How Not to Be Transformed

I’ve had a strange day of transformation.

This is what happened:

The physicist must return to her seat of learning. Mostly because she has exams and her seat at home has become so covered in calculations, biscuit crumbs and cat hair that she can no longer discover exactly where to put her bum.

Accompanying the physicist back to the aforementioned seat are all her precious worldly goods and chattels and ball gowns. They must be transported by car. By me. So I decided to clean the inside of the car (ball gowns are pernickety souls).

And then I decided to clean the outside of the car (ball gowns are pernickety souls). And discovered a deal about why men clean cars. Something about all that rubbing and polishing of bodywork and the ‘vroom vroom’ noises (that was added by the boy next door) (I said ‘tra la la’).

I discovered that I liked cleaning cars. This is worrying stuff. Especially when you add in the rest of the day’s activities which included:

Doing things with screwdrivers
Playing in mud
Inserting my hand down my trousers to adjust my underwear
Not brushing my hair
Not shaving
A conversation about football
Farting
A conversation about exactly what roads to drive on
And
Mislaying the hoover.

I was, until today, of the opinion that I wanted a man. Now it turns out I may be a man.

Luckily I have a cure. I will go and sew another thousand twinkley beads onto another ballgown. Not only that but the girl next door has just presented me with a DVD of ‘Enchanted’ and a tiara to wear whilst watching it. I’m putting it on now.