By

Joannebarbarella

I stood on the doorstep trying to pluck up the courage to ring the bell. More than ten years since I had seen her, and it was me who had walked out on her. Would she slam the door in my face? I wouldn’t blame her if she did. In fact I almost expected it.

This started out as a “Second Chance” story for the competition, but took on a life of its own and grew like Topsy. Although I intended it to be a “stand-alone” it is a kind of sequel to “Movin’ Dirt”. I like to explore “alternative realities”. What happens when you make a different decision? This is one of those alternate worlds. If only it had really happened.

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by Joannebarbarella

He looked embarrassed, and cleared his throat before he spoke..

“For what my advice is worth, which admittedly ain’t much, ya hafta get yerself sorted. What are ya gunna do? You’ve carried this girl in your heart fer ten years and she’s still there. Shit, listen to me, I sound like some bloody agony aunt, and you, you’re one messed up bugger, aincha?”

I was sitting having a quiet beer with Tom, my superintendent on the road job I had been running, the cross-dressing night where I had “come out” not so far in the past. Before that, under duress, I had told him how I wanted to be a girl. I’d expected the cold stare and the shake of the head with a contemptuous spit into the floor at my feet, but instead had received sympathy and some kind of understanding. He’d insisted that I attend the cross-dressing night the boys wanted to throw for me. My “secret” dressing had never actually been a secret, it seemed. People sure can surprise you, can’t they? Still.......

In fact, the party had been a great success, with everybody letting their hair down....literally in most cases. Nobody had got on my back except to tell me how good I looked and I had actually enjoyed myself at my first open appearance as a girl in ten years. It was apparently kind of OK to put on girls’ clothes every now and again, but then only Tom knew that for me it went much deeper than that.

Not much had been said between us since. It was an uncomfortable subject, so we had got on with the job, but now that was just about finished and we were soon to go our different ways.

“Well, I guess I am, but Lucy.... that was ten years ago, and, like they say, you can never go back.”

Ah, Lucy. My lost love. The one who had helped me to bring out the me inside me, who had nurtured the terrified teenager that I was then, and enabled me to spend a glorious period of my life as the girl I knew I really was. But who had then pushed me too far too fast, as I saw it, so that I panicked and ran away from her and myself and came here to Australia. I loved her still.

“That’s bullshit. Some things’ve gotta be finished or they’ll fester for the rest of yer life and sounds ta me like this is one of ‘em. You reckon you wanna be a girl and this woman’s right at the middle of it all. I reckon yer gotta go back and face her. If ya don’t you’ll spend the rest of yer life sittin’ on the fuckin’ fence, wonderin’. If you’re gunna be a girl yer only goin’ ta do it with her, I think. Hey, I’ve seen you as a girl now. I wouldn’t have believed it before, but, yeah, fer what it’s worth, I think that’s what you oughter be.”

He looked seriously embarrassed and gave me a hard stare, as if to say....”.not a bloody word, right.”

He stopped talking and busied himself in the beer can. Ridgy-didge Aussie blokes don’t talk about things like this. I understood very well. I didn’t like talking about it either.

I chewed over what he said and, when the job finished, I handed in my notice. It hurt, in more ways than one. I really loved my job and all the guys I worked with and, surprisingly, I loved the bush, but Tom was right. There are things you have to do to let you get on with your life. Shit, I had sort of thought I had a vague handle on sanity; just goes to show I guess.

When we parted Tom chewed his moustache and put out his hand to shake. I wanted to hug the old bastard but just wasn’t game; not an Aussie thing, eh? Oh fuck.....I did it anyway.....shocked the shit out of both of us I reckon.

“Whatever happens, we’re mates, right? You write and let me know how it pans out, and if you wind up......you know......send me a few pictures, OK?”

I almost choked up.

“Yeah, sure Tom. I’ll probably see ya.....but, yeah.... whatever...... will do.”

The Quinn Brothers surprised me by asking me to stay on. I didn’t think they cared that much, and when I was adamant about going they left me with an open offer to come back any time I wanted.

Cec even rang me up.

“Whaddaya doin’, ya stupid young prick. Ya know ya gotta job with us as long as yer want.”

That, coming from Cec, had me between tears and laughter. It was probably the closest to a compliment that he could ever get.

“Thanks, Cec. I hate to leave but I’ve got some unfinished business back in England I have to attend to. I promise you guys will be the first I’ll contact when I’m back.”

“Fuckin’ better be.”

So, as you can see, I left them on the best of terms. Crap.....thank Christ I wasn’t wearing mascara. It might’ve run.

Six weeks after finishing the road from Mt. Isa to Normanton I was on a plane from Brisbane, stopping in Singapore en route to London. I had allowed myself up to a month in Singapore, for a couple of reasons. I had heard of Bugis Street and wanted to check it out and I reckoned to do some looking around and shopping for something exotic for my mum, who I felt guilty about shamefully neglecting during my time in Australia, and, of course, in my year plus as a girl before that, when I had just written letters and phoned, pretending I was still a boy.

My dad had died about a year and a half ago and I had flown home for his funeral, but only stayed for a week, just long enough to attend it and pay for it. I had asked mum to come to Australia, but she wouldn’t even entertain the idea, which didn’t really surprise me. She never was the travelling kind. Those foreign places were all filled with bloody foreigners. She’d never say the bloody though, not ladylike.

One thing I had done when I made up my mind to return to England was to unearth some of my most treasured clandestine mementos of my days with Lucy; my passport, my birth certificate and driver’s licence, all in the name of Susan Wright. The passport was expired, of course, but less than a year out-of-date, so I obtained a renewal form, got a new photo of myself, bewigged and made-up, and sent off an application for a new passport to the British High Commission in Canberra, together with the old document. Five weeks later, in those pre-computer days, I was in possession of a brand new passport in what I still hoped would again become my true name. The picture actually looked good.

My flight to Singapore was routine. Most long-haul air-travel is pretty boring and this was a seven-hour flight. The most exciting thing was my first sight of a jumbo-jet when we landed. It was so big, towering over the 707 that I was in. Customs and Immigration was easy. My hair was not down to my collar and I had no chewing gum, so nobody got excited, though I wondered what they would have said if they had opened the suitcase with my girly things in it. The hotel was near China Town, one of a typical impersonal international chain. I did minimal unpacking, had some dinner and wandered out with directions to get to Bugis Street, a twenty minute walk away. The heat didn’t bother me at all after my time in the Australian bush. In fact it felt quite mild. Hot wasn’t a problem, but humid could still be a bitch, but a Singapore evening was very comfortable for me.

