Brothers And Sisters - Chapter 2 free porn video

Try to, as best you can, imagine the utter humiliation of having to dress yourself in your little sister's bedclothes each night. Imagine pulling a pair of purple fluffy shorts from the drawer or of feeling them slide up around your legs until they reach your waist, where they sit snugly over your, terribly hidden, male underwear. Imagine too, pulling the little strappy pyjama top over your torso, and of feeling the row of lace on the neck and on the straps against your arm. Then, imagine looking at yourself in the mirror and realising, with immense horror, that the garments do not look tremendously out of place on you, and how the front of your shorts look ridiculously flat, and how your legs, covered only with very fair blond hairs, look somehow hairless and very childish as they protrude from the bottom of your new shorts. Then imagine your little sister laughing through the wall, knowing fully well that you're now wearing bedclothes she herself had been wearing in the last few weeks, even though she's a 10 year old girl, and you're an 18 year old man. You might think you can imagine it. Might even think you've experienced something in your life to match it. But you can't. And you haven't. Trust me. I had hoped that maybe, upon realising she had lost her temper, Mum would let me off the punishment after just one night, but instead she made a big show and dance of me coming to breakfast in my new attire - a reminder, she whispered, that the quicker I started to act like a grown up the better - and after that, and a few more nights, I came to realise that the punishment was sticking. Essentially, I was sharing garments with Amelia now, and how bizarre a thing that was, and how Amelia found it so wonderfully hilarious. I exhausted all the shorts and - pastel coloured - jammy bottoms first, wincing when I'd see Amelia wearing the same shorts or shirt a few nights later, but eventually I had no choice but to attire myself in one of the two nighties Mum had left in the drawer. I tried one last plea before it happened, even begging to have some of the girly shorts back from the wash (hardly my finest moment), but Mum only shook her head and told me that she wasn't going to do more washes than was necessary, and that I'd wear whatever was in the drawer. She didn't seem to take any pleasure in telling me, but she didn't look too bothered either, perhaps thinking I still needed to take my medicine. The first nightie was the better of the two. It was a deep shade of purple with a scooped hem that danced around my knees, with, ironically perhaps, a row of teddies across the chest. I felt so strange dressed in it, and especially so when I presented myself, very red-faced, at the breakfast table to find Amelia in the pink shorts I had worn on my first night of her bedclothes, her eyes lighting up at the wonderful sight of her older brother in, what she called, a "very pretty" nightie. The second was terrible, and brought about many quarrels between Mum and I, which I knew were doing little to release me from my punishment. On one hand I knew such arguments were doing me little good in her eyes, but on the other I wondered just how I was supposed to be proving myself as a "man" when I was dressed in such girlie attire? The point was raised with Mum but dismissed, and so I had to pull on the offending garment with no little horror or embarrassment. It was shorter than the purple nightie, far shorter, its hem coming to rest no more than a few inches below my waist in way that left it constantly sliding upwards as I tried to sleep exposing, if they could be seen, my underpants. Worse still it was of a baby pink, with ruffles on the front and on the hem of the skirt, with a light heart-shape pattern in darker pink running down the arms. Amelia, on seeing me the following morning, burst into very hearty laughter, telling me with no little glee that she hated that nightie but how it seemed to fit me better. Indeed, when I saw her wearing it two weeks or so later the hem of the nightie did come to an even more abrupt end on her than it did on me, with her pastel coloured polka dot knickers exposed as she reached up to grab her cereal bowl. "That's too short for you now," Mum said, obviously seeing the same, "put it in the wash basket tonight." "Of course, Mummy," Amelia said, shooting me a very quick glance that said everything, without saying anything. The nightie was back in MY drawer the next evening, naturally. It was no surprise the garment no longer fitted her because, as we barrelled towards the summer holidays, it was clear Amelia was having another growth spirt. She was delighted with this, reckoning it would help her be selected for the mixed-gender football team next year, rather than just the girl's team of which she was the best player, and exceedingly quick to