired it's delicate pink palette, floral furnishings and feminine furniture. The bed is covered in a pale pink candlewick bedspread with pretty floral embroidery. A baby pink Oxford pillowcase with a beautiful butterfly print is rested against the head of his bed. The few books that sat on his books shelf were all books she recalled from her own childhood: The Book of Fairies and Fairytales, The Schoolgirls Own Adventure Book, Heidi, Little House on the Prairie, A Little Princess... and some that Valerie certainly didn't have when she was a girl; Princess Tales for Petticoated Boys, The Boys Book of Ballet, Skipping, Clapping & Dancing Games for Boys, and a curious contemporary retelling of the classic Prince and the Pauper titled The Princess and the Pauper, in which the young frumpy Princess Fiona swaps places with a working class boy called Norman.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie perched herself on the little satin covered stool that stood in front of his dressing table and gazed around the room. She sipped her gin and tried to imagine how her son... no... how <i>any</i> boy might feel when he sees a room like this and is told that it's his new bedroom. It's not easy since no woman or girl can truly imagine how a boy might feel, but what she does know is that everything in this room is something most boys have been conditioned to detest. Currently, the drawers and wardrobe are empty yet when David returns home, they'll be home to all sorts of girlie clothes! </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie cast her mind back some five years when her nephew Michael was first petticoated. Valerie's sister proudly showed her around his bedroom which was just as prissy as this and probably still is. At the time, she expected to see Michael too, sat sulking in a pretty pink frock but he was nowhere to be seen... until she looked out of his bedroom window and saw Michael in the back garden wearing a lemon yellow dress. He was playing skipping with his sisters and looked thoroughly miserable. “I do hope David isn't unhappy.” she said to herself. It was a lot to hope for, especially so early on in his journey. Michael didn't come to terms with it until he was a teenager and, so far as she can recall, it took her brother Wilfred a good few months to cheer up. “At least David doesn't have any sisters to tease him.” she told herself as she sipped her gin & tonic, feeling more than a little guilty for teasing her own brother all those years ago. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">~o0o~</span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">A few days later, Valerie answers the door to a delivery man. His colleague is humping a sizeable trunk out of the back of their van. “Valerie Delphine?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes.” Valerie replied. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Got this for ya Ma'am.” the delivery man said, gesturing to his van.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes... I've been expecting it... could you bring it in please.” she said, opening the door as wide as it would go. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">The delivery men were happy to hump the trunk into the hallway, but their expressions dropped when she asked them to take it up to the first floor. After much huffing and puffing, heaving and hoeing, they eventually got it up to the landing. Valerie directed them to the bedroom and the humped the trunk in there. “This your daughter's room?” one asked. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes.” Valerie lied before giving them each a tip, thanking them and showing them out. She shut the door and with wistful eyes, Valerie stared up the stairs towards David's bedroom. She couldn't wait to see what was in the trunk, although she did have a pretty good idea. The clothes her brother Wilfred had to wear, and more recently, those her nephew Michael was given weren't what normal girls his age would wear. His pretty dresses are rather 'young' in style and a smart outfit is often bland beyond belief. Michael never wears plimsolls or as far as she's aware, lace up shoes. It's always something smart, buckled and shiny, and often with a significant heel. It was the same for her brother when Valerie was a girl. For much of Walter's teenage years he wore nothing but heels from breakfast until bedtime.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie gulped and began to feel butterflies in her tummy. A wave of guilt crashed over her as she feared David would hate her for sending him away to be petticoated... but what of the alternative? The family trust fund keeps them housed and fed and puts clothes on their back. Without it they'd be living in impoverished life on the wrong side of town. She'd have to find a job and scrimp and save just to pay the rent and bills. All of this she'll explain to her son when he does return home, but at eleven years old, will he understand? Valerie sighed and decided to leave the trunk unopened for a while. She dons her apron and loses herself in the household chores for a couple of hours.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Once all that was done, Valerie returned to David's bedroom and the trunk that sat menacingly in the centre of it. She took a deep breath before opening the two latches and lifting its heavy lid. “Oh my!” she gasped, seeing a resplendent display of neatly folded garments in pale pink, lilac, baby blue, mint green and pretty much every other pastel shade imaginable. Fabrics included cotton, linen, satin, chiffon and lace as well as some modern man-made fibres... but there was nothing modern about any of the styles. Peter pan collars, princess sleeves, lace trimmed yokes and bibs, tired skirts, smart yet plain pinafores, blouses with long billowing sleeves and elegant embroidery. Everything was delightful... or would have been if they were for a seven year old girl. An eleven year old boy is going to feel like a fish out of water wearing any of these clothes. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">She laid the frocks and blouse on his bed and once that was full, she hung each on a hanger and placed them in his wardrobe, but not before spending a few whimsical moments admiring each and every one. She felt both giddy and guilty as she returned to the trunk and continued carefully removing the items within. More frocks, then some skirts and pretty little tops and beneath these a big cardboard box. Valerie wasted no time removing the lid and inside was exactly what she expected; a voluminous petticoat. Valerie clearly remembers getting one when she was a girl and to this very day, nothing has felt more delightfully girlie. She felt like a girl again as she hugged the feminine garment, then the telephone rang and abruptly pulled her out of a bliss filled moment.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">After swiftly trotting down the stairs Valerie picked up the receiver. “Valerie Delphine speaking.” she said in her crystal clear telephone voice.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Hello Valerie.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Hello Aunt Martha.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I trust the trunk was delivered today.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes it did thank you... I'm just unpacking it.” Valerie replied, before commenting on just how lovely everything looks. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Now you've sent all of his old clothes to the Salvation Army or somewhere.” her aunt enquired. “I don't want him finding them in a box in the loft or under the stairs.” she added. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Of course Auntie.” Valerie replied. “How's David?” she asked. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“He's fine.” Martha replied. “Busy doing his embroidery.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Embroidery?!” Valerie said. “How nice.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Idle hands are the devil's playground.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Quite.” Valerie smiled. “What's he embroidering?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“His name on a pair of his knickers.” her aunt stated. “He's actually quite nimble for a boy.” she added. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“He always enjoyed making model kits.” Valerie said. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Well he won't be making any of those.” Martha bluntly retorted. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“No.” Valerie gulped. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Now you'll plenty of pairs of knickers in the trunk and it's imperative that David embroiders him name on each and every pair.” Martha instructed. “The same goes for his over- knickers.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Erm... OK.” Valerie replied, before adding “I don't recall Wilfred having to do that.” </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Wilfred did learn embroidery though.” Martha reminded her niece. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes but...”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Don't 'but' me young lady.” Martha interrupted. Valerie apologised. “I had the idea when petticoating Michael.” Martha informed her. “It kept him occupied every evening after supper, as it will David.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes Auntie.” Valerie agreed. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I also had Michael hand-washing his knickers and socks every night after his bath. I want you to make sure that David does the same.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Of course Auntie.” Valerie said. “Are we still set for David coming home on Saturday?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes I think so... make sure everything's ready for him.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I shall.” Valerie said and with that, the call ended.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">She returned to David's room and soon found all the underwear in the bottom of the trunk. She removed numerous pairs of frilly knickers and matching vests with little bows and lacy trim in all sorts of colours and patterns. “OH!” she exclaimed, finding a bundle of plain white training bras. “I don't recall Wilfred wearing anything like this.” she said to no one but herself. “I do remember these though.” she added, finding a bundle of very frilly cotton over-knickers. The two inch wide broderie anglaise frills around the leg holes, row upon row of frilly lace covering the back, and the single satin bow stitched to the front of the waistband... they're identical to the over-knickers Wilfred used to wear for bed every night.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">In the bottom of the trunk is some nighties, numerous pairs of white ankle and knee socks and a handful of pairs of white knitted tights, plus several familiar looking boxes. “Oh!” Valerie gushed when she opened the first to find a lovely pair of black Mary Jane’s with a two inch heel. All in all there were six pairs of girl's shoes and all of them had a small yet significant heel, and with their buckle & strap fastenings, there's no mistaking any of them for boy's shoes. With so many pretty clothes being slowly loaded into the drawers and wardrobe, Valerie is enthused to see them being worn... but she can't help but feel more than a little bit anxious because it's her son who'll be wearing them. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">~o0o~</span></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">On Saturday, Valerie wakes up feeling very anxious indeed. She fixes her hair and applies her make-up before choosing an outfit. She lays it on the bed before going downstairs where she pours herself some coffee and butters a slice of toast. After breakfast, Valerie occupied herself; straightening the lounge, plumping up cushions and such, but soon finds herself in David's bedroom, reluctantly admiring the clothes that hang in his wardrobe. Her hand sweeps across the tactile fabrics. Her eyes melt into the appealing array of colours. It seems such a shame that boys don't appreciate such finery, she thinks as she hopes that David won't be too disappointed with what awaits him. She did warn him in the vaguest of terms that things wouldn't be the same when he returned home and after three weeks of petticoating with Aunt Martha, hopefully he has some idea what to expect. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">At noon, almost on the dot, a taxi arrives and honks its horn. Valerie quickly grabs her handbag, checks her hair in the hallway mirror before leaving the house and locking the door. “Miss Delphine?” the driver asked.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Mrs.” Valerie replied. She noticed the driver's eyes drop to her left hand. She hasn't worn a ring since the day her husband left with his secretary some eight years ago. She climbed in the back of the cab and the driver set off. The journey to Aunt Martha's sizeable home takes a good hour and a half. The driver makes small talk and Valerie responds with short, polite replies. He soon gets the message that she's not the chatty type so the journey is in relative silence. She watches the scenery roll past and occasionally removes a small vanity mirror from her handbag to check her hair and make-up. Eventually they arrive and Isabel the housekeeper greets Valerie. She also pays the taxi driver and as Valerie enters Aunt Martha's home, the taxi drives away. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Ah Valerie!” Martha says, greeting her niece with a kiss. “You've changed your hair I see.” she commented before asking how her journey was.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Fine thank you.” Valerie replied, proudly bobbing her head as if to show off her new hair do. “How's David?” she asked.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“He's fine. Looking forward to going home.” Martha told her.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie smiled. “Where is he?” she asked. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Playing in the garden.” Martha informed her. “But before you see him, I've got something for you.” Valerie's aunt added in a warm friendly tone. “Come.” she said, leading Valerie up the stairs to one of the spare rooms, on the bed of which lays a sleeveless dress in sage green gingham with a stylish square collar and a narrow belt about its waist. Martha picks the garment up. “What do you think?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“It's lovely.” Valerie replied.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Try it.” Martha said. “It should fit.” she claimed.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Now?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Now's as good-a-time as any.” her aunt replied. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Despite being a grown up and one who should be able to exercise her free will, Valerie knows when she's being told and not wanting to upset her domineering aunt, she tries the dress for size and it is indeed a perfect fit. “If I’d known you were gifting me a new dress auntie I wouldn't have spent quite so long choosing an outfit today.” Valerie commented as she admired herself in the mirror. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Her aunt tells her it was a surprise and Valerie can't thank Martha enough. “Come... I'll take you to David.” Martha said.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie knows her way to the back of the house but let her aunt lead her. The large patio doors are wide open and as Valerie nears them, her heart leapt into her mouth. She raised a hand to catch it. This moment she'll never forget for at that very moment she first saw her son wearing a dress... and not just any dress, but one identical in pattern, colour and style to the dress that Valerie wore, yet a little more infantile in style.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">David sat perched on a swing and as his mother stepped outside, he noticed her. “Mummy!” he yelped before jumping to the ground and running toward her. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“David my darling!” his mother gushed. They embraced. “I've missed you so much!” she told him, before breaking the hug and looking him up and down. “I hope you don't mind me saying but... you look lovely!” She smiled and stared deep into his eyes.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“You've changed your hair!” he said. "You look younger."</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Thank you!” she grinned.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“You're wearing the same dress as me.” he noticed. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“And you're wearing the same dress as me.” his mother replied. “Have you had a nice time?” she asked. A lingering, longing expression swept her son's face. “I know it can't have been easy... but it really is for the best.” she told him.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“That's what Auntie keeps telling me.” David glumly replied. “Is it true that all the boys in our family have to dress like girls when they're my age?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“It is.” his mother replied. “Cousin Michael did.” she said. “...and Uncle Wilfred too when he was a boy.” she added. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I don't like it.” he whined. “All the other boys will laugh at me.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Well you'll just have to keep away from them.” his mother advised.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“But they're my friends.” he sulked.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Well if they're just going to laugh at you, they're not very good friends are they.” she said. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">David gulped and pondered her point. “But they'll only be laughing because I have to wear girl's clothes.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Only because they're jealous that your clothes are prettier than theirs.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“But only girls like pretty clothes.” David claimed. “I'm a boy.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I know, and it's going to take you while to get used to your new clothes.” Valerie said. She crouched and ran her fingers over his square collar. “Uncle Wilfred soon got used to his dresses, and cousin Michael did too, eventually.” she told her son, before asking if he remembers his cousin Michael.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I think so.” David replied. “Is he Mandy and Kirsten's brother?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes.” Valerie replied. “You'll have only been about five or six when he was petticoated.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“How old is he now?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Almost sixteen.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Does he still have to wear dresses?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Of course. He may be nearly sixteen but he's still a boy.” she told her son. She knew just how contrary such a statement sounded... <i>of course a sixteen year old boy still has to wear dresses</i>. David reminded his mother that boys aren't supposed to wear dresses. “They are in our family David... as I'm sure Aunt Martha has explained to you.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">The boy skewed his jaw and dropped his eyes. He's been told umpteen times why he and all the other boys in their family have to be petticoated, but he'd spent the last few weeks hoping his mother would say something along the lines of <i>when we get home, everything will go back to normal</i>. But deep down David knew that there was little hope as he vaguely recalled what his mother said in the taxi, about things being very different when he does go home</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">They head indoors and join Aunt Martha in the lounge. “What a lovely surprise Auntie!” Valeria exclaimed. “I had no idea we'd be wearing matching dresses!” she said. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Martha smiled proudly as she looked her niece and great nephew up and down. “Mother and son... just as they should be.” she said, before asking Valerie to sit. “Why don't you show Mummy your embroidery David.” Martha asked of the boy.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“OK Auntie.” the boy meekly replied, before turning toward the door. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Not the embroidery you're working on... the embroidery you've done.” Martha said. “The embroidery you're wearing.” she added. The boy's face dropped. His great aunt raised an eyebrow. “Go on... show Mummy.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">The boy began to blush as his trembling hands took hold of his skirt. He began to lift it and his rosy cheeks got redder and redder. “Oh my they're delightful!” Valerie gushed as he raised his dress high enough to reveal his knickers; green to match his dress, trimmed with frilly lace and embroidered just above the left leg is his name David. “Did you do that yourself?” Valerie knowingly asked.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">The blushing boy nodded. “Answer properly David.” His aunt instructed. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">David gulped. “Yes Mummy.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Why don't you show Mummy your room.” Martha said. “Then we'll have afternoon tea.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes Auntie.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie followed the boy up the stairs and along the landing, right to the end. He stops and looks up at his mother solemnly. “This is my room.” he timidly told her.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I can see.” she replied, smiling at the name plaque hanging from a nail on the door.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrJJD7jATDXkaGgL3CvU5E7MuNSq7wu7M6gTR4_pZ3IEjyxl5z7enp1B6tAmCAnKldQKfC3ChNqQXdjhyphenhyphenVhp3uDwqAM_JJN0PlFkNMIyCb4NlnT9iHRJmkIPx3LHt-DB3Et1seuov6/s1600/david%2527s+room.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrJJD7jATDXkaGgL3CvU5E7MuNSq7wu7M6gTR4_pZ3IEjyxl5z7enp1B6tAmCAnKldQKfC3ChNqQXdjhyphenhyphenVhp3uDwqAM_JJN0PlFkNMIyCb4NlnT9iHRJmkIPx3LHt-DB3Et1seuov6/s1600/david%2527s+room.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">He opens the door to reveal exactly what his mother expected; an overtly girlie bedroom with floral wallpaper, pink curtains, a pink wrought iron day bed, ornate furniture including a beautiful dressing table and a large bookshelf which is home to fifteen or twenty large toy dolls. The floor is polished oak with a big pink rug in the centre. David's shoes clack loudly on the wooden floor until he steps on the rug which silences his feet. “This is very nice.” his mother says, knowing that her son is probably thinking the exact opposite. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“It's a girl's room.” David mournfully replied as his mother removed one of the dolls from the shelf and admired it. “Auntie makes me play with those.” he grumbled.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Playing nicely with dolls is better for you than playing with tanks and guns... all that teaches you is how to be angry and aggressive whereas playing with dolls helps you learn to be kind and considerate.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I am kind and considerate... and I much preferred my train set to tanks and guns.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I know you did David... bit this is how we do things now you're a petticoated boy, to make sure you continue to be the sweet kind boy that you are.” she said, gently stroking his cheek. “Lots of boys start to go off the rails when they're your age.” she said, naming a small handful of neighbourhood boys who keep getting into big trouble at school and sometimes with the police too. “If they were more like you they’d have carried on being good.” she smiled.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I could carry on being good... I don't have to be a girl.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“You're not a girl David, but you know why girls are better behaved than boys?” she asked. David skewed his chin and considered the question. “Because girls play nice games and wear nice clothes, just like you do now you've been petticoated.” she told him. “You may not understand at such a young age but this really is for the best.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“It doesn't feel like it... and girls my age don't have to wear nappies for bed.” he said, sticking out his bottom lip as if to demonstrate his disapproval. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“They're to make sure you get a good night's sleep every night.” his mother told him. “You'll soon get used to them.” she claimed.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I won't.” he replied. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Cousin Michael wears nappies too. He's used to them and he's almost sixteen.” she informed him. “It's just going to take a little time, that's all.” she smiled.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“It's not fair. Only babies wear nappies.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“You only wear them at bedtime.” his mother said. “When you're fast asleep.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“If I'm naughty Nanny makes makes me wear them in the daytime too.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Well that's a good reason for you not to be naughty.” she replied. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“It's not fair that I have to call you Mummy again as well.” David grumbled.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I think it's lovely that you're calling me Mummy again... almost as lovely as seeing you wearing such pretty clothes.” his mother replied. “Have you many other dresses here?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“They're in the wardrobe.” David frowned. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“May I see?” she asked. Valerie opened the double wardrobe and her eyes melted into the colourful range of clothes, below which is some twenty pairs of girlie shoes all neatly arranged. On one side of the wardrobe is a series of shelves, some with folded bundles clothing. “What are these?” she quizzed, noticing what appeared to be baby clothes hanging from rails on two of the lower shelves.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“They're for the dolls.” David timidly told his mother as she removed one of the miniature frocks and admired it. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“How lovely.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I feel silly when I have to play with them.” the boy sulked. “Girls my age don't play with dolls any more.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“It's different for boys though... especially petticoated boys.” his mother replied as she put the little doll dress back. “Sometimes you have to take two steps back before you can take one step forward.” his mother said. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“That's what Nanny says... but I don't really know what she means.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“When you were younger you were too busy playing rough and tumble with the boys.” his mother said. “...and too many boys games revolve around being aggressive. They teach you to fight and take reckless risks.” she told him. “Learning nice games like girls play teach you to be cautious and considerate.” she explained. “You missed out on playing with dolls when you were young which is why you have to learn to play with them now... and it's not just dolls. I'm sure you've learned other new games too.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I've learned to play hopscotch... and skipping.” David confessed. “And I can do cartwheels too.” he added. “...and Nanny's been teaching me some clapping games as well.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“That's nice.” his mother smiled. “I wonder if I can still do cartwheels.” she mused.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">The sound of footsteps from the landing drew both their attention. Their eyes turn toward the open bedroom door. Isabel, the housekeeper appeared. “Afternoon tea will be served in a few minutes.” she said. “Go and wash your hands David.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes Nanny.” David replied, before scurrying out. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“David tells me you've been teaching him some clapping games.” Valerie said to Isabel. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I've been teaching him all sorts of new things.” Isabel replied as she straightened one of the dolls on the shelf. The very same doll that Valerie had removed. “He's certainly more adaptable than Michael was. It was months before he was allowed to return home.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“David's a good boy. Always has been.” Valerie replied as she cast her eyes around the girlie bedroom. “I can't help but wonder if all this is really necessary.” she said.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Oh it's necessary.” Isabel said. “The world would be a much better place if more boys were petticoated.” she claimed. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie followed the housekeeper downstairs to the dining room. Aunt Martha sat at the head of the table, which was laid with her best China tea set, a plate full of freshly baked scones along with some jam and whipped cream. “This looks very nice.” she said. Her aunt gestured to the seat beside her. Valerie sat. “David's been showing me all the dolls and dresses in his room.” she said. Her aunt smiled, briefly. “He also tells me he's learned to play hopscotch and skipping, and Isabel's been teaching him some clapping games.” she added. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Make sure he continues when he returns home.” Martha sternly instructed. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Of course auntie.” Valerie replied. She felt like she was a girl again, in the presence of a strict headmistress. “I think he's coming to terms with being petticoated.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“The question is Valerie... are you?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I think so Auntie.” Valerie replied. “He looks lovely in a dress and I can't wait to see him wearing all the clothes you...”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“His clothes are superficial Valerie.” Martha said, cutting her short. “A mere distraction.” she stated. “He's not a doll for you to play with.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“No auntie.” Valerie gulped, feeling every bit the naughty school girl now.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“The strict routine is the pivotal part of petticoating a boy. They need specific meal times, bath times and bed times. A specific time of day that they're permitted to play, read and indulge in their hobbies.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes Auntie.” Valerie replied.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“They also need to show the utmost respect to their elders and betters at all times and I can't help but notice that you're already being sloppy.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“I'm sorry?” Valerie politely quizzed.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“He needs to address you as mummy every time he addresses you, not just some of the time but all of the time.” Martha stated. “He may not enjoy playing the games he's given to play but he needs to learn to keep his displeasure to himself. If he says he doesn't like something or feels something isn't fair, you mustn't indulge him. He has to learn to put up and shut up and if he can't, then you'll have to teach him a lesson by putting him back in daytime nappies so he can stew in his own juices. It's the only way they learn and I don't want Isabel's hard work being undone by your leniency. Do you understand?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie gulped. “Yes Auntie.” she said. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“If I have to send a nanny I shall." Martha stated. "...and she'll be as much in charge of you as she is the boy.” Valerie's aunt warned.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“That won't be necessary Aunt Martha.” Valerie replied, although the level of strictness that her aunt is demanding, she's not sure she can deliver. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">At that moment, David appeared in the doorway with Isabel behind him. He wears a crisp white pinafore over his green gingham dress. “Take a seat next to your Aunt David.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes Nanny.” the boy timidly said. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">David took his seat and Martha asked to see his hands. After inspecting them front and back, she gave Isabel a nod and she proceeded to serve the tea. David sat bolt upright the whole time. He said please and thank you and always addressed either his aunt or nanny properly whenever they spoke to him. His table manners were impeccable but David appeared far from relaxed. Neither did his mother for that matter. David was given half a scone topped with jam and cream, but before tucking into it, he took his napkin in one hand and dabbed the corners of his mouth after every bite. “Are you enjoying your scone David?” his mother asked. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes thank you Mummy.” he politely replied. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Good.” Valerie said. “I hope your table manners are as good as this when we return home.” she said. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes Mummy.” he said. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">After eating, David was sent to wash his hands. Valerie began to clear the table. “Oh leave those... that's what Isabel's for.” Martha told her. David returned and Aunt Martha checked his hands. “Right.” said Martha, glancing at the time. “I suppose I'd best order you a taxi.”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie's eyes turned toward the clock. It's 3.40pm. “Yes I suppose.” Valerie replied. “Are you looking forward to going home David?”</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes Mummy.” he obediently replied. His mother smiled, hoping that he wouldn't be too disappointed with what awaited him.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Now it's a long journey David, so you'd best go and change.” Martha instructed.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">The boy's face dropped. “Yes Auntie.” he mournfully replied. </span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“And ask Nanny to gather your things.” Martha told him. “You can choose yourself a dolly to take home with you. Oh... and don't forget your door plaque. You'll need that for your bedroom door at home.” she added.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes Auntie. Thank you.” David half-heartedly replied, before before turning and leaving.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">Valerie was disappointed that they wouldn't be travelling home in their matching dresses, but already feeling like she was on thin ice, Valerie didn't question her aunt. Ten minutes passed and David returned, however Valerie was perplexed as he was still wearing his green gingham dress. “Let me see.” Aunt Martha said to the boy. Glumly, David lifted his dress but this time, he didn't reveal a pair of knickers but a nappy, hidden behind a pair of frilly white over-knickers and these too had his name embroidered on in an elegant italic font. “Good boy.” she said. </span><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Where's your dolly?” Valerie asked him. </span><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Nanny's got her, Mummy.”</span><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Which one did you choose?” his aunt asked.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Florence, Auntie.” he shyly replied. </span><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Lovely.” his aunt said. “The cab shouldn't be long.” she said, and she was right. No more than five minutes passed before the sound of a car horn could be heard. David and Valerie said their goodbye's to Aunt Martha whilst Isabel took a case over to the awaiting cab. “Well you'd best be off... and remember everything I told you Valerie.” Martha said. </span><br />
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">“Yes Auntie.” Valerie replied. “Come on David.” she said, holding out her hand. A huge grin swept her face as she walked him to the taxi cab. A perplexed driver watched them approach. David glumly looked up at his mother. She seems so happy and he knows that his days</span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"> playing with dolls</span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"> and</span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"> </span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif">wearing dresses</span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"> are far from over.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><br /></span>PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-40632592313963720282019-05-12T12:15:00.002-07:002021-03-29T07:48:29.688-07:00Oakham<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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... <!--The call from Mum-->then Mum called.</div>
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<a name='more'></a><br />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.<br /><br />"But
Mum... I need to go and change... all my stuff's at Kelly's." I
pleaded.<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />"But Mum!" I exclaimed. "I can't go home
like this!" I claimed.<br /><br />"Well you'll have to...
there's no time."<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />"Your grandmother's been taken ill and I need to
you mind Billy." she replied.<br /><br />"Can't one of the
neighbours mind him?"<br /><br />"Mrs Dixon's got him at the
moment but she can't watch him all afternoon."<br /><br />"You
could have let me swing by Kelly's to get changed first."<br /><br />"There
isn't time Steven." my mother replied. "Care to explain
whey you're dressed like that?" she snapped.<br /><br />I clammed
up.<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />I sighed. "Actually Mum it's mine." I
confessed.<br /><br />"Shoes and handbag too?" she asked.<br /><br />I
nodded. "Yeah."<br /><br />"Why?"<br /><br />"Because
I like them." I replied.<br /><br />"But you're a boy... a
young man even!" she snapped.<br /><br />"And old enough the
wear what I like."<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />"So you're
parading around dressed like that calling yourself Steven?!"<br /><br />"Pretty
much." I told her. "People are cool about it in Brighton...
no one bats an eyelid."<br /><br />"Well you're not in Brighton
now young man!" my mother snapped as the lights changed. "What
will the neighbours think?"<br /><br />"They can think what
they like." I said. "I am what I am and I like who I
am."<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />"To get Billy."
she bluntly replied.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><!--The walk of shame-->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.<br /><br />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?!"<br /><br />I turn to face the stern little man.
"No." I say.<br /><br />"What are you doing... you don't
live there." he says.<br /><br />"It's me... Steven." I
confess as his eyes grow to the size of saucers. "...and it's
really not a good time."<br /><br />"But..." he gasped,
looking me up and down.<br /><br />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. <!--Home, and calling Kelly.-->"Hi
Kelly... Stevie... sorry bout that..."<br /><br />"What's
happened?"<br /><br />"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!"<br /><br />"You're not dressed like a slut Stevie."
she insisted.<br /><br />"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!"<br /><br />"But your
bags are here."<br /><br />"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.<br /><br />"OK... you get changed and we'll
speak later." she said. "What's up with your gran
anyway?"<br /><br />"Dunno... I'll call Mum in a bit."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />
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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'.
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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. <!--Mum returns.-->“You
just can't help yourself can you!” my mother's voice makes me jump
out of my skin.
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“Oh my it is short!” my grandmother said as she appeared behind
her.
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“You're OK?!” I gasped as I tried to cover as much of my lap as
possible, which wasn't much to be honest.
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“It was just a bit of trapped wind.” my mother sternly stated.
“Planning on wearing that was you?” she said, looking at her
dress.
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“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...”</div>
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“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.”</div>
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“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.
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“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?”</div>
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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.</div>
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“Your grandmother needs some Rennie's.” Mum said. “Can you pop
to the shop and get some... please?”</div>
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“You know I can't... not like this.” I said.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
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“I presume you walked all the way from Mrs Dixon's like that?”</div>
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“Yeah... and everybody saw me!”</div>
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“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.
</div>
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<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You're seriously not going to make me go to the shop like this are
you Mum?” I asked. “On a Sunday?”</div>
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“If you want me to be your personal taxi driver Steven, then yes...
I am.” my mother replied.
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“Why didn't you get some on the way?” I asked.
</div>
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<br />
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“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!”</div>
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“Sorry.” I sighed. “Gran's fine... aren't you.” I said,
throwing a pursed smile at my grandmother.
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“It was only heartburn.” she said in her elderly croaky voice.
“But I would like some Rennie's.” she added.
</div>
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“Can't you drive Mum?” I asked.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'm not driving you to the shop Steven.” my mother said.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I was thinking that you could drive there yourself.” I
cautiously suggested.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Ten minutes there and ten minutes back.” I retorted.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“This isn't funny Mum.” I whined. “I can't go to the shop like
this.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I gulped. She really wasn't kidding. “Can I please change into
something else?” I asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“What, like my Laura Ashley dress?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Or some pants.” I said. “That's what I was looking for when
you got back.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You were in my knicker drawer!” she bellowed.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I wasn't!” I insisted. I might have briefly opened it but.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“If you were looking for some pants then why was my dress laid
out?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well... I considered it.” I confessed. “At least it's a Sunday
sort of dress.” I said. “Unlike this.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It's very short.” my grandmother said. She's a bit batty.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Exactly.” I said.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
Please let me wear some pants, I silently pleaded. “You know that I
can't go like this don't you gran?” I said.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I can't believe you're doing this Mum.” I said as I trotted
across the kitchen and grabbed my handbag.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“We could do with some milk too.” my mother smugly added.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Can I at least get my shawl from the car?” I asked.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.<!--Calling Kelly again.--> 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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And?” Kelly asked.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Shit Stevie... why didn't she just drive you?” Kelly quizzed.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Oh shucks... that really sucks.” Kelly said in an empathetic
voice. “All I can advise is... just pretend you're in Brighton.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I can imagine actually.” she replied. “You should have
borrowed a bra when you had the chance.” she said.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“True.” Kelly giggled. “So you coming over later?” she asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Just be confident.” she said. “You've nothing to be ashamed
of. You're gorgeous guy who looks great dressed as a girl.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yeah, 'til some Neanderthal tries to hit on me and punches me in
the face when he realises I'm not some chick.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“That won't happen in Oakham.” she said.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I hope not.” I relied. “Look, I'll call you later before we
come over.” I said.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“OK.” Kelly replied. “Mwah.” she added before hanging up.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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 '<i>you're a guy</i>'. “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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Teenage pranks eh.” the man behind the counter said. “Someone's
certainly done a convincing job on you.” he added.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“ID?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Thank you.” my mother chirped. “What else have you got?” she
asked, spying the other item through the milky white plastic.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well that's a little better I suppose.” my mother says when I
return. “Topped up your make-up as well I see.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well it was either that or wash if off.” I grumbled. “Topping
it up seemed quicker.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Hmm.” my mother retorted, making me feel like the naughty school
boy.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“When can we go to Kelly's?” I asked.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Later.” my mother replied. “You've got a lot of explaining to
do first young man.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I still can't believe it's Steven.” my grandmother said. “He
used to be so handsome.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Who'd have thought he'd make such a convincing whore.” my mother
scornfully added.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Don't say that Mum.” I whined.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well what do you expect me to say?” she quizzed. “Hi son, love
the dress.. and great legs by the way!” she mimicked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yes.” I thought. “No.” I said. “I dunno...just don't call
me a whore.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--The chat--><b>The chat</b>... 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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You're eighteen Steven. Surely it should be <i>women's</i>
clothes?” my mother retorted.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well... yeah.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You're not one of these trannies who likes to dress like a seven
year old are you?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I can't imagine those being very comfortable.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“They're not... but it's shapewear. It's not supposed to be
comfortable.” I dryly said.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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. <span style="font-weight: normal;">“Without
me!” I yelp when my grandmother informed me she's gone to Kelly's!
“Why?!”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I don't know.” my grandmother shrugged. “Didn't you have a bag
there or something?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yes.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;">I pour the tea and grumble that my
mother snook off without me. Maybe she didn't want Granny to be
alone, or </span>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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And she's the one who makes you wear dresses?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“No... she doesn't 'make' me wear them... I always wanted to and
when I met Kelly she really helped.” I said.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You're mother thinks she does. She was saying in the car... <i>I've
never trusted that Kelly. There's something controlling about her</i>.”
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Kelly's cool with it Gran, but she's not the reason I do it.” I
said.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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...</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Erm... OK.” Kelly gulped.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Is that yes or no?” my mother bluntly asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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...”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I see.” my mother said as she tailed off. “Well that was
easier than expected. I think Steven might be in love with you.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“If Steven tries to call you, ignore him.” she instructed.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“OK.” Kelly timidly said. “Sorry.” she hesitantly added.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You mean... he's not going back to Brighton?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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...”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--Mum returns.-->“There you are.” my mother said as she
handed me backpack.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well from a feminists point of view, I’m not sure whether to
make you wear them or burn them.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Hmm... yes, Kelly.” My mother said. “I asked her to stop
seeing you.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You can't do that!” I said.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well I did, and she said yes. It appears that your beloved Kelly
has been seeing... and these are her words... <i>a few other guys</i>
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I don't believe you.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Why else would she give me all of your things?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Maybe you just took what you could find.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well I didn't notice any name tags in your bras Steven... and you
didn't say they were hers.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'm going to call her.” I said “Where's my handbag.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I need a cigarette.” I said, taking myself, my phone and my
handbag outside.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Smoking too?!” my mother gasped.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Seems that way... I’d have thought it'd be the least of your
worries.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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; <span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;">Please
answer the phone. Need to talk x</span>. 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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“What are you doing with those?” I said.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“The same thing that I’m doing with everything I don't approve
of... I’m confiscating them.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But...”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But nothing Steven... you bought them with my money which means
they're mine to do with as I wish!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But you're taking my boy clothes <i>and</i> my girl's ones!” I
stated. “What do you want me to wear?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Err... seventy quid.” I confessed. Saying it aloud it sounds
really expensive, I thought.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Sounds about right.” Mum replied.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You'll have to bunk down on the floor somewhere.” my mother
replied. “I think you've got a camp bed somewhere.” she added.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Can I borrow a top or a jacket?” I asked. “It'll be freezing
at this time.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I suppose.” my mother replied.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And all the clothes I was planning on wearing whilst I'm here.”
I dryly added.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Talking of clothes, I dug out an old nightie for you.” she said.
“It's on your bed.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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, <!--The next day.-->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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well you'll have to make do with your nightie for the time being.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Did you find your charge cable?” my mother asked.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“No.” I replied, suggesting that I maybe left it at Kelly's.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Kelly returned everything that's yours.” my mother claimed.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Maybe not everything.” I said. “I really need to get in touch
with her.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Why? I told you it's over between you two.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well I don't know. Use your imagination. Hoover up or clean the
kitchen or something... just don't go rooting through my things!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I won't!” I retorted.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“...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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It's certainly more appropriate than the little number you wore
yesterday.” she spat as she looked me up and down.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You're enjoying this aren't you?” I said. “Ridiculing me.” I
added.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“What?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“This is Oakham... it's hardly the centre of high fashion.” she
replied.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Android.” he shrugged.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well I can't go on the bus dressed like this!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'm surprised he's not been round.” I grumbled.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'm not.” my mother bluntly stated. “We're not exactly on
speaking terms these days.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--Mrs Dixon.-->“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I wanted the stairs to open up and swallow me whole. “Err... hello
Mrs Dixon.” I timidly stammered.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You look er... nice.” Mrs Dixon said, clearly trying to stifle a
snigger.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“He looks ridiculous.” my mother stated as they both glared at me
for a long, uncomfortable moment.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“That was Steven getting out of your car?!” Mrs Dixon gasped. “I
wondered who she was.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Hmm.” my mother groaned.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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?</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“So... what is he?” Mrs Dixon asked. “I presume he's not gay...
is he trans maybe?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“That's not fair.” I whined. “If you hadn't over-reacted when
Gran got sick you'd have been none the wiser.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I may have over-reacted Steven but I’m <i>all</i> 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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--Tuesday.-->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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Could you ask her?” I asked with some enthusiasm.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You could walk over after we've been to see your grandmother.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Could you drive me? Please.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'll drop you off on the way back.” she said.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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
'<i>Hey that's great! You were always worried about your Mum finding
out</i>' 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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--Grandmother's house-->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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“He is.” Mum replied. “I think he enjoys pretending he's a
woman and doing what he thinks is <i>women's</i> work.” she added
in a most belittling tone.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“That's my point, she has home-help so why did I have to do it?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It's ten minutes and Billy needs a walk.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well I suppose.” she said before inviting me inside. “Did you
walk over?” she asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yes.” I replied, adding that I'd called earlier but she was out.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'm attend the parish council meeting every Monday... you're
mother knows that.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Can't be easy for a boy in those heels.” she said, looking at
my footwear.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“OK.” I said. “Thank you.” I smiled before putting it in my
handbag.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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...</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Erm... OK... er... bye Mrs Dixon... and thanks again.” I
nervously said as I was herded out of her house.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I don't want you wearing any of <i>my</i> 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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“What?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“They were were in the spare room.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Oh... er... nothing.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well they're back in the drawer where they belong.” she said.
“Please put things back when you've used them.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'm not someone who'd willingly wear this monstrosity though.” I
glumly groaned as I baulked at my attire.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Mu-um!” I moaned.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Just making it look nice.” she said, looking me in the eye and
smiling.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'm not wearing knee highs!” I protested. “What about those
black tights I bought?” I asked.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--Wednesday morning-->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!
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“What time are you going to your coffee morning?” my mother asked
as I entered the kitchen.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'm not <i>going</i> to the coffee morning Mum... I’m just gonna
pop in towards the end.” I told her. “Hopefully when everyone's
gone.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3vVEK2dFERSV8QDVDqJcCyseOg0ZBULgqo4E5e1Y3j8g39PhXPC6DykxLVlM68T0OQSlGw8fMnB304mIa1aqDxyueXtH8riEaFFS16mQ1Q9cDEbt-BommEGu6uKzCj8qCVGWso6ga/s1600/oakham.fw.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="465" data-original-width="1148" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3vVEK2dFERSV8QDVDqJcCyseOg0ZBULgqo4E5e1Y3j8g39PhXPC6DykxLVlM68T0OQSlGw8fMnB304mIa1aqDxyueXtH8riEaFFS16mQ1Q9cDEbt-BommEGu6uKzCj8qCVGWso6ga/s640/oakham.fw.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--the coffee morning.-->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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Nice talking to you miss.” the old lady said as we exchanged
glances.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You too.” I replied, smiling. “Thank you.” I said to the
pharmacist as I exited.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“That's no 'miss' you know...” I overheard the pharmacist say as
the door slowly closed behind me.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“The charity shop?” I gulped.</div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaJXZwdx2rnqA5NERwbOcw3MePh6Ic-3nCeqZgTmesX5OPWvQ_kQY3IjcoGj0Sh7zZ2dCB84Qxh-D3HA3Vt7HGm9CTse_f96yiH_GwGU8BPTOQhrEszGnLDk5pUQF0v56GauNffnZq/s1600/floral+tea+dress.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaJXZwdx2rnqA5NERwbOcw3MePh6Ic-3nCeqZgTmesX5OPWvQ_kQY3IjcoGj0Sh7zZ2dCB84Qxh-D3HA3Vt7HGm9CTse_f96yiH_GwGU8BPTOQhrEszGnLDk5pUQF0v56GauNffnZq/s320/floral+tea+dress.jpg" width="240" /></a>
“Why are you doing this to me Mum?” I said in an almost tearful
tone when I was shown what she'd bought me.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="viEnlargeImgLayer_img_ctr"></a>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Because you've spent the last eleven months flunking college and
dressing as a tart at my expense...”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I don't dress like a tart!” I interrupted.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
Mum looked me up and down. “It actually looks a lot nicer than I'd
hoped.” she sternly said.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It looks horrendous Mum.” I replied.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I plait it sometimes.” I confessed. “But usually I just tie it
back or up.” I added.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I've a good mind to cut it short... then there's no mistaking for
what you are.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'm sure it was considered nice once-upon-a-time.” my mother
dryly retorted.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“When are you going to let me have my own stuff back?” I asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I haven't decided.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“So you've still got it?” I presumed. “You haven't sent it all
to charity.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“That's not your concern.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Of course it's my concern! It's my stuff!” I blurted.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well I'm going back to Brighton on Saturday.” I told her.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I thought you were staying for a fortnight.” my mother replied.
“Isn't your landlord upgrading the fire alarms?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yeah but he said that'd only take a week.” I informed her,
although I knew I’d best check first.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Err... a few.” I confessed, before reluctantly revealing that of
my five or six pairs, most are higher than these.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And you can walk in three and four inch heels?” my mother
quizzed.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I nodded. Mum sighed. “I'm desperate to wear some flats though...
I've had these on since Sunday morning.” I said</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well you've only got yourself to blame.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Err... I did pack some plimsolls, but you won't let me have them.”
I reminded her.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You can't wear plimsolls with a dress like that.” my mother
replied, clearly humouring me.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“That's not the point Mum.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And what is your point?” she asked.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“The point is... I brought plenty of normal clothes and it's you
who's making me dress like this.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You said you liked women's clothes.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You said you didn't care what the neighbours thought and... how
did you put it... <i>I am what I am and I like who I am</i>.” my
mother retorted.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yeah but this isn't me.” I whined, grabbing the skirt of my
bland brown frock. “This is you trying to humiliate me.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And do you feel humiliated?” she asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Of course... no eighteen year old would wear something like
this... let alone that skirt and blouse you got me.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I dunno.” I gulped. “I had no intention of you ever finding
out.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well I did find out.”
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And thanks to you the whole village knows.” I spat.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But it's different there... no one bats an eyelid.” I claimed.
“...and I don't wear women's clothes everyday.” I added.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well you do now.” my mother stated.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“No.” I grumble.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Good.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It's not good.” I retort. “She's still got something of mine.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“What thing?” my mother asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Nothing.” I replied. “Nothing much any way.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Kelly said she'd given me everything, so if you tell me what it
is...”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It's nothing Mum.” I stated.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--Thursday... the red letter day.-->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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Where's the dress you bought me yesterday?” I asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I've put it away.” my mother replied. “You can wear your skirt
& blouse again now they've been laundered.”
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I hate that skirt and blouse!” I whined.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Why can't you just pop down in the car?” I quizzed. “It won't
take more than five minutes.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Whilst you're here I don't have to.” she replied. “Plus, the
fresh air will do you good.” she added.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
A wry smile swept the woman's face. “Ah... so it's a punishment of
sorts.” she said.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I guess.” I frowned as she looked me up and down. “Well... I'd
best get going.” I said, tugging on Billy's leash.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I suppose you had.” she retorted. “See you again.” she said
in a cheery yet sarcastic tone.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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??”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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 <i>my</i> terms, not yours.” she said.
“Understand?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I gulped and nodded.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Good.” she said. “Come with me.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I followed my mother to the front door. “Where are we going?” I
asked as she picked up her bunch of keys.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Not far.” she said before opening the front door.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yeah.” I replied. “Just go in.” I said.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And so he should.” Mrs Dixon agreed. “It must have cost you
thousands, what with his tuition fees, rent and weekly allowance.”
she added.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“So he's back for good?” Mrs Dixon asked.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Mrs Dixon gone?” I ask when I eventually saunter through to the
lounge.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yes.” Mum replied. “She's kindly agreed to help clear out your
flat this weekend.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But... we've got 'til the end of the month.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“The sooner it's dealt with the better.” my mother informed me.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--Saturday, the clearout.-->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<i><span style="text-decoration: none;">
that</span></i> side of fifty would wear with <i>this </i>dress!</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Oh my!” my grandmother said as she laid her eyes upon me. “Where
on earth did you get that frock from?” she gasped.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It's too big for you.” she said.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yes... of course.” she replied. “Have a look on the hooks.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“They were going wrinkly.” I timidly replied.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I noticed.” she said. “I can't abide cheap tights. Why people
buy them is beyond me.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“That's nicer for a girl your age.” my grandmother said. “Pity
you're just a boy.” she dryly added.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yeah.” I timidly replied. “Not much I can do about that.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well at least you're quite slight.” she said. “How tall are
you now?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I nodded and nervously glanced at Mrs Dixon. “I've shut the car.”
I timidly said.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Sorry... I guess I should have warned you.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well I should have guessed, especially after Sunday's
revelations.” my mother sighed.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It depends what you're looking for.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Jeans. T shirts.” I stated. “Trainers.” I added.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Can't I have a root through first?” I asked.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You can have a root through that box... after you've put
everything else in the garage.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“A selection of your clothes, shoes, underwear.” she said. “Your
diary.” she added.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You didn't read it did you?” I bluntly asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Of course not.” she insisted. “Your bedroom alone spoke
volumes.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“...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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And there was me thinking you'd bought it for one of those <i>School
Disco</i> parties.” Mum retorted.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
Shit! Why didn't I just say that? My mother pursed her lips and shook
her head. I hung mine. <!--The box-->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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
Beneath my housekeeping frock is a plaid pinafore dress. I like it
but it's daggy. Something a <i>plain Jane</i> 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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“There's a skirt, and some culottes.” Mum said. “A couple of
blouses.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“So you're going to keep me dressed as a woman indefinitely?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Mmm hmm.” my mother nodded. “At least for the remainder of the
summer.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But Mu-um!” I protested.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It's exactly what you'd be doing had you returned to Brighton.”
she stated.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But this is Oakham!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But these are all clothes I was planning to sell on Ebay.” I
claimed. “I never wore them!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“There's plenty.” she said. “Plus there's not much storage
space in the spare room.” she added.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“There's plenty of drawer space for jeans and T shirts.” I
hinted.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I only wear them occasionally.” I claimed. “I dress as a guy
most of the time.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Mum you can't do this!” I insisted.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Oh Mu-um!” I whined.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“About what?” I gulped.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“About you skipping college to study at home... I presume all your
coursework is saved.” she added.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Er... yeah.” I replied, biting my lip.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You can.” she said. “Providing you continue to write in it.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Oh I err... don't.” I stammered.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Think nothing of it.” she grumpily replied.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'll need some hangers.” I said. “And more hooks.” I added.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“There's some in the cupboard on the landing... in fact you may as
well hang them in there.” she said.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--The chat-->“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You clearly prefer wearing women's clothing.” she stated.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I like both.” I claimed.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Since when?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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...?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Vaguely... was it because they couldn't wear shorts in the
summer?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yeah... I used to dream about doing that... just one day would
have been nice... to see what it was like.” I told her.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And did you?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Course not.” I said. “Never had the guts... or a school
skirt.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“If you’d told me a might have bought you one.” my mother said,
although I didn't believe her.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You'd have been livid... just like you are now.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'm livid because of your secrets and lies Steven.”
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But you understand don't you? It's not easy for a boy to say '<i>hey
mum... I've got loads of school trousers, can I have a skirt... you
know, for when it's sunny?</i>'...”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'd like to believe that being honest with one's mother <i>is</i>
easy.” my mother retorted. “So...” she said after a short
silence. “When was the first time?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Lots of boys did... you were only four.” she replied</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Then there was that wedding... if it counts.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“When you were a page boy?” Mum knowingly asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And wore girls shoes, girls tights, a girl's blouse and velvet
pedal pushers.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It was a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Maybe so. It was really girlie too.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Everyone said how cute you looked.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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
flower<i>boys</i>.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“They do have flowerboys you know.” my mother interrupted. “And
some of them do wear dresses.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yeah I know.” .
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Did you wear it?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I see... was it nice?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It was gorgeous!” I exclaimed, biting my lip as I recalled the
experience.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Hmm.” my mother groaned, somewhat disapprovingly.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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...”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And that's when you started seeing Kelly?” my mother asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Didn't her parents mind?” my mother quizzed.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“No.” I shrugged. “<span style="font-style: normal;">It was a
bit weird at times though... depending on what she made me wear.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Such as?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Did you always wear what she wanted?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“In the shops?” my mother gasped.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yeah.” I replied. On a few occasion I tried something on, bought
it and walked out wearing it</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And what did people think?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well it's your lifestyle choice.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It is in Brighton... in Oakham I'd rather be a normal guy.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And what about Monday and Tuesday and everyday since?” I bluntly
asked. “Still teaching me a lesson?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“No... I'm encouraging your lifestyle choice.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Enforcing it more like.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Who you are in Brighton is who you'll be in Oakham.” my mother
retorted.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“My roof my rules Steven.” she sternly reminded me. “You'll
wear what you're told until I decide otherwise.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And how long will that be?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Where am I going to get twelve hundred pounds from?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“The same place as everyone else Steven... you get it a little bit
at a time, by working for it.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But I haven't got a job and no one's going to employ me dressed
like this.” I retorted. “Certainly not in Oakham.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Like I say. I'm still deciding how you can repay me.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Err... I'm OK.” I bashfully replied. “I tend to wear flats
most of the time.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yet your heels outnumber flat shoes three to one.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I've worn them more this week than any other Mum.” I said. “I
didn't potter around my flat in them.” I claimed.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well I'd think not... you had neighbours downstairs to consider.”
my mother replied.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">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: </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, monospace;"><span style="font-style: normal;">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</span></span><span style="font-style: normal;">.
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. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yeah well I'm not a young woman am I.” I dryly said. “But it's
certainly my ID.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yes I know... you're the talk of the village.” he told me.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Tell me about it.” I frowned.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“That's eighteen pounds seventy-two please.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I waved my debit card over the machine until it beeped approvingly.
He bagged my items and handed it to me. “Thanks.” I said.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“See you again.” he said as I left.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yeah... are you?” I retorted. One of her friends sniggered,
until she elbowed him in the ribs.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Are you a faggot?” she asked.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Tranny!” she hollered once I'd walked past.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Observant!” I hollered back.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“At this time of night you may as well get your nightie on.” my
mother suggested.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I hate that nightie.” I whined, before suggesting that she could
have let me have some of my own nightwear.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You only need one nightie.” she said, before insisting I wear
it.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You didn't have to wash your make-up off.” my mother said when I
returned wearing her unwanted nightie.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--Sunday.--><span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I'm not wearing a bra mum.” I said as she removed a plain white
one.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">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 </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-style: normal;">¾</span></span><span style="font-style: normal;">”
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.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">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. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Ebay.” I replied. “I meant to resell it but...” I frowned.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well it's good job you didn't.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I wish I had.” I sighed. “How's your hangover?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I told you.” I humbly mumbled. “I liked pretending sometimes.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Pretending what... exactly?” she bluntly asked. “That you're a
schoolgirl?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Not always... sometimes I pretend it's just normal.” I replied.
“...and in a place like Brighton it pretty much is.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And you're far more willing than you make out.” my mother
claimed.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I don't have much choice do I?” I sighed.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Left then right then right.” she clarified.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Yes.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">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. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Please.” Mum replied. “It's just tea towels and dish cloths...
would you mind hanging them on the line.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Outside with that thing!” she said, nodding at the half smoked
cigarette in my hand.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Don't blame me Steven.” my mother retorted. “It's up to you to
check.” she stated. “Would you like to borrow a slip?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Can I?” I timidly asked, before telling her that I should have
some of my own in amongst my stuff in the garage.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">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 '</span><i>boy goes to
girls school</i><span style="font-style: normal;">' 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. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Is that better?” I ask my mother as I return to the kitchen.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Much.” she tells me. “You left the laundry basket on the
lawn.”
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I only did what you told me.” I humbly replied. “I wouldn't
have had a clue otherwise.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">What did you cook in Brighton?”
she asked. “Or </span><i>did</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
you cook?” she quizzed.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Do you buy the cheese sauce or make it?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I make it.” I replied. “Kelly taught me.” I added, before
briefly explaining the process.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I've never thought of it like that before.” I replied. “I've
only ever made cauliflower cheese.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<!--The key--><span style="font-style: normal;">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.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I've tried like five times today.” she bluntly retorted. “But
it's gone on to voice mail every time.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Sorry... it's switched off. I haven't got a charge cable.” I
said. “Why didn't you call me?!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Because you mother told me not to.” she replied. “Sorry it
ended the way it did but... did your Mum explain?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“That you were going to dump me anyway?” I said as I stepped into
the garden.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“That's not fair... you know I like dressing up.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">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 </span><i>I</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
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!”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Is it true you've been seeing other guys?” I asked. “Behind my
back.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“When you're in Brighton and I'm in Basington, it's hardly behind
your back Stevie.”
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I said I gave it to your mother.” Kelly replied.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“What?!!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You heard.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“No Kelly.. please tell me this is a wind up.” I pleaded. “Does
she know what it's for?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Oh yes.” my mother replied. “But what I really want to know
Steven, is why?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Err...” I hesitantly began. “You'll never understand.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Try me.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You've known all week and you didn't say anything?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I gulped and nodded, but couldn't actually say it.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And how is it?” she asked. “Any blisters or chaffing?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I gulped and shook my head.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Well I'll have to check.” she said. “I won't actually believe
this until I see it.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Please Mum.” I murmured. “Just give me the key.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">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.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I gulped and nodded, but could barely raise my eyes to my mother's.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Why?” she asked.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Please Mum.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">Please Steven!” she barked. “I
don't want to... I </span><i>need</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
to.” she stated. “Stand up, and show me.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Can I have the key now?” I ask after letting my dress drop to my
calves.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“No.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Please Mum... it's not yours. It's mine. I gave it to Kelly. Not
you!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But that's just stuff in a book... it's not to be taken seriously
it's just... role play.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“How long is it since you were released?” she asked. “And don't
lie to me.” she warned.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Five and a half weeks.” I meekly confessed.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“So you're due for release this weekend?” she asked. “Six weeks
is a maximum, I understand?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
I lowered my eyelids and nodded.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“And how does that work?”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Erm.... Kelly unlocks it.” I muttered.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But Mum... you can't!”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“I don't!” I meekly peeped as I stood before her.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“It's not like that Mum.” I insisted. “I find the clothes
comforting rather than exciting.” I claimed. “They make me feel
like... <i>me</i>.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“But Mum!” I yelped. “It's been six weeks.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“Not quite.” she stated. “According to the <i>keyholder's</i>
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.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You've taken my laptop.” I reminded her.
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“You're phone's smart enough.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“There's hardly any battery left.”</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“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?</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">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. </span><i>Oh, I almost forgot... the key to his chastity
cage.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I imagined her saying,
just as my mother was leaving her flat last Sunday. </span><i>Ooh and
you'll need this</i><span style="font-style: normal;">... 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. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">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. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">Maybe so... but you put yourself
in chastity and handed the key to your girlfriend, and she gave it to
me.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">But it's nonsense... the key's
not hers to give away, it's mine!”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">It's a nonsense that you bought
into when you handed the key to Kelly.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">So?”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">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.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">But Mum!”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">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!”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">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.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">You know what you have to do...
you have to repay the money I've wasted on your tuition fees.” my
mother replied. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">But how?” I whined. “I
haven't got a job.” I stated. “Or any savings.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">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.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I quickly totted up some figures in
my head. “That'd take five months!”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">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.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">You've got to be kidding!”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">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.” </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">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. </span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">A wry smile swept my mother's face.
“Are you sure?" my mother asked. </span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I thought for a moment, then gulped and nodded. "Yes."</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">"Well in that case." my mother said. "You'd best iron your uniform ready for the morning.”</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
<br /></div>
PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-12606703423055646002019-03-17T12:07:00.004-07:002019-03-22T07:28:38.129-07:00Podium Girls<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I had no intention of publishing another story quite so soon...</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">but this one just fell out of my fingers after I'd</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">plagiarised one of <a href="http://not2britecaps.blogspot.com/2018/12/what-did-she-think.html" target="_blank">Not Too Bright</a>'s captions.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">quickly written, not proof read, possibly packed with errors and it ends abruptly...<br />apologies in advance</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Janet sniggered and
said “It must be so boring being a boy... it's nothing but jeans
and T shirts and trousers and shirts and jumpers and jeans and
trousers and shirts or a jumper and jeans and... if I was guy I’d
be campaigning for <i>equality in clothing rights</i> and demanding
my right to wear a skirt or a dress and high heeled shoes!”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah you wouldn't...
you'd be thinking; <i>Yey, I don't to get up half an hour earlier to
do my hair and make-up... I'm glad I’m a guy and don't have to
bother with all that everyday</i>.” I suggested as she finished
applying my make-up. “This is fun as a one off but doing it daily
must be a bit of a chore.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah it is a bit...
but don't you feel short changed as a boy? Us girls can wear whatever
we like whenever we like and you've only got a choice of long or
short pants and long or short sleeves.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's not quite that
simple though. Can you go to work without wearing make-up?” I
rhetorically asked. “...and plenty of offices still insist on women
wearing skirts and heels. It was on Woman's Hour a couple of weeks
ago and Jenny Murray was saying that it's not just the skirts and
heels, it's the extra twenty minutes doing their hair and make-up
every morning.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You listen to
Woman's Hour?!” my sister quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not religiously...
it's just on every morning and I often catch a bit of it.” I
claimed</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK... forget
working... what about going out 'round town?” she suggested. “I
can wear ripped jeans and a skinny tee and you'd get turned away from
most bars if you wore jeans and a T shirt. They'd be like <i>sorry
mate too casual</i>.” she said, mimicking a man's voice quite
convincingly. “Us girls can be casual, smart, plain, pretty or
tarty and we wouldn't get turned away from anywhere... but you guys
get turned away unless you're wearing smart shoes, trousers and a
shirt.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I know what you
mean.” I replied. “The rock bars are a lot more relaxed when it
comes to the dress code.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're a lot more
relaxed when it comes to hygiene too!” Janet sneered. “Right... I
think that's you just about done.” she said, stepping back and
replacing the lid of the eyebrow pencil.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can I see now?” I
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Be my guest.” she
said, gesturing to the full length mirror leant up against the wall.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I timidly stepped in
front of the mirror and slowly raised my eyes. My jaw dropped after a
short sharp intake of breath. “Blimey Janet... I look just like a
girl!” I gasped. “...and my legs look so long!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Your legs look
amazing... I'm well jell!” my sister gushed. “Shaving them was
absolutely the right decision.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I sighed.
We'd tried just a pair of nude tights but my squished up leg hair
beneath them was far too obvious. “I can't believe what you've done
to my face... I really don't look like me at all!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's amazing what
can be achieved with make-up.” she grinned as she stepped to my
side. “...and a pair of socks.” she added, grabbing one of my
'boobs'.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oi that's
harassment!” I jovially protested. My sister giggled as I turned my
head this way and that. The coiled plait on the back has been clipped
on to my own, shorter hair. “My hair looks really convincing...
that hairpiece looks really real.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I must say I’m
quite impressed myself with that.” she said. “How do your ears
feel?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Still a bit sore.”
I replied. “It's weird when they bag against my neck.” I added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I quite like wearing
big earrings because of that. When you're just wearing studs or
sleepers, you forget they're there.” Janet replied. “Although you
really should be wearing a pair of studs until they've healed
properly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... once this is
over, I'll just let the holes heal up.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Loads of guys have
both ears pierced these days.” Janet said. “Just look at Eminem.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but he doesn't
wear dangly earrings like this.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but he's not
posing as a podium girl.” Janet stated. “You've really saved the
day Peter... I can't thank you enough for this.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I haven't done
anything yet. What if I mess up?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You can't mess up...
all we have to do is stand on a box and do a bit of posing like...”
Janet demonstrated by doing a quirky little Betty Boop dance. “...and
hold a letter.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My sister works in a
bar in town and that bar has just undergone and extensive
refurbishment and this afternoon is its relaunch party. The plan was
to have six girls on podiums behind where the ribbon will be cut for
the grand reopening.... each girl holding a big polystyrene letter,
spelling out the bar's name of OSCAR'S.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But disaster struck the
day before the reopening... one of the girls had a fall and can't
take part in the relaunch party which meant my sister had to find a
last minute replacement. She asked her 'good looking' girlfriends but
they all declined. No one wants to be a podium girl in this day and
age, me included! But my sister was beside herself with worry. They'd
been planning the relaunch for weeks. They got the six big
polystyrene letters cut and painted in pink and silver, the six
podiums made, they decided on the outfits; an off the shoulder bo-ho
top and tiny black shorts... and worked on a very simple routine that
would last no more than a few minutes.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I could empathise with
Janet's plight. The routine wouldn't work with only five girls and
none of the guys who worked at the bar could step in because they'd
be behind the bar ready and waiting to serve when the ribbon is cut.
I don't know how she talked me into it... in fact I do... she assured
me that no one would recognise me as a male when she's finished and
looking at my reflection in the mirror, I think she's right. “Are
you sure you don't want to try heels?” she asked as we admired our
matching reflections.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah it's too
risky... what if I twist my ankle like what's her face did
yesterday?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“True.” Janet
agreed. “Just try them though... just so I can see.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.” I sighed. I
sat on her bed and pushed my toes into a pair of her black court
shoes with a slender three inch heel. Janet suggested I be careful
when I stand. “Don't worry, I am being.” I said as I slowly
stood. “These feel scary... I've always wondered how you can walk
so confidently in them.” I said as I cautiously stepped to the
mirror.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Years of practise.”
Janet replied. “What do you think?” she asked as I observed
myself.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... I'm not
sure.” I said. “They look the part... and my legs look even
longer... but I'm not going to risk trying to walk in them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll only be on a
podium doing this.” Janet said, demonstrating the very simple dance
which is nothing more than wiggling the hips and knees on stationary
feet and holding one of the six polystyrene letters above our heads.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but it's
getting <i>to</i> the podium and getting <i>on</i> the podium that
I'm worried about. You've already lost one girl due to an ankle
injury... you'll never find a replacement if I do the same.. so I'd
best wear flats.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I guess you're
right.” my sister said. I kicked off the heels and dropped down to
my actual height and slipped my feet into a pair of her flat-black
ballet style shoes. “It's a good job we've got the same size feet.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It is.” I
nervously agreed. “But I am having second thoughts.” I grimaced
at my reflection.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh don't get cold
feet now Peter!” Janet whined. “You look perfect!” she
insisted. “...and it's fifty quid for a few minutes dancing about
on a podium.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know... it's
just... these hot pants... I feel too exposed!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We're all wearing
hot pants Peter... and my control knickers do flatten you out quite
convincingly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Beneath the tiny pair
of black stretchy shorts I’m wearing a big pair of my sister's
control knickers. They're really tight from my waist to my thigh but
they do eliminate my boyish bulge. Despite having second thoughts, I
know I can't back out now and the grand opening is only a couple of
hours away. When Janet asked if I’d help, it was the fact that the
outfit didn't involve a dress or a skirt, but just some shorts and a
top that swayed me. That didn't sound too bad... but now I can see
just how very short my shorts are and just how overtly feminine I
look, I think I'd have preferred a dress or a knee length skirt.
“We're podium girls Peter... it's all about the leg.” Janet said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know... I'm just
not used to having so much leg on show.” I frowned. “Everyone's
going to be staring at them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's five other
pairs of legs for the punters to gorp at.” Janet reminded me. “You
won't be the only one being ogled by blokes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll be the only one
who is a bloke.” I nervously chuckled. Janet grinned and told me
that the more they're looking at my legs, the less likely they are to
notice my Adams Apple. I bit my lip and raised my fingers to my
throat. “I hadn't thought about that.” I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll be fine.”
Janet assured. She took my hand in hers. “We'll be about fifteen
feet away from the crowd and to be honest, I don't expect more than
ten or fifteen people... it's not as if there's celebrity cutting the
ribbon... it's just the boss.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oscar?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's not actually
called Oscar.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I don't know why I
thought he was called Oscar since I knew it was just the name of the
bar. “I guess that's what you call a blonde moment?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're a brunette.”
Janet grinned. Her eyes dropped to my hand which she held gently in
hers. “Just our nails next.” she said. “Then we'd best get
going.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I took breath and said
OK. “Please don't put those long talons on me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I won't.” she
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The false nails she
glued to my own were just a couple of millimetres longer than I'm
used to. She painted them in a deep rich red shade that almost
perfectly matched my lipstick. “Is that what you do?” I asked.