That was the start of the ball I had in Singapore, what turned out to be an epiphany in a way. That first night I went to Bugis Street and I was blown away by the lady-boys, they were so beautiful. I hoped and wished I could look as good if I presented as a girl. They nearly all had the advantage of being Asian with lovely skin and that slender grace that few Europeans could match. They appeared on the street at about 11 p.m. and stayed until the early hours or until someone took them away for sex or other exotic pursuits. I bought drinks for a bunch of them and told them how beautiful they were and praised their outfits, hairstyles and make-up. Knowing looks were starting to pass between them. It takes one to know one, right? Then I confided that I wanted to join in the fun. Would they mind if I came dressed tomorrow and mingled with them?

They all giggled madly and said they had guessed. They looked me up and down and appraised me and decided I wouldn’t disgrace them. A tall European girl might cause a bit of a stir, but they always welcomed new girls. Just leave the men alone, OK? They’re ours. That was no problem for me, since I didn’t fancy men. My new friends agreed to meet me the next evening for a little fun and with curiosity as to how I would look.

Sailors from the navies of Britain, Australia and the USA provided another kind of entertainment. Those young guys got totally pissed and, apart from occasionally brawling (quickly broken up by Shore Squads), would dance naked on the tables that the locals set up in the street, interacting with the “girls” outrageously. The funniest thing I saw that night was one sailor with a rolled-up newspaper stuck up his arse, burning, and producing jets of blue flame as he farted and wagged his bum like a dog wagging its tail.

Of course, after that, I went again the next night, but this time I went dressed properly, as promised. I took lots of care and tried to make myself as pretty as I could, leaving the hotel en femme with more than a little trepidation as to how I would be received, but feeling totally relaxed and comfortable, exulting in a milieu where nobody knew me and there were many others like me.

I really felt like myself, Suzie, and wondered why I had wasted ten years. The girl inside me needed no encouragement to come out, and once out, she would not go back in. It hit me like a knock-out punch. I crossed a line that night.

In a light blue cotton sun-dress with a built-in petticoat, my black shoulder-length wig with the fringe, very Chinese, matching blue strappy sandals with three-inch heels, face nicely made up, fake LV bag on my shoulder; I almost floated along the street to display myself to the other girls. Funny; it was their reaction I was concerned about, not the men. I seriously did not want to be outclassed.

I was greeted mostly with affection and air-kisses, although there were a few pouts that I put down to jealousy. They oohed and aahed and admired my outfit, hair and make-up, but were quick to point out that I was waaay behind the times fashion wise. I just had to go shopping with them tomorrow to buy some more up-to-date clothes, a suggestion that I gratefully accepted. I couldn’t get over how liberated I felt in their company. The male personality that I had cultivated for the last ten years slid off of me like the skin a snake sheds, like dew evaporating in the sun, and I felt so girly and giggly and submissive and pretty. I didn’t want to have to make those hard business decisions any more or have only life in a construction camp to look forward to. I was torn, split in two and just now.......I needed to let one side fall away.

Choosing my outfit for the time of day, making sure my face was properly made up, my hair immaculate, my skin smooth and hairless, and my nails unchipped and properly lacquered were all the problems I wanted to deal with. An airhead? A bimbo? Perhaps, but I just wanted to retrieve my lost girlhood, to bask, to wallow, to immerse myself in femininity for a while; no, not for a while....forever.... to primp and preen, to twirl and flounce and strut, to admire the reflection of the girl I truly was. This time and place was almost paradise. Perfection would be being back with Lucy in my French maid’s uniform, forgiven; hopefully not an impossible dream.

As the evening wore on, we chatted and my voice came back to me, the pitch and lilt and vocabulary of a girl sliding effortlessly back into place, together with the appropriate body language and hand gestures. It was like pulling on something comfortable that had hidden at the back of my wardrobe, almost forgotten but never discarded; silk chiffon instead of a stiff collar and tie. How could Sundee best be so different?

Most of their stories were similar to mine, born a boy but growing up knowing they were really girls. Their cultures were just a little more accommodating and less condemnatory about their problem, as long as there were other sons to carry the family name and produce heirs. Of course some of them were comfortable just dressing and living without the need to change further; some were part-timers who could only dress at night for personal reasons or due to social pressures.

However, the ones I talked to were almost all saving up for sex-change surgery, which they would get done in Thailand, where it was accepted that the surgeons were the best and the prices were the cheapest. I filed that away for possible future reference. The girls were a lovely mixture of innocence, knowing cynicism, frailty and greed. Selling themselves was just a means to an end. Sucking cocks or being penetrated in all available orifices was par for the course.

Two of the Chinese girls seemed to really like me, Anna and Serena, and I liked them too. I envied them. Both in their early twenties, they had been living as females since their mid-teens and were total girls, or would be as soon as they had enough money. Neither of them showed a trace of masculinity, their faces beautifully made up, immaculate hairstyles, breasts overflowing from their bras, hips and bums shaping their skirts, every movement utterly feminine, and their body language proclaiming their delicacy.

They had both been cast out by their parents but had brothers and sisters who tolerated them as long as they brought no embarrassment or shame to the family name. They both made their living by what would be considered prostitution in the West, hiring themselves out to the visiting sailors. Neither was ashamed of this, regarding it as a necessary career move to finance their forthcoming operations. Morality didn’t come into it.

They sort of attached themselves to me and made it their mission to make me one of them, the sex excepted; no competition thanks. They just would not allow me to backslide into male clothing....not that I wanted to....insisting on meeting me for lunch the next day with me still en femme, all of us clad in smart dresses and heels. We ate and then they were escorting me around to their favourite places. We were three gushing, giggly girls going from boutique to boutique and cafe to cafe and bar to bar. It was heaven.

As a result I spent the rest of the time in Singapore just being a girl. At their urging I moved out of my posh hotel into their surprisingly spacious flat over a shop-house in China Town, and went with them shopping for new clothes and custom-made shoes. They showed me the salons to go to for facials, waxing and nail jobs. I had my old ear-piercings reopened and went mad with ear-rings, huge hoops and long dangly ones. It pained me to have to take them out when I went to bed.

At first I was embarrassed by my male body when we were naked, compared with their beautiful curvy and smooth figures, but they reminded me that they too had once been like me and still had dangly bits. As long as I really meant it they saw me as a sister. And it was like being a sister; helping each other to select clothes and make-up, styling each others’ hair, wondering whether that nice American sailor was still around and giggling over the things he had wanted done. They ribbed me because I was still in love with Lucy, but they got all dewy-eyed over the romantic stories I told them and wrapped themselves around me and we all cried together.

