Coincidence, Luck or Fate?

The Fates of the ancient Greeks plotted and wove the threads of mankind. The Furies dealt with the tangles caused by the choices of those mere mortals. [Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos; Tisiphone, Alecto, Megaera]. You meddle with Fate and Fury alike at the risk of them noticing you. That’s a real risk.

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I’ve always been a man’s man. Beer, (well, any sort of alcohol), late nights out with the boys, cars, sport (absolutely any sort of sport but actually taking part not so much just watching), girls (real or if not then imaginary), lots of talking about sex again (that’s to say talking about it again). You know what I mean.

Women and girls had no big interest for me. Nor even ladies (if there actually are any ladies, I too rarely met any who could be labelled thus). I spent more energy on wine and song than I ever did on women. I saw them as a necessary inconvenience, no that’s too blunt. I like women but I can’t seem to generate any rapport with them. Somehow, what I do and how I am just doesn’t make it happen that they become interested in me or that I become interested in them.

Friendly women did and do exist. I enjoy them but turning them into ‘more than friends’. Or intimate friends or getting to have sex, let alone, getting to have a meaningful relationship including sex – that didn’t happen.

They were an occasional interest to replace far too much masturbation. So I was a loner, an ex-geek with minimal social skills, not many friends and too much time on my hands (so to speak). If I had been named Simon, I knew that if someone talked about Simple Simon, somehow the label would attach to what I did or how I behaved. Instead I was Jude – and after a while, everyone gave me the label I had at school especially by those who had never read the book - ‘Jude the Obscure’.

My job was a good one working at a metals dealership in the city. It paid excellently and had allowed me to take on a super flat in Docklands overlooking the Thames. I lived well, worked hard, played hard and thought myself to be a top man. Except when I looked a little harder at my childhood ambitions and realised by how much I had failed so far to achieve any of my aims. I was not a millionaire. I was not surrounded by gorgeous women. I was not in a solid relationship with a comfortable home and the promise of a future. I didn’t have a job that I enjoyed. I wasn’t recognised as being ‘good value’ or even as a ‘solid citizen’. I was beneath notice. Not beneath contempt - but even that didn’t happen. Nobody noticed me for good or bad.

I had listened too often to Arlo Guthrie’s FBI song – Y’now you think ‘I’m doing better than he is’ and he may be thinking ‘I’m doing better than HE is’ .... just think of the last man – he’s so alone in the world he doesn’t even have a street to lay in for a truck to run him over.’

It was yet another Friday evening after work. I had spent too long in the bar with my not-so-mates from work. I had drunk more than I needed and quite often I had built myself up to think about chatting up again the lovely woman I could see at the end of the bar. Yeah, the sentence should have been written ‘thinking again’, duh, not ‘chatting up again’.

Back in the wine bar, I did it. I actually did. I actually managed to walk more or less casually towards her and say ‘Would you allow me to buy you a drink, madam.”

Oh the suavity, the style, the skill, the success – not.

“Spouting polite words from a dribbling mouth is not how you should ask a lady to give you a moment of her attention!” The words were not said with any especial venom or dislike – but every syllable she uttered made it clear that I was barely a fraction above contempt.

“I beg pardon, lady.” I offered a hifalutin’ attempt at a verbal grovel. It was wasted.

Even her reply was weary. “I’m tired, fed up and mildly irritated. I haven’t the energy to teach you better manners and barely the willingness even if I had the energy. You tire me. Go away.”

I went. But only as far as the seat near the fireplace. From there I kept an eye on her. Was I being hopeful? Was I being stupid? I just needed to do it.

Over the next hour, several other men approached her. It was evident from their reaction that she rebuffed them with considerably more severity than I had been subject to. I wondered why she stayed if this was what she endured more than occasionally.

As the maybe seventh hopeful suitor ( I’d lost count) departed with his tail between his legs, I caught her eye and raised my glass. If I had hoped for a flicker of grateful response then that was not what I got. The glare, the acid tinged rebuke that I knew was on her lips – I didn’t stay.

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It was more than a month before I saw her again. I had had a better week and a less strenuous evening so decided to tempt fate when I saw her sitting alone at the bar. I made my way to her, more carefully and cautiously than before.

“This evening, would the offer of a drink be taken more agreeably – or shall I leave before my request is spoken?”

“ This evening, young man, you may attend with greater ease and even confidence than before. I am tired but not as last time and my irritation levels are merely at a low simmer.”

I have no idea why, but I tried once more to be stylish in my reply. “That can be how a week comes to an end – when tasks are not quite complete, deadlines are stretched, inconsiderate bosses have been pulling from above and ineffectual underlings have been pushing from below and we will not mention the customer who allegedly must be always right.”

A flicker of a smile might have touched her lips – but not her eyes. “With a glib and perhaps rehearsed phrase, you do cover the salient points of an irritated state which is spoiling my preference for TGIF. I am grateful it’s Friday but I could be more pleased and I could be more pleasant company.”

“Then I won’t take up any more of your time. But I will offer my card so that, at a better time, we might share a libation.”

“You talk of a libation? To which gods might that be offered?”

“Take your pick, Ahriman to Zeus via Ishtar, Moloch and Zebedee. I do not believe the myths and legends and, to be a little more blunt about so-called gods and their man-created rules, I care not for much other than ‘Do as You would be Done by’ as a motto for daily life and the majority of my ethics.”

“Bold words. Bold words. To give such little thought to the principles of life and to believe so little in the gods. And I further advise you that you should not mention any god lightly. To amend your Shakespeare, there are more gods in heaven and earth than you know.”

“I try to be kind, and tonight I judged that this night you might accept a little kindness.”