“Match your nails to your lippy?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Often but not
always.” Janet told me as she tended to her own nails. “I've been
known to match my nails to my earrings to my lipstick, handbag <i>and</i>
shoes.” she claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Must be quite fun...
doing all the accessorising and stuff. Us blokes don't have to worry
about any of that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And that's where I
think you guys are missing out.” she replied. “I hate to wear
pants and top one day, then different pants and a top the next, then
pants and a top the day after that, and the next, then when I’m
going out on the town it's pants and top again and when I’m
slobbing out on Sunday, it's pants and a top.” she rapped. “We've
got pants and tops, short skirts, long skirts, shorts, culottes,
strappy dresses, dungee-dresses, strapless dresses, tight dresses,
floaty dresses, play-suits, jumpsuits, leggings...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... I think I’d
be overwhelmed with choice.” I supposed. “Does seem a bit unfair
though... there's this whole spectrum of style and us guys are only
allowed one tiny bit of it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's exactly what
I was saying earlier.” Janet replied as she painted her nails in
the same shade as mine. “Sometimes when I'm feeling a bit down in
the dumps... I'll choose a really great dress and put on some killer
heels, do something different or daring with my hair and make-up and
all of a sudden I feel really fucking fantastic... even if I’ve no
where to go, getting dressed up is a real pick-me-up.” she
excitedly told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm finding it
really quite nerve racking.” I confessed. “Although it does
feel... <i>fucking fantastic</i> ...as you put it, too.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good... you look
fucking fantastic, and I'm feeling nervous too... I've never been a
podium girl before either.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Janet drove us to
Oscar's bar and parked in the alley around the back. There's still a
good hour before the opening. Inside, the barmen are arranging the
tables and making sure everything looks perfect. Janet and I approach
a couple of girls dressed in identical outfits to ours. “Janet I
can't believe you found a replacement for Lucy!” one of them
exclaimed. “I thought you said everyone had turned you down.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They had.” Janet
replied. “But that was before I asked....” her eyes turned upon
me. “My brother!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's no way she's
a boy!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hi.” I bashfully
said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh my god you are!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I felt more bashful
than I've ever felt before. I didn't know what to do other than pull
an 'eek' face. Janet grabs my hand. “Peter... this is Zoe, and this
is Claire.” she said. “Zoe and Claire, my little brother Peter.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Wow!” Zoe and
Claire exclaimed. “You look amazing!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it's all
Janet's work.” I shyly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Zoe asked if all the
hair coiled on the back of my head was my own. “No... that's
false... my own is desperately in need of cut.” I replied. Claire
asked if was an actual cross-dresser. “Not usually.” I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh... it's just,
you've got your ears pierced.” Claire said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... Janet pierced
them earlier.” I replied. “They're still a bit sore.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I bet they are...
you're not supposed to wear danglies for about a month or two.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but it's just
for today, then I’ll let them heal again.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Seems a bit
drastic... actually piercing his ears, just for a few hours.” Zoe
commented.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's just a few
minutes isn't it.” I quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Peter's just here
for the opening... filling in for Lucy on the podium.” Janet
informed them. “We'll easily cope afterwards.” she said. “I
can't imagine it getting too busy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In that case,
actually piercing his ears seems all the more drastic!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And he's shaved his
legs.” Claire noticed. “I though he was just wearing tights at
first.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well we had to do it
properly... didn't we Peter?” Janet said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I nervously nodded. “My
ears'll heal and the hair'll grow back.” I said, adding “I hope!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After the surprise of
Lucy's stand-in being a boy, Claire and Zoe really warmed to their
'honorary girl'. Janet fetched some drinks from the bar to settle our
nerves and my nerves did feel settled.... until the other two podium
girls arrived and after being introduced to Rebecca and Louise, we
went though the whole '<i>she's your brother</i>' routine all over
again. Another drink quelled those nerves. “Right... Mike's coming
over.” Janet said. “Don't let on that Peter's a boy.” she
instructed. “What?!” I thought. Janet turned to me “Peter...
you're Lucy... lets see how long it takes Mike to notice.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He'll notice when I
open my mouth.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just smile and nod
and sip your drink.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hello ladies!”
Mike, the owner of the bar announced when he approached the six
girls.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hi Mike.” they
said in unison. I just smiled coyly, briefly acknowledging him before
stirring and sipping my drink. It's weird drinking through a straw
but considering my lipstick, it makes perfect sense. My sister and
Zoe exchange a bit of banter with their boss. The rest of us just
smile and when Janet says “We're really looking forward to it,
aren't we Lucy?” I just smile and nod and sip my drink.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's the spirit
girls!” Mike says. He checks his watch. “We've got fifteen
minutes. I'd best check if that bloody press photographer has turned
up yet.” he said before marching off.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I can't believe he
thought I was Lucy.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't think he
properly looked... he's pretty stressed.” Louise reckoned. She cast
her eyes around the refurbished bar. “I hope it goes well for
him... he's spent a fortune doing it up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Looks pretty good.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... couldn't
look much worse though... it was a dive.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It wasn't that bad.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh it was.... the
carpets were sticky and walls were sweat stained.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've never been
before.” was the only contribution I could make.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You are only sixteen
Peter.” my sister reminded me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Don't let Mike know
he's under age!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's with me... it's
fine.” Janet claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We'd best go
outside.” Rebecca reckoned. “Only ten minutes to go.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We finished the drinks
and headed first to where the six big polystyrene letters were
stacked and took one each. Janet's got the O. I've got S. Zoe's got
C, Claire has A, Rebecca has the R and Louse has the other S.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh god I'm crapping
myself.” I said as I followed them outside.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll be fine!”
Janet assured. “There's quite a lot of people here.” she gasped,
seeing a crowd of at least fifty or sixty people. The six podiums
are arranged three on either side of the bar's entrance. Checking
we've got the correct letter and correct podium, we stand in
position. I can tell that the others are getting nervous too but at
least they're girls... what if someone in the crowd yells '<i>that
bird's a bloke</i>' or something? It's too late to back out now.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mike picks up the mic
and taps it. Buphf buphf, pounds through the PA. I gulp and turn my
eyes to Janet. I know what to do I'm just dreading doing it. Janet
makes eye contact with all of us, and as Mike begins to address the
crowd and thanks them for coming... we step onto the podiums, holding
our letters in front of our legs. As the opening fanfare blasts out
over the PA and Mike cuts the ribbon, we raise the big pink
polystyrene letters high above our heads and begin to wiggle our hips
in time with the music. The crowd applauds and Mike declares the bar
open. Janet and I, Zoe, Claire, Rebecca and Louise continue dancing
as the crown passes between us to enter the newly refurbished bar.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With everyone inside
and the fanfare music fading out, we step down from our podiums and
congratulate each other. “God I’ve never been so nervous in my
whole life!” I exclaimed as we high fived and patted one another's
backs. My sister's hand rubbed the fastener on the back of the
strapless bra she'd loaned me. She grinned. I blushed. She asked if I
enjoyed that. “Yeah... in a crapping myself sort of way.” I
admitted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ladies you look
lovely!” some bloke said. I turned to see a professional looking
DSLR camera pointing at us. “Can I get a few group shots please?”
the photographer asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err...” I
grimaced. We didn’t really have a choice and he took about ten
photos of us in various poses. “I'm glad that's over.” I said
when he went inside.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I bet you are!”
Janet grinned. “I can't thank you enough Peter.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're welcome you
nutter... only you could think of getting me to stand in as a last
minute podium girl!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And you carried it
off perfectly.” Janet grinned. The others agreed. “You coming in
for a drink?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes... I need one. A
very large one!” I said. We left the big pink glittery letters on
the podiums and went inside. “It's packed!” I loudly commented. A
DJ blasted out pounding dance music.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know... there's
loads here.” my sister exclaimed. “I didn't think many would turn
up!” she loudly told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Girls you were
great... absolutely fantastic!” Mike loudly said after pushing his
way through the crowd to greet us. “It's gonna be busy so I’ll
need all hand on deck... Lucy... hang on... you're not Lucy!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err...” I glanced
around for Janet but she's fetching our drinks.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Lucy couldn't make
it Mike... this is Janet's brother.” Rebecca loudly told him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What?” Mike
shouted over the banging tunes. Rebecca repeated herself, yelling
right in his ear.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mike's jaw dropped.
“Brother?!” I he gasped, looking me up and down from my long
hairless legs and tiny black shorts to my off the shoulder top and
the layers of make-up that hide my true identity.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err.... yeah...
Janet can be quite persuasive.” I bashfully yet loudly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're telling me!”
Mike replied. “Have you worked a bar before?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What?” I asked.
Mike repeated himself. “No.” I loudly said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shit!” he grabbed
his jaw. “Right... Rebecca and Zoe... I need you two behind the
bar... the rest of you, mingle, smile, collect the empties.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Errr... I was only
supposed to be ding the podium bit.” I explained. “Ah, Janet,
you're back!” I said seeing my sister appear with a tray of drinks.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“This is your
brother?” Mike quizzed. Janet nodded and told him that I'd kindly
agreed to stand in for Lucy on the podium. “Great... thanks.”
Mike said, but he seemed very flustered. He and my sister talked
about something and despite them being within a metre of me, over the
pounding music I could really hear.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Peter.” Janet
said. “I know it was just supposed to be a few minutes on the
podium but.... the place is rammed and we need all the help we can
get.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You want me to stay
and work?” I glumly yet loudly asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I wouldn't ask if we
didn't need you.” my sister told me. “You'll be paid of course.”
she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I sighed. “OK.” I
said, although I really really didn't want to. “How long for?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A couple of hours
maybe... 'til it dies down.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.” I grumbled.
“What do I do?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just mingle and
smile and collect the empties... and if anyone slaps your backside,
ignore it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I didn't quite catch
the last bit thanks to the loud pounding music. “What?” I said,
leaning my ear into my sister's mouth. She repeated herself. “You're
kidding!” I gasped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Comes with the
territory.” she said. “Drink up. You'll need it!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What was supposed to be
a few minutes dancing on a podium wearing a scanty outfit became
several hours politely pushing myself around a crowded bar trying to
collect the never ending supply of empty bottles and glasses,
ferrying them an armful at a time back to the bar. My heart was in my
mouth the whole time. Claire, Louise and my sister were also
collecting glasses and each time our paths crossed, they all asked if
I was OK and said I was doing great. “You weren't kidding about
getting my arse slapped!” I said as Janet and I both arrived at the
bar. The pounding music belted out some heavy dance beats and forced us to almost yell at one-another. “One bloke even wrapped his hand around my thigh!” I grimaced. "And this music doesn't help!" I added as the song lyrics included the lines: ...<i>we're gonna make our bitches work it on the floor, wanna see my sexy ladies screamin' "give me more", yeah we can turn this club around</i>...</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're lecherous
lowlifes... ignore them.” she said. “Just think of the money.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Easier said than
done... I swear if my glasses weren't all empty I’d had thrown one
in his face!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know it's tempting
but in a place like this... Look. If it happens again, point whoever
it was out to the bouncers and they'll deal with it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You sure?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... look, I'd
best get on... and so should you.” Janet said. “The half price
drinks offer ends at seven so it'll die down then.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What time is it
now?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just gone five.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is that all?!” I
exclaimed. Janet nodded.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I had no idea just how
hard bar work could be until now... especially if you're a young
woman wearing a tiny pair of shorts! Not a single moment went by when
some bloke wasn't smiling at me and looking me up and down, trying to
catch my eye. The slaps and gropes were few and far between but I
took my sister's first bit of advice and ignored it. I didn't like
the idea of telling one of the two bouncers, only for them to say
<i>you're a bloke!</i> the moment I spoke. I don't know how but I
somehow managed to get through it all without really speaking to any
of the punters. I barely had to even say <i>excuse me</i> as there
was always some ogling bloke trying to flatter me by stepping aside.
I'd just smile and peep some high pitched noise that rhymed with
'thanks' or 'ta' as I passed through with an armful of empties. I
took them to the bar and hitched up my bra. “So do you dress like a
girl often?” Rebecca asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Apart from today,
never.” I told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're really
convincing.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't know if I
should say thanks or not.” I smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“If anything it's us
that should be thanking you... I can't believe how many people turned
up!” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.... seems to be
dying down at bit now though.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah, the drinks
offer ended ten minutes ago.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is it seven
already?” I asked. She nodded and said it was ten-past.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
By seven thirty, the
bar had quietened down considerably. Half an hour ago it was standing
room only but now there's a few vacant tables and just handful
standing around the bar. I deliver a stack of empties to the bar and
Rebecca stacks them in a dishwasher tray. “Mike said you can grab a
break.” she told me before opening the hatch and allowing me behind
the bar. “I'm on one too.” she said. She poured two shots and
topped them up with either soda and ice.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are we allowed to
drink on duty?” I asked as she handed me one.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... not really
but we're on a break.” she said as she led me out the back to a
small yard with stacks of empty barrels and crates. “Want one?”
she asked, offering me a cigarette.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... I don't
normally smoke but.. yeah.. thanks.” I said, removing one. “It's
been a bit of an unexpected whirlwind today.” I said as she put a
cigarette between her plush pink lips and offered me a light.
“Thanks.” I said after exhaling. “God I needed that.” I said
as she sparked up.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She exhaled and looked
me up and down. “I can't believe this is your first time.” she
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's all Janet's
work... she did my hair, my make-up, the fake tan.” I told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but... your
mannerisms, the way you walk... that cute little smile of yours.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... I am trying
to play the part.” I bashfully told her. “I don't want to be
pacing about like some burly bloke out there... otherwise everyone
would know.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you're playing
the part well... and you certainly carry the look well too.” she
complimented.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thanks.” I shyly
said, sucking on the cigarette and chuckling at the imprint of lush
red lipstick on the filter.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Have you enjoyed
it?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What? Dressing as a
woman or being ogled & groped by pissed up blokes?” I
countered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I was thinking
about the job; collecting glasses and that... Mike might offer you a
job if Lucy's going to be off her feet for a while.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yikes!” I
retorted. “Well so long as he doesn't expect me to dress like
this... if I had a pound for every time my arse had been slapped...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... it's like
that when you're collecting glasses.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But only if you're a
girl.” I commented. “Or dressed as one.” I corrected. “I
can't believe just how rude some men can be... this has been a real
eye opener.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Welcome to our
world.” Rebecca grinned before we chinked glasses. After a short
silence in which we smoked and sipped our drinks, I asked how long
she'd worked here. “About a year.” she said, adding that it's
been shut for three months during the refurbishment. “In the
meantime I’ve been temping... chambermaid, cleaning, bit of
waitressing. It'll be nice to get back to regular hours again.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Did mike tell you
was gonna offer me a job?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No but he did say a
few times that the girl's doing a good job.” she grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“God he probably
thinks I'm a full time tranny.” I grimaced.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rebecca grinned. “I
reckon you could carry off our usual uniform as well as any of us.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What is the usual
uniform?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just a white blouse,
short black skirt, black tights...” she listed as her eyes moved
down my body. “...shoes like those or heels if you prefer.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That doesn't sound
so bad.” I replied. “I mean... in comparison to hot pants and
this.” I said, grabbing at my feminine top.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So... if Mike
offered you a job but said you had to dress as a girl rather than a
guy... you'd give it a try?” she quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... er...
prob'ly not.” I stated. I wanted to backtrack and explain that in
saying that their usual uniform didn't sound so bad, I didn't mean
for me... I meant for them since it's more modest than our hot-pants
and scanty top. “Given the choice I’d dress as a guy... and I’m
only sixteen so can't serve drinks so I doubt he'd be able to offer
me anything.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Lucy's sixteen too.”
Rebecca told me as she checked her watch. “We'd best get back.”
she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The bar was only half
full by this time. Janet and Zoe had a break whilst I cleared the
tables and wiped to table tops. With not so many people standing in
the bar and interrupting the lines of sight, I get to see my
reflection in the many mirrors that fill the alcoves. I can't get
over how long and slender my legs look, and it's hard to believe that
the pretty face my sister had painted over mine is actually my
face... and I’m really liking the little sparkly glints from my
dangly earrings. I deliver a tray full of empties to Rebecca behind
the bar. “What?” I ask of her beaming grin.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nothing.” she
grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Go on.” I
prompted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I could feel myself
blushing when she said that she's been watching me glancing at my
reflection at every opportunity. “You fancy yourself don't you.”
she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... well... I
look pretty hot!” I bashfully replied. “Does that make me sound
vane?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not under the
circumstances.” she said. “Janet's done an excellent job on you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She has.” I
agreed. I described how my sister got me dressed then began working
on my hair and make-up. Janet wouldn't let me see myself for ages and
when she did let me in front of her mirror, I couldn't believe what I
was looking at. “All I could see was a girl and behind all her
make-up I could just about see me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I get the feeling
this isn't going to be the last time you dress up as a girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh I dunno.” I
honestly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's that?” my
sister asked as she appeared behind the bar.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Errr.... Rebecca
thinks this isn't the last time I'm going to dress as a girl.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I certainly hope
not!” my sister grinned. “This has opened the door for a whole
new brother/sister relationship between us.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Now I’m getting
worried.” I grimaced. “And I can't see Mum and Dad being too
happy if you start giving me regular make-overs.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What you on about
Peter?... Dad's been cross-dressing for years!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're kidding!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Surely you knew?”
she asked. “He always has echoes of eye-liner on a Sunday!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Does he?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Derr... yeah...!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped. Surely not, I
thought. Rebecca suggested that me being a boy, I probably wouldn't
notice the left over traces of make-up like a girl would. Janet said
she was probably right. “Does Dad know that you know?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think so... but we
haven't talked about it.” Janet replied. “Mum knows I know and I
expect she's told him...” she added. “...so you've no worries
about Mum and Dad.” she claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm still not sure
if I want to dress up again.” I glumly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Peter... of course
you do... otherwise you wouldn't have let me pierce your ears.” my
sister stated. “In fact you wouldn't have done any of this.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think Janet's
right Peter.” Rebecca said. “There's a girl in you that's
desperate to get out.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped. My head was
full of so many thoughts. I can't deny that the prospect of dressing
as a girl didn't engage me, and the reality of my make-over wasn't
exciting. Dancing on the podium in front of dozens of onlookers and
photographers was really scary yet strangely thrilling and the
reality of being a scantily clad girl in a bar filled with boisterous
blokes was enlightening as much as it was intimidating. “Oh I
dunno.” I said. “Can I just get through today before I start
thinking about tomorrow?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Course.” my sister
smiled. “Come on we'd best get back to work.” she said. We
cleared the tables together and chatted. “You do realise Mum and
Dad will be in when we get back?” Janet asked. “and we don't have
a change of clothes.” she reminded me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I bit my lip. First I
thought about them seeing me dressed like this. Then I wondered if my
dad might be dressed up too... that would be weird. “You don't
think Dad'll be dressed up do you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah... he hides it
pretty well.” my sister claimed. “I think that goes on when he
goes to bed early... and when they have their weekends away.” she
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“When we used to stay
at grannies?” I asked. Janet nodded. I still can't believe any of
this but a lot of things seem to be slotting into place. “Blimey.”
I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I honestly though
you'd noticed.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah.” I replied.
“I'm going with Rebecca's theory... I’m just a boy and therefore
not programmed to detect invisible traces of make-up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're more than
just a boy Peter.” Janet said. “You can be anything you want to
be; boy, girl, tom-boy.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Lady boy.” I
sarcastically added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Janet smirked. I
grinned. “We could have a house full of women.” she suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped and wiped the
table as I considered the prospect of a family of trannies. “Even
if your right about dad...” I said. “...I'm still dreading facing
him like this.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It'll be fine... and
it's all my doing remember.” Janet assured me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I guess.” I
said. “I'm tempted to send a text to warn them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm tempted to send
a photo!” Janet suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No please! No
photographs.” I insisted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why not?” Janet
quizzed. “We'll be in the paper on Wednesday.” she said. “Mike
managed to blag a double page spread, which is why that photographer
was here.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Blimey I’d clean
forgotten about that!” I sighed.
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Janet smiled. In fact she didn't stop smiling.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-80547176864669623502019-03-16T08:16:00.002-07:002019-03-22T07:43:07.297-07:00Agent Parker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfucsu2eTJrIaNmHBY7MpXMyo2dX3uJEBL3t6b4ZusdeE5hK6bNFlYh277RNXmWAPImT4s3GOFmYd9XVLJtThO_9z2THwcRgpQJfK0uUxmqNJFneJXEcwNLoR5AcaPZR6pzO9nqQM0/s1600/undercover.fw.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1020" data-original-width="760" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfucsu2eTJrIaNmHBY7MpXMyo2dX3uJEBL3t6b4ZusdeE5hK6bNFlYh277RNXmWAPImT4s3GOFmYd9XVLJtThO_9z2THwcRgpQJfK0uUxmqNJFneJXEcwNLoR5AcaPZR6pzO9nqQM0/s640/undercover.fw.png" width="476" /></a></div>
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
This was my first
mission as a female. Posing as an air-hostess, I simply had to
observe and report back to my Commanding Officer and that's exactly
what I did. I stood nervously with a colleague and greeted the
passengers as they entered the plane. I did get nervous as Blofeld
approached. I still feel like I’ve got my old face. I'm certainly
looking at the dastardly arch-villain through the same eyes as last
time, only this time I can feel the delicate weight of mascara on my
lashes. My colleague directs Blofeld to first class. I direct the
couple behind to standard class but glance to see what Blofeld is up
to and who (if anyone) he speaks to.<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Being an undercover
agent, I've learnt many things over the years; surveillance,
self-defence, sabotage, seduction, escapology, scuba diving, rock
climbing, parachuting... you get the drift. I thought I'd learned
everything until a rash decision in Lyon led to my cover being blown.
I almost blew the entire mission but luck was on my side and Blofeld
failed to actually contain me. Thanks to my slight frame, I was able
to escape through the air conditioning system and Blofeld's bumbling
henchmen were too fat to follow.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When I got back to HQ,
my commanders were more interested in berating me for what went wrong
rather than patting me on the back for my cunning escape. They
threatened to take me off the mission and put me behind a desk, or worse still... Court Marshall me which at best would result in me being
dismissed and at worst, being deep-sixed! I'd been on this mission
from the start and they'd be foolish to take me off it. I could
change my appearance and continue... all I’d need is a beard and
coloured contact lenses to hide my distinctive bright blue eyes
...but they wouldn't risk it. It was Miss Moneypenny who sided with
me and suggested that I could continue, with a little work.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Being an undercover
agent, I've learnt many things over the years. But since the incident
in Lyon, I've had to learn things that I never expected; hair
styling, cosmetics, personal grooming, walking, talking and even
dancing like a lady. Not so long ago I’d been a red blooded guy for
my entire life... now I've got breasts and a vagina, a new smaller
nose and a smoother jawline to go with it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I've spent most of the
last few months being mentored by Moneypenny herself. I've had to
relearn my own entire past, from joining the Brownies and being a
girl at school. I’ve had to re-imagine my days playing rugby and
cricket as me playing hockey and netball, and my evenings attending
Scouts I have to recall as a few years in the Girl Guides. Moneypenny engages me in
endless 'girl-talk'... she'll ask what my favourite lipstick is, my
favourite dress or jumper, to describe some shoes to die for... but
worst of all is when she asks about my old boyfriends. Despite not
having any old boyfriends and my insistence that I’m a lesbian, I
have to make something up if I’m going to be a convincing female.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Then there's so many
seemingly simple things such as strolling around the shops and
habitually pausing to look at some shoes, sniff a perfume sampler,
inspect a handbag or admire an outfit. I've learned to sew and knit
and crochet. I've learned to assemble an outfit and add accessories,
but hardest of all was learning to socialise. I've been to coffee
mornings and learned to witter on endlessly about all sorts of
nonsense from cake making to flower arranging. I've been to sleazy
sweaty night clubs and danced like a slut until the early hours...
fending off the unwanted advances from lecherous men and resisting
the urge to punch their lights out (that wouldn't be very lady like).
I've been to the gym, the sauna, the swimming pool and beach.
Libraries, restaurants, galleries and museums... all the while I grew
more and more accustomed to living, acting and most importantly,
reacting like a lady would.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I've spent so much time
in stiletto heels that I actually find flat shoes rather
discomforting. The pair of two inch kitten heels I'm wearing as part of
my air hostess uniform are a pleasure to wear. Being dressed from
head to toe in pink is horrendous but necessary. Being ogled by every
guy who boards the plane is getting more than a little tiresome. It's
part of my job to smile and greet the passengers. It's not their job
to run their eyes over my figure and glare at my tits, especially
when their wives or girlfriends are stood right next to them.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As far as the mission
is concerned, all I have to do is work out which of my colleagues is
Blofeld's contact and report her identity to my superiors. As far as
my job is concerned, all I have to do is be pleasant and polite to
the passengers who think I’m their personal servant. I've had my
arse slapped more times than I care to remember and each and every
one is lucky that I didn't swiftly break their wrist. I quickly
discover that being an air-hostess takes an awful lot of resilience
and restraint.<br />
<br />
Eventually we touch down in Cairo. Blofeld disembarks.
I presume he's being tailed by other MI6 agents. I've done my bit. I
have to pretend to be an air-hostess on her first day and as such, I
hang out with the other hostesses and talk about shoes and boyfriends
and all sorts of 'girl' talk. When you've been a guy for twenty-four
years and a woman for only six months... listening to other women
talking freely is a real eye opener. I almost splutter through my
drink when I’m asked if I prefer a big cock or a smaller one. As
far as being woman goes, I’m still very much a virgin but I recall
all my girl-talk chats with Moneypenny and say “I like little cocks
best... they try harder.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They all giggle or gasp
at my frank response. A customs officer enters the private cabin-crew lounge
and approaches one of the hostesses. Our attention is drawn by
Anita's demands to know what's going on as she's escorted away. Being
the new girl, I'm told that it's probably just some mix up. “What
kind of mix-up?” I quiz. I'm told that some over-the-counter
medicines could be controlled drugs in countries like Egypt so one
must always be careful what they pack in their case. I consider my own black case that contains a state of the art portable computer as well as an international radiophone. An anecdote
regarding a rubber dong almost getting a pilot imprisoned in the UAE
lightens the tension a little. I'm told not to worry about Anita and
am assured that she'll probably be back in half an hour after proving
that her bag of bath salts wasn't a bag of cocaine. Little do they
know that Anita will be spending the next few days being deprived of
sleep and questioned by MI6 agents. My guise as an air-hostess
continues for a couple of weeks before I decide it's not for me and
hand my notice in.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When I return the HQ,
I'm praised for playing my part in bringing one of Blofeld's contacts
in. “You did a top job Steve.” my commanding officer said. I
placed my hand gently in his and dropped a tiny curtsey as he limply
shook it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's Fiona
remember.” I bashfully replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll always be
Steve to me Agent Parker.” he replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“All due respect sir
but when I was Steve, you could look me in the eye and not down my
cleavage.” I told him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Huh.” he grunted,
tearing his gaze from my tits and glancing out of the window. “Now...
your next mission.” he said as he stepped behind his desk and
pressed a button on the intercom. “Moneypenny, can you bring the
Red Light file?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I sit and cross my
legs. My nylon stocking stretches over my knee and a patent black
stiletto hangs from my toe. I tug my miniskirt over my lap as Moneypenny enters with a file and begins
to read aloud. Another of Blofeld's suspected contacts frequents a
lap-dancing bar in Soho. I'm handed a photograph of the suspect.
“I've arranged an interview for tomorrow at noon.” Moneypenny
tells me. “Wear something slutty... and be prepared to dance.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're kidding me!”
I gasp.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-50346336572365906722019-01-24T04:25:00.007-08:002023-08-28T08:41:53.258-07:00Sold for Sixpence <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ91rl_fiBBqfyNvBMdPR_SMd9GAGNnV9UGQ_hBGv9o58ZEvO8TCXa8AzeWgJSSZdelzwJqf6VZnrg2XtMfuZaoFeWnmcleA74we9pBQc7CzGdpxOG6RID9db-jALrksJnQxcRdGUh/s1600/a+new+life+for+thomas.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="970" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ91rl_fiBBqfyNvBMdPR_SMd9GAGNnV9UGQ_hBGv9o58ZEvO8TCXa8AzeWgJSSZdelzwJqf6VZnrg2XtMfuZaoFeWnmcleA74we9pBQc7CzGdpxOG6RID9db-jALrksJnQxcRdGUh/s640/a+new+life+for+thomas.jpg" width="593" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That doesn't matter here.” she said, glancing at her associates. “We regularly shun our femininity.” she told me. “Not because we're ashamed of our feminal qualities.” she explained. I wasn't even sure what feminal qualities were. “On the contrary young Thomas...” she continued. “...nothing feels more wonderful than satin and silk against your skin and being swathed in petticoats and perfume after a good while in gentlemen's attire.” she claimed. I gulped. “An urchin like you I expect has never been frocked on a Sunday...” she said. “...will find the experience all the more enthralling. Go with William and learn to be a lady.”<br />
<br />
“But... I don't want to be a lady... I'm a boy.”<br />
<br />
“You'll always be a boy young Thomas... but you will learn to be a lady.” she stated. I cast my eyes over the other stern looking women and their mannish garments. Their gaze appeared to pin me to the spot on which I stood but none of them spoke. I wondered whether the young bespectacled woman was their leader or their messenger. I glanced at William. His brunette locks shone as they hung in tight ringlets over his shoulders. I detected a dusting of face powder and as he nervously glanced at me. He wears a glossy lip colouring too. I averted my eyes, briefly hung my head before looking up at the bespectacled young woman. “If you don't you'll have to repay me the sixpence I gave Rosie.” she said. “Do you have sixpence?”<br />
<br />
I shook my head and dropped my eyes. She told me to go with William and told me not to worry. But I was worried. I reluctantly followed William. The tails of his big satin bow swung in unison with his skirt and petticoats. He led me along a corridor in which his heeled boots struck the floor with a noisy clack. Although he's about my height, his head appeared high and still as he walked. He turned to me halfway down the corridor. “I wasn't really an urchin.” he said. “My father owed a gambling debt to them and I was the settlement.” he told me.<br />
<br />
“Who are they?” I asked. “Why do they dress like men?”<br />
<br />
“The Progressive Society of Ladies and Matriarchs.” William told me. “They dress as men to demonstrate their superiority over men.” he said. “They dress as women too.” he added, before asking why I'm an urchin.<br />
<br />
“My father used to beat me so I ran away.” I replied. “Been on the streets ever since.” I added. I recall fleeing my family home as if it were yesterday but have felt so close to death on so many a winter night that I can't recall if I've been an urchin for two or three winters.<br />
<br />
“Well at least you're in a better place now.” William said. “My father's house was bigger than this one. We had servants and butlers, stables and horses.” he reminisced. “Now I'm just a servant when I'm not their wallflower.”<br />
<br />
“Wallflower?” I enquired.<br />
<br />
He glanced at me and raised his thin fingers to his ringleted hair, than glanced down at his fine feminine garments and took hold of his skirt, lifting it a little. “They dress me up and paint my face and put me on display... like an ornament.” he said in a pessimistic tone.<br />
<br />
“Oh.” I gulped. “What's up there?” I asked as he stopped at an open door that led to a narrow staircase.<br />
<br />
“It's the back staircase.” he told me. “It leads up to the second floor and attic, and down to the kitchen and scullery.” he said, before telling me that I'm being taken to the housekeeper. “She's very strict but do as she says and you'll be OK.” he advised. “I put up such a fight when I realised what they were were doing to me that I couldn't sit down for a week.”<br />
<br />
“When was that?” I asked.<br />
<br />
William's slender fingers reached to his long spiralling ringlets. “This was as short as yours when I was sent here.” told me. I have no idea how long it takes for hair to grow that long but it tumbles over his shoulders and part way down his back.<br />
<br />
“Mine's not short.” I claimed. It's not been cut for months and hangs limply on my shoulders.<br />
<br />
“Rosie wouldn't have chosen you if it was.” William told me as we reached the second floor. He put his finger to his lip and told me to be silent, before whispering. “We're not supposed to speak unless spoken to.”<br />
<br />
I followed him part way down a mahogany panelled corridor and through an open door. William drew to a halt and I nervously loitered behind him. A stern looking woman wearing typical housekeeping attire sat reading a book. She appeared to deliberately take her time in acknowledging our presence and the moment she looked up, William dropped a curtsey. She addressed him. “Rosie found another urchin for Miss Violet, Ma'am.” William said as he gestured toward me.<br />
<br />
“How wonderful!” the housekeeper said. “You may go back to your pedestal William.” she said as she beckoned me over with an outstretched hand and a friendly smile.<br />
<br />
“Thank you Ma'am.” William replied as he curtseyed. He glanced at me as he turned. I watched as he left, closing the large door behind him.<br />
<br />
“He's a beautiful specimen isn't he.” the housekeeper said. I turned to find her directly in front of me. I gasped and stepped back. “Do you think you'll be as pretty as our William?” she asked. “Do you think you'd be prettier?” she added. “It's hard to tell when they're so tatty and bedraggled and...” she leaned in closer. “..smelly.” she sniffed. “When was the last time you bathed?”<br />
<br />
I hung my head and shrugged my shoulders. I didn't want to admit that it was some months ago so I said nothing. She told me that polite young ladies don't shrug their shoulders. “I'm not a young lady.” I mournfully whined.<br />
<br />
“Of course you're not, boy... yet you shall learn to act as if you were.” she replied. “I know it sounds preposterous but once you're corseted and frocked you'll swiftly adjust.” she claimed. The very thought of wearing a corset sent shivers down my spine. I looked up at her with pleaful eyes. “Don't worry boy.” she told me. “If a girl can bear a corset I'm certain you can too.” she said. “It'll squeeze the boy out of you.” she stated. “Come. Let's get you out of those rags and into a bath... then you can have something to eat.”<br />
<br />
The promise of food was a driving force, as was the opportunity to bathe. I haven't done that properly since summer drew to a close. The housekeeper led me down the back staircase, through the kitchen to the scullery where she told me to strip. A maid trotted back and forth filling bucket upon bucket of hot water as I half undressed myself and was half undressed by the housekeeper. “Thin little thing aren't you?” she said as she looked me up and down, before bustling me through the door from which the maid came and went.<br />
<br />
My jaw dropped at the sight of a tin bathtub in the corner of the yard into which the maid threw her buckets of steaming water. Ice filled the gaps between the cobbles and a peppering of snow fluttered through the air, although none of it settled to form a frosty white blanket. The frigid air bit into my naked body as I was briskly led by the arm toward the steaming bathtub. The housekeeper held me upright with one hand as she ladled the water over me with the other. The biting cold took hold the very moment its warmth ran off my skin. Time and again until she plunged a bristly brush into the bath and briskly scrubbed me from head to toe. I winced and whined the whole time but she paid no heed. It was a brief and somewhat brutal experience. The sooner I was back indoors the better, I thought. I was led back across the yard through the frigid breeze, my bare feet tiptoed across the bitterly cold cobbles. I was given a towel in the scullery which I quickly wrapped around my back and shoulders and spent a moment shivering inside it. “It's a towel not a blanket boy!” the housekeeper barked. “Dry yourself!”<br />
<br />
Her tone put the fear of god in me and I quickly began to dry myself. “Have you incinerated his clothes Molly?” the housekeeper asked the maid, whom I'm certain is a real girl.<br />
<br />
“Yes Ma'am.” Molly replied. “Here's his undergarments.” she said, handing over a small bundle of clothing that consisted of a pair of white lace trimmed drawers and a feminine chemise. Once clad in these two items I was taken back up to the housekeeper's room where I enjoyed a few moments standing in the warmth of her roaring coal fire. I've only seen such fine garments in shop windows, I thought as I considered my attire. I know I’m a boy and they're girl's garments but they don't half feel nice... although I expect much of that feeling is due to them (and me) being clean for once.<br />
<br />
The housekeeper pottered as I basked in the heat, warming my front for a few moments then my back. She laid out petticoats and other items and set a silver bowl over a paraffin heater, into which she dropped a number of metal cotton reels. “Come.” she said as she dipped a comb into a soapy looking solution. The temperature quickly dropped as I stepped away from the fire. She sat me on a stool and I shivered. She ran the comb through my hair and the sweet smelling solution filled my nostrils. I asked what it was. “Boy's must only speak when spoken to.” she sternly replied. “But since you ask...” she added in a more palatable tone. “...it's a sugar solution to help your ringlets hold.”<br />
<br />
“Ringlets?” I gulped as she dragged the comb through every section of my hair.<br />
<br />
“And ribbons.” she said. “Even you won't believe you're really a boy when you see yourself.”<br />
<br />
“But I don't want to be a girl.” I sulked.<br />
<br />
“You won't be.” she told me. A smile briefly swept her face. “But if you know what's good for you you'll try your best.” she added as she donned a pair of thick twill gloves.<br />
<br />
The silver bowl began to bubble. She stirred the steel cotton reels as if it were a soup before lifting one out of the water with a silver slotted spoon. “This will feel rather warm but it won't burn.” she said before taking a length of my hair and swiftly rolling the cotton reel up it and fixing it with a short length of cloth. The reel rested against my scalp and was indeed very warm. I feared it might at least cause me to blister a little. She repeated the process countless times until my head felt covered in the small steel cylinders; each tied with a raggedy bow. They quickly cooled but felt heavy, albeit not uncomfortably so.<br />
<br />
She began to dab my cheeks, forehead, nose and chin with a pale milky solution before rubbing it in evenly. Then, using only her little finger, she applied a rosy pink pigment to my lips before stepping back and smiling. I gulped and smiled back, then my tummy gurgled. “Been a while since you've eaten?” she asked. I nodded. “The polite way to reply is to say yes ma'am.” she told me.<br />
<br />
“Yes Ma'am.” I timidly said.<br />
<br />
“Well the sooner you're dressed the sooner you can eat.” she said. “And when you've got this on you won't need so much.” she added as she removed a brutal looking corset from a clothes horse. “Stand.” she instructed.<br />
<br />
I stood and sheepishly stepped toward her where she swung the garment about my midriff and fastened its busk. I recalled my elder sister being put in her first corset at the age of eleven and she hated it with a passion... but then she claimed she got used to it and it made her feel like a woman rather than just a girl, although our mother oft reminded her that she was just a girl. The housekeeper turned me around and began to draw on its laces. At first it didn't feel so bad as it hugged me from hip to chest. She adjusted it a little, twisting it to make sure the busk remained central and lifting it to ensure the narrow waist was in the correct position... then she began tugging on the laces with a little too much enthusiasm. “It's too tight!” I claimed as its grip tightened about me.<br />
<br />
“Nonsense!” she claimed. “It's a corset... there's no such thing as too tight.” The metal rollers rattled about my ears as she tugged on the laces all the more.<br />
<br />
“But I can't breathe!” I whined.<br />
<br />
“I you can't breathe then you wouldn't be whining boy.” she said. “Put your arms up.” she told me. I raised them as if halfheartedly miming a trident. She grabbed my wrists and raised them much higher. “Does that feel better?” she asked.<br />
<br />
The constriction did ease with my arms held high. “A little.” I meekly replied. Then she tugged the laces even tighter. “Oww!” I whined.<br />
<br />
“You'll get used to it boy.” she claimed as she tied off the laces then pushed my wrists from their lofty position. “There. Turn around.” she said. I gulped as I faced her. My breaths were short and rapid. She instructed me to breathe slowly. “...from the top of your chest, not your belly.”<br />
<br />
“I think I’m going to feint.” I said as I tried to breathe normally.<br />
<br />
“Feint and you'll miss supper.” she said as she picked up a pair of off white stockings. “Sit down.”<br />
<br />
I sat bolt upright. I didn't have much choice. She took hold of my ankle and gently lifted my foot before putting the gathered stocking over my toes and pulling it up to my knee. Once both stockings were on, I stood and she attached four suspender straps to the lower hem of my corset (two front and two on the back), then she attached them to the tops of my stockings which held them in place a few inches above my knees.<br />
<br />
Female undergarments have always perplexed me; the way the corset grips their waist so tightly and how the suspender straps interfere with their ornate lace trimmed drawers. There's so much going on and that's before they've donned their petticoats, camisole and outerwear! Actually wearing such undergarments was no less perplexing and the corset feels as uncomfortable as it looks... but I can't remember the last time I wore clean clothes and I’ve never in my life worn anything that looks or even smells as clean as these, and in that respect alone they feel really rather special.<br />
<br />
The housekeeper helps me into a white petticoat with fine lace trim, then a light cotton vest, followed by another petticoat. “I must say you're more compliant than most.” she said as she tied it about my waist. “You wouldn't believe the fuss some of them put up.”<br />
<br />
“I'm just hungry.” I sulked.<br />
<br />
“I don't want you wolfing down your food like some half starved street urchin.” she said. “You'll learn table manners, etiquette, politeness, decorum...” she listed as she loosened a boot. “...humility, modesty, diffidence and reserve.” she said as she shoved it over my stockinged foot and pulled the laces taught. I didn't know what most of those things meant, but it didn't matter. It doesn't really matter that they're dressing me in girl's clothes either, despite my corset being far too tight for comfort. Whatever this place is, I'm in a better place today than I was yesterday.<br />
<br />
With the boots on my feet, I stand to my new height which is only a couple of inches higher than I'm accustomed to... but it felt like a significant couple of inches. The housekeeper led me a few steps to the centre of her room before letting go of my hands and stepping back. “It's hard to believe that only an hour ago you were nothing but a scruffy street urchin.” she said. I looked down at myself but couldn't see my feet for the bulbous petticoats that hung from my constricted waist. My corset is concealed beneath an off-white cotton chemise, but it's certainly not a case of out-of-sight, out-of-mind. My breaths are still short and sharp and the pressure it exerts is as constant as it is discomforting. The housekeeper opened a large ornate wardrobe inside which was a resplendent display of colourful dresses. She asked if I could recall what colour William wore. “Erm... green I think.” I replied.<br />
<br />
“Young ladies don't say 'erm'.” she told me as she began to rummage through the menagerie of frocks. She told me how a young lady should reply to such a question, before giving me a second chance.<br />
<br />
“Green, Ma'am.” I gulped.<br />
<br />
“In that case we'll put you in red.” she said as she removed an elegant crimson gown with plenty of lacy embellishments, all as white as snow.<br />
<br />
“It's beautiful.” I gasped as she removed it from its hanger.<br />
<br />
“I'm pleased you think so Thomas...” the housekeeper smiled. “...but please don't forget to say Ma'am when you address someone.” she said.<br />
<br />
“Sorry Ma'am.” I meekly muttered. It took her ages to unfasten all the buttons on the crimson frock. I carefully stepped into it and she lifted it onto my shoulders. It felt heavy as she began to fasten its buttons, which again took ages for her to reach those at the nape of my neck. Wearing such an elegant garment felt really special but being a boy, it felt totally wrong as well. My pale thin arms emerged from its short lace trimmed princess sleeves. My weedy hands gently clasped one another. My waist appeared unusually narrow where the full knee-length skirt billowed out. My white lace trimmed petticoats are just visible beneath it.<br />
<br />
Once I'd been buttoned into my dress, the housekeeper began taking the metal rollers out of my hair. This also seemed to take ages as she worked from the back of my neck, slowly up the back and sides and eventually removing the rollers from my crown. It certainly felt different but until I see a mirror, I have no idea how it looks. The housekeeper opened a drawer and removed two long lengths of broad satin ribbon; one white and one red to match my dress. “I think the red one.” she said, before arranging my ringlets and tying it in place. “Miss Violet is going to be most pleased when she sees you Thomas.” she said as she admired me. “Now.. let's see your curtsey.” she said.<br />
<br />
Being a boy I’d never really curtseyed before, but I knew exactly what one looked like. “No no no... you're not a princess.” she said as I performed an elegant, low curtsey. She demonstrated how someone of my lowly position should curtsey and I followed suit. “That's much better.” she smiled.<br />
<br />
Before leading me down to the drawing room where Miss Violet and her acquaintances awaited my return, the housekeeper put me in front of her large mirror. My jaw dropped when I saw a pretty girl clad in crimson standing in the mirror. Her face is pale and even, like porcelain or ivory. Her lips a rosy pink and short bouncy ringlets and a broad red bow tops her head. It took me a moment to admit to myself that the girl in the mirror was me... and in my defence the only thing that looked like mine were my eyes and my eyebrows. Everything else about me had changed.<br />
<br />
I gulped as the housekeeper held out her hand. I placed mine in hers and she led me out, giving me tips on how a lady should walk as I clumped my way along the corridor. “Respect your heels and they'll respect you.” she said as we began to descend the narrow back staircase. My voluminous skirt brushed the walls on both sides as I followed her down. I was led along the same corridor that William had brought me down and there in an alcove, he stood on a stone pedestal about fifteen inches high. He didn't speak as we passed but he did briefly glance at me. Meanwhile, my eyes were fixed on him and his long ringlets and elegant green dress. It's almost as if he's on display... but I guess that what he meant when he said he was a 'wallflower'.<br />
<br />
The housekeeper didn't enter the drawing room. She instructed me to enter alone and when Miss Violet acknowledges my presence, I'm to curtsey and remain silent. I did as instructed and nervously glanced at all the women in their masculine garments. Miss Violet turned her eyes upon me and smiled. I came to a standstill and curtseyed. “Wonderful.” she said. “Turn around, let's have a good look at you.” she said.<br />
<br />
I began to turn, slowly. I could feel numerous pairs of eyes glaring at me as I rotated through three-hundred and sixty degrees. “You're almost perfect Thomas.” Miss Violet told me, before hollering “William!” The befrocked boy entered and curtseyed. “Tell the maid to fetch a safety razor, some soap and a bowl or warm water.” she instructed.<br />
<br />
“Yes Ma'am.” William replied before curtseying and leaving.<br />
<br />
In his absence, the other women commented on my attire. I was likened to a red rose, a red heart butterfly, a red cardinal. “Shall we put him on display?” one of the masculine women suggested.<br />
<br />
“That goes without saying, Geraldine.” Miss Violet replied. The women parted to reveal a tall ornate birdcage in the corner of the drawing room. When I say 'tall' I mean tall for this is high enough to fit an adult male inside. One of the women opens its door and Miss Violet, having placed her hands on my lace clad shoulders, gently prompted me toward it, “Fear not boy... it's not a prison.” she told me. Its slender metal bars reach from the floor to its ornate apex. A series of hooped bars encompass the frame every twelve inches and whilst a strong adult might be able to breach the enclosure, it will certainly keep a weed like me contained.<br />
<br />
Inside the cage is a plank like seat attached to a brace of chains from which it hangs like a swing, only the confines of the cage doesn't offer the room to actually swing. I reluctantly yet obediently step inside and turn to face Miss Violet. “Sit.” she says in a warm friendly tone. I sit and wrap my fingers around the chains. My feet dangle an inch or two above the floor. I can feel myself swaying just a little. Miss Violet dips a hand into her pocket and removes two lengths of ribbon. These are about an inch broad, a yard long and coloured pale pink. She gently takes hold of one of my hands and wraps a ribbon around my wrist a few times before returning my hand to the chain, wrapping my fingers around it and tying my wrist to to the chain with an elegant bow. She does the same with my other hand and I begin to feel nervous as I'm gently yet securely bound to my perch. Even with the birdcage's door wide open, I'd struggle to get out of it.<br />
<br />
Miss Violet arranges my frock and it's many frills. She spends a moment fiddling with my ringlets and the big red bow in my hair before stepping back to admire me. “Ah, there you are Molly.” she said as the maid entered with a silver tray bearing a silver bowl, a small bar of soap and a small silver safety razor. She sets it on an occasional table before stepping back and dropping a curtsey. Miss Violet dips the soap into the bowl and spends a moment forming a viscous lather in the palm of her hand. I begin to worry as she steps toward me and wonder why she's applying the lather to my eyebrows. As she rinses and warms the razor in the water, I realise exactly what she's about to do and there's little I can do about it. I can only gulp as she sweeps the tiny razor over my left brow, then rinses and repeats the action on my right brow. She dries her hands on a cloth, then wipes my brow and smiles. “You may go Molly.” she says, dropping the cloth and razor on the tray.<br />
<br />
“Thank you Ma'am.” Molly replied as she curtseys, then removed the tray.<br />
<br />
“You do look funny with no eyebrows.” Miss Violet said in a chirpy tone that worried me. She produced a small brush and a tiny tin inside which was a black substance that resembled boot polish. “That's much better.” she said after after drawing a finely arched narrow line where my eyebrows used to be. “I don't think any one would think you were a boy now.” she said. “Not unless they check beneath your petticoats first.” she added.<br />
<br />
I lowered my eyes and gulped. Then raised them again. “You said I could eat something once I was dressed... Ma'am.” I timidly reminded her.<br />
<br />
“Oh we've not forgotten about that.” she said. “But you must remember not to speak out of turn.” she reminded me as she slowly swung the cage's door shut. “It's your first day with us so I'll spare you a spanking... but be warned, you speak out of turn at any time from tomorrow and you won't find your perch so comfortable.” she informed me.<br />
<br />
I gulped and hung my head. My father used to force me to cut and trim my own switch before beating me with it and that's why I left my family for a desolate life as an urchin. If avoiding that means holding my tongue than hold my tongue I will. I sat in silence for maybe twenty minutes. The women quietly chattered in groups of threes and fives, most sipped expensive drinks from elegant glasses, some chuffed on cigars. It still seems odd that they're all dressed as men but since William and myself are both dressed as girls, I suppose there's some sort of logic going on in this place. Occasionally one or two would approach and observe me. One reached through the bars and gently stroked my cheek. “Timid little thing isn't he.” she said to her associate.<br />
<br />
“As timid as he's pretty.” the other replied. I said nothing for fear of being beaten. They soon sauntered off and mingled with the groups, but I overheard one suggest offering some morsels to their <i>little bird</i>.<br />
<br />
A tray of canapés was placed on the small occasional table that stood beside my cage. I didn't know what half of the small morsels of food were, although I did recognise the nuts and berries that filled two of the small silver bowls. One by one the women fed me a small morsel that tasted most exquisite. I was reminded to eat 'like a lady' with my mouth closed, and to chew slowly like a lady would. Apparently, ladies don't lick their lips and neither should I. “Lipstick belongs on the lips, not the tongue.” Miss Violet instructed me, before popping another vol-au-vent in my mouth. The food was delivered to me in a maudlin, lacklustre fashion. I ate in an hour what I might normally trough down in a minute or less, but it was gratefully received and very much needed.<br />
<br />
Eventually, William was called and told to remove the canapé tray. I felt ashamed as he approached. I felt like a traitor to every boy and man in the entire Empire, having willingly allowed myself to be laced into a corset and clothed in the most elegant feminine garments I've ever seen. I'm displayed like an exotic bird, gently swaying on my perch... all for the promise of some food. I didn't speak as he removed the tray, but I did wonder just how long he's been here for. This was followed by a more immediate thought... How long am I going to be here? Not in this place but in this cage! I can't free myself too easily, although it might be possible. I could pull on the bow that bind my wrists with my teeth, but the women would notice me long before I could unlatch the door... and I’m certain I'd be punished if I tried. Miss Violet approached and asked how I was. “Okay.” I meekly replied. “A bit tired.” I added as I rolled my shoulders which were feeling rather stiff, having been held in the same position for at least an hour or maybe two. “Ma'am.” I added, recalling her previous threat.<br />
<br />
“I know it's not much fun being on display but you're certainly brightening the place up.” she said before arranging my frills and a faffing with my ringlets. “You're very lucky to have such lovely hair.” she said. “I knew you had potential the moment Rosie brought you to me.” she smiled. “I trust you won't disappoint me.” she added as she straightened the crimson satin bow on top of my head.<br />
<br />
“How long do I have to sit here for?” I asked. “Ma'am.”<br />
<br />
“Remember what I told you about speaking out of turn?” she asked. I hung my head. “You sit until you're told otherwise. Just as William stands on his pedestal until he's called for.” she informed me. “You're to be seen and not heard. Stay silent and still if you know what's good for you.”<br />
<br />
“Yes Ma'am.” I meekly peeped before hanging my head and taking in my unfamiliar garments.<br />
<br />
Her hand reached through the bars. “Such a pretty face needs to be seen Thomas.” she said as she gently lifted my chin. My eyes met hers once more. “If you can't hold your head up I'll put you in a posture collar.” she told me.<br />
<br />
I didn't know what a posture collar was but her tone suggested it would be something I'd rather avoid. Miss Violet turned and sauntered off to mingle with her associates. A short while later, a well-to-do gentleman entered the drawing room. He must have been very important since everyone gave him their attention. “Ladies.” he said as two gruff looking men followed behind.<br />
<br />
“Sir Winston! We're so glad you could make it.” One of the more mature masculine women replied. “Was he any trouble boys?” she asked, directing the question to the two henchmen who loitered by the door.<br />
<br />
“He was boarding a train to Edinburgh.” one of them replied.<br />
<br />
“Edinburgh?” the woman said to Sir Winston. “I quite clearly recall instructing you to meet us here at 3pm on the dot.”<br />
<br />
“Oh er... ah.” the gentleman stammered. “I er... had urgent business in Scotland... to secure the funds we require.” he claimed.<br />
<br />
As important as the gentleman may be... he's clearly the underdog in this place. I felt invisible in my cage as his excuses were rebuked. All eyes were on him and his nervously flickered this way and that as if seeking an exit or ally. Sir Winston is told that his failure to keep up the repayments means they have no option but to increase the interest from fifteen to twenty percent. The gentlemen loudly protests but is told that if he wants to extended the deadline, they have no choice but to increase the interest on his debt. “We're financiers Sir Winston... not a charity!” the woman bluntly states. Sir Winston pleads with them and claims he cannot raise that kind of money in such a short space of time... meanwhile, Miss Violet fetches William from his pedestal and parks him beside the older woman, facing the well-to-do gentleman. “A man called Bartholomew Johnstone owed us a similar debt some time ago. He failed to repay us but did eventually settle up, albeit in kind rather than in cash. He gave us his only son and we made sure he'd never have another. Young William is a gelding and his father's family linage stops here. You also have a son, don't you Sir Winston.”<br />
<br />
“I have two sons.” Sir Winston retorted. “...and if you lay a finger on either of them I'll...”<br />
<br />
“You'll what?” the older woman interrupted. “Flee to Scotland?” she sarcastically snarled. The cowardly gent hung his head. “You have a debt and you have a deadline. Failure to meet either will result in your eldest son being emasculated and your youngest being handed over to us.” she informed him, before stating his sons' names and informing him of their current approximate whereabouts; “George is boarding at Eton college, Edward is at home under the watchful eye of one of our nannies.” she told him.<br />
<br />
Sir Winston went pale. “But...”<br />
<br />
“Silence!” she barked before turning to William and in a much calmer tone, she instructed him to go back to his pedestal. The cowering gent watched as William curtseyed and returned to his pedestal in the corridor, the tails of his board satin sash floated behind him. “I cannot stress enough the importance of repaying your debt Sir William. You also have four daughters and we can put each and every one of them in the whorehouse should we feel inclined to do so.” she informed him.<br />
<br />
When Sir William entered the drawing room, his head was held high and his demeanour held authority. Now he's visibly withered in the presence of a woman much stronger than he could ever be. His voice is shaky as he pleads for more time. She beckons her henchmen forward. “What are you doing?!” he fearfully wails as they grab him by the arms. I felt invisible as I watched the scene from behind my bars.<br />
<br />
“We're letting you go Sir Winston.” she told him. “But not before you've been emasculated.” she added. “Take him to the stables.” she instructed the henchmen. “You have ten days Sir William!” she reminded him as he was led kicking and screaming out of the drawing room.<br />
<br />
Once he'd gone, the women began to gabble amongst themselves. “Do you think he'll pay?” they quizzed. The general consensus was that no one was sure but many doubted that even a man of his standing cannot possibly assemble such a large amount of money in such a short space of time. “I only hope he realises the gravity of the situation... for his family's sake.” one commented. Others agreed in grunts and nods.<br />
<br />
I spend hours on my perch, flexing my aching neck and shoulders as much as I can. The position in which I’m bound isn't uncomfortable but as the time passes, the more discomforting my pose becomes. I'm berated for fidgeting and told to remain silent and still. I try my best but it's not easy. I flex my limbs a little when I think no one is looking.<br />
<br />
More people arrive, elegant women and masculine ones too. They're served drinks and canapés, they gossip and laugh. It's not so much a party but is definitely a social event. I'm often approached and observed, fawned over, even. “Have you seen the other one in the corridor?” one woman says to her companion. “His hair is divine!” she adds. “I would have sworn he was a girl!”<br />
<br />
“This one was a street urchin yesterday.” Miss Violet informed the trio of observers.<br />
<br />
“How vile!” one of them retorted. “Waste of a good dress if you ask me!”<br />
<br />
“On the contrary my learned friend... teaching a boy from the streets to be demur and ladylike is a befitting fate for one who'd have otherwise become a thief.” Miss Violet replied. “Would you like a canapé young Thomas?” she asked.<br />
<br />
I gulped and nodded. She removed a slice of apple, garnished with cream and berries from a sliver tray and delivered it through the bars. I opened my mouth and she popped it in. I chewed it slowly and carefully, making sure my mouth remained shut and my chomping was silent. I swallowed before timidly smiling through pursed lips by way of thanks.<br />
<br />
She smiled and turned to her acquaintances. “Now friends, let's talk finance shall we.” she said, before leading them away. I twisted my wrists and looked at the ribbons that held them fast. I consider biting at one of the ribbons to untie the bow and release myself. The cage in which I’m displayed only has a latch. There's no lock that I can see. I imagine sneaking out but know full well that I wouldn't get very far, but that doesn't stop me from imagining my escape. I wonder if I could run fast enough in heeled boots and all my petticoats as I visualise doing just that.<br />
<br />
I sat for at least another hour before the guests began to make their slow and staggered exit. It took at least half an hour for them all to finally leave and once they had, Miss Violet opened my cage and untied my wrists. “Thomas you've been a delight...” she said as she took my hands in hers. I hopped off the little seat and stepped out of the man-sized birdcage. “...and everyone said that you look absolutely divine.” she told me. “Now I'm sure you're exhausted and you need plenty of rest before you're chores tomorrow morning.” she said as the sound of footsteps grew ever louder from the corridor. I overheard the housekeeper addressing William and a moment later, he entered looking as elegant as the first time I saw him. Every step was short and dainty as he wafted into the room. He curtseyed for Miss Violet before bidding her a good night. “Thank you William.” Miss Violet replied before turning to me. I didn't know what to do so did exactly as William had. “Thank you Thomas.” she said. William curtseyed once more and so did I. He left and I followed.<br />
<br />
We trotted in the wake of the housekeeper down the long corridor and up the back stairs to her large decorous room where she helped us out of our elegant dresses and petticoats. William was released from his corset and he sighed with gracious relief. The housekeeper untied my corset laces but only loosened them a little before tying them off. She read me like a book when she looked into my eyes. “Most girls are put in their first corset when they're ten years old.” she told me. “You're twelve which means you've got lots of catching up to do.” she added, claiming that I'll sleep easy since it's been loosened. “Let's clean your face.” she said, picking up a cloth with which she'd remove my powder, lipstick and painted eyebrows. William removed his own make-up and looked more boyish than ever, despite his long ringleted hair and feminine underwear.<br />
<br />
We're taken up to an attic room in which there's two metal framed beds on either side and very little else. My jaw dropped at the very thought of not only sleeping in an actual bed, but in a bed all of my own! A white nightgown laid neatly on each bed and as I stepped closer, I spotted plenty of ornate lace frills and satin bows which defined it as a girl's garment. I pulled it over my head under the watchful eye of the housekeeper. William did the same before pulling on a pair of woolly bed socks. I spotted my bed socks and followed suit, before glancing at William. I gulped and looked at my own bed frame and like his, there's a length of chain attached to the leg and a single cuff which William dutifully clasped around his ankle. I turned my eyes to the housekeeper. “Miss Violet paid sixpence for you.” she reminded me. “We don't want you wondering off in the night do we?” she said.<br />
<br />
I hesitantly wrapped the cuff around my ankle and it locked itself shut with a single solid metallic click. The housekeeper drew my attention to a chamber pot beneath my bed, then she handed me a hairbrush and told me to brush my hair one hundred times. “But that'll take me all night!” I exclaimed.<br />
<br />
“Nonsense! Now do as you're told.”<br />
<br />
I gulped and glanced at William and did as he did. My ringlets are very short and hang high above my shoulders, but Williams hung halfway to his elbows and now he's brushing them out, his hair goes all the way to his waist! The housekeeper watches over us as we brush our hair and I expect she also kept count because she eventually said “That's enough boys.” We both ceased brushing our hair and William began to loosely plait his. The housekeeper tied mine with white ribbons into two low bunches behind my ears. “These will stop it from getting tangled whilst you sleep.” she told me.<br />
<br />
“Thank you... Ma'am.” I gulped as I looked into her eyes.<br />
<br />
“Now get some sleep.” she told me. “You'll be up at five to begin your chores and if you even try to remove your corset, your first chore shall be cutting yourself a switch of willow from the garden.” she warned as I climbed under my sheets and blankets. They smelt clean. It's a scent I haven't sensed since I was a little boy, I thought as I deeply inhaled the fresh linen. “You'll keep an eye on him won't you William.” she stated.<br />
<br />
“Yes Ma'am.” William obediently replied.<br />
<br />
The housekeeper left and closed the door, plunging the room into darkness. I became accustomed to the light after a few moments. The light of a half moon shone though the small drapeless window. “Did they beat you?” William eventually whispered.<br />
<br />
“No.” I quietly replied.<br />
<br />
“Good.” he said. “Nothing good ever comes from disobeying them.” he told me.<br />
<br />
I believed him. “Who was that man?”<br />
<br />
“Sir Winston?” he replied. “A fool.” he claimed. “He thought he could borrow their money and not pay them back and now his family's going to pay the price for his stupidity.” William told me. I recalled Sir Winston being led away and tried to remember a big word that one of the women used, something they were going to do to him. “Emasculate?” William suggested. I nodded. “It means they're going to cut his gonads off.” he told me. “Just like they did my father's... and mine.”<br />
<br />
I gulped. “Will they cut mine off?” I feared.<br />
<br />
“Maybe.” he replied. “They told me it's so I'll always be a boy and never a man.” he humbly said. I recalled Miss Violet telling me that I'd always be a boy too. I hope that's not what she meant! William glumly moaned about having to spend everyday having to dress and act like a girl.<br />
<br />
“I've never worn such fine clothes.” I told him. “And I don't think I've ever worn clothes that looked and smelt so clean.” I said. “I never imagined how wonderful it might feel to wear petticoats.” I confessed as I inhaled my bedding once more. “I've never slept in a bed so clean either, and never one all of my own!” I told him, before telling him that this is my first proper bed since I ran away from home.<br />
<br />
“When <i>did</i> you run away?”<br />
<br />
“Two or three winters since... I can't really remember.” I replied. “We slept five to a bed at home.” I told him, before listing my siblings; Emma, Mary, Jane and Sarah. I described my final night at home. I tried to stop him from hitting my sister and he made her cut me a switch for him to beat me with. After the switch inevitably broke, he locked me in the pigsty and by morning I was long gone.<br />
<br />
“And you've been on the streets ever since?” he asked. I nodded. “No wonder you like it here.” he sighed.<br />
<br />
“I didn't like sitting in a cage all evening... with all those weird women staring at me and feeding me like a parrot.”<br />
<br />
“You'll get used to them.” he said. “...and you did well to stay silent.” he added. One boy, he told me, had to be beaten into his corset, beaten into his dress, beaten into the birdcage and tied tightly to the seat yet still refused to silence himself. “For two evenings he yelled and swore at the guests and even when gagged he still made a noise. On the third day they'd cut out his tongue and that silenced him.”<br />
<br />
“Oh my!” I gasped. “What happened to him?”<br />
<br />
“I don't know... it was before I came.” William said. His eyes dropped and a wave of sadness swept his face. “I hate my father for what he did.”<br />
<br />
“I hate mine too.” I empathised as I snuggled my head into my pillow. “And I don't think I'll get a wink of sleep in this corset!” I grumbled as I settled down and nestled myself into the blankets. I tried to work with my corset but it seemed hell bent on working against me. But much to my surprise come morning, I must have quickly dropped off to sleep for I don't recall laying awake for long, and didn't wake in the night either.<br />
<br />
I wondered where I was for a moment. It's always like that when sleeping in a strange room. I turned on my side and tried to curl up but couldn't. The realisation that I'm laced into a corset brings the events of yesterday flooding back to me. When Rosie grabbed my collar as I reached for that barmcake I feared she'd shop me to the stall holder. When she dragged me away I feared she might be looking for a constable to arrest me. And after being led by the scruff of my neck along several streets and down numerous alleyways when she brought me to the tradesman’s entrance of Ravenscourt House, I feared it could be the mansion of a magistrate. I never expected to be sold for sixpence to a bunch of women garbed in manly attire, nor did I imagine I'd be put in feminine garments and displayed as an exotic bird might be; bound to a perch in a cage.<br />
<br />
I turned onto my back and felt the cool steel chain under my heel, then the cuff around my ankle. I glanced to the bed in which William slept and the length of chain the emerged from his bedding and terminated around the leg of his bed. He seemed to be sound asleep and I felt I’d best not disturb him. I stretched out my arms and flexed my shoulders. The lacy cuffs of my nightgown slid to my elbows. I pulled them back to my wrists and admired just how exquisite they were. My mind felt torn between knowing I'm a captive and knowing that I'm in a better place now than I was before.<br />
<br />
It was still dark outside and I lay in a silent wakeful slumber for some time before the housekeeper came through the door. William woke suddenly. He almost immediately sat himself upright and planted his feet on the old wooden floorboards. I followed suit but with far less haste. The housekeeper tended to my corset, pulling on the laces, drawing in my waist and pushing half the air from my lungs. I didn't feel very loose when I woke but now I realise just how loose it was!<br />
<br />
She revealed a key and unshackled us from the cuff that made sure we didn't stray too far from our beds, before leading us down the back staircase, not to her room but all the way down to the kitchen and scullery where we're given servile garments to wear; an ill fitting faded black frock with a tatty off white apron and a moppy white cap into which all our hair is tucked. A pair of stockings that had seen better days and an old pair of heeled boots clad our feet. We're given a bucket, a scrubbing brush and a ragged old cloth before being put to our first chore.<br />
<br />
We scrub the large kitchen and small pantry floors. I'm encouraged to work hard and fast and told that if I'm not perspiring, I'm not working hard enough. The internal warmth we'll generate will keep us warm all day long, William told me. After scrubbing the kitchen and pantry floors we moved on to the scullery and I did indeed build up a sweat, but having no eyebrows it dribbled from my forehead directly into my eyes, but I soon got into the habit of frequently mopping my brow to stop the sweat from getting that far. I glanced at William who's eyebrows are thin, finely arched and very feminine. “Did they shave your eyebrows too when you first came here?” I asked as we scrubbed the scullery floor.<br />
<br />
“No.” he replied. “Miss Violet plucks them regularly though.” He assured me that mine would probably grow back but figured they'd be kept thin and fine like his. “You do look funny without any though.” he added.<br />
