Like every third Friday in the month, the tranny event on 19th February was a quiet get-together in Felixstowe - but as you know, dear reader, I like to take the opportunity to do some 'interesting' things on the way there! On this particular day, it'd been my turn to do the shopping, so, wearing my curly blond wig, a 15-inch blue checked skirt, and black patent high-heeled shoes, I'd dropped in on Tesco's. Although this is one of my regular public venues, I'd been mildly apprehensive about this visit - while I like to present a well-groomed if slightly provocative image, my decision to wear black fishnet tights had perhaps been a bit suspect. So why did I do it? Well, contrary to common sense, I'd found that black fishnets are good at disguising the presence of leg hair - it's something to do with the optical effect of a black mesh on a pale background - and as I was growing my hair to be waxed for the summer, this was important. In fact, with the clear, fine tights I was wearing underneath the fishnets, the hair had been rendered completely invisible to anything less than a very close inspection - and I wasn't expecting one of those!
In the event, the two hours I'd spent in Tesco's had proved to be uneventful, despite unexpectedly running into a friend who goes to my gym. Until I'd said "hello", he hadn't suspected my male identity, although bizarrely, he had recognised me from one of my earlier visits to the store en femme with Mary [1]! We'd subsequently blocked an aisle for nearly half an hour chatting about this and that before going our separate ways. I'd also spotted several people I recognised from work doing their Friday-evening chores, but this is the price I pay for shopping less than a mile from my desk!
So at around 7:30pm, I found myself driving along the A14 towards the meeting in Felixstowe, and thinking about the original plan for the afternoon, which had been to go into a friend's hairdressing salon in Felixstowe to try to find a pink wig. This would've given me a spare hour or so in the town before my evening meeting, and I'd made a phone call to a hotel near our meeting place asking if I could use their bar so I didn't have to stand outside in the cold. The girl who'd answered the phone had put me through to the manager, who'd evidently thought I was a pervert, said "no", and hung up on me! Well, being a political animal, I'd since decided that I'd been treated unjustly, and I'd determined that I should set the record straight. So when I got to Felixstowe, I parked the car in the usual place, walked the hundred metres or so to the hotel, through the revolving door, and up to the front desk.
The girl on duty greeted me pleasantly, so I politely related the story of my phone call to the manager earlier in the week, and asked if she could pass on the message that the enquiry had actually been genuine - furthermore, should the same circumstance arise in the future, I'd like to think that he'd be a bit more sympathetic. Of course, I was on my best behaviour - I'd decided that my argument would be more effective if I played the part of the wrongly-accused victim. The girl took the details and said she'd pass them on; although I don't suppose for a moment that she will, it gave me the opportunity to go into the hotel anyway, which was something I'd always thought might be fun.
Revenge hadn't crossed my mind, but as it happened, I couldn't have asked for better circumstances: there was evidently a very posh function going on in the hotel that evening - the foyer was full of guys in DJs and bow-ties, and loads of women in long evening frocks. Naturally, I swished confidently through the middle of the crowd - probably looking like some whore off the street - played my part from the heart for all to hear, and swished back out again. I remember that there was a distinct look of concern on the doorman's face, which added to my enjoyment!
From personal notes and correspondence.