“You would be amazed how kindness can affect the threads of life.”

“Er, if I knew what that meant then I could continue this conversation.”

“Never mind. Tonight I thank you for your offer and say ‘maybe next time’. And here is my card.“

Taking the order to depart as unspoken but immediate, I took the card and began to walk away admiring the calligraphy and the overall quality. Stylish, bold, impressive and feminine were the words that came to mind. A different corner of my mind murmured ‘how accurate, how suitable’.

Megan Fury of AMT Assessment Bureau, with telephone and email. I noticed that there was no address and raised an eyebrow and turned half-back.

The lady, Megan, murmured “We tend not to put an address. This ensures that we attend our clients rather than they approach us.”

I completed my turn and spoke again with a hint of a question in my tone. “But you have enough clients to give you the need to, let’s say, unwind at the end of a week?”

“The end of the week can coincide with the ending of sufficient tasks, that’s true. And some tasks, to use your phrase - let’s say’- are more rewarding than others. We, that is, myself and my two sisters, do take considerable care both with our assessment and our judgement.”

“Do you have any special talents that put you into your particular line of business?”

“Oh, yes, dear boy. We have years of experience even in realms no longer visited by most people. Years of experience in places and with people beyond the understanding of ordinary folk.”

Some of her phrasing was kind of exotic.

“But enough of this pleasantry for tonight. I am wearied of this idle chatter and you would not wish to be near me were I to demonstrate my irritation. For thy sake, get thee hence and wait for a more suitable occasion. I know that there will be one such but not for a while. Depart, Mr Jude Mansfield.”

“With an instruction that, er, explicit, I hear and obey, Lady Megan. Until a later time. As I depart, I shall wonder how you knew my name.”

“Perhaps you gave me your card on a previous occasion. Or I have resources unbeknown.”

I knew that I had only ever met her once before – and I had not given her my card.

Time passed.
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I went on with my life. Work was alright, edging towards unsatisfactory. My boss was a woman and, for some reason, she was getting to dislike me more and more by the day. It had started some months ago. By hindsight, there was an opportunity for a opening, albeit junior, in the department and I learnt that her sister had applied expecting to get the job. Somehow there was also a rumour that I was expected to leave soon. This would have ensured both instant promotion and better salary for those around and below me. And yet I had no plans to leave.

Gradually, it became obvious that my work was being very harshly assessed. Good work was claimed as hers by my boss, Ms Gail Moss. Bad work by her was blamed on me. It wasn’t good. I did overhear her one day complaining as she left the office. “I hate men working for me. I so much prefer to work with women. And that Jude – sometimes I’d swear he’s a woofter. His gestures – sometimes. And he talks better than I do – I really don’t need many more reasons to stitch him up. I give him a couple of months – max.”

I did not like hearing that.

I began to find myself commenting on the situation. “I’m really feeling under pressure. In some circumstances, no, not some circumstances. She’s taking ordinary office politics into actual bullying and abuse. I can’t do anything about it. She’s doing things that are adequately satisfactory for the company and her bosses but completely out of order as regards being a human. If I had a chance to teach her a thing or two – wouldn’t I go for it. But perhaps not so much retaliation or revenge, just showing her the error of her ways.’

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Then, just days later, I overheard another couple of friends at the office coffee-bar – at least I thought they were friends. It took some time to realize that they were talking about me.

“What’s up with all these rumours. The Tornado’s been making some really blunt comments about one of her staff. He can’t be as bad as she says. He was okay until she arrived. It can’t be her, as she’s got a fantastic reputation. Even if it’s just a personality conflict, something’s going to have to give. And that means he’ll go rather than her.” ITALIC Much later I realized that The Tornado referred to Gail - that was the quality of office humour.

“I don’t really care about her or him. I’m more worried about the undercurrent that the whole company is under threat. Chuck says there’s been some iffy advice from Tornado’s department and he’s out for blood. “ I didn’t hear any more as they moved out of earshot.

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About a month or nearly two went past. Another evening came and my circumstances had altered greatly. My job had come to an end as the company teetered on the edge of bankruptcy after a series of disastrous speculations. My boss had continued her manipulations and ensured that I was going to be one of the first to get the push. My flat had depended on the income I had been making. So of the major planks to a person’s life, both work and home were no longer existent.

I had grown up with a belief that a man’s life is better structured if he has all the available scaffolding to both hold him up or to catch him if one segment fails. Family, Job, Finances, Social, Local and so on. Several of my parents’ friends had died and, too often, part of their diagnosis had been ‘there’s nothing to keep us going now that everything has fallen apart’.

My parents had died, one of a heart attack, the other of boredom within the year. Siblings had I none. Cousins neither as both parents had only unwed siblings who failed at any physical bastardry, being merely bastards by attitude and habit. I did not care for them and our lives barely touched.

No job so no finances; no house so no base or location; no family so no backup ……

My social life, already poor, had disintegrated with the decline in cash. I had never realized how much and how many of my friends had, in effect, been bought. My semi-regular rugby involvement had gradually faded as I took out my anger on colleagues and opponents alike. I really don’t know why I even bothered to go back to that bar. Oh yes, I had been promised a casual interview to see how I was getting along – or not.

And there at the bar, was Megan Fury. Looking directly at me as if I was expected and awaited.

“I’ve been waiting. There’s a time and a place – and, for you, this is it. My, er, cousins have spent more time on your relatively insignificant thread than we would ever have expected. We’re experts in what we do. Usually, a significant thread can be seen from far away, it has a texture and a colour so much more alive than those around. Insofar as one could argue that a quantity of threads makes a tapestry – that is how it usually happens.”

