CHAPTER 10
It was a bit like that at work. Senior management were caught in a cleft stick, as the law prohibited any discrimination against me, but I tried to minimise the changes, just wearing my hair in a different way, a bra of course, and doing my best to stay out of both sets of public toilets.

There was some argy-bargy with some of the stupider members of staff, till one of the older squaddies, I think from the Royal Anglians, made a point of both loudly reminding them that a pair of tits did not change my employment history, and offering to hold my handbag while I gave a demonstration. That seemed to break the mood, and he took me for a pint afterwards.

“Mel, is it? Look, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t agree with anything you are doing. On the other hand, I know what shit you went through, and if this makes it easier to cope, fair play. Just don’t expect me to pop round for coffee and fairy cakes”

No acceptance, just tolerance then. I learned to filter out the comments, but I kept an eye out for the physical stuff. Some chavs got nasty surprises, and still do, but that is the price I am paying, indeed am willing to pay. As I said before, fuck them.

I broke away after a while, once the new leave year had come round, and loaded up the old car with ropes and tent and other shit, and set off up the motorways to Derbyshire. I had a lot to get straight in my head, and one thing Sally had mentioned was my comfort zone.

I don’t know if I can get the idea across, but while I had had quite a lot of abuse, it was all on home turf. I could brazen it out at work, I had given literal and metaphorical fingers to the problem neighbours, but that was all in a very restricted area. Many of my neighbours were now coming round to my side, as they realised that I was still the same person they had accepted, even liked, in my old wrappings. No, what Sally was on about was my willingness and ability to move through the world. I had her mobile number for emergencies, I had my tent, and I had a tattered old guide for a place I hadn’t seen in well over a decade.

North Leas is a simple campsite, just outside Hathersage in the Peak District. It is a mile or so across country to the nearest pub, but the wardens are a lovely old hippy couple who take absolutely no shit from anyone, and are devoted to the local wild environment. It sits under Stanage Edge, several miles of rock outcrop, and is within a short drive of several other superb climbing sites.

There was my dilemma. I was going, naturally, on my own, but what if I met someone willing to climb with some outsized and ugly transdyke?

That was my new word, “transdyke”, and it would serve as an introduction.

I arrived, and got immediate recognition from the male half of the wardens. Mild surprise followed by a warm smile of welcome, and advice as to where was driest to pitch, were the sum total of my problems. Apparently, he remembered my help with some rowdiness some time back in the Cretaceous, and the colour of my underwear was of no interest to him compared to my being “good folks”

I could get to like this! I took my pitch, and spent that evening at the Popular End of Stanage, soloing simple and easy routes like Black Hawk Traverse and Boot Crack. The wind was its usual blistering self, unfortunately, and I fancied somewhere less exposed for the following day. It was still good, though, and I drove back down happy, and wondering what to cook.

You sit outside your tent on some old wooden pallet, mentally flicking a coin between rice, pasta, and a walk to the pub, and it is never easy. I didn’t even have Little Voice to bounce ideas off now, so I was dithering in a post-exercise daze when a voice broke into my solo thought train.

“Fancy a brew?”

I looked up and saw about six foot of Amazon in cycling kit. Nope, not an Amazon, she had both tits, and very nice tits…..stop it. I blushed when I realised that she had caught my stare, a deeper colour when I caught sight of another girl leaning against her back and peering over her shoulder, and as deeply pink as I could possibly get when I realised that the first girl had actually been checking out my own chest.

Oh dear. My attempts at a reply were spoilt at first by a coughing fit, and then by three women’s stupid laughter. Pause, breathe, smile, fix bayonet….

Jeanette and Lesley (“Don’t even THINK it!”) were a very obvious partnership who had arrived by tandem from Sheffield, with much the same ideas as my own. Tandems have limited luggage space compared to solo bikes, it would seem, so that their camping kit had to take precedence over the climbing stuff. The boot was open on my car, the kit was visible, and a favour was being begged. We shared a cuppa, and dinner became an assumed matter: there was beer in the pub.

Les was the smaller of the two, an elfin little woman with a spiky haircut and a number of very attractive physical attributes. She turned out to be a lawyer, and gave me a serous inspection before asking the big one.

“So do tell…”

“Well, I have led E3, but I’m a bit rusty, and-“

“No. How far along are you in transition.”

“You don’t hang about, do you?”

“Not when there is beer to be had and this is our only chance for privacy”

I gave a potted history of my journey up to that point, and she hit me with another “time-saving” question.

“Any man in your life yet?”

I blushed some more, and muttered about being a lesbian. She nodded.