<br />
“I should have asked the housekeeper to paint some on.” I mused.<br />
<br />
“Then you'd have been spanked for speaking out of turn.” he said, before advising me that if I want something, I should wait to be offered it.<br />
<br />
“What if I need to toilet?”<br />
<br />
“You can ask for that.” William replied. “Just drop a curtsey and wait to be addressed.”<br />
<br />
At that moment, Molly the scullery maid entered through the back door. She hung up her winter cloak and looked down on us. “I was hoping you wouldn't be under my feet now you've got Thomas!” Molly said to William as she donned a crisp white apron. “It should only take you half the time now there's two of you!”<br />
<br />
William didn't reply but he did up the pace. I followed suit, frequently glancing up at Molly as she pulled a white maid's cap over her head and tucked her hair into it. She smirked at me and I knew it was my lack of eyebrows that amused her. I kept my head down after that whilst Molly pottered about briskly and loudly tutted every time she stepped around us. We soon finished and upended the buckets into the sluice. William dropped a curtsey to Molly and I did the same, then we left.<br />
<br />
Our next chore is upstairs, sweeping the long corridor and drawing room. This would have been a lot easier if we had a broom each. With only a dustpan and hand-brush each and a dust bucket between us, it seemed to take forever to sweep the long corridor and each time someone strolled down the corridor, we had to stop and stand to the side, with our eyes lowered, dropping a curtsey as they passed, only to be ignored, then resuming the chore once they'd gone. Some I recognised from the previous day and a few still wore masculine attire whilst others, Miss Violet included, wore elegant feminine frocks. “She looks beautiful.” I quietly said once she was out of sight.<br />
<br />
William didn't reply. We picked up our aprons, dropped to our knees and resumed sweeping the long corridor with our short handled brushes. It was back breaking work, I claimed. “It would be without a corset.” William glumly replied.<br />
<br />
“Is that why we wear them?”<br />
<br />
“We wear them because girls wear them... I don't really know why girls wear them... but I do know I’d rather sweep and scrub the floors with one than without.” William told me.<br />
<br />
“Will we be doing this every morning?” I asked. William nodded. I cast my eyes up and down the corridor, weighing up how much we'd done and how much was left to do. I figured we were about one third of the way through, but it's hard to tell because the corridor is so very long. “Did you really live in a house as big as this?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Yes.” he replied. “Hawksforth Hall.” he said. “I used to drive our servants wild running along a corridor as long as this as fast as I could whilst the housemaid was having her afternoon nap. The servants were always at their wits' end with me but they couldn't really do much because I was the young squire.” he recalled. “Now I'm so low I even have to curtsey to the scullery maid.” he moaned.<br />
<br />
“All because your father couldn't repay a loan?” I knowingly asked.<br />
<br />
“Didn't rather than couldn't.” William replied. “He could have settled by handing over the deeds to Hawksforth Hall but that would have brought shame on the family name... instead he gave them me.” William explained<br />
<br />
“That's horrid.” I told him. “Did he know what they'd do to you?”<br />
<br />
“I don't know.” William frowned. “But I do know that his lavish lifestyle, his mansion and servants meant more to him than me.” he sighed.<br />
<br />
“How long have you been here?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Three years this spring.” he told me. “But it's not so bad I guess... better than the workhouse, so I’ve been told.”<br />
<br />
“Begging on the streets is better than the workhouse.” I replied. “The urchins do anything to avoid being sent there.”<br />
<br />
“Have you been in one?” he asked. I hadn't but their reputation is well known and well earned.<br />
<br />
Our conversation ceased when one of the women entered the corridor. We stood and stepped to the side, curtseyed as they passed, casting not a glance in our direction before dropping to our knees once more. Eventually we reached the end and the large wooden door that leads to the drawing room. It looks bigger than it did yesterday and it wasn't a small room then. But I guess yesterday, I wasn't wielding a small hand brush with which to sweep its floor. It didn't take as long as the corridor took but it still seemed to take a good while to work from one side to the other. The housekeeper came to check on us when we'd almost finished. “I trust you're making sure his work isn't sloppy William.” she said as she cast her eyes over the hardwood floor.<br />
<br />
“Yes Ma'am.” William replied.<br />
<br />
“I hope so.” the housekeeper said. “If Miss Violet isn't happy with his work it'll be you who'll be wearing out his switch.”<br />
<br />
“Yes Ma'am.”<br />
<br />
The housekeeper left us to finish off. “What did she mean... you'll be wearing out my switch?” I asked as we swept.<br />
<br />
“If Miss Violet isn't happy with your work, she'll send you to cut a switch and give you five or ten lashes.” he told me. “Maybe more.” he added. “Then she'll turn the switch on me and use it until it breaks.”<br />
<br />
“Even when you've done nothing wrong?!” I said.<br />
<br />
He frowned and nodded. “It's not so bad when I'm displayed on my pedestal.” he said. “It was worse when I had to sit in the birdcage.”<br />
<br />
I cast my eyes to the oversized metal birdcage and recalled all the hours I’d spent inside it wearing a crimson dress with bright white lace and big red bow on my ringleted head. It wasn't pleasant but it could be much much worse should I be punished with a switch. The housekeeper returned and observed us as we finished sweeping the floor with our inefficient hand brushes and dustpans. She approved of our efforts yet didn't praise us in any way. She gave William the task of polishing the sideboard, tables and cabinets, and I had to polish the ornate brass birdcage. “But I can't reach the top.” I said without thinking. “Ma'am.” I added. I bit my lip in fear that my question was spoken out of turn and I'd be sent to cut a switch.<br />
<br />
“You may stand on the swing Thomas.” the housekeeper told me.<br />
<br />
“Thank you Ma'am.” I gulped.<br />
<br />
I recall helping my mother to polish the cutlery every Easter and Christmas and polishing the big brass cage remembered me of that. I miss my mother. She was nice. But not so nice she'd stop my father from beating us whenever he got angry. It's just his way, she'd tell us. Bar by bar I polished the cage until it gleamed. I actually enjoyed standing on the swing so I could reach the apex where all the bars culminated. They seemed gleam like the evening star as I stepped down from the swing. I wiped my cloth down the chains that it hung from and stepped back. “You boys have certainly been busy.” Miss Violet's familiar voice said. We both turned. William curtseyed. I did as he did. She inspected the floor and the furniture, then stepped over to me and cast her eyes over the man-sized birdcage. She asked if I'd finished. “I haven't polished the latch yet, Ma'am.” I timidly replied.<br />
<br />
“Well carry on Thomas. I want the place looking perfect for this evening.” she said. Her eyes drifted from the cage down to mine. She smiled. I nervously smiled back. “I think you should wear yellow this evening... you'll be our canary.” she said.<br />
<br />
I didn't like the idea of that much. “Thank you Ma'am.” I meekly replied.<br />
<br />
Once our chores in the drawing room are done, we were given other tasks by both the cook and scullery maid; fetching water and removing peelings, rinsing pots and wiping tops until noon when our empty stomachs were finally filled with a gruel like broth and crusts of semi stale bread. Then we're stripped of our servile garments and I’m finally released from my corset before being quickly yet brutally scrubbed from head to toe in the outdoor tub on a bitter February day.<br />
<br />
I spent no more than ten minutes out of my corset before being quickly laced back into it in the scullery whilst William was being given his brutal bath. I waited in only my undergarments until William returned. He donned a clean chemise and a pair of drawers before having his corset wrapped around his midriff. The housekeeper began drawing it in. “Actually why don't you have a try Thomas.” she suggested. “It'll be one less task for me if you laced one another into your corsets.” she added.<br />
<br />
At first I was timid but the housekeeper encouraged me to pull on the laces as hard as I could. William assured me he was OK, adding that after three years, he's fully corset trained. The housekeeper gives him one last tug before showing me how to tie off the laces properly. She instructs Molly to fetch the paraffin stove and a bowl of hot water, before escorting William and I up to her room.<br />
<br />
The housekeeper lays out a gingham dress for William and a puce dress for me. I inform her of Miss Violet's suggestion that I wore yellow today. “You shall wear yellow this evening Thomas.” she informed me. “But today you'll wear this.” she added. “Now sit down, let me do your make-up.” I sit and shut my eyes as she applies powder to my face and paint to my lips before drawing me a pair of eyebrows. Molly arrives with everything the housekeeper needs to put our hair in ringlets, but unlike yesterday when my entire head was ringleted, today she only put the hot metal cotton reels around my fringe and above my ears. The rest she pinned up and I wondered why... but I held my tongue for fear of speaking out of turn. William's hair was also put in hot rollers which cooled and set our ringlets whilst we dressed.<br />
<br />
Our thick stockings were held up with long elegant suspender straps that hung from our corsets. A woollen vest and two petticoats followed. Then our boots were pulled over our stockinged feet before the housekeeper helped us into our dresses. Mine first, then Williams. As yesterday, our skirts land about our knees and leave an inch or two of our petticoats exposed. A twelve year old girl would wear their skirt longer than this, I thought as I looked down at myself. This particular length would be worn by a girl no older than eight or nine years of age.<br />
<br />
The housekeeper sits me down and removes the rollers from my hair before arranging my ringlets so they hang evenly on either side of my face, then she revealed an old fashioned lace trimmed bonnet that perfectly matches my puce frock with its satin bows in burgundy. She places it on my head and my peripheral vision is replaced with vignette of white lace. She spends a moment arranging it and my ringlets before tying its broad satin ribbons in a big floppy bow beneath my chin. “Go and see how pretty you look whilst I tend to William.” the housekeeper told me.<br />
<br />
I stepped toward the big mirror and faced my reflection. All I see is a prissy little rich girl; the sort who'd pull faces at boys like me when I was an urchin. I focus on my face and am reminded of a porcelain doll; my skin is pale and evenly toned with glossy painted lips. My eyebrows look strange but they're not my eyebrows; just two thin lines that the housekeeper drew on. I do hope they'll grow back.<br />
<br />
The housekeeper spent far longer removing William's rollers and tending to his ringlets that she had mine. I had to turn my head fully to see the progress. Wearing a bonnet is very strange, I thought as my gaze returned to the mirror. It frames my face with satin and lace and somewhat blinkers my peripheral vision. My ornate puce frock looks expensive and far too elegant for a boy like me. Any one of my sisters would be over the moon if they had a dress like this, I mused. I wondered what they'd think if she could see me now, before turning my head to see the housekeeper placing a bonnet over William's head. His is gingham with ribbons and lace to match his dress but other than that, it's much the same as mine.<br />
<br />
We're taken down to Miss Violet who gleefully approved of our dresses, however Miss Violet didn't like the eyebrows the housekeeper had drawn so she wiped them off and drew me some that she approved of. Miss Violet wears a beautiful floor-length gown with long sleeves and a high collar. An elegant hat rests on her head and thick shawl is draped about her shoulders. “Right boys... it's a lovely day today so you're going to get plenty of fresh air.” she said. “We're going for a stroll.” she informed us as she handed us each a thick winter shawl that matched our frocks. I was a little hesitant to step outside dressed as I am but I figured anyone who doesn't know who I really am will see a pretty little rich girl.<br />
<br />
Much to my surprise an open landau carriage awaited us. Such carriages are reserved for only the most affluent and privileged people, but being an open carriage, it's hardly suited to a fresh February day. The footman stood to attention and opened the shallow carriage door as we descended the broad stone steps. William and I sat facing forwards whilst Miss Violet and an associate faced us. They arranged our skirts and adjusted our bonnets before giving the horseman the signal to proceed. I looked up the house; three stories high and some eight windows wide and a huge imposing door with the building's name of Ravenscourt House is engraved in large gilded letters on the lintel. Beside the door is a shiny brass plaque that proudly announces that this building is the residence of the Progressive Society of Ladies & Matriarchs. I face forward as the carriage picked up speed.<br />
<br />
The wheels chattered noisily as they rolled over the cobblestones. The hooves of two horses clatter with arrhythmical regularity. The moisture from my lungs condensed in the chilly February air and every breath produced a misty plume. My face felt cold, as did my hands, but I was thankful for my layers of petticoats, heavy frock, shawl and warm winter bonnet. It felt so special being driven around in the open carriage. The poor people would watch us pass with empty eyes. I could sense their contempt, their envy and their hopelessness. I felt all of those things when the rich and privileged looked down on my sort from their lofty social position throughout my years scraping an existence on London's unforgiving streets. I never imagined for one moment that I'd enjoy such a privilege. We're driven to Kensington Gardens where the footman assists us as we alight. Miss Violet had us walk ahead whilst she and her associate followed a few paces behind. Leafless trees lined the broad promenade along which many people sauntered and William and I held hands the whole time! We didn't have much choice since before we left Miss Violet had bound them together with a length of ribbon and William assured me that only Miss Violet can untie her knots. “Believe me, I've tried.” he said.<br />
<br />
Every few moments, I felt inclined to check that Miss Violet and her associate were still behind us, but my bonnet meant I couldn't quickly glance over my shoulder. Instead I had to twist my shoulders and hips to check. “We're still here Thomas.” she'd say each time I checked.<br />
<br />
I noticed a constable briskly walking toward a young couple who happily strolled arm in arm. He wears a crooked top hat, she carries a tatty parasol. The constable stops them, speaks and points to whence they came. “What's going on there I wonder?” I said to William.<br />
<br />
“He'll be telling them to leave... only those dressed smart and clean are allowed in these gardens.” he informed me.<br />
<br />
“That means I really am privileged now.” I said as the couple frowned, turned and headed back toward Bayswater, followed by the stern looking constable.<br />
<br />
“We're not privileged Thomas, we're prisoners!” William quietly reminded me. He almost whispered the last two words and probably for good reason. I don't imagine Miss Violet would be happy with such a statement. I certainly don't feel like I’m a prisoner, although my hand is firmly attached to William's just in case I decide to run off. And even if I did, I doubt I'd get very far thanks to my heeled shoes and petticoats slowing me down, plus I'd be out of breath in an instant thanks to my crushing corset. I consider the man sized birdcage in which I'll be displayed and the cuffed chains that tether us to our beds. I know William's right but we're from very different places. He would have one day been lord of the manor whereas I lived hand to mouth, day to day with no foreseeable future.<br />
<br />
The broad walk, as it's name suggests is a broad tree lined promenade with the occasional narrow walkway joining it on either side. Miss Violet directs us down one on the left that leads us through the trees. This area, although paved is less formal than the broad walk. The tall leafless trees look like they've been there far longer than the palace or its gardens in so much they're not planted in perfectly straight rows. It's like walking through a well tended wood. It's hard to believe we're still in the centre of a sprawling city. I look this way and that at the huge trees with their gnarly trunks and imposing limbs. Everything is bounded by a halo of delicate lace that rings my bonnet. We sit for a short while where six paths meet and enjoy the view of Kensington Palace itself. I thought Ravenscourt House was big but it's a fraction of the size of this magnificent structure. Eventually we strolled back to the north end of the broad walk and the open carriage that awaits us. Miss Violet fusses over our frocks and bonnets, making sure we look absolutely divine before giving the horseman permission to proceed.<br />
<br />
We're driving through the city streets to Regent Street where we alight once more and stroll along the bustling pavement. We entered the sort of shops that I wouldn't have even been allowed to stand outside of before yesterday. What both surprised and annoyed me when we were in the exclusive boutiques was that everyone knew we were boys. “What a delightful pair of boys.” the proprietor of the first one said. “It's a pity all boys don't wear dresses... I'd double my sales if they did.” another claimed on clapping her eyes on us. Another exclaimed “What on earth has happened to his eyebrows?!” to which Miss violet replied. “They were bushy and boyish so I shaved them off and drew some nice ones on.” before telling the proprietor that she's brought me for a corset fitting.<br />
<br />
I already have a corset, I thought as Miss violet smiled upon me. She must have read my expression because she told me that I need a corset all of my own rather than someone's old one. My hand was unbound from William's and I was taken to a small back room where the lengthy process of removing my many garments began. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to have a broad perspective on the world until my bonnet was removed. I imagine a horse might feel the same when their bridle and blinkers are taken off. Wearing only my boots and stockings, drawers and chemise, I held onto a horizontal bar above my head whilst my chest, waist and hips were measured, as well as the distances from hip to waist and waist to chest on my back, front and side... then the corsetiere slung my old corset around my midriff and quickly drew the laces in. I gasped as the air was suddenly forced from my lungs. “Calm down boy... a four inch reduction is standard.” the corsetiere bluntly stated. “...and that's barely three.” she added after wrapping a tape measure around my waist to check. “Where did you find this one?” the corsetiere asked Miss Violet as she tugged my corset tighter and tighter. “Another son of some foolhardy debtor?”<br />
<br />
“Not this one.” Miss Violet smiled. “He's an urchin... well... he was until yesterday.” she added. “Pretty little thing don't you think.”<br />
<br />
“Beautiful.” the corsetiere agreed as she finally ceased tugging and tied off my laces. I let go of the bar and lowered my arms before looking down at myself. My waist is noticeably slimmer than it was when the housekeeper laced me up, so much so I was afraid to exhale for fear of being unable to inhale again. I was advised to hold my spine straight, head high and breathe not too deeply from the top of my chest. “Perfect your posture and your lungs will do the rest.” I was told before being put back in my vests and petticoats, heavy puce frock and finally my bonnet. Miss Violet ordered two corsets for me; one in canvas for my servile duties and another in silk for my elegant gowns and both should have suspender straps attached. The corsetiere noted down the order and told Miss Violet they'd be ready in two days.<br />
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“Wonderful.” Miss Violet replied. “We'll return then.” she said. “Come along Thomas.” She put out her hand and I placed mine into it. She gripped it tightly as she led me back to the store and it's displays of feminine undergarments.<br />
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William waited with her associate and Miss Violet put my hand in his, before tying them together with a length of satin ribbon. We curtseyed in unison to the proprietor before being led out the door. She smiled but said nothing to us. However she did turn to Miss violet and said, “You have a wonderful way with boys.”<br />
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“I'm just following the Society's code.” Miss Violet replied. “Come along boys.” she chirped.<br />
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A short yet ornate bow decorated our bound wrists as we strolled hand in hand back along Regent Street to where the carriage awaited us. I gulped as my eyes met with an urchin sat huddled in a doorway. Knotted hair flanked her filthy face. She looked hungry and helpless in her tattered apron and torn stockings. Her envious eyes longed for a frock like mine, I thought as I averted mine. I felt guilty in my expensive gown and despite the fact I'm essentially a captive of Miss Violet and her matriarchal associates, I'm in a much better place than that impoverished girl and all the other street urchins.<br />
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Predictably Miss Violet fusses with a our frocks, ringlets and bonnets before the open carriage begins to move. Two elegant ladies and two privileged young 'girls' occupy this most expensive and exclusive mode of transport. Heads turn as we trot along London’s streets and I suddenly realise that William and I are as much on display now as we were when I sat in my cage and he stood on his pedestal. “Did you enjoy your day out boys?” Miss Violet asked once we returned to Ravenscourt House.<br />
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“Yes Ma'am. Thank you Ma'am.” we replied whilst dropping a curtsey. Miss Violet removed our winter shawls and hung them. The housekeeper appeared and took Miss Violet's thick cape and that if her associate. She took William and I up to her room where we donned our evening frocks. Mine is a canary yellow party dress with a broad satin sash tied in a huge bow at the small of my back. Its collar is broad and trimmed with lace. It's sleeves short and puffed. She tends my hair and arranges my ringlets about a big yellow ribbon tied in my hair and I wait facing my reflection whilst she tends to William. I feel like an inverted flower in my bright yellow tiered frock. I put my hands to my narrow waist. I could scarcely cope with how tight my corset feels, however seeing my reflection and hourglass waist, I can see why it feels so tight. My arms look pale and thin, as does my painted face thanks to the short ringlets that frame it. My slender painted eyebrows look fake but they're better than nothing. My glossy pink lips stand out and glisten. My skinny stockinged legs emerge from my flouncy knee-length frock and petticoats and disappear into a pair black heeled ankle boots.<br />
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I cast my eyes toward William who's being buttoned into an elegant pink gown with layers of lace and big white bow at his bustle. Like mine, his frock is knee length; a style more suited to a girl several years our junior. The housekeeper painted his lips in the same glossy pink she painted mine, before sending us down to the drawing room.<br />
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William's long ringleted hair is adorned with a pink bow who's tails flutter as we descend the back stairs and walk the long corridor. Miss Violet awaits in the drawing room. Gone is the elegant feminine gown she wore throughout the day. Back is the masculine suit and waistcoat she wore when Rosie brought me here and sold me for sixpence.<br />
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After complimenting our attire, Miss Violet puts me on display in the birdcage and tells William to bind my wrists to the chains from which my perch-like seat hangs. He does it without question but I see the reluctance in his eyes. Miss Violet checks the knots and sends him to his pedestal. He curtseyed and left. “Are you happy here Thomas?” Miss Violet asked.<br />
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“Yes Ma'am.” I replied.<br />
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“Why?” she asked. “Doesn't the corset crush you? The dress humiliate you? You can't be happy in such a small cage, surely?”<br />
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“It's safe.” I said.<br />
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“It is that.” She smiled and reached in through the bars and stroked my chin. “Sit pretty my little bird.” she said before sauntering to the well stocked drinks cabinet.<br />
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It wasn't long before the rest of the Progressive Society of Ladies and Matriarchs entered the cavernous drawing room in sporadic groups of twos and threes. All wore masculine garments as they sipped their drinks, drew on their cigars and discussed stocks, shares, debts and debtors. There was no dramas such as that I'd witnessed with Sir Winston the previous evening, but just like the night before, many elegant ladies arrived to socialise. Most observed and admired me at some point or another. They complimented my appearance as if I was an inanimate ornament, only addressing one another and never me directly. The only time I felt acknowledged as a living thing was when one would offer me a morsel of food. Another grape is placed in my mouth and I slowly chewed it before swallowing. This is followed by a slice of apple, then a nut or canapé. Then they'd saunter off and maybe two or ten minutes later, another would come and observe the boy in the birdcage and some might give me a morsel to eat.<br />
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“What do you do with them when they've er... grown?” one of the gusts asked one of the women as they peered into my cage. “He won't be petite forever.” she added.<br />
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“Most we sell but some we keep, such as William in the corridor.” the woman replied. “Miss Violet's in two minds about this one ... at the moment he's timid and compliant but how he'll be once gelded... well... we'll just have to wait and see.”<br />
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I gulped on hearing this, but after what William told me in bed last night, I knew then it was probably inevitable. If I'm to live as a young lady in this place then maybe being gelded might help me to feel like one too. William seems OK but I'm sure it must hurt a lot. I'm eager to know 'when' but for fear of being punished for speaking out of turn, I dare not ask. “Don't stare boy!” the woman snapped, pulling me out of my thoughts. I meekly and politely apologised. “And don't speak!” she added. “You're to be seen and not heard!”<br />
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I gulped and lowered my eyes but not so much my head. “Is he misbehaving?” Miss Violet asked as she stepped over. The woman informed her that I was staring at the guests. Miss Violet reminded me that I must show my face yet avert my eyes and whilst I may glance, it's not my place to engage my gaze. “Your place is not to look but to be looked at, Thomas.” she said before sauntering back to her circle of friends and acquaintances.<br />
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That's easy for her to say, I thought as I flexed my shoulders and tried to arch my back. I glanced around the walls and ceiling and despite my apparent imprisonment in this place... I can imagine calling it home. I don't know any girl who'd turn down the opportunity of working as a servant in a house like this... especially a position that meant wearing the most elegant dresses once the chores are done. I don't get paid but I do get fed and I've got a bed and roof over my head. Being displayed like a caged bird isn't ideal and I expect one day I'll suffer the switch on my backside. Such punishments are a part of life for youngsters, especially those of low social status. But here, in this huge house, in my shiny cage and vibrant yellow frock... I feel like the pauper who became a princess. It's not the rags to riches tale that boys like me always dream of... but it's better than nothing.</div>
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<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-48121661453012426142019-01-01T05:56:00.002-08:002019-01-02T05:38:56.594-08:00...and a Happy New Year!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LfJqnHwLjADxpSy0esKgNiPy_89D79dqmOjVJdQw-zUv-Evw6RCIX0-aPgsi4QydTlvHuUvYLhvJu6Z6cnuIBc-Be6Vh_NG4QhkEbvy37RGYooKHe8qj8R0lK-nArBXj-NaU9-YyNJQ/s1600/xmas+frocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="800" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1LfJqnHwLjADxpSy0esKgNiPy_89D79dqmOjVJdQw-zUv-Evw6RCIX0-aPgsi4QydTlvHuUvYLhvJu6Z6cnuIBc-Be6Vh_NG4QhkEbvy37RGYooKHe8qj8R0lK-nArBXj-NaU9-YyNJQ/s640/xmas+frocks.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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“Course it was.” I claimed, looking down at myself. “If I was called Alan or Andrew she wouldn't have got mixed up.”</div>
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“Yes I suppose.” Mum said. She handed us another gift each, this time from a family friend in the village.</div>
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Janet's gift was about eight times larger than mine so I felt a little envy even before we'd unwrapped them. That quickly dissipated when my sister unwrapped a tabletop make-up mirror and I unwrapped a Rubik's Snake. “Oh cool.” I exclaimed as I removed the puzzle from its box and began to contort it into various shapes as Janet showed our mother her make-up mirror, which has a handy tray for her earrings and things. Eventually the mirror went back in its box and Mum reminded us to remember who each gift was from, adding that we'll have to write our thank you letters tomorrow. “My letter to Aunt Alice is going to be interesting!” I chuckled. “Thank you so much for my lovely dress... it's my favourite colour.”</div>
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Janet retorted with her usual sharp whit. “Thank you so much for <i>my</i> lovely dress Aunt Alice, it's my favourite collar!”</div>
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We smirked then giggled. Mum asked if I was going to keep my dress on all day. “No but I'll keep it on for a bit.” I replied. “It's still quite funny that she got me one... and horrendous as it looks, it does feel quite nice... in a weird sort of way.”</div>
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“The sooner I take this off the better.” Alice said, but I convinced her to keep it on for a while longer.</div>
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“Mine's no fun if you're not wearing yours.” I said.</div>
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“OK.” my sister sighed.</div>
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I'd clean forgotten about the book our Aunt Alice had gifted to my mother. My sister and I continued unwrapping gifts and eating mince pies. I seemed to get high street vouchers from various relatives who'd chosen my sister a proper gift. It seemed odd but I wasn't disappointed... however I would have thought that if they're giving me a high street voucher then why not my sister too? Janet wasn't bothered and liked the girlie stuff she'd been gifted; make-up, toiletries, hosiery and inexpensive jewellery.</div>
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On boxing day as Janet and I sat writing our thank you letters, I overheard Mum on the telephone. “... are you? … oh that'll be nice … no it'll be lovely to see you … oh I er ... I know but … well, if you insist … I don't think Janet would be too happy … yes I suppose … oh yes he got lots of vouchers … well, in that case I suppose … yes … of course … we'll see you then. Bye.”</div>
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“Who was that?” I asked.</div>
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“Aunt Alice.” Mum replied. “Have you written her thank you letter yet?”</div>
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“Yeah... I figured I'd keep it vague and brief.” I confessed as I rooted it out and handed it to my mother. She approved of the message and handed it back to me.</div>
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“What wouldn't I be too happy about?” Janet asked. Mum said it was nothing, in fact she said it twice. “Is she coming here?” Janet asked. Mum nodded. “That means I'll probably have to wear that horrid dress again.” she growled.</div>
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“I won't have to wear mine will I?” I asked. “You can just show her the photograph.”</div>
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“Yeah.” Janet agreed.</div>
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“Well the film won't be developed in time.” Mum said. “And I think it would be nice if you were <i>both</i> wearing your dresses when she arrives.”</div>
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“It was funny on Christmas day.” Janet said. “The last thing I want to wear is <i>my</i> dress again!” she added. Whilst my dress may well be horrible, Janet's is absolutely horrendous; like wearing a big pink mitten, she claimed. “At least yours isn’t so bad.”</div>
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“Yeah but I'm a boy.” I retorted.</div>
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“Yeah, and Aunt Alice is going to turn up on Sunday and go '<i>oh Alex I’m so silly, I thought you were a girl... me and my daft old brain</i>' and we'll all laugh, you'll be allowed to change and I’ll have to wear mine all day.” Janet ranted. “I've got it way worse than you.” she moaned.</div>
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“Yeah I guess.” I said. I could empathise with my sister. Whilst being a girlie girl, she's really not girlie enough to like anything about her dress. Even the shade of pink is wrong, being neither baby nor candy but somewhere in between. Like the pink version of turquoise, she described it, but my favourite was her comparison of it to a duck-billed platypus; the dress Aunt Alice gifted her being part nightie part mitten and part who knows what, she dubbed it the 'pinkfrilled platyfrock'. The dress Aunt Alice gave me is just a dress. A horrible one in my opinion but just a dress.</div>
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The day after boxing day used to be the first day everyone would go into town and spend their gift vouchers and/or return their unwanted gifts to Argos for a cash refund and spend it in the sales. Mum took me into town. Janet wanted to come too but Mum wouldn't let her and gave her a really lame excuse. I suspected something odd was going on but could never have predicted what. I figured it was something to do with Janet. I suspected she might be in trouble for something, hence not being allowed to go shopping in the sales with all her gift vouchers. Mum checked that I had all my gift vouchers before we left. I was given five in total, which added up to £17. Mum put them in her purse for safe keeping and we left.</div>
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Usually she'd park in the multi-story car-park but today, she drove all the way to the end of the high street and parked in a small pay & display. “Why are we parking here?” I asked, envisaging the long walk to all the big shops.</div>
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“Because I need to go to a shop down here.” Mum replied. Mum headed directly to a double fronted shop named <i>Felicity Haines lingerie and dance wear specialists</i>. The window display to the left of the entrance features women's undergarments; camisoles, knickers, stockings, girdles and teddies. In the other window is nothing but dance wear; leotards, unitards, tights, leggings, tutus, cardigans and a variety of shoes. Stencilled on the glass in a bold gold font is the words Ballet, Jazz & Tap, Country, and Modern. Stencilled on the other window in the same font is: Brassieres, Corsetry, Shapewear, and Petticoating. I suggested that I'd wait outside, although I planned to wait by the shop next door. Mum ignored my suggestion and opened the door. “In you go.” she said.</div>
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I gulped and entered the store and in keeping with its window displays, one side of the shop is entirely underwear and the other is dance wear. A silver haired lady appears and greets us. “Oh, hello.” my mother said. “We're shopping for some underwear.”</div>
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“Boy's underwear?” the lady asked, glancing at me. Mum nodded. “This way.” the lady said, leading us through the ladies' underwear section. She drew us to a halt, but I couldn't see any boy's underwear. “Are you looking for a specific colour or style?”</div>
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“Definitely blue.” Mum said to the lady. “To match your dress.” she said to me.</div>
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I tried to protest but I was absolutely speechless. My lips moved, my jaw moved but my tongue lay dormant and no sounds came out. “Let me know if you need anything.” the lady said before walking back to the counter.</div>
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After managing to actually swallow my tongue and finally regained the ability to speak “I don't need any of this stuff Mum.” I said in hushed tones. My mother reminded me that I'd be wearing my dress on Sunday. “Yeah but... it doesn't matter what's under it.”</div>
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“I believe it does.” Mum replied in the same hushed tones. I reiterated that it doesn't. “In that case, you won't mind wearing these.” she said, removing a pair of frilly blue panties. I did a U turn and agreed that it does matter what I wear under my dress, and stated that I don't want to wear knickers. “But everyone wears knickers under a dress Alex.” mum informed me.</div>
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“I didn't on Christmas Day.”</div>
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“Only because you didn't have any.” Mum said.</div>
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“But I don't need any... no one's going to see what's under my dress on Sunday, and I'll only have it on for an hour or two at most.”</div>
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It quickly became clear that Mum was going to buy me some knickers whether I liked it or not. “I don't need one of those Mum!” I loudly whispered when she removed a bra with frilly blue trim that perfectly matched the the frilly panties she liked. Mum asked why not. “Because it's a bra!” I stated under my breath.</div>
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“It's only a training bra.” Mum said, before adding that I’m thirteen and if I'm going to wear knickers than I have to at least wear a training bra as well. They way she expressed 'at least' made me believe that it was either a training bra or a proper one, not that I knew the difference either way. Just like the panties, Mum was not going to take no for an answer.</div>
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She snaked her way through the various shelves and stands, slowly eyeing the slips and suspender belts and other feminine items as she sauntered in the general direction of the counter. I sheepishly followed but tried not to look at anything, especially the garments hanging from their individual plastic hangers dangling from her fingers. “Ooh.” Mum said as she drew to halt. Being behind her, I did too and turned my eyes to a row of plastic mannequin legs on which socks and stockings and tights are displayed. “These are nice.” she said, thumbing the frilly cuff of a sock. The more I look at it the more abhorrent it becomes. For a start, it's a knee sock. Secondly, it's pure white. Thirdly, it's lacy rather than woollen. The fourth disdainful fact is all the love hearts knitted into the pattern... and finally, it's the two inches of frilly white fabric around the cuff.</div>
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“I'm not wearing those Mum.” I gulped, knowing exactly what she was thinking. “I'll wear a pair of Janet's tights again.”</div>
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“You can't wear tights over frilly knickers.” she told me as if I should already know that. “All the frills would get flattened.” she added as she dangled the knickers on their little plastic hanger in my face</div>
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My jaw dropped when she showed me the back of the knickers she'd chosen; row upon row of pale blue lacy frills covering the bum. “With knickers like this you either wear socks or stockings, which means you'll need a garter belt as well.” Mum told me. I suggested plain socks, white ones if need be but definitely plain, but Mum was adamant that I'd be wearing 'nice' socks. “Unless you want stockings and a garter belt?”</div>
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“Noo.” I moaned.</div>
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Mum gave me a look and grabbed a pack of the frilly lace knee socks, then marched to the counter. “Very nice.” the lady smiled. She glanced at me as she totted up the price tags on the knickers, bra and box of socks. “That's twelve pounds and ninety seven pence please.”</div>
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Mum opened her purse. “I trust you accept high street vouchers.” she said, removing my gift vouchers from the back of her purse.</div>
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“Of course.” the lady smiled as my jaw dropped. I was speechless as my mother handed over the £5 voucher from Uncle James, the £5 voucher Auntie Pat and the £3 voucher from Janice, mum's best friend. I wanted to cry as my vouchers went into the till, then my knickers, bra and socks went into a carrier bag.</div>
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“Mu-um.” I quietly gasped.</div>
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“Yes Alex?” Mum smugly asked.</div>
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“You've just spent most of my vouchers.” I gulped.</div>
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“You mean<i> you</i> have.” she smiled. “Come on.” she said before thanking the lady and marching toward the door. I sheepishly followed, out of the shop and directly back to the car, parked a mere twenty yards away. I figured we'd now go to the multi-story car park but she drove me directly home. “Why can't I spend the rest of my vouchers?” I sulked.</div>
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“Well you don't want to spend them all at once do you?”</div>
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“I didn't want to spend any of them on girl's stuff that I’m only going to wear once.”</div>
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“You socks may be girls Alex but your panties and training bra are most definitely made for boys.”</div>
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“How can they be?” I blurted. Mum told me that my training bra has flat cups because I’m a boy with a flat chest, and that my knickers don't have a flat front like girl's knickers have, because I'm not flat like a girl. “Oh.” I glumly said. “I still don't see why I need them... no ones going to see them.” I grumbled.</div>
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“In that case they'll be out of sight and out of mind.” Mum said.</div>
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I sulked in silence all the way home. I had seventeen pounds in vouchers and intended to buy some music and a book, maybe a model kit or something too... but now I've only got £4 left which is just about enough for only one of those things.</div>
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Janet was in the kitchen when we returned. Mum placed the carrier bag on the table before removing her overcoat. “Felicity Haines.” Janet said, reading the logo on the bag. “What have you been buying from there?”</div>
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“Some underwear for Alex.” Mum said, causing me to instantly blush. “To wear with his dress on Sunday.” Mum added.</div>
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I slowly hung my head at the exact same time that my sister's jaw slowly dropped. She composed herself. “Can I see?” she asked, or more... gasped.</div>
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“No!” I whined.</div>
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“Oh please?” Janet pleaded. “Is it girl's underwear?” she grinned.</div>
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“It's boy's underwear.” mum told her. “But it is very girlie.” she added, before asking me if I wanted to show my sister my new undies.</div>
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“No.” I sulked. “I didn't even want new undies.” I murmured.</div>
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Mum didn't show my sister my new undies but my sister wasted no time coming to my room to ask me about them. Janet believed me when I stressed that I really didn't want them but Mum insisted that I needed them. “You seem pretty glum about it.” she commented.</div>
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“Mum bought them with my vouchers.” I informed her. “I've only got four pound left.” I sighed.</div>
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“You spent thirteen pounds on a pair of knickers?!” she exclaimed. I timidly told her about the bra and the frilly knee socks, before meekly justifying the bra, parroting what Mum had said about it being a 'training' bra with flat cups to fit a boy's chest. “Oh.” she bemusedly replied. “Bit strange that they make bras for boys.”</div>
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“Tell me about it.”</div>
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Janet mused for a moment. I spent that moment just wanting her to leave me alone. “I wonder if this has got anything to do with that petticoating book Aunt Alice gave to Mum.” she said. I vaguely recalled a fleeting glimpse of its cover on Christmas Day when Janet and I were getting giddy in our dresses... but then I recalled seeing the word 'petticoating' on the window of the underwear shop. My sister said something but I missed it. “Don't you remember?” she asked. I didn't. Janet continued. “When Mum unwrapped the book, she said <i>I don't think Alex’s dress was a mistake</i>.”</div>
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“Vaguely.” I said. “But she was only teasing... or something.”</div>
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My sister raised an eyebrow. “...and now Aunt Alice is coming on Sunday, we've got to wear our dresses again... what if Aunt Alice didn't think Alex was a girl's name?”</div>
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“But she must have... otherwise she wouldn't have bought me a dress.” I gulped. “What is petticoating?” I asked.</div>
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“I don't know, but Mum's got a book about it.” Janet replied.</div>
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“And it was advertised on Felicity Haines' shop window.” I glumly added.</div>
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“Hmm.” Janet mused. “Maybe we'll find out on Sunday.”</div>
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I did ask Mum about it later on but she said “Never you mind.” The next day I overheard my sister ask Mum about petticoating after breakfast and Mum said “It's none of your concern.”</div>
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Being Christmas week, we had some family obligations so neither my sister nor I saw much of our friends. Mum drove all the way to Helmfordshire to visit distant cousins, who found the anecdote about me getting a dress hilarious. I'd have found it funny too if I hadn't since acquired some appropriate undergarments, but I pretended to laugh along. Thankfully our cousin Jonathan who's also my age wasn't there. I expect he'd have been more inclined to taunt me than laugh along. Jonathan was away on a school trip to Lichtenstein of all places. I didn't know exactly where it was so it was pointed out to me in an atlas. “Wow!” I exclaimed. Such a tiny country, nestled in the Alpine mountains must be amazing, although going on a school trip over new year did seem strange to me, but apparently, the boarding school he attends always does exchange trips during the holidays.</div>
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On Saturday we were invited to Mrs Barnet's who has a large house in the village. There were loads of people there; Mrs & Mrs Brown from down the lane, the Vicar, Mrs and Mrs James and their three kids, George and Andrew from school and their parents and various people and families I wasn't familiar with. There was huge buffet, party games, a disco, adults drinking a little too much. It was fun if a little overwhelming, and thankfully my mother or sister didn't share the anecdote about my muddled old aunt thinking Alex was a girl's name.</div>
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I slept easy on Saturday night... but had I known that my mother intended to put me in my dress the first thing on Sunday morning I doubt I'd have slept quite so soundly. The first thing I see after peeling my eyes open is the shimmering blue frock hanging on my wardrobe door. After opening my bedroom curtains, I noticed that hung from the front of my frock is my knickers and bra, hanging from their little plastic hangers.</div>
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I pulled on my dressing gown and crept out of my room, avoiding the creaky floorboard outside my mother's room and headed to the bathroom. Just as I approached the bathroom door, my mother's bedroom door opened and my mother stepped out. “You're up.” she said. I gulped. “I've run you a bath so after you've done your toilet, I want you straight in.” my mother told me.</div>
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“A bath?” I groaned. “Can't I have breakfast first?”</div>
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I couldn't. I don't know when Mum ran the bath because it wasn't exactly hot when I sank through its bubbles. I had barely a minute to myself before Mum burst in and picked up the pyjamas that I'd left strewn across the bathroom floor. “Mu-um I'm having a bath!” I said.</div>
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“I know Alex. I'm here to make sure you have a proper one for once.” she said, wasting no time kneeling beside the bath, plunging a sponge in the water and proceeding the wash me. “Mu-um I'm thirteen!” I blubbered through the water being squeezed over my head.</div>
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“Stop acting like a baby then!” Mum said.</div>
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She was like a whirlwind as she shampooed and rinsed and conditioned my hair, scrubbed my arms and hands and shoulders and back before standing me up and scrubbing everything else! “Mum the door's wide open!” I yelped.</div>
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“Oh never mind that I'll only be a second.” she said as she quickly scrubbed me from belly to knee. “Sit down.” she instructed. “Give me your feet.”</div>
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I didn't have any problem sinking back onto all the bubbles, but I clung on the bath's handles for dear life as Mum scrubbed my toes, feet, shins and calves. “Right you're done.” she said as she pulled out the plug.”</div>
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I felt overwhelmed having just had the quickest, most thorough bath I've ever had. The water gargled down the plug hole. The bubbles clung to my body as the level slowly and steadily dropped. “Janet I'm in the bath!” I yelped as my sister appeared at the wide open door.</div>
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“I've never seem such a frilly pair of knickers, let alone worn any!” she giggled, holding my knickers on their little plastic hanger.</div>
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“Put them back!” I growled.</div>
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“Put Alex's knickers back in his room Janet.” Mum said in her serious voice. “He'll be needing them in a minute.” she added. My sister sniggered and disappeared. Mum stood me up and rinsed the bubbles off me, before talking to me with big fluffy towel, then dousing me in talcum powder. I coughed and spluttered in the cloud of fine powder, then before I could even catch my breath, she wrapped the towel around me and marched me to my bedroom. “I don't why you're looking so worried Alex... you've worn it before.”</div>
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“I know but... it was funny then.” I gulped. “Aunt Alice didn't buy it by mistake did she?”</div>
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“You'll have to ask her when she arrives.” Mum said as she unclipped my knickers from their little plastic hanger. I stepped into then but couldn't look as I pulled them up. They felt nothing at all like my Y fronts as they settled about my hips. Mum pulled them up to my waist. “That's where they sit.” she said. I blinked and hated what I saw. From the front they look bad enough, having ruffled lace around the legs and more around the waist, plus a little satin bow where my belly button should be. The back of my knickers have approximately ten rows of lace covering my bum and I can only imagine what I must look like.</div>
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With my bra jiggling on its little plastic hanger, dangling from her fingers, Mum sat me on my bed. “You know when I was your age...” she began. “...well, a couple of years younger, it was my big sister, your auntie Sandra who showed me how to fasten my first training bra.” she told me. “I think Janet would be over the moon if you asked her how to fasten yours.”</div>
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“No mum.” I whined. “I don't want her to even see it.” I said, let alone show me how to wear it, I thought. Mum told me it would be really nice if my sister did the honours, but that really was the last thing I wanted. “She'll only tease me.” I moaned. “Can't <i>you</i> show me to put it on? Pleeaassse.”</div>
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“OK.” Mum sighed. “Since you asked so nicely.” she added. I couldn't believe that I'd actually just asked to be shown how to put a bra on but... I did. “There... that wasn't so hard was it?” she said. She'll never know, I thought. “Turn around so I can adjust your straps.”</div>
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I turned my back to my mother and hung my head. My white satin panties with pale blue trim, ruffled lace and a satin bow perfectly matched the bra. It has a pale blue satin bow between its flat cups, which are also trimmed with lace. Mum asked me stand so she could have a look at me. Timidly I did and after what felt like a very long few seconds whilst my mother smiled at my new underwear, I asked if I could put my dress on. “Course you can.” my mother smiled.</div>
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When I donned my dress on Christmas Day I couldn't stop giggling. It seemed like such a silly mistake to make and I imagined Aunt Alice having a proper 'doh' moment when she saw the photograph of Janet and I posing by the tree wearing our Christmas dresses. I kept it on for a couple of hours and whilst being horrid to look at, it was an easy and comfy garment to wear and the tights felt nice and cosy too. Today is a completely different experience. I felt like I was being fastened into a strait-jacket. “What time is Aunt Alice coming?” I meekly asked as one by one, my mother fastened some twenty small buttons that run from the small of my back to the back of my neck.</div>
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“I'm not sure.” Mum replied. “She hinted it might be early.” she added. “There.” she said, fastening the final button.</div>
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“Thanks.” I meekly murmured. Mum asked where my new socks are. “I don't know.” I said.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfueCdDqHpXZS7BkqeoX_zG7t8eY2dRixtgvI-zS1_W1qlJXRFtfOxDogBraZz9rtvTDB43GhhkywcO2DEo_ZoEgw_n0NqI7brYWebjiisGP2PCTNQEGx5QPLg2OFvfHc1JkcvQN_G3R8/s1600/blessi-girls-lace-tube-socks-lolita-knee-high-stockings-fashion-with-bow-white__71D9z9nPk2L.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1001" data-original-width="1001" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfueCdDqHpXZS7BkqeoX_zG7t8eY2dRixtgvI-zS1_W1qlJXRFtfOxDogBraZz9rtvTDB43GhhkywcO2DEo_ZoEgw_n0NqI7brYWebjiisGP2PCTNQEGx5QPLg2OFvfHc1JkcvQN_G3R8/s320/blessi-girls-lace-tube-socks-lolita-knee-high-stockings-fashion-with-bow-white__71D9z9nPk2L.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Mum glanced around, knowing she'd fetched them in. “Ah... here they are.” she said, spotting them on the floor atop the same flat black ballet slippers I'd worn on Christmas Day. She opened the box and pulled them out. “I'd better put these on.” she said. “They're ever so delicate.” she added.</div>
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“I'd have rather worn tights again.” I said, recalling how cosy they felt.</div>
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“You could have done if your knickers weren't so frilly.” my mother told me. When you're a thirteen year old boy, there's certain words that should never be preceded by 'your'. Words such as dress, knickers, and bra. Worse still is saying 'my' before such words. I sit on my bed and point my toes so Mum can put my socks on. She seems to take great care making sure the pattern is aligned dead centre on my instep, ankle and shin. They'd have been bad enough without the lacy love-heart knit, but the band of frilly fabric and lace around their tops makes them doubly undesirable. What girls see in this stuff I'll never know. Unlike the relatively sedate pair of tights I'd worn on Christmas day, these socks feel neither warm nor cosy. A hoard of butterflies erupted in my tummy as I pushed my toes into the shoes. The first time I dressed as a girl it was just something silly to do... but this time I dressed completely as a girl, both inside and out and rather than feeling silly, it's scary.</div>
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A broad grin sweeps my sister's face when she saw me. “You know I am.” I whined when she asked if I’m wearing 'my' knickers. They're nothing like the underwear I accustomed to; being silky and snug with a high waist. I'm not sure if I can actually feel all the frills running across my bum or if I'm just imagining I can. I can certainly feel my training bra though. I fits snugly around my chest and every time I twist or raise an arm, I can feel its shoulder straps stretch and twist with me. I can't imagine having to wear one everyday like my sister and mother does.</div>
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I gulp and take in Janet's horrendous frock, AKA the pinkfrilled platifrock. At least my dress isn't that dress. I don't know what's worse; its huge white collar or its dropped skirt and button detail. Whoever designed either of those features should have been banned from ever working in the fashion industry again... and whoever put them together on one outfit should have been shot. “Do you know when Aunt Alice is coming?” Janet asked me.</div>
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“No... Mum wasn't sure either.” I said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned up after tea and we end up wearing these all day long.” I glumly supposed. It's just gone 8.15am and there's an awful lot of the day to go. Mum's in the kitchen making breakfast. The scent of grilled bacon wafts up the stairs and I had a brainwave that might make the day more bearable... at least until Aunt Alice arrives.</div>
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“Why are you wearing those?” our mother said as we entered the kitchen wearing our bathrobes.</div>
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“To keep our dresses clean.” I said. “Janet said the last thing I want on satin is a grease stain.”</div>
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“And I don't want to get crumbs on mine.” Janet added before suggesting we wear them until Aunt Alice arrives.</div>
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“Hmm, yes. That might be wise.” Mum said.</div>
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It didn't feel so bad being able to keep my bathrobe on, although it did nothing to hide my shoes and socks. We waited all morning and most of the afternoon for Aunt Alice to finally arrive. Mum ordered us out of our bathrobes when she saw Alice's car pull up outside. She fussed with us as Alice walked up the path and in through the open front door. “Oh my haven't you both grown!” she said as we stood blushing in our horrific dresses. “Janet you're so pretty, and Alex, you're such a handsome young man!” Aunt Alice said.</div>
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“Erm... I thought you thought I was a girl.” I stammered.</div>
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“Why on earth would you think that?” Alice asked.</div>
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“Because you gave me a dress for Christmas.” Alex replied.</div>
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“I did. And very nice it looks too.” she said. I gulped. She smiled. “You don't have to thank me, but thank<i> you</i> for wearing it for me.”</div>
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“Erm... thanks.” I sheepishly said. “Can I take it of now?”</div>
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“Absolutely not I've only just arrived.” she rapidly replied before telling Janet that she also looked very nice in her new dress.</div>
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“Thank you Aunt Alice.” my sister replied. My mother invited Alice to the lounge and sheepishly, Janet and I followed. Mum and Alice made small talk about the journey, then listed who they'd seen and heard from over Christmas. Mum mentioned that we'd visited our relatives in Helmfordshire, adding that Jonathan's school trip to Lichtenstein sounded exciting, especially at this time of year. “Ah yes.” Aunt Alice said. “Hopefully boarding school will do the boy some good.”</div>
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Aunt Alice turned to my sister and I and asked if we enjoyed school. “Not really.” I moaned.</div>
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“It's OK.” my sister said.</div>
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“Oh well that's good.” Alice said. “And are you looking forward to becoming a petticoatee Alex?”</div>
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“Erm... I don't really know what one is.” I gulped.</div>
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Aunt Alice looked me up and down; from the satin frills about my shoulders, to my pale naked knees and frilly lace knee socks. I smoothed my satin skirt over my lap and gulped as her eyes penetrated me. I couldn’t help but wonder if she knew what I was wearing beneath the dress she'd gifted me. The silence felt heavy. My mother and her aunt just looked at me for a moment. “Normally...” Aunt Alice began. “...it would have happened on your birthday... but I've been so busy this year we've had to leave it until now.” she said. “However new year is probably a better time to begin... start the year afresh and all that.” she paused. I had so many questions in my mind but couldn't think of a single one... or at least, I couldn't think which to ask first.</div>
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“Is he going to have to dress like a girl all the time?” my sister asked.</div>
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“We don't really see it as dressing like a girl Janet.” Aunt Alice replied. “Alex's dress is in fact a boy's dress.” she added, before telling me that I will be dressing 'nicely' all of the time.</div>
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“Does that mean I'll be wearing a dress all the time?” I asked.</div>
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“It does Alex.” Aunt Alice replied. I hung my head and gulped before meekly asking why. Aunt Alice lectured me on the problems that adolescent boys face. We have boundless amounts of energy which is often wasted on reckless and risky acts, boisterous behaviour, arrogance and aggression, all interspersed with long bouts of apathy. “Boys can be easily led and have a tendency to allow themselves to be led astray.” she told me. “Peer group pressure is just that. Pressure.” she repeated. “Boys pressure one another into doing things they wouldn't normally do...” she claimed, listing bullying, fighting, shoplifting, vandalism, trespassing, playing stupid games such as chicken, smoking cigarettes, sniffing glue, etc.</div>
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“I can't imagine Alex getting involved in any of those things.” my sister said.</div>
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“Neither can I.” Aunt Alice agreed. “Especially now.” she added, looking at my dress more then me.</div>
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My sister turned her eyes on me and looked me up and down. “Oh I see... there's no way he'd be led astray if he's wearing dresses all the time.” she realised.</div>
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“I couldn't have put it better myself Janet.” Aunt Alice said. “Now Alex... it's not going to be easy to begin with. There's a lot of changes for you to get used to and you've already got yourself over the first hurdle.” she told me. I guess that must have been actually wearing my dress. Aunt Alice told that there's many more hurdles to come, that I've got lots to learn and if I engage myself, I will have some fun. “You'll have a nanny too. Won't that be nice?” she added.</div>
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“A nanny?!” my sister and I blurted in unison.</div>
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“Yes.” Aunt Alice said. “And you'll be educated at home too, which means you won't have to mingle with all those ruffians at school any more.” she informed me. “And you won't be wasting your time playing those silly computer games either. You'll learn some practical pastimes such as needlepoint and crochet and embroidery.” she said. “Which reminds me Alex...” The shameful moment came when she enquired about my underwear. “Oh I am glad. That's two hurdles then.” she smiled.</div>
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“Why are you making me do all this Auntie?” I glumly asked.</div>
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“All the boys in this family are petticoated when they turn thirteen.” she replied. “Had it not been for cousin Anthony's birthday being so close to yours, you'd have been petticoated on your birthday.” she informed me. “It's been quite a busy year... what with Anthony, Steven, Paul, Jonathan, Oliver and Simon all turning thirteen this year.”</div>
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“They've all been petticoated?” Janet asked. “Like Alex is going to be?”</div>
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Aunt Alice nodded.</div>
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“How long for?” Janet asked.</div>
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“Well that depends... it's just an adolescence thing, to help our boys through that confusing time of life.”</div>
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“It's going to be even more confusing if I have to dress like a girl all the time.” I figured.</div>
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“On the contrary Alex, it will help you focus and give you a routine. It's a proven fact that petticoated boys are better behaved than non-petticoated boys. They also perform better in school because...”</div>
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“You said I wouldn't be going to school.” I interrupted.</div>
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“I'm talking about petticoated boys in general.” Aunt Alice told me. “Some of them do go to school and some, like Jonathan, go to boarding school.” she explained. “You'll have a nanny who'll home school you, and believe me Alex, you'll get a much better education than that city school you used to go to.”</div>
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“I can't believe you're going to have a nanny!” Janet gushed.</div>
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“She'll be your nanny too.” I said. Presuming a nanny would be in charge of 'the' children.</div>
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“Actually Alex, she'll just be your nanny...” mother said. “Think of her more as a tutor. She'll mostly just be helping you with your coursework whilst Janet's at school.”</div>
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“Like a Victorian governess?” Janet suggested.</div>
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“Exactly.” Aunt Alice said. “I feel 'governess' is a bit of a mouthful where as 'nanny' is a little more informal.”</div>
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I can't imagine what having a governess/nanny might be like. I can't really imagine what being home-schooled might be like either, apart from being boring. Aunt Alice is telling my mother what it will be like, but I’m only half listening; reading, writing, arithmetic being the three most important subjects and history being second most, next comes practical crafts rather than art and getting a basic grasp of domestic science is much more important than useless subjects such as geography.</div>
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Aunt Alice prattles on and my mother responds with ums and ahs. Meanwhile I'm trying to get my head around the fact that I’m not just dressed entirely as a girl today, but will be again tomorrow, and the day after that. It was only supposed to be for an hour or so. Aunt Alice was supposed to go '<i>Oh silly me! It's been so many years I got muddled and thought Alex was a girl's name!</i>'... but part of me knew that wasn't going to be the case when Mum made me spend my gift vouchers on my girlie underwear... and I just went along with it. In retrospect I should have just said no in the lingerie store and apart from the fact I was gob-smacked and/or dumbstruck, I really don't know why I didn't. Mum would have bought them anyway, I figured.</div>
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What I should have done was not worn the dress on Christmas day... maybe it was a test? Maybe if I didn't wear it then I wouldn't be wearing it now. But then again, if all the boys in our family really do get petticoated when they turn thirteen... I probably would. If I had been petticoated on my birthday I'd have been petticoated for some six months by now... or would I? I pondered. How long does adolescence last? I wondered. I've never really thought about it before. Is it a couple of months or a couple of years? I really don't know.</div>
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A while later, my sister and I had some time alone. “This is going to be horrible.” I whined. “I feel like crying.” I said as my chin began to quiver.</div>
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“It won't be that bad Alex.” she empathised. “I wear girl's clothes all the time too.” she said in a tone that suggested an attempt to cheer me up.</div>
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“But you're not going to have a nanny or be taken out of school.”</div>
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“Under the circumstances, it's probably best that you have been taken out of school.” she replied. “You'd have to wear the girl's uniform.” she said. “Imagine that!”</div>
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“I'm trying not to think about any of it.” I sullenly said. “But you're right... it's just gonna be weird.” I mused. “It's still not fair though.”</div>
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“I know.” Janet agreed. “...but <i>if</i> Paul and Jonathan and Oliver, and the others she mentioned <i>have</i> all been petticoated this year, you're certainly not the only one.”</div>
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“That doesn't make me feel any better.” I frowned. Janet frowned too. “Maybe it does.” I thought. “It would be worse if it was just me I guess.” I said. “But it's still pretty bad.” I gulped.</div>
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“Well like I said... they're only clothes. You'll get used to them.” she told me. Her hand found my satin sleeve and ran up and down it reassuringly. “You did say it felt quite nice on Christmas Day.”</div>
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“Yeah but... I didn't think I'd have to wear it again.” I replied. “We only wore them for a laugh.” I reminded her. “If I'd known it was actually for me I wouldn't have gone anywhere near it... I'd have thrown it on the fire!”</div>
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“Then you'd be in trouble.” Janet said.</div>
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“Yeah probably... I'd prob'ly be wearing that.” I dryly sniggered and snorted at her pink monstrosity.</div>
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Janet sniggered too. “Do you actually think she thought it was nice?”</div>
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“Yours.” I asked. “I can't see it.” I said. “She probably chose that so I wouldn't think this was so bad.”</div>
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Janet tittered and said I was probably right. “Yours isn't so bad though. As far as dresses go it's pretty standard... and at least it's not pink or something really girlie.”</div>
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“It already <i>is</i> something really girlie.” I claimed. “But yeah I guess you're right.” I sighed. “What do you reckon this nanny's going to be like?” I gulped.</div>
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“Dunno... they're often depicted as really strict and stern women.” Janet replied. “I don't imagine she'll be anything like Mary Poppins.” she added. I gulped again. “I guess we'll find out tomorrow.”</div>
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“I wonder if I’ll have to wear this again tomorrow?” I moaned as I pinched my skirt, lifted it and let it drop onto my lap.</div>
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“Well Aunt Alice did say that you won't be wearing boy's clothes for a while... traditional ones anyway.” Janet replied. “I'm still not sure if I can believe that that came from a boys' dress shop!”</div>
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“Me neither.” I frowned. “But Mum told me that a girl's dress would have fewer buttons on the back.” I said. “...and that I'd be able to undo them myself if it was a girl's dress.”</div>
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“You do have an awful lot of buttons.” my sister agreed.</div>
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Later that evening, when Mum was unbuttoning my dress for me, I asked if I'd have to wear it again tomorrow, and added that I won't have any clean underwear, since I only have one set. “They'll be washed and dried ready for tomorrow.” my mother told me. I glumly asked if I had to wear my dress again. “Don't you want to?”</div>
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“You know I don't.” I grumbled. “But you said I wasn't allowed to wear boys clothes any more.” I sulked.</div>
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“You're wearing boy's clothes now.”</div>
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“You know what I mean.”</div>
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Once released from my frock, I unfastened my bra and stepped out of my knickers and pulled on a pair of my pyjamas... then, much to my dismay, I was shown how to hand-wash my underwear and socks. “They're very delicate so you have to be gentle.” Mum said. It only took a few minutes but I'd rather wear a pair of frilly knickers all day long than spend a moment handling them. I wrung them out and put them to one side before hand-washing my training bra and lacy knee socks too. Both hung on my bedroom radiator and would be dry by morning.</div>
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Over breakfast the following morning, Aunt Alice asked Janet if she had an old dress I could wear today. “I've got loads.” Janet replied.</div>
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“Now don't give him anything nice. Choose something you mind getting dirty.” Alice advised.</div>
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“OK... does it have to be a dress or can it be a skirt and top?”</div>
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“I'll leave that up to you dear.” Alice replied. “And in case you're wondering Alex, we'll be sorting your bedroom out today.” she told me.</div>
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“My bedroom?” I gulped.</div>
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“Yes.” she said. “We'll start by packing up your old clothes once you're dressed.”</div>
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Janet chose me an old skirt; navy blue, knee length with box pleats and four big brass buttons on the front, one of which was hanging on by a thread. She dug out an old beige ribbed jumper and a pair of her old school knee socks that had gotten snagged, putting a couple of holes in the pelerine knit. Once dressed, I took my sorry ass down to the lounge where my mother and aunt waited. “You look like you belong on a council estate.” my mother sniggered when she saw my shabby outfit.</div>
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“He looks like he's ready to give his room a good clear out.” Aunt Alice said, before marching me back up the stairs.</div>
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“Did my cousins have to do this too?” I mournfully asked as I glumly removed all my clothes from my drawers and wardrobe. Aunt Alice told me that those who were being petticoated at home did, but others such as Jonathan who were sent to boarding school didn't. “How come some of us stay at home and some go to boarding school?” I asked.</div>
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“Because some boys refuse to be petticoated.” she told me. “...and those boys go to boarding school where the rules are much stricter. You wouldn't like it.” she said.</div>
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“I don't think I'll like it either way.” I moaned.</div>
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“Oh we'll see.” she said. “I expect you're like most boys... the idea of wearing a dress is far worse than the reality and once you've got one on you soon realise that they're not so bad after all.” she claimed. I claimed it was horrible. “I can't be that bad... you wore your dress on Christmas day and again yesterday.” she reminded me. “And today you've borrowed something off your sister.” she added. “If it was truly horrible you'd have refused to wear your dress in the first place.” she said.</div>
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In my defence I told her again that I thought it was a mistake and only wore my dress for fun on Christmas day. She pointed out the contradiction in my claims and asked how it can be horrible if I wore it for fun. “I don't know.” I replied. “It was different yesterday when Mum said I had to wear it.”</div>
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“Yet you still wore it.” Aunt Alice said. “And if you hadn't you'd have been busy preparing to go to boarding school instead of getting your room ready for your nanny to arrive.” she added. “...and believe me... you're much better off with a nanny than you would be at boarding school.”</div>
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“She's coming today?!” I gasped.</div>
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“When did you think she'd be coming?”</div>
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“I don't know... I figured you'd have to find one first.”</div>
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“Well I did find one and she'll be arriving today.”</div>
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“When?” I asked. It's not even noon.</div>
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“I'm not sure Alex, but I expect it won't be too late in the day.” Aunt Alice said.</div>
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I got the distinct feeling that boarding school wasn't a good alternative, although being petticoated at home with a nanny didn't sound good either. I decide to toe the line for the time being and if the nanny really is horrible, I imagine I'll run away from home. I know it's midwinter and I probably wouldn't last two minutes, but day dreaming won't do me any harm. I consider somehow stashing a pair of jeans and a jumper as I empty my wardrobe, but it wouldn't be easy under Aunt Alice's watchful eye. Everything needed to be folded properly and placed in a brown cardboard box. Being a boy and therefore not very adept at folding clothes, it took me a good hour to empty my drawers and wardrobe. Next, all my old toys and games and gadgets were carefully packed away and the boxes stacked in the small spare bedroom. Then Aunt Alice went through all my books, magazines and comics and all but a handful of my books went into a box. Meanwhile, I had to take all my pictures and posters down from the walls.</div>
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With my drawers and shelves virtually empty, I was given a duster and some furniture polish and had to dust polish everything from the top of the wardrobe down to the wooden bed-frame. One of the chests of drawers was moved into the spare bedroom along with one of my bedside cabinets which freed up some wall and floor space, then, under Aunt Alice's instruction, Janet helped me to rearrange the furniture. My bed went behind the door with a small cabinet next to it. My wardrobe went next to the window and my bookshelf went on the other side. Beside this my desk was put and next to that the remaining chest of drawers. This freed up a big area by the window and left one wall free. Finally, I vacuumed the carpet and was left alone in my empty bedroom for a while.</div>
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Normally rearranging my bedroom layout is a refreshing change, but not this time. Normally I’d be arranging and rearranging all my stuff but this time I don't have any stuff... well, not apart from the dress hanging in my wardrobe and a small collection of books on my shelf. The scent of furniture polish filled the air. A sense of dread filled my skull. I smoothed the box pleated skirt over my lap and whilst I didn't like it, I did accept that it was a lot better than wearing my dress. The fabric is thicker and feels significantly warmer than my light satin frock. Same goes for the jumper and socks. They may be a bit tatty but they are quite cosy. I recall Mum's council estate comment and imagine that I'm from a family so poor, all I have is my sister's hand-me-downs. Given the choice, I think I'd prefer that to this. There's no shortage of money in our family and I imagine that it won't be long before my drawers and wardrobe are full of lots of nice new clothes fit for a petticoated boy.</div>