“But your thread is ‘different’ and we have spent time assessing it. There is no way to call what you contribute ‘significant’ either as a typical and ordinary thread let alone as a worthwhile part of any tapestry. You are closest to a mere danglement perhaps, not quite a simple loose thread but little different. Although somehow strangely close to a small tangle. We are not certain that we understand all the possibilities. Perhaps, I should say, we do not understand the possibilities yet. Time has a way of unfolding and re-organising all the options so that they can be seen more clearly. But we believe that there is a tipping point in the near future.”

I said before that her phrasing and wording was exotic. This was babble. Exotic babble.

She paused yet before I could speak she continued, “Are you aware of any imminent changes in your life, young man?”

“No. My life is about as dull as it could be. No excitement and minimal likelihood of change.”

Her next question took me aback. “Did you ever decide which god was worthy of your offered libation?”

“I never realised that you were in any way being serious about that comment.”

“Another has written ‘a god’s most potent curses can come by way of a casual prayer'.”

“I don’t pray.”

“What, you never wish for anything. You never wonder ‘what if that happened’? You never think ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if’. You never say, ‘Oh god I wish such and such hadn’t happened’. Each of those can be taken as a prayer by a wandering wondering god. You never wished for retribution? You never wished for the woman who abused you at work to ‘get her comeuppance? You never thought ‘sometime if I’m in a position to do the same to you? Never anything like that, mmm?

What had she said ‘ The God’s most potent curses can arrive as an answer to prayer ……. But I hadn’t prayed, had I? And with my recent comments about ‘all the gods’, which one was likely to have answered. I think there’s trouble already happening or getting closer.

“You talk of gods differently from anyone I have ever met. Why do you do that?”

“In times past, I knew more gods and more about gods than I ever wished.”

“Should I be worried?”

“That is beyond any means I have of answering. I am no oracle, no caster of fortunes. There are times I can call on others of my family – and at such times, unusual things can happen. But I am not a granter of wishes, as such. Perhaps, more nearly, I have the ability to make things happen. Perchance to give people what they deserve or that which will make them more appreciative of their fortune. You could rather say that my choices for my clients often occur due to the wishes, hopes and even fears of others. And I misspoke when I said perchance – because I would not agree that chance is amongst the causes of my actions and decisions. It may be that it is chance that makes an event or a person noticeable – but there are limits to chance.”

Megan paused and I did not interrupt. “As I say, my kin can assist. My sister Alice or Tiffany, maybe or Chloe and Lecky. Some of my relatives have unusual names, perhaps eventually you may discern something from that. Fortune can be kindly or less so, Retribution similarly. “

Megan paused again and this time I thought it viable to speak. “So, you have less knowledge of such as Joy, Patience, Virtue, Honor ….?

“No, they are not amongst my kin. I could say we know of them but not as close kin. You might say they work for a different god.” Wow – the exotic babble factor was rising.

I lifted my hand to suggest that I had a question and would like to speak. I did it not as a child begging to be allowed to interrupt but – by hindsight - more as an equal participant in a complex discussion. “What are you thinking or planning when you say ‘there is a tipping point’ and ‘you have spent time looking at the differentness of my thread’. Should I be worried about what might happen? Is there someone who has offered prayers or as an alternative, a libation.”

“You concern yourself overmuch. There is little you could do about it were we so minded. But I recall your politeness and I can make you an offer. When you were young, about 10, I believe, you expressed a childish desire to your mother. How deep is that desire buried? Is it gone and forgotten? Or, would you absent your inner self from the outer Jude for which you are named in favour of the Judy you once wished to be? I fancy you ought to remember more about those days. Perhaps think about them as interesting times, and worthy of due consideration.”

I sat stunned. How could this woman know these things. It had been for a few short months only while spending the summer with my two neighbour‘s daughters, Grace and Joan.

“H… how did you know about Judy? Nobody but Joan and Grace know about her.”

“When you have a moment to think then perhaps the answer to that, and some more, will come to you. You are not going to get a direct answer from me. How I know no longer matters. To confuse you further, I don’t need your answer immediately. I suspect that you will be thinking about your answer for a while yet. Perhaps tonight, perhaps over the weekend. I suspect that you will find things to look at and people to talk to in the next few days who will help you make your mind up. I tend to have a way of knowing about things like that. And I have to tell you that one piece of your thread has been, er, untwisted during this conversation. What I expected from previous events was more akin to a passing of ships in the night – almost unseen, almost without communication. You have startled me, young Jude.”

It might have been my imagination, but I thought I heard the murmur of ‘Judy’ tied in with the word. “I haven’t got a clue what you mean about that. But going back, what did you mean about ’interesting times’ – that’s supposed to be a curse in Chinese culture?”

Her expression was strange. Perhaps a flicker of amusement, perhaps concern. She waved a hand and it seemed some of my concerns about what she had said faded. “Patterns change, now I feel that we’ll meet tomorrow, and mayhap one time more.” Were her parting words.

As I went home, my brain was in a complete twiddle. To suggest it was merely spinning and veering would have implied some sort of control over what it was doing. It was doing nothing as coherent or organised as mere spinning. How did she know about Judy? How did she know, as she seemed to, that I had barely thought about Judy for years. It had begun with Aunt Sylvia finding me wearing my mum’s undies.

===================== Flashback

What I remember is that Aunt Sylvia caught me wearing my Mum’s bra and panties. Wrong size, wrong shape, wrong everything – except I had wanted to try them. They called to me. But as soon as Auntie Sylvia saw me both she and the clothes screamed to be removed. But they had felt nice. Auntie was staying for a few weeks and I had got careless about my interest in Mum’s undies. And I had been interested in them for ages.

