Tomorrow, 14th July - Bastille Day in France, is the twenty fifth anniversary of my transitioning - when I turned up for work the first time wearing a skirt. These days we have a uniform of tunic and trousers - all that fuss for nothing.

I'm getting together with my daughter and my ex on Sunday to have lunch together by way of celebration. It seems a long time ago now and of little significance in the greater run of things, but I thought I'd mention it. Twenty five years of living the dream - if you say so.

The problem is, once the dream becomes reality, it becomes mundane and all the excitement leading up to it, all those years of angst and scheming, of wishing and praying disappears into the reality of being oneself. The novelty disappears and it becomes a chore of trying to decide what to wear and looking tidy most of the time.

These days I rarely wear makeup or skirts - perhaps at weekends if I'm not cycling, or if I'm going somewhere I want to look neat and tidy. I will on Sunday, because otherwise my ex will tell me off - 'I've seen you look better than that' or words to that effect. That we talk at all is perhaps the most important thing - and supported by my daughter, who insists we do so amicably.

To every fairytale, there's a wicked witch who wants to spoil the princess's day, in this case my daughter in law, who seems to have a problem with me, which obviously involves my son, who didn't have too many problems until he went out with her. Sadly, it also means I haven't seen my only grandchild who is now over a year old. However, I was talking to a friend recently and she and her husband haven't seen their son and grandchildren for several years - and she isn't transgendered.

Things could be always be worse, so I shall count my blessings and look forward to the next twenty five years and see what challenges and blessings that will bring.

Angharad.