There were new things, too. Realistic-feeling breast forms with nipples, which you glued on instead of the old-style falsies; hair extensions to replace hot and sweaty wigs; acrylic nails that actually worked; collagen injections for the lips. Electrolysis was still painful but the technology with new skin-soothing gels had made the depilation process faster. I dived into them all with abandon and no regard for the consequences. After a few days I looked as close as I was likely to ever get to my heroine Barbarella/Jane Fonda, big hair, pouty lips and all.

Seeing the movie so many times had taught me all the moves and mannerisms that she used and I could do a pretty good impersonation of her, not that I was ever going to be as beautiful as she was, but I could pretend, couldn’t I? Silly Suzie was me for the whole month I was there. If I acted outrageously over the top, so what? I was Barbarella, in the full prime of celebrating my girlhood.

There was a thriving local cottage industry which produced underwear specially for girls like us, artfully padded bras, and control briefs or girdles which gave the most feminine curves to hips and bums, industrial strength corsets which would take inches off a waist, all produced within a day from ordering. Using them transformed my wardrobe. Form-fitting, skin-tight outfits were at last a wearable option for me, so things like cheong-saams and mini-dresses were high on my shopping list.

The girls showed me where to get hormones, and, taking a deep breath, I bought a year’s supply over the counter, no prescription needed. I started taking them too, at the strongest recommended dosage, with Anna and Serena egging me on. Yes, I was still a bit scared but the sheer terror had gone. Maybe being in a supportive environment made the difference, or maybe it was just being ten years older. I knew I owed it to myself to make it this time....now or never.... and I wanted it more than ever. My years in Australia had proved to me that I could never kill my dream, hard as I’d tried.

Every night we went to Bugis Street to join the throng. The girls had to work for their living. I felt like we were a flock of brightly coloured tropical birds, chattering, strutting, promenading, preening and grooming each other. We reminded me of the lorikeets at feeding time in the bird sanctuary at Currumbin on the Gold Coast in Queensland, darting around and perching on the feed trays and the hands that held them. It was wonderful, a pretence within a pretence.

It was obvious that everybody knew we were boys pretending to be girls....except I knew I wasn’t pretending any more. The secret that I had hidden for all those years no longer mattered. I was one of the girls that all the boys knew were not “real” girls and they still came to admire or gape at us, not to sneer or beat us up; OK, so maybe they laughed at us too. Yet the joke was on them in a way, because most of us, even though we still had male bits under our gorgeous clothes, were real girls to ourselves, in our hearts and minds and souls.

By day I did the tourist bit with the girls’ help. They told me never to go out without an umbrella and they were right. It provided relief from the midday sun and protection from the daily afternoon rains. You never saw rain like it, and this city was the lightning capital of the world. but it cooled the place off for our evening parades.

I got my mum a couple of nice gold bracelets and necklaces before I left and also two beautiful pieces, gold necklaces with good luck symbols, a matching set for Lucy and me in the hope that I could find her and assuming she would actually talk to me if that happened. A small investment in a possible future, which I could likely redeem in the event of failure, but anyway I was not short of money after years working in the bush and living in camps with nothing to spend my earnings on except beer, and I could only drink so much.

The time came for me to leave and I had to change back into being a male. I had an extra suitcase full of purchases made in Singapore. Serena and Anna wanted to see me off and I wouldn’t let them, because I wanted them to remember Suzie, not John. We tearfully parted the night before I left, promising to write. If I had stayed a little longer I could easily have become one of them, maybe completely with all that that meant. They made being a girl so easy for me. The experience of being part of an accepting community was wonderful and a real confidence booster. I guess, in a way, that month absolutely sealed my fate.

It was such a temptation. I nearly stayed longer. I could so easily have continued in that halcyon existence and the desire was almost overwhelming to just carry on being Silly Suzie, simpering, batting my eyelashes, strutting, mincing, flouncing and flirting with the sailors in the evenings. Having them salivate over me and my friends was becoming a real turn-on, but all the time there was Lucy in my heart, the unfinished business that I had to conclude one way or the other. If it didn’t work out, I told myself, I could always come back. Can you go back twice? More often? At all?

I played with the idea of travelling on my Suzie passport, remaining in my newly recovered girlhood, but seeing there was no record of that girl having entered Singapore I decided that discretion was the better way and reluctantly became John again, albeit a John with long hair (reduced a little from Jane Fonda length) pulled back into a ponytail, and delicately arched eyebrows and collagen in his lips.

The two girls had been so lovely and kind to me, a stranger when I arrived, that I wanted to give them a gift, but, bless their mercenary practical little hearts, they asked if I would give them money instead, to hasten the day when they could get their operations. I left them with two thousand Singapore dollars each and I think they were truly grateful, but then, so was I. Another gift they gave me was a whole heap of photos, which I treasure to this day. Being paranoid before I had destroyed all the ones from ten years ago and now I had fresh evidence that I actually looked like a girl when I tried.

The flight to England was pretty uneventful, mostly overnight, leaving Singapore in the evening and after being fed and drinking a couple of glasses of wine I watched some forgettable movie and then slept. One of the hostesses had a little trouble sorting what I was, calling me “Miss” to start with. Although I was secretly pleased that I still looked female when I was pretending to be a man I reluctantly corrected her. I’m sure she thought I was queer but nevertheless treated me with adequate politeness throughout the trip.

Landing at London Gatwick on a fine late-May morning in 1972 at 4.30 a.m. I found that I had forgotten how early the summer sun came up in England. The officials at Immigration didn’t even ask me to open my passport, merely glancing at me and waving me through; the same with Customs when my bags arrived and I left the terminal.

The wait for my pre-booked hire-car was in full daylight and I drove off to Brighton at 5.30 a.m., taking it easy and arriving an hour later. I took a turn towards Black Rock and back along the sea-front to Hove, not seeing a great deal of difference in the years that I had been away.

I had booked in at The Grand, but was a little uncertain as to whether they would have got the date right. I needn’t have worried. My room was ready when I arrived, and I gratefully took advantage of the opportunity to shower and have a long nap, before going down to the dining room for a late breakfast.

Then I rang my mum and told her I was back and coming to see her later in the day. I almost went dressed properly, but decided it would be too traumatic for both of us, even though I was determined to tell her. I turned up at about three and we did the obligatory “Kiss-Kiss, How are you? You look really well. Is everything all right? Why don’t you come home, dear?” and I gave her my gifts, which she took with no great show of gratitude. She had aged since my dad’s death; not so much physically, but mentally, like a tortoise withdrawing into its shell, a subtle retreat from reality and pain.

