I am painting toe-nails when Georgina – sorry Charlie - rushes in to confront with the news of Sydney.

So startled am I that I knock over nail varnish onto foot of Greta.
‘DUMKOPF’ she is bellowing in such powerful German voice, which is sending shivers up Swedish spine.

It is my turn on toe-nail painting roster (how can you have word meaning ‘male chicken’ which is also meaning list of what to do and when to do it? – stupid English language!) but I say to Norah, who is waiting next in line with stockings already removed, ‘You will have to hold your spit, girl, whilst I get my head around this turning of events.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am great believer in sanctimony of marriage, but this marriage of which I have been a part, in a sense, is the absolute pants. And when I am thinking of that poor boy which is turning into transvestite right under our very noses and behind our backs, because of the absolute crappy parenting – well I am getting so mad.

I could see how confused he was what with the shitty role models he had. That is why I am helping this adolescent boy by filling his sexual proclivities on all those rainy afternoons. Well now the swallow has come home to roost, as they say. Flown back on the nest of his dear mama – who has now come out as lesbian. What a bummer eh!

But what am I going to tell his father, when visiting him in psycho ward? George is already unstable: such news might send him off rocker completely. Frankly I am feeling out of my depth, which is unusual for me, being such tall person.

Meantime I feel it my duty to help lad regain rightful sexuality; not that there is anything wrong with being transvestite (don’t want Beaumont Society on my tail – joke) in fact I have been helping him with make-up and advising on shoes, so he don’t walk like hooker after hard night.

Anyway, enough cogitating (new word I learn) for now. We are expecting 'surprise' visit from Myra person, plus her sink-estate companion whose name I am forgetting. Georgina – bugger! I mean CHARLIE – has ordered house on red alert. All leave cancelled. I am to be posted in attic as ‘look-out’. I ask if Sydney (Cyd) can keep me company, but his mother say ‘not on your nellie’ – which I believe to be quaint English euphonium meaning ‘fuck off’.

Ah well, 'Let's get once more into the breeches' as your Shakespeare would have it.