The uniform I have to wear for work is only what I can describe as unisex. Women can wear skirts but the company issue ones are not practical for climbing in and out of trains. They are too pencil like and one cannot lift a leg up without having to hike up the skirt and flash one’s sacred areas. I bought some skirts of my own which are more A-line in design and allow a little more freedom of movement.

I recall one particular warm and sunny day last year, I decided to wear a skirt to work. It turned out that day that one of my managers decided that it was a good day to come with me to do one of my periodical assessment rides. They do these now and again just to check that standards are being maintained. He is a nice chap and there was a pleasant informality about the whole thing. He observes what I’m doing throughout the journey and ticks his little boxes (or not), and we chat with the occasional test question thrown in to tick another box. The total journey time was about three hours. On the return leg of the journey, as we rolled into a station, he spied a rather good looking young lady on the opposite platform on his side of the train. She had quite a short skirt on which prompted him to exclaim out loud.

“Phoarr! Look at those legs!”

I think he had forgotten for a moment who it was he was riding with.

I like good looking young ladies myself (yep, I’m lesbian). I don’t have any testosterone so the animal bit in me has gone. I tend to be looking at their shoes or clothes or posture so I can copy it.

Anyway, back to the story. After his remark, something came over me and I immediately said, “And what’s wrong with my legs then?” As I lifted the side of my skirt up almost to my panties to show a long, smooth, white leg. He turned and looked and blushed and spluttered “Err, nothing; nothing at all.”

He was a little quiet for a while but our conversation soon continued

I couldn’t help it. The little girlie devil that sits on my left shoulder made me do it. I seem to like teasing people now with my antics and innuendos.

I think back to the days when I was a Closeteer and so frightened and ashamed of what I was and look at me now. I’m writing to the whole world about me.

I am proud of who I am. I will be in Norwich at Pride in July. Anybody lucky enough to be able to come, you can meet me on the Oasis stand.

Yesterday, I had to take a taxi ride during the course of my work. I walked out of the station and was greeted by a very courteous gentleman of err… east African origin, I think. His car was a big black Mercedes and as I rode in the back I felt quite regal. His english was quite good and we had a small amount of conversation on the journey. As I was getting out of the cab, he called me a “fine lady”. Well! I didn’t really know how to take that. At first I was flattered but then the cynical bitch inside me took over and I wondered if he was just humouring me. Surely he must have realised from my voice that all was not as it seemed. Perhaps he was visually impaired and half deaf.

Oh My God!  Did I just endure a forty five minute cab ride with a half blind driver?

Noo!   Go back to being flattered!