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Mum returned with a bundle of bedding and told me to change my bed. Being an average thirteen year old boy, my mother usually changes my bedding for me whilst I'm at school, so you can imagine how I blundered my way through fitting a sheet and replacing the duvet cover. Mum and Aunt Alice were in and out, checking on me frequently and making sure I was doing it properly. Pulling on the pillow cases was easy compared to putting on the duvet cover. I had to crawl inside it to push the corners in and as I reversed out, my skirt got dragged onto my back just as my sister was entering my room. She shrieked with laughter at the sight of my frilly white knickers with row after row of baby blue lace covering my bum. I was crimson when my face emerged. “I'm sorry Alex.” Janet said. “That really wasn't what I expected to see!” she claimed. “Mum asked if you wanted this.” she said, holding her old dressing table mirror.</div>
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“Not really.” I grumbled.</div>
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“Hmm... I think when Mum asked me to ask you if you wanted it, what she really meant was 'give this to Alex'.” Janet informed me.</div>
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“What do I want that for?” I moaned.</div>
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“Well I got a new one for Christmas.” she said as she placed it on my desk. “Maybe you need this so you can do your make-up.”</div>
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“Oh I don't do I?” I whined. “It's bad enough just having to wear girl's clothes.”</div>
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“I honestly don't know Alex... Mum just told me to give it to you.” my sister informed me.</div>
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“Hmmm.” I said. “Thanks I guess.”</div>
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When Mum and Aunt Alice next checked in on me, I mournfully asked why I needed the vanity mirror. The reply was blunt and patronising. “I won't have to wear make-up will I?” I murmured.</div>
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“You're a bit young for make-up Alex.” my mother replied.</div>
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“But Janet wears it and she's only a year older.”</div>
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“Janet's also a girl Alex.” Aunt Alice stated. “If you want to wear make-up you'll just have to wait until you're older.”</div>
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“I don't want to wear make-up... I just thought... coz of the mirror.” I mumbled. Aunt Alice pulled me up on my lacklustre use of the English language. “Sorry.” I gulped.</div>
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“It's important that you look nice and without a mirror, how would you know?” she asked me. “You mightn't notice that loose button on your skirt unless you look in the mirror.” she said. “And when you're wearing your dress you need to make sure the frills are straight and that its skirt hasn't got tucked into your knickers.” she told me. I guess she has a point. “Now...” she said. “...why don't you read one of your books until Nanny arrives.”</div>
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I looked at my empty bookshelf and my few remaining books. Apart from the Complete Illustrated Stories of Hans Christian Andersen book that I’ve had since I was about seven years old, they're all educational reference books such as a dictionary and various atlases. It's going to be a long afternoon with that little lot, I mused as I selected something to flick through. Mum checked on me a short while later. “Alice said that your door needs to be wide open when you're in your room alone.” she told me.</div>
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“Why are you letting her do this to me Mum?” I asked.</div>
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“Because it's for the best.” Mum replied. “And it's not just you...” she added, listing the names of my cousin's who'd also been petticoated. “Think yourself lucky that you're getting a nanny rather than being packed off to boarding school like your cousins Jonathan, Simon and Paul.”</div>
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“Do they have to dress as girls at boarding school?”</div>
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“They dress like petticoated boys.” Mum told me. “And it's a very strict school.”</div>
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I imagine boarding school might be better than having a nanny who I imagine to also be very strict. How many thirteen year old boys have a nanny? I wonder. I would later learn that each of my cousins aged thirteen or more who don't attend boarding school all have a nanny... but it's only the boys which seems wholly unfair to me. But thinking about it, one can hardly petticoat a girl... and having thought a little more, girls <i>are</i> petticoated. I climb off my bed and choose another book to leaf through, instinctively I go to close my door but recalling my mother's instruction, I leave it open.</div>
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I glance in the mirror on my desk as I select a book. I gulp as I notice that the outline of my training bra is apparent due to my clingy ribbed jumper. It's more obvious from the back than the front, thankfully... but I feel somewhat disheartened that anyone could see that I'm wearing a bra beneath my top even if they can't actually see it. I sit back on my bed and apathetically flick through the Readers' Digest Atlas of Geographical Wonders. It's packed full of striking photographs of some amazing places, from the torn landscapes of Iceland to the glaciers of Antarctica and seemingly everywhere in between.</div>
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“Whatcha doin'?” Janet asked as she appeared in the doorway.</div>
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“Nowt.” I glumly replied. “Just waiting for that nanny to turn up.”</div>
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“I'm a bit surprised that she's coming so soon.” Janet said as she perched on the edge of my bed. “I thought it'd be in a few days when we're supposed to go back to school.” she said.</div>
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“So did I.” I mournfully replied. “I can't quite believe that I'm not be going back to school.” I added.</div>
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“Yeah... dunno what I’m gonna say when people start asking me where Alex is.” Janet said.</div>
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I sighed possibly the world's longest sigh as I considered that. I suggested she tell them I’m being home-schooled but says nothing about me being a petticoatee... “In fact, just tell 'em I've been sent to boarding school.”</div>
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“I can skirt round the truth but I can't lie.” Janet replied. “And what about when your friends call round?”</div>
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“Oh I dunno...” I furrowed my brow. “They probably won't want to be my friends if they see me dressed like this.” I presumed.</div>
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“They won't be proper friends then.”</div>
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“They'll think I'm a faggot.” I gulped. Janet didn't reply. After a short silence I told my sister that I'd asked about the vanity mirror. “...and Mum said I'm too young for make-up.”</div>
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“But your thirteen.” Janet stated. “I was allowed it when I was twelve.” she said.</div>
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“I'm glad I’m not.” I groaned.</div>
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“That's weird... loads of guys wear make up these days.” she said, citing a number of current pop acts as examples.</div>
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“Well like I say... I'm glad I’m not one of them.”</div>
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“I like wearing make-up.” my sister told me. “It's fun trying out different looks.” she claimed. “...and if you were allowed I could make you look like a girl rather than a boy in girl's clothing.”</div>
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“I think the whole point is that I am a boy in girl's clothing.” I sighed. “...like they're embarrassing me into behaving myself.”</div>
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“Yeah.” my sister agreed. “...and it's not like you're some tearaway. You hardly ever get in trouble.”</div>
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“I know.” I frowned. “It's supposed to stop me from being a bully but I don't bully anyone anyway.” I said. “Same goes for shoplifting and vandalism... I wouldn't dare anyway for fear of getting caught.”</div>
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“Still... at least it's not just you.” Janet said, reminding me that all the boys in our family are petticoated when they turn thirteen years of age. “I wonder if it happens in any other families?” she mused.</div>
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“I had no idea it happened in ours until yesterday.”</div>
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“Me neither.”</div>
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“What are you two yacking about.” Aunt Alice asked when she popped her head in the door.</div>
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“We were just wondering if petticoating happens in other families or just ours.” Janet replied.</div>
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“Oh yes.” Aunt Alice claimed. “It's one of those things that goes on a lot but is seldom talked about.” she told us. “They wouldn't make frocks and undergarments especially for petticoated boys if there weren't any to sell them to.” she added as she turned to me. “And it won't be so bad once you've got used to it.” she calmly claimed.</div>
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“Hmm.” I replied. I'd like to believe that I'll never get used to dressing like this but after wearing my blue dress all day yesterday and this tatty outfit today, I hesitantly consider the fact that I will get used to it.</div>
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“He'll have more than just one dress though?” Janet quizzed.</div>
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“Oh yes.” Aunt Alice replied, but said little more on the subject. “Now make sure you straighten your bedding before Nanny arrives. She'll want to see your room tidy and orderly.” she instructed before leaving.</div>
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I waited a moment before saying, “She's going to be really strict isn't she.”</div>
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Janet nodded. “I doubt she'll be a nice one like Wendy Craig.”</div>
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“...or Mary Poppins.”</div>
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My sister smiled and stood. “Well I'd better leave you to it.” she said as she smoothed the patch of duvet that she'd sat on.</div>
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I murmured as she left and put my book away. I straightened the bedding and sauntered downstairs. Sheepishly, I asked if I had to stay in my room or could I watch TV for a while. “Of course you can.” my mother replied. “Providing you're happy to watch what we're watching.” she added.</div>
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I timidly perched on a chair and straightened my knee socks before sitting back. Lord knows what they're watching; one of those confusing university programmes on BBC2 by the looks of it. I glare at the screen but my mind wonders. After a few minutes my mother turns to her aunt, “Don't you think he should be wearing his nice dress when Nanny arrives?”</div>
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“No he's fine as he is.” Aunt Alice replied. “His Sunday dress is just that... a Sunday dress.” she stated. I guess that means I'll be wearing it again on Sunday... and probably every Sunday after that.</div>
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It was almost dusk when an old Commer van pulled up outside. “This is probably her.” Alice announced as its noisy engine chugged to a standstill. My tummy began to rumble and almost erupted when my mother went to open the door. I stayed where I was and focused on the voices in the hallway. Stuff was being fetched in and under normal circumstances I'd have gone to see what but I'm not going to move until I have to. “He's just in here.” my mother said a moment before leading the nanny in.</div>
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I jumped to my feet. “You must be Alex.” a relatively young, friendly looking woman said.</div>
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I gulped. “Erm... yes.” I said. She held out her hand and I shook it. Her grip was gentle and friendly. In fact she was nothing like I’d imagined. She wore jeans and a checked shirt. Her hair is wavy and tousled. Her smile is welcoming, her eyes are warm. She looks me up and down and tells me that I'm already getting myself accustomed to my new routine. “Erm... yes.” I gulped.</div>
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“You'll have to forgive his clothes...” my mother said, explaining why I'm wearing an old ribbed jumper, a tatty skirt and snagged pelerine knee socks. “His room's absolutely spotless even if he isn't.” my mother concluded.</div>
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“Shall we go and have a look?” the nanny said.</div>
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I sheepishly followed but my eyes were drawn by all the stuff in our sizeable hallway. There's a big velvet arm chair, two large suitcases, a trunk, and a big box beneath a round hat box. I say nothing as I climb the stairs. The nanny stepped aside at the top and asked which room it was. “Err... this one...” I meekly replied, pointing toward my open door. She stepped toward it and I followed. My sister was peering through her barely open bedroom door.</div>
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“Well this is nice.” the nanny said as she looked around, sliding open a drawer and opening a wardrobe door. “Is this your Sunday dress?” she asked, seeing the only item hanging on the rail. I gulped and nodded. She told me it was lovely. I could feel myself blushing. “And you must be Janet.” she said, noticing my sister lurking on the landing.</div>
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“Hello.” my sister said as she entered my room. They briefly introduced themselves before the nanny asked if we could have some time alone to get to know one another. “Of course.” my sister said, before asking the nanny her name.</div>
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“It's Stephanie... or Steph to my friends.” the nanny replied. My sister asked if she could call her Steph and the nanny said she could. “You'll have to address me as Nanny though Alex.” she told me in a serious tone. “But that doesn't mean we can't be friends.” she added in a more affable manner.</div>
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My sister left and Nanny closed the door. “Please... sit down... I don't bite.” she smiled. She sat on my bed and I sat on my chair with my back to my desk. I felt like a naughty school boy and sat to attention with my knees and ankles together. She asked me to tell her about myself, what my hobbies are, what kind of music I like, which football team I follow and sports I enjoy. She asked me about school and my friends, enquired which classes I enjoy and which I don't, before telling me about herself. She likes to read and used to enjoy sport but doesn't get much chance to partake now she's a full time nanny. I asked which sports she enjoyed. “Martial arts mostly. Ju Jitsu, Judo and Taekwondo.” she told me, before adding hockey and tennis to the list. I knew I was pushing my luck when I asked if she'd teach me martial arts but I felt quite comfortable in her company once we'd got to know each other. “Absolutely not young man.” she replied in a friendly tone.</div>
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She cast her eyes around my room and commented on its cleanliness. “Did you do it all yourself?” she asked. I felt quite proud as I nodded. “Well done you.” she said. “Shall we bring my things up?”</div>
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“Are you staying in the spare room?”</div>
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“No I'm staying in here, with you.” she said. Despite my feeling that was the case, my jaw still dropped. “Don't worry... I've brought a bed.” she said.</div>
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To be honest, in that moment, I wasn't thinking about where she'd sleep. I was thinking about me, a thirteen year old boy sharing a room with an attractive and affable woman in her mid to late twenties and the prospect of seeing her undress. I followed her to the hallway and she handed me a suitcase. I bundled it up the stairs and she, somewhat amazingly, followed with the big arm chair. “Isn't that heavy?” I asked as she carried it directly to my room and placed it by the window.</div>
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“Too heavy for a boy like you.” she replied as she shunted it this way and that into a position she was happy with. She's only a few inches taller than me and isn't exactly stocky, I thought.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPRM56Z7DTsjar7k_K3P0mdk5AIBwm-gu0RdErnjwCbOOZsp00kFyBJmnIuwhSlDiKSiQnsFRiyo8jGue_yF9s7HjltozXonksZgEffXZGK5SbE1Wk6PXu9v_ojAsNg7bnvub5fUQgWo/s1600/TB27lNHddnJ8KJjSszdXXaxuFXa_%2521%25213064222952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPRM56Z7DTsjar7k_K3P0mdk5AIBwm-gu0RdErnjwCbOOZsp00kFyBJmnIuwhSlDiKSiQnsFRiyo8jGue_yF9s7HjltozXonksZgEffXZGK5SbE1Wk6PXu9v_ojAsNg7bnvub5fUQgWo/s320/TB27lNHddnJ8KJjSszdXXaxuFXa_%2521%25213064222952.jpg" width="320" /></a>I brought up the other suitcase and her hat box. She carried the big box beneath it which she told me was a folding bed that came all the way from China. She wasn't kidding either because this image was stuck to the side of its box. </div>
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We bundled the trunk up between us. “What's in here?” I asked since it was quite heavy.</div>
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“All sorts of things.” she said, listing the books I'll need for study time and the books she'll read in her own time, plus the bedding, her alarm clock, hair dryer, curling tongues, a few ornaments to make the place feel like home.</div>
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We put the trunk by the wall, next to the intriguing folding bed. Nanny put one of the cases on the trunk and began to unpack it; jeans, jumpers, skirts and dresses, all far too big for me. She unpacked other items into one of my drawers, socks and tights into another. I pondered that it might be me staying in her room rather than she in mine, since there's ten of her hangers in my wardrobe versus my one. “This is my uniform.” she said, hanging a bland looking dress on the front of the wardrobe. I gorped at it. “Not very nice is it.” she said. “But sometimes we don't get to choose what we wear.”</div>
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She put that case aside and put her other one on the trunk. She removed a bundle of frocks and put them on hangers. “This is what we call a 'day' dress.” she said showing me a drab dark red frock with a white collar and short cuffed sleeves. Another similar frock is removed, only this one is dark green colour The next is a vibrant blue frock with playful print of kites and clouds which she calls my 'play' dress, which is followed by another play-dress in a bright mustard-yellow printed with silhouettes of galloping horses. Then she shows me a navy blue pinafore dress with a zip front which I'll be wearing during study time.</div>
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“That's like what little girls wear at <i>junior</i> school.” I whined as I realised how infantile the outfits look. “Why can't I just wear my own clothes?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Because like I said, we don't always get to choose what we wear.”</div>
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“I did until yesterday.” I grumbled as she unfolded an almost identical garment in charcoal grey</div>
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“And I bet you hardly ever wore anything really nice.” she said as she hung the school pinafores in my wardrobe. “I know it seems strange at first but I've noticed how you keep glancing down to see how your skirt swishes.” she told me.</div>
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“Only because I'm not used to wearing one.” I replied.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“And when you are you won't give it a second thought.” she retorted. “You won't believe me but this is the fun bit... when everything feels different and new.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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She's certainly right about everything feeling different and new, but it's a long way from being fun. I cast my mind back to Christmas Day when we assumed that Aunt Alice has simply got muddled up and thought I was a girl. That was funny. We couldn't stop giggling as Janet buttoned me into my dress. I recall her saying that she'd never seen a dress with so many fiddly little buttons on the back. We laughed when we stood in front of the tree whilst Mum tried to operate the camera. Wearing a frock felt really weird but kind of nice too... but I was ignorant then.</div>
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Aunt Alice tapped on my bedroom door end entered. “Is he behaving himself?” she asked.</div>
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<br /></div>
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“Oh yes.” Nanny smiled. “I think we're going to get along just fine.”</div>
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Alice stepped to the wardrobe. On one side hangs Nanny's clothes and on the other, mine. I gulped as she removed one of the so-called 'play' dresses. “You'll certainly brighten the place up when you're wearing this.” Alice said. I gulped. The idea of wearing such vibrant playful garment sent shivers down my spine. Alice turned to Nanny and told her that supper will be served in ten minutes, before telling me to go and wash my hands beforehand.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I felt almost invisble as we ate supper. My mother and sister wanted to know all about Nanny and barely paid me any attention at all. My mother and aunt addressed her as Stephanie, my sister called her Steph as often as possible, but I have to call her Nanny. She studied English and History at university, then did a teacher training course. After a year teaching in an inner city high school, she took a post in a reform school teaching the worst of the worst.</div>
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“What's a reform school?” I timidly asked.</div>
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“A borstal.” my sister informed me.</div>
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Nanny continued telling her story and after a couple of years in the reform school, she decided that the boys in the juvenile detention centres were 'beyond hope'. She wanted to help people before they off the rails rather than after, which she referred to as 'shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted'. “So I trained as a nanny.” Nanny said, smiling at me.</div>
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“Have you nannied lots of boys?” my sister asked.</div>
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“Alex will be my third full time protégé, but during my training we inducted lots of boys.”</div>
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“Who were the others?”</div>
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“Well I can't say I'm afraid. I’m bound by a confidentiality clause, but I can say that one is now doing very well at finishing school and the other had to go to boarding school.”</div>
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“Will I have to go to boarding school?” I meekly asked.</div>
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“Alex.” Aunt Alice said. “You're supposed to address the person you're asking a question to.”</div>
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“Erm...” I replied.</div>
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“What Alice means is, when asking a question, you should state the name of the person you're speaking to.” Nanny said, citing <i>will I have to go to boarding school, Nanny?</i> as an example.</div>
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“Oh.. err... Will I have to go to boarding school, Nanny?”</div>
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Nanny smiled. “I shouldn't think so... but that depends on you. Providing you're a good boy and do as you're told, you can stay at home... otherwise.”</div>
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Her reply felt like threat. I gulped. “Will he have to go to finishing school?” my sister asked.</div>
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“Of course.” nanny replied. “All petticoated boys do... it helps them make the transition from childhood to adulthood.”</div>
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“Is it like a girl's finishing school, with etiquette and deportment and elocution classes.”</div>
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“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Nanny replied. “Alex hasn't been petticoated yet.”</div>
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“Haven't I?” I quizzed, having worn girls clothes for almost two whole days.</div>
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Janet posed much the same point and Nanny told us that I'll be petticoated from tomorrow. “However since tomorrow begins at midnight... it really begins at bath time tonight.”</div>
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“I had a bath yesterday.” I stated.</div>
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“I hope you did.” Nanny said. “Petticoated boys bathe everyday.”</div>
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“Everyday?!”</div>
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“Twice a day.” Nanny told me. “First before breakfast and then before bed.” she said.</div>
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“But... no one has <u>two</u> baths a day!”</div>
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“Petticoated boys do.” Aunt Alice stated.</div>
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“Can I stay up 'til midnight tonight?”</div>
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“Absolutely not.”</div>
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“But it's new years eve!” my sister exclaimed. “We've got to see the new year in.” she claimed.</div>
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“I've no problem with Alex staying up tonight.” Nanny said to Aunt Alice. “Providing you're ready for bed after your bath.” she said to me.</div>
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“Well if it's fine with Nanny it's fine with me.” our old aunt replied, reiterating that I’m not officially a petticoatee until tomorrow. “...which means you'll have to be in bed on time every night.” she added.</div>
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“What time's that?” I asked in a whiny voice.</div>
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“That's for Nanny to decide.” Aunt Alice told me. I looked at Nanny who smiled back, but she didn't say anything. I got the distinct feeling that it might be a little earlier than I’m used to, otherwise it wouldn't have been mentioned.</div>
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After supper, Janet and I washed, dried and put the dishes away. “Steph seems really nice doesn't she.” my sister said.</div>
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“Yes but... I don't see why I have to have a nanny... and I don't like that she's staying in my room.”</div>
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“Well Aunt Alice is using the spare room.” Janet said, presuming once she's gone, Nanny (or Steph) will move into there.</div>
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“But she's unpacked all her things in my room... she's even got a folding bed.” I said. “And there's no way her big armchair would fit in the spare room.” I added. “And Aunt Alice said it's so she can keep an eye on me.”</div>
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“Well at least she's nice... imagine if she was a really horrible strict nanny.”</div>
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“Yeah I guess.” I said. “Still wish I didn't have to have one though.”</div>
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“Wish you didn't have what?” Mum asked as she entered the kitchen.</div>
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“Nothing.” I replied.</div>
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“Nanny's running your bath so I want you up there when you've finished in here.” Mum said.</div>
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I glanced at the time. It's 6.20pm. “Already?” I whined.</div>
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“Well it is a little early but the sooner you're in the sooner you're out.” Mum replied. “...and if you do want to stay up 'til midnight.” she added.</div>
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“OK.” I conceded. I spent no more than five more minutes drying and putting away the pots, pans, plates and dishes that my sister was washing. Some went in a high cupboard, others a low one. My skirt swished about my knees as I crouched and reached, twisted and turned.”What?” I defensively asked as I caught my sister watching me.</div>
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“Nothing I’m just... trying to get my head round the fact that you won't be dressing as a boy for a while.” she said. “It's going to be like having a little sister.”</div>
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“I'm not going to be a <i>girl</i>.” I grumbled.</div>
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“I know but you know what I mean.” Janet replied.</div>
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I counted down the pots and pans and dried them slowly until the last one came. “Haven't you finished yet Alex?” Nanny's voice asked.</div>
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I turned to see Nanny in the kitchen doorway wearing her uniform. “Steph you look like a proper nanny!” my sister exclaimed. Stephanie's long tousled hair is pinned up off her shoulders. A peculiar little white cap sits atop her head. She wears a steely grey dress beneath a crisp white apron and to me, looks more like a nurse or matron than a nanny.</div>
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“I am a proper nanny and this young man needs to be in the bath.” Nanny abruptly stated. “Come on.” she said.</div>
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I gulped and glanced at the clock on the wall. It's not even 6.30pm and I'm a thirteen year old going for my 'bedtime' bath. Nanny stood to one side so I could pass. Gone was her friendly smile. In its place a serious expression. I sheepishly scuttled past her, half expecting a clip behind my ear as I did so, but Nanny just followed me up the stairs and directed me straight into the bathroom.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Half an hour later and my bottom lip is stuck out so much that I could trip over it as Nanny returns me to the sitting room. “All ready for bed?” Aunt Alice says as she looks me up and down. I gulp and nod. “Answer me properly Alex.” she instructs.</div>
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“Yes Aunt Alice.”</div>
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“You don't have to call me Aunt Alice any more Alex.” she said with a smile. “Now you're a petticoatee it's just Auntie.” she said. “Do you still want to stay up and see the new year in?” she asked.</div>
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My lip managed to stick out just a little more before I muttered “I’d rather go to bed.”</div>
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“But it's only a quarter past seven!” my sister exclaimed. “I don't mind that you're wearing a nightie.” she said.</div>
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My white calf length nightdress isn't the issue... it's the nappy concealed beneath it.</div>
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“Why don't you stay up until eight?” Nanny suggested. “I'm sure your mummy doesn't want you going to bed so early either.”</div>
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I cringed when Nanny referred to my mother as my 'mummy'. My sister Janet said that going to bed at eight o'clock is still too early for a boy my age, and I blushed when Nanny told her that <i>all</i> petticoated boys have an eight o'clock bedtime. “Go and sit with Mummy Alex.” Nanny instructed.</div>
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Sheepishly I scooped my white calf length nightdress as set between my mother and sister on the sofa. “You smell nice after your bath.” Mum said.</div>
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I gulped and blushed. Nanny prompted me to reply. “Thank you.” I meekly peeped. Nanny raised an eyebrow at me. “Mu... mummy.” I muttered.</div>
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<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I expected my sister to at least snort of snigger at the infantile expression, but she didn't. Maybe she knows? Maybe she's known all along? My mother claims to have known nothing about me becoming a petticoatee until she unwrapped her gift from Aunt Alice on Christmas Day, and even then she didn't know the whys and wherefores until she spoke to Aunt Alice on Boxing Day. Janet was mad keen to loan me some tights and shoes on Christmas Day. She even wanted to put make-up on me but I declined. She could have been instructed by Aunt Alice to encourage me... but thinking about it... it was my idea that we try them on for a laugh. If anything it was me that encouraged my sister to wear her Christmas dress.</div>
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On the TV is Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory; the kids classic fantasy with a dark underbelly. Annoyingly, it's turned off ten minutes before the end because Mum and Auntie Alice wanted to watch Family Fortunes. I didn't say anything though. In fact I barely muttered a word before 8pm when I was asked again if I'd like to stay up until midnight. “No.” I meekly muttered.</div>
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I would have rather just scuttled up to my room but first I had to give my sister, aunt and mother a hug and wish them each a happy new year, before Nanny took me to my room. “In you get.” she said, pulling the duvet cover aside.</div>
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“That's your bed Nanny.” I stated.</div>
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“No Alex.” Nanny told me. “It's your bed.”</div>
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“But...” I gulped, glancing at my own bed, then back to the folding bed she'd brought with her. It has low rails on all four sides and whilst it isn't a cot, its design certainly evokes one.</div>
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“No buts Alex... unlike your old bed, this one's got a waterproof mattress just in case your nappy leaks.” she told me. I hesitated and furrowed my brow. “Remember what I said would happen if you don't do as you're told?” she asked. I gulped and nodded. “And what did I say?” she asked.</div>
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“That I’ll have to wear my nappies in the daytime too.” I meekly replied.</div>
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“Correct.” she said. “And if you still don't behave yourself you'll be sent to boarding school where knickers are a privilege.” Nanny told me all about the boarding schools that petticoated boys get sent to whilst giving me my bath and if all she said was true, I'd much rather be petticoated at home. “I'm sure you'd rather wear a nice pair of knickers tomorrow wouldn't you?” she asked. I gulped and nodded. “Well in you get then.” she said.</div>
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I scooped up my nightdress and got on the bed. It's lower than my own bed, and narrower too. Nanny pulled my nightie down to my shins and put the duvet over me before sitting in her arm chair and opening a book. “Would you like me to read to you?” she asked.</div>
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I shook my head and stuck out my lip. “Are you going to sit there all night long?” I asked.</div>
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“No.” she chuckled. “I'll go to bed when you're sound asleep.” she told me.</div>
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“Ooohh.” I said. “I don't think I'll be able to sleep in this.” I said.</div>
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“Your bed or your nappy?”</div>
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“My nappy.” I glumly replied. “Especially if I wet myself.”</div>
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“You'll be fine.” she said. “When you are wet you won't really feel it because you're wearing nappy rash cream.” she said. “And when you're nappy trained you won't even wake up to wet yourself.” she added. “Now how about I read to you?” she suggested. “It'll help take your mind off things.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.” I glumly replied. She raised an eyebrow. “Nanny.” I added. Nanny smiled. I gulped and forced a smile in return, before pulling the duvet up to my neck and resting my head on the pillow.</div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Once on a dark winter's day...” Nanny began. Her voice was quiet yet clear. “...when the yellow fog hung so thick and heavy in the streets of London...” she read. “...that the lamps were lighted and the shop windows blazed with gas as they do at night.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Meanwhile in the lounge, Janet and her mother and Great aunt Alice are watching Paper Moon... or trying to... Janet can't help but wonder why her brother has to be petticoated and every thought that enters her head pops off her tongue in an instant. “It's not only your brother Janet.” Aunt Alice reminds her, before listing the names of the cousins who've also been petticoated this year.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why is it only boys who are petticoated?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“To stop them from getting too big for their boots.” Aunt Alice replied. “The world would be a much better place if <u>all</u> boys were petticoated.” she claimed. “Petticoated boys learn to cooperate rather than confront. They oblige rather than obstruct. Help instead of hinder...” she went on, and on, and on.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“All that just by making them wear dresses?” Janet asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Aunt Alice nodded. “But there's a little more to it than that.” she said. “One of the problems with adolescent boys is that they tend to grow up too quickly...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Getting too big for their boots?” Janet added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” Aunt Alice replied, before explaining that petticoating addresses this problem by putting them in infantile clothing more suited to a seven or eight year old girl than a young teenager. “Then there's the early bedtime which helps them adjust, and being put back in nappies...”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nappies!?” Janet gasped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes... and you're not to tease him about that.” Aunt Alice stated. Janet's face bore a huge bemused grin as she asked why her thirteen year old brother has to wear nappies. “They're only for bed, providing he behaves himself.” Alice replied. “Bedtime means bedtime and with a nappy on he's no excuses.” she told the boy's sister. “Once he's trained he won't give them a second thought.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So...” a perplexed Janet enquired as she visualised a scene. “...Steph has to put him in a nappy every night?”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh no... he's a big boy and can put his own on.” Aunt Alice replied. “And if he can't do that he'll be packed off to boarding school.”</div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Blimey.” Janet gasped. “No wonder he didn't want to stay up 'til midnight.” she said. “I had no idea he had a nappy on under his nightie.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well now you know.” her mother said, before reiterating that she doesn't want Janet to tease her brother about having to wear nappies for bed at his age.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Won't he get a nappy rash?” Janet quizzed after considering the time her brother will spend wearing a nappy each night and deducing that he will wet himself at some point.</div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He wears nappy rash cream.” Aunt Alice stated as if it should have been obvious. “He's quite safe, and when he's got used to them he won't even wake when he wets himself... so he'll get a good night's sleep every night.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But...” Janet said as she unravelled Alice's words. “...that means he'll <i>have</i> to wear nappies... otherwise he'll wet the bed.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Exactly.” Alice confidently replied. “It helps them to not grow up too quickly and stops them from getting too big for their boots.” she claimed. “Reminding a boy that he's still a bed-wetter is the best way to curb the most boisterous behaviour.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I thought putting him in dresses was supposed to do that.” Janet recalled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well like I said dear Janet... there's a lot more to petticoating than just putting a boy in a dress.” Alice replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes I suppose there is.” Janet said as she pondered everything, from his extra early bedtime, his girlie clothes and underwear and having to say 'mummy' ...and having wear nappies again. “When I'm a grown up and if I have children... will I be expected to petticoat the boys too?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes... if you want continued access to the family trust fund, that is.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What trust fund?” Janet quizzed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The one that provides this house and our income.” her mother replied. “If I hadn't agreed to letting Alex be petticoated, we'd have lost all of this.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Janet turned to her great aunt and asked “Is that true?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Alice nodded. “It was set up by your great great great grandmother, a lady called Felicity Thornton at the turn of the century...” she explained. The old family were filthy rich and some of the males when young and reckless would gamble and drink and brawl in the streets, bringing shame on the family name whilst quickly frittering away the family money. Something had to be done to curb their behaviour and debreeching the boys is how Lady Thornton went about it. This was in the Victorian era when boys would be breeched at the age of six or seven (prior to that they wore frocks like their sisters). It wasn't uncommon amongst the upper middle classes for boys up to the age of ten or twelve to wear ornate white frocks on a Sunday... and Lady Thornton noted that boys were always on their best behaviour when frocked. Lady Thornton didn't invent petticoating because the concept isn't exactly rocket science... but what she did do was to set up a trust fund that would ensure the family wealth wouldn't be squandered and that the boys all be kept on the straight and narrow throughout their difficult transition from boy to man. “...so we petticoat the boys and the money trickles down through the female lineage.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So it's all about money?” Janet figured.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” her mother replied. “But if everything Aunt Alice tells me is true, being petticoated will do your brother the world of good.” she added. “...at least in the long run.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How long will he be petticoated for?” Janet asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“At least until school leaving age.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sixteen?!” Janet gasped. That's three years, she thought.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're forgetting finishing school Janet.” her mother said. “He's got a good five years of petticoating ahead of him.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Blimey!” Janet gasped. “Does Alex know?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm sure Stephanie has explained everything to him.” Aunt Alice replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What a way to spend new years eve, Janet thought as she imagined her brother, already tucked up in bed wearing a nightie and a nappy. All he's got to look forward to is doing that every night for the foreseeable future. Part of her felt sorry for Alex whilst part of her was intrigued. Will it really do him the world of good as Aunt Alice claims? Part of her wondered what would happen if Mum refused to petticoat Alex. Would they really be penniless, homeless and destitute? If that's the alternative then maybe it is for the best. It's certainly going to be an interesting year ahead, Janet mused as the final hours of 1982 slowly ticked away.</div>
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<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-20528024912754070162018-09-23T03:21:00.001-07:002019-07-15T02:45:27.495-07:00The Petticoat Trial<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidioTw-C5Wi6RLoQLVD6AjuJFBX_f0TRRj2Owe6fsp0sFHmv3N1BZPwDgvqs3TA3h-6IPmnNF0Xw0zdBFODNYcv0CkWhcDx1EhEQkVMPis5GPeM8dFiLf-QXthUQPjQFNMt-6eVU8L/s1600/aprehension.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidioTw-C5Wi6RLoQLVD6AjuJFBX_f0TRRj2Owe6fsp0sFHmv3N1BZPwDgvqs3TA3h-6IPmnNF0Xw0zdBFODNYcv0CkWhcDx1EhEQkVMPis5GPeM8dFiLf-QXthUQPjQFNMt-6eVU8L/s1600/aprehension.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After a few moments, I
turned to my mother and asked when it begins. "...this weekend
or...?"</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Oh no, that's far
too soon." Mum replied. "We've got to get your room ready
first, plus you haven't got any dresses yet, and you'll need
knickers, socks, tights, shoes, a nightie and maybe some nice
pyjamas... and nappies of course."</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I grimaced as she
listed all the items. "What do you need to do to my room?"
I whined.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Well your
football and fighter plane posters need to come down for a start."
she replied. "...and you'll need new bedding, and we'll have to
sort through your books and comics because you won't be indulging
yourself in science fiction or war stories for a while... and you'll
have to box up your models too."</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Ooh." I
moaned. "But I'll get them all back after four weeks?" I
asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Well that
depends. Like said, it's a trial to see how you get on." Mum
replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Decluttering (sat) -->On
Saturday, Mum sorted through my books whilst I carefully packed my
model kits; wrapping the tanks, planes, formula one and rally cars in
several layers of kitchen roll before arranging them in a large
cardboard box. The posters came down and the few that didn't get torn
were put in a cardboard tube for safe keeping in the loft, along with
all my other stuff.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Sunday I woke in my
empty and lifeless bedroom. Mum had me spend the morning wiping down
all my shelves with a damp cloth, and I had to vacuum the carpet too,
which is usually one of Mum's jobs. In the afternoon we went to one
of those out of town retail parks where there's a big DIY store, a
discount homeware and clothing store, a sofa and bed centre and a car
showroom. The DIY store is big and exciting. I spent my time looking
at power tools, spanners and screwdrivers whilst Mum spent ages
looking at door and drawer handles.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The discount clothing
store is big and boring... especially when Mum insisted that I browse
the girl's clothing section with her. "Don't worry... we won't
be buying anything today." she assured me. "We're just
having a look." she said. And look she did. Skirts, blouses,
dresses, little shorts, play suits, socks, tights, shoes and worst of
all, underwear. I'd already been informed that petticoating means I'd
be wearing knickers as well as dresses. Mum pointed out some girl's
undies. "These are cute." she said, removing a three pack
of training bras in pink, lilac and baby blue.</div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"I don't need
those Mum!" I growled under my breath.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"They're only
training bras." Mum replied as she checked the price and size
before putting them back. "And you do need them." she
added. she strolled into the next aisle and sheepishly, I followed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After a few moments of
her just staring at the racks and rails. "What are you looking
at those for?" I meekly asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"I'm just having a
look." she replied. This aisle features nothing but school wear
and it's nothing but girl's school wear! Gingham summer dresses and
woollen pinafores with zips up the front or buttons at the shoulders.
Pleated skirts in black, grey, blue or plaid and shirts and blouses
with long and short sleeves. "Oh now these look nice." Mum
said, spotting a section further along that aisle.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Those look
awful!" I said as I spied the chiffon and taffeta, the satin and
silk of the bridesmaid's section. "You not going to be making me
wear stuff like that are you?" I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Well whilst I'd
love to see you in one... I can't see it somehow... they're far too
expensive." she told me. "Come on." she said, leading
us away from the girl's clothing.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Bedding (sun) -->"Where
now?" I moaned. Mum took me to the bedding section and told me
that a couple of new duvet sets is what we came for. The aisle has
boy's duvets on one side and girl's on the other and Mum's facing the
girl's side. Thing is, I didn't have to ask why. She asked if I could
see anything I liked. "No!" I retorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"I had a feeling
you wouldn't." she replied. "I'll have to choose
something."</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Oh not Barbie!"
I said as she picked that one up</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I asked if you could
see anything you like and you said no.” Mum replied. She tucked the
Barbie duvet set under her arm and asked me again if I could see
anything I liked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I screwed up my face
and cast my eyes across the selection. There's Peppa Pig, Care Bears,
loads of Disney ones, My Little Pony, Sparkle the Unicorn,
ballerinas, flowers and love hearts. “Errr... that one looks OK.”
I said, pointing out a pink camouflage set. It didn't look OK
because it's pink, but at least it's not covered in hearts or flowers
or some girlie cartoon character.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh no.” Mum
replied. “That's for a tom-boy.” she stated. “We need something
for a petticoated boy.” she added. “What about this?” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Noo.” I whined.
“It's got ballet dancers on it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK, how about that
one... you like castles.” she said. Of all the duvets, this could
be one of the best of a bad bunch. It might have a castle printed on
it but it's a fairy castle with toadstool turrets and little fairies
fluttering around them. Since I didn’t immediately say no, mum took
that as a yes and marched away from the selection of duvet covers.
Timidly I followed her to the sheets, where she took three fitted
sheets, all in pink, and a plastic mattress protector.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't need that.”
I whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You probably won't
because you'll have a nappy<i> and</i> a pair of rubbers on... but
it's better to be safe than sorry.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Rubbers?!” I
gulped. Mum didn't reply. She just took the items to the counter and
paid and I followed. I didn't see the duvet sets after we returned
home and I didn't enquire about them either. I couldn't help but
think about my new duvet covers though. I'm not looking forward to
climbing under Barbie every night and don't want to think about
waking up the next morning. Hateful as the Fairy Castle duvet is,
it's the best of the two, I figure... but maybe my duvet sets are the
least of my worries. It's the thought of being put back in nappies
that worries me most of all.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Haberdashery store -->On
Thursday after school, Mum tells me that we're going to the shops on
Penton Road, which is about a mile away. She needs to go to the
haberdashery store but I'd rather stay home and get on with my
homework. However the offer of a fish & chip supper on the way
back changed my mind. The twenty minute walk took us down several
residential streets, through a snickett and a small park, along and
avenue and eventually to Penton Road. There's a butcher and a baker,
a newsagent, the fish and chip shop, a closed down DVD rental store,
a greengrocer, off licence and haberdashery. I gulp as we enter.
Having glanced in the window and noticed the 'bespoke dressmaking'
notice, I have a feeling this has something to do with me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The shopkeeper welcomes
us and Mum says she's interested in the bespoke dressmaking service.
“Oh yes... is it for yourself?” the lady asked. I felt myself
blush when Mum proudly said that it was for me, her son. “Very
good.” the lady said, smiling at me. She explained that it's a
simple case of choosing a fabric, choosing a pattern, taking my
measurements and waiting a week or two for the garment to be made.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum suggested that I
have a look at the fabrics, of which there seemed to be hundreds,
whilst she looks at the patterns. “And don't touch anything.” she
added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I won't.” I moaned
before sauntering amongst the resplendent shelves packed with bolts
of material. My eyes kept landing on the pinks and the floral
patterns and I feared that's what I’d end up having to wear. As I
sheepishly stroll down the aisle, I can't help but over hear the
shopkeeper advising my mother. Apparently the vintage patterns are
popular, and styles with back fastenings are essential. I shut my
ears and try not to think about the prospect of actually being
petticoated, but that's easier said than done. Mum's being so vague
about when it's going to happen, which doesn't help. It could be next
week or next month for all I know. I put my thoughts aside and focus
on the fabrics. I'm surprised to find some cool patterns amongst the
spots, strips, flora and fauna. Patterns including zombies, skulls,
footballs, flying saucers, fighter planes and racing cars. Some of
them are a bit childish but they're definitely better than the rest.
My stroll takes me past yet more unnerving designs; some plain, some
garish and plenty in between.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Have you seen
anything you like?” Mum asked as she approached me, clutching a
cuiple of sewing patterns.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” I
replied, before mentioning the zombie and skull prints.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't think
zombies would be very appropriate.” mum replied. “Or skulls.”
she added as she began to peruse the selection herself. Worryingly,
but not surprisingly, Mum lingered at the pinks, the peaches, the
pretty, cute girlie fabrics. I pointed out the zombies and the skull
prints and despite smiling at them, she clearly wasn't interested.
“These are quite nice.” she said, running her fingers of the
fabrics depicting motorcars, aeroplanes and steam trains.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“This one's cool.”
I said, pointing to one with formula one racing cars on it. “Or
that's well cool!” I added, drawing her attention to the one
printed with fighter planes.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We're looking for
cute rather than cool Gavin.” Mum replied. “You can have one of
these if you like.” she said, reverting my attention back to the
childlike images of cars, planes and trains.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6A2KyG2IqOTO7Nc_ALcmnvX-Cn7zVRxqOdUnEybLjALRwAa_kgjW-WW1N5ITobtRMVdKJpNb13Cw8MQzj868EN_Z61qWvLpF07gDAaQXvo_nMm9S9DdRKpegynJEJJVhxN-lwAYnH/s1600/11213z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6A2KyG2IqOTO7Nc_ALcmnvX-Cn7zVRxqOdUnEybLjALRwAa_kgjW-WW1N5ITobtRMVdKJpNb13Cw8MQzj868EN_Z61qWvLpF07gDAaQXvo_nMm9S9DdRKpegynJEJJVhxN-lwAYnH/s320/11213z.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Knowing that the fabric
would be made into a dress that I'd be expected to wear, I didn't
want any of them. But if I don't chose something, mum will and it'll
be kittens or flowers or worse. Mum liked the 'cute' motorcars, in
particular those with the white and yellow background, whilst I
preferred the dark blue one. Sky blue was the compromise and Mum
prepared to grab the bolt. “Here, hold these.” she said, passing
me the patterns.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I audibly gulp as I
discover what she's got in mind.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dIibqgiBD-hMGqwOwYoXBaMZ-IJ5ROO8sPE16I2ripKs_nXtPq4d0CrMHHOvfnIzKv-6yn20jNRsMNDoAf3ivBCc1d1loq-3PL8Lm2kypZfUL7kHjSNgq0dEUBoZL8nUfn-RngZP/s1600/patterns.fw.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="840" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1dIibqgiBD-hMGqwOwYoXBaMZ-IJ5ROO8sPE16I2ripKs_nXtPq4d0CrMHHOvfnIzKv-6yn20jNRsMNDoAf3ivBCc1d1loq-3PL8Lm2kypZfUL7kHjSNgq0dEUBoZL8nUfn-RngZP/s400/patterns.fw.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My jaw dropped. I
couldn't help but glare at the images. Mum's fingernail landed on the
right hand pattern, specifically the girl in the blue dress. “I
think that one would be nice in this.” she said, drawing my
attention to bolt of fabric in her arms. She tapped her nail on the
other pattern. “And this one's going to be your Sunday dress.”
she told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I grimaced at the pale
green frock with it's dainty floral pattern, but more than anything
it was a the frills around the shoulders that worried me most. “Do
I have to have a flowery one?” I meekly asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I was thinking about
stripes.” Mum said, leading me to some fabrics that had caught her
eye.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6ZoESk25l5h8A4ThlyaR68QNOYOc0iiK5IkRJa880nk4nQoa-7_H8NFqqyWM_IWJijP97kfOR7SqiEimt9ihIARS7FOrTjIHeWHDz3I-rp0JAkkU0c-pK99DBpVGAZ8JaniTSIt2/s1600/fabric.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6ZoESk25l5h8A4ThlyaR68QNOYOc0iiK5IkRJa880nk4nQoa-7_H8NFqqyWM_IWJijP97kfOR7SqiEimt9ihIARS7FOrTjIHeWHDz3I-rp0JAkkU0c-pK99DBpVGAZ8JaniTSIt2/s320/fabric.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Now I know you won't
want the pink one, but I like the lilac and green one.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
If I sneer at these,
she might have something worse in mind; flowers, hearts, butterflies
and kittens flash through my mind. I express my preference for the
blue one, but I've already got blue, so mum settles on the green one.
I sneer the slightest of sneers. “Green?” she asked. I gulp and
nod. She removes the bolt and takes them to the counter where the
shopkeeper compliments our choices and opens her order book. Shoving
the car print fabric toward the shopkeeper, Mum says “This ones for
style er... Have you got the patterns Gavin?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With a trembling hand I
place them on the counter and can't help but listen as Mum specifies
the details such as sleeve and collar style and skirt length. After a
few minutes of enthused chatter, the lady steps from behind the
counter and tells me that she needs to take my measurements and take
them she does, right in them idle of the shop. Anyone could walk in,
I feared as she measured my shoulders, chest, waist, neck to waist
(back), shoulder to waist (front), waist to knee and even around my
arms! One by one, she jots my sizes down and once done, informs my
mother that it usually takes ten to fourteen days. “So don't put
any weight on young man.” she says to me in a friendly tone. I
couldn't help but feel threatened though.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Knowing that my mother
had ordered two handmade dresses didn't sit easy with me... nor did
knowing that I'd chosen the fabrics myself. I guess it'll be at least
two weeks before I'm actually petticoated, since that's how long
it'll be before my dresses are ready. If I’d got myself in big
trouble for something I'd understand why I'm being petticoated. Mum
said that it should do me some good... but what good can making a boy
wear girl's clothes do? I just don't get it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We sat and ate our fish
& chip supper in the park and Mum said that she was looking
forward to seeing my dresses, before asking if I was too. “Not
really.” I diplomatically moaned. “I don't want to be
petticoated.” I told her. “It's not fair.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know it doesn't
seem fair at the moment Gavin, but it's just something we're going to
try.” Mum said. “Just for a few weeks.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You make it sound
like it's no big deal.” I sighed as I slumped onto my palm. “It's
a huge deal for me.” I said in a pleaful tone. “Especially if I
have to wear nappies again.” I grumped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're only for
bedtime.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But why?” I
whined.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So you don't wet the
bed.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I <i>don't</i> wet
the bed.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So you won't wet
your nappy either.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I will if I'm locked
in my bedroom... I always go for a wee in the night.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And you either wake
me up with the flush or leave it to fester 'til morning.” Mum
replied. “...and you only go in the night if you don't go before
bed.” she claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Maybe she's right, but
that doesn't make the prospect of having to wear a nappy for bed any
easier. Just talking about it makes me feel very uneasy.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At the weekend, Mum and
I went into town and just as she's done for the last two weeks, we
browsed the girl's department in seemingly every high street store.
We also went into shops such as Pop Tickle and Juzt Girlz.
Mum made it clear that she wasn't buying anything, and I was thankful
for that, but merely browsing the girl's clothes stores was a mind
boggling experience. There's tea dresses, pinafore dresses, skater
dresses, shift dresses, shirt dresses, shift dresses... many of which
all look the same to me. Then there's straight skirts, pleated
skirts, pencil skirts, A line skirts, circle skirts, rara skirts...
not mention the play-suits, jump suits, dungarees, culottes, pedal
pushers... Why so many different nouns for items that look more or
less the same? I wonder.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Mothercare (sat) -->Eventually
we went into MotherCare and Mum accosted the first store assistant we
saw. “Hello. Could you tell me where the nappies are?” Mum asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Baby's nappies
or...” the assistant glanced at me. “...big boys?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Big boys.” Mum
confidently replied as I felt myself begin to blush.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Toward the back of the
large store is the PettiCare section where the assistant explains all
the different types; disposable, reusable, wicking and non-wicking,
discreet day nappies, ultra padded 'comfort' nappies, traditional
flat nappies. “These require a black belt in origami to fit.” the
assistant joked, before discreetly asking if I'm a bed wetter or a
petticoatee.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A petticoatee.”
Mum answered, adding “Soon to be.” She glanced at me and I
gulped. “Now I don't want to spend too much because we're just
giving it a try.” she explained. The assistant recommended the
budget non-wicking disposable type, which are available in packs of
seven, fourteen or twenty-eight. “Do they come with rubbers or are
they separate?” Mum asked. The assistant pointed to the packs of
rubbers which are available separately, and their range of cotton
over-knickers. “Oh they look lovely!” Mum said as I grimaced at
the frilly monstrosities.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't have to wear
those too do I?” I gulped. Mum said I'd need something to cover my
nappies and that 'something' is a pair of over-knickers. “You'll
only have them on in bed... no one's going to see them.” she
claimed as she turned them to reveal row upon row of horizontal
frills sewn across the rear.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Don't they do boy's
ones?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“These are the boys
ones.” Mum told me. “But I'll not get you any with pink on if
that's what you're worried about.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm worried about
the frills.” I dryly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well like I say,
you'll be tucked up in bed so no one will see them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum turns her attention
back to the assistant and enquired about the sizing. I felt so
uncomfortable in this corner of the store, surrounded by packs of
nappies, rubbers and frilly cotton over-knickers. There is another
boy with his parents who looks just as sheepish as I feel. I can't
help but eavesdrop on their conversation. He's maybe a year or two my
junior and is humbly telling his mother that he prefers disposable
nappies, and his mother is explaining that reusable nappies are far
cheaper in the long run. “All they need is a quick wash in the
machine.” she tells him.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Meanwhile, my mother is
choosing my over knickers. I glance but I can't look at the pairs
she's selected. There's too much lace and too many frills for my
liking, but thankfully no pink. “Gavin.” she says. “Come on.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sheepishly I accompany
her to the counter. “We don't need that many Mum!” I quietly gasp
as I notice that she'd got me a pack of twenty-eight nappies. She
ignored me as we approached the counter so I reiterated my point
after she'd paid. As we headed through the exit, Mum told me that
she'd got me enough to see me through the four week trial. “But
it's just weekends though.” I said. “That's...” I counted on my
fingers. “...eight nights.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think you
misunderstand.” Mum replied. I was gutted to learn that I'll be
wearing my nappies every night and not just on the weekend as I'd
presumed. I felt like I'd been deliberately mislead. All this talk of
it just being a trial and just on the weekends made the prospect of
being petticoated not seem too bad. Mum said I was getting upset over
nothing and reminded me that at thirteen years old, I probably won't
even need my nappies.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“At thirteen I
shouldn't have to wear them at all... not every night anyway.” I
retorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've told you often
enough that it's the same for all petticoated boys... the only
difference between you and them is that you'll only be wearing your
dresses over the weekend rather than everyday.” she informed me.
She claims that I'm fortunate that I’m <i>not</i> being dropped in
at the deep end, but even the thought of merely dipping my toes in
the water evokes a deep sense of dread.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We arrive home and mum
wastes no time having a look at her purchases. “Oh I didn't know
they had frills on as well!” I whined as she unfolded a pair of
rubbers. The milky translucent garment has an elasticated waist and
legs, but the legs have a broad lace trim all the way around. She
removes one of the nappies from the big plastic wrapped bundle and is
impressed that they're all individually wrapped in clear cellophane.
I can't help but whine when I notice the girlie design printed on the
front. “You got me girl's ones on purpose didn't you!” I sulked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“These are boy's ones
Gavin.” my mother claimed. A claim that was confirmed by the age
group and gender clearly stated on the packaging. She didn't deny
that they were girlie though. They clearly are. She began to read the
blurb on a big plastic tub and I asked what it was. “This is your
nappy rash cream.” she said, briefly explaining its purpose.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know what it's for
Mum!” I blurted as she opened its lid.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmm... smells quite
nice.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She offered me the tub
but I refused it, screwing up my nose, shaking my head and recoiling
away. “I'm going to my room.” I moaned, grimacing at my mother's
smug expression. I glanced at the items on the table before leaving.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's been two weeks
since Mum packed up most of my things and put them in the loft.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After half an hour or
so, Mum checks in on me. “Oh Gavin... how on earth you can still
make a mess when you've got hardly any stuff I'll never know.” she
said as she picked up the discarded socks and shifted my trainers
from where I'd kicked them off. I half heartedly apologised before
timidly asking exactly when she was planning on petticoating me.
“Well... I was thinking the week after next, or maybe the week
after that.” she replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Two or three weeks?”
I whined. “Why can't you just get it over with?” I asked. “It's
so boring not having any of my own stuff.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well there's still a
lot of things you'll need... shoes, socks and tights, underwear of
course...” My frown deepened as each item was added to the list.
“...a nightie and maybe some PJs, new curtains and pictures for the
walls...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're going to turn
it into a girl's room.” I moaned. Mum insisted she wasn't, but
contradicted herself by saying she was just adding some girlie
elements. “It's the same thing.” I claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I'm not
planning on painting the walls pink Gavin.” she said as she cast
her eyes around the bare blue walls.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- The neighbour (tuesday) -->On
Tuesday, one of the neighbours called round for a cup of tea and a
natter with my mother. They chatted in the kitchen whilst I watched
TV in the sitting room. I sauntered through to fetch myself another
glass of cordial and the neighbour asked how I was and how I was
getting on at school. I replied positively to both questions, then
Mum casually told her than I’m going to be petticoated in a few
weeks. The neighbour presumed I'd got in trouble for something but
Mum assured her that I hadn't. “I'm not sure I agree with
petticoating.” the neighbour said. “Dressing boys in girl's
clothes just seems wrong to me.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Same here.” I
mournfully said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well if it's good
for a girl it's good for a boy.” Mum chirped, quoting from the
pro-petticoating propaganda she's been reading. “What seems wrong
to me is the fact that, as a result of letting boys be 'boys'...”
Mum mimed the quotes. “...the country's prison population is
ninety-four percent male and only six percent female.” Mum stated.
“I read about a juvenile detention centre in Didsbury that adopted
correctional petticoating a couple of years ago and the re-offending
rate dropped from around seventy percent to twenty percent!” she
claimed. “And the schools that promote petticoating have reported
that the boys are less disruptive, are less likely to truant and
perform far better than those in the standard coeducational
environment.” she said. “They're topping the league tables you
know.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Maybe.” the
neighbour cynically replied. “But boys will still be boys, even if
they're dressed as girls.” she said, glancing at me and probably
imagining what I'd look like.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They'll still be
boys but they'll not be quite so boyish.” Mum replied, listing
characteristics including boisterousness, fearlessness, recklessness,
arrogance, aggression, apathy, deceit, etc.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Girls can be all
those things too.” the neighbour stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes but not
typically.” Mum replied. “We raise boys and girls so very
differently... they have different clothes, different toys, different
books and films...” Mum explained at some length how the different
approaches to our upbringing <i>might</i> be a factor in the fact
that so many more males get themselves into trouble than females.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh I don't know.”
the neighbour replied. “It's a bit tenuous don't you think?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it's worth a
try.” Mum replied. The neighbour reiterated that she feels that
putting a boy in girl's clothes is fundamentally wrong, as she cast
her eyes over me once more.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum also cast her eyes
on me. “A bit of girl time certainly won't do any harm.” Mum
claimed. “...and it's just a trial. Four weeks to see how he gets
on.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well nothing
ventured nothing gained I suppose.” the neighbour replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Exactly.” Mum
said, before telling her that I'm getting two dresses made.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are you looking
forward to that Gavin?” the neighbour asked in a somewhat
patronising tone.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” I
groaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Part of you wants to
get it over and done with though doesn't it.” Mum said to me before
turning back the the neighbour. “I've been holding back a bit
because it's his birthday next month and I'd like that to fall within
his trial period.” she informed the neighbour.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh Mu-um! I don't
want to be petticoated on my birthday!” I whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I think it'll
be nice if you are.” Mum replied. She held my gaze for a moment and
I knew she wasn't joking. I gulped and skewed my jaw, before
returning to the lounge where I tried and failed to escape into TV
land. I hadn't given my birthday much thought until now and the last
thing I want to do is spend it wearing a stupid dress! After the
neighbour had left, I mournfully asked my mother why she wants to
petticoat me on my birthday. “Because it gives me an excuse to buy
you a really nice party dress.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not having a
party too am I?” I gulped as a vision popped into my skull.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well that depends.”
Mum said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“On what?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“On whether or not
you deserve one.” she replied in a semi-threatening tone. I
wondered what she meant by that but didn't want to ask. “But party
or not, you will be wearing a party dress.” Mum added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's going to be the
worst birthday ever!” I growled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not necessarily
Gavin.” Mum said in an empathetic tone of voice.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- The following week at school -->The
following week at school, Jason, one of my mates asked why I was
being so quiet lately. “Oh it's nothing.” I glumly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It must be
something.” he replied. “You've not been petticoated have you?”
he jovially suggested.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No!” I said. “What
makes you think that?!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I was only joking.”
he defensively claimed, before telling me that when his cousin was
petticoated he went from being a proper loud mouth to being as quiet
as a mouse in a flash.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I didn't know you
had a cousin who'd been petticoated.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm sure I told
you... it was ages ago.” he replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's he like?” I
asked. “Does he live round here?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah. On the east
bank... he's okay. It <i>was</i> weird seeing him wearing dresses and
stuff but... I'm kind of used to it now... and so is he.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't think I'd
get used to it.” I grumbled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you won't have
to unless you've got one of those mothers.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I nervously
agreed. “Thing is... my mum has mentioned it, on more than a few
occasions.” I confessed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My mum's always
threatening to petticoat me but she won't.” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I hope mine
doesn't.” I replied, knowing full well that she will, and in the
foreseeable future.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She won't.” he
reckoned. “You never get into trouble.” he told me. “You don't
even hand your homework in late.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I
reluctantly agreed. “So... this cousin of yours... is he
petticoated all the time?” I asked. He nodded and told me that his
cousin has to wear nappies for bed. “Blimey!” I grimaced.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I even had to wear
one when we stayed over a few months back!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No way!” I
exclaimed. “What was that like?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... I didn't use
it if that's what you're thinking.” he claimed. “But it was a bit
worrying... if I did need to go, I’d have had to.” he added,
before telling me that Callum Morris, the boy in our class who's
being sent to PettiCamp, also wears nappies for bed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but don't tell
anyone... he's bit shy about it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I bet he is.” I
nervously chuckled. I knew that Callum was being sent to PettiCamp
this summer but presumed that was going to be his initiation. I had
no idea that he was already a petticoatee. I spent a split second
wondering if I should ask him about it, to find out if being
petticoated is as bad as I expect it to be, but quickly decided not
to. I've already said too much and I don't want word getting around.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Isn't it your
birthday in a couple of weeks?” he asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Five weeks.” I
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You doing owt?” he
asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Prob'ly not.” I
replied, claiming that I'm too old for parties, there's nothing
spectacular coming out at the cinema and Mum can't afford things like
paint-ball or Go-Ape. I dread to think what I will be doing, or
wearing!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Shoes... Saturday -->The
next weekend, we ventured into town to get the weekly grocery shop
and as usual, Mum took me on a tour of the girl's departments again.
She'd point out little pairs of shorts and say they're 'cute', or
describe a little skirt as 'sweet'. She'd draw my attention to T
shirts, blouses, little tops, playsuits, pants and leggings or
whatever else caught her eye. “Why do you keep showing me all this
stuff Mum?” I moaned after sauntering around the fourth department
store.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just getting you
used to all the different styles.” she replied. “There's so much
more variety don't you think.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's too much
variety.” I glumly retorted. No wonder Mum spends so much time
trying to decide what to wear!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We wondered along the
high street and Mum stopped to look in the window of a shoe shop. She
took me inside and Mum made a bee line for the girl's shoes with
straps, buckles and little heels. I moaned about the styles she
preferred. “Why can't I just have plain lace up shoes? Like those.”
I said, pointing out a style that could easily be classed as unisex.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're school shoes
Gavin.” Mum replied. “I like these.” she said, removing a pair
with a low cone shaped heel.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But I can't wear
heels!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're only little
ones Gavin.” Mum replied. “Wouldn't you like to be bit taller?”
she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you need any
help?” an assistant asked. Mum told her that she's looking for some
nice shoes for me. “Have you worn heels before?” the assistant
asked. I shook my head. She turned to my mother and asked if she was
looking for school shoes.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No just some nice
shoes that'll go with a variety of outfits.” Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you can't go
wrong with black.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They are nice.”
Mum said, before presuming they'd be a little too high for me; a
beginner.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're way too
high.” I whined. The heel looked like a good three inches, maybe
more!
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The assistant
explained.<b> </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">“It sounds
counter intuitive</span><b> </b>but I'd always recommend dropping
them in at the deep end with a higher heel rather than starting low
and working up.” she said. “A few days in these...” She raised
the shoe. “...will mean he'll take to those...” she gestured to
some shoes with a lower heel. “...like a duck to water.” she
claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That makes sense.”
Mum said. “I know they look quite high Gavin but they're not that
high.. no more than two-and-a-half inches.” she claimed. “...maybe
three.” she added. “Let's get your feet measured and we'll see
how they look.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I've always enjoyed
getting my feet measured at the shoe shop. But today it was
embarrassing for two reasons; one, I'm getting girl's shoes. Two, Mum
made me wear a pair of my new socks. “These are pretty.” the
assistant said when she noticed the ruffled lace trim around my
ankles.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped and grimaced
and looked up at my mother, who prompted me to say thank you. I
gulped again. “Thank you.” I timidly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My little brother
used to wear socks like this.” the assistant added as she drew the
gauge down to my toes. “He was petticoated long before it was
fashionable.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's interesting.”
