I’ve just come to my office from a heated debate that took place in my kitchen first thing this morning just when I was getting ready to update my Pinterest with some lovely crossdressing fashion ideas. I’d just had my yoga session with Amanda and Marjory, when I cornered Sebastian, my personal trainer, to ask him about his forthcoming trip to Molvania to work with Personal Trainers Without Borders.
“But Sebastian,” I said, the concern oozing from my every syllable, “why Molvania? It’s hardly a travel destination anyone envies.”
“Oh, I don’t know? I had an aunt that went there to get married. It seemed quite a bargain, and the hotel seemed eager for the business.”
“Really? What did she think of it?”
“Well, funny thing. That was the last we ever heard of her or the wedding party.”
“You see? That’s what I’m talking about.” I was exasperated. I know Sebastian has this thing about ‘adventure travel’, and it’s true he has been some pretty wild places – punctuated by long hospital stays and some unusual insurance claims – but those were essentially recreational in nature. Well, as recreational as extreme gastric distress can be. Giardia hardly qualifies as an Olympic sport.
“I just don’t see why you need to teach Molvanians about diet. It’s not like they have a famine or anything.”
Sebastian looked a little disheartened.
“Fiona,” he sighed. “I just want to do my bit. Personal Trainers Without Borders has asked me to help. How can I say no?”
“Well, how many others have they got working in Molvania?” I asked.
“I know they sent two other people to the area I’m going to.” He said.
“And how are they getting along?”
“Well, they’ve not actually managed to report back yet. One may be in prison. They didn’t seem very clear about it.” At this even Sebastian looked a little doubtful.
“I’m not letting you go!” I said. This was ridiculous. Even my wife, an experienced traveler of many years wouldn’t go unless there was a good chance she’d be coming back. I must admit I’ve had my doubts about the nature of her travel at times. “Serving the community” can cover a multitude of sins, after all. But Sebastian is comparatively innocent (not a word that immediately springs to mind when describing my wife). We might never get to see Sebastian again. He’d be a mere memory of spandex cycling shorts and feint smell of homeopathic muscle balm that had been carried off in the wind.
“I will not be found wanting!” declared Sebastian heroically.
I should give you some background. Sebastian is not short of courage. He’s been up the Devil’s Danglers, pioneering the ‘shaft ascent’ more than once and is proven in the field of extreme adventure sports. He tells us that moments after he was born he fell from the delivery bed, only to be caught up by the umbilical cord, giving him a credible claim to being the worlds youngest bungee jumper. However, none of this justified the unnecessary risk of going to the wilds of Molvania, to educate the locals about nutrition.
“I shall speak to Bernard,” I said forcefully. “He’s got a brother in the Canadian Border Services. He’ll have a word with the boys in charge and they’ll pull your passport. We’ll say you’re of unsound mind! I think his brother’s name’s Jeff.”
At this point Ali, my Syrian gardener leaned in through the window where he’d been trimming my bush.
“I know Jeff,” piped up Ali. “Is he Bernard’s brother?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’ll tell him not to let Sebastian out, if you like,” said Ali helpfully.
“Ali! That’s unfair,” protested Sebastian.
“Don’t tell me about it,” replied Ali, a look of concerned resignation on his face. “Tell Jeff. I think he’s got a form you can fill in. Something like that.”
So you see, things are all of a quiver here in Huckleberry Close. I think it’s spring fever. Now, if you’d like to help me along and jump into my Patreon you’d be doing me a huge favor. I’m trying to get it up to fifty as quickly as possible. You can join for as little as just $1 a month.
And don’t forget, I have a wonderful feminization program with your name on it. Sign up HERE if you’re not already in it.