By the end of the following week, there were four further entries in my diary.

I hated writing them down but my mother seemed to enjoy reading them.

I was tempted to write nothing and claim that my strange dreams had stopped,

but on the one hand I knew that my mother wouldn’t believe me,

and on the other,

I hoped that by writing them down,

then maybe they would eventually stop.

“I still find it interesting that in none of your dreams you actually want to dress like a girl,

yet you don’t seem to protest too much.” she said.

I replied with a blunt and possibly dishonest “I do!”

Mum smiled at me before re-reading the most recent entry in my dream diary.

It was just a run-of-the-mill school-based dream in which I’d slipped down a grassy bank and my trousers got all muddy…

and such is the nature of my dreams,

all they had in the lost property box was skirts and PE kits.

I recalled protesting after putting it on,

my bare hairy legs looked ridiculous,

especially with my boy’s shoes and socks.

The compromise was a pair of tights,

which did feel better since the skirt was quite short.

“You protested but not much,”

Mum told me before asking if I came home wearing my skirt and tights.

“They weren’t mine!” I insisted,

before recalling the closing moments of that particular dream.

“I didn’t even get as far as going back to class before waking up,” I replied.

“I wonder what I’d have said if you did come home dressed as a schoolgirl.” my mother mused.

“What on earth are you wearing?” I dryly suggested.

My mother smiled and said that the reason was ‘feasible’.

“I can imagine there being a limited supply of lost property…

and you couldn’t spend all day in damp muddy pants,” she said.

“I doubt I’d have been annoyed or angry if it happened in real life.”

“Well, thankfully it didn’t.” I retorted.

My mother and I had this sort of chat every few days.

It was uncomfortable for me,

recounting my dreams and trying to describe the clothes,

underwear or nightwear I inevitably wore.

After a month or so my diary had numerous entries and my mother seemed to relish reading them.

She wanted to know if my school skirts were pleated or A-line,

plaid

or plain,

if I wore tights or knee socks.

She’d try to encourage me to recall the color,

style and fabric of the dresses I wore,

what my footwear was like if I had girlie or boyish hair.

“Mum it’s bad enough having the dreams and having to write them down…

I’d rather not talk about them all the time too.”

“I’m just trying to spot a pattern,” she replied in a defensive tone.

“You want these dreams to stop don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.” I replied.

“Well the only way we can do that is by recording and analyzing your dreams,” she replied.

“…and that means talking about them.”

I sighed and frowned.

“I know… it’s just embarrassing.” I admitted.

“You must think I’m a right…”

“I think nothing of the sort Peter.” she quickly interjected.

“If anything I think the way you’re tacking them is really quite brave,” she said.

“It’d be far easier to pretend you’re not having them.”

I appreciated her words but felt somewhat patronized.

I cast her a pursed smile before exhaling slowly through my nostrils.