tell all and sundry just how much taller she was than me now. This was true, horrifyingly. A back to back measurement by Mum, with me in the purple nightie and Amelia already dressed for school in her grey shorts, showed my little sister to be a good three inches taller, and probably broader too. "When I am going to get MY growth spirt?" I asked Mum afterwards, peevishly. As though she was to blame for stunted growth, or for Amelia's accelerated growth. "It'll happen," was all she could say. As for the game? Well, I thought about it. A LOT. But there was no Godly way I was going to risk playing it, as much as I wanted to, and so I tried to keep myself busy in other ways. Part of it being an attempt to be as helpful and considerate around the house as possible in the hope, the desperate hope, that Mum might see it as "manly" behaviour. I didn't raise to Amelia's bait even once, instead only smiling when she tried to rile me, or when Sophia happily asked what "pretty" nightie I had worn the night before. I took the bins out when asked. Let Amelia watch whatever she wanted on TV. Washed the dishes. Hoovered. Swept the weeds out of the driveway. Then, finally, some good news. No, not that I could give back the girly bedclothes, but rather that Amelia had been chosen for a special Soccer camp, which would run every weekday between 9am and 3pm for the first three weeks of the holiday, and which would mean she wouldn't be skulking around the house all the time, mocking me, or trying to pick a fight. It was decided that she'd need all new sports-clothes for the occasion and, deciding that all other clothes were unnecessary now, Amelia stored all her non-sports things in a black bag and put it at the back of her cupboard. She looked, when dressed in her very official looking football strip, decidedly grown up and more, I thought glumly, like a teenage boy than I did! Especially with her long blonde hair now cut shorter, into a bob much like Sophia's, and not all that much longer than my ever-longer hair. It was seeing her strutting about in the kit (she even wore it to breakfast now, which brought about further humiliation on my part) that made me realise I needed to do more, far more, to prove my manhood to Mum. The first opportunity to do so, at least in my mind, occurred not long before the summer break started, when my hoovering of the front room was interrupted by a knock at the door. "Yeah, hi," the slightly bedraggled middle aged man said, "is err....your Mum or Dad home?" This cut me from the off, and I replied regally that my Mum wasn't home, but that I was 18, and therefore could help with whatever he wanted. "Fine, yeah fine, sorry," the man said, scratching his rather large nose, "your guttering's shagged mate. Really bad." With that he pointed at toward the ceiling, and though I strained to see what he was pointing at, I quickly realised it futile and instead just nodded. "Oh really, right" I said. "Could cause a big problem. Maybe even a fine from the council if it spills onto the road. They do that now, you know." I told him I did know. Another lie. "I could make a start on it tomorrow for ya. Just need ?100 now to get the tools ordered. Can get it done in a day or two. No more than ?200 for the whole job." "That doesn't sound too bad," I said, happy to be having a grown-up discussion. I went for the kill, "tell you what...mate...if we can agree on ?180 you can have the job." I'd heard other people say things like that and felt exhilarated doing so myself. The man looked at me for a moment (and for a moment I was worried he might just burst in the door and steal the TV), but then, after running a tired looking hand through his grey splattered hair, said, "yeah all right. Need the ?100 now though." Still sounding like a good deal to me, I made tracks for the emergency money Mum always left in the Roses tin on top of the cupboard, and could scarcely wait to return the money to the man, especially thinking how highly Mum was going to think of the job I'd done. "Magic," the man said, "so yeah...I'll back at 8 or so tomorrow. Just make sure there's no cars blocking the driveway, yeah?" "Sure," I said, "and thanks. See you tomorrow." This was how, and why, it was decided on that very evening that perhaps, all things considered, I shouldn't be left in the house alone, and why, Mum said gravely, it was time to tell me her latest idea. "It's a perfect job for you." I was still angry. Angry about the con-man at the door. Angry that I'd been stupid enough to listen. Angry that Mum, in her infinite wisdom, thought that being a Playgroup Assistant, was a "perfect" job for me. "Come on Jessie. I know you're terrified of working with other men. That much is obvious," she said, her words so cutting that I could almost feel myself bleed in the face of them. "That's not true," I murmured. "No, anyway. I've spoken