My aunt suggested that a better idea would be to bring work home and don’t mention it to them. “They don’t need to know how long it’s taken, just that it’s been done… and you can always imply the work was completed in the office.” she advised.

 

 

 

 

“But if I let them know that I’m willing to put in the additional hours… that’ll work in my favour.”

 

 

 

 

“Or it could suggest that you can’t meet deadlines within a reasonable time.” she countered before informing me that plenty of homework is the secret to a successful career. “That and making yourself look much more efficient than you are.” she added. “In my line of work I see it all the time.”

 

 

 

 

“What do you do for a living Auntie?” I asked.

 

 

 

 

“I’m a consultant.” she replied. “You know that.”

 

 

 

 

“I know but a consultant in what?” I retorted. “It’s a very ambiguous term.”

 

 

 

 

“Management and human resources.” she replied. “I help business managers to maintain and manage their workforce… usually in industries where a high staff turn over is a problem.” she explained. “I do a lot of consulting for factories, care home managers, retailers, the service industry, hospitality…” she went on, using vague terms to describe specific things and left me pretty much none the wiser as to what her job actually entailed.

 

 

 

 

My third week in my new job was more or less the same as my second week. I was given menial yet time consuming tasks that any Muppet could do, but not in the short time scale they expected. I took my aunt’s advice and took my work home with me to ensure it would be completed. Each day I covertly copied my work folder to or from my USB drive and implied that all my work had been completed in the office.

 

 

 

 

My colleagues continued to talk about me behind my back, but somehow didn’t seem too bothered if I overheard them. In fact sometimes it’s like they make sure I’m within earshot, especially when one of the guys had the following exchange with one of the women. Under his breath, yet only a few metres behind me he said, “I can understand trannies wearing bras… but you’d think he’d stuff it with something.”

 

 

 

 

“Maybe it’s a training bra.” the woman replied. “Maybe he’s hoping he’ll grow a pair.” she added.

 

 

 

 

“He needs to grow a pair of something.” the guy retorted.

 

 

 

 

“You’re right there!” I thought. When I was a little kid I can understand why I abided by my Aunt Katinka’s house rules. When I was a teenager I made it clear that I hated being petticoated and hated her for petticoating me, but soon realised that simply putting up and shutting up was better than refusing to follow her rules. When I turned sixteen I simply refused to be sent to my aunt’s house as I was old enough to stay home alone. Since my mother had no interest in petticoating me, it soon became a distant memory, so much so that it didn’t even cross my mind when I arranged to spend a few weeks with Aunt Katinka until I sorted my own accommodation out. I recalled the humiliation I felt when I arrived at her house as an adult and was immediately berated for not wearing knickers before being pout into an adult sized nappy. If I had a pair of balls I’d have put my foot down there and then. But no… I think I must have been in shock when I put my naked butt down on my big pink changing mat. For all the sneering I get from my colleagues, it’s nothing compared to what I’d get if they knew everything, I figured as they continued to talk about me in hushed tones.