Men Can Wear Dresses Too

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

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Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: 0800.197.4150

© 2014 Catie Maye. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse     03/13/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9427-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9426-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-9428-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014902933

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Preface

Introduction

Chapter 1     To Boldly Go… Discovery

Chapter 2     Developing Skills

Chapter 3     Girls, Girls… Girls’ Dresses

Chapter 4     To Tell… Or Not To Tell

Chapter 5     I Do… And Did

Chapter 6     For Sale: Slightly Worn Dress

Chapter 7     A New Chapter

Chapter 8     All You Need Is Love

Chapter 9     Paris, The City Of Love

Chapter 10   Transvestic Career Path

Chapter 11   An Alternate Path

Chapter 12   Smile… Camera, Action

Chapter 13   Born To Be Wild

Chapter 14   Trussed Up And Nowhere To Go

Chapter 15   Does My Bottom Look Big In This?

Chapter 16   Myths And Misses

Chapter 17   Coming Out… Going Out

Chapter 18   A New World

Chapter 19   Catie Maye

Chapter 20   A Partner’s View

Chapter 21   What Does It All Mean?

Bibliography

‘The tracks of our invention disappear

and we see who we really are’

Han Shan

This book is dedicated to all those

men who struggle with the challenge

of living two lives.

Preface

When I began the journey to chronicle the events of my life I could never have imagined where it would lead. The journey had begun in 1969, when as a skinny, street wise nine year old I stood in front of the full length mirror and for the first time saw the reflection of Catie Maye staring back. I did not know this pretty young girl with the wry smile as Catie back then. All I knew was that this girl would, throughout my life become very much part of me.

For the next forty five years, every time I would see the reflection of Catie smiling back from the mirror I would remember exactly how I first felt on that August day in 1969.

Over a century ago, while carrying out research into homosexuality Magnus Hirschfeld recognised that a small number of his study group displayed distinctly specific gender dysphoric behaviour which did not fit into the patterns of homosexuality of the main study group.

Hirschfeld named these individuals using the Latin phrases that

described their behaviour, ‘trans’ meaning to cross or cross over and ‘vestitus’ meaning clothes or clothing. Hence the term ‘transvestite’ or cross-dresser was born.

Over half a century later, a young boy stared into a mirror and saw himself cross-dressed for the first time.

I am Catie Maye. I am a transvestite.

For most of my life I have been forced to live two parallel lives to keep my cross-dressing secret, hidden away even from those closest to me. I have lied to excuse and protect my right to be and dress how I please. I have faced the dual curses of addiction and depression brought about by the absolute dishonesty of my secret life. I have for most of life believed that being a transvestite meant that I was a freak, a pervert, insane, gay and a social pariah.

With a new partner and a new optimism I began a personal quest of discovery, a way for me to finally come to terms with my transvestism. I thought that if I better understood why I had these feelings and the reasons why society cannot accept transvestism I could begin to conquer the internal demons that had tormented me for so long. The initial idea for Men Can Wear Dresses Too was born.

I began reading as much as I could find on transvestism and cross-dressing. I scoured the Internet for information. I met with one of the local transgender groups and soaked in the many stories. The more I researched, the more I discovered. The more I discovered, the more I began to question all those feelings of abnormality suffered throughout my life. I realised that I was not alone and that cross-dressing affects many thousands of men, everyday around the world.

I finally understood that the lie around cross-dressing is not the obvious lie of being a transvestite but that being a transvestite is in some way shameful, abhorrent, disgusting and should be firmly hidden behind closed doors.

As I continued my research I finally understood that the feelings of isolation, rejection and exclusion were introduced and indoctrinated by society resulting from a combination of ignorance, misunderstanding and fear.

I made my decision. I would write a book which would not only allow me to tell my story but perhaps could, just, address the negativity and fear surrounding transvestism, but how was I going to introduce this into the very society that seems so closed to transvestism!

I began, four years ago, by attempting to write a un-encumbered autobiography. I knew if I could tell my story then surely that would help to publicise the issues surrounding transvestism.

I feverishly began writing, recording every memory, but soon realised that this would only be my views and probably only be relevant to those who personally knew me. How could I validate my views? The first draft, soon after, hit the bin.