Conversation was difficult and a bit painful. In truth, we had not much in common any more, if in fact we ever had. She could not relate to my stories about Australia and her accounts of events in Hove were painfully provincial and banal to my ears. Worse still, she spoke as if my dad was still around. Of course, overshadowing all this was the question of how you tell your mother that you are not her son but her daughter.

There came a point when I could not postpone my announcement any longer. I made sure she was sitting down.

“Mum, I have to tell you something.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Mum, there’s no easy way to say this. I should have been born a girl. I’ve always felt more like your daughter than your son.”

“Don’t be silly, dear.”

“It’s not silly, and I’m going to live as a girl from now on. I want you to understand and accept it.”

“You’re my son, dear. You can’t change that.”

“Mum, my body may be male but inside I’m a girl and I need to match the real me inside with the outside. I’ve wanted to do it for years, almost ever since I can remember. The next time I come to see you I will be dressed as a girl and I don’t want you to be shocked.”

It was as if she hadn’t heard me or didn’t grasp what I was saying. When she replied she was almost dazed, not quite there.

“John, you can’t dress as a girl. You’ll get into trouble with the police.”

“Mum, the police have nothing to do with it. It’s something I have to do. I’ve been living a lie for years and I can’t do it any more. You have to realise; I’m a girl.”

“Your father won’t like it.”

“Mum, dad’s dead. It’s you I’m telling. Look at me. Look at my face. Don’t I look like a girl?”

I loosened the tie on my ponytail and shook out my hair, fluffing it to give it some body.

“Look at me.”

“Don’t do that. Put your hair back like it was. I won’t have some strange girl coming round here and telling me she’s you. It’s not true.”

“I really would like to see you. The name I’ve picked is Suzie, and I will still be your child, just as you will still be my mum.”

“I don’t know any Suzie and I don’t have any daughter. Your name is John. You’re my son and if you come back to see me you will come as John or I won’t open the door.”

She was flustered, almost panicking, when she said this, her hands twisting and writhing like a snake that had been run over.

You get the flavour of the conversation. It went on for a while, but I couldn’t shift her. She just could not visualise me or accept me as a girl. I guess it was hard to blame her when her world-view was that of a working-class woman formed in the nineteen-twenties and thirties. I decided I would come back the next day as Suzie and see if the reality would change her mind. At least being Suzie made me feel better and, as it turned out, that was John’s next-to-last appearance.

I turned up dressed as demurely as I could in a white high-necked blouse and grey knee-length skirt with flat shoes, my hair brushed straight to its shoulder-length, just a little mascara, eye-liner and earth-toned lips, my nail varnish a pale pink. She looked right through me and closed the door in my face without a word. I phoned her but as soon as she heard my voice she hung up. I tried again the following day, but with the same result.

Honestly, I didn’t want to hurt her, but I had decided that I finally HAD to be Suzie. All those wasted years of hiding and fear were finished. If she couldn’t accept me there wasn’t much I could do. I still wrote and sent her Birthday and Christmas cards and phoned once a month, but there was never a reply, right up until her death, which I only found out about when my letters were returned. I know I was a selfish child but I wish things could have been right between us. She must have been lonely and what did I do? I took her only son away from her.

Hoping my next attempt at reconciliation would go better I phoned Lucy at her old number. There was no answer, This was long before the days of answering machines so I was in the dark as to whether or not she still lived there. I had thought of writing but had no return address for her to contact.

So I tried her flat in Black Lion Street in The Lanes. I had bitten the bullet and was now myself full-time. If The Grand Hotel staff were disturbed by it they showed no sign. No doubt stranger things happened in Brighton.

When I rang the doorbell at Lucy’s flat a tall, thin, not unattractive lady of about sixty answered.

“Can I help you?” she asked pleasantly.

“I hope so. I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I’m looking for a girl who used to own this flat.”

“There’s only my husband and I here and we’ve been here for seven years now.”

“Oh. Her name was Lucy XXXXXXX. You wouldn’t happen to know where she went, would you?”

“She was the lady we bought the place from. I seem to remember she had an address in London. I can look it up for you if you like. Please come in for a minute.”

Everything inside was different, as you might expect, no trace of Lucy, or me for that matter. The lady went to a bureau-type desk and shuffled around in some files for a minute.

“Here it is. 26 Ongar Road, Fulham SW7. We haven’t had any further contact with her, I’m afraid. Just hang on and I’ll write it down for you. There’s a phone number too.”

Evidently she had changed her London address as well. However, at least I had a lead. I thanked the lady gratefully and she let me out. I walked back to The Grand. It was quite a nice day for a change. My skirt flapped pleasantly around my knees, caressing my bare legs. I glanced down and thrilled at seeing my polished toenails peeping out of my sandals. I had to keep brushing my hair from my face and I couldn’t help smiling to myself at myself if you know what I mean. Amazing how a fine day could make Brighton seem like a nice place.

I phoned as soon as I got back to the hotel but again got no answer. I decided to take the bull by the horns and go to London. After all I had no further reason to stay in Brighton. So I packed my bags and called for the concierge to take them down to my car while I checked out, tipping him a fiver for the service.

I went down to the reception desk and gave my room number when I asked for the bill. The clerk retrieved the papers and looked at the register, and then looked at me.

“It’s registered in the name of Mr. John XXXXXXXX, Miss. Are you checking out on his behalf?”

“Yes. He won’t be back.”

That little statement contained a lot more freight than I intended when I spoke the words. It was only then that it really hit me that John wouldn’t be back.....ever. I had made up my mind and burnt my bridges. I didn’t know what the future held for me, but it was definitely Suzie’s future.

“Very well, Miss. The total is one hundred and ten pounds. Would you like to check it?”

“That won’t be necessary. Thank you.” I signed three fifty pound traveller’s cheques and passed them across to him.

Did I see his eyebrows raise the merest fraction as he checked the signature?

“I hope you enjoyed your stay, Miss, and we may see you again, I trust?” He gave me my forty pounds change with a smile.

“I’m sure I’ll stay with you whenever I have to come to Brighton.“ How could I resist such smooth urbanity?

“Thank you, Miss.”

Sashaying out of the lobby with a little extra swing to my hips I was feeling strangely gratified. It’s wonderful what politeness and consideration will do for you. My car was waiting, the luggage already stowed. The doorman held the car-door open for me. He had already seen me use it on previous days and asked no questions as I tipped him five pounds.

