Workman: Chapter Four - Part One

Men & Women

1

I went straight downstairs, stuck my head through the garage door and then went through to the lounge. There was time to do the garage later. I still wasn’t finished in here. I shook my head ruefully. I was such a waste of space when I was a woman. I spent half the time flitting from job to job, not accomplishing anything and the other half making excuses and trying to get out of moving forward.

“Typical bloody woman.”

I wiped down the above-ground surfaces with furniture polish and then did the floor, ensuring all the dust from the sanding was up, careful to use gentle strokes to keep it from being disturbed too much before I was done.

There was a tin and a half of floor varnish in the garage. I cracked it open and gave the boards on the exposed side of the room a first coat, working my way from the window back to the door. It didn’t take long.

I was getting hungry when I broke from that and there was still only rabbit food in the kitchen. I gave it a moment’s thought and decided to go out for provisions. I knew that hadn’t been part of my plan but what did it matter? I wasn’t going to turn to dust if I went outside.

I used the car this time, feeling like a right tosser. It was far too feminine – just stupid. Fortunately it wasn’t a long drive down to the local shops. There was a medium sized Co-op backing onto the same car park I’d been in the night before saving Sangeeta from the skin-heads. I parked up and stood for a minute, reliving that.

I filled a trolley inside with food: burgers, steak, chips, bread, plenty of beer, some roast microwave dinners, a box of chocolate cereal; ham, bread, butter; more beer.

Despite my earlier reservations, it was clear to me now that I should change as often as possible into this shape to get the work done quickly. And if I was going to spend a lot of time being a man, I sure as hell wasn’t going to peck at the bird food I usually ate. I needed proper grub.

It barely all fit into the stupid little boot on my rinky-dink car. This shit heap had to go, it really did.

When I pulled up back home, John’s girlfriend Debbie was doing the garden in front of their house opposite. She covered a smile when she saw me squeezing out of the Noddy-mobile. I gave her an embarrassed flick of my eyebrows and went back inside. Fifteen minutes later I’d cooked myself up a big bacon and egg baguette and settled down to watch a bit of TV, the egg yolk running out between my fingers. I channel surfed until I found a documentary about doing up vintage sports cars and sat for half an hour, my boots up on the coffee table.

It was more interesting than I would have expected. I even found myself toying with the idea of doing one myself. My dad had owned an old Morris Minor that was quietly going to seed at the bottom of the garden, covered by tarpaulin. It might be a real pleasure to get it out and slowly restore it over time. I even considered… Yeah. What the heck?

After I’d polished off my lunch I went out back and made my way through the hanging branches of the weeping willow. The car was tucked under the trees alongside the garage, wrapped up tightly as though my dad might have gone back to it at any time to take it out for a jaunt. He’d bought it when I was a little girl – second hand – and had always talked about doing it up. Never had of course.

I untied the cover and pulled it clear. It was a Morris Minor Traveller with a squared back and wooden flashing, and despite the four flat tyres and bits of rust, it didn’t look in terrible shape. I was sure it wouldn’t start but it was a doable project.

I stood, feet planted wide, arms folded, thinking about that. It would be a lot of fun to work on and it would be nice to honour my dad’s wishes at the same time. It would have been nice if we could have done it together, chatting away as we worked.

I frowned, contemplating this sudden interest. I’d never been attracted to cars in my life. I was normally much more fascinated by dicking around with sewing and all that sappy stuff. This was a clear example here of how my interests were different when I became a man. It was something that I’m sure the girl-me would have got in a flap over, but it was just logical that I’d be more interested in guy stuff while I was a guy. My personality clearly was affected, but there was no harm in it. It was pretty wild if anything. I could get to experience radically different things – see what life was like on the other side of the road.

There were obviously no unpleasant side-effects of switching back and forth. I was perfectly happy with the idea of doing this every day, depending on my mood and what needed doing and I was definitely going to get on with this car renovation. There was nothing to stop me.