I needed to support the events of my life with unquestionable evidence to depersonalise the story line. It was then; by chance I discovered the works of Vernon Coleman and H Taylor Buckner. Both had published ground breaking articles based on surveys of the cross-dressing community. I, further, discovered that over the last fifty years there had been a number of scientifically led surveys carried out around cross-dressing. I wondered if I could possibly use the results of these surveys to validate and support the experiences of my cross-dressing life and thereby integrate my life into the greater issue of transvestism.

Again I feverishly began writing. After several months I read back over the thickening draft. Whilst it undoubtedly was crammed full of the relevant data, as a story it had no personality, no humanity, no character. Again, despondent I discarded the second draft to the bin. No one would be interested in reading a technical report.

Many months passed and I struggled to come to terms with how to find the right balance for a book.

Eighteen months ago, and some thirty months after the first draft I began writing Men Can Wear Dresses Too. By using the experiences of my life as a platform I have been able to display the results of cross-dressing surveys carried out by Hirschfeld, Prince, Docter, Coleman and Buckner Taylor to name but a few, to understand and explain the events of my life, in the context of a wider cross-dressing experience.

As I wrote I realised there was more to this story than even I realised. I was astonished with the results.

This book is more than just the story of my life. The story of a guy who likes to wear a dress.

Men Can Wear Dresses Too gets to the very heart of the way we, society deal with those who are different. It considers the influence of society on what we think and how we feel. It reflects on the addictive nature of cross-dressing, the inherent depression, absolute feelings of guilt and the association of fetishist sex. It replays the Taylor Buckner’s Transvestic Career Path and asks if this is an important step in developing a scientific method of identifying and supporting those boys who may be experiencing transvestic feelings. It reviews the psychological aspects of transvestism and the categorisation of cross-dressers as sexual fetishists.

Most importantly Men Can Wear Dresses Too is there to support and encourage all those men who cross-dress, to challenge and dispel the myths that surround transvestism.

I could not have brought this book together without the support and love of a small group of associates and friends.

I express my thanks to Vernon Coleman and H Taylor Buckner for permission to use their work extensively, within this book. Without these pioneers and their work Men Can Wear Dresses Too would never have been possible. You are my heroes.

My thanks to Kathy and Nikki who, gave their time in the first edit of this book and whose advice was invaluable. You have become great friends and inspirations.

Authourhouse, my publisher, for their support, advice and true professionalism in making my dream a reality.

Last and most importantly I could never have published this book without my fiancée, Nicky. Her unwavering support, simple wisdom, unfaltering patience and complete love have inspired me to, finally live my life and become everything I can be.

This book is dedicated to you.

Introduction

We live in a world where information is available on just about every subject at the click of a button from our armchair. We are able to watch global events unfold right in front of us in real time. We have ‘smart’ TVs that bring us twenty-four-hour news, connect to the Internet, and can be controlled by the wave of a hand. Many of us carry high-powered computers, connected to super-fast networks, in our pockets, and many of us also have mobile phones that allow us to communicate with just about anyone, anywhere, on the planet. We understand the complexities of outer space. We have established how our species evolved. We can manage the deteriorating environment, and we understand our biology sufficiently well to allow us to develop treatments for diseases that would have been fatal just a few years ago. People in the Western world pride themselves on their acceptance, tolerance, compassion, and understanding of other cultures and races and those who are considered different within that society.

Yet, even with all of the technological and social advancements that have taken place, there remains a section of our society that is so misunderstood that the members belonging to it are often persecuted, derided, and forced to live in clandestine obscurity. The members of this group, consisting of both men and women, suffer with an emotional and physical addiction that is so inherent to their very being that they are often forced to live under current conditions two entirely separate, parallel lives with one kept secret from the people around them. So little is really known about the members of this group that the way in which they behave is frequently considered to be the result of a psychiatric disorder.

What would you do if you found out that your father, son, or brother was a member of this clandestine society who must keep a secret so potentially devastating if revealed that he would risk everything to avoid being discovered?

How do these individuals manage to keep this secret throughout their entire life, even from those who are closest to them? How do they

come to terms with an addiction so intense that it can, in reality, never be satisfied? How do they define who they are when, even in the

society of the twenty-first century, there is a struggle to explain or

classify their needs and desires? The questions could just keep on

coming.

I bid you welcome to a secret, obsessive, and bohemian world: the one of the heterosexual cross-dresser, transvestite, or the man who likes to wear a dress.