to Angela, you remember Angela from my work, don't you?" I nodded. "Yes, I've spoken to her, and owns a playground. It does really well. Anyway, on the girls she has working there is leaving week after next. That's perfect. It's when Amelia starts her Soccer Camp too, so I can drop you off on the way." "It's women's work," I said bitterly. "No it's not. Well..yes....they're all women who work there at the moment, but it's not women's work." Mum was right. I didn't want to work with other men. The thought terrified me. But the thought of being surrounded by little boys and girls frightened me even more, with memories of school bullies and nasty little girls coming flooding back. "I won't know anyone," I said, somewhat pathetically. "You will. You'll know Sophia. She's going to be playing there because her Mum and Dad work full-time." "Even better." Hesitantly, but with a surface level of anger still sitting deep within me, I asked what would happen if I refused. To this Mum looked at me for a moment, and with her eyes turning the same kind of angry as they'd been when she dropped the bedclothes in my drawer, said, "I'll tell you what'll happen. You won't go there as an assistant..." "Fine then," I said, thinking that sounded perfectly reasonable. "...no. You'll go there to play. I'll speak to Angela and have you booked in as a 10 year old. No-one will know, will they? Well, apart from Sophia, and she'll stay quiet." "No-one will believe I'm a ten year old boy," I replied sharply, crossing my arms over my chest. At this Mum smiled wickedly, "a boy? Dear me, no! You couldn't be a boy! They'd run you ragged. We'll book you in as Jessica, my very pretty, YOUNGEST daughter, and you can be another one of the little girlies. Oh, it'll be fun Jessie! I find some very cute little outfits to wear, and we can put your hair into little pig-tails.....Sophia will love it too. " "Stop!" I cried. "Quite," she said, "now, can I tell Angela you'll be starting in a week and a half?" I nodded slowly. "Good boy. You don't have to look so glum Jessie. You can keep the money you earn, apart from a little bit of board for me, of course." I wanted to run away, and probably would have done so if I had the slightest inclination of where to go. Instead I had to listen endlessly as Amelia chirped on about Soccer Camp, and how she'd been practicing her tacking, and how she was going to get a scholarship to a college in the US, and become on the top female players in the world. Quite often I was roped into being practice partner, normally watching helplessly as she'd dribble past me or blow straight through me when she wanted the ball back. This culminated in, quite embarrassingly, her making me cry once more, when a wild tackle landed me with cuts and bruises on my legs, at which point Mum told her calmly, "Careful with your brother Amelia. He's not as robust as you." She asked Mum what robust meant and smiled broadly when the answer came back. She was still smiling that night when, just before bedtime and with me already clad in, sod's law, the very short pink nightie that Amelia was now deemed too tall for, she proudly burst into my room, as I struggled to hide my underpants from view, eventually having to pull myself under the covers. "GET OUT," I yelled, wanting to get out of bed, but afraid of her seeing me again. "Stop being silly" Then, quite oddly, she walked over and opened my top drawer, taking out a pair of my plain white underpants, "hmm," she said, studying them. "What ARE you doing?" "I don't like any of the underwear Mum bought me for summer camp. It's all too baggy. And I can't wear my knickers under my shorts. That'd be silly." "It's not my problem," I replied, feeling ridiculous just having such a conversation with my little sister. "Close your eyes," she barked, fixing me with a glare, "go, on close them." "Why? What are you doing?" I closed them in the end, simply because Amelia was already peeling off her shorts, "stop whatever it is you're doing Amelia," I said again, still unwilling to get out of bed in the face of a nightie I knew had risen up around my waist. "These are great, fit me just right," Amelia beamed, kicking out at imaginary air as her previously worn pair of boy-shorts sat on the floor. "Take them off and put them back," I said, "now!" At this threat she just smiled, "if you want them back," she said, returning to the drawer to pillage the remaining pairs, "come and get them." With no choice remaining I leapt out of bed, and though feeling quite ridiculous chasing after her as the little nightie swirled up high around my legs, I literally had no idea what else to do. I could hardly let her take my boys...men's...briefs, could I? A still smiling Amelia took a place hiding behind Mum, and stood there mocking me with the very look in her eyes. "She took my.....she took my..." I started to complain, not