 They warned me that oestrogen was slow acting. Now, some eight-years into regular hormone treatment, I understand what they meant. Which wasn't, after all, to do with breasts. No, they meant that oestrogen was slow to act on your brain, and, when it did finally kick in, you would become as ditzy and hand-wavey as any lady entering the age of anecdotage. This became crystal yesterday in the key cutters. I was there undertaking step two of the lesbian dating protocol. The three steps to lesbian dating, being, of course: swap DNA, keys, and then vows. Step one I can report, was straightforward. So, there we were, getting keys cut. Easy as. We swapped, I went home, jingling two extra keys. Only, I couldn't get into my own house. Like any flustered woman, what remained of my good common sense, decamped to parts unknown, and, instead of thinking rationally, my oestrogen (that slow ticking time bomb), came in like a flood, rendering me momentarily blind to all reasonable cause and effect. How on earth could a reputable key cutter, cut me a key that bore no resemblance to the original? Back to the key cutters I tottered. Wherein, I said to the man “Look, this key doesn't open my front door!” He said “Lady, that's the key for your screen door, no wonder it won't open the front door.” I said “No it isn't, the screen door key is still on my ring, see?” He studied them, then me. Finally, tired of my smart mouth and huffy demeanour, he told me both the keys were screen door keys. I was already bewildered at the sheer magnitude of his obvious incompetence, but I ploughed on, telling him in no uncertain terms that it wasn't right to cut me two screen keys when I'd expressly asked for one of each. He pondered this for a moment. “Where's the other two keys?” he asked. It was right about then, as the oestrogen tide turned, that I realised she must have two front door keys and me two screen door keys. Oops. I smiled graciously, then slid out of the shop feeling stupider than I'd felt since… How hard is it to swap keys? Bloody, is a fair answer. Praise be that chastity belts are out of vogue. Imagine not having a key for that brute when you desperately needed it!
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