I am Catie Maye, and I am that heterosexual cross-dresser. This is my story. It is an account that tackles, head on, one of the most controversial and taboo subjects of the modern day. It is a look at an emotional and complex journey that few have undertaken and at a world that few even realise actually exists.

It is a journey on which you will discover an amazing group of sensitive, intelligent, and articulate men who are leading exceptional, disjointed, and dysphoric lives. These men are socially ‘normal’ individuals, and yet each one lives a parallel life that would generally be considered to

be anything but normal. They have been forced to develop unique

skills, such as forensically tuned minds and unrivalled photographic memories.

This is a journey that will take you from the hilariously obscure to the depressingly sad. It will take you from the sensuously erotic to the farcically outrageous. It will move from the peaks of euphoria to the depths of depression.

At times it could mean a confrontation of established discriminations, an opening of the mind to ‘the impossible’, and a discarding of social conditioning and boundaries that have been formed over many years.

While the subject matter must inevitably deal with erotic and sexual issues it is not meant to be a work of transvestic eroticism. The subject matter is often difficult, confusing, and complex, but you cannot for one second think that you can ignore the existence of transvestism or assume that it is a problem that you, personally, will never have to face.

Let’s consider five simple statements that could be heard in relation to the subject and compare them with the facts as they have been established.

1. ‘I don’t know anybody who cross-dresses, so why should I care?’

There is no official record of exactly how many men have at some time during their lives cross-dressed, but it is believed that, conservatively,

the figure could be as high as 10 per cent of all males between ten to

sixty-five years of age. To assess that belief I have examined the results

that were obtained from the 2011 national census, (http://www.ons.gov.uk/ons/guide-method/census/2011/index.html) excluding those males under ten years of age and those aged more than sixty-five—although it should be noted that there is clear evidence that cross-dressing can begin before the age of ten and continue until death.

So how many men are estimated to regularly cross-dress in the United Kingdom?

•   The population of the United Kingdom was recorded at the approximately 63 million mark.

•   The male-to-female ratio was 105/100.

•   Some 16.4 per cent of the people recorded were aged more than sixty-five, equalling approximately 10.33 million.

•   Approximately 15 per cent of the people recorded were less than ten years of age, equalling approximately 9.45 million

•   This means that approximately 43.22 million people were aged from ten to sixty-five years.

•   Utilising the male/female split, approximately 22.137 million of those recorded were men.

If we were to assume that the percentage of men who cross-dress is realistically half the 10 per cent estimated then this would mean that cross-dressing could have been a part of the life of approximately 1.1 million men in the United Kingdom that year.

Now, just consider for a moment how many men you know who are aged from ten to sixty-five. If you know of fifty men in that age category then, conservatively, about three of them are likely to regularly cross-dress at some time in their life.

2. ‘Cross-dressers probably begin dressing in girls’ clothes during puberty as a result of some form of abuse, external pressure or sexual experimentation.’

We are told that cross-dressing often begins as a result of some form of mental or physical abuse or influence from a third party, as a result of some traumatic childhood event, or even as sexual/gender experimentation during puberty.

However, the facts are that most cross-dressing statistically begins in boys when they are aged from eight to twelve years, that is, generally before puberty is reached.

It is nearly always carried out in complete secrecy, and thus it is not influenced by any distinguishable external source.

As will be seen from the survey data provided in this book, there is no evidence that those who cross-dress suffered any form of physical or mental abuse as children. When questioned, the respondents to our surveys gave no evidence to suggest that cross-dressing had begun as a result of some traumatic event in their life.

3. ‘If a man wants to dress in women’s clothes then he must be gay.’

It is often suggested that for a man to want to dress as a woman he must be outwardly exhibiting some form of inherent homosexuality. It is difficult for those who consider themselves to be socially ‘normal’ to comprehend a heterosexual man wishing to dress as a woman. In fact, as far back as 1912 the term ‘transvestite’ did not exist, and cross-dressing men were considered to be a sub-group of homosexual men. It remains one of the greatest concerns of the partners of cross-dressers that dressing is primarily done to solicit other men for a homosexual relationship. However, in some of the most influential surveys on the subject carried out over the last forty years, the responses of those who participated in cross-dressing confirmed that 75 to 80 per cent of all cross-dressers are, in fact, socially normal heterosexual males. In fact, the percentage of homosexuality within the cross-dressing community is proportionally lower than the percentage of homosexuality within the heterosexual community.