Mum replied. “Did he enjoy it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well he felt a bit
silly to begin with, like all boys do...” the assistant glanced at
me. “...but he eventually came to terms with it. He's at university
now.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“See Gavin... I told
you you've got nothing to worry about.” Mum said as the assistant
placed my other foot on the Brannock device.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So you keep saying.”
I thought as the assistant declared me a size five-and-a-half.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shall I fetch pair
of the patent Mary Jane's?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes please.” Mum
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd rather not wear
heels Mum... what if I can't walk in them and twist my ankle?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Girl's can walk
perfectly well in them Gavin, so I'm sure a boy can too.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Maybe so, but that
doesn't make the prospect of wearing shoes with heels any more
bearable. A few moments passed before the assistant returned. Those
were filled with me sitting nervously on the bench and Mum perusing
the shoes on display, pointing out the odd pair and telling me that
they're nice. One thing I’ve learned over the last few weeks is
that my opinion doesn't matter, but that doesn't stop me from
offering it. “I don't like them.” I mumbled after the assistant
had strapped the shoes to my feet.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Stand up, let's have
a proper look.” Mum said. With caution, I stood and didn't take my
eyes off my feet as I did so. My pants dropped to cover the tops of
my frilly ankle socks and the buckled straps, leaving my thin white
socks in stark contrast to the shiny black shoes. “You're almost as
tall as me now.” Mum said as I reached my full height. I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I felt the assistant's
fingers take hold of mine. She gently lifted my hand. “Take a few
steps.” she said. “Carefully.” she added. Fearful of the heel,
I put most of my weight on my toes as I took one step then another. I
felt tall yet meek as she held my hand aloft like some delicate
thing. “Try to walk on both toe and heel.” she advised. “The
biggest mistake you can make is to forget you're wearing heels.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't think I'll
forget I'm wearing these.” I said as I turned and walked to the few
paces back to my mother, escorted by the store assistant who gently
clasped my hand.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're doing very
well.” my mother commented, but she would say that. “How do they
feel?” she asked as the assistant let go of my hand.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Scary.” I replied.
“I think they might be a bit too high.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think they're just
about right.” the assistant claimed. According to her, someone my
age with my foot size can easily wear a three and a half inch heel
and the shoes I'm wearing are lower than that. “Would you like to
try something higher as a comparison?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er... no... thanks.”
I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think those are
perfect.” Mum said, before suggesting we have a look for a nice
pair of flat shoes too. I suggested I took the Mary Jane’s off but
mum suggested I keep them on for a few more minutes to get accustomed
to them. “Can you see anything you like?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Those!” I said,
pointing to the range of Converse. “But not the pink ones.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think they're a
bit too boyish Gavin.” mum replied as she strafed the display.
“Oh!” she exclaimed at a resplendent display of jelly shoes.
“These'll go perfectly with your blue dress, and those blue shorts
I got you.” she said, picking up a pale blue one.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What blue shorts?”
I quizzed. Mum informed me that she's been picking up a few 'bits and
bats' during the week, including tops, socks, a cardigan, some T
shirts and a pair of pale blue shorts that she describes as 'very
cute'.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I wasn't keen on the
pale blue jelly shoes but at least they were flat. Mum was keen
because they're cheap and the assistant claimed that jelly shoes are
a popular choice for petticoated boys. “Colourful, affordable,
timeless.” she said. “...and perfect for paddling.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I sat whilst the
assistant fetched a pair in my size. Mum unbuckled my Mary Jane's and
admired them for a moment before putting them back in their box. I
briefly tried the jelly shoes for size before putting my plimsolls
back on. I sighed as I followed my mother to the counter, but was
glad that we'd soon be out of there.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We headed toward the
end of the high street, calling in at the fishmongers and butchers.
They're always the last ports of call when grocery shopping, then
it's directly home to get them in the fridge.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think we've pretty
much got everything now.” Mum casually said as we headed home.
“Your dresses should be ready this week.” she reminded me, before
asking how I felt about starting next weekend. “Or we could leave
it another week if you prefer?” she suggested.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“If you'd just gone
ahead with it when you first mentioned it my four weeks would have
been pretty much over by now.” I glumly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but you
didn't have anything then.” she replied. “Is that a yes to next
weekend?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I guess.” I
gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm quite looking
forward to it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not.” I
grumbled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not even a little?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No boy in their
right mind would get excited over being petticoated Mum.” I
retorted. “Everyone says we get used to it eventually but no one
says it's something to look forward to.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I suppose.” Mum
replied. “So it's more nerves than anything then?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I just want to get
it over and done with.” I flippantly retorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
understandable.” Mum replied. “Next weekend it is then.” she
said in a worryingly joyous tone.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm glad one of us
is looking forward to it.” I dryly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm more intrigued
than anything. From what I've read, most boys adapt quite well once
they've got over their initial stage fright.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And what about the
rest?” I grimly asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They don't have any
stage fright.” Mum replied, before claiming that everything she's
read about petticoating has been positive.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mrs Webster didn't
sound very positive when you told her.” I said, recalling the
neighbour's comments.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But she did say
<i>nothing ventured nothing gained</i>.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's to gain from
dressing me like a girl?” I grumbled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... that's what
we're going to find out.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Seven days and counting -->I
went to my room when we got back home where I slumped on my bed and
had a little sulk. I cast my eyes over my empty shelves and the
dressing table mirror on my desk. I recalled all the stuff Mum's been
buying me; the girlie duvet covers, the dresses, the socks, today's
shoes and worst of all, the big pack of nappies. It was weird when
Jason told me that he had to wear one when staying with his
petticoated cousin. Maybe they're not so bad after all, providing
they're not needed... but I guess I'll just have to wait and find out
for myself.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At school on Monday,
Jason approached me at break and said, “You still down in the
dumps?” Jason said. I nodded. “What's up?” he asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Remember you
mentioned your cousin last week... the petticoated one.” I replied.
He nodded. “Well... don't tell anyone but... my mum's decided that
she's going to petticoat me.” I confessed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh no!” he gasped.
“When?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“This weekend... for
four weeks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Blimey.” he
replied. “Why only four weeks?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum says it's just a
trial, to see how I get on.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you believe her?”
he asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Dunno.” I
shrugged.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“When did you find
this out?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A few weeks ago.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That explains why
you've been keeping yourself to yourself recently.” he said. “You
gonna do it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't really have
a choice.” I frowned. “I'd understand if I kept getting into
trouble or if my grades were really bad... I feel like I’m being
punished for nothing.” I sighed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My mum keeps
threatening me with it... but she won't actually do it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How can you be so
sure?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because she's not
one of those mothers.” he replied. “My mum thinks boys should be
boys and girls should be girls.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My mum says <i>if
it's good for a girl it's good for a boy</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.”</span>
I mournfully replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My aunt says that
too.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How long's your
cousin been petticoated for?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err.... three or
four years I guess.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I bit my lip at the
sheer thought of being petticoated for as long as that. “Does he
have to wear a girl's uniform too?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not <i>for</i>
school.” he replied. “But he wears one after school... when he's
got homework to do.” he added</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's he like?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's OK...
considering.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How old is he?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fifteen.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Blimey!” I
exclaimed. That means he's been petticoated since he was my age!
“What about Callum Morris? Do you know how long he's been
petticoated for?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” he replied.
“A while I guess. Why don't you ask him?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah... I doubt he
wants to talk about it.” I have toyed with trying to talk to
Callum, to get the 'low down' or some tips, or to find out of there's
any way out of it... but I just can't bring myself to approach him
and say 'Hi Callum... I'm gonna be petticoated just like you, let's
talk!'.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well if you
explained he might.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He might tell
everyone as well.” I said. “I trust you won't.” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah, your secret's
safe with me.” Jason assured, before asking if I'll have to wear
nappies too.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't wanna even
think about that.” I said. Feeling that I'd already revealed too
much, I let Jason believe that I didn't know. The last thing I want
to describe is the big pack of disposable nappies, the lace trimmed
rubbers or the frilly cotton over knickers.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When I got home, Mum
asked if I’d had a nice day at school. As usual, I said it was OK,
but chose not to tell her about the chat I'd had with Jason about his
cousin Peter. I haven't even told her about Callum Morris, the only
petticoated boy at school as far as I'm aware. I imagine Mum might
encourage me to get chummy with him and maybe invite him around for
afternoon tea or something. I sit at my desk to do my homework and
count the days on my fingers... five nights of normality, then it's
four weeks of petticoating.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next few days go
far too quickly. On Wednesday, my mother gleefully informs me that
she collected my dresses today and claimed that they look absolutely
lovely. “Do you want to see them now or save them 'til Saturday?”
she enthused.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't even want to
think about them 'til Saturday.” I glumly replied. That was easier
said than done. I could think of little else as the weekend loomed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I felt mournful as I
sauntered home from school on Friday afternoon. Tomorrow morning I'll
have to start wearing the girlie clothes that Mum's been assembling
over the last few weeks and I'm really not looking forward to it.
“How was school?” my mother cheerfully asked when I returned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.” I replied.
She asked if I had any homework. “A bit.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you'd best get
on with it now.” Mum chirped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll do it later,
after supper.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd rather you did
it now... then it's done.” she insisted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- My girlie bedroom -->“OK.”
I said. I removed my coat and carted my school bag up to my room. I
expected to be greeted by the same bare walls and empty shelves I'd
got used to since mum put most of my stuff in the loft, but when I
opened the door I just stopped and dropped my jaw. “Oh Mu-um!” I
groaned to no one but myself. On my bed is the Barbie duvet cover
she'd bought me and flanking my window is a pair of pale pink
curtains. Obscuring the view is a white lacy net curtain, and there's
a fluffy pink rug beside my bed. I gulp as I cast my eyes across a
series of framed pictures hanging on the walls.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I almost jumped out of
my skin when I heard my mother's voice from right behind me. “What
do you think?” Why does she have to appear out of nowhere like
that!?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What've you done
Mum?” I gasped as my heart palpitated erratically.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've brightened the
place up a bit.” she joyously replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“With pictures of
ballet dancers?” I gulped and the art on the walls.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They make a nice
change from posters of fighter planes, footballers and racing cars.”
Mum smugly replied. I gulped and frowned. “Oh don't look so glum...
you knew what to expect.” she jovially added as my eyes panned my
room and found three dolls perched on my bookshelf.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I didn't expect
dolls!” I exclaimed, gulping at the fearsome threesome.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're just for
decoration Gavin, you won't be expected to play with them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
gulped and cast my eyes around once more; Barbie duvet and pillow
case, heart shaped rug, pink curtains, a Disney princess bedside lamp
and a larger princess lampshade around the big light on the ceiling.
“I suppose I should be thankful that you didn't paint the walls
pink.” I frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
it did cross my mind.” Mum replied. She threw me a pursed smile as
I glared at the bookshelves. “There's some books and magazines.”
she said as I gorped at my shelves.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
pink, peach, lilac and white spines hinted at a selection that
wouldn't normally be aimed at teenage boys. I focused on the titles;
Alice in Wonderland, Heidi, One Hundred Dresses, Anne of Green
Gables, The Princess and the Pauper, A Little Princess, The Disney
Princess Annual, The Dolly Dress-up Sewing Book, Paper Dolls, Fun
Crafts for Girls...</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're
all girl's books.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of
course.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
gulped having spotted a ballet book, worryingly alongside one titled
Skipping and Rhyming Games for Girls. “Skipping and rhyming games.”
I gasped. I gulped, then grimaced when Mum told that I've also got a
skipping rope. “Why?” I cautiously asked. Mum, somewhat smugly
informed me that as a petticoatee I'll be excused from PE at school.
“Why?” I said, feeling like a stuck recordd.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“To
spare your blushes.” Mum replied. Huh? I thought. “Petticoated
boys get their exercise at home <i>after</i> school. Half an hour a
day of active play.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Hmm.... that doesn't
sound like much fun, I thought. I was told that instead of doing PE
at school, I'll be joining the homework group with the other kids
that don't do PE for whatever reason. I always figured that Callum
Morris must have had asthma or something since he never does PE, and
now I know the real reason... “But... what does being petticoated
at home have to do with PE at school?” I quizzed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum gave me one of
those looks that suggested I was missing something obvious.
“Petticoated boys wear girls underwear all the time... even under
their boy clothes.” she told me. “I don't think you'll want the
other boys seeing your knickers and training bra when you're getting
changed.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I thought I’d only
be wearing those at the weekend?” I frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I said you'd only
have to wear dresses at the weekends.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But I thought that
meant...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum cocked her head and
slowly shook it. She told me that I've clearly not been paying
attention when she's been talking to me about petticoating. “I made
it quite clear that you'll be wearing a nappy every night and
knickers every day. The dresses I bought are for the weekends and the
skirts, shorts, tops and blouses are to wear in the week... after
school of course.” she revealed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So... the only boy's
clothes I'll be allowed is my school uniform?” I realised. Mum
nodded. “That's not fair!” I whined.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Would you rather no
boy's clothes at all?” Mum sternly suggested. “I'm sure I could
arrange special permission from your headmaster so you could wear the
girl's uniform for school...” she claimed. I had a gut feeling that
she was bluffing but wasn't willing to risk finding out. “...because
there's plenty of petticoated boys who do precisely that.” she
added. I gulped and would my neck in.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum asked if I had any
homework. “Yeah a bit.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you'd best get
started on that.” she said. “I'll make supper for six... will you
be finished by then?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I guess.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good because you'll
need a bath and bedtime's eight o'clock.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Tonight?!” I
exclaimed. Mum nodded. “I thought we were starting all that
tomorrow.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well we are really.”
Mum replied, “First thing in the morning so you need an early
night.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum left me alone and I
unpacked my school bag, putting the books and stationary I'd need on
my desk which, with the addition of a vanity mirror, looks more like
a dressing table than a desk. It's hard not to intermittently glance
at my reflection or cast my eyes around my room. I can't wait to get
my own stuff back. Pictures of ballet dancers, pink curtains and
Barbie bedding really don't belong in a boy's bedroom.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After spending an hour
or so on my homework, I sauntered downstairs where Mum was reading a
magazine with the TV on quietly in the background. “All done?”
she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum put the magazine
down, picked up the remote control and turned off the TV. “Are you
looking forward to tomorrow?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Noo!” I said in a
whiny voice. “I'm looking forward to four weeks tomorrow when
things can go back to normal.” I optimistically added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- The rules -->“I'm
sure you are.” she smiled. “Now... there's a lot more to being
petticoated than just wearing girl's clothes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know.” I whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's lots of
rules you'll need to abide by and every time you break one means one
day will be added to the four week trial.” she said. “I don't
expect you to like the rules but I do expect you to follow them...
understand?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I frowned, gulped and
nodded.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good. Now, rule
number one is... when you reply to a question, rather than just
nodding or saying 'yeah' or 'no', I want to hear 'yes mummy' and 'no
mummy'.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mummy?” I baulked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” she said. “I
don't want to hear 'mum' or 'mam' because they're not polite, and
petticoated boys need to always be polite.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But I'm thirteen
mum!” I protested. “I'm far too old to start calling you mummy
again.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Every time you fail
to address me as 'mummy', I'll add one day to your four week trial.”
she said. “It could easily become five, six or even seven weeks in
the space of just a few hours if you're not careful.” she warned. I
stuck out my lip. “It's not really a big deal Gavin.” she
claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It is.” I whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll be back in
nappies so it stands to reason that you'll be calling me mummy
again... and if you can't manage to address me properly, you'll be
wearing your nappies for a lot longer than four weeks.” she said. I
didn't reply but I did screw my face to express my disapproval.
“Pulling faces like that will also result in one extra day.” she
told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry.” I
murmured.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I hope so.” Mum
replied. “And I hope from tomorrow morning, you'll add 'mummy' when
you apologise... in fact I want to hear you saying mummy whenever you
address me.” she stated. After a short pause, she went on to tell
me about rule number two. She reminded me of all the 'nice' new
things in my room; the pictures, curtains, books and dolls plus the
new clothes in my drawers and wardrobe, before telling me that if I
damage them in any way, either deliberately or accidentally, then the
petticoating trial will be over.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?!” I
enthused.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” she replied.
“And before you think that's an easy get out clause, think again.”
she quickly added. “The trail will be over and your petticoating
will continue for as long as I feel fit.” she informed me.
“...which will be a lot longer than four weeks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped, claimed it
wasn't fair and described a scenario in which my clothes get damaged
but it wasn't my fault. Mum said I’d just have to take extra care
to make sure anything like that doesn't happen. “...and it's not
just your clothes that you have to look after Gavin. It's your books,
your comics, your dolls, the pictures on your wall, your bedside
lamp, your...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah yeah I get it!”
I growled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Taking that tone
with me will also result in one day being added.” she said before
claiming that in just the last five minutes I've earned myself at
least an additional week. “Think yourself lucky that I'm not
keeping count.” she told me. “But come tomorrow.” she added,
giving me one of her serious looks.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next few rules were
relatively mundane; doing what I’m told, wearing what I'm told, no
answering back, no devious or disobedient behaviour, no pulling
faces, keeping my room tidy and orderly at all times, tidying up
after myself, helping with the household chores, being quiet and
polite and on and on she went... “No way!” I gasped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Gavin, you're really
going to have to start thinking before you speak. You might have just
earned yourself yet another day.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry.” I
muttered, before gulping and humbly adding “Mummy.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She smiled. “Now, the
reason you have to sit down to pee is to stop you from tinkling on
the seat or splashing the floor...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't!” I
interjected.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You do occasionally
Gavin.” Mum stated. “Now, if you can't manage to sit when you pee
you'll have to wear your nappies in the daytime too.” she
threatened. “Do you understand?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped and nodded.
Mum raised an eyebrow. “Yes... mu... mummy.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum makes an omelette
with boiled potatoes and green beans for supper. “You're being very
quiet Gavin.” she says, before suggesting that I'm worrying too
much about tomorrow. Of course I'm worried about tomorrow! The last
thing I want is to wear girl's clothes. Even one day would be bad
enough but wearing them for weeks on end will be turmoil. Mum said
that I'm worrying too much and claimed that lots of boys respond
incredibly well to petticoat training. “Once you've got into the
swing of things you'll realise that it's not so bad.” she claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You keep saying that
but it's going to be awful. It'd probably be OK if it was just
dresses but I have to wear nappies <i>and</i> call you Mummy... I'm
not a little kid!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But you are Gavin.”
Mum replied. “The problem with teenagers these days is they're
growing up too quickly. Adolescence is a confusing time. You're
beginning to develop grown-up hormones but you're still a child.”
she said. “Infantilisation will help.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What does that
mean?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Treating you like a
child.” she replied. “And before you claim you're not a child...
you absolutely are and will be for some years yet. Putting you back
in nappies will help you realise that fact.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“...and having to
call you mummy.” I glumly added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” she smiled.
“It's going to be nice being a mummy again.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's gonna be really
embarrassing.” I moaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Give it a few days
and you'll think nothing of it. It's just a word.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I rested my jaw on my
palm and sighed. The clock on the wall read twenty past six which
means I've got barely an hour of normality left. Mum asked if I was
going to help her wash the dinner plates. “Yeah I guess.” I half
heartedly replied. “I mean... yes mummy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I hope you're not
being sarcastic Gavin.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not.” I
claimed as I grabbed the dishcloth.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I certainly hope
so.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After helping with the
dishes, I watched TV for a while whilst Mum pottered around in the
kitchen. Then at about ten to seven, she came in and told me she was
going to run me a bath. “You've got ten minutes.” she said. I
gulped. I spent more time watching the clock than I did watching the
TV. Eight minutes. Six minutes. Three minutes... “Gavin!” Mum
yelled from the landing to moment the clock struck seven.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Bathtime, Friday -->Feeling
condemned, I slowly climbed the stairs. Normally I'd undress in my
bedroom and don my bathrobe, but Mum summoned me into the bathroom
where a bath full of bubbles awaited me. Mum stood with her arms
folded and bore a stern expression. “You're not going to actually
bath me are you?” I fearfully asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'll do your hair
and your back. The rest you can do yourself.” she said. I began to
unbutton my shirt before asking for some privacy, but Mum declined my
request. “You've got nothing that I haven't seen a hundred times
before.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thing is, I have. I
can't remember the last time Mum saw me naked but I’m certain that
I didn't have any pubic hair... not that I’ve got much. Mum took my
shirt and slung it over her arm. I pulled off my socks and she took
those too. I stepped out of my trousers, folded them and handed them
to her, and finally let my undies drop to the floor before quickly
stepping into the bath. “Gavin that was reckless... you had no idea
how hot that water was!” Mum barked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's not hot at
all.” I said as I sank below the bubbles.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it's a good job
I ran you a warm bath isn't it?” she said. “In future you should
test the water before jumping in.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry.” I said,
before asking if I could have some more hot water.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's plenty warm
enough.” Mum claimed. She proceeded to rinse, then shampoo and wash
my hair, before rinsing it again. I told her that I was perfectly
capable of washing my own hair but Mum said she wanted it doing
properly, before rinsing it again and adding some conditioner. She
scrubbed my back before giving my hair a final rinse. “You can do
the rest yourself.” she said before leaving me alone and the door
wide open. I sat and sulked for a few moments before bathing properly
and no more than five minutes later, Mum returned. “Nappy rash
cream, a nappy and some rubbers.” she said, placing the items on
the cistern. “You should at least try to use the toilet before you
put it on.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I thought we weren't
starting that 'til tomorrow.” I whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Tomorrow starts at
midnight Gavin.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But...” I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum's expression
strongly suggested that she wasn't in the mood for accepting any
buts. She told me where to apply the cream, to use plenty and to rub
it in thoroughly. “You'll need to wash your hands before you put
your nappy on...” she explained. “...and if you continue whining
and kicking up a fuss, I'll start adding extra days to your four week
trial. Understand?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I hung my head. Mum
asked if she needed to stand and watch over me whilst I donned my
nappy. I swallowed my pride and shook my head. I'd imagined that I'd
be put into the nappy like a baby, which would have been a
humiliation beyond belief. Donning it myself in private I guess is
one consolation, albeit a small one.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I climbed out of the
bath and dried myself on a big fluffy towel, all the time glancing
and gulping at the items on the cistern. Once dry, I apply the cream
as instructed and screw up my nose at its pungent fruity scent. After
rinsing the cream of my fingers, I hesitantly unwrap and unfold the
nappy. Printed on the front is a pastel coloured design of a
butterfly and some flowers, which is far from desirable. Within its
folds is a slip of paper with a set if simple pictorial instructions.
The nappy pulls on like a normal pair of underpants and features
perforations down the sides for its removal. It's a lot thinner than
I’d expected, no more than five or seven millimetres thick. I
hesitated before stepping onto it and pulling it up, all the way to
my waist. I can't believe that at thirteen years old, I’m actually
wearing a nappy again. I can vaguely recall wearing night-timers when
I was about six but at least they had boyish designs. “You've at
least got it on I see!” Mum's voice said. I turned to face her. My
cheeks were crimson with embarrassment. She asked if I'd put plenty
of cream on and rubbed it in. Glumly I nodded. “Put your rubbers
on.” she instructed, handing them to me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With a trembling hand I
took them. “This is horrible mum.” I moaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nappies aren't
supposed to be nice but they are a necessary part of petticoating.”
Mum sternly replied. “It won't seem so bad tomorrow night.” she
claimed. “...or the night after that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I wasn't so sure, but I
wasn't going to argue. Wearing a nappy for bed for the next four
weeks is going to be bad enough and I don't want to make it five or
six weeks. I stretched the waistband of the opaque rubber knickers
and pushed my feet through the elasticated leg holes. They tightened
their grip as I pulled them up over my knees, and as I pulled them
over the nappy, I complained that the elastic felt too tight. “It's
supposed to be tight Gavin, otherwise they'd leak.” she replied.
“Have you brushed your teeth?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not yet.” I
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well hurry up...
it's twenty to eight and I need to make sure your hair's dry before
bedtime.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The pastel coloured
design on my nappy is clearly visible through the translucent plastic
pants. The elasticated legs and waistband seemed to bite into me as I
brushed my teeth, but the worst thing about them is the two inches of
frilly lace around the legs. If any of my friends could see me now, I
thought. I spared a thought for Callum Morris and wondered if he was
doing much the same thing at this very moment. Mum did say that it's
the same for all petticoated boys; bedtime at eight and a nappy every
night. My electric toothbrush is on a three minute timer so much as
I'd like to, I can't cut this nightly task short. I sense my mother's
presence and turn my head. She's stood in the doorway just watching
me. “There's some pyjamas on your bed.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmm hmm.” I say
through my toothbrush. Girl's pyjamas, I presume. My toothbrush turns
itself off and I spit and rinse and rinse again. I quickly scurry to
my room, covering the front of my nappy with my hands. It feels a
little thicker than it did five minutes ago.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On my bed is a pair of
the frilly cotton over knickers Mum had bought from MotherCare, and a
white pyjama top. It's clearly a girl's one, with its round lace
trimmed collar, short gathered sleeves, plastic flower shaped buttons
and a frilly hem. I quickly pull on the cotton over knickers to
conceal my humiliating nappy and rubbers... but having row upon row
of ruffled frills running across the bum, and a satin bow on the
front of the waistband, they're not much better. Mum returns with a
hairdryer as I'm buttoning myself into the pyjama top. She tells me I
look nice. I tell her I feel stupid. “Where's the pyjama pants?”
I meekly ask.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's summer. You
don't need any.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My legs are completely
exposed. My pyjama top just and so covers my waistband and there's
nothing to cover my frilly over-knickers. “But I can' just wear
this!” I moaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course you can
Gavin.” Mum insisted, before telling me to pull out the lacy trim
that's scrunched up inside my over-knickers.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do I have to?” I
moaned. The only good thing about the over knickers is that they hid
that particular detail on my rubbers, but Mum insisted that the two
inch of lacy trim needs to be seen. “Why?” I asked as I exposed
the ruffled lace trim.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So I can see that
you've got your rubbers on.” she replied. “Now you need to get
into the habit of calling me Mummy remember.” she said in a most
patronising tone. “...and you need to get out of the habit of
moaning every time you're told to do something.” she added. “From
tomorrow morning I'll be adding an extra day every time you don't
follow the rules. Understand?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I skewed my jaw and
swallowed my pride. “Yes Mummy.” I timidly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She sat my at my desk
and plugged in the hairdryer. The nappy feels even thicker than it
did when I donned it. After being vacuum packed in its cellophane
wrap, my nappy is slowly but surely expanding around me. Through the
noise of the dryer, Mum tells me that my hair feels lovely after
being conditioned. She also mentions something about maybe putting it
in rags after my bath tomorrow. “What's rags?” I ignorantly
asked. Mum momentarily turned off the dryer and told me what they are
and what they do whilst pulling a broad toothed brush through my
hair. “I don't want curls.” I whined.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They'll only last
for the day.” Mum claimed, telling me that they'll easily brush out
in time for school on Monday. She gave me one final blast with the
hairdryer to ensure my hair was bone dry before telling me that it's
time to get into bed. My baggy cotton over knickers don't seem quite
so empty now. The nappy beneath them is becoming obvious and I wasted
no time hiding beneath my Barbie duvet cover, pulling it all the way
up to my chin. Mum perched on the edge of the mattress and looked
lovingly into my eyes. She reminded me that bedtime means bed time,
that she'll hear me if I get out of bed, that my door will be locked
from the outside until morning, and that I’m not to remove my nappy
for any reason.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What time am I
allowed out?” I asked, adding “Mummy.” for good measure.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it depends what
time I get up.” she replied. “It'll be seven or eight.” she
supposed, before telling me that she doesn't want to hear me banging
on my door before she unlocks it. “You've got your nappy if you
need the toilet and I won't accept any excuses, understand?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I frowned and nodded.
“Yes mummy.” I said in my meekest voice. She kissed my forehead,
closed my curtains and left. A distinct 'click' after closing my door
determined that it was in fact locked. I was tempted to creep out of
bed to try the handle... but if I want this trial to last no more
than four weeks, I'd better do exactly as I'm told.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I turn on my side, emit
a long sigh and spend a few moments feeling sorry for myself. I've
lost track of how many weeks it's been since my mother first told
that I'd be petticoated and I've thought of little else since. A
nervous hand creeps down to my nappy which wasn't even a centimetre
thick when I donned it. Now it feels closer to two inches thick.
Inside it feels moist and gooey, yet warm and spongy too. It's
certainly not nice but it doesn't feel as bad as I'd imagined. I only
hope that I won't need it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My new curtains don't
do a great job of blacking out the light and darkness is still a
couple of hours away. I doubt I'll get to sleep until then. In the
half-light I spy the dolls on my bookshelves. I roll onto my back
peer along my bedding. Thankfully I can't make out the huge image of
Barbie printed on my duvet, but I can see its overt pinkness. I know
that Mum's not actually trying to turn me into a girl but with a my
room and clothing so overtly girlie, I might forget what it's like to
be a boy... as normal one anyway. Mum says I’ll get used to being
petticoated in no time but that's the last thing I want.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Saturday -->I'm
not sure when I eventually drifted off to sleep, but I laid awake for
ages before doing so. I awoke early but felt incredibly drowsy. I
needed the toilet but knew I wasn't allowed to use it. I cupped my
hands over my crotch. I could feel the plastic pants beneath the
frilly cotton over knickers, and beneath those is my thick and spongy
nappy. I clenched my eyes shut and squeezed, trying not to let myself
go. All the while my mother's words echoed in my head;<i> it doesn't
matter if you do wet yourself, that's what your nappy's for.</i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum assured me that at
thirteen years old, I wouldn't need my nappy, but after such an early
bedtime and no access to the bathroom I inevitably did. The feeling
of relief when I finally let go was short lived. The sense of total
and utter shame as I lay in a sodden nappy lasted much longer.
There's no clock in my bedroom so I wasn't sure of the time, although
it does appear to be light outside. I've no idea if it's 5.00am or
7.00am. The new curtains give the half-light a pink hue. I emit a
quiet yet menacing groan as I stare at the Disney Princess lampshade
hanging from my ceiling, then the five ballerina paintings that
decorate my walls. I can also make out the dolls on my bookshelf. All
of a sudden I erupt in goose-pimples and emit a shudder when my warm
wet nappy cools considerably. I hope it's not like this every
morning, I thought as I shut my eyes and sighed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A distinct click forced
me to peel my eyes open. My vision was blurry to begin with, but I
knew the figure entering my room was my mother. How I'd managed to
drift off back to sleep I've no idea but I must have. “Sleep well
Love?” she asked as she cast the curtains open, flooding my room
with light.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” I
groaned before rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “What time is it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Almost seven
thirty.” she said. “And it's <i>what time is it 'mummy'</i>.”
she reminded me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry... mummy.” I
gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's OK.” she
smiled. “How's your nappy?” she asked. I frowned and gulped and
told her it was soaking. “Well let's see if it's leaked.” she
said, grabbing the corner of my duvet cover. “If it has you'll need
clean sheets.” she said, pulling the duvet to one side. “Come on,
up you get.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I felt ridiculous in my
nightwear; the girl's white pyjama top with its little gathered
sleeves, lace trimmed collar, flower shaped buttons and ruffled hem.
It did nothing to conceal my frilly cotton over knickers nor the
bulbous nappy beneath them. Mum checks my bedding and proudly states
that my rubber knickers have done their job. “Can I get dressed...
please... mummy?” I timidly asked. She smiled at me. “It's cold
and soggy.” I meekly added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes but in a moment
Gavin.” she told me. “First you need to straighten your bedding
and pillows.” she instructed. I did as she asked and felt her eyes
following my every move. I grimaced as I straightened out the duvet
with its huge Barbie print. Part of me still can't quite believe that
it's on my bed. Mum tells me to make sure that it's perfectly flat so
I smooth it once more. “Good boy.” she said. “Next you need to
lay out your clothes for the day.” she said, directing me to the
top drawer of my chest in which my underwear is kept. I pulled the
drawer open and discovered a neat pile of white knickers alongside an
orderly array of folded white bras. My jaw dropped a little. “Well
don't just look at them Gavin.” Mum said after a short while. “You
need one pair of knickers and one training bra. Your socks are in the
bottom drawer.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With a trembling hand,
I reached in to the drawer and removed a pair of knickers, then
quickly grabbed one of the bras. Meanwhile, Mum removed a dress from
my wardrobe and laid it neatly on my duvet. I was instructed to lay
out my underwear just as neatly, before being told to get some socks
from my sock drawer. My socks used to be in the top drawer but that's
where my underwear is now. Mum directed me toward my bedside cabinet
which holds three small drawers. I pull open the top drawer. “No
love, that's your nappy drawer.” Mum said. “Socks are in the
bottom drawer.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A shudder went down my
spine to see the top drawer packed with nappies. I quickly shut it
and open the bottom drawer. “Which ones?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Any you like... and
you're supposed to call me mummy remember.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry.... mummy.”
I glumly replied. “I keep forgetting.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd have thought the
fact that you're wearing a nappy would be enough to remind you.”
mum said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I felt myself blush.
“When can I take it off? ...mummy.” I humbly asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“When you've got your
clothes ready.” she said. “Put your socks neatly by your
knickers.” she instructed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I did as asked. Mum
said she was looking forward to seeing how my dress looked. I
certainly wasn't, but I was keen to get out of my soggy nappy. I
unbuttoned my pyjama top and dropped my cotton over-knickers to my
ankles before stepping out of them. “Do these go in the laundry?”
I asked as I picked up the frilly garment, adding 'mummy'.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Let's see.” Mum
replied, taking them from me. “No they're perfectly dry so put them
under your pillow ready for tonight.” she said. I trotted to the
bathroom in only my nappy and rubber knickers. Mum followed and told
me how to remove the nappy; it has perforated sides which tear open
and goes into a lidded bucket. “Here put this on.” she said,
handing me a shower cap to keep my hair dry. “And make sure you
rinse all that nappy rash cream off.” she said as I stepped under
the shower.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Afterwards, I scurried
back to my room with a towel wrapped around me. Mum hovered and I
meekly asked if I could have some privacy. Predictably she declined
and told me to put my knickers on, and knowing that there'd be no
getting out of it, that's exactly what I did. To be honest, after the
humiliation of the nappy, the rubbers and over-knickers, a pair of
frilly white knickers didn't seem so bad. Mum said they looked nice.
I wasn't so sure but with their lacy trim and little satin bow, I
could see where she was coming from; they'd probably be nice if I was
a girl. The training bra proved to be an awkward garment to don. The
straps have a mind of their own and seemingly wanted to tangle, and
the back fastening was fiddly and frustrating, even after mum had
shown me the 'easy' way. Mum held the dress open and I stepped into
it and pushed my hands through the sleeves. She turned me around and
buttoned me in. “This would be a lot easier if the buttons were on
the front.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but it
wouldn't look as nice.” she replied. “There you are.” she said
once the button was fastened. “Sit down and put your socks on.”
she told me. “Good boy.” she said as I sat.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What for?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“For smoothing your
dress first... I thought I'd have to tell you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's what girls
do.” I humbly replied. I pulled on the socks; white and knee
length. Mum complimented me again when I made sure the tops were both
level. “Girls are always straightening their knee socks.” I said,
before asking if I'd have to wear my new shoes with the heels today.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I thought your blue
jelly shoes would be nice today.” she said. “They match your
dress.” she added. I wasn't going to argue because I’m dreading
wearing those heels.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With my shoes on, Mum
stepped back and told me that I looked lovely. “I feel a bit
silly.” I confessed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only because you're
not used to looking so nice.” Mum smiled. “Now, you seem to keep
forgetting to address me as 'mummy'.” she added in a more serious
tone. “Remember what we talked about last night?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I cast my mind back to
'the rules'. “Yes... sorry... Mummy.” I glumly replied. Mum
smiled down on me and asked if I’d like some breakfast. “Yes
please... Mummy.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In many ways, wearing a
dress isn't too dissimilar from wearing my bathrobe. That falls just
below my knee whereas my dress lands a couple of inches above it.
However unlike my bathrobe which hangs straight... this dress sticks
out somewhat and only really brushes against my legs as I descend the
stairs. It doesn't feel as bad as I'd imagined but as I catch a
glance of my reflection in the hallway mirror, it does look as bad as
I’d thought it would. “Corn flakes or Wheatabix?” Mum asked as
we entered the kitchen.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... Wheatabix
please.” I replied. “Mummy.” I reluctantly added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good boy.” she
said as I sat. “Tuck yourself all the way in...” she suggested,
pushing my chair in so I was as close to the table as possible.
“...that way you're less likely to get anything on your dress.”
she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I recalled the rules.
In particular the one about damaging my clothes. It doesn't seem fair
that if I accidentally got some crumbs on me means that I'd be
petticoated for far longer than four weeks. It doesn't seem fair that
every time I do something wrong an extra day will be added to the
four weeks. In fact everything about being petticoated doesn't seem
fair. Mum put a bowl of cereal under my nose, along with a glass of
orange juice. “Thank you Mummy.” I meekly said. I despise calling
her 'mummy' but if not doing so means extra day of petticoating then
I'll use it, albeit begrudgingly. “What are we going to do today
Mummy?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I need to do the
shopping and I thought we could call in to see Granny.” she
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Granny?” I gulped.
It's bad enough wearing a dress in front of my mother, let alone my
grandmother!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes... unless you'd
rather come shopping with me?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Weighing up the
options, I guess I'd rather go to my grandmother's house than
shopping. But given the choice, I'd rather stay home on my own where
no one can see me... but that's not going to happen. “When are we
going to Granny's?” I asked before gulping and adding “Mummy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Later this morning.”
Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Does she know?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That you're giving
petticoating a try?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I nodded, albeit
hesitantly. I hate it when she phrases it as if petticoating is
something that I’m willingly participating in. But thinking about
it, I guess I am willingly participating. If only to ensure the trial
lasts no longer than four weeks. “Can I watch TV for bit please?”
I asked, before again timidly adding 'mummy'.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Petticoatees don't
really watch TV.” Mum replied. “But you can watch one of your new
DVDs if you like. Or read one of your new books.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Having perused the
titles of my DVDs, I had little interest in watching any of them, so
I settled for one of the books. I don't want to read any of the
girl's story books and have no interest in paper dolls or or the
dolly dress up book. Fun Crafts for Girls and the cross-stitch Book
seem like the best of the bad bunch to a select those and saunter
downstairs with them. This time I halt for a moment and look at my
reflection in the hallway mirror. It looks like someone’s put a
boy's head on top of a girl's body, and the tops of my knee socks are
already wonky. I frown and continue to the lounge. Mum sits listening
to the radio whilst perusing the newspaper supplements. I sit myself
down and glumly open the cross-stitch Book. Mum asked what I'd chosen
and described them as 'nice', adding “Needlework will make a nice
change from making plastic model kits.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I might if the designs
weren't all of flowers and squirrels and teddy bears. A racing car
could be cool, but there's nothing like that in this book. I flick
through Fun Crafts for Girls which includes pressing flowers, making
pasta jewellery, macramé, crochet, collaging, bead work, origami...
all sorts of stuff. Much of it looked boring but the miniature garden
was quite cool, as were some of the origami animals and the string
art. But most of it was sticking glittery stuff to bags, flip-flops,
pencils and lollipop sticks. “Mummy.” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can I make a
miniature garden... please?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Let me see.” she
replied, prompting me to sit beside her. I could tell by the
expression on her face that she's thoroughly enjoying seeing me
wearing my dress. I felt such a ninny as I approached. Her eyes
flicked from my shoes to my collar, my sleeves then my knees. She
reached for the book and I sat beside her. Mum wasn't keen on the
miniature garden since it involved soil and glue for the mini log
cabin. “You don't want to be getting any dirt or glue on your
clothes do you?” she said, before suggesting I try some of the less
messy projects first.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Like origami?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes, and
cross-stitch.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd prefer
origami... some of the animals are really cool.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's no reason
you can't do both.” she said. “In fact I’m hoping that Granny's
still got some cross-stitch fabric and a frame.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I don't really want to
do any cross-stitch but if I have to, I’d rather not do any of the
designs in the book. It has a section about making your own designs
on graph paper, and I suggest maybe doing that. Mum tells me that the
first cross-stitch project is always a sampler. “What's a sampler?”
I ask. Mum flicks through the book to find an example. It doesn't
look at all inspiring, just being a name, the letters of the
alphabet, the numbers one to ten, some floral motifs and a patterned
border. “I'd like to do a racing car or something.” I suggested.
“Or does it have to be something girlie?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You can do anything
you like.” Mum said. “...when you've done a sampler.” she
added. “However we are supposed to be moving away from things like
fast cars and fighter planes for the next few weeks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So it does have to
be girlie?” I frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not necessarily...
something 'nice' rather than 'cool'.” she replied. “You could
copy the cars from your dress and put those on the sampler.” she
suggested. “...instead of the floral motifs. ” she said. I fell
silent and I felt embarrassed. All of a sudden I realise that I’m
talking about learning how to do needlework and for a couple of
minutes, it felt normal. Until Mum mentioned my dress. “How does it
feel now you've had it on for a while?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't know.” I
said in a slightly whiny voice. “The same I guess.” I added as I
straightened the tops of my socks.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A bit silly?” Mum
knowingly asked. I frowned and nodded. She smiled and reiterated that
I only feel silly because I’m not used to wearing nice clothes. “At
least you're remembering to keep your socks nice and straight.” she
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you did tell me
that I had to.” I glumly replied. Mum responded with a smile and
asked if we should go to see Granny soon. “Can't I stay here?” I
asked, adding 'please' and 'mummy'.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You know that's not
an option Gavin. You're only thirteen.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I knew it was a long
shot but felt it was worth a try. I took my books back to my room,
combed my hair as instructed and returned downstairs. Mum was writing
a shopping list so I lurked in the background whilst she checked the
fridge and cupboards.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mum... I mean,
Mummy?” I humbly asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes?” she replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Does Granny know
that I have to wear nappies again?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” Mum told me.
I frown swept my face. “You don't seem too happy about that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I just don't want
everyone knowing.” I glumly replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's common
knowledge that most petticoated boys wear nappies for bed Gavin.”
Mum informed me, before suggesting that I worry too much.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Maybe I do worry too
much... but I've had a lot to get worried about over the last few
weeks. Part of me wishes that she'd dropped me in at the deep end and
went ahead with the petticoating the when she first mentioned it.
Instead I’ve spent four weeks worrying about having to wear dresses
every weekend, then worrying about having to wear a nappy every
night. Then I learned that I'd also have to wear girl's underwear
everyday too, even at school! And then Mum informed me that I'll be
wearing girl's clothes everyday after school. I've had plenty to
worry about and with no books, comics or anything in my room to
distract me, I've spent much of the last few weeks thinking about how
horrible being petticoated must be. The nappy certainly lived up to
expectations but the dress, if I'm perfectly honest, feels a bit
underwhelming. It fits me but not snugly and covers me to just above
the knee, and hanging as it does from my shoulders it actually feels
quite comfy. It wouldn't be so bad if the fabric wasn't quite so
infantile, I wonder... before quickly chasing that thought from my
mind.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The drive to my
grandmother's house was uneventful after the quick dash from the
front door. Mum's car has tinted windows which make it hard to see in
from the outside and I willingly put myself on the back seat rather
than riding 'shotgun'. My apprehension does grow as we cross town to
where Granny lives. I expect she'll be fussing over how pretty I
supposedly look, just like my mother's been doing all morning.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Here he is!” Mum
gushes when I'm presented to Granny. “Isn't it lovely?!” she
says, drawing her attention to my dress.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Granny sighed and said
it was indeed a lovely dress. “...but not for a boy.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's perfect for a
boy.” Mum claimed. “It's got cars and trucks on it.” she added,
holding out my skirt.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Granny asked me if I
liked my dress. “Not really.” I frowned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After a quick chat with
Granny, Mum took herself into town and I stayed behind. “So she's
finally done it.” Granny said. “I was hoping she wouldn't but she
seems quite convinced that petticoating is beneficial.” she told
me. “How does it feel?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Horrible.” I
replied in my whiniest voice, before moaning about having to wear a
nappy for bed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well that's not so
bad I suppose.” she optimistically replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's horrible!” I
retorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They do recommend
that new petticoatees wear them day <i>and</i> night for the first
week or two.” Granny informed me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?” I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My grandmother nodded
and told me that she's also been reading all about petticoating since
my mother suggested giving it a try. She also said that she doesn't
really agree with it. “...but I do agree that children these days
are growing up too quickly.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I can't help it if
I'm growing up too quick.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No... but but your
mother feels that petticoating can help, so you'll just have to go
along with it.” she replied. “Is it as bad as you imagined?”
she asked in a patronising tone.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Worse.” I replied,
sticking out my lip for effect. “Wearing a dress isn't so bad but
having to wear a nappy is horrible.” I grumbled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you're old
enough not to need it.” she optimistically replied. “...and now
I’ve had chance to get used to seeing you in a dress, it does look
quite nice, if a little 'young' for you.” she said. I felt
uncomfortable as she looked me up and down; from my blue jelly shoes
and white knee socks to my pale blue frock with its infantile print
and broad white collar. “Did you really choose the fabric
yourself?” my grandmother asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” I
replied. “There was one with racing cars on and another with
fighter planes, but Mum wouldn't... er... <i>Mummy</i> wouldn't let
me have those... so I ended up with this.” I explained, smoothing
the fabric over my lap. “It's better than flowers or butterflies or
something really girlie... but it's still a dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well at least you're
being optimistic about it.” Granny smiled. “And like you say, it
could be worse.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I guess.” I
replied, before reiterating that the dress isn't so bad. “...it's
being treated like a little kid.” I frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes... it must seem
strange saying 'mummy' again.” Granny replied. I felt comfortable
taking to Granny. Unlike my mother who just keeps saying that I'll
get used to it, my grandmother's empathy means a lot. We watched TV
and in spite of me telling her that I'm not supposed to watch TV now
I'm a petticoatee, Granny said that she wouldn't tell. “What are
you going to do all day if you can't watch TV?” she asked. “I
doubt you'll be wanting to spend much time with your friends now
you're...” she tailed off.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've got loads of
Barbie and Princess DVDs.” I frowned, before mentioning the craft
books that I'd flicked through. “I wanted to make a miniature
garden but Mum said... I mean Mummy wants me to learn cross stitch
first.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh yes. She asked me
if I had some fabric and threads for you.” Granny replied. “I
should have some graph-paper too.” she added. My grandmother is
typical granny; she knits and sews and makes and mends and has a
cupboard full of sewing, knitting and craft supplies. She removes
bags and boxes, peeking inside each one before passing them to me to
put aside. There's jars of buttons, old tins full of ribbons, lace
and broderie anglaise trim. I twizzle the embroidery hoops around my
wrists as Granny roots. “It always amazes me just how many things I
start but don't finish.” she said, finding yet another unfinished
bit of knitting or stitching.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Eventually she found
the bag she was looking for. It contained several blank canvases as
well as a couple of projects she'd started years ago yet had never
finished.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXMzkhffL9QZoCWWbEdXfdg9cG8iEEYZoRlrdyGDexQVIkpXmc5qbPyeEabDfQg34ZFRPLkI9jOg63B7SSocd5_HxwkNySxc8_FeXyImg4_ef8ph33X09Xp95mmS20oL31Tr20h5Y0/s1600/embroidery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXMzkhffL9QZoCWWbEdXfdg9cG8iEEYZoRlrdyGDexQVIkpXmc5qbPyeEabDfQg34ZFRPLkI9jOg63B7SSocd5_HxwkNySxc8_FeXyImg4_ef8ph33X09Xp95mmS20oL31Tr20h5Y0/s640/embroidery.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's like pixels!”
I said as I observed her handiwork. Granny agreed before confessing
to having no idea what 'pixels' are, so I explained further. It was
only when I described the blocky nature of the classic space invader
sprite did she finally understand. Then I had a brainwave.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We soon returned to the
lounge where I sat quietly with a pad of graph-paper on my lap and a
pack of crayons on the chair arm whilst Granny completed her jigsaw.
The dulcet tones of Radio 4 was the only sound until my mother
returned from her shopping trip “How's he been?” Mum asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“As good as gold.”
my grandmother replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum asked what I was
doing and I showed her. “They're space invaders.” I said. “For
my cross stitch sampler.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't think space
invaders are suitable for a sampler Gavin.” Mum replied. “We're
supposed to be steering you away from things like that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think it's very
creative.” Granny chirped. “If he's going to learn cross stitch
he'll enjoy it all the more doing something that sparks his
enthusiasm.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I suppose.”
Mum replied, before suggesting that I make she and Granny a pot of
tea. This was nothing unusual. Ever since I was old enough to boil a
kettle I've been making cups of tea and coffee for my mother. I
loitered in the kitchen whilst the kettle boiled. I'd somehow managed
to put my attire out of my mind whilst I was busy drawing on the
graph-paper, but now I can't help but look down at myself.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I carefully deliver the
tea tray to the lounge and place it on the coffee table. Mum was
showing Granny what she'd been buying. “Oh you should have said...
I’ve got a bag full of ribbon.” Granny told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It didn't cross my
mind.” Mum replied, before saying that she wanted some in the same
shade of blue as my dress.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's not for me is
it!?” I grimaced, adding “Mummy” when my mother glared at me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It is.” she
replied. “I bought you these too.” she added, removing an item
from the bag. I gulped as she handed me a blister-pack of girl's hair
accessories. It contains three Alice bands in white, pink and pale
blue, six hair slides in the same colours and six bows; one pair in
plain white, another with pale blue spots and a pair with pale pink
spots. “I know you're not keen on pink but I bought it for the
white and blue ones.” Mum informed me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I recalled the rules
and made damn sure that my four weeks of petticoating didn't get
extended. “Thank you Mummy.” I meekly said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're welcome.”
my mother smugly smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Granny gave me an
empathetic smile and I forced a smile in return. Mum told her that
she'd completely forgotten about hair accessories when she was buying
my new clothes. “Do I have to wear some now?” I meekly asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” Mum smiled,
taking the pack from my hands. “We'll save those 'til we get home.”
she said. “...but I’d like to try some of this ribbon in your
hair.” she added, holding it against my dress and declaring it an
almost perfect match. “Have you got some scissors Mum?” she
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In the kitchen
drawer.” Granny replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Would you mind
Gavin?” Mum asked. I sheepishly went to fetch them and emitted a
huge sigh once I was out of earshot. She'll be buying me lipstick
next, I feared. I returned with the scissors and before long I found
myself wearing a pale blue satin ribbon in my hair with a floppy bow
tied just off centre. I couldn't see it but could certainly feel it.
Mum said it looked nice but I didn't believe her. I resumed drawing
on the graph paper but struggled to put the bow in my hair out of my
mind.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After half an hour or
so, Mum said it was time for us to leave. As usual, Granny said
goodbye with a hug and a kiss. “I'll see you next Saturday?” she
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Actually Mum.” my
mother chirped before I could reply. “...would you like to join us
for lunch tomorrow.” she asked. Granny declined since she already
has a lunch arrangement with some old friends. “Oh that's a pity...
I wanted to show you Gavin's Sunday dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well maybe next
week?” Granny said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum asked if I'd had a
nice time as she drove me home. “Yes.” I honestly replied,
hastily adding 'mummy' before I got that look. “Am I going again
next week?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes... unless you
want to come shopping.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd rather go to
Granny's.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm sure you would.”
she smiled.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We arrived home and my
attempted dart from the car to the front door failed. “Not so fast
young man!” Mum said, “You can take these in.” she told me as
she passed me two bags of shopping. I hurried indoors. Mum followed,
also carrying a bag in each hand. “There's two more.” she told
me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh but Mummy what if
someone sees me?” I whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum reminded me of the
rules, in particular the one about doing what I'm told, when I'm
told. “It's your first day and you've been very compliant so far...
so I'll let you off this once.” she said, before telling me to
fetch the remaining bags from the car.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I couldn't help but
glance down the driveway to check if anyone might see me. I suppose
from a certain distance anyone who does see me will presume the kid
in the dress is a girl, especially with the floppy bow tied in my
hair. I turn my back to the street, lean into the boot and grab the
remaining carrier bags. I place one by my feet and slam the boot shut
before picking it up. “Hello Gavin!” a familiar voice says. I
gulp and turn the see the neighbour stood right behind me. “I see
your mother gone ahead and done it.” she says, looking me up and
down.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” I glumly
reply as I feel myself begin to blush.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is she in?” the
neighbour asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” I replied,
before leading her indoors. “Mummy...”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh hello!” my
mother said the the neighbour.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hi.” the neighbour
replied. “I noticed Gavin was wearing a dress so I though I'd pop
round to see how he's getting on.” she said. “He looks quite
sweet considering.” she added, looking me up and down.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum agreed and proudly
told her that I'd chosen the fabric myself, before suggesting I take
my things to my room. She put the blister pack of hair accessories in
with the cross-stitch fabric and pad of graph-paper that Granny had
given me. A wry smile crossed the neighbour's face as I took the bag
and meekly said “Thank you Mummy.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Coffee?” Mum
offered as I left the kitchen.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Please.” the
neighbour replied. “He looks quite comfortable doesn't he.” I
overheard her add as I climbed the stairs. The annoying thing is...
in spite of the fact that I know that I look ridiculous, I do feel
quite comfortable. Not that I'd readily admit that to many people.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I opened my bedroom
door and tutted. The big picture of Barbie on my duvet grins at me
whilst the three dolls on my bookshelf watch with blank expressions.
I pull out my chair and sit, resting the carrier bag on my lap. I
gulp and look at my reflection. The bow in my hair looks stupid but
if I was a girl I'd probably be thinking how pretty it looks. I'd
probably also be enthusiastically ripping open the pack of hair
bands, clips and slides and trying them all... but I’m a boy and I
don't really know what to do with them. I leave the pack as is and
place it on one side of the desk, turning my attention to the sheet
of graph-paper I'd been doodling on. I'd work on the designs further
but I haven't got any pencils and I don't want to ask Mummy for one
until that neighbours gone. Instead I remove the Cross-Stitch for
Beginners books from my shelf and briefly peruse the other titles;
<span style="font-style: normal;">The Princess and the Pauper, A
Little Princess, The Disney Princess Annual, Princess Adventures... I
exhale long and hard. I hope I’m not expected to read them all, I
wonder as I return to my desk and open the cross-stitch book. As I
read, I can't help but think about my friends... I can imagine what
they'd say if they could see me now:</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.25cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Why
are you wearing a dress? … </span><i>Because Mummy said I have to.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
… You still call your mum mummy? … </span><i>Yeah.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
… You've got loads of girl's things. ... </span><i>I know.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
… Are those your dolls? … </span><i>Not really. Kind of.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
... What are you reading? … </span><i>A book about needlework</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
… What are those on the radiator? … </span><i>Oh cripes! </i>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
glanced around my room as I imagined the conversation and spotted my
rubber knickers hung over my radiator. I quickly shove them under my
pillow. Out of sight, out of mind... almost.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A
while later, my mother comes to my room and asks what I'm doing.
“Just reading.” I reply, adding 'mummy' just in case. “Is that
lady still here?” I asked. Mum said she'd left and asked where my
rubber knickers had gone. “Err... I put them under my pillow.” I
timidly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“With
your pyjamas?” she said. I nodded. “Were they dry?” she asked.
I nodded, but wasn't sure. “Good boy.” she smiled. “Shall we
see how some of these look?” she said, picking up the pack of hair
accessories she'd bought me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
figured that she was unlikely to take no for an answer, so I gulped
and nodded. They can't be much worse than the floppy blue ribbon I'm
currently sporting. I sit and gorp at my reflection as Mum faffs with
my hair; parting in various places and putting the slides in, then
the clips with the bows and finally one of the Alice bands. All the
while she's muttering positive utterances. “Mummy?” I ask.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes?”
she replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Am
I supposed to pretend to like this or...?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
talked to me about the difference between honesty and tact, and when
one is more appropriate than the other. She cited examples such as an
underwhelming Christmas gift; it's better to say that you<i> really
</i>like it when you really don't. “If you can't think of anything
positive to say, then most of the time it's just better to say
nothing.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I skewed my jaw as I
observed my reflection. “Why's it called an Alice band?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because Alice in
Wonderland wore one.” Mum replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh.” I said. “It
looks better than that ribbon, I suppose.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think so too.”
my mother smiled, before telling me that she likes the bow clips best
of all.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I spent much of
Saturday afternoon working on my sampler design. It needs to have the
letters of the alphabet in both upper and lower case, and the numbers
one to ten. Plus my name, age, the year, a border and some decorative
dividers. I think Mum would prefer I did hearts and flowers but said
that it's OK if I'd rather do space invaders. As I draw the shapes
and fill in the squares on my sheet of graph-paper, I can't help but
intermittently glance at my reflection in the vanity mirror on my
desk. I gulp at my round lace trimmed collar and the infantile print
on my pale blue dress, then grimace at the short puffed 'princess'
sleeves which leave my arms looking thinner than usual. I focus on my
doodling and try to put my girlie attire out of my mind for a while.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are you ready for
some supper soon?” Mum asked as she popped into my room. I asked
the time and Mum said it was almost 5pm. Time really does fly when
you're having fun! I'd begun a proper design for my cross-stitch
sampler, with my name at the top above a space invader divider, then
another divider followed by the letters of the alphabet in capitals
and lower case. Another divider of four space aliens separated the
letters from the numerals, then the words 'take me to your leader' at
the bottom. Mum chuckled and suggested that I think of something
other than 'take me to your leader'. “What's the space here for?”
she asked, pointing out the void between my name and the alphabet.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The date.” I
replied, but wasn't sure if it should state only the year or the day,
month and year. “If I do the full date I’ll have to leave it 'til
last.” I suggested. To me it makes more sense to put the date of
completion rather than the date it was started. Mum agreed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum had made pork chops
for supper with mashed potatoes, carrots and peas. “Sit right up to
the table Gavin.” she advised. “Then you won't drop anything on
your dress.” she added. I shuffled my chair right in but being so
close to the table felt too close. On the rare occasion that we eat
out, in a restaurant or somewhere, we tend to place a napkin on our
laps and I suggested that. “Maybe I'll get you an apron.” Mum
suggested, describing the old fashioned pinafore style as seen in
period dramas on TV.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I honestly didn't like
the idea of wearing the sort of apron my mother described, but if
accidentally ruining my dress means being petticoated indefinitely, I
knew it would serve a very good purpose. “I'd like one of it wasn't
too frilly.” I meekly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum smiled and
suggested the possibility of making us one. “Learning to sew will be one
of your activities.” she informed me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped before putting
a modest forkful of food in my mouth. As I chewed I considered what
other activities I might be doing, and after swallowing I hesitantly
enquired about them. “Oh lots of things.” Mum replied. “There's
your cross stitch...” she said. “...and plenty of things in you
crafts books.” she added. “There's active play after school each
day.” she told me. “...and Sunday is a rest day.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's active play?”
I asked. Mum raised her eyebrow. “Mummy.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well as you know,
you won't be doing PE at school whilst you're petticoated.” she
restated. “...so you'll be getting your exercise at home instead.”
she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I can't do PE at
home.” I whined. Mum said I could and listed hopscotch and
skipping. “I don't know how to skip.” I muttered.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll learn.” Mum
replied. “I've got you a hula-hoop too.” she informed me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I can't do that
either.” I claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum smiled and smugly
delivered her '<i>if a girl can do it...</i>' mantra. After supper I
politely thanked my mother and felt embarrassed for saying 'mummy'.
Then she only added to my embarrassment by asking if I’d like to
help 'mummy' do the dishes. I was put on drying duties to avoid
getting my dress splashed with soapy greasy water. “Mummy?” I
asked as my chore was almost done. “Can I watch TV for a bit before
bed, please?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it's Saturday
night, why don't we watch one of your DVDs?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“All my good ones are
in the loft.” I moaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And there's plenty
you've not even watched in your bedroom.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but...” I
tried to explain by simply changing my expression.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum cocked her head. “I
know for a fact that you enjoyed Brave, Aladin and Mulan at the
cinema.” she said, before suggesting I have a look in 'my' Disney
Princess DVD box set. I did enjoy those films but I was much younger
then... however when mum began suggesting films I haven't seen, such
as Cinderella or Snow White, I quickly got over my apathy and opted
to watch Brave.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I doubt I'd shout about
it to my school friends on Monday but I enjoyed watching Brave as
much as a thirteen year old as I did when I was seven. “Right...”
Mum said as the end credits rolled. “...shall we get you in the
bath and ready for bed?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Already?” I
gulped. The time is barely twenty to seven.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“By the time it's
full it'll be ten-to.” Mum replied. I skewed my jaw and rose from
my chair, put the DVD back in its case and returned it to my room.
Mum began filling the bath before coming to unfasten the buttons
running down the back of my dress. “What do you say?” she said as
I began to remove it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thank you Mummy.”
I sheepishly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She smiled and slid the
Alice band from my hair. I'd pretty much got used to its presence and
had almost forgotten about it. She ran her fingers through my hair
and said “I'm looking forward to seeing this with some curls.”
She smiled. I chose my words carefully before telling her that I
didn't want curly hair, but Mum assured me that they'd only last the
day. “None of your school friends will ever know.” she claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I removed a nappy from
my drawer and took the rubbers from the radiator and placed both on
the cistern. As before, the bath was warm rather than hot and full of
bubbles. Mum washed, conditioned and rinsed my hair before leaving me
alone to bathe. I returned to my room wearing my nappy and rubbers
and mum asked if I'd put plenty of nappy rash cream on. “Yes
Mummy.” I mumbled as she rooted my pyjamas from beneath my pillow.
I use the term loosely as my pyjamas consist of a girl's pyjama top
and the baggy cotton over knickers that conceal my nappy. Mum sits me
at my desk and blow dries my hair, then squirts a dollop of mousse
into the palm of her hand and begins rubbing it in to my hair.
“What's that for? ...Mummy?” I hesitantly asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's to help your
curls hold.” she said. Half an hour later I found myself sat
cross-legged on a cushion in the lounge and Mum is tying the last of
the rags in my hair. I can't imagine getting to sleep but Mum assures
me that I will. “I used to love having my hair in rags when I was a
girl.” she said, adding that hers was much longer than mine. A hair
net was added to stop the rags working loose in my sleep. After a
goodnight kiss I took myself to my room, pausing for a moment in
front of the big hallway mirror. I can't describe what my head looks
like, but my nappy has already expanded from being vacuum packed and
now fills my cotton over knickers. It, like my head looks bulbous and
frankly, I look ridiculous. With a deep sigh and heavy heart I
trundled up to my bedroom and climbed into bed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Sunday -->When I
woke I wondered what was on my head for a moment. Then I recalled Mum
putting my hair in rags and all became clear. When Mum came to me,
she opened my curtains and asked if I'd slept well. “Yes Mummy.”
I meekly replied. She asked if I was dry and I shook my head then
hung it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well let's get your
clothes ready, then you can have a shower.” she smiled. “Your
rags look like they've all stayed in.” she commented. “I can't
wait to see how it looks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I removed a clean pair
of knickers and a training bra from my underwear drawer and laid them
on my bed. Mum said I'd be wearing tights today and put a pair by my
undies, before telling me to get my Sunday dress out of my wardrobe.
I wasn't looking forward to wearing it but I was looking forward to
getting out of my humbling nightclothes and sodden nappy. Mum checked
my bedding and discovered that my rubbers had leaked a little which
meant I had to strip my bed of its sheet and duvet cover. I was glad
to put Barbie in the laundry basket, but not as glad as I was to get
out of my nightclothes and nappy and under the warm shower. A plastic
shower cap kept my netted hair dry.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Before long I found
myself being buttoned into my Sunday dress. Compared to yesterday's
infantile and colourful car print, the pale green and white stripes
are a welcome alternative. However the thin white tights that clad my
legs feel weird, and wearing my heeled shoes for the first time since
I tried them in the shoe shop makes me feel a little too tall for
comfort. Even when sat at my desk the heels feel significant because
my knees are too high. “This is going to look lovely!” Mum
exclaimed having removed half of my rags.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I couldn't share in her
enthusiasm as I watched via my mirror. If anything I'm going to look
more ridiculous than I ever imagined... but my main concern is that
my curls do come out in time for school tomorrow as my mother had
claimed. She faffed with it; separating each curl into two or three
short loose spirals, then she put a couple of clips in. “Oh
mu-um... mummy... that looks silly.” I protested. It looked bad
enough being curly but the addition of a bow on either side of my
crown seemed like a step too far. Mum told me that they looked nice,
and claimed that I only think it looks silly because I'm not used to
wearing hair accessories. Maybe she's right, but I still feel silly
even if, as she claims, I do look nice. “Be careful in those
heels.” she advised as I rose from my seat. Mum stood back and
looked me up and down. She bore a smug, almost triumphant smile.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I don't think I've ever
descended the stairs so cautiously, nor observed myself so closely. A
stockinged knee appeared with every step. I could feel the nylon
shift and stretch over my legs. My short curls brushed the tops of my
ears and when my heels clanked against the hardwood hallway floor, I
was greeted with an almost complete reflection of myself. My jaw
dropped a little but I forced myself not to loiter. “Are my shoes
supposed to be this noisy?” I asked as they clicked and clacked to
the kitchen.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Polite boys say
'mummy' before asking a question.” my mother reminded me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry.” I gulped.
