Hidden armour

We are sitting in the base of the turret, mold in our noses as we inhale cold air, the breath of a thousand years.

The 15inch by 18inch television on a rolling stand lights up.

I sit ready, the child between Granny and Grandpa, adorned in 80s action wear, a life preserver red jacket, durable trousers and Velcro shoes.

On screen, a knight puts on his armour, more robot than man.

Crackling narration impresses us with numbers: 110lbs of shimmering metal.

A page boy assists and there is an order for putting it all on, a process.

The breastplate is one of the last silver puzzle pieces to be fastened tight with steadfast latches.

Today I am sitting on my bed, swiping through Instagram.

Reassured by a screen of affirmed enby folk, I open the package that has just been delivered.

The fabric is light, streamlined, well-made, metallic grey, certain.

Squeezing into it, I chuckle to myself: ‘well, it’s a bit tight,’ as if a tree trunk is a bit wooden.

No need for a page boy, the binder immediately flattens my chest and I am exhilarated.

Confident. Comfortable.

Pulling on a tight T-shirt I can finally read the words that are no longer stretched and distorted.

My armour is hidden, lightweight, but protective: Frodo’s mithril vest.

My torso is solid.

I tap gleeful drumbeats on my front with my hands, remembering how the boys used to do this on their own chests in marching band.

I would not survive a jousting match; but I no longer need to compete.