4. ‘Cross-dressers are strange, little men who live on their own, with no wife or girlfriend because they cannot maintain a relationship.’

A common misconception is that most cross-dressers live alone in a solitary fantasy world. They can be thought to be unable to form or maintain any type of relationship with the opposite sex consequent of their egocentric nature and the need for complete secrecy. However, the truth appears to be completely different.

As part of the preparation for this book I reviewed the results of nearly 10,000 respondents to five independent cross-dressing surveys. Surprisingly, the results revealed that, more than 70 per cent of cross-dressers are married. Of those, again approximately 70 per cent have disclosed their cross-dressing to their partners, who have said to be accepting of the behaviour, if not entirely approving.

5. ‘Men who dress in women’s clothes are sexual perverts or weirdoes.’

It is widely believed that the singular reason for a man to cross-dress is for sexual stimulation or gratification. The other descriptive term for those who cross-dress, ‘transvestism’, remains even today, listed within medical reference books as ‘a fetishist activity’, cross-dressers being the only transgender group whose behaviour is defined as ‘a fetish’.

The Oxford English Dictionary’s (OED’s), (http://www.oed.com) definition of the noun ‘fetish’ is:

1a Form of sexual desire in which gratification is linked to an abnormal degree to a particular object, item of clothing, part of the body, etc. Included is the statement that ‘some may have fetishes, like dressing up in women’s clothes’.

1b An excessive and irrational devotion or commitment to a particular thing.

It is, based on the above understanding of the term, undoubtedly true

that there must be an element of fetishism in any repeated cross-

dressing.

In 2001, an Internet survey of 513 cross-dressers established that 42 per cent dressed consequent of an inner compulsion compared to 34 per cent who cross-dressed for sexual excitement. A further survey of nearly 6,000 cross-dressers strongly or mostly disagreed that their cross-dressing was a sexual fetish.

Furthermore, they went on to ask if the respondents believed that their transgender behaviour was primarily sexually motivated, and of the 6,000 responses 49 per cent of respondents claimed to strongly or mostly disagree with the statement with 17 per cent remaining ambivalent.

So, in light of the above, it appears that most cross-dressers begin the behaviour as pre-pubescent boys, generally as a result of their own emotional needs; the majority of cross-dressers are heterosexual; most cross-dressers have stable relationships with partners who are aware and conditionally accepting of their cross-dressing; the majority of cross-dressers engage in cross-dressing for reasons other than sexual excitement; and, most importantly, it is almost a certainty that you will know a cross-dresser.

*       *      *

I have attempted to tell my story twice before.

The first attempt at writing a book was in effect an autobiographical relation of my life. The events and the timeline were important and relevant to me, but they had little or no relevance for those who did not know me. The second attempt viewed my life by looking at the broader social questions and statistical facts concerning transvestism. Anybody who has ever scrutinised survey data or read a technical manual or scientific thesis will know how dull these can be even if the inherent message within them is exciting.

I needed to find the balance between the two, and Men Can Wear Dresses Too is the result. If you are open-minded enough to fully engage with the subject matter then I guarantee that you will be surprised, if not astounded, by the actual facts established about transvestism and by the data that has been collected on the subject over the last one hundred years or so, beginning with the work carried out by Magnus Hirschfeld in the early twentieth century in Germany to the most recent surveys of the last twenty years.

If you have ever wondered whether men can wear dresses too, then you need to read this book.

Chapter 1

To Boldly Go . . . Discovery

I cannot remember how, on a sunny summer’s day in August 1969, I

found myself alone in our family home in Brixton, South London. When I say that I cannot remember how I found myself to be there, I guess what I really mean is that I cannot remember if I specifically engineered a situation of being left alone in the house or whether circumstances had simply provided an opportunity for me to be alone. It is strange that some of the most important decisions of my life could have and in fact probably were taken in the weeks prior to that August day. Yet in the time since, and on the many occasions that I have tried to recall the memories of those days, I have found that they have long since faded, having been overwritten by the singular image of the event that took place on that one particular day.

It is possible that the plans I made have faded, much in the same way as my once fair hair is now more of a smoky grey. It is also entirely possible that, in truth, nothing really had been planned and, therefore, there really are no plans to remember. However, I tend to think that whatever paved the way towards that August day has, over the years, been naturally suppressed by the protective mechanism of a mind that is ridden with guilt. In truth, it doesn’t matter. For whatever happened during the early summer of 1969 it did not change the facts that on a sunny summer’s day in 1969 I was introduced to the real me.