Even as a young child, I had been more at ease with girls than boys. As far as I could tell never with any enormous preference. When I was needed to do things with boys, I had little problem with behaving as a boy. When I had to do things with girls, then I think I behaved pretty much like one of them. To my young self and now even more so to my older self, I acted as if boys and girls under the age of about six or seven were very similar. Not exactly similar, of course, one group was more likely to run around and play with pretend guns and diggers, the other preferred to sit and play with dolls.

As I have grown and learnt, I realize that one group was primarily for Competitors (and not all of them would be boys) and one group was for Cooperators (and not all of them would be girls).

But that was back then. Years ago.

By the time I was 10 I had been ‘mostly boy’ for some years. The playing with girls had fallen away as I changed schools and we moved house. In those days, it was rare and very frowned-on to think or mention ‘being different’. And I had learnt that ‘being a bit of a girly boy’ was one of the worst sorts of difference to be.

But at the age of maybe 9, something happened, and I can’t remember the exact details, but I got interested in Mum’s panties. And trying on the bra followed a while later.

It didn’t take long to realize that Auntie had given Mum a hint about what I was doing. Hearing what my Mum said to me, clearly Auntie had said something like ‘I saw Jude looking at your underwear when he helped with the laundry’ rather than the exact truth. Thankfully Auntie had some willingness not to drop me in the deep and dirty.

This was confirmed when she left and I found a clean and folded pair of her panties under my pillow with a blank sheet of paper with a lipstick kiss on it. What was I supposed to think? What was I supposed to do? Well, yes, that meant that I thought about Judy for a while again. But eventually I threw the panties away and hoped that I would never be tempted again.

It was the next summer that I spent so much time with Joan and Grace. That turned into several complete weeks to begin with, then more nearly many days over several months of pleasant playtime with my friends – and often I would be Judy.

I must have been about 10 – the same age as them. My dad had been dangerously ill and Mum had to spend a lot of time looking after him. After a fortnight or so of me being ‘dropped off for the day’ at the neighbours – Mrs Harrison became Auntie Suzanne and I started staying more permanently. And with my mum being so tired, she forgot to leave a set of keys for me to get into the house for clean clothes. And I was a boy – so I got dirty. I never understood it. I think the girls did the same things as me but their whites would stay pristine and mine – not so. And sometimes I had brought no spares and sometimes too, as I said, my door was locked.

In a household of just women – Suzanne, Joan and Grace – there wasn’t a lot of choice about what to wear. And there was definitely no spare money. Going into town one day when I had got all dirty and was wearing my least dirty clothes, we passed a Charity shop and I said ‘perhaps they’ll have something I can use’. Auntie Suzanne was very firm that we ‘won’t be doing that’.

So, there were times when I had to wear clothes borrowed from Joan or Grace. They were very kind and didn’t complain that I was borrowing their clothes (and almost certainly making them dirty!). Sometimes we agreed that if I was dressing as a girl then that day, I’d do things that they wanted. And it kept my clothes cleaner too.

I had loved spending time with Joan and Grace. Playing tea-parties with their dollies, playing dress-up with their frills and frocks. I lost count of the times I said ‘come on, that’s enough’; ‘Think about something different’ ‘I’m not a little girl’; ‘I’ve never been a little girl’ and so on. But my comments had very little effect. I never actually wanted anything other than some people to play with. But Joan and Grace were the only children of my age anywhere nearby. There wasn’t a lot of choice. As they were girls, I often played girl games with them, and sometimes, even though it was 2 to 1, they played my games with me.

Was it just coincidence that the weather had been drab and dull for day after day and it had to be indoor games?

After dad got back and spent more weeks recovering before going back to his job, life went on. I found other things to do, other interests. I think, looking back, I’d never actually been that excited or even interested in the ‘dressing-up’. I’d been too young to get a sexual thrill out of it, no stiffy, no ejaculation that I recall. Perhaps I was just experimenting, wondering or even testing the limits.

I never needed to ‘talk it through’ with any sort of consultant or counsellor. So I never thought about it much. It was in the past and long gone. Why was I suddenly being reminded of those long ago days. Long ago and long forgotten.

But that night after seeing Ms Fury for the second time, I went home. And I couldn’t stop thinking about those days. Her words had really stirred me up. Old memories kept circling.

My now-tortured brain kept coming back to the days of Joan, Grace and Judy. I found that I was thinking of the clothes and how pretty they were. And how much fun I had playing girl games with them. Then I remembered later times.

Long-forgotten moments were popping into my memory. Times when I had found myself looking at girls and women. But not looking at them – looking at their clothes and wondering. Just wondering what it would feel like to wear something so pretty, so gorgeous, so feminine.

……………….. Now

On the way home from the winebar I found myself walking my usual route but noticing only the shops which catered for women. Hairdressers (6), Nailbars (3), Shoe shops (4), Lingerie Shops (2), Clothes shops (5), Department Stores (1). And I started wondering again. What would it be like to try, just try, some of these things.

And suddenly I was noticing only adverts with the same feminine themes – Perfume, Beauty, ‘Do you want to change your whole life in One Hour?’

Why had I never noticed all this. Usually I noticed the shops and the pubs and the bookies and the bloke stuff. What was different about tonight? Well, don’t be silly, of course, I knew one of the ‘differences’. Megan had me all worked up and worked over about my short time as Judy.

And some of the shops were eye-catching. I was finding myself interested in what was on display. I slowed down and looked more closely. Now I was including Jewellery shops, a Corset shop!, Tattoos for women (too many). And I was looking at the women who I went past in the street. And I wasn’t looking at them the way I used to.

