celebrating and creating our own LGBTQ+ history in honour of Sheila McWattie

day twenty three

part one

The white garden

“So does that mean I won’t be a granny?”

I nodded as I lowered my head, heavy head, heavy-heartful of what-might-have-beens

Mum shook her head and looked away

and our sad streaming tears found home in the cracks of the park bench we clung to.


Self – insemination was not in my pack of cards, not then.

“It’s a difficult path you’ve chosen for yourself”,

mum dabbed her eyes and dabbed her eyes again with a tissue now soggy

her voice now shaken

“an’ I worry for you”.


Coming out to my mum in the walled white garden, in the company of peony, pansy and

gerbera daisy, I’d planned to sing joyfully, leave her with at least a tingle of my hopes and


Instead loss was beating on the walls of the cord that joined us.


I stared in to skies of blue and saw the grey green flash of a chaffinch. 


part two

Big boy

Our granddaughter laughs, “no, you’re a big boy!”

Three years old, there’s no arguing with that.

And arguments I’ve had a few

“Do you need help packing, sir?” in the supermarket queue

Altercations there’ve been some

“You look so much nicer in a skirt!”, that’s my mum

Washing dishes on the beach hut wall

“Good to see a man working”, chuckles the old gal

Motorway toilets –  they’ve got to be the best

“You’re in the wrong toilet!” so I bare my breast

Depositing money in to my own bank account

Teller says, “That’s lovely Mr Thomson, tell your wife that’s the right amount

To avoid going in to overdraft

You have to laugh

Now I’m a husband, married to myself

Fantastico, not been left on the shelf

I’m starting to have fun in the world today

Apply the odd ‘tache, darken eyebrows and play

at being cowboy, soldier, giving bristly kisses

the ladies seem to like it, with the exception of me missis

who knows better than most……….

that I’m all woman,  her handsome woman

But our granddaughter’s wise

Big worldly eyes

What’s she picking up?

I prefer a mug to a cup?

Lego to dolly?

Hood up, not brolly?

Is it my stance?

The way I dance?

We’ve climbed an apple tree together

My belt is chunky leather

Our granddaughter laughs, “no, you’re a big boy!”

Then, “you’re a woman”

And before she nods off, she strokes my face, “you’re Nanny Fiona”

Three years old, there’s no arguing with that.


Fiona Thomson, 53, Margate

Comments on: "day twenty three" (2)

  1. Wonderful. No arguing with that.

  2. Fabulous, fantastico, fiona. xxx

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