It was just a little after three o’clock, on a warm, late summer afternoon in August 1969 that I began to climb the staircase of our family home in Trinity Gardens, Brixton. The house was a two-storey, brick-built, eighteenth-century structure in South London and had been the family home since my grandparents had moved into the house just after the

end of World War II. My father, Albert, had returned there to live

in 1948 following military service. In 1956 he married my mother,

Doreen, and following their marriage my parents shared the family home with my grandparents until their deaths in, respectively, 1957

(my grandfather) and 1969 (my grandmother). I was born in 1960, and I clearly remember my grandmother occupying the ground floor of

the house while my parents and I lived in the three rooms on the first floor. We all shared the one Victorian outside toilet, which could only be accessed by passing through my grandmother’s kitchen. The original house was one of six, built in a terrace and used as domestic staff

quarters. The staff, who were predominantly grooms and stable lads, serviced the wealthier families who lived in larger houses surrounding a Victorian garden known as Trinity Gardens.

The terraced houses lay along a cinder ‘alley’, which led from the south west corner of the main square. This alleyway was originally used to take the carriage horses to the stables that were located under the houses, with the grooms, stable lads, and domestic servants living on the floors above. The house as it had been traditionally constructed was reasonably spacious, but for many decades it was not modified to include any ‘home comforts’ like hot water, central heating, an internal toilet, or a bathroom. The ground floor of the house was divided to provide a lounge, a dining room, a kitchen, and a scullery. From the kitchen, located at the rear of the property, a back door led, via a flagstone path, to the outside toilet and a small turfed garden. On the first floor, accessed via a single timber staircase, were three reasonable-sized rooms that are all now used as bedrooms but that were originally divided into a main bedroom, a lounge, and a kitchen. Many of the original ornamental features had been removed as each room was modernised and decorated, and, by 1969, the house reflected the era with lots of both plastic and metal brightly coloured wall finishes.

I placed a foot on the first step of the staircase, my eyes scanning the space ahead of me for any sign of movement even though I knew that I was alone in the house. The fear of being caught made me extra vigilant. Establishing that the way ahead was clear, I turned to look back along the hallway that ran from the back to the front of the house and ended with an original, half-glazed, front door. The sunlight twinkled through the two frosted upper glass panels of the door, showing no hint of a silhouette that may indicate that someone was on the other side and ready to enter. All appeared to be quiet.

I took another step, which caused the floorboards to creak loudly and caused me to jump back down the stairs. I flattened myself against the alcove wall at the bottom of the staircase, out of sight of the front door. I waited for a sign that someone was about to enter after all. All was quiet.

In fact it was so quiet that I realised that I had been holding my breath, and I exhaled in a burst of air and saliva. I then took a long, deep breath and peaked around the corner of the alcove. All was quiet. I began again and climbed one step at a time, stopping every third step to carry out the same checks, trying to ensure that I remained alone. I climbed further up the old, creaky staircase until my head appeared above the level of the first floor, and I could see the three bedroom doors. I surveyed the landing like an entrenched soldier scanning the battlefield before leaping over the edge in a desperate charge for victory. All remained still and silent.

As I had now reached the quarter landing, I still had to climb the last six steps of the single flight that took me to the hallway level. I tiptoed across the hallway. Why was I tiptoeing when I was on my own? I stood outside the door to the bedroom of my younger sister. The silence was ‘broken’ by the sound of an inner voice. A debate began in me over what I was about to do. My heart screamed, ‘You must do this; it is who you are.’ My head whispered, ‘This is crazy: Think of what will happen if you get caught.’ This internal battle—the conscious and logical mind versus the emotional and passionate soul—would become a continuing theme underpinning the rest of my life. On this occasion my heart won, purely on volume count.

*       *      *

I had arrived, as the first child, a son, on 28 September 1960, spookily, as you will see, at 12.55 p.m. I was born in a hospital in South London that was called Annie McCall’s, which unfortunately has long been closed. I was named Gary Robert after the American film actor Gary Cooper (1901-1961) and my grandfather, Robert. Both sides of the family could not have been happier for my parents to have had a baby, and to have produced a son who could continue the family name was considered to be an added bonus. I was, so I am told, a quiet, thoughtful, and untroubled child who loved being around the home, and apparently I enjoyed the time spent with my parents. Photographs of us as a family during my early childhood show happy—family—times.