“I know one or two of those”

Both Jeanette and I had to go and change our tops. I hoped the tea wouldn’t stain them.

The pub was hilarious. We ate huge portions at the Little John, and we got chatted up.

I got chatted up. By a man. We worked out later that the group of lads involved had selected one of their number to “take one for the team” by chatting up the big, ugly older one, while his mates went for the small pretty one and the tall leggy one with the double charms, so there I was getting drinks provided and a hand on my thigh. I was briefly tempted to take him back to the tent to see the look on his face, but by that time the other girls were having a bit of a snog, with each other that is, and my beau’s heart seemed to be going out of things, so it was a very mellow but limited-to-three group who made a stroll arm-in-arm back to the site.

I can hardly remember a happier moment in my life. Sally had been so right, as always.

The next day I repaid the favour, and I drove us all out to Froggatt Edge, which catches much less wind and far more sun. It turned out that Les had only ever climbed as a second up to Severe, while Jenny was OK at Very Severe. I decided it was time for a step up for littl’un, and took them down to Heather Wall, which is a soft touch at Severe and has the perfect jamming crack for a beginner. Jamming is a technique involving wedging a hand or other body part into a crack so it can’t be pulled out, and then pulling on it. Making sure she had an eight foot sling for the stance, I talked her through the slightly awkward start, and then trotted round to the half way platform.

She cruised it, as I knew she would, and then brought Jenny up like a pro. I got a kiss for my choice in climbs, and then got to do one of my own, Sunset Crack, a soft touch at Very Severe and within Les’ range as a second, I was sure. There is one “big move” on it, a step up from a recess onto a nose with your right foot, and nothing for your left foot but friction for a while. Loads of protection as you climb a lovely crack, and then you are there. The same slab can be climbed to the left at E2, on ripples and friction and no protection, but not today.

I soloed it to show the way, and Jenny followed with my gear and Les as a reluctant second. As expected, Jenny made easy work of the step up, being tall, but Les had a bit of a grovel and a little tighter a rope than normal, but she was still buzzing from her hardest ever lead on Heather Wall, and I got another set of kisses for that one.

I can guess where some minds would go with this one. We have a good day, head back to the camp site, clothes just fall off….but how many married couples do you know who act like that?

We had a great two days of climbing, we went to the pub, we said our goodnights, and like any other married couple they got up the next morning and argued about whose turn it was to make breakfast. I was just happy being accepted so well as another girl, and that is a far bigger rush, and comfort, than any sexual act could ever be. We exchanged numbers and addresses before we left (they were in West London) and I left there a happier girl.

So, I went back to my flat, with my sexual preferences confirmed as well as my perceived and preferred gender, to find a little note from Sally asking me to call in when I could.

“Hiya Sally, what do you need to see me about?”

“Good weekend?”

I filled her in on everything, even the boy willing to throw himself to the sea monster for his friends, Jenny, Les, the lot.

“You have really, really come a long way, girl” she said. She straightened some papers on her desk.

“Do you have anybody at all who could look after you this coming May?”

“What exactly do you mean ‘look after’?”

“Post surgery”

She let a little smile creep in there, and I suddenly realised what she was offering me. Sally, of course, had a box of tissues handy. After more than a short while, I begged the use of her phone.

“Oh, hi Mel, we didn’t expect to hear from you so soon”

“Les, I have a huge favour to ask. In May, I will need someone to stay with me”

“Whatever for?”

“Just one of those silly rules about post-surgery patients being home alone when discharged”

I had moved the phone away from my ear at that point, fortunately. Within half an hour she had contacted her partner, and I had babysitters arranged for my home recovery from my final visit to the plumber. I looked at Sally moistly, mistily, and she started to laugh.

“One, Mel, it would be unethical, and two, and more importantly, I do prefer my partners to be those who use different shops to myself. Sorry, girl, but not only am I your doctor I am also straight!”

I still got a kiss out of it, and a hug, and the ticket to my new life.

So, tonight’s a night for celebration. I am putting this in here because when I get back later I might well be pissed, and say something into this machine that will make perfect sense at the time and confuse the fuck out of me when I play it back. I’m going full tilt as Mel, short skirt, shoes far from sensible…

I’ve even sprayed my hair to give it some “sleek body and…” .lot of rubbish written on the tin. I think it makes my hair look like some crap wig, but too late now, it’s done. I‘ll pick this up tomorrow.

Off to the pubs!
*******************************************************************************

*******************************************************************************

For the rest of Melanie’s story, please read "Something to Declare" episode 45 onwards.