The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1720 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I reminded Si that he’d suggested taking Danny to the cricket, so he said he’d look into it, possibly a test or a county game if that wasn’t possible. I didn’t know if Danny had ever been to a professional game, certainly he enjoyed playing schoolboy stuff, and his white flannels got plenty of grass streaks on the knees, which required some treatment before washing them. Thankfully, I’d delegated that job to Jacquie who seemed quite happy to do mindlessly boring tasks. She told me that in doing them at the secure unit she’d been on, it helped her forget the things they did to her. I felt mean after that, but she assured me that she enjoyed doing things for us. I reminded her that she was now one of the family and that she wasn’t to see herself as anything else. I got a hug and a kiss for that.

On the Friday morning of the Jubilee weekend, I took the girls to school, it was half term next week, and after dropping them said to Sammi, “Okay, we have half an hour to get to your GP, which one is it?”

“Dr Smith–don’t know him, only saw him once when I registered.” I asked for the address and was pleased to hear it was the same doctor I saw; mind you, he’s going to think GID is epidemic in Portsmouth.

We got there with ten minutes to spare, and she flapped and fluttered in the car. “Just relax, he’s a nice guy and he’s seen gender problems before.”

“You know him?”

“Yes.”

“Will you come in with me?”

“I don’t know if that’s appropriate–it’s supposed to be confidential and all that.”

“You would with Trish and Livvie.”

“Yes, I would with them, but I’m their mother.”

“Please, Mummy, will you come in with me?”

“Alright, but only if Dr Smith is happy with it. Okay?”

“Thank you. Do I look alright?” She nervously brushed at her hair and licked her lip gloss.

“You look fine, c’mon or we’ll be late.”

Sammi registered her arrival and got the receptionist a little flustered, then she saw me and I suppose it began to make sense–the woman who turns boys into girls.

“Sam Cotton, room two, please,” called the receptionist.

“Please, Mummy,” she said and grabbed my hand.

I rose and followed her into room two. Dr Smith looked at our heroine dressed in short dress with footless tights and ballet pump shoes. Then he looked up and saw me following behind. “Lady Cameron, this is a surprise–come in, do–please sit.”

Sammi explained her problem and with my prompting confessed to buying oestrogens over the internet. That was the only thing that made Dr Smith grimace. He took some bloods and agreed to prescribe some oestrogen because she’d been taking it already but on the understanding that what he prescribed would be all that she could take. He’d also refer her on to a psychiatrist who had some experience of gender problems.

On the proviso that she attended a specialist in gender problems, he’d change her name on the computer and also her gender. That really made her day. So when we left she was walking on cloud nine.

I told her that I had some shopping to do, but that there was something else she could do if she wanted. “What, Mummy?” I was resigned to all and sundry calling me that, if an older person does it, I’ll slap them.

“Would you like to change your name, officially, that is?”

“It costs a fortune, doesn’t it?”

“No, and only takes a few moments.”

“It does?”

I lifted the file from the back seat, “I printed off a pro forma from the internet and all you have to do is sign it in front of a solicitor, takes a few minutes.”

She looked over the form and I handed her my fountain pen. She filled in her current name and what she wanted to change it to and then we drove off to the solicitors. We went to a large firm in the town centre and they just found someone who was free to witness the signature, ask them a few questions and get them to repeat the declaration. I paid the fiver required and she came out clutching the piece of paper.

“I’m really Samantha, now?”

“Yep, so we’ll have to notify the university–send them a copy, and anyone else you need to inform.”

“Do you have a copier?”

“My printer does all that, scans, copies, sends faxes, delivers babies...”

She laughed at my silliness and we went off to grab a quick cuppa and cake of some sort. It was good to see her finally relaxing and enjoying herself. We went back to Asda to do the food shop for the weekend and I added to her wardrobe, another suit–while we’d been having coffee and a Danish, Simon had texted and told her she had an interview on Wednesday as an assistant PA to one of the managers in Portsmouth.

I got her to try on some office type tops and couple of blouses, plus a couple more bras and some more tights.

“What’s all this for, Mummy?”

“While we’re here we might as well fill up your wardrobe as well. I don’t come here too often.”

She gave me a suspicious look but tried on the clothes and modelled them for me–she looked okay–quite the little office worker. We did the rest of the shop and returned home where I fed baby Cate and Sammi showed Jacquie her statutory declaration.

She also showed her her new clothes. “Very nice, so you going to work in an office or something?” asked Jacquie.

“No such luck,” replied a despondent Sammi, “and who’s gonna employ me?” Her mood fell like a stone.

“No one with that attitude, but if you get your act together, on Wednesday, you’ve got an interview with the bank for a temporary job.”

Her jaw dropped, “What? I’ve got an interview?”

“Yes as an assistant PA to one of the managers.”

“You knew about this before we bought the suit, didn’t you?”

“On the grounds that that information is classified, I’m not going to answer it.”

“You had a text while we were at coffee.”

“So, I get lots of texts.” Just to prove it, my phone beeped again. I checked it, “Julie’s out tonight, d’you two want to go with her?”

“Out where?” they asked almost simultaneously then laughed.

“Better ask her that, probably a pub and possibly a club afterwards.”

“Uh, no thanks,” said Jacquie.

“It might do you good to get out a bit, Jacquie,” I offered.

“Think I’d better pass on it too, Mummy,” replied Sammi and Jacquie looked at her curiously for using the M word. I sighed, all we needed now was some jealousy. It’s bad enough at six, at eighteen or twenty it can be pretty bloody.