able to find the words. "She took your what Jessie? Stop stuttering for goodness sake. You sound like a little girl!" "I took his underpants," Amelia said for me, before explaining why. At this Mum, incredibly, simply shrugged, "well Jessie. I suppose this is the time to show you can be a man. You can't let your little sister steal your underpants, can you?" "Give them back!" I said, beginning my chase of her once more. We circled the living room a few times, with Amelia waving the underpants like a treasure map and telling me, with a giggle, that my "knickers" were showing when I ran. "I'm not wearing knickers," I shouted. At this she stopped, and her expression changed again. Perhaps realising she had no real reason to run away, she simply stood bolt still in the middle of the room, with a whole new grin splashed across her face. "You're not wearing knickers, that's right!" She beamed, grabbing me by the arms as I reached her, and forcing me onto the ground. If I hadn't been a match for her strength before, I was even less so now, after her weeks and weeks of playing football almost non-stop. All I could resort to, sat herself down on top of me, was to cry out for help from Mum, who instead continued to stand my just watching, her expression not clear to me. "Let's get these boy pants off you," Amelia said, reaching out under my nightie before pulling said garment down over my ankles, and adding to them to her pile. Then she gave me a stern look, and said, "don't you move an inch. If you do, you'll be VERY sorry." "Mummy," I sobbed, "why don't you stop her?" "Mummy?" She replied, "where did that come from? If you want your pants back, go and get them, like I said." "It's not fair," I whimpered, desperately pulling down the hem of the nightie as to not expose my, no doubt, very shrivelled manhood. How could it not be, in the face of such humiliation. "Now," Amelia said, returning moments later, "you didn't move, well done." I couldn't see the garment in her hand at first, but certainly could after she waved them in-front of my face, "pretty, aren't they?" "Please don't Amelia!" But it was no use. The knickers were of white and pink polka-dots, and she ran them up my legs as tears continued to roll down my cheeks. They felt so terribly strange, so constraining, once she'd pulled them fully into place, that it made me cry even more, my humiliation firmly complete. Now, just like any little girl in a short nightie, it was a pair of knickers I'd expose to the world when moving about. "Very pretty," Mum said, as Amelia stood me up. "Mum!" "Mummy!" She snapped by return, "you decided to call me that, and so you bloody well keep doing so. I swear Jessie, I give you chance after chance to be a man, and you let me down over and over again!" "I'm sorry," I said, sobbing still. "Oh stop crying," Mum said, "Amelia, make sure you get all your other old knickers out of the bag and put them in his drawer. Perhaps THAT, Jessie, might FINALLY be the push you need. A fully grown man being put in his little sister's knickers, by his little sister no less! Whatever next?" "I don't want to wear her knickers! I'm a boy. I'm 18! Please!" At this she wrapped a large, thick arm around me, "let's get you back to bed poppet. You're getting overly emotional." Like little girls are prone to do, I waited for her to say. It had taken a couple of days for the reality of my situation to sink in, this being in spite of the constant, and quite humiliating, pull and feel of Amelia's knickers against my midriff, worn as they were, under my clothes at all times. That they were invisible to sight seemed strangely irrelevant in terms of my embarrassment. They knew I was wearing them. Mum knew. Amelia knew. Even Sophia, popping in after school, had learned it. And I knew too, of course. It really was most unfair, and I had no idea how to remedy my increasingly desperate situation. It seemed, I concluded on a dark, oddly wintery July morning, that attempts to be more assertive, more quarrelsome, more headstrong - qualities a manly man might display - had come to count against me as bad behaviour. Conversely, attempts to be pliable, kind, thoughtful were being taken as signs of my - increasing - childishness. To put another way. If I argued with Amelia, I was being badly behaved. If I were nice and sweet toward Amelia, I was acting in the very way a little girl might act, and therefore one who belonged in the white and pastel coloured knickers I now called my own, temporarily at least. Things were no longer spiralling out of control. They had firmly spun out of control, and the thread was very straight and so very long. Long enough to hang oneself with, I thought grimly. With my start date as a playgroup assistant barrelling nearer (how had THAT happened?) I resolved to make a stronger case to Mum, and to try to make her see the sense, the good