“Mummy?” I meekly asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes Gavin.” Mum
replied in a patronising tone. I reiterated my question and was told
that whilst heeled shoes do make a noise, I should endeavour to tread
lightly in them. “Remember what the lady in the shoe shop said.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I cast my mind back to
the humiliation of being led back and forth in the shoe shop; be
cautious yet confident, walk with grace not haste, step on both toe
and heel... it'd be a lot easier if these shoes didn't have a heel.
Maybe I should have been more proactive in the shoe shop and
expressed a preference for those ubiquitous ballet shoes all the
girls tend to wear. At least then I’d be walking around in flats
rather than tottering on heels all day... not that I did much of
anything on Sunday. Mummy said that Sunday is a 'rest' day for
petticoated boys which means sedentary activities such as reading...
that kind of thing. I wanted to continue working on my cross-stitch
design but mum suggested I read one of my new story books. “...but
they're all girl's books Mummy.” I reluctantly moaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're also
petticoated boy's books Gavin.” my mother replied. “Now if you
can't find something to read, maybe we'll go for a nice stroll in the
park and feed the ducks instead.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Time ticked slowly and
the stories in<i> Once Upon a Wish</i> didn't help. The central
characters wished for a new pair of shoes, a best friend, to become a
princess and wear elegant dresses. <i>The Girl's Own Adventure</i>
book was better, but only marginally. Mum recommended one of her
favourite childhood books; <i>Anne of Green Gables</i>. A story about
an orphan who's sent to live on a farm in rural Canada, the problem
is, they wanted a boy to help out on the farm but got sent a girl
instead. She also suggested <i>A Little Princess</i>, but the title
alone put me off.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After an enjoyable
roast dinner, I helped Mum tidy the kitchen before we put some clean
sheets on my bed. The fairy castle duvet cover may not be ideal, but
it's a welcome change from a big picture of Barbie. Once that was
done, I dusted my furniture and vacuumed the carpet. Mum suggested we
watch another of my Disney Princess DVDs, but her preference for
Cinderella prompted me to continue reading <i>Anne of Green Gables</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
story so far didn't really engage me but I could relate to Anne...
she feels out of place in her new life just as I feel out of place in
mine... although for me, four weeks from now everything should go
back to normal. No more dresses and no more nappies!
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sunday
dragged on but bath time came far too early. Thankfully the curls
dropped right out of my hair after being washed and conditioned and
blow dried. With my pyjama top in the laundry basket, a girl's
nightie lay waiting on my bed alongside a clean pair of white cotton
over knickers. The nightie is lilac with short capped sleeves and
lettuce edge hems, and a crescent moon and clouds printed on the
front. It wouldn't be so bad if it didn't have 'sweet dreams' printed
in pink glittery lettering. But at least it covers my frilly cotton
over knickers and bulbous nappy... just.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
next day I hoped would be a brief return to normality since I'd be
wearing my school uniform... but beneath it I'm wearing my training
bra and knickers. I didn't really give my girlie underwear any
thought when I had my dresses on but now I'm wearing my own familiar
clothes, my underwear is in the forefront of my mind. I glance in
Callum's direction as I enter my form room but we don't make eye
contact. I don't know him very well because we never seemed to have
anything in common, yet now I know what we do have in common leaves
me wondering if I want to know him any better.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jason
approached me during morning break and asked “Did she go ahead and
do it?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
gulped and nodded. “You won't say owt will you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah.”
he replied. “What's it like?” he asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shite.”
I moaned. “But I'd rather not talk about it.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fair
enough.” he said, glancing at my chest. I got the feeling that he
was looking through my jumper and shirt to the training bra beneath,
but maybe I'm just being paranoid. I shifted the focus from myself
and asked him what he'd done over the weekend. “Not a lot... went
to town on Saturday and played FIFA all day yesterday.” he replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Did
you win?” I dryly asked. He enthused over some memorable moments.
Meanwhile, the events of my weekend flashed through my mind. “My
Playstation's in the loft for the next four weeks.” I frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My
cousin's allowed a Playstation.” Jason replied. “He's not allowed
any decent games though.” he added. “It's all Barbie's Puppy
Rescue and Lego Friends, Dance Star and Enchanted Journey.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Blimey...
I'm glad Mum put mine in the loft.” I glumly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In
the afternoon, one of my teachers asked me to stay back for a moment
after class and asked how I was getting on. “OK Miss.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I hope so.” she smiled. “I just wanted to remind you that we take
bullying and harassment very seriously so if you experience anything,
don't hesitate to let me or another teacher know.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err...
OK Miss... but I haven't.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
good.” she said. “I know how tricky it can be for new
petticoatees.” she added. I gulped and wondered how she knew. She
gave me a pursed smile which I expect she felt might reassure me, but
it didn't. “Just remember that petticoating isn't a punishment.”
she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes
Miss.” I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
it's nothing to be ashamed of either.” she added as she rose from
her desk and stood alongside me. “Now... I need to check that
you're not removing your training bra.” she told me, resting her
fingers on my back and feeling for the fastening on the back of my
chest band. “You'll be amazed how many boys think they can slip it
off in the toilets and put it back on before going home.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How
many others are there?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I'm not at liberty to say Gavin... but you're not the only one.”
she claimed. She went onto explain that each day I'll be randomly
held back after one of my classes so a teacher can check that I’m
not breaking the rules.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
could feel myself blushing as I headed to my final class of the day.
Knowing that all my teachers know that I'm now a petticoatee doesn't
sit easy with me. I fear that it's only a matter of time before
rumours begin to circulate as they had with Callum's trip to
PettiCamp. I wonder what that's like?</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How
was school?” my mother asked when I returned home.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">OK
Mummy.” I meekly replied, before asking if </span><i>all</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
my teachers know that I’ve been petticoated.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.”
Mum replied, before telling me to go and change. “...and put some
clean knickers on.” she added as I sauntered up the stairs.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">On
my bed lay the clothes I'd laid out this morning; a white blouse with
both lacy and frilly details, a pair of powder blue shorts with
attached matching braces, a white camisole vest, a pair of white
ankle socks with frilly cuffs, and on the floor my blue jelly shoes.
I hung up my school uniform, pulled on a clean pair of knickers,
donned the camisole over my training bra and stepped into the shorts.
They fasten at the back with a button and zip whilst having four
buttons in the front purely as decoration. They sit high and snug on
my waist and are so short they leave my legs fully exposed. With the
braces dangling I don the blouse which also fastens at the back.
“Mummy!” I meekly call from the top of the stairs. “Can you do
my buttons please?” I ask when she appears. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of
course.” she replied, climbing the stairs.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After
buttoning me in and adjusting the braces to the correct length, Mum
began faffing with my hair and put a couple of slides in, holding my
fringe off my face. It looked bizarre but I didn't say anything. Mum
said I looked very cute and removed a small item from between the
dolls on my bookshelf. “What's that?” I asked, quickly adding
“Mummy.” before she could raise her eyebrow.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
a nanny-cam.” she said, holding the device so I could see it. No
bigger than a reel of cotton, the small wi-fi camera has been spying
on me probably since Friday evening and I was rightly disgruntled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
haven't been spying on you Gavin. I've been keeping an eye on you.”
she told me. “You've been very good so far; getting straight into
bed and staying there 'til morning.” she added. “Let's keep it
that way shall we.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
took me down to the kitchen and out onto the patio, grabbing her
smart-phone on the way. Scrawled in chalk on the concrete slabs is
the recognisable hopscotch grid. Mum asked if I've ever played
before. I shook my head. “Well the first thing you need is a
stone.” she said. “...not too big and not too small and not too
round so it won't roll... and take one from the raised beds that
hasn't got any dirt on.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
area around the patio isn't overlooked by any of our neighbours but
the raised beds are. I dash over the lawn, spend a couple of seconds
finding a suitable stone and dart back with it. “Is this OK …
Mummy?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Perfect.”
Mum smiles, taking it from me and demonstrating how the game should
be played. After a couple of runs she gives the stone to me. “Now
you try.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
felt incredibly sheepish as I hopped and skipped up and down the
court. I staggered when retrieving my stone which would have meant my
turn would be over, but since I’m playing solo, I just begin again,
tossing the stone into the first square, skipping over it, hopping up
the court and back. “Well done!” Mum says. “Now toss the stone
into number two.” she said. “Good.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This
is going to get hard when I'm aiming for the high numbers, I think as
I toss the stone into number three and it lands dangerously close to
the line. Mum's stood by the patio table but is paying more attention
to her phone than me. I skip and hop up the court and return. Mum
tells me to continue playing for fifteen minutes. She shows me her
phone which displays an image of the patio and me in the centre. I
gulp and glance at the tiny camera perched on the table with its lens
facing me. “I'll be keeping an eye on you.” Mum said, before
leaving me alone.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
just stood for a moment before returning to the game. My friends are
going to think I'm such a sissy if any of this gets out, I think as I
skip and hop, knowing that I'm being watched and maybe even recorded.
On mum's phone the image was too small to clearly be me... it could
have been anyone wearing little blue shorts and a prissy white blouse
with pale thin legs, frilly ankle socks and girlie blue jelly shoes.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">As
predicted, getting the stone into the higher numbered squares was
difficult. But rather than ending my turn and starting again I
continued aiming for square number six until I got it. “Yesss” I
hissed before hopping up the court, skipping over my stone... hop,
skip, step, turn, back, hop, skip, grab, hop, hop, hop. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After
some ten minutes I could feel myself getting out of breath. All this
skipping and hopping is harder than it looks and getting my stone in
the correct square without bouncing out requires both concentration
and skill. For a little girl's game, hopscotch is more fun than I
expected. Mum appeared with a glass of orange juice for me. “Thank
you Mummy.” I said before gulping it down. Mum told me not to gulp.
“Sorry... Mummy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“If
you get orange juice on your blouse it might stain.” she said.
“Then it'd be ruined.” she added, subtly reminding me of the
consequences. “I don't supposed you've ever played with one of
these before either.” Mum asked, revealing a skipping rope. I
gulped and shook my head. Mum quickly demonstrated before handing the
rope to me. “It might not come naturally but just keep trying.”
she said. “You've got fifteen minutes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
watched for a moment as I tried and failed to skip with a rope.
“Can't I just keep playing hopscotch?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd
rather you kept trying.” Mum replied. “Girls can do it so there's
no reason why a boy can't.” she stated before leaving me alone.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It
was a humbling fifteen minutes. Why is something that looks so simple
so difficult for me? I managed a couple of proper skips but certainly
didn't get into the swing of it. When mum returned I was out of puff
and disheartened. “It's really hard.” I moaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“With
practice it'll come.” she said before taking me indoors. After my
thirty minutes of active play it's homework time. Mum sent me to my
room with my school bag as well as the little wireless nanny-camera
and told me to put it on the bookshelf between my dolls with its lens
facing the window.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
glanced at my reflection as I passed the hallway mirror. These 'cute'
shorts with their broad blue braces over my prissy white blouse look
far worse than either of my dresses did. They wouldn't be quite so
bad if they were a bit longer but as they are, they couldn't get any
shorter. I put the camera on the shelf and frowned at it. I wonder if
it records or just watches. The thought of there being video evidence
of me wearing a nappy, climbing into my Barbie bed, stepping into my
dresses or being buttoned into my blouse sent shivers down my spine.
“Does it record sound?” I wondered aloud. I certainly hoped not.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
couldn't help but intermittently glance toward my dolls as I worked
through my homework assignments. The camera sits discreetly between
them. Its unblinking eye always watching. I'm tempted to shove it
back a little so the folds of a doll's dress would obscure its view
but Mum would see and I’d probably get in trouble.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Over
supper I asked if the camera records what it sees and
disappointingly, Mum said it did. However she also said that its
memory card has limited space and it all gets deleted in the
mornings. “...after I've reviewed it to make sure you stayed in bed
all night.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
do.” I defensively stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">I
know.” Mum replied, before telling me that it does record the sound
too. After supper she showed me a short section of video of me
playing hopscotch. “Oh that's nice... look you're smiling.” Mum
said, pausing the clip and zooming into my face. “I can even
capture a still.” she said, opening a menu on her phone and tapping
on 'save still to memory'. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Please
don't show that to anyone Mummy.” I pleaded.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
since you asked so nicely.” mum replied. “But I will be showing
some of them to Granny if that's OK with you?” she added. I gulped
and nodded. “Why don't you spend an hour on your cross-stitch
design before your bath.” she suggested.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK
Mummy.” I meekly muttered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Tuesday --><span style="font-style: normal;">The
following day, my morning routine began when Mum unlocked my bedroom
door. She opened my curtains and asked if I was dry. I shook my head.
Under my mother's direction, I laid out the clothes I’d be wearing
when I got home from school before having a quick shower. Tonight
I'll be wearing a cute yellow T shirt with a Princess Aurora print
and a yellow gingham skirt; tiered with broderie anglaise trim. I'm
not looking forward to it but at least it'll cover my pale skinny
legs more than those shorts did. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At
school, Mrs Brennand asked me to stay back after class before going
for lunch. She asked how I was getting along and discreetly pressed
her fingers into the middle of my back, checking that I hadn't
removed my training bra. “Now don't forget you'll be joining the
homework group instead of PE for the last period.” she reminded me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes
Miss.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
in the study room opposite the library.” she informed me before
letting me go.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
couldn't help but worry that one of the kids might innocently pat me
on the back, or somehow haphazardly brush it and feel the fastening
on the back of my training bra. After lunch I had double history
followed by what would have been double PE. I headed toward the
library whilst the other kids went in the opposite direction. “Oi
Gav.” a voice called. I stopped and turned. “You going to the
homework group?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
I mournfully replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How
come?” Callum asked. I skewed my jaw, gulped and timidly told him
that I've been petticoated. “I'd be careful who I’d say that to
if I were you.” he told me. “One friend found out about me going
to PettiCamp this summer and now everyone knows.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What
is PettiCamp?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
sure you can guess.” he dryly retorted. “If anyone else asks why
you're not doing PE, don't tell them the truth... tell them you've
got asthma or a chest infection or something.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
get the feeling there's quite a few of us.” I said as we approached
the library. “Is everyone in the homework group one?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nah...
some really do have asthma.” he said before pushing the study room
door open.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Inside
is twelve, maybe fifteen kids. Some sit alone, some in pairs. Most
are boys and there's a few girls too. We study in relative silence
with Mrs Brennand watching over us for the entire double period. The
end of school bell rings and we pack up our books and filter out.
Callum and I head in the same direction and I ask how long he's been
petticoated for. “About eight months.” he replied, adding “Since
my birthday.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's
ages.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Tell
me about it.” he moaned. “It was the worst birthday ever.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why?”
I asked. I cringed the moment I said it. What a stupid question!
Unlike me who'd been pre-warned, Callum was dropped in at the deep
end on the morning of his thirteenth birthday. He was hoping for an
X-Box One and loads of cool games but instead he got loads of girl
stuff and hasn't been a normal boy since. “Blimey!” I gasped. “I
hope I don't get loads of girl stuff for my birthday.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“When
is it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Couple
of weeks.” I replied, before telling him that my mother delayed my
month long trial to make sure that my birthday fell within it. “I
hope I don't get loads of girl stuff.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
will.” he claimed. “I reckon your mum's four week trial is just a
ploy to get you started.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Don't
say that.” I gulped, fearful that his theory might be correct. It
doesn't make any sense for my mother to spend loads of money on
clothes, shoes, books and films just for a few weeks. Callum and I
went our separate ways at the school gates. I wondered home mulling
over whether or not to ask my mother about my four week trial. I also
imagined how it must have felt for Callum; being dropped into
petticoating on his birthday of all days! I guess Mum was right when
she said I was lucky that I had a few weeks to get my head around it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A
shudder went down my spine as I recalled the clothes I’d laid out
this morning. “Oh god.” I groaned as I unwittingly visualised
myself skipping on the patio whilst dressed as a daffodil, and before
too long I found myself doing just that... but without the actual
skipping bit. The tiered gingham skirt was far shorter than I
imagined and was afraid to jump too high for fear of flashing my
knickers. Every time I swung the rope over my head it got snagged on
my foot... but eventually I managed a couple of skips before slipping
up.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After
fifteen minutes of trying to skip with a rope I had fifteen minutes
of skipping and hopping up and down my hopscotch court. I did my best
to stop my skirt from bouncing up but afterwards when mum showed me a
movie clip of me playing hopscotch, I realised that my best wasn't
good enough. “It's too short Mummy.” I whined when I realised
just how often I'd flashed my panties.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
agreed that my skirt was short but claimed that it wasn't too short.
“It's short because you need to get some sun on these.” she said,
patting her hand on my lap.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why?”
I asked. “Mummy.” I muttered.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because
they'll look nicer with a bit of a tan.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
I'm only going to be petticoated for four weeks... why does it
matter?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
going to be four weeks and a day if you keep this up young man.”
she sternly stated. I hung my head an apologised. Mum adopted a
calmer tone and said that I'll get a nice tan after playing outside
for a few days which will begin to fade in a few weeks. “Have you
got some homework to do?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
did it all in that homework group.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How
was that?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK...
just a bunch of kids doing their homework instead of PE.” I said. I
chose not to tell her about my chat with Callum. I don't want to give
her any ideas.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
in that case you can do some more active play.” she smugly told me.
My face dropped. “Come on.” she encouraged. “You've almost got
the hang of your skipping rope and when you do get the hang of it
you'll enjoy it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
my skirt's too short for skipping.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nonsense.”
Mum said. “Anyway if you're not flashing your knickers then you're
not skipping high enough.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're
only trying to embarrass me Mummy. You wouldn't say that if I was a
girl.” I bashfully retorted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm
trying to embarrass you into not worrying so much about your knickers
Gavin.” my mother cheerfully claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
could feel my blushes as held the rope at the back of my calves, took
a moment to breathe and swung it over my head... only to miss my
timing and catch the rope on my ankle. I tried and failed a few times
before Mummy suggested a rhyme to help my timing. “I don't know
any.” I meekly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">Well
there's a book full of skipping rhymes in your bedroom... or you
could just make one up.” she said, suggesting something like </span><i>one
petticoat, two petticoat, three petticoat, four... five petticoat,
six petticoat, seven petticoat, more...</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
</span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
assumed the starting position and swallowed my pride, swung the rope
and recited the rhyme. “One petticoat, two petticoat, three
petticoat, four... five petticoat, six petticoat, seven petticoat,
more...” I came to deliberate standstill. “Mummy I did it!” I
grinned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
did.” she grinned. “...but you don't have to stop at the end of
the rhyme... you can keep on counting, start at the beginning again
or just make something up.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
began again. “One petticoat, two petticoat, three petticoat,
four... five petticoat, six petticoat, seven petticoat, more... eight
petticoat, nine petticoat, ten petticoat, twelve...” I stopped and
bashfully said that I'd missed out number eleven.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That
doesn't matter.” Mum replied. “The main thing is you're
learning.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With
a rhyme to help me skip in time and not worrying so much about my
little skirt bouncing up and down, I spent a good twenty minutes
skipping happily on the patio... not that I'd admit that to any of my
friends. I was out of puff and Mummy told me that I'd had enough
active play for today. I wrapped up my skipping rope and took it to
my room, proud that I'd sussed out how to use it. I intended to work
on my cross-stitch design but first I scanned the titles on my
bookshelf and removed the book titled Skipping and Rhyming Games for
Girls.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Many
I recall from junior school; Sailor sailor, Cinderella dressed in
blue, Pat-a-cake pat-a-cake baker's man and One two buckle my shoe.
Some were completely new to me and this one I found most curious;
</span><i>Naughty Jack all dressed in black with silver buttons down
his back. He told a lie and then he cried and stole a hanky for his
eyes. The judge was mad his dad was sad his mother told him he'd been
bad, so naughty Jack was dressed in black with silver buttons down
his back</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I couldn't help but
wonder if Naughty Jack had been petticoated for lying and thieving
since only girl's clothes have their buttons on the back. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- The rest of the week... --><span style="font-style: normal;">The
rest of the week followed the same routine; bath time at 7pm, bedtime
at 8.00, a shower before breakfast and one of my teachers holds me
back after class to check that I'm wearing my training bra. Then
there's half an hour of active play after school, followed by study
time when I complete my homework assignments. I can work on my
cross-stitch or read a book until bath time comes round again, then
its nappy time and bedtime at eight. The only thing that changes are
the clothes I lay out each morning which is either a pair of short
girlie shorts or short skirt with either a cute T shirt or a prissy
blouse. I've got the horrible blue shorts with braces, the yellow
gingham skirt, a pair of box pleated culotte shorts that look like a
skirt, a ditsy ra-ra skirt, several Disney T shirts and several
blouses.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On
Thursday I joined the homework group instead of PE and chatted to
Callum again afterwards. Like me he has to do active play at home
which involves skipping and hopscotch and dance. “I haven't done
any dance yet.” I told him. “Mummy says that's for rainy days.”
I added, before feeling myself blush for slipping up. “I mean...
Mum.” I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good
job it's me and not someone else.” Callum said. No one our age
calls their mother 'mummy' unless they're like us. I'll have to make
sure I don't make that mistake again. “Do you have to wear a girl's
school uniform too?” he asked me.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.”
I replied, sheepishly and briefly describing what I do wear. “Do
you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
he glumly said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
it like?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
it's like those.” he shrugged, gesturing towards a group of girls
who walked ahead of us wearing their short pleated skirts and a short
fitted blazer. “I thought we all had a girl's uniform.” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Maybe
I don't coz my mum's just trying it out.” I mused. “I think I'd
rather wear that than some of the stuff she makes me wear.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”
Callum agreed. “I really don't like it but at least when I’m
wearing my girl's uniform I'm not dressed like a seven year old.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
felt a little devious for withholding my chats with Callum from my
mother. I fear that a; she might encourage our friendship and invite
him round, b, she might be inspired by what he's told me, and c, she
might like the idea of buying me a girl's school uniform to wear at
home... but considering what I currently wear after school, that
might not be so bad.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- 2nd Weekend --><span style="font-style: normal;">On
Friday I spend a good half hour playing hopscotch and skipping on the
patio. I also have a go at hula-hoop which is a; really easy and b,
quite boring after a couple of minutes... it's just swaying my hips a
bit and the momentum keeps the hoop going. I spent an hour
completeing my homework before helping Mummy with supper and clearing
up afterwards, and after my bath, Mum put my hair in rags again
because she wants Granny to see me with curls. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">On
Saturday morning, my mother shows me how to sort my laundry and how
to operate the washing machine. I sort the whites from the darks and
put the delicates into a laundry bag. An hour or so later when the
cycle is complete, I hang my knickers, training bras, socks and
tights from a drying rack hung over the radiator in my bedroom. This
is something I'll be expected to do every Saturday morning and Mummy
tells me that all petticoatees do their own laundry.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I'm
driven to Granny's wearing my infantile car print dress and two pale
blue slides in my curled hair. Granny greets me with a bemused smile.
She agrees that my hair looks nice and comments that I'm wearing the
same dress again. “Well he's only got two... this one and his
Sunday dress.” Mum defensively replied. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've
got loads of other stuff too Mummy.” I reminded her, listing my
skirts, shorts and blouses.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes
but they're your play clothes for after school.” Mum replied. “You
wear dresses at the weekend.” she reminded me. “Show Granny your
cross-stitch Gavin.” she said, lowering her eyes to the carrier bag
I held.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Is
this your sampler?” Granny asked as I rooted in the bag.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
not finished yet.” I said, handing her the barely started craft
project. I'd done my name and a couple of dividers, plus the capital
letters A through to M. “I'm going to put the date in here when
it's finished.” I said, pointing to the void below my name.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
very good so far.” Granny said, before enquiring about the space
invaders.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've
not done those yet.” I said, pointing out where they'll go. I dug
out my plan on a sheet of graph paper and showed it to her. “It's
going to have pac-man running around the outside, and some ghosts as
well.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Lovely.”
Granny replied. I got the feeling that she didn’t know what pac-man
was, but a while later as I sat doing my needlework and Granny sat
wittering with her knitting, she told me that she loved my ideas for
my sampler, saying that pac-man and space invaders are a good forty
years old. “You've given a vintage craft a retro twist. I can't
wait to see the finished article.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Granny
asked how my week had been and I told her it had been OK. I told her
that I don't have to do PE at school for a while and do my homework
instead, and have half an hour of active play when I get home. “And
what's that?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...mostly
skipping or playing hopscotch. I have a hula-hoop too but that's
boring.” I told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
what do your friends think now you've been petticoated?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only
two of them know.” I said, informing her that my friend Jason has a
cousin who's a petticoatee, and Callum, a boy in my class is also a
petticoated boy.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I suppose it's nice to know that you're not the only one.” Granny
smiled. “Do they wear nappies too?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
think so.” I glumly replied, although I only have Jason's word for
it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When
Mum returned from her shopping trip I'd completes both upper and
lower case alphabets on my sampler and the numbers one to three.
“You've done loads Gavin!” Mum exclaimed. “At this rate you'll
have it finished by next weekend.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
hope so.” I said. “I want to design a minecraft one next.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
thought we were going to make you a pinafore next.” mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A
pinafore?” Granny quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“To
wear for supper so he doesn't get stains on his dresses or blouses.”
Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
might have one.” Granny said. “...but it might be a bit too
Downton.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
might be a bit too big if it's one of yours Mum.” my mother
chuckled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Granny
told us that a couple of years ago she'd helped to make a fancy dress
costume for a girl down the road, but at the last minute the girl
decided to go dressed as Wonder Woman wearing a shop bought costume.
“She didn't win anything of course... I think it was a boy dressed
as a robot who did.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So...
what costume were you making for her?” Mum asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The
little match girl I seem to recall... it was for world book day I
think. She already had the drab brown dress and only needed an apron
to wear over it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And
you've still got it?” Mum asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
I'm not sure... I don't recall putting it in a charity bundle but I
haven't come across it in a good while either.” Granny replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“If
it's anywhere it'll be in your sewing cupboard.” Mum presumed.
Granny said it wouldn't be as she sorts that cupboard out quite
often... then she spent a moment in deep thought. Then she thought
some more. She furrowed her brow and stroked her chin... then, she
slowly unfurled her index finger. “Ah!” she blurted, almost
startling both my mother and I. “It's in the hall stand.” Granny
announced. “In the drawer, a white paper bag with stripes on.”
she recalled. “Would mind Gavin?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
went to the hallway in which is an antique hall stand with a small
cupboard and drawer, along with coat hooks, a large mirror and a
space for storing umbrellas and walking canes. I glance at myself as
I open the drawer. Yesterday's boyish hair is short and curly today,
and thanks to a pair of hair slides flanking one side it looks all
the more girlie. I had to rummage a little before finding the bag
Granny described. I returned and handed it to her. “Thank you
Gavin.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're
welcome Granny.” I said as I sat; smoothing my dress beneath myself
and straightening my skirt on my lap.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She
removed a white garment from the bag and unfolded it. “It'll need
an iron.” Granny said as she flattened it over her lap.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It
looks perfect Mum!” my mother announced as Granny lifted it. “Just
what I had in mind.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">To
me it looks like a white dress with broad straps rather than sleeves.
There's little frills over the shoulders and big frilly bit all
around the hem, and when Granny turns it around I realise that it is
in fact an apron with no back other than a bit that buttons together.
I'm going to feel like an extra in The Little House on the Prairie if
I have to wear that, I thought. Granny suggested I try it for size
and Mum said it needs ironing first. “It'll definitely fit.” Mum
claimed. “And you'll be able to iron won't you Gavin.” she said. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Granny
seemed impressed that I'd ironed my school shirts and trousers last
Sunday. Mum proudly told her that domestication is a big part of
petticoating. “There's a lot more to it than just wearing dresses.”
she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Granny
set up the ironing board and Mum plugged in the iron. She told me
that because the pinny is pure cotton that it'll take a hot setting,
and I set the dial to the correct position. Ironing the flat sections
was easy enough, although I had to press really hard to get the
stubborn creases out. Granny told me how to do the frilly bits. They
were quite tricky but apparently they were 'perfect' when I’d
finished. Mum held it open and I put me fists through the holes. Two
big buttons fasten between my shoulders and they're al that hold it
together. It hangs like a tent from my shoulders... and a frilly tent
at that. “You look like one of the railway children.” Mum
grinned. I doubt she had the boy in mind.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
didn't wear the pinny for long but it did come home with us and I
wore it whilst we had our supper. I can't say I liked my archaic
pinafore apron but it does serve a purpose... and bearing in mind the
consequences of staining one of my dresses, I find its presence
reassuring.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum
suggested that we watch another one of the movies from my Disney
Princess box set before my bath. I didn't really want to but I sense
a routine emerging and figured that she wouldn't take no for an
answer. I chose Aladdin and it was rubbish, however I diplomatically
described it as OK afterwards. “Mummy?” I meekly asked before
getting in the bath. “I had a bit of hair last week but now it's
almost gone.” I shyly told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Let
me see.” Mum asked. I showed her and she told me that hair isn't
very hygienic now I'm wearing nappies again. “Your nappy rash cream
also makes the hair go away.” she informed me. “It'll be much
easier to keep yourself clean now it's gone.” she said, punctuating
her claim with a pursed smile.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
got the feeling that it had nothing to do with hygiene and everything
to do with infantilisation, just as my nappies aren't to stop me from
waking her up in the middle of the night.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Granny
had accepted this week's invitation to join us for Sunday lunch. My
curls had dropped out and I wore an Alice band in my hair, along with
my Sunday dress, thin white tights and my black Mary Jane’s. I sat
in the lounge reading as Mum tended to lunch, and when Granny did
arrive, I was sent to let her in. I was in a bit of a panic as I
opened the front door... anyone could have been walking past. “You
look nice.” Granny smiled as she stepped inside. “Your curls have
dropped out I see.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They
only last a day.” I replied. “Which is good because I don't want
them when I’m at school.” I added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're
wearing heels.” she added as her eyes dropped to my feet. “...and
tights too I see.” she added. In the kitchen she greeted Mummy with
as hug and kiss before commenting on my appearance. She claimed that
I looked quite grown up for a petticoated boy. Compared to most of my
other new clothes, my Sunday dress is the least childlike but it
still has frills and short 'princess' sleeves. It's hardly something
a girl who's about to turn fourteen might choose, let alone a boy!</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After
chatting with my mother for ages, Granny joined me in the sitting
room and asked what I was reading. “Anne of Green Gables.” I
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
I loved that book when I was a girl.” she gushed. “Are you
enjoying it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
OK.” I said. “I'm only allowed girl's books.” I glumly added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Granny
said that it's not a girl's book but a classic book. “Everyone
should read it... Anne's a good role model for both girls </span><i>and</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
boys.” she claimed. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After
a while, Mum called me through to the kitchen. She stood waiting with
my pinny. I put my hands through its arm holes and turned so she
could fasten the buttons. “Thank you Mummy.” I meekly said as I
looked down at my tent-like garment.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Go
and show granny.” Mum chirped.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“She
saw it yesterday.” I reminded her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
not with your Sunday dress.” Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How
long will dinner be?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Twenty
minutes or so.” my mother told me. Her eyes looked beyond me and I
turned to see my grandmother joining us.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
felt bashful as Granny looked me up and down with an approving
expression. “It's like you've stepped back in time Gavin,” she
said. I didn't really know what to say so I gulped and smiled, shyly
thumbing the folds of my pinny. Mummy suggested I show Granny my
bedroom and whilst I’d have rather not, I did as I was told.
“Careful on the stairs in those heels.” Granny advised as she
followed me up. She cast her perplexed eyes around my room; from the
ballerina pictures on my walls to the fairy castle duvet on my bed.
She looked up at my Disney Princess lamps shade, then at the three
dolls on my bookshelf. On my desk is my semi-complete cross stitch
sampler along with my small selection of bow clips and hair slides. I
got the feeling that my grandmother didn't wholly approve. “It must
be easy to forget you're really a boy in here.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
glanced around my girlie room. “If anything it reminds me that I am
a boy.” I said as she had a sneaky look inside my wardrobe, in
which my skirts and blouses and dress hung.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do
you have any favourites?” she quizzed. I shook my head and pointed
out a few items that I liked the least. Granny removed one of the
blouses. “It is very fussy isn't it.” she said. I gulped and
nodded. “Pretty though.” she added as she put it back. “Is
being petticoated as bad as you expected?” she asked after shutting
the wardrobe.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
don't mind my dresses so much... my shorts and skirts are all really
short, but worst of all is having to wear nappies again.” I told
her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
at least they're only at bedtime.” she replied, reminding me that
the norm is for new petticoatees is nappies both day and night for
the first few weeks. Just one day would be awful, I thought...but a
few weeks?! I guess I should be thankful but I can't help but feel
hard-done-by. Granny perused my bookshelves. “I see what you mean
about only having girl's books.” she smiled. I groaned in
agreement. “This is a good one.” she said, removing A Little
Princess and flicking through its pages. I grimaced and Granny gave
me a brief yet animated synopsis.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">We
returned downstairs and Granny said my room was 'nice', if a little
infantile for an almost fourteen year old. “He's still a child
mother... and we both agree that children grow up to quickly these
days.” my mother replied. “Would you lay the table please Gavin?”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes
Mummy.” I replied. My heels clacked on the tiled kitchen floor as I
tottered around the table, laying a setting for my mother, my
grandmother and myself. I placed the cruet set and gravy boat in the
centre whilst mummy plated the meals.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We
made small talk over dinner. Mum and Granny talked about the weather,
politics, me and the fact that I've learned to skip with a rope this
week. “Yes Gavin was telling yesterday. Hopscotch too, and hula
hoop?” Granny replied. I was chewing so I nodded. “Can you do a
running skip?” Granny asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
a running skip.” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
know... running and skipping at the same time... I'm sure you've seen
girls doing it.” Granny replied. “If not on TV then when you were
at junior school.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With
a little thought, I knew what she meant. “Is it hard?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
like most things... it's easy when you know how.” Granny replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
can give it try after school tomorrow.” Mum suggested. “Unless
it's raining.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
forecast for rain all week.” Granny said. “But the garden needs
it... we've had such a long sunny spell.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mummy
and Granny embarked upon a conversation about gardening, in
particular, the proposed hosepipe ban and what that could mean for
their precious blooms. Meanwhile, I glumly visualised myself skipping
around the garden with my little skirt swishing this way and that.
The thought of it alone made me blush.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Skip to tuesday --><span style="font-style: normal;">The
following days were grey and overcast, but so far the rain has held
off. Since I'd completed Tuesday's homework assignments in the
homework group at school, Mum said I should have an hour of active
play and encouraged me to try to do a running skip which meant
running around the garden. I was overtly reluctant about it because
unlike the secluded patio area, the rest of the garden is overlooked
by our neighbours. “You've got nothing to ashamed of Gavin.” Mum
claimed. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
hung my head and felt the complete opposite. Today I’m wearing a
white Snow White T-shirt with see-through princess sleeves. The print
is obscured by the bib of a pair of spearmint green dungaree shorts
with floral trim on the pockets and turn-ups. My skinny legs are a
sun-blushed pink and on my feet is my pale blue jelly shoes and a
pair of frilly white ankle socks. Completing my outfit is a single
green satin bow flanking my skull. “But what if someone sees me?”
I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">I
understand why you're shy Gavin but other people aren't bothered how
you're dressed.” she told me. “You just need to get over your
stage fright.” she said, before suggesting that if I don't want to
try skipping around the garden, then I can run to the shops instead
because she needs some milk. The prospect of running to the local
shop wearing a pair of girl's dungaree shorts, lacy ankle socks and
princess T shirt sent shivers down my spine. With much reluctance, I
stood on the lawn with my skipping rope and briefly glanced up at all
the overlooking windows. I saw no one but felt as if loads of people
were watching me. Mum told me to begin by skipping normally, then
rather than jumping with both feet, to hop from one to the other as
if running on the spot. “Once you've got the hang of that, just
start moving forward.” Mum said. I caught to rope on my foot and
stopped. “...and don't worry about the neighbours.” she added as
I nervously glanced up at the windows. “They'll see you sooner or
later.” she claimed.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
assumed the starting position with the rope at the back of my ankles
and began again... one petticoat, two petticoat, thee petticoat,
four... I recited. Hopping from one foot to the other is one thing
but moving forwards is the tricky bit. Mummy told me to keep trying
and went indoors. I imagined someone covertly watching me, sniggering
and giggling at the sissy boy skipping in his garden. Maybe from a
distance they'll think I'm a girl with short hair... but I doubt it.
Eventually I managed a few forward steps before snagging the rope on
my shoe. I tried again and managed a few more steps and felt quite
proud of myself. But with that thought I felt embarrassed... taking
pride in learning to do something that girls half my age can do
without thinking. After twenty minutes, Mum called me inside. I
didn't quite get the knack of the running skip but did make some
progress. “Can I have a drink please Mummy?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of
course.” Mum replied. I prepared myself a glass of cordial and
gulped half of it down. “Don't gulp Gavin.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry
Mummy.” I meekly said, wiping the drips from the side of my mouth.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Let's
get your pinny on... supper's in twenty minutes.” she said. Worn
over my dungaree shorts, the apron feels more like a dress, only one
with no back. I did some more of my cross-stitch whilst waiting and
finally got the row of space invaders finished. After supper I helped
with the washing up, then on my mother's request, I showed her how my
sampler was coming along. “That's very good Gavin... you're proving
to be quite nimble.” she told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can
I do a minecraft one when this is finished?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I
think you should try some proper sewing next.” Mum replied,
suggesting a pencil case or pyjama case... or maybe another apron. I
didn't think I needed another apron but Mum said I could have one to
wear whilst the other's in the wash. Then she suggests a skirt or a
little 'sun' dress, claiming that they're also quite easy for the
beginner.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Will
I be allowed to make the miniature garden one day Mummy?” I asked.
“I won't get dirty if I wear my apron.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“True.”
Mum replied. “Tell you what... if you start helping me in the
garden; weeding, tidying, potting and planting... then you can make a
miniature one of your own.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It
seemed like a far deal, but it would mean I’d be venturing into the
parts of the back garden that are overlooked by our neighbours. Then
there's a small front garden as well... I hope she doesn't want me to
help there too!</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Thursday (callums regime) --><span style="font-style: normal;">After
the homework group on Thursday I had a moan to Callum about my mum
making me practice my skipping in the middle of the garden where all
the neighbours could see me. “She's probably just getting you ready
for your first public outing.” he told me. “At first I figured
that being petticoated meant I was grounded too... but then my
babysitter couldn't make it and I had to go shopping with mummy... I
mean, mum.”</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've
got a babysitter?!” I blurted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Keep
it down!” he barked under his breath, glancing around nervously.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Soz.”
I said. He told me that his babysitter is an older girl from down the
road. She used to mind him on Saturdays whilst his mother went
shopping, and a few evenings each week when his mother went to her
bridge club or had a dinner date. However since his babysitter took
up riding lessons on Saturday, he only has her a couple of evenings
each week. “So you have to go shopping with mother every Saturday?”
I asked. The mere thought of being petticoated in town on a Saturday
astonished me, but his reply was all the more astonishing...</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No...
I go to a ballet class instead and Mummy... I mean Mum picks me up
afterwards.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Blimey!”
I gasped. “What's that like?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Better
than being paraded around town.” he grimly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Every
time I learned something new about Callum's petticoating regime I
felt a little more at ease with my own. However his claim that it's
only a matter of time before my mother takes me somewhere public left
me feeling more than a little anxious. I arrived home and as usual,
Mummy asked if I'd had a nice day at school before sending me to
change. Today I’m wearing my little blue shorts with the broad
braces again, but with white tights instead of socks. Mum buttoned me
into the blouse and put a couple of clips in my hair, before sending
me out to play. It's been overcast for the last few days but it still
hasn't rained properly. There's also a slight chill in the air and
Mum asks if I'm warm enough as she positions the nanny-cam on the
patio table. “Yes Mummy.” I meekly replied. A shudder still
sparks down my spine every time I say 'mummy'. I don't think I'll
ever get used to it.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wearing
tights with my shorts both looks and feels really odd. Mum said
they'll keep the chill of me but I know how active play warms me
up... and it's June... it's hardly a winter chill. Of course I didn't
argue all this when Mummy was deciding what I'd wear today. I played
hopscotch for fifteen minutes before Mum popped her head out of the
patio door and told me to skip around the garden. “But I can't do
it Mummy... can I just skip on the spot instead?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
almost got the hang of it yesterday Gavin... you just need to keep at
it.” Mum said, reminding me that I should be able to do anything a
girl can do. I spent the rest of my active play session trying and
failing to run and skip. I felt like a failure but Mum said so long
as I keep trying, I can't fail. “Just try again tomorrow.” she
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Friday... the games peter plays --><span style="font-style: normal;">During
Friday's lunch break, Jason asked how things were at home. “Pretty
shit.” I glumly replied, before timidly telling him about my
'active play' sessions. “...and now I'm expected to skip round the
garden where all the neighbours can see me!” I added.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My
cousin has to do that too.” Jason replied, listing skipping,
two-balls, hopscotch, balloon volleyball and basket ball.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Basket
ball!” I exclaimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...
it's netball really... but I call it basket ball.” he replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's
two-balls?”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
know... when girls have two tennis balls and bounce them off a wall
while reciting a rhyme and doings skips and turns and things.” he
vaguely explained. “It's really complicated.” he added.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
recall seeing the game on old movie reels. Black and white footage of
scruffy urban kids playing on the streets and back alleys in the
nineteen-fifties or sixties. I never knew what it was called or
exactly how it's played, but now I know it's called 'two-balls', I
might mention it to mummy. Like hopscotch, it's something I can only
play on the secluded patio. The same goes for a basketball hoop. I
might even get some brownie points if I suggest some new activities
to try during playtime... activities that don't involve skipping
around the garden.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As
I saunter home from school, I glumly envisage watching myself
skipping around the garden from an upstairs window. It's a sorry
sight. My little skirt swishing this way and that, a big floppy bow
bouncing off the top of my head, the rope swinging beneath my dainty
feet, clad in girlie jelly shoes and frilly ankle socks, my pale
skinny legs... I can feel myself blushing just thinking about it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Then
something positive happens... a drop of rain lands on my cheek and I
cast my eyes skyward. It hasn't rained for weeks and I can't imagine
my mother making me play outside in the rain. I can't imagine playing
hopscotch of skipping indoors either. It's only spitting but
hopefully the rain will become a shower and I'll be spared the
humiliation of active play for today. “Thank you!” I whisper to
the clouds before pulling my hood over my head. The rain is getting
worse and I hurry my pace.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After
the usual 'how was school' small talk, I cast my eyes to the rain
spattered window and if I still had to play outside. “Not today
Gavin, you'll get soaked.” she replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shall
I get started on my homework then?” I suggested, claiming that I’ve
got quite a lot.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-style: normal;">You
still need your exercise.” Mum retorted, adding the mantra:</span><i>
thirty minutes, active play, after school, every day</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But
what can I do?” I quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You
can change out of those school clothes for a start.” she said. As
is my routine, I lay out my evening 'play' clothes before school each
morning. Today it's a fussy white blouse, my yellow tiered skirt,
white tights and my blue jelly shoes. I hate yellow most of all. It's
like wearing a daffodil.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Feeling
like a condemned man, I mournfully march to my bedroom. I remove my
jumper and unbutton my shirt. It's usually about this time that my
mother appears... just as I’m revealing my training bra. And right
on queue she's there; straightening my chest band and asking if one
of my teachers checked it today. “Yes Mummy.” I said. “Miss
Parker after history class.” I added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good.”
she said, before turning her eyes to the outfit on my bed. “Well
since it's raining, you may as well put these away.” she told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?!”
I asked with a hint of joy in my voice.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Don't
get your hopes up.” Mum warned as I put my skirt and blouse in the
wardrobe.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why?”
I cautiously asked as she crouched in front of my bookshelf.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She
removed a book. “Because on rainy days... you do this.” she said,
handing the book to me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
jaw dropped as the book landed in my hands... My First Ballet Book.
“Ballet?!” I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Mum
smiled and nodded. Her eyes dropped to the area beside my wardrobe
and mine followed. At first I thought 'pop-up tent' being a big round
waterproof bag. “I was beginning to think we might never see a
rainy day.” Mum chirped as she grabbed the bag. “And I know it
looks like a pop-up play tent but...” she said as she laid it flat
and unfastened the zip. </span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-zXZV58bHTY1n8pAg43pHjMrAGPjFg2239x4YKxr_1MJ1fBhLSKlwJyHWeKa8kgZ11jHyC3OzqaZqPu6xSTVUK0MC0P8oVgSzlr6H8pCyy81e1igNdIc7y5AgcRRtbzAbStuJYl9c/s1600/tutu+bag.fw.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="588" data-original-width="762" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-zXZV58bHTY1n8pAg43pHjMrAGPjFg2239x4YKxr_1MJ1fBhLSKlwJyHWeKa8kgZ11jHyC3OzqaZqPu6xSTVUK0MC0P8oVgSzlr6H8pCyy81e1igNdIc7y5AgcRRtbzAbStuJYl9c/s640/tutu+bag.fw.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh
please Mummy not one of those!” I gasped when I realised what was
inside.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What
did you expect?” Mum asked. I was too agog to reply. “There's
tights, shoes, a leotard and off course a tutu.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's
all pink.” I grimaced.
</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well
pink is traditional... especially for beginners.”</div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My
eyes dropped to the book in my hands.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicyhWcXMoxKLhLn2sT5W9vED_4z6EelWI2xcpNYSTOYNe9qT_UsAgs1FbSWa-aGJ4iBO3OH4IcTdP3HVsC2yTfdN859c7_gMEeF8KR8bgqbIHQ6-82XAg9ttolQIvhid-QfJ-aokWN/s1600/my+1st+ballet+book.fw.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1283" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicyhWcXMoxKLhLn2sT5W9vED_4z6EelWI2xcpNYSTOYNe9qT_UsAgs1FbSWa-aGJ4iBO3OH4IcTdP3HVsC2yTfdN859c7_gMEeF8KR8bgqbIHQ6-82XAg9ttolQIvhid-QfJ-aokWN/s400/my+1st+ballet+book.fw.png" width="311" /></a>It comes with an
instructional DVD which I guess means I'll be in the lounge... and I
notice that it's a 'special boys edition' which makes me wonder if
the ugly girl on the cover could really be a boy. As I stand
dumbstruck, gorping at the cover of my ballet book in disbelief,
Mum's unpacking my tutu. “Come on Gavin... the sooner you begin the
sooner it'll be over.” Mum said. The tights and leotard lay in wait
on my bed. I began to unfasten my trousers. “And clean knickers
remember.” Mum added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I dropped my pants and
folded them, then dropped my panties and tossed them in my laundry
bin. Thanks to the nappy rash cream's depilatory additive, I've not
got any hair at all down there any more. I quickly step into a clean
pair of knickers and spent a second wondering if the tights go under
or over the leotard. “Tights first.” Mum said as if reading my
mind.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Unlike the thin white
tights I wear with my Sunday dress, these are thick, and pink. I step
into the leotard and pull it on. “How am I suppose to go to the
toilet?” I asked, realising that the tights and leotard pretty much
sealed me in.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“By more or less
getting undressed.” my mother replied. That seemed odd to me and I
guess my expression revealed my thoughts. “You could always put a
nappy on if it seems like too much trouble.” she bluntly suggested.
The tutu has its own inbuilt panties over which the multitude of
layers continue. I step into it and Mum fastens the hook and look
fastenings at the small of my back. “Actually I think a nappy might
not be such a bad idea.” she said. “These are quite fiddly.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't want to wear
a nappy mummy.” I whined.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it's going to
take a good few minutes to get out of it... I’m just worried if you
get caught short.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I won't.” I hoped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I perched on my bed a
slid my stockinged feet into the dainty little shoes. I spared a
thought for Callum who recently revealed to me that he has to attend
a ballet class every Saturday morning. I hope Mummy doesn't have a
similar idea in mind for me. Mummy ties my ballet shoes for me, then
she sits me at my desk and combs my hair back off my face. Of course
it flops forward again. Mum pops to her room to fetch some product
and before I know it, my hair is slicked back off my face, held in
place with a narrow elastic hair-band plus several bobby pins
controlling the back and sides. All I'm lacking is a tightly packed
bun high on the back of my head... other than that, I'm a ballerina
from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “Come on... don't
forget your book.” Mum said. I looked down at myself and gulped.
The tutu has got to be the single weirdest garment anyone could ever
wear. Apart from it being totally humiliating, what's the point of
it? I can't even let my arms hang freely because its broad weightless
frilly disc in the way.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A glanced at the five
ballerina pictures that have graced my bedroom wall since the day I
was petticoated. I've often wondered why she chose ballerinas rather
than say, princesses or some other girlie theme. I grabbed the ballet
book and followed my mother. My pancake tutu only just fit through my
bedroom door, and I had to feel for the top step because there's no
way I could see it. After cautiously descending the stairs, I was
greeted by an almost complete view of myself in the hallway mirror. I
clenched my eyes shut for a moment and continued walking.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In the lounge, Mum took
the book from me and removed the DVD from its envelope inside the
cover. I helped her move the coffee table to one side so there was
ample space in front of the TV, and Mum fetched a dining chair from
the kitchen and placed it by my side. “What's that for?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“This is your
makeshift barre.” Mum said as she picked up the remote controls.
She told me to open My First Ballet Book to the page with the warm up
routines on. I placed it on the chair so I could refer the book, but
primarily I'd be following the video. Mum scrolled through the menu
to Novice Warm-up Routine and pressed play. The young presenter is
dressed almost identical to myself, only her tights are white.
“Hello!” she says in a joyous tone. “...and welcome to the
wonderful world of ballet.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was a cringe worthy
introduction. The presenter said that ballet offers a range of health
and well-being benefits such as improved balance, better flexibility
and agility. It also burns calories, sharpens cognitive function and
engages both hemispheres of the brain. “I don't even know what that
means.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It means you'll be
smarter, brainier and healthier.” my mother claimed as she
positioned the nanny-cam on the mantle piece.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh you''re not going
to record this are you Mummy?” I whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I'll be
preparing supper so I need to know that you're actually doing
something and not just watching your DVD.” she replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK... lets get
started!” the DVD presenter enthused. I exhaled deeply through my
nostrils as she told me how to stand; feet slightly apart, arms in
'demi seconde' (my wrists hovering over the edge of my tutu).
“...reach up... and down.” she instructed, touching her toes.
“...it doesn't matter if you can't reach your toes yet, just do the
best you can, and remember to keep your legs straight.” The
furthest I could get was halfway down my shins. “Now straighten
your back and stretch your arms out to the sides; like a capital T.”
she said. “...and really stretch those arms out.” she encouraged.
“Down to your toes, then up to the sky. Down to your toes, then out
to the sides, then down... and up... and down... and out... ” after
five minutes of the repetitive routine, she moved onto the next warm
up routine. “OK... if you don't have a barre to rest on, the back
of dining chair is ideal.” she said. I spent the next few minutes
doing repeated tendues; kicking out my leg, making sure I'm pointing
my toes whilst tracing and arc and raising my free hand, twisting my
wrist and gesturing to my outstretched foot, before turning and doing
the same on my left side. After that was something called a pli<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">é</span>,
which is like a squat, but harder, and finally I repeated the first
stretching routine. Twenty minutes had passed when the warm up lesson
ended. I felt flushed and panted a little. This is more exhausting
than I’d imagined.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUfkkveY-4PQnqGGyWQv8upPxk0JE_Z0s3uOWJw4jWkih8gIR2IUAbRiqXVyU9mLY6T6epJwB5ZItXdIWIh_tTX0XmhvlCB5PVX_t0HGTr9CbUN6JCocgj0mHpUj8LYnWX-E2q85ti/s1600/five+positions.fw.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="695" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUfkkveY-4PQnqGGyWQv8upPxk0JE_Z0s3uOWJw4jWkih8gIR2IUAbRiqXVyU9mLY6T6epJwB5ZItXdIWIh_tTX0XmhvlCB5PVX_t0HGTr9CbUN6JCocgj0mHpUj8LYnWX-E2q85ti/s400/five+positions.fw.png" width="315" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Now we're all warmed
up...” the enthusiastic presenter said. “...let's learn the five
basic positions!” I gulp and glance at the open book. The five
basic positions are shown on the page opposite the warm up routines
and I know that I’m going to look like an absolute ninny when I
perform them. It doesn't help that the cartoon pictures in the book
are clearly boys dressed as girls.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After ten minutes, I
pause the video and trotted through to the kitchen. “Mummy... I've
done half an hour.” I informed her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well carry on until
the current lesson's finished.” she replied, before asking if I'm
enjoying it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” I
gulped. Mum told me to carry on regardless.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The repetitive five
positions went on for around half an hour. The grinning DVD presenter
said that it might seem boring to begin with, doing the same thing
over and over... but stressed the importance of getting it right.
“...the five positions are the building blocks of ballet and when
you've mastered those, you'll be doing the chass<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">é</span>,
saut<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">é</span> and pirouettes in
no time.” she said. “...until then, keep doing the basic warm up
routines followed by the five positions until your mummy, nanny or
teacher says you're good enough to try the next lesson.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I trotted to the
kitchen again and told my mother that the lesson had finished. “Good
boy.” Mum smiled. “You certainly look like you've done a
workout.” she added. My cheeks felt as flushed as they looked and I
couldn't help but pant. She told me to return the DVD and ballet book
to my room, and to get on with my homework. She was busy chopping
vegetables and said she'd be up in a while to help me out of my tutu.
“Oh and don't forget your nanny-cam.” she said, reminding me to
put it on my shelf in my room where she can keep an eye on me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's a good job I've
only got a stool in my room, otherwise I'd never be able to sit at my
disk with my tutu on. After positioning the nanny-cam so it can see
both my bed and my desk, I grab my school bag and get my homework
books out, perch on my chair and try to concentrate on my studies.
After five or ten minutes, Mum comes and unfastens the numerous hook
and eye fastenings and releases me from the disc-like garment. I did
try to unfasten them myself but they were too small and too fiddly.
“Thanks Mummy.” I said as I stepped out of it. I felt unusually
skinny as I put my tutu back in its case.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You may as well keep
your leotard on 'til bedtime.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Really?” I gulped.
“Can I at least put some shorts and a T shirt over it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There should be a
little chiffon skirt and a bolero in your ballet bag.” Mum replied,
suggesting I root through its various zipped pockets.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What's a bolero?”
I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A little woolly
cardigan.” she replied. I found the bolero first. It's pink with
long sleeves but a really short body that doesn't even reach my
waist. I fastens with two long tapes that wrap around my torso and
ties in a bow at the back. Despite its unsavoury appearance, it does
feel nice and cosy. I root through the pockets for the skirt and find
several more pairs of dance tights in white and nude before finally
finding the flimsy little skirt. It has an elasticated waist so I
stepped into it and pulled it up. It's really short and see-through,
but given the choice I'd have rather worn this than my tutu.
“Supper's in fifteen minutes.” Mum said before leaving me alone.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As is the new norm, I
wore the pinafore apron Granny had given me whilst having supper. It
was a relief to be clad in white again, although the sleeves of my
pink bolero and tights were still visible. After helping with the
washing up, Mum unbuttoned my pinny and I returned to my room and my
homework. Part of me still can't quite believe what happened today. I
can't recall my mother even hinting that I'd be expected to do ballet
or wear a leotard and tutu... but I suppose she's been saving it as a
rainy day surprise. Lucky me. Not!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
An hour or so later,
Mum came to my room and asked how I was getting on. “Almost
finished.” I replied. She told me that it's almost seven o'clock
and she'll start running my bath. “OK mummy.” I said. I packed up
my books some five minutes later and stripped down to my underwear.
After a fortnight of the same daily routine, my nappy drawer is
either half empty or half full, depending on how you look at it. I
remove one, grab a pair of rubbers and take them to the bathroom
where I strip fully and climb into my lukewarm bath. “Mummy?” I
asked as she conditions my hair. “Will I only have to do ballet
when it's raining?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well that was the
idea.” mum replied. “But I was banking on it raining a bit more
often than it has in the last few weeks.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I hope it doesn’t
rain again.” I grumbled. Mum chuckled and said she hopes it does.
She rinsed my hair and left me alone to wash the rest of myself.
Afterwards I sat on the loo before donning my nappy and brushing my
teeth. A pair of cotton over knickers and my girlie white pyjama top
lay waiting on my duvet, and Mum stood waiting with the hairdryer.
“Are you going to put it in rags again?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Would you like me
to?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” I
gulped. “Am I going to Granny's again tomorrow?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes but I'll be
taking you shopping first.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why?!” I whined.
The last thing I want it to be paraded around town on a Saturday of
all days.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum gave me one of
those glares before reminding me that it's my birthday next weekend.
“...and you need a party dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But I don't want a
party!” I whimpered.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum smiled down on me
and told me that I'm not having a party, but I will be getting a
party dress. “Apparently there's some nice shops in Ashford.” she
added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's miles away.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Would you rather we
find one here in Maidstone?” she asked. I knowingly asked if I'd
have to wear a dress because I'd rather wear my Sunday dress than my
pale blue car print one. “Well...” mum began. “...since it's
going to be a big step for you, I thought you might like to choose
something yourself.” she said. “Providing it's not your school
uniform.” she added, smiling.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'd rather wear my
Sunday dress than my blue one.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But you'll be
wearing that on Sunday.” Mum replied. “How about your yellow
skirt and a T shirt?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Noo.” I cooed. Mum
suggested that I sleep on it, but added that we'll be setting off
early. She kissed me goodnight and turn out my light, before locking
my door behind her. Even with my curtains shut, it'll be a good
couple of hours before it's dark enough to even think about sleeping.
I lay in the pinky halflight and let my eyes flick around my room;
from the vanity mirror and hair clips on my desk, to the dolls and
nanny-cam on the top of my bookshelf. I sigh at my Disney Princess
DVD box set and wonder which film I'll be watching tomorrow evening,
before my eyes land on my big round tutu case that leans against the
wall beside my wardrobe. “I'm certainly not wearing that tomorrow!”
I quietly grumble to myself.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I think of all sorts of
things as I lay waiting for the light to fade; life before being
petticoated, life after being petticoated (if there is such a thing)
and life if everyone knew that I'd been petticoated. I was going to
ask Mummy if she'd let me have a netball hoop but it clean slipped my
mind when I was told I’d be doing ballet instead of playing outside
in the rain. I dont' know what was worse about my outfit... the
pancake tutu or the fact that it was pink. I recall Mummy's threat
and wonder if Mum could get special permission to send me to school
wearing the girl's uniform. The light fades and I soon drift into a
deep slumber... only to drift out of it as the sun begins to rise.
I'm wet and it's not the first time I've relieved myself in my
sleep... in fact over the last few days, that seems to be more
regular than waking up bursting. I turn my back to the window and
pull my duvet up so I can evade the early morning light. I pretend
that I’m sleepier than I am, and try not to think about how damp I
feel... eventually I drift back to sleep and wake when my mother
unlocks my door. “What time is it?” I yawn, adding a very drowsy
'mummy'.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Saturday (3rd weekend) -->“Just
gone seven.” Mum replied as she swept my curtains open. I clenched
my eyes shut as the room flooded with light, before slowly peeling
them open again. “Did you manage to stay dry tonight?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Noo.” I whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmmm.” Mum
responded. “I think we might have to get you some better nappies.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But I don't need any
more Mummy... I've only got another week left and I’ve still got
loads of nappies.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've got another
two weeks Gavin.” she informed me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But... this is my
third weekend and next weekend will be my fourth.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And the week after
that will be your fourth week.” Mum told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'd got my counting all
muddled up and felt disappointed that I still had to endure two more
weeks of petticoating instead of one. “I'll still have enough
nappies though... my drawer's only half empty.” I informed my
mother.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but they're
only cheap ones... if you're going to wet yourself every night you
need something more absorbent with a wicking fabric.” she said. I
didn't know what wicking meant so I asked. “It's a special type of
fabric that sucks any moisture through and stops it getting back...
so when you do wet yourself, you'll feel much dryer.” she informed
me, adding that they are quite expensive.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Wouldn't it be
easier to just let me use the toilet.” I sarcastically suggested.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Petticoated boys
don't use the toilet after bedtime Gavin.” my mother sternly
reminded me. “You know that.” she added. “And petticoated boys
don't take that tone with their mother's either.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry... Mummy.” I
said, hanging my head.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I hope so. Now...
have you decided what you'd like to wear today?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Errr....” I
hadn't, but I had a good idea what I didn't want to wear. This left
my culotte shorts, my dungaree shorts and my ditsy floral ra-ra skirt
(it's longer length is its only saving grace). Mum asked if I’d
rather wear a blouse or a T shirt... but since all my t shirts have a
Disney princess print on the front... “I'm not sure.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I think a blouse.”
Mum said. “This one.” she added, removing it from the wardrobe
and tossing on my bed alongside my ra-ra skirt. I didn't argue
because I’m not supposed to... but it was also the best of my three
blouses being the least fussy. It still has frilly trim and buttons
up the back but... “And I’m think of nude tights rather than
socks.” Mum said. “I'll fetch you pair of mine.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With my outfit decided,
I was finally allowed to change out of my wet nappy. It's always a
relief to get myself under a nice warm shower where I can wash off
the sticky nappy rash cream. Mummy says I’ve got to keep checking
for any signs of nappy rash and to let her know... but there's
nothing but clear, hairless skin. I have suggested that maybe I don't
need the nappy rash cream but mum assures me that the cream is the
only reason I don't have any nappy rash. It's also the reason I don't
have hair any more.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After a fortnight,
slinging on my training bra and fastening it is second nature. I pull
on a camisole before Mummy buttons me into my blouse. She loans me a
pair of her thin skin toned tights which I wear with my ditsy print
rara skirt. It's a cacophony of colour... flecks of pink, green, red
and blue on a black background. The primary reason for choosing that
particular skirt is its length, landing around the middle of my thigh
rather than high thigh. I don my black Mary Jane's and Mum brushed my
hair into a side parting and fixed it with tons of hair spray.
“Aren't you putting a slide in?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't think you
need one today.” Mum said, stating that it looks smart enough as it
is. She proceeded to coat my face in a thin layer of foundation. I
didn't protest, not even when she painted my lips in a matt pink
lipstick. “How's that?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I turned to the mirror
and gulped. My side parted hair looks a little too boyish for
comfort, especially with no Alice band or slides... but coupled with
my very minimal make-up, I guess I could pass for a girl. I tell my
mother that it looks 'nice' and she smiles approvingly. “I'll fetch
you a handbag.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I rose from my perch
and looked down at myself. The thought of going to Ashford on a
Saturday dressed as a girl petrified me... but at least I'm not
dressed like a seven year old. Mum returned with a small black
handbag and passed it too me. It dangled loosely from my fingers and
for the first time since I'd been petticoated, I actually felt like a
teenager. “Thanks Mum... I mean... Mummy.” I said, feeling myself
blushing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're welcome.”
she said. “Right... you need a clean pair of knickers and a nappy.”
she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But why?” I
fearfully asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“To put in your
handbag.” she replied. “All petticoatees should carry a clean
pair of knickers <u>and</u> a clean nappy... just in case.” she
stated. “They also recommend that a nappy is worn for all long car
journeys... so consider yourself fortunate that I'm allowing you to
wear your knickers today.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I wasn't at all happy
that I had to bring a nappy with me, but carrying one is better than
having to wear one. I went from feeling like a teenager to a toddler
again as I opened my nappy drawer and put one inside my handbag,
along with a pair of rubber knickers, over knickers and a pair of
normal knickers, all of which needed to be neatly folded rather than
stuffed inside. My mother also gave me a lace trimmed cotton
handkerchief to put in my handbag, which I hope I won't need... I can
just imagine quickly retrieving my handkerchief in the event of a
sudden sneeze, only to find I've grabbed my knickers instead!
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Heading to Ashford -->It's
a thirty minute drive to Ashford. Mummy let me sit in the front
passenger seat, but I’d have rather sat in the back where the
windows are more tinted. Anyone can see me in the front... but it's
relatively early and we're headed for the motorway so the chances of
being spotted are slim. My knees felt unusually high thanks to my
heeled shoes. My light ditsy skirt covered half my lap, on which my
handbag rested. Mum must've noticed me staring at my knees. “They
look nice those tights don't they?” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
If I was honest I’d
have said they look weird. It's like I've got doll's legs; smooth,
flawless and synthetic. But I guess they do look nice too, in a weird
sort of way. “Yes.” I reply.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are you nervous?”