Up the M23 to London in light traffic I arrived in Mayfair nearly two hours later, where I drove to The Grosvenor on Park Lane, hoping to be able to get a room without a prior reservation. I was in luck and checked in as Miss Susan Wright. I Was Back!

Then I dropped my bag on the bed and sat and cried. I cried for the ten wasted years and I cried because I was happy to have recovered myself and I cried for my mum who couldn’t accept me and who I had hurt so badly, but mostly I cried because I needed a good cry. You can all understand that.

It was hot in London and I was glad of the room’s air-conditioning as I unpacked and hung my female clothes in the wardrobe and put my smalls in the drawers. I didn’t bother to open the suitcase with my mens’ clothing. I was only going to need it once more. A good shopping expedition was a priority as I was still only bare bones in female necessities despite my efforts in Singapore. What girl can exist with only ten pairs of shoes? Especially me, who loves shoes, I almost salivated at the prospect of buying a couple of dozen pairs. I hoped my old shoemaker was still in business. He was such a nice man.

As soon as I was settled I tried to ring the number I had been given for Lucy. Still no answer. Maybe she was at work.....maybe she had moved again....maybe she wouldn’t want anything to do with me, anyway.

A walk seemed in order, rather than hanging around fretting, so I headed for Oxford Street to get a start on the shopping. There were lots of lovely stores there. Selfridges, here comes Suzie, with ten years to catch up on. Look out!

You may be wondering where all my money came from. I did say I wasn’t short after four years in the bush. Well, actually, all my time in Australia had been well away from major cities. I had spent a year in the Snowy Mountains and two years in Papua-New Guinea before joining the Quinn Brothers. I had earned good money in all of those places and in those days Australia had a very benign tax structure for those who were prepared to “go bush”.

Without opportunities to be a big spender I had accumulated a decent nest-egg, capped off by a totally unexpected bonus from the Quinns, along with all my leave entitlements which I hadn’t used and took in cash. Eventually I would have to get a job, and it wouldn’t be as an engineer, but I could survive for at least a couple of years, if not more, without working, and I could always work as a waitress or a shop assistant when the time came, or even, if I was lucky, as someone’s live-in maid, all assuming that I couldn’t find Lucy.

I had a lovely time in Selfridges (Tomorrow....Harrods!) and staggered back to The Grosvenor laden with bags of dresses, skirts, blouses and other tops and accessories, not even counting underwear. I had really got into those early seventies fashions, mostly minis, but a few maxis too, and some hot-pants....ooh....sexy! I must admit that, with my height, I wasn’t keen on platform shoes, but then I didn’t even try a pair on.

I rang Lucy’s number again, the Ongar road one, and this time I got an answer. A man said hello and I asked for Lucy.

“She doesn’t live here. She’s our landlady,” said the guy.

“Can you tell me where she lives then?” I asked him.

“I’m not sure. We deal with an agent and pay our rent to a bank account number.”

“Can you give me the agent’s name and contact details, then?” I asked him.

“Just hang on and I’ll get it for you.”

I waited on the end of the phone for a minute or so.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He gave me the address of a real estate agent in Old Brompton Road with a telephone number. “The person we deal with is Joe Stanley,” he said.

I thanked him and hung up. Another lead to follow up and I hoped the agent would be co-operative. I rang the number straight away and asked the receptionist for Joe Stanley, only to be told he had gone for the day. I left my hotel details and name and asked if they would leave him a message to ring me tomorrow, which the girl said she would do.

Somewhat peeved at not making any progress I showered and changed before going down to the dining room for dinner.

Feeling the need for some glam to give me a boost I put on a pair of sheer black panty-hose and a lacy black bra before stepping into a mid-thigh-length spangled LBD with a halter-neck that I had bought earlier in the day. I loved the low-cut back which showed off the tan I had acquired in Singapore. The girls here were so pale.

When I redid my fingernails in hot pink I promised myself a visit to a nail salon as soon as possible to restore some length to them, and then used the same shade of lipstick when I did my face. Lots of eye make-up gave me a dramatic night-time face, although I didn’t go as OTT as we used to in Bugis Street. I wanted to be noticed a little but taken as a lady...not a lady-boy. This was England, after all.

I brushed and teased and back-combed my hair into a fair imitation of Jane Fonda’s, although now somewhat shorter, and fixed it with half a can of hairspray. A pair of long dangly ear-rings went into my piercings and I twisted my head from side to side so I could see them sparkle and swing. Then I slid into a pair of black patent pumps with four-inch heels and admired the finished article in front of the mirror to make sure everything was perfect. A light spray of Chanel No. 5 to my neck and wrists completed the job. Vanity, thy name is woman, but it’s lovely to look really nice. I blew myself a kiss.

Grabbing a silver Oroton clutch bag, I filled it with my basic repair kit and some cash, before checking the Lady Rolex (fake from Singapore) on my left wrist and going to the lift just before eight.

At six foot two in my heels I was noticed as I crossed the lobby to the cocktail bar. Male heads turned as I passed and women pretended not to watch me as they stared straight ahead and only used their peripheral vision to track me. Smoothing my short skirt down I sat on a barstool and crossed my legs provocatively. Taking out my cigarettes I lit up and inhaled, sexily I hoped, using all the little tricks that Bugis Street had taught me. As John I had been a pack-and-half-a-day man, but had become only a social smoker as Suzie, with no conscious effort or withdrawal symptoms. I might even give up altogether.

The barman fronted me with a smile and I smiled back at him.

“Can I get you something to drink, Miss?”

“Can I have a margarita, please?”

“Certainly, Miss. Would you like your ice crushed?” He made it sound like an invitation to go to bed.

Slightly bemused at an English bar that didn’t ration its ice I replied, “Yes, please and a salted rim,” licking my lips suggestively.

We both knew we were playing a game and burst out laughing. He was shaking his head and grinning as he went to prepare the concoction. I took another puff and looked around the bar. It was a high-class joint as befitted The Grosvenor Hotel, only moderately populated at that time of the evening, with mostly middle-aged men in groups, business men presumably. I was getting quite a few surreptitious glances over the rims of glasses. It was an ego-boost and I knew I was being mentally undressed. Wouldn’t they get a surprise when I was naked if it were real?

The barman came back with a healthy-looking margarita and placed it in front of me.

“if you need anything else, Miss, my name is Charles.”

“Thank you Charles. There is one thing you can do for me,” I said with a flutter of my eye-lashes.