In the past, I had been looking as a normal man – she’s pretty; she’s very pretty; she’s pretty enough to turn and check again; oh my, she’s beautiful and all the more basic versions all the way up to the 'testosterone-driven zero-brain-max-groin ‘I would fxxk that in an instant’.

Actually most men – no I can’t say that – many men take their excitement and interest little further than the three, five or maximum eight seconds for a pretty girl to hove into view and go past. Perhaps with oneself stationary and the target also stationary, say in a coffee bar or pub, there may be longer opportunities for eye-contact and eye-dalliance. But I believe not that many men actually think of passing women in terms of how soon they could fxxk a complete stranger. And actually I don’t want to know any who think that way.

And I think the sorts of men who do are not interested in fxxking – they are intent on power and the abuse of that power. I hope most men would disapprove very strongly of these fellow males. Having been brought up in a household with one of the key phrases being ‘Not Wrong Just Different’ – I truly felt that abuse came into the unsavoury category of ‘Not Different Just Wrong’.

But tonight I was looking at women with new eyes – almost as if I was doing it as a female. I was looking at their shoes for style and heel-height. I was admiring their stockings and the hem of their skirts. I was watching keenly for VPL and the hint of panties. I was always admiring how women can keep white trousers clean and pristine in almost all conditions. How do they do that?

I was paying close attention to their bras – how well did they fit? Was the sway of the mammary always a wonderful memory – or was too much just too much and too little just not enough. I wondered what it would feel like to have breasts. I found myself envying those with what I decided was the right size breast. I think I was focussing on the B and C cup mostly – but it’s not a question one often asks a perfect stranger – or even a close friend. Perhaps that’s why best mates are called bosom pals!

I wasn’t looking at them as sexual objects – what was wrong with me? I wasn’t even looking at their individual components for the possible sexual urge or surge that might give me – their breasts, groins, lips, hair, bums, that is all the bits I might fantasize about. I was looking at them as people, as individuals. What was wrong with me, I wondered again?

Each step closer to home, I found myself wondering about the feminine aspects of a person. What made a person male or female? I had read enough about the vagaries of physicality to accept that intersexed babies were enormously more common than people thought (they 'knew' such 'ungodly mistakes' were incredibly rare, ha); Or than the medical profession had ever accepted (very rare). Or than the Bible allowed for (no mention). Although perhaps there was an allowable view that modern diagnosis and decades of weird chemicals MIGHT have caused an increase. Whatever, I had no strong views on gender or even sexuality.

I knew that some of my friends were lesbian, that some were homosexual, that two were significantly into BDSM and that one had been abused as a teenager by her father. I knew that I twitched the first few times that Jack introduced Kelvin as ‘my husband’ rather than ‘my partner’. I knew this because Jack often reminded me. It had amused him that my efforts to be open-minded and tolerant were so easily undermined.

But then I began to wonder in the same way about ALL the differences, all the minorities that were now increasingly seen as ‘Different and possibly acceptable’.

Transgender, Transexual, Transvestite ….. all these used to be words of contempt, hatred and abuse – but now, Wow. It was amazing how often there were references to famous ‘celebrity’ trans people – Caitlin Jenner; Andrea Pejic as she now was and there were a lot more. I remembered dad being perplexed at how a favourite musician, Walter Carlos, had become Wendy. Confusing. But not as rare as people once thought. Certainly not as rare as the ‘normals’ wanted to believe.

And that was just one part of the re-assessment of Gender. Everything, well almost everything was being seen as no longer Black-White but part of a spectrum. There were perhaps philosophical debates which came down to black-v-white but physical and mental and emotional issues. Nowadays – so often a spectrum.

My mind diverted to identify some of the issues which were still Black and White. Angrily, nastily, venomously so in some cases. Democrat v Republican; Abortion v Never; Irish Protestant v Catholic; perhaps Pro-EU v Anti; Vegan v Rest of the World; Shia v Sunni; Muslim v The Rest; Arab v Israeli.

I remembered a map of Europe with all the ‘countries’ that wanted secession, Basques, Scots, Flemish; twenty or thirty examples – all hating their overlords. I remembered bits of Tom Lehrer singing in the 1960s, ‘All the white folks hate the black folks, and right folks hate the wrong folks ..... and everybody hates the Jews – but now it’s National Brotherhood Week …..’

Due to a recent discussion, my mind brought up the issue of Hunting v ‘Aren’t Foxes Sweet’; and others. By the time my mind had considered the hunting issue and my friends who HATED the film Bambi because every city-dweller went ‘Oh you can’t kill Bambi’ rather than the more balanced view ‘Deer are unbalancing the forests and a goodly percentage are no more than vermin!!’ - well, by then, I had thought quite enough about the ugliness of black-white issues.

So, I went back to thinking about spectrums. Male Female – I relabelled this as Masculine and Feminine and decided that 100% of either was extreme and that exactly 50/50 was also rather unlikely. In my mind, the usual so-called ‘normal’ breast-shaped curve rebuilt itself into a truly breast-shaped pair. So much for the simple labels of biblical Gender, I mused.

My mind then did the same with Sexuality. My deep knowledge of humankind ignored the enormous pressure of the minority LGB brigade to think ‘most people (even if the LGB disapprove) are heterosexual’. Some people are LGB and a mostly-ignored group are bisexual. I then realized that almost all the data I had ever read about was deeply biased by one or other group in its own favour. The LGB exaggerate their numbers and ‘They’ (the so-called normal members of society who are ‘in charge’) exaggerate to reduce minority pressure.

Recollecting the sex scandals of the late 2017s in Britain and the many other improprieties demonstrated by other elite people – politicians, celebrities etc – I thought ‘there’s going to be a lot of people who say ‘do as I say not as I do’. Sneering hypocrites – too many of them. Ha.