Mum asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped. “A bit.”
I replied. “I'm glad we're not shopping in Maidstone.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I thought you'd
prefer going somewhere different.” Mum replied. “Now you realise
that you're going to have to try some dresses on don't you.” she
added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... yes.” I
gulped. I hadn't actually... but Mum wasn't really asking me, she was
telling me. “Why do I need a party dress if I’m not having a
party?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you want a
party?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You know I don't.”
I meekly retorted. “I'm just wondering why I need a party dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's just part of
petticoating Gavin.” she said. “Aren't you excited that you'll be
able to choose one that you like?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't like dresses
though Mummy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You said you liked
your Sunday dress better than your play dress.” she reminded me.
“And if I recall correctly, you like your dresses more than your
skirts.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Only because my
skirts are really short.” I replied. “And just because I like my
Sunday dress more than my play dress doesn't mean I like my Sunday
dress... if it was up to me I wouldn't have any dresses at all.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know... but it's
not up to you.” Mum reminded me. “Think about it this way...
you've got ten dresses to choose from and you've got to choose one;
there's pink and blue, brown and green and purple and yellow... which
would you choose?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't know... the
blue one I guess. It depends.” I replied. “I like my Sunday dress
because its plain. I like this skirt because it's not really short...
and this blouse isn't really frilly like my others.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“See... there are
things you like when you think about it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmmm.” I mused. I
knew she was twisting my words somewhat, but I also knew that I'd be
getting a new party dress whether I liked it or not and I've got
nothing to gain from arguing. I recalled Callum telling me that it's
only a matter of time before my first outing and considered the
prospect of telling him that he was right. I imagine him retorting
with a smug 'told you so', before enquiring further; What did I wear?
Where did I go? What did I do there?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're being very
quiet.” Mum commented after a while. “What are you thinking
about?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Just stuff.” I
grimly replied, nervously thumbing the edges of my handbag. Mum
didn't delve any deeper. I spent much of the remaining journey
wondering if there's such a thing as a dress that I actually like. I
made a mental check-list that included the following; not too short,
not too fussy or frilly, no bold prints, no yellow...</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Eventually we pulled
off the motorway and my nerves began to increase. “Destination in
seven minutes.” the sat-nav said. “Turn right at next
roundabout.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Soon we were driving
through the suburbs; large residential houses lined the broad busy
road. These gave way to large industrial units, office blocks and out
of town superstores... then the road is flanked with smaller retail
units. The sat-nav directs us around a one-way system, haphazardly
directing us toward a multi-story carpark which, only having two
stories seemed like an overstatement. “This school here...” Mum
said, pointing the building out as we turned off the one-way system.
“...was in the news a few years ago.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How come?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They banned the boys
from wearing long trousers and they all wear shorts instead.” she
said. “You know those culotte shorts you've got?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” I replied,
visualising my short box pleated shorts that do a good impression of
a skirt.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum took another left,
following the voice prompts from the sat-nav unit. “Those are the
sort of shorts they wear.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But they look just
like a skirt!” I gasped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They do... the
decided to bring the boy's uniform in line with the girls.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why?” I asked as
we drove into the dark and dingy car park.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Equality.” Mum
replied. I gulped and tried to imagine a school in which all the boys
wear culotte shorts instead of trousers. It must be freezing in
winter. Mum told me that they probably wear warm woolly tights in the
winter, before pulling into a vacant space and turning off the
engine. “You ready?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped and nodded.
Mum smiled and unfastened her seatbelt, before reaching over to the
back seat to grab her handbag. Unlike mine, hers has a shoulder
strap. I take a breath and open the door. My heel clacks loudly as it
hits the concrete surface. I stand and glance around before shutting
the door. Mum locks it, the alarm beeps, she steps around the car and
holds out her hand. “Come on... you've nothing to be afraid of.”
she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I took a breath and put
my hand in hers. My heels clicked and clacked, almost in unison with
my mothers as she led me to the exit. The gloomy carpark feels like a
sanctuary. I can see the broad daylight ahead, along with numerous
shoppers bustling this way and that. A small family group walks into
the carpark and passes right by us; mum, dad, teenage daughter and a
boy and girl of junior school age... non of them bat an eyelid in
spite of us exchanging glances. I gulp as we exit, squinting in the
daylight. “Will you let go of my hand please mummy” I quietly
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum released her grip
on me “Sorry... was I squeezing?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A bit.” I gulped,
glancing nervously at the other shoppers. Any moment now one will
point and laugh at the sissy boy in his noisy heels... but no one
does. I find myself keeping my eye out for girls my age and
specifically girls wearing dresses. Most wear skinny jeans, leggings
or short denim shorts with thick black tights and plimsolls. Skirts
and dresses seem to be favoured more by adult women and little
girls... teenagers wearing them seem to be few and far between. Mum
asked if I needed the toilet. “No mummy.” I quietly replied,
fearful that someone might overhear the infantile manner in which I
address her. Then a thought crossed my mind... which toilet is a
petticoated boy supposed to use? I can't imagine using the gents
dressed like this, and doubt I'd be allowed to use the ladies. Maybe
that's why they recommend we wear a nappy for day trips? I glad I'm
not though.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We stroll around some
department stores and browse the girls sections. Even before Mummy
finally petticoated me, she always took me to browse the girl's
clothes so I could get used to all the different styles and fabrics.
I look longingly to the boys department... everything is plain,
sedate, safe. “These look nice.” Mum said, drawing us to halt by
a selection of satin dresses. They're all little girl's dresses and
far too small for me. “It's a pity the high street stores don't do
them in larger sizes.” mum commented.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I drew her attention to
some more grown up styles; a rugged dungaree dress, a casual grey
jersey dress, even a pinstriped shift dress looked better than the
infantile styles my mother favours. “I'd rather wear something a
teenager would wear.” I said. “And you did say I could choose.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Teenage clothes are
too grown up Gavin.” Mum said. I cringed when she used my name a
little too loudly for comfort. There must be half a dozen other
shoppers within earshot but none seemed to hear, so far as I could
tell anyway. “Come on... lets try somewhere else.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We exited the
department store and wove our way through the bustling outdoor
market. I was more worried about loosing my mother than being noticed
as a petticoated boy. “Where are we going?” I asked as we left
the crowded street stalls behind us.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm looking for a
shop called Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>as y
Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>os.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What does that
mean?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Niñas y Niños -->“Boys
and girls... or girls and boys.” Mummy replied, adding that it's
Spanish. “...ah, that looks like it.” she said, gesturing toward
a store further down the narrow street. One half of the sign above
its windows is pink, the other blue and the colour scheme continues
inside, with the floor, walls and racking on one side in blue and the
other all in pink, suggesting separate girls and boys sections... the
only thing is, there's skirts and dresses, blouses and cute little
play-suits on both sides of this store.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's all girls
clothes!” I say as I cast my eyes around the boy's side of the
shop.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Believe it or not
Gavin, they're all boy's clothes on this side of the shop.” she
said. After all I've been through recently, I did believe her. I
gulped at all the styles and colours, and gulped again when I noticed
the sizes on the hangers; boys age 7-8, boys age 9-10... all the way
up to age 14-15. As well as pastel coloured skirts, frocks and tops,
there's shoes, shorts, play-suits, handbags, hats, gloves and
umbrellas too. “These look nice.” Mum says, looking at display of
socks in all sorts of pastel colours. I gulped and bit my lip.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We're not alone in the
store... there's a couple of grown-ups and what I hope is a young
girl with long ringletted hair in the boy's half, and a couple more
parent/child groups in the girl's side. I look at the girl with the
ringlets. Oner of the grown ups I presume is her mother, and the
other the shop assistant. Mum's looking at the back packs and
handbags, which like many other items in this store are either candy
or pastel colours. All of sudden the girl squeals. Mum and I both
turn our heads to see a boy emerge from the changing room. “Oh
Andrew!” his mother gasps. “You look delightful!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The boy doesn't look at
all happy and I can't blame him. He's wearing a pale green dress with
a kitten print going all around the skirt. Under his mothers
instruction, he turns to reveal a huge satin bow on the back. “This
is a nice bag.” my mother says, drawing my attention. “You
mustn't stare Gavin.” she quietly tells me. “Can you see anything
you like?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” I
replied, before asking if I have to choose something from here.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No... there's a
couple more shops we can look in.” she replied, adding that she
wanted to continue browsing this one.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The assistant comes and
asks if we need any assistance. Mum tells her that we're just
browsing, before informing her that it's my birthday next week and
we're shopping for my party dress. “Oh lovely. And how old will you
be young man?” she asked me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Fourteen.” I
bashfully replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well we've got lots
of lovely things perfect for a boy your age.” she said. “Just let
me know if you want to try anything on.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I could feel myself
blushing. “Yes... thank you.” I politely replied. She returned to
the counter. I cast my eyes around the store... pastel shorts with
lace around the legs, circle skirts with layers of visible netting,
voluminous dresses with kittens, cup cakes, cherries and all sorts of
other yucky stuff printed on their skirts. “Lots of lovely things
for a boy my age.” I thought. “Blimey!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The mother and sister
are still gushing over the boy in the green kitten print dress. He's
about eleven I guess, and his sister about seven. I sheepishly follow
my mother and apathetically cast my eyes over everything that she
does. “This is cute.” Mum says, removing a girl's swimsuit from
the rail. It's turquoise with pink and purple fish printed on it and
the tiniest ruffled skirt stitched around its hip. The hanger clearly
states 'boys age 12-14'. I can just imagine going swimming in that!
As well as swimming costumes, there's tankinis, bikinis and beach
dresses too, all for boys!
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thankfully my mother
pays no more than a passing interest in the swimwear and saunters
along to the next section... underwear. All of my knickers, training
bras and cami-vests are white with elasticated lace trim. All of
these are <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ü</span>ber-cute in
pastel shades with cutesy prints, and far too many frills and bows.
Mum thinks they're nice but says she prefers plain white underwear
for me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next section is
nightwear and my mother wastes no time removing a little white
nightie with baby pink trim from the rail. “Oh now this is
adorable!” she gushed. I almost leapt backwards as she held it
against me. Only my trepidatious heels kept me rooted to the spot.
She only held it against me for a moment before holding it aloft and
thumbing its skirt, turning it to reveal a zip running up the back to
its collar.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I could tell she was
taken by it. “I've already got a nightie Mummy... and pyjamas.” I
timidly told her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but ideally
you need three.” she replied. “One to wear, one to wash and a
clean one in your drawer.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Meanwhile, the boy
emerges from the changing rooms once more, this time dressed as a
normal boy. His mother takes his kitten print dress to the counter
and pays for it whilst his little sister tells him that she loves his
new dress. I overhear that he's in his final term of junior school
and the dress is for his school prom!
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I try not to stare.
Mum's still thumbing the frills of the nightie, of which there were
many and most are trimmed with baby pink stitching. There's satin
bows too, and beneath its double layered skirt is a built in panty
with row upon row of ruffled lace just like my over-knickers, only
this lace is baby pink She held it against me once more. I gulped.
Its dress section barely covers my hips!
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know we didn't
come shopping for a new nightie...” Mum told me. “...but I don't
think I can resist this.” she said, checking the price tag. Thirty
five pounds seems like an awful lot of money for a nightie, but my
mother seems more than happy to pay the price. As the card
transaction processed, Mum asked the assistant where the Mothercare
store is and listened intently to the series of left and right turns.
After a little more small talk, the assistant bid us farewell and
wished me a happy birthday for next week. I gulped and thanked her
and left the shop with my handbag hanging from the fingers of my left
hand, and a pink & blue boutique carrier bag hanging from my
right.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Outside, the boy and
his sister and mother are talking. “Andrew that's enough!” she
snapped. “You won't be the only boy wearing a dress.” she
insisted. Maybe times have changed since my junior prom but... none
of the boys wore dresses then, at least not to the prom.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We headed back toward
the busy street market but took a left through a snicket that led us
through a churchyard. “Ooops.” I said as I scraped my heel on the
uneven surface.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've got to be
cautious on old paving stones like these.” Mum said, before
suggesting we sit for a moment so I can take the weight off my feet.
We sat but I didn't feel like I needed to sit. “I must say Gavin
you're doing far better in those heels than I expected.” Mum told
me. “You've only really worn them twice and that's only been around
the house.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're OK.” I
replied, looking at mine, then my mother's footwear. Her heels are a
good inch higher than mine and incredibly slender. I couldn't imagine
trying to walk in stilettos. I cast my eyes around the graveyard.
Dappled sunlight shone through the trees and the sound of the wind in
the leaves and birdsong filled my ears. “It's hard to believe
there's a busy high street just over there.” I said, enjoying the
solace.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” Mum agreed.
“That boy looked lovely in his prom dress didn't he.” she added,
referring to the boy in Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>as
y Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>os.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He didn't look too
happy about it though.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's probably just
got first time nerves.” Mum suggested. “You weren't too happy
when I put you in your first dress... but you soon got used to them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I wouldn't say I'm
used to them Mummy.” I claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you're <i>getting</i>
used to them.” Mum retorted. “Right from the beginning you've
been smoothing your skirts before you sit and sitting with your knees
together.” she told me, adding how I always make sure my frock or
skirt is arranged neatly on my lap. As far as I was concerned those
things were obvious... I barely gave them a thought. Mum went on to
tell me that she was in two minds when we bought my footwear. “I'd
have put you in a low heel to start with but you've taken to those
like a duck to water.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mine don't look so
high next to yours.” I replied, comparing my chunky heels with her
stilettos. “I doubt I’d manage in those.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I've had years
of practice.” Mummy replied. “Plus I don't think stilettos are
really suitable for children your age.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Too grown up?” I
guessed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Exactly.” Mum
agreed. “Come on.” she said, grabbing her bag and standing. I
stood and we strolled to the far side of the churchyard, along a
cobbled street and onto another busy shopping street. Mum paused on
the corner, probably to recall the series of left/right directions
she'd been given. “Ah... there's the other church... past that and
there should be a shopping centre on the right.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Where are we going?”
I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mothercare.” Mum
replied. “...to get you some new nappies that won't feel quite so
soggy in the mornings.” she added. “Then we'll find something to
eat.” she said, asking if I was hungry.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A bit.” I replied.
“Mummy.” I said a few moments later. “I'll be OK with the
nappies I’ve got for a couple more weeks.” I said. “Even my
cheap ones were quite expensive and I don't really <i>need</i> any
new ones..” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well that's very
thoughtful Gavin. They certainly aren't cheap.” Mum replied. I
wasn't really thinking of the cost... I was just hoping to avoid
another humiliating experience in Mothercare.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Mothercare -->Fifty
yards later we saw the large Debenhams store and the modest shopping
centre that conjoins it. It boasts all the major high street stores;
Next, John Lewis,New Look, River Island, Top Shop and Top Man... and
Mothercare. Like our local store, the Petticare section is tucked
away at the back and Mummy wasted no time finding a member of staff
to assist us. “Which ones are you currently wearing love?” the
assistant asked me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... I'm not
sure.” I bashfully said. I hope she doesn't think I’m wearing one
now! Adding to my embarrassment, Mummy reminded me that I had one in
my handbag, and there in the back of the store, in front of a handful
of other shoppers, I had to open my bag and remove the nappy. The
assistant took it from my trembling hand.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ah yes...” the
assistant said. “...our economy range.” She handed the vacuum
packed nappy back to me and explained the various types to my mother
as I put the nappy back in my handbag. My cheeks must have been
crimson. I couldn't help but glance around nervously, but made damn
sure that I didn't make eye contact with anyone else. Mummy discussed
my 'needs' with the assistant, told her that I'm regularly wet and
said that I'm already using a depilatory nappy rash cream. The
assistant explained that non-wicking nappies aren't really
recommended for 'everyday' use. They're fine if they get changed
within an hour or two... but for all day or over night, she highly
recommends a wicking type. The assistant turned to me and asked if I
was having any problems with nappy rash.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... no.” I
meekly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's very careful on
that front aren't you Gavin.” Mum said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes... Mummy.” I
timidly replied. This is worse than the last time we were in
Mothercare! Mummy couldn't decide whether to buy me a pack of
fourteen disposable wicking nappies, or a pack of three washable
wicking nappies. The cost was comparable and Mummy asked my opinion.
Despite the fact that I'm almost fourteen and don't even need any
nappies, I made a decision based on the prospect of having to carry
them around a busy town centre on a Saturday afternoon. The pack of
washable nappies would easily fit into a carrier bag and the bumper
pack of fourteen disposable nappies wouldn't. I suggested the
washable ones and Mum agreed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We have a fitting
room if you'd like us to put him in one now.” the assistant said as
my mother paid.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh er.... no.” Mum
smiled. “That won't be necessary.” she added, glancing at me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Phew! I thought... but
then I felt myself blushing because the assistant probably thinks I'm
already wearing a nappy. At that moment a boy about my age emerged
from the fitting room. His wrist wiped his eye. He's clearly been
crying. Behind him I presumed is his mother; a stern looking middle
aged lady who bluntly thanked the assistant as she marched the boy
out. He's wearing normal boy's clothing, but the all too familiar
bulbous bulk of a nappy is obvious. “Don't stare Gavin.” Mum
quietly said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I averted my eyes and
glanced at the assistant. “It'll be his first one.” she said to
me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He'll soon get used
to them.” my mother replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That's easy for her to
say... she doesn't have to wear them! After my initial bout of nerves
when we exited the car park, I'd been feeling quite relaxed on my
first day out... up until we visited Mothercare that is. I've never
been so embarrassed in my whole life and was glad to get out of
there.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shall we find a nice
little back street café or would you prefer Burger King or
something?” Mummy asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We just happened to be
approaching the Burger King and it was far too busy for comfort. Kids
my age gravitate to such places and dressed at I am, I'd rather avoid
kids my own age. By the time we'd found somewhere that wasn't really
busy, I was absolutely ravenous. We took a table and the waitress
took our order, but Mummy wouldn't let me have anything that might
drip on my blouse or get my fingers greasy... so it was a plain
cheese and onion sandwich with neither butter nor mayonnaise for me
whilst Mummy had a baked potato with cheese and coleslaw. “You must
be one of the Academy boys.” the waitress said when she fetched our
meals.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... no.” I
replied. Mummy told her that we're only here for the day.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shopping?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's Gavin's
birthday next week so we're looking for a new party dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you've come to
the right place... we've got quite a few shops catering for boys like
you.” the waitress said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So I understand”.
Mummy replied. I was half expecting Mummy to tell her that I've just
got some new nappies, and add that I’m a regular bed wetter or
reveal some other detail to a complete stranger for no other reason
than to embarrass me... but she didn't.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mummy asked how my
sandwich was. “Good thank you.” I said, but in truth it was
really quite bland. I'd completely forgotten that I was wearing
lipstick until I noticed it imprinted on the bread.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Wasn't there
anything that caught your eye in Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>as
y Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>os?” Mummy asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really... all
the colours were too...” I wasn't sure how to describe them, but
they reminded me of sweets. “...sugary.” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes they were a
bit.” Mummy smiled. “Not cheap either.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Belle-Boiz -->After
our elevenses (Mummy said it was too early to be called lunch), we
headed for another store called Beau Boys... it's name suggested all
I needed to know. At a glance it looked like a trendy street style
store with the shop name painted in a bold yet hard to read graffiti
font. “It's called Belle-Boiz Mummy.” I said having unravelled
the funky serifs.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So it is.” Mummy
replied as we approached. The shop doesn't have a large frontage with
only room for two mannequins in the window. One displays an overcoat
in Royal Blue and the other displays a sailor style dress in navy
blue. There's other items displayed such as bags, shoes and hats, but
I only had a passing glance as we entered the store. Like the
previous shop, it's full of prissy frocks, skirts, tops and
accessories, but the overall palette is a lot more appealing. Of
course there's a significant amount of pink, lilac, baby blue and
lemon yellow, but also darker shades of blue, purple, green and
brown.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's not a big store by
any means but every scrap of wall-space is packed with rails and
shelves. We're also the only people in there, apart from the staff of
course. The proprietor greets us and offers assistance. Mummy tells
her that we're looking for a party dress for me, before saying that
the nautical frock in the window caught her eye. The proprietor
wasted no time in finding the dress on the packed rails. “This
one.” she said, removing one and holding it aloft. “It's not what
I'd call a party dress but it is very nice.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum agreed and asked if
I’d like to try it. One thing I've learned in recent weeks is that
some questions are really instructions, and I suspected this wasn't a
question. “Err... yes.... please.” I awkwardly replied, gulping
and adding “Mummy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She accompanied me to
the cramped changing room and unbuttoned my blouse for me. I stepped
out of my skirt and glanced at my reflection. My white knickers are
clearly visible through my nude coloured tights, and I can just about
make out my training bra through my lace trimmed camisole top. Mummy
held the dress up and I pushed my arm through its sleeves and let it
drop around me. Unlike all the others I've worn, this has a zip on
one side running from hip to armpit rather than buttons up the back.
It has white trim around its big square collar which terminates with
a satin bow at its V neck. Behind this is a fabric panel giving the
impression of a top beneath. Like my other frocks it's not too short,
landing an inch or two above my knees and as far as dresses are
concerned, it's not too bad. I'm a bag of nerves as Mummy leads me
back into the shop where there's a big mirror so I can see myself
property. Mummy used words such as classic and timeless to describe
it. The proprietor agreed and claimed that it's one of the more
popular styles amongst the boys. Although Mummy loved it, she was in
two minds because it's not really a party dress. “Well continue
browsing by all means.” the proprietor said, before suggesting a
couple of options.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh now that's a
party dress!” my mother said as the proprietor held aloft a cream
floral frock with a voluminous skirt and a broad burgundy satin sash
around the waist, tied in a huge bow at the back.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mummy asked my opinion
and I said it was too flowery. She next suggestion was a similar
style but in a leaf green colour with a broad white sash. The colour
looked OK, but the style and in particular the satin sash put me off
a little. Mummy told me that the style, and in particular the satin
sash and big bow on the back <i>is</i> a party dress. “Maybe a blue
one? You look nice in blue.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I might have just
the thing.” the proprietor said, digging out a pale blue frock with
a little too much lacy trim for my liking. “It's got the nautical
collar and I’ve got a range of sashes... I'll happily throw one
in.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum loved it and wanted
to see how it looked. Five minutes later I'm stood in front of the
big mirror whilst the proprietor ties a broad white sash around my
waist. Mum listens intently as she explains how to tie the perfect
'dress' bow, which involves a peculiar knot that won't come undone by
pulling in the tails. Mum wanted to tie the bow herself and had a few
attempts at tying the unfamiliar knot. Meanwhile I'm stood staring at
myself and wishing we could head home sooner rather than later. Once
Mummy was happy with my sash, she turned me this way and that so I
could see how it looked from the back. It'd look as lot better
without the big flouncy bow or all the lacy trim, but it's certainly
not the worst dress I've seen today. “I liked the other one best
Mummy.” I said. I didn't actually want the other one, but if this
humiliating shopping trip is going to end sooner rather than later,
I'd best decide on a dress sooner rather than later... and given a
choice between this one and that one, I’d rather have that one.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So did I.” Mummy
replied, raising my hopes. “But that's not a party dress and this
one is.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped and weighed up
my options... more shops and more frocks to try, or saying yes to
this dress. “OK.” I bashfully said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You sure?” Mummy
asked. I nodded. Mum smiled. I gulped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mummy buttoned me back
into my blouse whilst the proprietor packed my dress... not in a bag
but a box. The dress cost twenty pounds and sash was free, saving her
a fiver. “What a nice shop.” Mummy said after we left. “And
affordable too.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can we go home now
Mummy?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum checked her
wristwatch. “Well there's still a couple more shops I’d like to
have a look at.” she said, listing one called Teen Zone and a
charity shop.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But I've got my
dress now.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's no harm in
browsing, and we've still got at least an hour on the parking
ticket.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- TeenZone -->Teen
Zone claims to sell unisex fashions for tweens and teens, but inside
there's nothing but girl's clothes. The styles are far more sedate
than those in Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>as y
Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>os and Belle-Boiz.
There's short skater skirts, little netted kilts, T shirts with punky
prints, distressed denim shorts, neon leggings, pinstriped pedal
pushers, patterned tights and so on. Mummy made a beeline for the
back of the store where the frocks and dresses hung. I followed. My
heels clacked loudly on the marble floor, causing the handful of
other shoppers to glance in my direction. “I like this style.”
Mummy said, pointing out a collection of both plain and plaid frocks
with white rounded collars. They're the sort of thing I'd expect a
college girl to wear, or maybe a receptionist. There's denim dungaree
dresses and some corduroy pinafores which to my boyish eye seem quite
palatable. “Not really party dresses though.” Mummy commented.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've already got my
party dress Mummy.” I quietly reminded her.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” she smiled.
“I was just wanting to b a browse really.” she said. We did
browse for a few minutes... well, Mummy did. I was hoping that having
chosen my party dress that we'd have headed straight back to the
car... but no. I sheepishly followed as Mummy looked at hats and
gloves and bags and scarves. Then she returned to the hats and said I
could do with one when I’m playing out in the sun. “Too expensive
though.” she said after checking a few prices and baulking at their
fifteen and twenty pound price tags. Around the counter area is a
display of nail varnishes, lip balms, hair clips and Alice bands.
Mummy has a good look at the hair accessories. “This is cute.”
she says, showing me a hair clip that's like a big wooden button.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Why would anyone wear a
button in their hair? I wondered. A bow, flower or even a butterfly I
can understand but a button seems bizarre. Many of the hair
accessories would look more at home stuck to a fridge door rather
than worn in someone's hair. There's pieces of fruit such as
strawberries, cherries, bananas and even a slice of watermelon.
There's a teddy face, a tea pot, hot air balloon, a car, a tractor
and a wooden train. A kitten, a frog, an owl, a bird and a bat.
Actually I quite liked the bat. Then Mummy draws my attention to one
shaped like a doggy bone, a cupcake, even an ice cream cone. “You're
more than welcome to try them.” the girl behind the counter said,
twisting a counter top 'hello kitty' mirror around to face us.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How much are they?”
Mummy asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The small ones are
two pounds each or three for five pounds.” the girl said. “The
large ones are four pounds each or three for ten.” the girl said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipfPXAJ_ovtN8LH24dlKPeJlVsHe8dMuy0OTiYaGCpeyygz3lDPsA98kDIzNlum8XKbzMr9_LsuTMxzoVoMiKlwrtekjhqVlYHP254nMjIKLTkwuNVb4OMD4gE6chtY4cgGuSTPN6g/s1600/hairclips.fw.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="400" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipfPXAJ_ovtN8LH24dlKPeJlVsHe8dMuy0OTiYaGCpeyygz3lDPsA98kDIzNlum8XKbzMr9_LsuTMxzoVoMiKlwrtekjhqVlYHP254nMjIKLTkwuNVb4OMD4gE6chtY4cgGuSTPN6g/s200/hairclips.fw.png" width="200" /></a>I was hoping that
they'd be too expensive but Mummy felt the price was quite
reasonable, and proceeded to choose some for me. I wouldn't mind but
she tried seven or eight different ones in my hair before deciding on
the big wooden button, the VW car and a cupcake, stating that the
car clip would be perfect with my play dress. I could feel myself
blush as a wry smile swept the assistant's face. “You're not one of
the Academy boys I take it?” she asked me. I gulped and shook my
head. Mummy proudly told her that I'm a petticoatee which made me
blush even more. “Oh how nice... that's ten pounds please.” she
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mummy dug a ten pound
note from her purse as the girl put the hair clips into a bag. I
reached for the one in my hair, but Mummy said that I should keep it
in. “It's nice.” she added. The assistant agreed. I left the
store with the big wooden button clipped to the side of my head.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Are there any more
shops Mummy?” I mournfully asked as we sauntered along the
pavement.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” Mummy
replied. “We've got what we came for.” she said. “...and a few
extra bits and bobs.” she added. We began to make our way back to
the carpark, although the route took us in and out of various shops
including a cake shop, a housewares shop and a charity shop.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- The charity shop -->It's
a typical charity shop, with rails of clothes, shelves of books and
brick-a-brack and boxes of shoes. There's a couple of volunteers
chatting behind the counter who acknowledge us as we enter. The scent
of musty old stuff fills my nostrils as I sheepishly follow my mother
who silently browses the rails... briefly looking at a selection of
school wear. Mummy removes a grey school pinafore. “Something like
this might be good for the garden.” she said, describing it as
comfortable, hard wearing and something she won't mind getting dirty.
“Far too small though.” the said after holding it against me. Of
course it's too small, I think, it's a girls junior school uniform!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She browses the casual
clothes; skirts, t-shirts, frocks and tops. Typically for a charity
shop, the clothes are arranged by colour rather than size and Mummy
made sure that she had a look at everything. Eventually my mother
found a rust coloured corduroy skirt and coupled it with a brown
plaid shirt that had previously caught her eye. Mummy said they'd be
perfect for the garden and held both against me to check the size.
“Do I have to try them on?” I timidly asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The blouse will
certainly fit.” she said, checking the culottes a second time.
“They'll be fine.” she added, pointing out the elasticated
section on the back of the waist.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We approached the
counter and Mummy greeted the volunteers. “You must be one of the
Academy boys.” one of them said to me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err... no.” I
meekly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Gavin's a
petticoatee.” Mummy told them, adding that we're just here for the
day, shopping for my party dress because it's my birthday next week.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh how nice.” the
volunteer said before turning her eyes on the items. “These are
lovely.” she commented as she tapped the prices into the till;
three pounds for the skirt and five for the blouse.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're nice enough
for helping in the garden.” Mummy replied. “Oh that reminds me...
you could do with a hat Gavin.” she remembered, casting her eyes
around the store.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The volunteer pointed
out some formal hats and fascinators displayed with the handbags,
plus a box containing baseball caps, beanies and bobble hats. “Oh...
actually.” the volunteer announced, stepping around the counter and
heading for the stand full of second hand school wear. “There's
these from the girl's grammar school.” she said, holding a felt hat
in one hand and straw hat in the other.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfP8w8rC0XKjt5NztG15x3ZUCRhvG7Ttw-wZWfaqrOxKRNQJzs3NhXqWlcsoDB35Ye5RwWKZnrkiVebLM1AAWkazFT_VrUG9yZ7tv26MwvahKNUvibBEYVdoln0rRDlF7Umlxa9ArY/s1600/girls-summer-hat-%2528boater%2529-st-anthony-school_43306331.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="430" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfP8w8rC0XKjt5NztG15x3ZUCRhvG7Ttw-wZWfaqrOxKRNQJzs3NhXqWlcsoDB35Ye5RwWKZnrkiVebLM1AAWkazFT_VrUG9yZ7tv26MwvahKNUvibBEYVdoln0rRDlF7Umlxa9ArY/s320/girls-summer-hat-%2528boater%2529-st-anthony-school_43306331.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The straw one looks
ideal.” Mum said, taking it from the volunteer and plonking it on
my head. I looked up at its brim and gulped. Mum smiled and removed
it. “Just what you need.” she said, placing it on the counter.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I really should protest
but for all I know, I might have already got a fair few days added on
to the end of my four week trial. There's been times that I know I've
forgotten to say 'mummy' and times when I've moaned or complained
about the things I’ve been expected to do and wear. I gulped and
glared at the hat with its ribbon and bow. I hated it but after
recalling the horrendous hats and bonnets in the Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>as
y Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>os shop with their
lace, frills and pastel colours that gave me the chills... I've got
off lightly with a simple straw boater. The volunteer put it in the
bag with my skirt and blouse. Mum handed her the cash and said we'd
best be getting going before she spends any more money.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I breathed a huge sigh
of relief as we finally headed to the car park. Our heels echoed as
we crossed the dimly lit space. In one hand I’m carrying the large
Niñas y Niños bag that contains my new nightie and my new nappies,
tucked under my other arm is the box that hold my party dress and
dangling from my fingers is my handbag, with my spare knickers, nappy
and a hanky inside. Mummy carries the charity shop bag and other
items. We pack the bags in the boot and I ask if I can sit in the
back where I can hide behind the tinted windows. “Thanks Mummy.”
I chirp when she says yes.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It feels good to be
headed back home again... but Mummy spoils my optimism by asking if
I'm looking forward to trying my new nappies. “Not really Mummy.”
I meekly reply, adding that I never look forward to bedtime. I stare
out of the window and try not to think about them. I'm going to have
to tell Callum that he was right and mummy did take me on an outing.
I wonder if he's been to Ashford's trio of peculiar shops. I wonder
if he knows about the school where the boys all wear culottes. I
might have to tell him about my party dress, but I’ll mention
nothing of my new nappies.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I recalled the boy in
Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>as y Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>os
and his kitten print party dress. I can empathise with him and hope
he's not the only boy who's being pestered into wearing a dress for
the school prom. I also recalled my own junior prom in the final week
of Year 6. It was four years ago but I remember it well. We lurked in
small, distinct groups; boys in shirts and trousers and ties, the
girls in their dresses, giggling and swinging their handbags.
Everyone was too shy to dance to begin with and I ended up dancing
with Meredith Brown, a stocky and bossy girl from farming stock. I
didn't want to dance but I was too scared of her to say no. My
friends laughed at me and the embarrassment lasted for days. I
imagined the scene but put myself in a party dress... <i>everyone</i>
is laughing at me as I imagined having to dance with Meredith.
“You're being very quiet.” Mummy said. “What are you thinking
about?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nothing... just
looking out the window.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I do like that
button in your hair.” she said, looking at my via the rear view
mirror. I raised my fingers to it and even after such a short time,
I've already become accustomed to its presence. I guess I’m just
used to having things in my hair... but this button is comparatively
large compared to my bows and slides. Mummy said that it's perfect
for a boy because a simple button is neither boyish nor girlie. The
same could be said for my big cupcake clip, she reckoned, before
claiming that the hair clip with the wooden car is definitely boyish.
I hate it when Mummy talks like that... my car print play dress is
supposedly boyish, and she described my baby blue shorts as 'boyish'
when they're clearly girl's shorts. Even my jelly shoes are boyish
according to Mummy and now she's claiming that my new hair clips are
boyish too!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Granny's house -->When
we arrive at Granny's house, Mummy wastes no time drawing her
attention to the clip in my hair. Granny isn't overly impressed, but
she does say that it's a bit more boyish then a bow. Part of me
wanted to scream '<i>there's nothing about me that's boyish!</i>'...
but I knew that wouldn't go down well. “Do I detect a touch of
make-up?” my grandmother said as I sat in her lounge.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... yes.” I
replied. “Mummy did it.” I added, just in case she was thinking
I’d applied it myself.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We've been shopping
to Ashford.” Mummy chirped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Dressed like that.”
Granny gasped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's got to go out
sooner or later Mum.” my mother told her. “It wouldn't be fair to
them cooped up indoors all the time.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I suppose.”
Granny sighed. “At least he's not dressed like a seven year old.”
she added, looking me up and down. Mummy told her that I'd chosen the
skirt myself and Granny asked me to stand so she could have a proper
look. “Those tights look a bit big.” she said. “They're going
baggy at the knees.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're mine.”
Mummy said as I looked down at myself... my thin nude tights are
indeed wrinkled at the knees.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You don't see many
button back blouses these days.” Granny commented, before saying it
was nice. At least she didn't say 'boyish'!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After a natter with
granny and cup of tea, Mummy left me with Granny whilst she did the
grocery shopping. “Have you finished your sampler yet?” Granny
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” I replied. “I
forgot to bring it.” I added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well we'll just have
to think of something else to do.” she smiled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A short silence passed
before she asked how my week had been. “I had to do ballet
yesterday.” I grumbled, recalling the horror of the pink leotard
and pancake tutu. Granny asked if it was for my active playtime and I
nodded. She asked if I enjoyed it. “Not really... but the day
before Mummy had me skipping round the garden where all the
neighbours can see... at least I was indoors 'coz it was raining.”
I moaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Because.” Granny
corrected. “Petticoated boys are supposed to speak correctly
remember.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Sorry.” I meekly
peeped. “Granny?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes Gavin?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you think it's
right that Mummy's petticoated me?” I asked. “Sometimes I get the
feeling that you don't approve and sometimes it feels like you do.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I am in two
minds about it. Your mother and I discussed it at length when she was
considering petticoating you and there were some aspects that I
wasn't too keen on.” she said, claiming that I was supposed to be
in nappies both day and night for at least the first week. “...but
I didn't think that was fair so she agreed to bedtime nappies only,
providing you behaved yourself.” Granny explained. “My other
reservation was the fact that you're already a good boy and I'm not
sure what good it's supposed to do you.” she said, before adding
that petticoating certainly won't do me any harm. “I only wish more
boys were petticoated, then you wouldn't feel quite so alone.” she
added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's a boy in my
class who's petticoated too.” I informed her. “And my friend
Jason has a cousin called Peter who's a petticoatee.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I see.” Granny
replied. “Well that's something I suppose.” she said. I told her
about the homework group that I attend instead of PE and said there
were likely to be a few others too. “So you're not the only
petticoatee in school.” she mused. I shook my head and Granny said
that makes her feel better. “Are you looking forward to your
birthday next week?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really.” I
groaned. “Mummy bought me a party dress today and I'm worried she's
planning a surprise party for me.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I can assure
you that there's no party being planned.” Granny replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So why do I need a
party dress?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A party dress is
just a nice dress Gavin, there doesn't need to be a party to go...
just as you don't have to wait until Sunday to wear a Sunday dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I do.” I mumbled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Granny cast me an
empathetic smile. “Mummy tells me you've been learning do a running
skip.” she said after a short silence. I nodded and said that I
can't do it properly. “There should be a skipping rope in the
shed.” she said, suggesting I practise for a while.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do I have to
Granny?” I moaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it's better
than sitting around doing nothing.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I won't be able to
skip in these shoes though.” I said, twisting my foot to show her
my high heeled shoes.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They'll be fine.”
Granny said, stating that it's only a two-and-a-half inch heel and a
blocky one at that. “Come on... I might even have a go myself.”
she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Granny's house is on
the edge of suburbia and her back garden isn't overlooked by anyone,
so I wasn't worried about leaving the confines of the house... I was
more than a little concerned about trying to skip in heels though.
They clicked and clacked all the way down the path, at the end of
which is granny's shed. She soon found a skipping rope and handed it
to me. I reiterated that I might not be able to do it in my heeled
shoes. “Well there's no harm in trying.” she said. I assumed the
position with the rope hung at the back of my ankles, took a deep
breath and swung the rope over my head... one petticoat two petticoat
three petticoat four. I didn't count the rhyme out loud. Instead I
muttered under my breath but I quickly discovered that I can skip in
my heels. “I knew you could.” Granny clapped. “Let's see if
still can.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was more nervous for
Granny than I was for myself. She's in her late fifties and I fear
she might break a hip. Old people tend to do that, I've heard. She
assumed the starting position and swung the rope. “Eeny meeny miny
moe, catch a boy by the toe, pull his hair then let him go, eeny
meeny miny moe.” She stopped when her rhyme ended and chuckled. “Oh
that takes me right back to junior school.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I've never heard
that rhyme before Granny.” I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's one of many we
made up when we were little... we used to add all sort of verses.”
she reminisced. “Eeny meeny miny moe, ride a pony through the snow,
turn around it's time for home, eeny meeny miny moe.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Granny that's
brilliant!” I exclaimed. She ran forward four paces through the
second line, turned around in the third and ran back for the
fourth... and like me she's wearing heels!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why don't you try?”
she said. “I'm all out of puff.” she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I took the rope and
prepared to begin. “Eeny meeny minie moe...” I skipped on the
spot. “..ride a pony... oh.” I missed the second skip and
stopped. I assumed the starting position once more. “Eeny meeny
miny oh...” I missed again.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Keep trying.”
Granny said. “I'll fetch some juice.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I know it's hard to
believe that a boy of almost fourteen is seemingly willing to skip
around the garden, or at least try to. I know how 'wrong' it must
seem. It certainly feels wrong, especially at first. I guess it's the
effects of a few minutes of cardiovascular exercise; adrenalin and
serotonin level increase and one is naturally inclined to carry on...
then it's easy to put any thoughts of how silly I must look to the
back of my mind and I can focus in trying to skip in time. I recited
Granny's rhyme over and over. I even managed to skip forward through
the second line more often than not, but couldn't quite get the hang
of the one-hundred and eighty degree turn... so just carried on until
I ran out of lawn, stopped, turned and skipped all the way back. I
know it's hard to believe that a boy of almost fourteen years would
feel proud of such an achievement, but he did.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well done Gavin!”
my grandmother exclaimed when she returned. “In heels too!” she
gushed. “You'll have to show mummy when she gets back.” she
suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's weird when granny
refers to my mother as 'mummy'... normally it's just 'your mother'.
She seldom uses 'mum', but recently I've noticed, it's mummy more
often than not. I've even begun thinking 'mummy' and know I’ve
slipped up a couple of times at school. I note that Callum has too.
“I wonder if he can skip around the garden?” I think. Not that
I'm going to ask him, or admit to doing it myself. “Granny do you
know a game called 'two-balls'?” I asked, describing it as best I
could.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh yes.” she said.
“All the girls played it when I was little.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can you teach me?”
I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... well... I
suppose.” she replied, clearly bemused by my request. “We'd need
two tennis balls though, which I know I haven't got.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Does Mummy know how
to play it?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh I doubt it. When
your mother was that age it was all playstation and nintendo.”
Granny replied. “Traditional games died a death when video games
came along... and child obesity sky rocketed.” she added. “I'm
surprised you've even heard of two-balls.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I timidly explained
that my friend Jason was telling me that his cousin Peter also does
active play and as well as hopscotch and skipping, he plays two-balls
and has a netball hoop. I then explained how I don't like having to
skip around my own back garden because all the neighbours can see me,
but I could play two-balls and netball no the patio, where they can't
see me. Granny said she understood and would see what she could do.
It's been fifty years since she's played two-ball so will have see if
she can still remember the rhymes and routines. “It's quite
complicated you know.” she warned. “You need speed, good
coordination, an eagle eye, balance, rhythm...” she listed, hinting
that it might be above me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... if a girl
can do it.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“True.” Granny
chirped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There you are!”
Mum hollered from the back door. “I've been all over the house.”
she claimed as she approached. Granny said I had something to show
her and prompted me to skip down the garden. Reluctantly I stepped
back a few paces, slung the rope so it hung behind my ankles,
recalled the rhyme, took a breath and swung the rope. Mummy applauded
when I reached the end of the lawn. I felt bashful, proud and
embarrassed when I skipped back. My cheeks must have been crimson and
I couldn't help but grin... although I prefer to believe that I was
trying to grit my teeth. “I knew you'd get it eventually.” Mummy
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Home -->We didn't
stay long after Mummy returned because there's groceries that need to
be in the fridge. I had to make several nerve racking trips from the
car to the house to unload all the shopping. Each time I checked the
coast was clear before trotting out and trotting back; click clack
click clack, thrice there and back.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After supper, Mummy
unpacked all my new things. She gushed over my baby blue party dress
before hanging over a dining chair. The rooted through the charity
bag and plonked the hat on my head. I tilted it back a peered
bashfully up at its brim. Mummy smiled sweetly at me before pulling
out the skirt and shirt she'd also bought. “Shall we try these on?”
she suggested. I nodded. She exited the kitchen. I followed. “You
may as well bring your new nappies up.” she said. I stopped and
cringed and turned and sighed and grabbed them.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mummy unbuttoned my
blouse for me and I stepped out of my little ditsy rara skirt. “Those
tights have gone baggy haven't they.” Mum commented, before
suggesting I take them off. I stepped into the brown corduroy skirt
which unlike all my other skirts (and shorts) actually fastens at the
front. Apart from my school shirts and T shirts, Mummy buttons me
into everything... buttoning myself into my new (to me) blouse felt
almost liberating, even if it was really fiddly because the buttons
were on the wrong side. My mother looked me up and down and turned
her nose up a little. “It's not very nice but it'll do for helping
in the garden.” she said before grabbing me a pair of knee socks.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mummy unpacked my new
nappies as I rolled my socks up my legs. The pelerine pattern
stretched around my calves and I spent a moment making sure they were
straight and even. Mummy might not think my outfit is very nice but
compared to everything else I've worn of late, I quite like it. The
brown plaid blouse is neither prissy not pretty, although it does
have a bib detail with frilly trim. Its long sleeves have relatively
long cuffs and a slight bell, but other than that it looks and feels
more like a shirt than a blouse. “Here.” my mother said, handing
me the three thick washable nappies. “Put them in your drawer.”
she added. Unlike the nappies I’m used to, these have a soft
towelling fabric and six plastic press-studs; three on each front
side. Mummy suggested I leave one on my pillow ready for bath time
and prompted me to choose one. There's no way I'd have chosen the
baby pink one despite the embroidered bunny rabbit being the least
worst of the three designs. The others feature a butterfly and a
flower on the front and I opted for the white one with the flower,
putting the baby blue and pink nappies in my drawer.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I lingered for a moment
in front of the hallway mirror and frown a little at what I see. I'm
reminded of the plain Jane's and daggy girls who never seem the wear
anything fashionable; the sort the other trendier girls giggle and
snigger at. I’m dressed like on those girls but it doesn't really
bother me. I think this might be my favourite outfit so far.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I spent half an hour or
so doing my cross-stitch sampler whilst Mummy made supper. She
buttoned me into my pinny and I laid the table, then helped clean and
tidy the kitchen afterwards. Once everything was done, I turned to my
mother and politely said “Will you unbutton me please Mummy?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She smiled and I turned
my back to her. “I do love our little routines.” she said as she
undid the two buttons between my shoulders. “Which of your DVDs
shall we watch tonight?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... I don't
know.” I replied, trying to recall all the titles. “Mulan?” I
suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The film hadn't ended
by 7.00pm but I was really enjoying it. I asked Mummy if she'd delay
my bath, it being Saturday and all... but she said no, but offered a
compromise. “You can watch the end after your bath.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As is my routine, I
fetched my nappy and put it on the cistern before getting into my
lukewarm bubble bath. Mummy washed my hair. “I do hope your new
nappies are as dry as they say.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do I still have to
wear my rubbers with them?” I asked. Mummy said yes. “Oh.” I
said. “They really dig in.” I moaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well they need to be
snug so they don't leak.” my mother reminded me. She left me alone
to finish off and after drying myself before brushing my teeth, I
shyly returned to my bedroom wearing my new nappy where my mother was
waiting. The all too familiar wry smile swept her face as she looked
me up and down. She beckoned me over and felt the towelling fabric,
squished the padding, patted my backside and checked they were sung
around the waist, before telling me to put a pair of rubbers on.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I pulled them up whilst
she pulled down the zip on the back of my new nightie. It looks far
too prissy for comfort and given the choice I think I'd prefer my
girlie pyjama top and frilly over knickers. Mummy hold it open. It's
like stepping into a leotard that's stitched into a dress. I push my
hands through its short puffed princess sleeves and Mummy fastens the
zip. She turns me to face her and steps back. “It's lovely.” she
said. “Shorter than I expected though.” she added. “Come on,
lets watch the rest of your film.”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I realised just how
short it was when I saw myself in the hallway mirror. “It's far too
short Mummy.” I claimed as I followed her to the lounge.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It is very short
Gavin.” my mother agreed. “It's a baby-doll nightie and it's
supposed to be short.” she informed me. It was bad enough when I
thought it was just a nightie... now it's called a 'baby doll'
nightie I like it even less. Mummy sat on the sofa and suggested I
sit on the floor between her legs. “Then I can put your hair in
rags whilst we're watching the end of the film.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The nappy felt like a
cushion when I sat. The nightie barely covered any of my lap. There's
a clear line high on my lap where my suntan begins and ends. Mummy
combs and divides my hair into sections; wrapping each in a length of
fabric. I'm going to look like such a sissy when my hair is all curly
tomorrow, but the process of having it tied in the rags I find
strangely comforting. Once done, Mummy stretched a hairnet over my
head and once the movie had ended, she sent me to bed. “Oh, Gavin.”
she said as I trotted out. “Can you take this up.” she said,
handing me the nanny-cam.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It must have been in
the lounge since Friday when I was prancing about in front of the
ballet DVD, but I can't help but wonder if it was watching me
watching my Disney DVD, whilst Mummy put my hair in rags. I put the
little wi-fi camera between the dolls on my bookshelf and made sure
it could see both my desk and my bed. My mother will no doubt be
watching on her phone at this very moment. I briefly look at my head
in my vanity mirror before shutting my curtains and climbing into
bed. I roll onto my side, shut my eyes and sigh.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My new nappy does feel
different; a little thicker, possibly more dense but the fact I'm
wearing a nappy feels almost normal. It's over two weeks since I've
slept without one and whilst I long to be told I don't need it, I
reckon it'd take a few nights to get used to being without it. I
expect Mummy will leave the plastic sheet on my bed for a while, just
in case.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Sunday -->In the
morning, Mummy asks if I'm dry and I honestly say I don't know. The
lavish application of nappy rash cream feels moist anyway. Mummy
tells me that I’ll be able to tell because the embroidered design
on the front of my nappy is supposed to turn pink when it's wet...
although we won't be able to see until I've taken my nightie off.
“Was it comfortable?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My nappy or my
nightie?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... both I
guess.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I guess.” I
replied. Mummy opened my wardrobe and removed my pale blue play dress
and suggested that I wear it today. “But it's Sunday Mummy.” I
reminded her.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but I though
it might make a nice change to wear something different... and this
is still nice enough for a Sunday.” Mummy claimed. She hung the
dress from the wardrobe door and told me to get myself some clean
underwear and some ankle socks out.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can
I wear tights instead of socks today please?” I asked, adding that
they cover up my hairy knees.</div>
<div class="western" style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“<span style="font-weight: normal;">They're
not that hairy.” Mummy said, looking at my legs. “But yes... you
look nice in tights.”</span> She unzipped my nightie and I stepped
out of it. “No leaks.” she said after inspecting it. “But your
flower's gone pink.” she said. My nappy can be seen through my
translucent rubber knickers and the embroidered flower design has
changed from having yellow petals to bright candy pink ones. I guess
the butterfly and bunny rabbit on my other nappies do the same.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After my shower, I
dried myself and removed my shower cap before brushing my teeth. My
hair is still wrapped in rags and covered with ah air net. It looks
really silly and I'm not looking forward to seeing myself with
curls... but at least this time I know they'll wash out before school
tomorrow. Mummy entered the bathroom and asked if I'd put my nappy in
the bucket. Since I had a mouthful of toothpaste, I replied with a
nod. “I'll show you what to do with it after you've brushed your
teeth.” she said. I was embarrassed by her presence. All I’m
wearing are the rags and my hairnet, and now I’ve no hair at all
<i>down there</i>, I feel more naked than ever. “Right.” she said
as I put my toothbrush away. “Fill the sink with hot water...”
she instructed. “...and give your nappy a good rinse.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Don't I just put it
in the washing machine?” I quizzed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- EDIT -->“It's not worth putting the machine on for just one nappy."
Mummy told me. “It won't bite.” she said as I hesitantly reached
into my nappy bucket.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's wet though.”
I whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And you'll be
washing your hands after you've rinsed all the wee out.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I suppose I'll have to
do this every morning, I figured as I rinsed the infantile garment.
Squeezing out the water was really hard because it's designed to let
the water in and keep it in. Mummy left and returned with the
packaging. “Ah, there's a knack.” she said, instructing me to
roll it from the back. “Is that easier?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes mummy.” I
said. “Thanks.” I added. The water flooded out relatively freely
doing it this way, and Mummy explained that it should be hung from
the back when drying. I gulped at the thought of one of my nappies
hanging from the washing line and my fears must have been written all
over may face.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Don't worry... it'll
dry it on your radiator.” she said. “No one will see.” she
assured. I had to squash roll the nappy a few times to get all the
liquid out, then do it all again, rinsing it in clean hot water...
then its put to soak for a few hours, and after that, it can go in
the machine for a quick spin before being hung to dry.
Mummy figured that the flower petals will return to yellow when it's
properly dry, but wasn't sure how long it would take.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It didn't seem right
wearing my colourful play dress on a Sunday. Mummy removed my rags
and separated my curls, before putting the VW Beetle slide in my
hair, which echoed the resplendent rows of cars and trucks printed on
my dress. Sunday is a lazy day so I won't be playing in the garden
today. I spent much of the morning reading Anne of Green Gables and
did a little more of my cross stitch sampler, before donning my pinny
and putting my nappy in the washing machine, setting the dial to the
rinse and spin setting. “Will it take ages Mummy?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No it's just a quick
rinse, not a full wash cycle.” she told me, adding that it should
take no longer than about ten minutes. “You can help me wipe down
the kitchen whilst we're waiting.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mummy gave me a damp
cloth with which I wiped all the cabinet doors and drawer fronts,
kitchen worktops and even around the sink and draining board too.
According to my mother, it's worth finding a ten minute job to do
rather than idly waiting. The washing machine shudders to a halt and
I take the nappy up to my room. The drying rack that hooks over my
radiator is full of the knickers, socks, tights and training bras
that I laundered yesterday morning. They're all dry so I put them
away before hanging my damp laundered nappy from the rack. As Mummy
unbuttoned my apron, she suggested that tomorrow, I should put my
nappy in the washing machine as son as I get home from school.
“...that way it should be done by the time you've changed into your
play clothes.” she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Come Monday morning, my
routine begins with selecting my play clothes for after school, then
a quick shower is followed by rinsing and wringing out my nappy
before putting it to soak... then its dressed and breakfast and off
to school I go. At some random point, one of my teachers will ask me
to stay back after class when they'll check I’ve still got my
training bra on. When I return home I put my nappy in the washing
machine, change into my play clothes then put the spin dried nappy on
my radiator where it can dry properly... then I have half an hour of
active play which involves fifteen minutes of hopscotch and fifteen
minutes of skipping around the garden. Then I do my homework
assignments, have some supper and help clear up afterwards, then
entertain myself for a while either reading or doing needlepoint
until its time for my bath.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After homework group on
Tuesday, I told Callum that he was right about my mother. “What
about?” he asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“When you reckoned
she was preparing me for an outing.” I replied, telling him she
took me to Ashford on Saturday.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What was you
wearing?” he asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Skirt, blouse, three
inch heels.” I listed, exaggerating my heel height a little.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're in three inch
heels already?” he quizzed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... maybe not
quite three inches.” I replied. “But they're high!” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So you were shopping
for a new dress I guess.” he rightly presumed, adding that there's
'loads' of petticoating stores in Ashford. I had a feeling he'd been
to them and I was right. “Teen Zone's my favourite but Mummy... I
mean, Mum hardly ever lets me get anything from there. She reckons
the styles are too grown up and gets most of my stuff from Boys and
Girls.” he frowned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You mean Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>as
y Ni<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">ñ</span>os?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... seven year
old styles in teenage sizes.” he sighed. I confessed to being
bought a party dress from Belle-Boiz. “Is it nice?” he asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really... I
guess.” I replied. “Apparently...” I changed the subject,
slightly. “...all the boys at the high school in Ashford have to
wear...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah I know.” he
interjected. “It was all over the local news a few years ago.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can't imagine going
to a school where everyone's petticoated.” I mused.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're not
petticoated like us though.” he retorted. “They don't have all
the girlie stuff or have to go to bed stupidly early.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Don't they?” I
quizzed. I felt a little disappointed. Callum told me that it's
'educational' petticoating and I recalled my mother saying the same.
He explained that it's just the school uniform and a handful of
curriculum changes; netball instead of basketball, needlework instead
of metalwork, country dancing instead of cross country running... and
that they don't have to wear training bras or any of the other stuff
either. “Lucky them.” I groaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We both knew what he
meant by 'other stuff' and I suddenly remembered that I'll have to
deal with my washable nappy when I get home. I didn't mention it
though. I did however mention that it's my birthday on Saturday and
that I was worried that a surprise party might be in store for me.
“I've asked but they said no... but my mum made such a fuss over
getting me a party dress...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Callum couldn't really
help me since he's only had one petticoated birthday and that was the
first day he was petticoated. Despite my intrigue, I chose not to
enquire further about his birthday. I did say that it must have been
horrible for him. “Yeah... it was.” he sighed. “But I had it
coming I guess.” he added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What did you do?”
I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not much really...
loads of little things; staying out late, shoplifting, got into
graffiti.” he shrugged, before asking what I did.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nowt.” I shrugged
as we approached the school gates. “Mum just thinks it'll do me
some good.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah they keep
saying that.” Callum replied. “Not sure what good it's supposed
to do us.” he sneered.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmmm.” I agreed.
“Even my gran said that.” We went our separate ways at the school
gates and I couldn't help but envy the Ashford boys... all they have
to do is wear a girlie school uniform and everything returns to
normal as soon as they get home whereas I'll be donning my play
clothes and skipping around the garden. However when I did get home,
Mummy informed me that since it's hardly been raining at all this
summer, she's decided that I should dance along with my ballet today.
“Oh but Mummy.” I whined, before instantly apologising after she
gave me that look.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My nappy had been
soaking all day in the sanitising solution. I wrung it out and put it
in the washing machine to rinse, before going up to my room to
change. I'd laid out my play clothes before school but in their place
are my pale pink dance tights, leotard and tutu... and one of my
disposable nappies. My heart sank.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My attire felt totally
inappropriate as I removed my nappy from the washing machine and
trotted upstairs with it. The broad tutu bounced on every step yet
never really flopped. It brushed both sides of my door frame as I
entered my room. A descend the stairs with a little more caution. I
can't see my feet, even when I try to push my plate shaped skirt
down. I'm briefly greeted with my reflection as I pass the hallway
mirror, pausing for a moment. In spite of what my mother says, it's
not a pretty sight.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mummy had already put a
dining chair in front of the TV for me, and My First Ballet Book was
open at the warm up page. I pressed play on the remote and “OK...
lets get started!” the DVD presenter enthused. I exhaled deeply
through my nostrils as it all came flooding back to me. She told me
how to stand; feet slightly apart, arms in 'demi seconde' (my wrists
hovering over the edge of my tutu). “...reach up... and down.”
she instructed, touching her toes. “...it doesn't matter if you
can't reach your toes yet, just do the best you can, and remember to
keep your legs straight.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I could feel my nappy
slowly expanding throughout the course of the two video ballet
classes and I just knew that my mother would make me keep it on until
bath time. I could imagine her excuses; you may as well keep it on,
there's no point taking it off, it'd be a waste. However when my
dance along DVD lesson had ended, Mummy said I could go and change
out of my ballerina outfit and my nappy. I asked what to wear and
Mummy said I could wear anything I wanted. I figured that that didn't
include my school uniform, so I donned my rusty brown skirt and brown
plait shirt. “They're supposed to be for gardening.” Mummy said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You did say I could
wear anything Mummy.” I defensively whined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I did.” she
replied with a smile.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Thursday, Jason
asked if it was my birthday this weekend and a reluctantly said yes.
“You doing owt?” he asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I hope not.” I
replied, reminding him that its on Saturday which means I’d be
wearing a dress. “...and I’m not going to invite you round.” I
said. “Soz.” I added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That's OK.” Jason
replied, before telling me that his cousin Peter always wears a
really prissy party dress when it's his birthday.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He'll be used to it
though... I'm not.” I grumbled. “Does he have parties?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really... me and
mum go round, and our other cousins Jenny & James and our uncle &
aunt.” Jason replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Does he get loads of
girlie presents?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm worried I will
too... but I'm only supposed to be petticoated for another week so
I'm hoping I won't.” I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There'd be no
point.” Jason claimed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I hope he's right.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Thursday evening I
finally finished my cross stitch sampler and since it was so close to
my birthday, my mother said it would be nice if I put that date
instead of today’s. I decided against putting a pac-man theme
around the border and stuck to space invaders. Mummy wasn't keen on
me putting 'take me to your leader' at the bottom, so I put some
space invader bunkers instead along with the laser cannon. My mother
was a little bemused with the retro video game theme and didn't 'get'
the bunkers. She couldn't fathom why one was unfinished and when I
explained that the missing bits are where the bunker has been blasted
by the invaders' bombs, Mummy reminded me that petticoating is
supposed to move me away from such destructive themes. She did let me
leave them though. I was as proud as punch with my sampler and
couldn't wait to show it to Granny.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyA4e8kAJbZBHGAE2dY47MUFAoj2O8FpZDlAiQAE3LFswSZ6rbNKS5PlwrqGkVrj02X2vhqZz8LLuaZf6-SPK2v3mWoG6L7U1t01cB__cw8ND9qe9IQdvG0DtDhSPHGAVOyqhhiLeu/s1600/needlepoint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyA4e8kAJbZBHGAE2dY47MUFAoj2O8FpZDlAiQAE3LFswSZ6rbNKS5PlwrqGkVrj02X2vhqZz8LLuaZf6-SPK2v3mWoG6L7U1t01cB__cw8ND9qe9IQdvG0DtDhSPHGAVOyqhhiLeu/s1600/needlepoint.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Friday it began to
drizzle as I walked home from school. “Oh but I did ballet on
Tuesday Mummy.” I whined when she told me to put my tutu on. She
hadn't laid my ballerina outfit out. It was all packed up in the big
round tutu case and I felt really hard done by having to wear it
again so soon... it's not even raining that much. A broad grim swept
my mother's face as I passed through the kitchen to the utility room.
A moment later I returned with last night's damp yet laundered nappy.
“Did you put a nappy on?” my mother asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes Mummy.” I
meekly replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good boy.” she
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I spent forty minutes
following the warm up routine and one of several beginners dance
routines on the DVD. There's a strong chance that the nanny-cam is
watching me from somewhere and I know I can't get away with not
trying. I still can't touch my toes but can reach a little further
down my shins. It's really hard to see what my feet are doing because
my tutu's in the way. Now I know why ballet dancers always practise
in front of a huge mirror. The dance routine is boring yet
exhausting; It begins with the first position and goes straight to
the fourth, then a little skip to the left combined with a gesture,
then a jump to the right followed by another gesture and repeat from
fourth about twenty times and finally finish in fifth, then back to
first. The second part is the same, only with the skip to the right
and a jump to the left. My First Ballet Book has some background
information on all the routines on the DVD and Mummy said it's
important to read about them. Today's little routine is taken from
the snowflakes dance in a ballet called The Nutcracker, it says.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You can go and
change if you want.” Mummy said after I'd finished today's active
play session. I donned the play clothes I would have worn had it not
been raining; box pleated short culottes, white blouse and white knee
socks, plus my heeled Mary Jane’s. I spend an hour or so on my
homework assignments before going downstairs where Mummy was making
supper. She asked if I’d completed my homework.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes Mummy.” I
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Now... seeing as
it's your birthday tomorrow, why don't you do your laundry now.”
she suggested, adding that it would mean tomorrow would be a chore
free day. It made sense to me so I fetched my laundry hamper down and
sorted the whites from the darks and coloureds. I knotted the legs of
my tights, put my training bras into a mesh wash bag and bunged them
in with the rest of my whites.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The washing machine
purred into action. I left it, knowing that the white cycle takes
around ninety minutes. “What are you doing now?” Mummy asked as I
passed through the kitchen, and I replied saying that I'd read my
book for a while. “Anne of Green Gables?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No I finished that
one.” I said, adding that I'm now reading A Little Princess. Mummy
asked if I was enjoying it. “It's OK... not much has happened yet
though.” I said, adding that Granny had recommended it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Can we have a little
chat first?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm... yes.” I
replied. I sat at the table and Mummy sat opposite. “I'm not in
trouble am I?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course not.”
she smiled. “Do you remember when I first mentioned petticoating,
and I said we'd give it a month long trial to see how you got on?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... how do you
think you've got on?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK I guess.” I
timidly answered. “I've done everything you asked.” I defensively
added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You have, and more.”
Mummy said. “In fact I think you've done so well over that last
three weeks that we should carry on as normal after next weekend.”
she suggested. “How would you feel about that?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You mean...?” I
gulped. What's normal? Is that being petticoated or not being
petticoated? Mum waited patiently for me to complete my question.
“...I carry on being petticoated?” I meekly asked. Mummy nodded.
“How long for?”
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well that depends...
normally petticoating continues through adolescence.” tells me,
adding that I started 'late' which means I’m already halfway
through.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Erm...” I said,
considering the prospect. “I'd rather not be Mummy. I mean... I
don't mind my clothes so much, but I hate having to wear nappies for
bed.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you're asleep
for most of that time... and you did say your new nappies are much
dryer than your disposable ones.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know but... I’d
still rather not have wear them at all.” I replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I suppose you
and every other petticoatee has that in common.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I glumly
agreed, thinking immediately of Callum and then Jason's cousin.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“From where I'm
sitting, I see no reason why we shouldn't carry on.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But it's horrible
having to wear nappies.” I sulked. “That's one reason.” I said.