old common sense, that she seemed to have alleviated herself of. I chose a Saturday morning - one week before I due to start at the playgroup - and chose it because I knew Amelia, who would be sure to have an opinion, was already out at Football practice. For this terrifying occasion, I found myself dressed in a pair of yellow pyjamas I had never seen Amelia wear, with three quarter length bottoms and a button up top which met the trousers in a most girly, soft fashion. This, would you believe, had seemed like the best option out of "my" remaining nightwear - which otherwise consisted of three nighties (including the two short ones) and a poufy pair of lavender shorts that barely covered the bottom of my bum. Was she, I wondered with no little embarrassment, actually fishing out some of Amelia's even older nightwear? I shuddered at the thought. So, my life had become such that, after rising in the morning and brushing my teeth and having my wash, I had to deposit yesterday's knickers in the wash basket and find a new pair from the dreaded top drawer. Here, for the very first time, as I rummaged through the ghastly mass of girlish underwear, I wondered if it wasn't sensible to wear a pair of yellow knickers to match my bottoms. Such an idea seemed logical, (if somewhat (no, completely)) embarrassing, especially when considering it would camouflage the knickers better if they were to ride up above the waistband of my pyjama bottoms, as they had a tendency to do. Besides I liked to think myself the owner of an organised mind, and this seemed very organised. It was, I thought grimly, the kind of thing that made me a good Bear Island player. "Hello sleepy," Mum said, as I joined her at the kitchen table. I wasn't sleepy, not at all, but I didn't reply. Instead I ate my cereal quietly, rehearsing my argument, until such time it felt right to deliver it. "I just want to know...Mummy....what kinds of things I could do to help me out of this punishment?" "Punishment?" She repeated, not looking up from her phone. "Yes punishment!" I replied, a little peevishly. What else could you call it? Though quite what I was being punished for, apart from having a little sister who could beat me up, I wasn't sure. "You're asking me how to be a man?" She replied eventually, but still without looking up. I wouldn't put it like that, I replied. Rather, I wanted to know what SHE thought would make me a man. The difference was subtle, but very important. "Not wearing your little sister's knickers would be a start," she sniffed, smirking coolly. "I don't want to wear them! She made me!" "She made you?" "Yes, you saw it! And you did NOTHING to help." The conversation was going badly. "Sophia has an older brother. Only 12 or 13, I think. I've met him once or twice dropping Sophia off. He's not a tall boy, perhaps only your height, and he looks a bit weedy. The kind who sits behind a computer all day, probably. But do you think that boy, I'm not sure of his name, would let Sophia take his underpants away and replace them with her own? And remember," she said, before I could respond, "that's he's only 12 or 13." I said, darkly, that I thought he wouldn't, but that Sophia wasn't as strong as Amelia. "OK, but you don't need to fight to get them back, do you? Why not go in Amelia's room - right now - and take them from her drawer?" "Because," I began, head spinning, "I thought I'd get in trouble. With you." "You didn't think I'd see it as a sign of resolve? Of the strength not taking such a ridiculous order from your "Mummy'?" Now I felt completely and utterly stupid. Of course, I should have taken the pants back! What had I been thinking? But, after considering it for a few quiet seconds, there was another reason I hadn't done it. And it was something Mum knew only too well. "You're frightened of Amelia," she said, shaking her head. "I am not!" She only smiled and shook her head with even greater fervour. Now I was completely lost. I wasn't allowed to fight with Amelia - such a thing was terribly childish of me - but neither should I acquiesce to her? What then, I asked desperately, was I to do? "A big brother doesn't have to fight with his little sister," Mum replied, "you need to just TELL her how it'll be. She'll respect you for it, I guarantee." I wasn't sure. It seemed I was locked in Hampton Court Maze, doomed to walk amongst its high hedges for ever as I grappled with the complexity of my situation. Naturally, I wasn't tall enough to look over the hedge to find my way out in that manner. And so, with little idea what else to do, I took back my pants, and when Amelia stormed in the next morning, I'd dressed myself in them, and indeed returned to one of my own t-shirts to sleep in. "Give them back, they're mine now!" She raged. I noted she was wearing a pair herself, and clad in one of her old football shirts we must have looked oddly