Deborah Anne, my younger sister, was born at 12.55 a.m. (at what is a strange coincidence with my birth time) on 24 February 1964. She was named after Debbie Reynolds (1932-), the American actress, who was a favourite of my mother at the time. I was a little more than three when my sister was born and had been until then the centre of my parents’ world. Initially having a baby sister was quite exciting, but as Debbie grew from baby to toddler much of the attention became focused on her, as the younger child. By August 1969 Debbie was a little more than five and had grown into the archetypal ‘cutesy’ little girl, with pretty dresses, frills, bows, and beautiful ‘girly’ accessories and trinkets.

Now here’s the problem: I felt angry and frustrated that Debbie received much of the time and attention while I was continually told how I was now ‘grown up’ and was repeatedly asked to play the role of a ‘sensible’ big brother—something that I’m sure is the case in many families where a second child comes along. However, here’s the difference: The main problem I had was that I had realised that I was actually envious of the pretty dresses and coloured ribbons, bows, and frills that Debbie was allowed to wear when I was only permitted to wear the typical—and boring—blues, blacks, and greys of (young) men.

*       *      *

I stood outside my sister’s room for a long time, undecided about the next few hours. I eventually turned the door handle, easing open the old painted wooden door and entering the unfamiliar world of my sister’s room.

Debbie’s bedroom was a 12ft x 10ft space with a single, large, rear-facing sash window. The furniture was dotted around the three walls. In the centre of the longest wall, the one that was opposite the door was a brick chimney breast and an open fireplace. In the right-hand alcove of the two created by the fire stood a laminated-timber double wardrobe that was home to most of Debbie’s everyday clothes. As my sister was half my age and half my size, none of her normal clothes would fit me, so the wardrobe held no immediate interest. In the other alcove, however, stood a timber toy cupboard of some height, which I knew contained what I wanted on that special day. Along the wall containing the doorway was a large iron framed double bed which had been my parent’s bed before they had moved to the front Bedroom and had decided to invest in a new ‘old fashioned’ bedroom suite. Their existing double bed had been left in my sister’s room as it was just too big and heavy to remove.

On the wall opposite the window and adjacent to the doorway was a small timber dressing table and a mirror. The top of the dressing table held a small collection of items of ‘play’ make-up, felt-tip pens (without their lids), dolls’ accessories, and hair grips. The room I understood was generally tidy, but a collection of odd toys were strewn around the room on that day—evidence of a morning’s play session before my mother and sister had departed to search the shops for that night’s dinner.

Despite the bedroom being located at the rear of the house, the afternoon sun was streaming through the large rear window, lighting the interior of the room with a golden glow and providing ample light to find what I was searching for. I had made the decision to begin with the toy cupboard purely on the basis that what I wanted was part of a dressing-up costume, and so being a toy was most likely to be in the toy cupboard. I reached for and opened the thumb turn latch, which once released sprung open towards me. The toy cupboard had been built by my father many years before to provide a space for storing all of our board games and soft toys. It was constructed from sheets of plywood that had been screwed together to form a full-height cupboard and built to sit flush with the face of the chimney breast. Internally, three horizontal shelves had been fitted onto timber bearers, and each had been filled to the brim with toys and games. The top shelf held toys that were only played with occasionally and required the use of a chair to reach. The middle shelf mostly held my toys: a collection of Matchbox cars, a full train set, and a Scalextric car racing set. The lowest of the shelves held a stacked pile of board games. Underneath the lowest shelf my father had fixed a vertical board across the front of the space, just behind the door, to create a storage bin at the bottom of the cupboard. Into this area went all of the miscellaneous toys that couldn’t be stacked above as well as soft toys and dressing-up clothes.

I thrust my hand into the mass of soft toys, clothes, and dolls, feeling with my fingertips for what I was hunting out, pushing items to one side as I went. As I searched, occasionally a toy would fall from the bin and on to the floor, where it was left. I couldn’t feel anything like what I imagined my goal would feel like, and I withdrew my arm to try a different spot, but it was with the same result.

After the third occasion of driving my hand into the toy abyss, I felt something like string or twine but looped like the material is typically found on the fringe of a lampshade. My hand explored along the