“And I'd rather wear boys clothes when I get home from school...
and I hate doing ballet.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yet there's been no
tears, no tantrums... and I've not once had to battle you into a
nappy.” she said. “I know you don't like them but you know why
you wear them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know why you think
I should wear them Mummy but I know that I don't need them.” I
retorted. “I'm fourteen tomorrow.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK then... let's say
you don't have to wear a nappy tonight...can you be certain that you
won't wet the bed?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I
cautiously claimed. Mummy asked if I was sure. I gulped. “Noo.” I
cautiously admitted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So you do know why
you need them.” she said. I gulped and nodded. “And as for your
clothes, most of them <i>are</i> boy's clothes.” she reckoned,
listing my knickers and training bras, my handmade dresses and the
party dress I'll be wearing tomorrow. “The only actual girl's
clothes you have are the skirt and blouse from the charity shop, your
ra-ra skirt and your shoes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“There's my tutu
too.” I moaned, before trying to stifle a smile.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A tutu too.” Mummy
grinned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's not funny.” I
grumbled. I decided not to add 'mummy' for obvious reasons.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You enjoyed doing
your cross-stitch sampler... and we've been enjoying our princess
movie nights.” she said. “...and the reports from your teachers
at school are all very favourable.” she added, stating that it's
too early to tell if my grades have improved but that there's no sign
of them slipping. “I'm yet to hear of a petticoated boy who doesn't
leave school with straight As.” she told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm sure there's
boys who are petticoated who do too.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Who do too.” Mummy
teased. I stuck out my lip. She apologised before stressing that my
high school education is a once in a lifetime opportunity, something
to take seriously and not to waste. “The problem with adolescence
is your mind's all over the place. Petticoating helps you focus.”
she claimed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I had a feeling you
were going to do something like this.” I grumbled. “Callum said
your four week trial was just a ploy to get me started.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Who's Callum?”
Mummy asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“A boy in my class.”
I glumly replied. It wasn't long before she'd coaxed everything out
of me regarding Callum and Jason's cousin Peter. Mum said it was nice
that I've got some petticoated friends. “They're not friends.” I
claimed. “Callum's just a boy in my class... I don't know him that
well.” I said. “And I’ve never even met Jason's cousin.” I
added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I knew I should never
have told Mummy about Callum, but it was only a matter of time I
guess. I knew he was right about my four week trial... and deep down
I suspected that from the beginning. There's no way my mother was
spending all that money on my books, bedding, DVDs and dresses just
for a few weeks. Mummy told me that she was worried that I'd feel as
if I was alone, but knowing that I know one other petticoatee and
know of another one makes her feel a lot better. “I'm also
impressed that you confided in Jason.” she said. “I've always
said that it's nothing to be ashamed of... and you must admit that
boy's clothes are a bit boring compared to nice girlie clothes.”
she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I like boring
clothes.” I grumbled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You're just scared
of a few frills and bows... if you could step outside yourself you'd
be able to see how nice you look.” she said, focusing her gaze on
my blouse. I hung my head and looked at my attire. I already know how
nice it is... the problem is that it's too nice, especially for a
boy. “What does Callum say about his clothes?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He doesn't like them
either.” I claimed, adding that when Callum gets home from school,
he has to wear the girl's uniform whilst doing his homework. “...and
he says he prefers it because it's the only thing he's got that isn't
something a seven year old would wear.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So he likes <i>some</i>
of his clothes then... just like you do.” Mummy retorted.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There she goes,
twisting things. She reminded me that I 'like' my Sunday dress, but
all I said was that I <i>preferred</i> it to my play dress, and that
I 'like' my rara skirt when really I said I liked it's longer length
compared to my really short skirts. She reminded me that I'd chosen
my own party dress so must have liked that... but I just wanted to
get the shopping trip over and done with. “I preferred that sailor
dress.” I grumped.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know you did...
but it wasn't really a party dress was it.” Mummy said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Am I going to get
loads of girl stuff tomorrow?” I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you won't be
getting much because we don't spoil petticoated boys... so don't
expect 'loads' of anything.” she said. “...and your main present
is your party dress remember.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Oh cripes, I thought.
I’m going to be asked what I got for my birthday at school next
week and I really don't want to say 'a new dress'. I sighed, then
huffed, and even puffed. “So... if I’m going to be petticoated
for 'ever'... do I still have to call you Mummy all the time?” I
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Rules are rules
Gavin.” my mother told me, before adding that it certainly won't be
for 'ever'..</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But... I've only
been calling you Mummy so you didn't add any extra days.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well the rules are
going to remain the same Gavin.” Mummy told me. “...but the
consequences of breaking them will change.” she said. “Now we
both know that you like your knickers more than you do your
nappies... so if you're planning on being disobedient...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My mother left me to
work the rest out for myself. “And what if I don't want to be
petticoated?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You didn't want to
be petticoated from the outset Gavin, and look how far you've come.”
my mother replied. “Granny didn't want me to petticoat you either
but she's come round to the idea.” she added. “And at the end of
the day Gavin you're still a child which means the choice isn't yours
to make.” she informed me. “Now... shall we get your pinny on
then you can help Mummy with supper?” she asked. I screwed up my
face and sighed a disgruntled sigh. “...or are you going to get all
sulky?” she quizzed. “Which means you might find yourself
spending your birthday wearing your first daytime nappy.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Save to say I didn't
spend my birthday wearing a nappy... but I did wear my party dress
and Granny came to visit and she was most impressed with my
cross-stitch sampler, which Mummy had got framed so I can hang it
above my dressing table. I didn't get many gifts but they were all
girlie gifts. I got some nail varnish and a make-up kit, a new pair
of shoes with wobbly kitten heels and much to my surprise, the navy
blue sailor dress from Belle-Boiz in Ashford. I was sent cards and
vouchers by my aunts, uncles and family friends... and all of my
birthday cards featured girlie designs.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I also received a
Barbie stationery set and a diary with my name printed in glittery
pink letters on its fluffy pale pink cover. Mummy points out that
it's my very own personalised diary and the first page is today's
date; my birthday. I can write down what I did at school, what I did
in my active play sessions, what I wore during the daytime and at
bedtime and my thoughts for the day. I've never kept a diary before
and have never had any interest in doing so, but Mummy tells me that
all petticoated boys keep a diary. “This time next year you'll be
able to look back all the way to your first petticoat birthday.”
she said. The way she said it suggested that today is the first of
many petticoat birthdays. Not too many I hope!</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfCsPLBmdzZ-dhOv78KPv8dGkpmevkCIvhLY7OFgNIJcra5hHhkG7IgqpZtW1qCscZUhXD8ajk4RwDb1Dsoh26cZuNTe4o0JMv8-MzPa7zFH7gxgwaoD4NP7iBArhg2QVc4OYOH0r/s1600/baby+blue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="451" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfCsPLBmdzZ-dhOv78KPv8dGkpmevkCIvhLY7OFgNIJcra5hHhkG7IgqpZtW1qCscZUhXD8ajk4RwDb1Dsoh26cZuNTe4o0JMv8-MzPa7zFH7gxgwaoD4NP7iBArhg2QVc4OYOH0r/s1600/baby+blue.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mummy's favourite picture of me on my birthday, taken before she'd fastened my white<br />
satin sash, done my hair and applied my make-up. She framed it and to this day it sits<br />
in pride of place on a shelf in the front room... where everyone who visits can see it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-42882114849244476042018-05-01T06:01:00.000-07:002019-07-17T07:11:14.443-07:00On the Radio<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“This week on Weekend
Woman's Hour, we talk to Denise and Robert Matthews; a couple who've
completely reversed their traditional roles. Denise works full time
as an estate agent whilst husband Robert works full time at home
doing the laundry and ironing, cleaning, gardening, grocery shopping,
cooking, washing up... everything.” presenter Janine Murphey
introduced. “Now, Denise... can you talk us through a typical
working day?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Of course Janine,
and hello.” Denise replied. “I get up around six-thirty, seven AM
and have a quick shower before breakfast, which Robert has lovingly
prepared for me. He straightens the bed and gives the bathroom a once
over before laying out my clothes for the day...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He chooses your
clothes?” Janine quizzed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh no, not at all.”
Denise said. “I tell him what I'll be wearing and he'll lay it out
and whilst I’m dressing, he's clearing up the breakfast dishes and
preparing my packed lunch...” she goes onto describe him handing
her her case and coat, seeing her off, briefly explains her working
day which ends at 5pm. “I return home to a cooked dinner and we
dine together, and whilst Robert's clearing the table, cleaning the
kitchen and washing the dishes, I'll either catch up on some
paperwork or put my feet up in front of the TV.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And Robert... what's
your typical day like?” Janine asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hello.” Robert
said. “My typical day begins around 6am. I'll have a quick shower
before giving the bathroom a once over, then I’ll tidy up
downstairs, polish Denise's shoes, give her jacket a brush down and
prepare breakfast. Then I'll straighten the bed, tidy the bathroom,
lay out her clothes, tidy the kitchen, wash the breakfast dishes,
make her sandwiches and see her off.” he explained. “I'll decide
what we'll be having for the evening meal and either take something
out of the freezer and/or prepare a shopping list. I'll set my hair
before the work really starts; dusting, polishing, vacuuming,
laundry, ironing, grocery shopping. The more I can get done in the
mornings the better. I'll have a light lunch and time permitting,
I’ll grab an afternoon nap before making sure the house is
absolutely spotless before Denise returns. I'll put the tea on and
dress for dinner, we'll dine and then I'll clear up and clean the
kitchen... if Denise is doing paperwork I'll occupy myself with some
ironing or organising or we might watch some TV together until around
10pm when I’ll turn in.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So you're busy?”
Janine asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” Robert
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Now, being a radio
show... our listeners can't see Robert or Denise, but could you
describe what you're wearing today Robert?” Janine asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er... of course.”
Robert hesitantly replied. He described a powder purple sleeveless dress; knee
length, with a peppering of large lilac spots.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's a lovely
dress.” Janine complimented, before informing the viewers that his
hair and make-up are both immaculate, and adding that he also wears a
pair of patent black court shoes with a modest three inch heel and
thin nude tights.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're actually
stockings.” Denise added. “Proper ones, not hold-ups.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Now... I can't
imagine you doing the housework in such a nice frock.” Janine the
presenter stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No.” Robert
bashfully replied. “This is how I'd dress for dinner.” he said,
before describing his housekeeping attire which consists of a plain
frock and apron.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What colour?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well the apron's
white and I have a few housekeeping frocks; black, grey, duck-egg and
burgundy.” Robert replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you have a
favourite?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not really...
they're practical clothes.” Robert replied, before saying that he's
not keen on the duck-egg frock because it feels like something a
dental nurse might wear.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And heels... do you
find those practical for housework?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I didn't to begin
with but like all things, one soon becomes accustomed to them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You mentioned
setting your hair.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err, yes...”
Robert replied. “I think that's the biggest learning curve I've had
since becoming a househusband...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It was quite a
hurdle wasn't it?” his wife interjected. “My grandmother, who was
a traditional housewife, always told me that one must tend to
themselves before they can tend to the home.” she explained. “But
things have changed so much since my grandmother's day... women are
the workers and men tend to stay at home these days. But there's
still the stigma that housework is woman's work and we all know the
mantra....”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Woman's work means
woman's wear.” Janine and Denise said in unison, before proudly
chuckling.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After seeing his wife
off to work, Robert spends a good hour putting his hair in rollers
and applying his make-up before getting on with his chores and doing
the grocery shopping. “At first I felt very self conscious leaving
the house wearing rollers and a hairnet, but people can think what
they like... I want to look nice when Denise gets home from work and
Denise likes me looking my best.” Robert explained.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you envy other
househusbands who don't have to go through the daily rigmarole of
doing their hair and make-up?” Janine asked, adding “...it must
be a bit of a chore.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Life is full of
chores.” Robert chuckled. “But yes, at first I really did resent
it. My hair wasn't long enough to do much with so it was just
learning to apply my make-up properly, and getting used to wearing a
frock and heels.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It helped you focus
though.” his wife interjected. “Before I put you in a frock you
were constantly chasing your tail, trying to keep on top of
everything but once he was dressed the part and we revised his
cleaning rota, things really fell into place.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmm.” Robert
agreed. “Obviously I was dead against wearing a frock. Domestic
dresses aren't very flattering but they do focus the mind... the
sooner I've completed my chores the sooner I could take it off.” he
said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And what did your
friends and extended family say after you'd taken on the domestic
role and allowed yourself to be feminised?” Janine asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well...” Robert
began. “...a lot of things.” he nervously replied. “Some were
positive but most seemed to think I was under the thumb and being
taken advantage of, but the important thing to focus on is not what
people think or say but how our marriage works. It's a partnership.
Denise brings in the money that pays for the roof over my head and
the food in my belly and I provide a clean and tidy home and prepare
the food when she gets home from work. We both work very hard to
achieve what we've got and we wouldn't have it any other way.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But.... wouldn't you
rather things be the way they used to be, when men provided and the
women cooked and tidied?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“..and worked too!”
Denise interjected. Janine agreed.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Robert replied. “If I
could earn as much as Denise does and Denise was more domestically
minded, then that could work... but the world isn't like that any
more. Generally speaking, males aren't the best at multitasking so
we're all better off focusing on what we're good at rather than
sticking to traditional roles... in my case that's following a set
routine and doing one chore at a time and in Denise's it's managing a
large portfolio of clients.” he said. “I certainly couldn't do
what she does and she's no desire to do what I do.” he shrugged.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So Denise.” Janine
said. “How do you react when people say he's under thumb or being
taken advantage of?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I tell them he's my
husband and I'll treat him as I damn well please.” she relied,
somewhat jovially. More seriously, however, she explains that people
don't really have a problem with him being a househusband, but some
do have a problem with him being a feminised househusband. “...I
think people dwell too much on gender. I'm not a fan of the <i>woman's
work means woman's wear</i> mantra. I've never considered housework
to be women's work, it's just housework and the person who does it is
the housekeeper and housekeepers have worn a certain style of
clothing since the Victorian era. Just because most housekeepers
these days are husbands shouldn't mean they can't dress as a
housekeeper should.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmm.” Janine
responded. “Are high heels really practical for housework though?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They mean he doesn't
have to reach quite so high with the feather duster.” Denise
grinned. “...when he's doing the cornices.” she added. She
glanced at her husband's feet. “They may not be practical but
they're not impractical either.” she claimed. “You haven't gone
over on them yet, have you hon'?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Err, no.” Robert
replied, albeit somewhat hesitantly. “Been close a few times but,
respect the heel and they'll respect you.” he said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“My mother used to
say that.” Janine exclaimed, before describing how her mother wore
high heels all the time whilst Janine herself stuck to flats her
entire life. “It's interesting isn't it though.. when you think
that Louis the Fourteenth popularised high heels and cosmetics,
fashions which, a hundred years later became exclusive to women, are
now going full circle and back to where they began?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Absolutely.”
Denise replied. “I've explained to Robert countless times how the
pendulum swings one way then the other... and right now we're at the
moment the pendulum stops and swings the other way. Women used to be
subservient to males simply because they didn't have the earning
potential. They were expected to clean the house and prettify
themselves, to be obedient, loyal, dutiful whilst hubby went to the
office then played golf. Now the males don't have the earning
potential it their turn to do exactly what's expected of the
subservient partner.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So... that's all
good and well for a couple such as yourselves...” Janine responded.
“...but what about same sex partnerships?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I said 'subservient
partner' for a reason Janine.” Denise confidently replied. “As I
said earlier, most partnerships have one who earns more than the
other, and the same goes for gay, lesbian and even trans couples. One
earns the money, the other earns their keep.” she bluntly stated.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Janine grinned. She
enjoyed her guest's jovial bluntness but couldn't help but wonder
whether or not she's just a controlling misandrist and that Robert is
well and truly under the thumb. “So Robert.” she said, turning to
her other guest. “What did you want to be when you were a boy?”
she asked. “I can't imagine you grew up wanting to be a
househusband.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not sure the
phrase had even been coined when I was a boy.” Robert replied,
before timidly trying to answer the question. “I wanted to be all
sorts of things; cowboy, astronaut, racing driver, fire fighter,
ninja...” he chuckled. “But who knows... in years to come when
everyone's dad is the housekeeper, boys may well grow up with that
role as an aspiration.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Hmm.” Janine
replied, clearly not convinced with Robert’s last suggestion.
“Really?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Let's not forget
Janine that when our mothers and grandmothers were little girls, they
had dreams of being a princess and wanted nothing more than to find a
prince, live in a castle and wear beautiful dresses.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“True but... these
days girls have so much more to aspire to.” Janine replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We do.” Denise
agreed. “And as I stated earlier, the pendulum is swinging. We're
already seeing males taking on the domestic roles, donning their
domestic clothes and even prettifying themselves.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes but... so far as
I can make out, not through choice.” Janine said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's through
necessity... one partner provides the money, the other provides the
labour.” Denise reiterated. “After a long day in the office, I
want to come home to a nice clean house in which I can kick my shoes
off and relax. I want the aroma of a home cooked meal and a husband
who doesn't look like he's spent all day cleaning.” she said.
“There's nothing worse than coming home to a husband with tatty
hair and a dirty apron who's frantically finishing off the hoovering
and still needs to clean the kitchen before even starting on dinner.”
she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I can just picture
the scene.” Janine chuckled. “And does that ever happen Robert?”
she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er um... ha ha...”
Robert nervously chuckled. “It has.” he admitted. “...when I
was inexperienced.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You keep on top of
things these days don't you darling.” his wife said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I try my best.”
Robert replied. He described the frantic last hour before his wife
returns home, when he's putting all the cleaning stuff away, giving
the worktops one last wipe, quickly dusting a picture frame with his
pinny before having a really close shave, applying his make-up,
donning a dinner dress, removing his rollers and styling his hair...
all in time for Denise to walk through the door.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It sounds like a
scene from a nineteen fifties TV show; the perfect little housewife
in heels and petticoats, with perfect make-up and not a hair out of
place... only you're the husband.” Janine smiled, before telling
the listeners that they're running out of time. “Now I’m sure
you're all dying to see what Robert’s wearing...” she enthused,
“...so we're going to put a photo on the Weekend Woman's
Hour page at BBC dot com... and don't forget the podcast where you
can hear the entire discussion with our guests, Denise and Robert..”
she informed the listeners. “Denise and Robert... I thank you.”
she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Thank you Janine.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's been a
pleasure.” Denise added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Janine turned back to
the microphone. “Next week's Woman's Hour drama will be the new
adaptation of Peter Jackson's <i>Conditions of Inheritance</i>... in
which a teenage boy is forced to become housemaid and servant to his
domineering Aunt Agatha... until then, goodbye.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A male announcer voice
began... “Weekend Woman's hour was presented by Janine Murphey and
produced by blah <span style="color: #444444;">blah blah</span> <span style="color: #666666;">blah blah</span> <span style="color: #999999;">blah blah</span> <span style="color: #cccccc;">blah blah."</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
~o0o~</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I turned off the radio and looked into Denise's eyes. Her expression bore a pursed smile. "I think I came across as a bit of a dragon." she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Noo!" I insisted, although at times, she did. "The presenter was sooo patronising toward me don't you think?" I said. "I'm sure you didn't want to grow up to be a mere househusband." I said, mimicking Janine Murphey's middle class radio four voice. </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"She was." my wife replied. "But they often are on Woman's Hour." she claimed. "Are you going to download the podcast?" she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"I wasn't planning on it... do you want me too?" I said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Absolutely!" Denise replied. "They cut out the entire discussion about your birdcage."</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Thankfully... I don't want that being aired on national radio!" I retorted. "In fact I wished you hadn't mentioned it in the first place." I moaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"If I didn't mention it she would have." Denise claimed. "I thought she was staring at my cleavage until I noticed that she was also a key-holder." she told me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I glanced at the pendant that hangs in Denise's cleavage; a symbolic silver key denoting that my wife is my key-holder. The actual key to my chastity cage is kept somewhere safe, in a place unknown to me. I cast my mind back to last Tuesday when the Woman's Hour interview was recorded. I'd never felt so ashamed in my whole life when Denise noticed the presenter's distinctive pendant, and their excitable chat about the benefits of chastity that followed. In fact thinking about it, it's no wonder they removed that section from the main broadcast. For a moment I hold some hope that it's been removed from the podcast too... until I remember Janine's closing comment about the 'entire' discussion being available. "I only hope no one I know downloads it." I groaned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"Loads of husbands are under lock and key Robert." Denise claimed. "You're certainly not unique in that respect."</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"So you keep saying." I replied. "We'd just rather all and sundry didn't know about it."</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
"It's nothing to be ashamed of." she said. </div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That's easy for her to say.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807062455828867273.post-31500394531031281982018-03-01T11:08:00.000-08:002018-03-01T11:23:01.096-08:00Sunday School<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We'd moved here a few
months ago and I quickly made new friends, both at school and in the
neighbourhood. There's a place called Cooper's Quarry which is now a
formal garden with paths, benches, flowerbeds, an orchard and a
glade. It used to be an adventure playground and according to the
group of kids I'd befriended, it was 'totally ace'. They spent many
hours playing there, and the more dilapidated it became, the more fun
they had... then the council decided it was dangerous and removed all
the fun stuff, replacing it with flowerbeds and benches which are
only good for OAPs and parents with pushchairs.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A few weeks ago, we
were passing through Cooper's Quarry and reminiscing about how much
fun they had there, as well as grumbling about how boring it is now.
I could only take their word for it since the space was redesigned
before we moved to the area. Climbing frames, elevated walkways, rope
swings and a 'death' slide sounded loads better than what there is
now. Looking back, I'm not sure who started it, but it didn't take
long for the rest of us to join in; stomping on the flower beds,
uprooting shrubs, breaking branches, booting the bins and benches
over and generally destroying or disturbing whatever we could.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The act of vandalism
was front page news in the local paper, which stated that one of the
gang had been caught at the scene and the others ran off. That one
was me, but I didn't grass my mates up. I'd have got my head kicked
in if I had, and no one wants to be friends with a grass... so
keeping shtum and taking the rap all on my own was, I believed, in my best interests. Being a
minor meant they they couldn't print my name in the paper, nor could
the authorities fine me for the damage caused, make me do <i>x</i>
hours of community service or anything much... the most they could do
was make me attend Sunday School which sounded really boring. The
judge who heard my case said that I'd have to attend Sunday school
for a period no less than 48 weeks and no more than 48 months, and
that my attendance period would be closer to 48 weeks if I did the
decent thing and gave the authorities the names of my accomplices. I
refused and claimed that they were some kids I’d just met and I
didn't know their names or where they lived... but they knew I was
lying, I knew I was lying, and I knew that they knew I was lying.
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I figured it would be a
normal Sunday School and having briefly attended one when I was
around eight years old, I figured I knew what to expect. It was
really boring. The teacher would read us bible stories and encourage
us to ask questions about God and Jesus, then we'd sing some
happy-clappy Christian songs and talk about prayers... after a month
or two I stopped going because I could think of better ways to spend
my Sundays. Mum told me that this Sunday School will be nothing at
all like that Sunday School... it isn't anywhere near a church for a
start, and it won't even involve any bible readings. “How's it a
Sunday School then?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's a school you
attend on Sunday.” my mother bluntly retorted. “I can't believe
that you've got yourself in to so much trouble young man... we've
only been here a couple of months.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It wasn't my
fault... it was the others who wrecked the garden.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And it was you who
were caught.” she stated. “Are you going to name the others?”
she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I can't.” I
replied. “If I grassed them up I'd be in even more trouble.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I can't imagine you
being in even more trouble than you are now Liam!” my mother
snapped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I tried to explain the
unwritten 'no grassing' rule and imagined the consequences if I did
grass on my friends... but mum said I was an idiot, and yet again
claimed the right thing to do (other than not getting involved in the
first place) is to confess the names of my accomplices. “How long
is forty-eight weeks?” I glumly asked after her latest lecture
ended.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well there's
fifty-two weeks in a year, so forty-eight weeks is eleven months.”
she replied. “And forty eight months is four years.” she added
with hefty sigh. I'd already worked that out for myself... and when
you're only eleven and a half, four years is an incredibly long time.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I know.” I gulped.
Still, it's only a Sunday School and it's only once a week. It'll be
really boring but it's not like I’d be doing a four year stretch in
Wormwood Scrubs.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum was livid with me
after my hearing. Not only have I been found guilty of reckless
vandalism, we've also got Social Services on our back which means
regular visits from a welfare worker. I'd been grounded indefinitely
by my mother, and aside from having to attend Sunday School, I'm also
subject to an official curfew. This means that I'm not allowed out of
my house between 6pm and 7am; Monday to Friday and between 6pm and
7am Friday to Monday, unless I'm accompanied by my mother or a named
minder.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Despite my name being
kept out of the local newspaper, all of my teachers and seemingly
most of the kids at school knew it was me that'd been caught
vandalising Cooper's Quarry and all of them frowned on me... all
apart from the kids I was with on that fateful night. They praised me
for not grassing and that made me feel a bit proud, but only a bit.
The prospect of attending Sunday School seemed so mundane that I
didn't bother telling any of my mates about it. I'm currently ranked
quite highly for not grassing them up and they'd only think it was
some sort of boring bible class and take the piss. I did tell them
about my curfew however... and that if I break it then all the police
and PCSOs would be out looking for me. It's highly inconvenient for
my social life but it does carry some kudos amongst my circle... and
I can still see my mates at school.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A couple of days later,
Mum mentioned something about a Sunday School uniform. “A
uniform?!” I retorted. “Why do we have to wear a uniform? It's
only Sunday School, it's not like it's<i> school</i> school.” I
sneered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You'll have to wear
a uniform because that's the rules.” Mum replied. “You remember
the last time you went to Sunday school and each week, there'd be a
handful of children who'd just been Confirmed?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah.” I
cautiously replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The boys always wore
smart trousers and a white shirt and tie.” Mum said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And the girls always
wore white dresses with white tights.” I reminisced.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They did.” Mum
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After a short silence,
I asked what that's got to do with the Sunday school I'll be going
to, reminding my mother that it's not a bible study group for
happy-clappy youngsters. Mum told me I was correct, then added that
the uniform is similar to what the children who'd been Confirmed
wore. “So it's just trousers and a white shirt?” I asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Not quite.” Mum
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Shirt and tie?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Nope.” Mum said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well what then?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Guess.” Mum said.
She was enjoying this.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I dunno.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... I mentioned
the boys in their smart trousers and white shirts...” Mum said, and
after a long pause she added, “...and you mentioned...”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The girl's wearing
dresses.” I shrugged.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The penny still hadn't
dropped. Mum's lingering expectant expression turned to one of
exasperation. “Sometimes Liam you're so dim that I wonder where I
got you from.” she impatiently sighed. “Everything needs to be
spelt out for you.” she gasped. “Right...” she began. “The
Sunday school you're being sent to is a correctional school. Yes?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped and nodded and
meekly said “Yes.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Being a correctional
school, it's very strict and has plenty of rules... rules by which
you must abide. Yes?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I guess.” I
mumbled.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And one of those
rules is that you have to wear a uniform.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er... if you say
so.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I do say so Liam.”
Mum snapped. “No one expects you to like the uniform but being a
correctional school, you have to wear it, like it or not.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah... I get that.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good. Now bear that
in mind... because everyone at this Sunday School, regardless of
whether they're a boy or girl, has to wear a dress.” she clearly
stated. My jaw dropped a little. I may have even shook my head. Mum
assured me with a slow shallow nod and a pursed smile.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I'm not wearing a
dress.” I stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you just said
that you understood that you have to wear the uniform whether you
like it or not.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yeah but... that was
before you said it was a dress... it's not a dress is it?... they
can't make us wear dresses... not the boys anyway...” all the while
my mother sat nodding. Eventually I said “Why?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I guess it
discourages the boys from wondering off if they're bored.” my
mother replied. “Put them in a dress and they should stay put.”
she added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I can imagine that
working, not that it makes the prospect any more palatable. “You're
not going to make me wear a dress are you mum?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's not up to me
Liam... I don't make the rules.” she reminded me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I dropped my head. “So
I have to wear a dress every Sunday for the next eleven months.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“At least.” Mum
replied. “You'll probably get used to it after a couple of weeks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I won't!” I
retorted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well maybe you won't
and maybe you will... you'll just have to wait and see.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A couple of days after
that, on a Friday I recall, I returned home from school and Mum
enthused, “There's something in your room for you.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What?” I
expectantly asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Go and have a look.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I dropped my school bag
and eagerly headed to my room. Mum wasn't far behind me. I don't know
why but the very last thing I expected to see was a white dress
hanging from my wardrobe door... I guess it was the tone that Mum
said 'there's something for you'... it hinted at something I'd
approve of. I stopped in my tracks. My jaw dropped. Mum's hands
rested on my shoulders. “I bought it today.” she said. “What do
you think?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It... it's
horrible.” I managed to murmur, before gulping so hard that I
almost swallowed my tongue.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I didn't expect
you to like it.” she said. “But I had to get you one before
Sunday.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You could have told
me!” I muttered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Would you have
rather chosen it yourself?” Mum asked. “Maybe tried a few on 'til
we found one you liked?” she suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No!” I whined. I
guess under the circumstances, it is best that she just went and
bought one whilst I was at school. I briefly imagined being shown
around a dress shop and Mum holding them against me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do you want to try
it now or wait 'til Sunday?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No!” I yelped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No, you don't want
to wait until Sunday... or no, you don't want to try it now?” Mum
asked</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't want to try
it now... or ever.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well Sunday it is
then.” she said. She removed the dress from its hook and admired
it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I noticed its buttons
on the back and gulped. I imagined myself being buttoned into it and
prepared myself to swipe it away if Mum went to hold it against me,
but she didn't. “Where are you going?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You don't want to
try it on so I'm putting it away.” she said, adding “Somewhere
that it won't get damaged before Sunday.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I couldn't get the
dress out of my head for the rest of the day... I’d only seen it
briefly but its image lingers in my mind; its collar, its sleeves,
its skirt and all those buttons tiny on the back. I imagine it being
quite tricky to remove myself. I maintain a glimmer hope that my
mother's just trying to scare me and that I won't really have to wear
a dress for Sunday School... but deep down, I know that I will.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I consider running away
from home, but that'd only land me in even more trouble and being a
mere eleven years of age, I knew that I wouldn't be able to fend for
myself. At least it gave me something else to think about. I imagined
hiding out in the woods, making a camp and foraging for mushrooms and
berries. I visualise being a real survivor like Bear Grills, but the
reality would be more Stig of the Dump. I wonder about stowing away
on a cargo ship, being found and made to mop the deck or being cast
ashore on a desert island with palm trees, pirates and treasure...
but round these parts the only boats are on the canal so I doubt I’d
get anywhere very quickly. I imagined myself as Oliver Twist..
heading for London and being taken in by Fagan's gang and making my
living thieving and begging... then I remember when Oliver wakes up
in the big posh house wearing a frilly white nightshirt... and all of
a sudden my meandering thoughts came to crashing end and an image of
me wearing that dress immediately pops into my head. I gulp and dread
the prospect of actually wearing it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Tomorrow is Saturday so
it'll be OK. It's Sunday I’m worried about. Since I'm under curfew
and in a whole lot of trouble... I'm not allowed to play video games
or watch any of the TV shows I like. I complained that I was bored.
“You could tidy your bedroom before you have your bath.” Mum
suggested. I claimed that my bedroom was tidy, and added that I had a
shower yesterday. “Well tidy your room again.” Mum impatiently
suggested, before telling me that I will be having a bath tonight.
“In fact it's bath night every night from now on.” she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I apathetically tidied
my room, which kept me occupied for all of five minutes. Mum
eventually ran the bath and watched over me, making sure I used the
nail brush and both shampooed and conditioned my hair. I felt like a
six year old, having to bathe in the presence of my mother. Mum said
she didn't care how I felt. “I'm not letting you out of my sight
until I know I can trust you again.” she informed me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I felt hard-done-by but
I couldn't blame her... but when I was sent to bed the moment that I
was out of the bath and dried, I mostly blamed my mother as I
grumbled myself to sleep. After a long dreamless night, I awoke<!-- Saturday -->.
And just as I'd done every morning since my hearing, I spent a
blissful few moments before remembering that I'm in big trouble and
everybody knows it. I shamefully mope downstairs and have a bowl of
cereal for breakfast. I asked if I would be allowed to watch SMTV but
it was a definite no. “What can I do then?” I moaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you can get
dressed for a start.” Mum suggested.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I skulked back to my
room and sulked on my bed for a moment. Being grounded is so boring.
I huffed and puffed and sighed before opening my drawer. “Mu-um!”
I hollered.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes Liam.” Mum
said, stepping into my room. She must have been right outside,
waiting.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Where've my pants
gone?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're in your
drawer.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're not mine!”
I claimed. The contents of my underwear drawer have changed since
yesterday... and quite significantly so.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes they are.” Mum
said. “They're new... I bought them yesterday when I bought your
dress.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I don't have to wear
my dress today do I?” I gulped.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No... that's for
tomorrow.” Mum told me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But...” I gulped
and peered back into my underwear drawer. “...these are girl's
undies.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They are.” Mum
replied. “They're also <i>your</i> undies... now come on, put some
knickers on...” she said, grabbing a pair and handing them to me.
“Then I'll show you how to fasten a bra.” she added, removing one
of those.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But... boys don't
wear bras.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's only a training
bra.” Mum replied, holding the garment from its straps. “It's not
a proper one.” she added, as if that made it any more acceptable.
After much huffing and puffing, I pulled on the knickers with great
reluctance. They're white with lacy trim and a little bow stitched on
the front. Mum showed me how to don the training bra and trying to
fasten the clasp behind my back was really fiddly. I complained that
I couldn't do it, but mum said “Honestly Liam, if a girl can do it
I'm sure you can!” as she fastened it for me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I hung my head as she
straightened the chest band and adjusted the shoulder straps for me,
then gave me a vest to wear over it... a girl's vest with lacy trim
and a little bow to match both my knickers and training bra. I felt
incredibly self conscious in my girlie underwear as Mum got out a
clean pair of jeans and a jumper. “Why do I have to wear girl's
undies under boy's clothes?” I moaned as I pushed my feet into my
jeans.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“So you won't forget
how much trouble you've got yourself into young man.” she told me.
“Here.” she said. Mum gave me a pair of socks; girl's ankle socks
no less. I stuck out my lip and pulled them on. The knitted diamond
pattern became apparent as it stretched over my foot and ankle.
There's no mistaking them for boy's socks and pleaded with my mother
to let me wear some of my old ones. “No one will see them when
you're wearing shoes.” she reckoned.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They might!” I
blurted, before launching into a tirade about it not being fair that
I have to wear a dress on Sunday and that she's being horrid by
making me wear knickers today....</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Mum told me that if I misbehave in anyway, she'll remove one item of clothing from my closet and replace it with an item of girl's clothing. -->Mum
told me that if I misbehave in anyway, she'll remove one item of
clothing from my closet and replace it with an item of girl's
clothing. “I don't want any back-chat, any whining or moaning, no
getting you knickers in a twist, no strops or tantrums... nothing but
your very best behaviour, all day, everyday.” she informed me.
“Otherwise you won't have any boy's clothes left... understood?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped and nodded.
Mum was right about me not forgetting about the trouble I’m in. I
might have forgotten that I wore a pair of knickers beneath my jeans
but the presence of my training bra was ever apparent. Being a
Saturday, Mum had to do the weekly shop so we drove into town. I
looked at my feet in the footwell and it's obvious that I'm wearing
girl's socks. I worried that someone might see them and hoped that no
one would. It should be OK once I'm walking, I figure. I recalled the
new contents of my underwear drawer and asked my mother if I had to
wear knickers everyday from now on... since there was nothing else in
there. Mum said I did. I gulped. “Even at school?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Mm-hmm.” Mum
replied.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped again. “But...
what about PE?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“This isn't back-chat
I hope?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No...” I whined.
“Honest.” I added.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good.” Mum said,
before telling that I don't have to worry about my classmates seeing
my knickers when I’m getting changed for PE because I won't be
doing PE at school for a while.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why not?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“To spare your
blushes.” she replied, grinning at me. “Plus... the other boys
might get jealous that their underwear isn't as pretty as yours.”
she added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I doubt it.” I
murmured.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The shopping trip
itself was uneventful. Mum went to the fishmongers and pie shop, a
home and garden store and Superdrug where she bought herself some
lipstick and a big tub of moisturiser before browsing some fashion
stores, then doing the 'big' shop in a supermarket. Normally I'd just
moan and wish she'd hurry up, but today I was unusually patient. I
did begin to moan when Mum wouldn't let me have my usual sugary
breakfast cereal and told me to grab a box of boring bran flakes
instead, but Mum reminded me that every time I moan or whine or
complain, she'll replace my boy clothes with girl's clothes, one item
at a time. “Good boy.” she said as I put the bran flakes in the
trolley. “You can stop sulking now... otherwise you might find
yourself wearing a nice nightie instead of your PJs whilst you're
eating them.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gulped and bit my
lip, knowing she wasn't joking. I spent the afternoon in a state of
complete boredom. Not allowed out, no TV, no video games, none of my
books inspired me as I've leafed through them numerous times in
recent days and the 'talk' radio station mum insisted on listening to
neither intrigued nor entertained me... and not being allowed any
snacks between meals only added to the tedious monotony. Having my
bath at 7.30pm was the most eventful thing I'd done since we returned
home from shopping... which should explain just how dull that
Saturday was. “What time does Sunday School start tomorrow?” I
asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Eight o'clock.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In the morning!?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well it's not going
to be eight o'clock at night is it?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No... I just thought
it'd be after church, around lunch time, like the last Sunday school
I went to.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's going to be
very different than that one.” Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What time does it
finish?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Four o'clock.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In the afternoon?!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes, in the
afternoon.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Eight hours! Blimey, I
thought. “What are we going to do for all that time?!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well I don't know.”
Mum replied. “I suppose you'll find out tomorrow.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I frowned. I wasn't at
all looking forward to it. “Can I watch some TV tonight?” I
asked, adding “Please” for good measure.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No Liam... it's
bedtime.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Now?!” I whined.
“But it's Saturday.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Bedtime is after
bath time and it doesn't matter what day it is Liam.” she informed
me. I stuck out my lip to make it clear that I wasn't happy about
having to go to bed before 8pm. “Sulk all you like young man.” my
mother said before sending me to my room and telling me that she
didn't want to see or hear from me before morning.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<!-- Sunday -->I sulked
myself to sleep and was woken by my mother. “What time is it?” I
yawned as she opened my curtains.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Ten to seven.” she
replied. “Come on... up!” she said, pulling my duvet off me.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's too early.” I
moaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You've got to be at
Sunday school for eight remember.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oooh.” I groaned.
I hadn't woken up enough to remember that prospect. “I don't really
have to wear that dress do I?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes, Liam, you
really do.” she sternly stated.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I ate breakfast in my
pyjamas, then went to the bathroom to wash up and brush my teeth.
When I returned to my room, Mum had laid the dress on my bed and was
rummaging through my underwear drawer, tossing a pair of knickers and
a training bra onto the bed. With great reluctance, I donned the
knickers, but unlike yesterday's pair which were quite close fitting,
these were baggy and gathered around the legs with frilly lace, and
running along the bottom half of the backside was six rows of
ruffles. I fiddled with the bra but Mum fastened it for me. “Arms
up.” she said, before dropping a white satin slip over my head. She
told me to put my socks on whilst she unfastened the buttons that run
down the back of my dress. “...and make sure the patterns are nice
and straight.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Once I had my socks on,
Mum held the dress open and I hesitantly stepped into it. I hung my
head in shame as she fastened the buttons. “These are really
fiddly.” she said and she slowly fastened them, one by one. It
seemed to take ages and once all the buttons were done, she wrapped a
broad white satin sash around my waist and tied it in a big bow.
“That looks nice.” she said, but I could only imagine how bad it
looked. Finally, she strapped a pair of girl's shoes to my feet and
like the rest of my outfit, they were also white, save for the shiny
silver buckles. They had heels, but not high ones, barely an inch I
guess, but they were heels none the less. I stuck out my lip and
began to sniffle as a tear tricked down my cheek. Mum wiped it away
and said that she understood why I was upset. “But remember Liam...
it was you who vandalised the garden at Cooper's Quarry and you who
chose not to reveal the names of your accomplices... so you've only
got yourself to blame.” she reminded me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thankfully there wasn't
a soul on the street as we exited the house and got in the car. Mum
had twisted my satin sash around to the front so it wouldn't get
squished between me and the seat and the big bow looked as bad as I’d
imagined. The Sunday school was in a part of town that I wasn't
familiar with, in a single story building with a wooden façade and
its windows covered with wire mesh to stop them getting smashed.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="639" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitAMqG-dwdTiZttQlDsYnjjeY28YdZoQAu8igHJrIwTyUBhCOfm3O6Pv7qiPoluxW9lev8YC_zH49t3M8PQdxP16EWaqdc5DXVr90cFUc0XS7IYugUOyXPgmGl1yYpDyvJP27Id8C6/s1600/sunday+school.jpg" /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It didn't look very
welcoming and neither did the area. Mum pulled into the car park but
I really didn't want to get out of the car... although I knew I’d
have to. When I had, she twisted my sash so the bow was at the back
and put a girlie white handbag over my shoulder. “What's that for?”
I moaned.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It's a handbag.”
she told me. “Your dress doesn't have any pockets so you need a
bag.” she said, before taking me inside. I gulp as I'm faced with
ten or twelve other kids, all wearing white dresses with either white
tights, knee or ankle socks and each carrying a white handbag. Their
dresses weren't identical, but they were similar... and all of them
bore a miserable expression on their faces.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A grown up approached
and Mum introduced herself. “You need to go in the other
entrance... out the door, to the left, round the side... there'll be
a queue.” the woman told us... so out we went, following her
directions around the building where a queue of about five kids
waited with a parent or guardian. Mum made small talk with the adult
nearest, about the weather mostly. The queue didn't move very
quickly... in fact we shuffled forward a couple of feet every five
minutes. Mum checked her watch and said I'd be late at this rate as
it's already five to eight.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When we finally got to
the front of the queue, I was asked my name and taken into a small
room. Mum followed. A buxom lady with a stern expression looked me up
and down. She asked if it was my first time and I nodded. “...and
you've brought your nappies?” she asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Errr...” I said,
thinking I'd misheard but knowing that I hadn't.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“In your handbag
Liam.” my mother said. It never crossed my mind to look inside the
bag, and when I did, there inside was several factory folded
disposable nappies.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“What are they for?!”
I asked. My voice was shaky, my hands shakier.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“They're for you
Liam.” my mother said. My jaw dropped as I turned to face her.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Face me boy!” The
buxom lady instructed me to give her one of 'my' nappies and with a
hesitant trembling hand, I did exactly as I was told.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Put your arms up
like this.” she said, raising her hands high above her head</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er...” I hesitated
but raised my hands, only for my mother to whip her hands under my
dress, pull my knickers down to my ankles before swiftly lifting my
skirt all the way up and holding me and my skirt in bear hug. The
lady quickly fitted the nappy as I wriggled and writhed in a futile
attempt to at least hinder its fitting. My knickers were pulled up
over the nappy... or so I thought. In the scuffle, they'd dropped off
my ankles and lay discarded on the floor. My mother let go of me and
told me to put my knickers back on. The buxom lady picked them up and
handed them to me.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Put them on Liam.”
my mother repeated. “Unless you don't want to cover your nappy.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why do I have to
wear a nappy?” I whined. “I'm eleven!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“The same reason you
have to wear a dress... it's the rules.” my mother replied. “I
don't make them. I don't necessarily like them either... but like
you, I have to abide by them.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I perched on a stool
and threaded my feet through the frilly leg holes, then stood and
pulled them all the way up. In the quick skuffle, I realised that the
lady had not only fitted my nappy but also pulled a pair milky see
through rubber knickers over it which left the pastel coloured design
on the front of the nappy perfectly visible. It's a butterfly and I
felt physically sick just looking at it. I wasted no time pulling my
big baggy knickers over it and realised that they're not knickers,
they're a nappy cover! Mum led me out of the changing room and the
next boy was called inside.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We entered the main
hall again where the children and parents/guardians loitered... all
the kids wore similar but not identical white dresses with either
white tights, knee or ankle socks and carried a small white handbag,
slung over their shoulder. Mum began to faff with the bow on my back.
“You actually look quite nice considering.” she said. “Hopefully
this experience will do you good.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“How can this do me
any good?” I asked.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well... if you'd
known that vandalising Cooper's Quarry would put you in a dress every
Sunday, would you have done it?” Mum asked. I shook my head and
hung it. “There you go.” she said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Do I have to wear
a... er... every Sunday too?” I glumly asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mum nodded.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“All day?!”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
She nodded again.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“But... what if I
need the toilet?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You do know what a
nappy is for, don't you?” she said. I gulped and hung my head.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A loud clap grabbed my
attention and that of everyone else in the hall. “Is everybody
present?” A lady said, before asking the boys and girls to
assemble. Mum shoved me forward and I did what the others did; stood
in one of several rows facing forward. The lady welcomed us to Sunday
school and told us that we've got lots of fun activities to look
forward to, and for the benefits of those of us who are here for the
first time, she listed some of the activities. The book group didn't
sound so bad, and 'games' was too ambiguous to draw a conclusion. The
group discussion on morality and misbehaviour sounded both serious
and complicated, but when she said “...and before we break for
lunch we'll do some dancing.” a shiver went down my spine. She told
us to assemble ourselves into three groups of seven and one group of
six. I glanced around nervously, as did all the others before
hesitantly gravitating towards each other. I joined the group that
had assembled closest to me. “Hi.” I timidly said. The others
muttered similar, unenthusiastic greetings.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At first I presumed all
the others were boys like me, in spite of the fact we're all wearing
white 'Sunday' dresses. There's twenty-seven of us in total, but only
four girls, one of whom is in my group. She looks as shy and as timid
as the rest of us, but at least she looks normal in her dress, even
if it is a big 'young' for her. I wonder if she's wearing a nappy
too, and the same of the others. Maybe it's just some us... I really
don't know. I cast my eyes to the edge of the hall where my mother
and other grown ups stood, but they'd all gone. Whether they were in
another room or had gone home, I didn't know.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One of the staff
attended our group and asked a couple of the kids if they'd enjoyed
Saturday Club yesterday. “Yes Miss.” they humbly replied. They
didn't sound very convincing.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And I understand
you'll be joining our after school club next week James.” she said
to one in particular. He gulped and nodded. “Right.” she said.
“Why doesn't our new boy introduce himself by telling us how he
came to join Sunday School.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er...” I croaked
as all eyes fell upon me. I wasn't prepared and in a nerve induced
stammer, I confessed to being part of the gang that vandalised
Cooper's Quarry. I was asked why he rest of the gang weren't here,
and I stuck to my story and claimed that I didn't know them, adding
that I was only one caught at the scene.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You mean you didn't
reveal their names.” the woman said. “That's very different to
not knowing their names, and we don't tolerate lies here.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I restated my claim and
was told that I'm not expected to reveal their names, but am expected
to tel the truth. After a little deliberation and an assurance that I
wouldn't have to reveal the names of my accomplices, I admitted to
knowing them. “Good.” the woman said to me. “You've made your
first step towards rehabilitation.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“James.” she said,
turning to the boy. “Why don't you tell the group why you'll be
attending the after school club next week?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Just as meekly as I,
James told his story and we all listened. “But, you know that the
activities are compulsory James... it doesn't matter if you don't
enjoy them or feel silly doing them.” the woman said, claiming that
the activities are all designed to benefit us, even if we don't
realise what that benefit is. “Hopefully you'll learn to join in
and play nicely at the after school club this week... and hopefully
you won't have to attend next week too.” she said in a patronising
tone.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It appears that if we
don't take part or engage with the activities at Sunday school, we
have to attend on Saturday's too... and if like James, you still
refuse to actively participate, then there's an after school club
too. Standing here today, in my girlie shoes & socks and my
pretty white frock is the worst thing I’ve ever endured... I can't
imagine the prospect of having to attend every day and James doesn't
look too happy about it either.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We were told to a grab
a stool each and assemble them in a semi circle. They're stacked at
the far end of the hall and I follow the others to fetch one and
can't help but observe their dresses. All wear white sashes around
their waist, tied in an ornate bow at the back. The bows bounce and
tails flutter as they briskly trotted toward the stools. Their skirts
sway this way and that and their shoes clack on the hardwood floor.
Some of their frocks are decorated with lace, some with frills and
some have puffed sleeves, straight sleeves or no sleeves at all. I
return with a stool and place it in position before perching upon it.
I'd somehow forgotten about my nappy until I felt it cushion me. The
boy next to me tells me not to sit on my sash. “Oh er...” I
meekly say as I arrange my bow so it hangs unhindered behind me, just
like the others.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The woman in charge of
our group perches on a stool and begins to read us a story; a
morality tale about a child with options but often takes the wrong
path. She asks questions and prompts us to think about our answer for
a moment first. Questions such as, <i>Do you think it was right or
wrong to give an honest opinion in X scenario</i>? or <i>How would
you have felt if someone embarrassed you with the truth</i>? I guess
the lesson was that there's a time for telling the truth and a time
for being tactful. For example, my mother asks if I like her new
hairdo, I should be complimentary rather than apathetic or worse
still, honest. If the police ask if I knew the kids I was with the
night I got into this mess, I should have said yes rather than lying.
I could have 'honestly' refuse to give their names, but denying that
I knew them was wrong... although I still had my reasons for lying
about that. “I'm sure you did.” the woman told me, before asking
how long I have to attend Sunday school for.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Er.... forty-eight
weeks.” I replied. “Minimum” I added.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And how long do you
think you'd have to attend had you not lied about knowing your
accomplices?” she asked. I didn't know. “Twenty-four weeks.”
she informed me, before claiming that if I'd named them too, I’d
have only been here for twelve weeks.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Three months, six
months, eleven months... it all seems like far too long, but in
retrospect, maybe I should have admitted to knowing them yet refused
to name them, that way I’d have only had to come for six months
instead of eleven. We spent the best part of an hour discussing the
ins and outs of the story she'd read, as well as discussing our own
misdemeanours and how we might have handled things differently. It
was a long boring hour to spend perched on a stool with no backrest.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Right... let's have
some fun shall we?” the woman suggested after we'd returned our
stools to the end of the hall. She asked for two volunteers and told
them to fetch the net-stands; two long poles on weighted bases
between which a badminton net hangs. We play balloon volleyball, but
since there's seven in our group, one stands out leaving an even
three on each side. But they don't just stand and watch... they're
given a skipping rope to play with until three points have been
scored, then they swap places with one member of the winning side.
Playing balloon volleyball is far more sedate than proper volleyball
but it's still good fun... I almost forgot I was wearing my dress for
a few seconds here and there. When it was my turn to stand out, I
confessed to not knowing how to skip when I was given the rope. “Well
the important thing is you try.” the woman told me... and try I
did. I also failed to get into the swing of it.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After five minutes out
of the volleyball game, I hoped I'd be able to put the rope down and
begin enjoying myself again, but the woman in charge of our group
suggested that I continue practising my skipping. “Every girl I
know can skip with a rope.” she said. “Why you boys struggle to
do play such a simple game I honestly don't know.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I continued trying and
failing to skip as the others in my group played balloon volleyball.
I felt like such a ninny in my prissy white dress, pelerine knee
socks and girlie shoes, struggling to do something that girls find so
simple. Afterwards, the woman asked if I have a skipping rope at
home. I shook my head. She suggested that I ask my mother to buy me
one and spend the week practising.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next activity was
the book group, and since it's my first time, all I can do is sit and
listen to the readings and discussions. One is reading a book called
Heidi, others read Malory Towers, Anne of Green Gables, The Lost
Princess, What Katy Did and Polyanna. They all sounded like boring
girl's books to me and listening the the passages read out, they were
definitely boring girl's books. At the end of the book group session
I was given a book to read. “Can I choose a different one?” I
asked, on being given a book titled A Little Princess.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You can have a
different one after you've read this one.” I was told. “Now put
it in your handbag so you don't lose it.” she said, before asking
if I’ve wet my nappy yet. I shook my head and felt myself begin to
blush. It's embarrassing enough having to wear one, let alone being
asked if I’ve wet myself in front of the others.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I have Miss.” one
of the others meekly admitted.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“OK.” the woman
said. “You can have a dry one after we've done some dancing.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This turned out to be
the worst activity of the day. The hour long English country dancing
class involved having to hold hands with a boy, curtsey and follow
the steps whilst some jaunty folk music blared out from a battered
old cassette player. I found myself stepping back and forth, twirling
in unison, skipping and prancing whilst my dress swished this way and
that... and I hated every minute of it. I felt like such a sissy and
by the looks of it, everyone else did too... girl's included.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We stopped for some
lunch and the boy who'd wet himself was directed the changing room
where I'd been battled into mine. At least ten others followed him,
including the girl from our group. I figured everyone does have to
wear one which somehow seemed more bizarre than just some of us. I
remember in primary school, there was one boy whom the teacher
claimed kept going to the toilet to get out of class... she got into
big trouble after making him wear nappy one day and refusing to let
him got to the bathroom. She may have felt justified in doing what
she did even if it was wrong. The boy really did have a weak bladder.
Why we have to wear nappies I've no idea. Making us boys wear dresses
makes sense because as Mum said, there's no way I’m going to run
off dressed like this.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We dine on triangular
sandwiches with the crusts cut off, washed down with weak cordial in
spill proof plastic beakers. Afterwards, we played balloon relay
which is more fun that it sounds... but after an hour of country
dancing, anything would be an improvement. Another sit and listen
session followed, which was long and tiresome and wasn't helped by
the fact that we had to sit on stools with no backrest. It was during
this session that I timidly raised my hand and told the woman that
I'd wet my nappy. She told me to wait until the end of the session. I
could have cried as I sat for twenty five minutes in a wet nappy, but
I didn't.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Having a wet nappy
removed at the age of eleven is the most embarrassing thing I've ever
endured... far worse than having to wear a dress. The lady who
changed it was very nice though. She told me that I was far too old
to be put into a nappy like a baby, and showed me how to put one on
like a big boy should. “Why do we have to wear nappies?” I asked
after fastening the humiliating garment around myself. This one has a
picture of some flowers on the front. “We're not babies.” I added
as she gave me a dry pair of rubber knickers.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Why do you have to
wear a dress?” she asked. “You're not a girl.” she added. I
sighed and shrugged and said I didn't know. “Oh I think you do...
you didn't end up at Sunday School for doing well at school did you?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No Miss.” I
reluctantly replied. I pulled on the rubber knickers. Their tight
elasticated leg holes bit into me. These were followed by my big
baggy knickers with their rows of lacy trim on the bum and even more
ruffled lace around the legs. They're not so baggy over my nappy. I
returned to the main hall where the others were playing lava floor. A
variety of mats, benches, tables and chairs had been arranged in a
maze formation and the game is to go all the way around, stepping
from mat to table to bench to chair without touching the wooden
floor. The whole point is that it's tricky and that's what makes it
so much fun.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Have you enjoyed
yourself?” my mother asked when we were dismissed. “You looked
like you were having fun.” she added, having watched the last ten
minutes of us playing lava floor.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You must be Liam's
mother.” one of the staff members asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes.” Mum replied.
“How's he got on?” she asked.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh, fine for a first
timer.” the woman replied. “He's been trying to skip with a rope
but needs a bit more practice... I suggested he ask you to get him a
skipping rope to play with at home.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Oh, er yes... of
course.” Mum replied.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“He's got a book to
read too, so he'll be able to actually participate in the book group
next week.” the woman said to my mother. She turned to me and
added. “...so you need to make sure you read it.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Yes Miss.” I
meekly said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The woman turned back
to my mother and made me blush by informing her that I've had one
nappy change and that I should still be dry, before asking me if I
was. I gulped and blushed and nodded. “...and he's been shown how
to put his own nappy on so next week, we shouldn't have to put him in
one.” she said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They said their
goodbyes and we left. I didn't even notice that I’d been holding my
mother's hand until we got to the car and she told me to let go. “Can
I put my own clothes on when we get home?” I asked as she started
the engine. “Oh mu-um.” I whined. “I've worn this all day!” I
said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And you'll wear it
for the rest of the day.” she replied... and that's exactly what I
did.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The following week,
Sunday school was much the same apart from three things; One, I
arrived already wearing my nappy having reluctantly donned it myself.
Two, I was a little more adept at skipping with a rope... and three,
I had to read aloud a passage from A Little Princess in book group
and answer questions about it. I'd read the entire book in a week,
hoping I’d get something better, but was told that I'd have it for
a month and was advised to read it again, making sure that I gave it
my full attention rather than quickly skimming through it. It wasn't
that bad I guess. I felt sorry for Sarah, loosing both her father and
her privileged lifestyle... but even after being forced to work as a
maid, she never lost her dignity. It reminded me of the first time I
had to sit and wait for my wet nappy to be changed. Looking like a
little girl, feeling like a toddler... and trying my best to preserve
my dignity by not crying like a baby in front of everyone. Although I
kept that out of my short talk on the book.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The country dance class
involved a clapping routine which is really hard if like me, you
don't know the routines... but the women who manage the Sunday School
keep saying things like <i>there's nothing wrong with not being good
at something, practice doesn't always make perfect, trying to be
better is better than being better</i>... and all sorts of other
stuff that I dong really 'get', but the basic message is that we try
our best. In the afternoon, between the<i> sit and talk</i> sessions,
I was paired up with one of the girls who was charged with teaching
me some clapping routines which each had their accompanying rhyme. I
couldn't practise the routines at home on my own but I could rehearse
the rhymes, and I was told to learn the first ten by heart I time for
next week's session.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At least I didn't have
to wear my dress on the other days, but I did wear my knickers
everyday, even at school. Mum would make me wear a training bra after
changing out of my school uniform and expected me to wear until
morning. I always took it off at night but Mum would check and wake
me... telling me to put it on so after a while I just kept it on
rather than being disturbed around midnight. Mum claimed that it's
the same for all the boys at Sunday school, adding that some of them
have to wear their nappies for bed as well as a training bra. “Why?”
I asked. “We're all too big to wet the bed.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Probably because
they kept taking their training bra off when they were told to keep
it on.” Mum smugly said. Just like the dresses we were at Sunday
school stop us from running off, the girlie undies I wear from Monday
to Saturday serve as a constant reminder of Sunday school and
supposedly stops us from forgetting what we're learning. I suppose
I’m lucky that I don't have to wear it at school too... or a nappy
at night either. There's already a big pack of them under my bed and
I believe that the fact that I willingly wear them on Sunday is why I
don't have to wear them more often. Some of the others complain about
nappy rash and have to wear a special cream, but they're the ones who
go to Saturday club and the after-school clubs too, and therefore
wear theirs a lot more often than I wear mine.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My mates questioned why
I wasn't doing PE class all of a sudden, and I told them that I’ve
'apparently' got Asthma. I spun a line that I had a medical check
when I got arrested and it was discovered then, and claimed that the
doctor said that I can't do PE in spite of me feeling fine. I
discussed this lie at Sunday School because that's what we're
encouraged to do, and the tutor dissected the excuse I'd used. She
explained that in a roundabout way, I’d actually told the truth and
changed a couple of facts. “You substituted Sunday school for
asthma, you did have a medical check when you were arrested, but not
the sort that would reveal you had asthma, and you substituted your
mother pulling you out of PE class, for a doctor.” she said,
calling it a defensive lie. “None of your school friends need to
know about Sunday school... unless of course they end up here.” she
said.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And there's another
reason why I really can't grass my friends up... if I do they'll know
exactly what I’ve been doing every Sunday because they'll be doing
it too. I imagine after that scenario, they'd all gang up on me at
school the next day and quite literally kill me! May not actually
killed, but I imagine I’d get beaten up, and badly.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After attending for a
couple of months, I resigned myself to the fact that this is what I
do every Sunday. I don't like it, I don't look forward to it and I'd
rather not have to do it... but I know I've got to go and whilst I’m
there I've got try my best. Otherwise I'll face having to attend the
Saturday club and potentially the after-school club too. From the
group discussions, I learnt that the Saturday club is such the same
as Sunday school but includes a two hour ballet class and everyone,
boys included, all wear a pink leotard, pancake tutu and white tights
with pink shoes. The rest of the time they wear 'normal' girl's
clothes; being a dress, skirt & top, even shorts and partake in
the usual discussion groups, games and a drama class.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The after-school club
involves doing their homework and little else, and unlike Saturday
Club and Sunday School which are hosted at the run-down community
centre on the rough side of town, it's held at their own school! I
dread the thought of having to attend that. The boys and girls who do
each discreetly carry their two nappies, rubbers and frilly nappy
covers in their school bag all day long. The after-school club is
separate from other extra-curricular activities and detention groups
and so far as I can make out, isn't really talked about. Stands to
reason really... if had to go to a specific room after school every
day and don a girl's uniform to spend three hours quietly doing my
homework whilst wearing a nappy, giving me no excuse to leave my
desk... I certainly wouldn't be making a song and dance about it.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So here I am, after a
few months of Sunday school, trying my best to be honest yet tactful,
to play fairly and nicely with the others, to dance and skip to the
best of my ability, to engage myself in the reading and discussion
groups and immerse myself in the books we're given to read... if I
don't give it my all on Sunday I’ll have do it all weekend, and
I’ll do all I can to avoid attending that dreaded two hour ballet
class.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The second book I was
given to read was Heidi and it was really really boring. I had it for
a month and read it from cover to cover five times. I'm currently
reading Anne of Green Gables, which is bigger and better but still
not great... but just like A Little Princess and Heidi, there's
supposedly lessons to be learned from the events and adventures the
protagonists have... and every one is discussed on Sunday. The books
may be boring but at least they're better than bible study.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After six months, I
attend a meeting with my probation officer to see how I’m getting
along. Having been told that honesty is paramount, I can honestly
tell him that I don't enjoy Sunday School one little bit. It's
humiliating and embarrassing and I can't wait 'til the day that I no
longer have to attend. But until that day comes, I put myself into my
nappy every Sunday morning before letting my mother button me into my
dress and I don't complain about it... I daren't. The probation
officer is pleased that I can finally admit to knowing the
accomplices who'd vandalised Cooper's Quarry and accepted my apology
for lying in the first place. He didn't pressure me to reveal their
names though, not that I would if he had.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The only good thing
about Sunday School is the fact that none of my friends know anything
about it. I wouldn't know what to do if they found out but I have a
feeling what they'd do if they did. I'd be shunned and teased,
taunted and berated, bullied and belittled... day after day after
day.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I thought nothing of
getting home from school, changing out of my uniform and donning my
training bra before some casual clothes. Even going to sleep and
waking up in the unnecessary garment felt normal. I can barely
remember how it felt stepping into boy's undies, let alone wearing
them. My knickers are either big and baggy or tight and stretchy yet
always pretty, with lace or ruffles, frills and a bow. As well as my
girlie knee socks I've also got tights now and there's all sorts of
different types; woolly ones, thin ones, skin coloured ones,
patterned ones, a lacy pair, a pelerine pair and several different
deniers. I prefer them to socks, especially now the temperature's
dropped and even wear a nice warm pair under my boy's clothes
sometimes. I carry a spare pair in my handbag, along with my nappies,
rubbers and reading book, just in case the pair I’m wearing get
snagged, laddered or damp.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As my forty-eighth week
approached, my probation officer came to the Sunday School to observe
my progress. I did everything right, from playing nicely with the
others and trying my best when we did the country dancing, to being
confident and positive in the discussion groups. He gave me a glowing
report to give to the authorities, then dropped one final thing in my
lap. “Are you ready to reveal the names of the others Liam?” he
asked. “It's not too late to prosecute them, and if what you say is
true, and I believe it is, they did most of the vandalising.” he
said. I asked what would happen if I did reveal their names. “They'd
go before the magistrate, just like you did, and they'll probably end
up here, attending Sunday School.” he explained.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“And if I don't?”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Well you were told
that you'd attend for no less than forty-eight weeks...” he
reminded me. “...and no more than forty-eight months.” he said.
“Failing to reveal their names will mean that you'll continue to
attend beyond the minimum term of forty-eight weeks.”</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I didn't have to give
him and answer there and then. He told me think long and hard about
it and we'd revisit the issue on my forty-eighth Sunday School
session. I did think long and hard but ultimately, I chose not to
reveal their names... even if that does mean having to attend Sunday
school until I'm fifteen years old, it's better than the
repercussions of me grassing on them. Not to mention them finding out
exactly what I go through each and every Sunday, from donning my
nappy and being buttoned into a dress, to skipping and dancing and
playing clapping games and in part, actually enjoying it. No
thanks... even if it does mean each of them going through the exact
same routine. I'll keep this to myself and prey that no one else from my school gets caught doing something bad enough to get sent here as well.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />PJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02470641669916538608noreply@blogger.com7