Looking at the available data and the often biassed anecdata, I saw another breast-shaped pairing for the Hetero-Homo graph. I tried to visualise this as a three-dimensional model with the two largest components being Heterosexual-Masculine and Heterosexual-Feminine. But my brain was unused to the exercise of thinking in 3D – so I had a coffee. And kept thinking.

I then made a mistake – I thought about ‘where do I fit’. And I thought about the likely graph for ‘Sexual Activity’. I couldn’t find anything of value on the web. I decided that there was unlikely to be a dip at the midpoint as most people would believe their frequency to be ‘average or a bit more’. So there would be ‘Rare / Asexual; Normal and Very Frequent / Pansexual on a graph of the so-called ‘normal’ shape.

This triple multi-dimensional model of Gender – Sexuality – Frequency was far beyond my capability to visualise. Oh dear. But it had made me think. Where was I on my impossible-to-visualise graph?.... a predominantly masculine ( I decided), predominantly heterosexual (I was sure) too rarely active (I knew THAT). I muddled about for a while on those thoughts. I had no experience, not even minor experimentation, with bisexuality. I wasn’t aware of any specifically feminine characteristics. I didn’t think I was inordinately macho or driven by testosterone so I MUST have some flexibility towards the feminine – but how much. That was a question I couldn’t even begin to answer. I guessed and allocated myself what I thought would be a reasonable 90-10 location on the graphs.

I got home and wasted sheets of paper and some computer time trying to draw my graphs. Then I had a large drink of wine and fell asleep. I did have some weird dreams.

In the dream I remembered best, I was seated with a group of six women in a semi-circle in front of me. They asked ‘Who are You?’ ‘How do you know?’ and ‘Why did you do this?’. Countless questions and yet it seemed they were always considering my answers very thoroughly. Even in my sleep, it felt exhausting. And I certainly woke up feeling that I had not had a good night’s sleep.

To my startlement, as I set off to begin another wasted day looking for a job, Ms Fury stepped away from a well-polished car and lifted a hand to catch my attention. “Mr Mansfield, a moment of your time, if you please.”

Well, I was certainly not doing anything which couldn’t be put off for a minute, a day or a decade. “Lady Megan, I am yours to command.”

“You offer to let me command you. You know not what you do. You should be more cautious with language where you attempt to impress without knowing the true power of words. Belike you will learn better.”

“Belike?”

“There is no need to wonder if perchance I use an archaic phrase. I learnt your language long ago, sometimes I use old words. Sometimes it causes infelicity when I use a word which has changed or lost its meaning – mayhap such as ‘belike’. But I tease you and I shouldn’t. I may not tell you what you should do but I suggest, as strongly as I may, that you go to the shop at the end of the high street and ask about the job there.”

“How will I know which shop?”

“You’ll know.”

I turned at a sudden noise behind me. When I turned back, Megan was gone. Surely, there hadn’t been time for her to get out of sight that quickly. Another puzzle. But the pressure of a job, of some faint chance of an income – that drove me forward to a future.

I wandered up the lane, noticing again the quantity of woman-oriented shops. I was now even including florists along with the clothes, shoes, handbags, beauty and hair and nail salons. None of them were advertising for staff - as if I would be even looking at getting a job at any of those!

I didn’t even notice any other shops or any other adverts. There wasn’t even one of those up-the-stairs personnel agencies – promising so much and, by what little I knew, delivering, um, variable quality.

So I kept going until the last shop which was the local medium-sized department store. And they WERE advertising for a job. Store Detective. What? Me?? But I didn’t have a job – and …… yet.

I went in and asked about the job. I was told to wait and someone from management would be down to see me. I said I would have a wander round the shop to see what was what. The girl said that she would expect the people upstairs to arrive either in a minute or in quarter of an hour. I took her hint and waited for a minute or so …… nobody arrived so I set off.

Blow me down, if I didn’t walk round the corner to see a woman sliding a necklace into her bag. What to do? No staff around to ask. I waited and watched. I saw the girl I had spoken to nearby and waved to get her attention. Just at that moment, the woman – a very smartly dressed woman aged about 40 – move towards the doors. I hesitated,

Decision made.

I followed her to the door and once she was outside, I said, “Excuse me madam, I’m sorry but I think I saw ….” I got no further than she began to run and – smack – into a boy on a bicycle. Of course, he shouldn’t have been on the pavement but it gave me an opportunity.

“Oh dear, madam. Oh please come back into the store where you can sit and catch your breath. Do you need any medical attention? Have you scraped yourself? Can I call someone for you?” By this point there was a crowd around including two of the store staff.

I took a risk while various helpers fluttered around. “Is there anyone I can call for you? Where do you live? Can I call someone?” And while making it look like I was being useful I dropped her handbag. Ooops.

“Oh no. I’m so sorry.” But all of a sudden, one of the girls piped up, “Excuse me, madam, but I don’t remember selling one of those necklaces today.”

The lady bluffed. “I bought it last week and it needs adjusting on the catch.”

“Oh, well that’s alright then. Come to the counter and we’ll see what can be done.” I didn’t know that that necklace had only arrived in the store the day before.

The ‘lady’ was escorted to the counter and the questions began. “Do you have the receipt?”

“'No', oh dear. Oh well, items of this value, we record the purchaser’s name and address.”

“Oh, you bought it at a different store in the group. Which one, can you remember?”

“I’m not sure that that particular store stocks this item. Can you hold on a minute?” The lady started up from her chair but, strangely, the other assistant seemed to have her by the arm.

“Mrs Jackson, I don’t think you’re going anywhere today. We’ve got your mugshot up in the office. We’ve got the police on their way. And to coin a phrase – you’re going to be nicked.”