like twins. At least they were boy twins, which was a pleasant novelty. "I don't want to wear the silly knickers," she cried, as we began to tussle once more, "you can wear them." "No, I'm a boy and YOU'RE a girl," I told her, as she started to overpower me. "No, YOU can be a girl," she shouted back, her cheeks reddening with exertion and her bobbed hair bouncing around and intermixing with my own hair. What an odd argument, I found myself fleetingly considering as Amelia forced me to the floor and, in-spite of my strongest efforts, found the reserves to once again pull off my "boy" pants, leaving me quite embarrassingly naked from the bottom down. Not that Amelia cared or even looked. Instead she pulled the rest of the pants from the draw and run out with them, barricading herself in her room with such force that I had no chance of getting it to retrieve them. "I'm locking my drawer," she shouted, "and you'll never find the key. I'll hide it somewhere high where you can't reach." "I'll get a chair," I cried back, feeling tremendously silly and realising, with no little horror, that I was still naked from the waist down when Mum appeared in the hallway, and with eyes wide and mouth ajar, grabbed me by the hand back towards the bedroom, me trailing behind like an infant waiting to be dressed. "What am I supposed to do?" I whinged, as Mum shepherded me onto the bed. "I don't know," she replied, asking me where I'd put the knickers. I pointed sadly to a black bag behind the TV, a location I had intended from which to throw them out later. "Can't you buy me new pants?" I replied, somehow forgetting that my willy was still on full show, but not sure what to do about it but, except make a childish and, oddly girlish, attempt to pull down my t-shirt. "You can buy your own pants when you start your new job," she said, taking the clump of knickers and returning them to their old home, "you ARE going to make a good go of it, right?" I looked down at the floor and nodded, as she handed me a pair of white knickers with purple trim to put on, this pair slightly faded around the leg holes and, undoubtedly, carrying the smell of Amelia, as most of the pairs did. It was, I realised with a start, becoming MY smell now. I could not imagine ever having been so nervous as I was on the first morning of my new, and first, job, nerves in no way placated by taking a long, warm bath ('hurry up in there, Amelia had cried) nor by dressing myself ridiculously early and sitting down quietly on the living room sofa while Amelia barged about, late and disorganised as ever, for her Soccer School. One small, merciful victory had come in the shape of Mum allowing me a pair of my own underpants to wear, though the way she told me ('you can borrow a pair of Amelia's briefs tomorrow, I don't think it'd look good if someone notices you wearing your knickers') did little to lift my spirits. That they had become "Amelia's briefs', and "my" knickers, stuck like a knife, deposited deep into my heart in a fashion which made it impossible to pull out. So, clad in matching underwear, Amelia and I climbed into Mum's small car, with Amelia, quite naturally, barrelling herself into the front seat. While she was dressed in her football tracksuit worn, I assumed, over her football kit, I'd clad myself in the smartest polo shirt I could find in the wardrobe - a red and black striped shirt which, thankfully, did have a hole in it like the others - and coupled it with my "best" pair of jeans, though the description was hopeful given the faded knees and frayed hems. I also noticed, with a start, that the jeans had become far baggier on me since I'd last worn them, a reminder, if it were needed, that the situation was playing havoc with my normal way of life, to the point where I really wasn't eating enough. Mum "accepted" my outfit, but not without comment on the overall scruffy appearance, especially as I'd made little headway controlling my curly, mangled hair. I needed it cut, we all knew as much, but money was too tight Mum had said (despite Amelia having a haircut) and until now it had hardly mattered, given how infrequently, save for our Sunday visit to church, I went outside. We dropped off Amelia first, and I suffered the ignominy, for she wouldn't leave me alone in the car, of following the pair of them meekly to the sign up hut, where I perched myself with trepidation against a wooden post and watched boy after boy - all taller and all loud and confident - sweep by me without a glance. There were a few girls too, and like Amelia, they were mostly sporty looking girls, save for a little black-haired thing who wished me a sunny "good morning" as she walked passed with her Dad, to which I looked shyly down at the ground in response, desperate to be just about anywhere else. Having agreed with the girls at the playgroup that I'd start around half