He gazed at me expectantly, and I took the opportunity to purse my lips around my cigarette suggestively and suck strongly. Blowing the smoke out with my lips in an “O” I leaned forwards and said in my most sultry tones;

“Would you ask the maitre d’ in the restaurant if he can fit me in at about nine?”

Charles was nothing but a good sport. No doubt he had played these games before, so he smiled at me and said, “Of course, Miss. I’ll just be a moment.”

I felt a bit guilty. The poor guy was out of luck. If I had been a real Bugis Street girl I would have been only too happy to service him later on, and he really was quite presentable, but I was just practicing and giving myself some much-needed fun.

He came back.

“You have a table booked at nine, Miss. I did assume it would be for one.”

“Thank you so much Charles. You’re very sweet. Can I have another margarita in the meantime?”

He trotted off to get me my drink and I soaked up the attention I was getting from around the room. That month in Singapore had made me quite naughty. At a few minutes before nine I asked for my bill. I could have charged it to my room but I wanted to pay cash so that Charles didn’t end up with nothing to show for my time there. The total was fifteen pounds, so I put down a twenty and a five as I eased myself off of the stool and gave him a big smile and a little finger-wiggle before heading for the restaurant.

The maitre d’ gushed all over me when I entered the dining room and showed me to a table for two right in the middle of the chamber, where I would be on show to everyone in the room. I think Charles had put him up to it, and another time I might have been a little.....no, be honest.....more than a little.... embarrassed, but tonight I was feeling devil-may-care, especially with two margaritas inside me. Let them look!

So I smiled sweetly and let him pull my seat out and push it back in for me. I was enjoying being treated like a lady. He signalled a waiter, who brought me a menu and a wine list and asked if anyone was joining me. When I shook my head he quickly cleared away the service on the opposite side of the table.

I surveyed the wines and ordered a bottle of Chardonnay. I wouldn’t drink it all but a couple of glasses from the bottle would be cheaper than buying by the glass. Then I asked what he would recommend for the main course and was told the lobster was very good, so that’s what I ordered, with a green salad to start. The wine and the food duly came and all was as good as it should have been. I just wished my Lucy was there to share it and to let me gaze into her beautiful blue eyes.

I declined a dessert but had a cup of coffee, charged the bill to my room and left a pretty good tip. The waiter and the maitre d’ made sure I didn’t have to touch my chair when I rose from the table. I went to the Ladies before going back upstairs to straighten my face and hair. Actually, I didn’t need to but it seemed to be something a girl should do. A couple of women in there gave each other a significant glance as they eyed me up and down. I towered over them and looked down my nose at them, feeling distinctly superior.

It was about 10.30 and what with the time difference from Singapore I didn’t feel like going to bed, so I picked up a cashmere wrap from my room and went for a walk. That’s all it was...a walk. Along Park Lane to Marble Arch, turn into Oxford Street for a while and then back through the backstreets to the hotel. I was just enjoying being out au naturelle in London, my old stamping ground, mincing along, heels clicking , feeling the cool night air caressing and swishing against my nylon-clad legs, stopping every now-and-again to inspect attractive shop windows.

I returned to the hotel and my room, stripped off, showered and slipped into a red satin nightie. My breast forms shaped it nicely as I sat and took off my make-up and combed out my hair. I examined myself for any signs that the hormones were working but could detect no obvious changes. Oh, well, it was only about five weeks.

In the famous words of Samuel Pepys, “And so to bed.” There I dreamed in equal parts of a loving reunion with Lucy, myself in my French maid’s dress and my mother in tears.

Actually, the next morning, I did have one more piece of business to undertake as John, definitely his swansong though. I reluctantly unglued my breast forms, feeling my nipples when I removed them just in case they were getting more sensitive, but they weren’t. I knew that they would be the first physical indicators of sexual transformation.

Opening the case with my male clothes I chose the simplest outfit that I could, underpants, socks, trousers, shirt and shoes. It was warm out but I took a light jacket to provide me with pockets. I made sure there was no trace of make-up on my face and pulled my hair back into as severe a nape pony-tail as I could. I didn’t look particularly male to my own eyes, but the lip treatment I had had done in Singapore was fading somewhat, so only my eyebrows were unmistakeably feminine. So people would probably think I was a poofter, if they cared to look. I could put up with that for a morning.

The photo in my John passport was bloody awful, but there was no doubt it was the face of the bloke in the mirror. I shoved the papers that I needed into the pockets of the jacket and set off on my errand. I was off to the Bank of New South Wales in Aldwych.

One of my major preparations before leaving Australia had been to arrange to open a bank account in London and I had transferred a considerable amount of money into this branch. To activate it I had a letter of introduction from Head Office and my passport as identification. All I would have to do was sign a few forms and I would have a working bank account.

Everything went according to Hoyle. On arrival I was ushered into the office of an assistant manager. I think the size of the deposit I had made meant I was a middling important customer. I duly produced the required documents and signed the necessary forms, giving my mum’s address in Hove, while telling the man on the other side of the desk that I expected to have a London address in a matter of days.

That was no problem. The account would not be operable for about a working week, so just advise my new address as soon as possible. I added some of my travellers’ cheques to the account and asked if he could change a further amount for me into cash. He summoned a clerk, who took away the TCs and soon returned with four thousand pounds, more than enough to keep me going until I could draw cheques. My friendly manager warned me to be careful carrying such a large amount in cash. I was unconsciously looking for my handbag before I remembered I had pockets instead.

Finally he presented me with a cheque book, handling it reverently as though it was the key to the bank’s vault, admonishing me not to use it for a week, and after nearly an hour we shook hands and I left.

Soon John could fade away forever. Sorry, Tom, it’ll be the photos that you get, but I’ll always love you for pulling me out of my hole of misery.

When the account was activated I intended to write cheques in Suzie’s favour, which I would use to start an account in my real name, and, little-by-little, transfer the money into that until John was no more and I would have no conflicts of identity.

With the business done I hurried back to the hotel, put most of my cash into the safe in my room and stripped to the skin as quickly as I could. Those male clothes didn’t suit me at all. I showered, using a nice floral-scented soap, shampooed and conditioned my hair, combing it out ready for styling when I was dry. The first thing I did was to glue my breast forms back on and with my hair in a towel, turban-style and the bath-towel over my breasts; I admired myself in the mirror and became Suzie forever.