“Well done, team. A good piece of work.”

I began to walk away, well more accurately, I began to slide into the background. Then Mrs Jackson blurted out. “It was that damned young man. He’s the one who stopped me.”

The two girls and the manager who had arrived just in time for the coup-de-grace blinked. Who? What?

“He’s nothing to do with us!” The manager beckoned me over, “Could you tell us exactly what happened, in your own words. I suspect the company will offer you some sort of reward. That’s a very expensive necklace and you’ve helped catch a notorious thief. She’s a regular along the whole south coast. Why, we may be able to keep her locked up for, ooh, several months this time.”

I began to explain. “I came here because a friend said I might get a job. I asked, was told to wait and took a stroll around the store. I turned the corner and saw your thief slide a necklace into her bag. I followed her while trying to attract the attention of one of your staff. Then she ran – bang into the kid on the bike – and here was all are.” See – I kept it simple.

“You’re wanting a job?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here. You’re advertising for a store detective.”

“Well. You’ve certainly shown that you can do some of that job. Come with me and I’ll see if we can do better for you than that.”

Wow.

“I’m going to see what there is. With the willingness to bend the rules as you’ve just shown. I mean, you must have known that you had no authority to stop the woman. She’ll tell some enormous lies about you. Did you know that you pushed her to the floor, slapped her, kicked her – that’s what she’ll say.”

“I think we might be lucky enough that at least one of the passersby is a friend of mine called Megan. She saw it all and will confirm that all I did was begin to speak and she turned and ran. Into the bike, as I said.” I had seen Megan in the crowd and somehow knew that she was there for exactly that reason. Wooh – am I getting psychic all of a sudden.

By now, we had reached his office. Adam Doulton – Assistant Manager – said the nameplate.

“I’m glad you’ve turned up. I think we’ll have you being a store detective for a few days – this’ll help you learn the layout, meet some of the people, get a feel for the place. By the end of the week, we can have had a few chats about where you’d like to be, where we think you might fit in, see what flexibility there is for both if us. But I like it that you think fast and that you felt involved enough to do the right thing for a shop where you had no relationship, no need to do anything for us. I like that. Does that sound interesting? Do you want to start on this rather informal basis?”

“I’d like a notion of the pay I’d be getting, the terms and so on. And apart from watching for thieves I have no idea what a store detective does. Do I get any training?”

“For today, no. Just learn what is where and keep your eyes open. If you fluke another catch like Mrs Jackson then I’d be amazed but, hey, that’s life isn’t it. I’d suggest you try and find the four richest sites in the store where there’s high value goods and what you think is poor security. Sometimes, all we need is common sense. And the benefit of new eyes.”

I set off. I had a map of the store and thought – jewellery, fur, small valuables – oh high-tech shoes, phones and computer accessories. By the end of the day, talking with my new friends Elly and Cyn (‘spelt C y n, darling but I prefer Sin’) I was finding out that cosmetics, razors and even babyfood were stolen. ‘People see them as overpriced but necessary and – ooops – some have fallen into my bag. Oh, really, my bag is lined to prevent the tags being noticed? I never knew that’. Give us patience please. So you go ‘You’re stealing and you’re banned and your ID will be circulated in the town and 20 miles around’, and they bluster and promise never to do it again. ‘It was just a momentary temptation. I’m poor. my children, my leg, my deaf mother, my dying cat’ …. We’ve heard it all. And probably one in a hundred is telling some sort of truth. You’ll learn.”

Elly joined in. “So how was it today? I gather you did score a second hit in the ladies department. How come?”

“Again, it was a fluke. I was just wandering around and nearly bumped into a young girl. Being a bloke like wot I am, I couldn’t help noticing that she was wearing a pretty blue dress and a bag which very nearly matched. I wasn’t making an effort to keep an eye on her, but I went past the counter and she said, ‘Well, thanks for your help, but I haven’t found anything I like yet. And I saw she was now wearing a belt and had a different bag in pale brown. So, bingo. Turned out she had three bras on, three pairs of panties, a load of expensive perfume and ….. well, you can guess. I’m flavour of the day.”

“Of the day? Of the month! We haven’t had so much to talk about since Miss Thompson got locked into the storeroom while she was working late on the stocktake.” Cyn giggled.

Being a busybody – and with nothing else to do that evening, I went on the web. ‘What are the best targets for shoplifters?' I was wrong. The first page said The shoplifters of today aren't necessarily looting diamond jewellery or high-end electronic products. They're looking for products that are compact, reasonably costly and can be sold for near-retail prices. Also, shoplifting today is a much larger industry than you might think, with many shoplifters selling their products to other companies that then go online to resell these items at discounted prices. Many of the most commonly stolen products are perhaps some of the most everyday items you could imagine, far from those classic stereotypes we all call up when we think of retail theft. The site listed Razors, Electric Toothbrushes, Perfumes, Designer Clothes & Shoes, Alcohol and Luxury Meat!

There were a few surprises. I did think that meat must be for personal consumption as what would it be like after a few hours outside the chiller. Yuk. Another told me The US National Association for Shoplifting Prevention estimates that shoplifters are reportedly only caught about every 50 times they shoplift; by then, a regular shoplifter has already stolen around $2,000 worth of goods.

Personally, being the sort of guy who plays with numbers , I couldn’t believe that the average lift was as little as $40 a time.

The next morning, I asked two girls in the perfume section what was the longest anyone stayed in their area ‘just looking’. They said that the main rush was at lunchtime and just after work but most came in, tried one or two and bought their usual – about 8 minutes for most of them. There were only a few who stayed longer than quarter of an hour. I said, how about I aim to come round three times an hour or so.