nine - to give Mum a chance to drop Amelia off each morning - we had some time to kill before leaving, and so Mum, without giving me any choice in the matter, pulled me by the hand to watch Amelia, along with the other eager boys and girls, run onto the pitch, at which all the parents cheered and clapped. I clapped too, if under duress, and wanted to die once more when the same little black-haired girl waved at me again, with a lightness that I'd have envied but for my overwhelming embarrassment. "Is your big brother out there," a middle-aged woman, standing to my right and wearing a sleeveless white blouse and lavender leggings, asked suddenly. To this I had no reply, and instead looked down at the ground again, mortified. "Ahh, sweet," the woman said, "maybe you'll be out there next year." "Unlikely," I thought grimly, as Mum smirked and the coach blew his whistle for the first time, eliciting in me a modest jump of fright. "Maybe not such a bad idea," Mum said, as we returned to the car, "not football camp, obviously. But playing some sports. Might build you up a bit." I gave a non-committal murmur by reply, my mind too full of our next stop to allow me to offer anything deeper. We arrived just after half nine, and once again Mum took it upon herself to lead me by the hand, despite my sustained remonstrations. I tried one final plea to be let go home, but knowing it as likely as scoring a hat- trick in the World Cup final, I instead gulped with trepidation as she pushed my inside. The playgroup was five minutes or so past the football centre, and Mum had to endure the town centre traffic to reach it, before being flung out of the ring road on the other side, into the quiet housing estate in which "Busy Bees" sat. Pulling into the car-park my first sights were of the sign by the door which read cheerily "for all boys and girls, aged 0 to 11', and then of the playground behind the car-park, adorned as you might imagine with all the usual apparatus - climbing frames, swings, hopscotch markings - and filled already with older looking children barging about and making the kind of din that'd make next door neighbours look for a new house. It was not unlike, I thought sourly, waking up to find yourself living next to quarry or a coal pit. At least the smell was better. Straight away, still only half-way down the small cobbled path from the car-park to the playgroup door, a path flanked on each coloured with colourful flower pots and even more colourful artificial flowers sprouting from within, all those terrible, previously repressed memories of my early schooling came flooding back. The boys who'd steal my textbooks (just for fun) and the girls who tittered amongst themselves when I'd walk past. All such people were waiting for him inside the playgroup's glass door, and though I was coming in as an employee rather than an attendee, the feeling wasn't much different. A blonde girl in a green ankle length skirt and white sweater jumper greeted us as we stepped inside, and quite clearly, before even opening her mouth, it was obvious she thought me another little boy being dropped off by Mummy, a suspicion confirmed by her picking up of the blue clipboard on the table, her painted green nails glimmering as she did so, and by her smiling kindly at me as I shuffled nervously on the spot. "Hello matey," she said breezily, patting me on the shoulder, what's your name then?" The girl could have been little more than 21 or so, and the bright nametag on the sweater jumper told me her name was Carly, and that she was "Pleased To Meet You!'. I think Mum waited in order to give me a chance to explain myself, but after a few awkward seconds and an impatient shuffle on her part, she eventually cut it to explain, quickly, that I was in-fact starting work today. "Oh," Carly said, expression changing multiple times as she took in the situation and the mild embarrassment of thinking me, at best, an 11 year old boy, "of course, how stupid of me. Duh! You're Jessie." This time she stuck out a hand, and it wrapped around mine like an envelope two sizes too big for the letter. That she was a good half foot taller than me, and clearly not a young woman lacking in social skills, made me feel even smaller still. "Don't worry about it, he looks young for his age. Everyone makes that mistake," Mum said, pushing me toward Carly, "work hard now Jessie. The girls are relying on you." Carly took me to the staff room, asking a few questions as we went to which I could only give partial responses. It was the noise and bluster from the play-rooms that left me feeling so bumfuzzled, and I might have been anywhere in the world for all the attention I was paying to the introduction Carly was giving me. "Ah, here's Rachael now," Carly said, clasping her hands together. "Rachael," she continued with a lowered tone that I wasn't even sure she was