It was such a relief to get into things that felt right and proper against my skin, the weight of my breasts back in place. I sat in my bra and panties while I blow-dried, brushed and teased my hair back into a decent style, lightly made up my face and put in a pair of three-inch hoops. The only thing wrong was that I could not feel myself rubbing my nipples. I could hardly wait until that changed, as I knew it would in a few weeks.

When I was properly dressed again in a light summery full skirt with a built-in muslin underskirt to give it body so it swayed nicely at my knees, a pattern of red roses with green vines twining around them on a white background, a wide white belt cinched tight, a pink peasant blouse and white sandals with two-inch heels, I rang that real estate agent. He had tried to call while I was out and left a message with the hotel telephonist.

“Mr. Stanley, please?” I asked the receptionist.

“Just a moment. I’ll put you through.”

“Joe Stanley. Can I help you?”

“I hope so Mr. Stanley. I’m looking to rent a flat in your area. I wondered if I could make an appointment to come and see you and perhaps you could show me what you’ve got.”

“Certainly, Miss........?”

“Oh, sorry, my name is Suzie Wright. When will you be available?”

“I’m in all day, Miss Wright. I can think of a few places I have on the books which could suit you and they’re within walking distance. How long will it take you to get here? You do have our address, don’t you?”

“It’ll take me about half an hour. You’re in Old Brompton Road, aren’t you?”

“Right next to the Tube station. Just ask for Joe when you get here. By the way, do I hear an Australian accent? Lots of our customers are Aussies.”

“You have a good ear, Joe,” I said, laughing. “I’ll see you soon,” and hung up.

The weather was still warm and sunny by English standards, but I took a white cardigan, stuffed all my gear into my favourite white Chanel bag, including a bundle of cash in case I did take a flat, and, feeling great, all pretty and floaty and summery, I went down to get a cab.

I had decided to approach the real-estate agent this way because I thought he might be reluctant to give me Lucy’s details, especially over the phone, and I needed a place to live in any case until I hopefully reunited with her.

I took a cab to Old Brompton Road and told the cabbie to stop when I saw the shop front I was looking for, as promised it was right next to the station. I got out, paid the fare.......remembering to tip. London cabbies could get really nasty if you didn’t tip........and entered the office.

A very tall thin man was standing just inside the door. He was at least six four, wearing grey flannels, a white long-sleeved shirt and one of those diagonally-striped ties of which the English are so fond.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m looking for Joe.”

“That’s me,” he proclaimed cheerfully, “and I’m guessing you must be Miss Wright.”

I would have to make an effort to rid myself of the Aussie accent that I had apparently developed. Funny, in Australia they immediately picked me as a Pom, yet here they thought I was an Aussie. I guess I had whatever the Anglo-Australian equivalent of a mid-Atlantic accent was.

“You’re right of course, Joe, but please call me Suzie,” smiling as I shared his mood.

“OK, Suzie. Are you ready to look at some flats? I’ve got a few nice ones close by. Do you mind walking? It’s no more than five minutes to any of ‘em, and it’s a nice day.” He was definitely a real-estate agent. Everything would be a dez-rez (English real-estate speak for desirable residence) for sure.

“That’ll be fine. I know the area quite well because I lived round here for a while, with a friend, but that was ten years ago.”

He opened the door and ushered me out to the street.

“Right. I’ve got a couple of nice places in Eardley Crescent. Would you like to look at them first?”

Eardley Crescent was on the way to Earls Court and Finborough Road. Since I wanted information about Finborough and Lucy I was happy to be steered in that direction. We viewed the two flats and they really weren’t bad. Then I said to him that years ago I had lived in Finborough Road near The Ifield and asked him if he had anything down that way, as I had loved the flats down there.

“I do have a couple. They’re a bit bigger down there and so they’re a little more expensive.”

“I’d like to have a look. I always loved the high ceilings and the airiness of those places. We can talk about the money if they look good.”

And so we walked down to Finborough Road and when we were opposite The Ifield I told him I had lived at 121 ten years ago.

“That’s a coincidence. One of my best clients lives there, that is, she’s one of my landladies; a lovely lady named Lucy XXXXXXXXXXX. She’s got a couple of properties she rents through us.”

My heart just about leapt into my mouth. She was still there! I controlled myself. It’s amazing how people won’t give you information officially but will just let things drop in casual conversation. Here I had been going round in circles trying to find her and I could have walked up and knocked on the door. All of a sudden I was terrified.

I managed to keep my cool while Joe showed me two very nice flats and I made appropriate appreciative noises, but tut-tutted about the asking prices. He assured me they were negotiable and I promised to give him a decision the next day, while I ran through scenarios for contacting Lucy.

I left him about four that afternoon and caught a cab back to the hotel. As soon as I got back into my room I rang her old number again, still getting no answer. In a way I was relieved because I didn’t know what I would do if I heard her voice.

I sat and dithered for a while. My decisive male persona was gone. I was terrified that she might reject me. I was essentially the Suzie that I had been all those years ago. Well, maybe a little more mature, but still a girl who would be at her happiest in her maid’s uniform, cleaning the flat, cooking, washing and ironing and looking after her darling and, of course, snuggling up to her and kissing and cuddling in bed and anywhere else for that matter. That wasn’t much of an ambition, I suppose, but that was me as a girl, domestic, submissive; happy to have the big decisions taken for me.

Some may wonder at my attraction to a French maid's uniform, since it is seen by many as a fetish or a symbol of submission. In a way, for me, it started out as a bit of a joke. Back in 1960 when I was just getting used to dressing as a girl and was still pretty iffy about the whole thing Lucy had taken me to a fancy-dress party and had selected a maid's outfit for me to wear to the affair. It was my first time out on a social occasion and it was just so much fun and increased my self-confidence tremendously and I had the most wonderful time at that party dressed as a maid. In a way it was my real "coming-out", so to me it became a sort of badge of my femininity and I could never afterwards resist the gorgeous feeling of the petticoats, stockings and heels. I bullied Lucy into getting me several outfits and wore them at every opportunity including ever-after doing all my chores in uniform.

Naturally, like nearly all girls, I love to get dolled up in something really glamorous occasionally and strut my stuff for the world to see and admire. Sometimes great hairdos, a beautiful gown, sheer stockings, a pair of four-inch heels, sexy make-up and a bit of jewellery really do make the woman. So, yes, I am a girly-girl; no apologies.

The only major difference now was that I did not have that sheer terror that I had then about taking the plunge into actually becoming a girl; still a bit scared, yes, but already taking hormones for five weeks and having declared myself to my mother. I would become a girl on my own if need be, but it would be lovely if Lucy became my mentor, my beloved, my comforter and guide, once again providing me with the support and love that I craved.

