As I lay in bed, something was niggling at me; apart from every time I closed my eyes I could see the snow reddening with the boy’s blood. What was it? What was niggling at me.

I sort of dozed, not enough to call sleep, and I suppose my mind was churning away all the time. I saw myself listening to Trish and Mima talking, and Trish repeated, “Ker-splatt”. That was it. Girls wouldn’t normally say such a thing. That worried me even more. What if Trish wasn’t GID? I got up and went to make some tea.

While I was in the kitchen, Stella came down. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I keep seeing that young kid who died.”

“Any more tea there?”

“Yeah, help yourself,” I replied.

“It’s always nasty watching someone young die. When I did my stint in paediatrics, I saw two kids go. One just slipped away with tremendous grace and courage, just as if he was going to sleep. He knew he was dying, but it didn’t worry him one bit. The other went kicking and screaming, probably because the parents were drama queens.”

“I’m sure it makes a difference,” I said pausing to sip my tea, “but I suspect I’d be pretty upset if anything happened to my two.”

“Your two girls, they look pretty healthy, don’t they?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Is that all that’s worrying you?”

“Yeah–no, well it’s such a stupid little thing.”

“They usually are, I’m terrified where I’ll be when my waters break.”

“Just carry a bucket everywhere.”

“You bitch,” she spat at me then laughed. “So what is it?”

“Something Trish said.”

“What did she say, she wants to be a boy, or play rugger for England?”

“No, nothing that obvious; she described the accident and when the boy hit the tree, said, ‘ker-splatt’, quite loudly.”

“Ugh! Apart from horrible, what’s the problem?”

“Most girls, wouldn’t say that, would they?”

“I don’t know, what with binge drinking and violence, they seem every bit as bad as the boys.”

“Those are teens or young adults, not children. How many girls, and I mean children, do you know who would say that?”

Stella sipped her tea while she thought. “Okay, so you made your point. Here’s another, she was brought up as a boy until just now. Also, she’s a biological boy, with a female gender fixation, she’s not one hundred per cent female, neither is anyone else, unless you count Julian Clary.”

I nearly choked on my tea. Julian Clary is a gay man who is as camp and swishy as they come. He’s a comedian and television presenter, who makes Boy George look butch. When I’d finished coughing, I laughed. Stella can be so funny when she’s in the right mood.

“Have you noticed any other masculine traits, because I haven’t?” she continued.

“No, probably I’m oversensitive, I just didn’t want her to be making a mistake.”

“It’s not as if she’s having surgery for a little while, is it.”

“Little while? Maybe thirteen years, although I saw something on the net about some kid in Germany who got done at sixteen. Kim somebody or other, she’s a bit of a pop star, quite a pretty little thing–sixteen, going on twenty-five.”

“You’re a pretty little thing, going twenty-five.”

“Ha ha, very funny Stella.”

“Why can’t you take a compliment? You're one of the prettiest women I know, with a magical figure. Why can’t you see that?”

“Okay, enough of the sermon, please. I know I keep promising to change my attitude, but it takes time. I am trying.”

“Say that again.”

“I am trying.” I repeated smirking.

“If I wasn’t a lady and six months up the spout, I’d slap you one, you self deprecating bitch. Oh dear, I’m talking like a boy, maybe I am one really, the pregnancy is a delusion.”

“It’s a pretty good one, ‘cos it had me fooled and the scanner.”

“Well you’re just an ugly mug, so you’re easily fooled.”

“I’m glad we agree on that, Stella.” She glowered back at me, I’d turned the tables on her and was enjoying it. The only problem was going to be getting back to sleep. It was nearly two and I felt wide awake.

Stella was talking and I hushed her. I heard the noise again, and went to the stairs, one of them was crying. I ran up the unlit staircase and nearly fell over the top step. I went into the bedroom and stood quietly, someone was breathing very rapidly. I expected it to be Mima, upset by the accident, but it seemed to be coming from Trish’s bed.

I listened intently, she was moving about quite a lot, then she whimpered again, “No, Mummy, don’t put me on the sledge.”

I moved to comfort her, and stroked her head, “It’s okay sweetheart, no one is going to put you on a sledge, you just go back off to sleep and dream of something nice.”

“Yes, Mummy,” she replied sleepily and seemed to go back to a quieter sleep, at least her breathing was becoming more regular. I went to the loo and checked them again, they were both asleep. I went off to my bed and after reading the leader in the Guardian, yawned and put my light out.

I dreamt I was in a busy supermarket with Stella, and the two girls. I seemed as fat as a pig. Suddenly, I felt moisture between my legs and I couldn’t stop it, I waddled off to the toilets dragging the others with me, by which time it was running down my legs. “What’s the matter?” asked Stella.

“My waters have broken,” I said and she laughed uproariously.

“Now you know how I felt.”

“My knickers are all wet,” I said and unconsciously must have felt them, because I woke up at three and my knickers were wet, I’d weed myself. I changed the bed and read some more of the Guardian, now it was four and I was feeling quite punchy. All my own fault, except for the bit about the accident. That got me seeing the poor kid again with his brains hanging out and blood pouring from the wound.

Okay, I couldn’t actually see any grey matter, but I’m pretty sure he was bleeding from his ears. Oh think of something else, next time, let someone else see to it.

I woke up with two bodies clamped to me, and the phone ringing. Mima hopped out of bed before I could come around properly. “This is me who’s you?” she said down the phone. “Daddeeee,” she yelled. “Mummy, it’s Daddy.” She put the receiver back to her ear, and nodded in response to something Simon was saying to her.

I wriggled out of bed, with Trish clinging on to me and giggling. I tickled her and she let go and squealed. I took the phone from Mima. “Simon?”

“Hi, Babes, how ya doin’?”

“I’m okay,” I yawned, “Why are you ringing so early?”

“Early? It’s after nine, Babes.”

“It’s what?” I squeaked, glancing at the clock; it was nine twenty. How had I slept until then? Tiredness?

“Come on sleeping beauty, get your act together.”

“Why are you calling? Is something wrong?”

“We have a little problem with your form.”

“What form?”

“Your gender thingy form.”