conscious of, "this is Jessie." Rachael was a little older, perhaps late twenties, and the first thing I noticed was the piercing above her lip, and the multiple ones in her ears. Unlike the femininely dressed Carly, Rachael was wearing a pair of what could easily be men's jeans, with a loud belt buckle and a checked shirt, the kind a cowboy might wear. This was coupled with some serious- looking Dr. Martens', and a purple streak in her otherwise jet-black hair. "Oh, so this is Jessie," she repeated, emphasising "this" and looking faintly amused. She was even taller than Carly, and made me feel like a midget as she shook my hand, "so Jessie, ever been in a playgroup like this before?" I shook my head. Not even when I was little, I thought, when Mum had preferred to keep me at home on account of me being a sickly child. "Well," Rachael continued, "let me think of a good frame of reference for you. Have you see Hunger Games." I nodded. A lie. "Well, it's like that. Except the children don't usually maim or kill each other. Usually. Otherwise, it's a mad house," she turned to Carly, "where's he going to go?" "I thought you'd decide," Carly replied, her hand still on my shoulder. "Well the twins are with the little-ones so we don't need more help there. If you take the indoor playroom, perhaps me and him can watch the outside play area?" "Sounds fine to me," Carly replied. What followed was a fairly exhaustive guide, relayed with an air of mastery by Rachael, about the best ways to keep watch of the children in the play-area. This guide started in the staff room (make sure the boys don't get too rough, watch out for the girls excluding someone, be careful of Finley who'd taken to eating the worms he dug up behind the swings), and then, like an astronaut taking his first steps onto the moon, I was lead out into the, already warm, air of the outdoor play- area, where fifteen or so children, a mixture of boys and girls from around 4 to 11, played with the kind of vigour and exuberance as to make one tired by just watching it. The boys, of which four or so were playing football in the green area near the back of the field, where a well-maintained fence marked the divide with adjacent houses on the estate, were mostly dressed in sports shorts and polo-shirts or plain tees, given the heat the day promised. I spotted first a ginger boy of unbelievable size, who seemed to be both refereeing and winning the football match, and whose girth I could see stretching against his t-shirt even from thirty or so feet away. "Louie," Rachael said, noticing me, noticing him, "a one to watch." I nodded, not knowing what that meant. If Louie decided to pick on another boy (or girl), I simply had no idea what I'd do about it. "Miss Rachael, Miss Rachael," a little black-haired boy of 8 or so cried, bounding over, "I made you a daisy chain!" "You're a cool dude Elliot," Rachael replied, patting the boy on the head. "Are you new?" Elliot said, snapping his gaze in my direction, "you can be my friend if you...." "No Elliot," Rachael jumped in, "Mr. Jessie is working here, like me." The boy looked confused at this, but after a moment or so of inspecting me as thoroughly as his brain could manage, he eventually skipped off again towards the weeds and flowers immediately under the playgroup's windows. The girls, mostly pushing each other on the swings or kneeling together in little groups of 2 or 3, wore a greater variety of clothes than the boys, with some in pink or purple shorts and colourful t-shirts, a couple in short dungarees of light colours, and some in light sundresses which served to make the playgroup even more vibrant than it already was. Naturally Sophia, her brown hair tied into pig-tails and wearing a blue cotton dress with embroidery around the neck, was first to run over from the group of girls, followed quickly by two smaller girls for whom Sophia, Amelia's little friend, was obviously a leader. "You're here," Sophia said with a smirk, before her eyes lighted up, "oh, you'll never guess what I found in one of the play-boxes this morning!" With his she skipped away, returning moments later with what seemed to be a licenced Bear Island bear today. Naturally, it was a girl bear, and Sophia smirked as she handed it over. "Thought you'd like it," before requesting my help pushing some of the younger girls on the swing, a task for which Rachael nodded her consent. It was hard, I considered, as Sophia introduced two younger girls called Paige and Lexie, to NOT consider how, just that very morning, I'd been wearing knickers and girl's pyjamas just like the kind all the girls around me would wear every day and night, and how, as I started to push little Lexie gently on the pink swing, I'd managed to fall so far from what an 18 year old boy should, and must, be like. "We're going to have so much fun together," Sophia said, smiling.