Well, I got all decisive and changed into something a bit more dressy, a neat knee-length jersey dress in a lilac shade and pantyhose; white sling back sandals with a three-inch heel and a Kelly bag to match. I brightened my make-up to make myself more “eveningy” and freshened my hair with some more brushing and extra spray, still emulating Barbarella.

Taking a white pashmina wrap I jumped into a taxi and winged my way back to Finborough Road, where I promptly panicked again and wound up going into The Ifield and buying myself a glass of wine rather than face knocking on that door. I sat on a barstool and the barman looked at me.

“Sorry, Miss. Do I know you? You look familiar.”

“You have a good memory, Stan. It’s been ten years. I used to live over the road.”

“Suzie! Of course I remember you now. You were Miss Lucy’s friend. Where have you been?”

“Away. Australia......a long story.”

“She’ll be glad you’re back, Miss Suzie. Anyway, great to see you.”

I hoped like hell he was right. I gulped down another and had a ciggy before I could force myself to cross the street.

I stood on the doorstep trying to pluck up the courage to ring the bell. More than ten years since I had seen her and it was ME who had walked out on HER. Would she slam the door in my face? I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

A finger took on a life of its own and pressed the bell while the rest of me stood paralysed, unable to decide if I should run.

I waited for what seemed like forever until the door opened. A little girl stood there.

“Hello, are you looking for my Mummy?”

“If your Mummy’s name is Lucy, then yes, I am.”

She turned and called into the house.

“Mummy, there’s a lady come to see you.”

“Tell her to hang on a sec. I’ll be right there.”

I would have known that voice coming from the kitchen anywhere. Ten years had not changed it.

I felt like running, but I couldn’t. The little girl would have thought I was stupid. She had turned to the light waiting for her mother to come. I studied her and she looked just like Lucy. I guessed she was about nine or ten, so pretty, with kind of blue-grey-green eyes that were hauntingly familiar, long blonde Alice locks and already becoming a little lady. I thought Lucy must have got married very soon after I left and a pang of jealousy ran through me.

Then the girl turned around and gave me a searching look as I stood on that doorstep with the hall light full on me and the bright summer twilight behind me. What she said next nearly floored me.

“Are you my Daddy? You look just like his pictures.”

The doorstep shook as my jaw hit it. Pennies dropped and cogs meshed and light-bulbs suddenly lit up. Ten years and this little girl was about that age. I had only seen Lucy in her at first but some sense of familiarity had been nagging at me. The other person she reminded me of was me, the eyes that I saw in the mirror every day.

Before I could gather myself to reply Lucy appeared, looking as domestic as she ever could in a floral apron and wiping her hands on a tea towel. She was still as beautiful as ever and my heart stopped, before leaping into my mouth.

She stopped as if she had run into a wall when she saw me. Her mouth opened, her eyes widened and the colour drained from her face. I think we must have made a right pair, standing there gaping at each other like a couple of stunned goldfish. She found her voice first.

“Suzie? Suzie? You’ve come back!”

I could only nod and I smiled tentatively.

“Oh my god. Eva, she’s come back,” she said to the girl.

The tableau broke and we were in each other’s arms.

“Can you forgive me?” We asked in unison.

“I’m so sorry.” It was like a comedy show routine. After you Cecil. No, after you Claude, and suddenly we were both laughing and crying at the same time.

She released me long enough to bend down and hug Eva.

“Your Daddy’s home!”

“I’m home,” I blubbered, as she took my hand and pulled me inside and shut the door.

“I knew you were my Daddy.”

I bent down and put my hands on her shoulders.

“I hope you don’t mind having a girl for your Daddy.”

“Of course I don’t. I told Mummy years ago that I want to be a girl like you when I grow up.”

.....................................................................

I stayed that night while we talked and talked and touched each other and cuddled our daughter and eventually went to bed. We even shared Lucy's toothbrush. We didn’t need nighties and in the morning I took them both breakfast in bed.

Two days later I moved back in with my family. Lucy and I had both made silly mistakes all those years ago. It’s incredible how people can misinterpret things, but we rehashed it all and laughed over the silliness and tearfully forgave each other for imagined transgressions that neither of us had intended and got on with the business of making up for all those lost years. I was so glad to find that I was still a much better housekeeper than she was and I was more than happy to look after the pair of them. Lucy bossed me around as though I had never been away and I became my old submissive self and do exactly what she tells me except when I have to pull her into gear occasionally.

I had unknowingly left Lucy pregnant and seven months after I went on my self-imposed exile she had our baby. Later on the child naturally asked Lucy about Daddy and was shown the pictures of me and her. Naturally, all of them showed me as a girl. Lucy said she had made a dreadful mistake and frightened me away, but hoped against hope that I would come back.

Eva took the fact that her Daddy was a girl in her stride. Gender means little to small children, and she told Lucy that she wanted to be pretty like me when she grew up. What a compliment! I truly think that I make a better mother than I ever would have been a father. Eva is my pride and joy and between us she is going to be a great lady.

I tried to let my mother know she was a granny but got no reply. I guess it wouldn’t have worked anyway. I sent pictures of the three of us to Serena and Anna and, of course to Tom. I got no replies from the girls, but was not unduly surprised. I found later when we all went to Bangkok for my own operation and stopped over in Singapore for a few days that they had both transitioned and disappeared from the scene, presumably to lead normal lives. I hoped that they had both found love as well as fulfillment.

Sadly, the Bugis Street I knew doesn’t exist anymore, at least in that form, wiped away by the puritanical paternalism of the Singapore government in the name of “progress”. They decreed that it become the site of a station for the new underground rail system and the girls were banished to the eastern fringes of the island, to Changi Village, out of sight and out of mind, although a few can still be found in the bars of Orchard Towers. You’re not allowed to have too much fun in The Lion City.

Tom wrote back a nice letter, finishing up with;

“......see, told ya so. That’ll teach yer ta listen to yer Uncle Tom. Be happy and keep in touch,”

We’ll go and see him one day.

So fairy tales do sometimes happen, even if they are more Brothers Grimm than Hans Christian Andersen, but then even ol’ Hans had his darker moments. Lucy and I got married while I was still technically male. Eva, now thirteen, looks really cute in her French maid’s outfit. Our other daughter, Gloria, is two and spoiled rotten by the three older girls in the house.

Just wait a moment until I make sure my seams are straight before I take Lucy her breakfast in bed. Sometimes you can go back, good thing my uniforms still fit.

The End