I talked with Mr Doulton and he pointed out the layout of the perfume section and said, you could probably do these two ends and the main section separately. So, for today, just keep circling, a few minutes at a time then off to some other department, change your jacket, and loop around. Since it’ll only be for fifteen, twenty minutes at a time, just pick up a jacket or whatever in the men’s department, get it swiped out and then hand it back in later.”

The rhythm of the day was set. I moved around trying to keep a low profile. And, to my amazement, to everybodys’ amazement I caught another 2 lifters. Both at the perfume counter, and one also wearing designer shoes unpaid for. Four in two days – nobody could believe it.

The next day I was told to try some other departments. Menswear – no success. Sports – no success.

Fourth day – back in womenswear and cosmetics – another hit. Cyn joked that perhaps I had a magic eye that only worked for women. We all took it as a joke. But it must have been true. I was getting a reputation for catching thieves – just female words in female departments.

By the next week, Mr Doulton had me moving around the departments and working the tills, tidying up stock, filling shelves, learning the various jobs. But time after time, while I was doing the same range of jobs in each department – it was only in the woman-oriented areas that I had any sales success. I sold a fur coat that had been on the rack for ‘a long time’. I sold a dress to a woman who apparently had a well-earned reputation for being picky.

And it continued to be almost completely in the womens’ departments that I caught naughty people. Except for the two girls stealing top-end trainers for their men. Gotcha.

Elly was the one who made the suggestion. “If you’re only successful in the ladies departments – we’re going to have to think about how you present. Some of the customers are going to be a bit, er, cautious or even put-off by being served by a young man.”

Cyn looked very thoughtful at this. Should I have been worried?

Wilchester isn’t a large town so I shouldn’t have been surprised that my ex-boss eventually came into the store.

She didn’t recognise me. Why should she. Like most people, someone known but in a wrong context – the link to memory is broken. And her view of me had been totally office-oriented.

But despite her nastiness, when I could have felt furious, malevolent and determined to do unto her what she did unto me …… I felt calm. Not kind, I’ll agree with that. But there was also a voice whispering ‘if she’s stupid and unkind to you, will she be stupid and unkind to others’.

So I watched very carefully. I could not believe what I saw. Unlike many of the lifters I had already come across, she wasn’t furtive or secretive. She simply picked up items and put them in her bag as if it was completely natural. It was one of our store bags – so clearly a pre-planned manoeuvre. And even more fortunately, it was a design of bag that had been replaced three days before. Ooops.

I knew that there would be repercussions if I was in any way involved – so I used one of my signals to call for help. I dropped my set of silver bangles. They made a loud clangle as designed. Not enough to distress our potential customers but enough to get one of the assistants to come and ‘help the clumsy customer’. I whispered to Elly, for it was she, “Lady in Mid-Blue skirt and grey top, naughties in the bag – old bag too.”

This made Elly snigger. My boss wasn’t an old bag – being a mere early forties. But she was about to be done. Yum.

She hadn’t done particularly much with us – but her car was full of loot, both her passengers were carrying. Her house was chock-full of stolen goods – who needs 16 iphones in their boxes. And both her passenger’s houses had more of the same.

It was never clear why they had gone into crime in such a big way. All of them had respectable jobs with well-earning husbands. But, once at the police station they began to talk – and golly did they talk. They steadily worked thought a list of sins primarily involving greed, jealousy, ambition and pride. Then they went into amazing details of the actual criminal misbehaviours they had eventually indulged in. These ranged from abuse, domestic violence, actual bodily harm, driving while under the influence, theft, taking without consent – dates, times, locations. ‘As if they had been taking truth-drugs’ was what the police sergeant said. He said there was very little the police needed to do apart from verify much of the self-incrimination. Most of the proof was sitting there.

And then it got into the news. Clearly, Miss Moss Messed up – and indeed the main headline was Miss Moss’s Mess. I almost kept a copy and framed it. But I had never been one to gloat if someone screwed up. For her, I did feel that she had got nothing like the disasters she had forced on so many others. But she had, in effect, lost the jobs of some 120 people. As a result, I knew that some would lose their houses, their marriages, their self-respect. On that basis, some years in prison seemed quite light. Even a long way short on the Scales of Justice.

As for what else came out at the trial, prim Miss Moss was a construct, a lie. She was on her second husband – the first having departed under vague circumstances. And, no, she hadn’t confessed to being part of that; except insofar as she was an enthusiastic adulterer, a bully at home and ever keen to empty a wandering wallet of his contents.

My reputation as the Woman-Catcher became a well-known secret in the company.

Shortly afterwards I got a postcard from some Greek island. It was signed Meg Fury to my surprise. Only a few words. “I heard about your ex-boss. Jealousy, envy and greed. Her new life is a Fated repayment for such deeds. As for you, the tangle unwinds and changes arrive.” The last sentence worried me a bit, Megan’s occasional involvement had been so, um, strange. And it was weird that the ‘fated’ had that Capital.

It was a day or so later that my heavily loaded bookshelf tottered and tipped its load. One book fell open at a page describing the Fates and the Furies.

There are Three Furies : Megaera deals with jealousy and envy, and punishes people who commit relevant crimes, especially marital infidelity;

Alecto's task is castigating the moral crimes (such as anger) of humans;

Tisiphone punished crimes of murder: parricide, fratricide and homicide.

The Fates are better-known with Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos; the Spinner of Threads, the Measurer and the Cutter.

Had I been closer than I would have dared to such a one? There were just too many coincidences. Megan Fury – I wondered. With her sisters Alice and Tiffany. AMT Assessment Bureau. How many coincidences could there be in a short period of one’s life?