I grew up in an isolated place with no nearby neighbours and other than my sisters there were no other children for miles. I had a violent father, an ineffectual mother, eight sisters and no brothers. I was the eldest. I think my mother loved me in those days, but I’m not sure. I was a convenient punchbag for my father whenever he was in a bad temper. He never hit the girls. The girls were involved in their girl world that I was excluded from. It was a lonely life for a clever but socially inept little boy. I always wanted to be a girl, not because I thought I was one, nor because I wanted to wear their clothes, neither ever occurred to me, but because they had each other, they at least knew Mum loved them and they didn’t get hit. I had my thoughts, the library and the bruises.

As I reached my teens, the girls were getting excited about clothes, make up, pop music, boys and life in general. I’m not sure I knew what it was to be excited. I hated sport because it seemed pointless, and that whole mindless thing about becoming a member of a tribe, a supporter they called it, was embarrassing. Too, the boys who were good at sport were all thugs who picked on me for showing them up in class when they hadn’t bothered to do their homework, homework I was too timid and fearful not to do. I didn’t like pop music and had never heard any other kind of music.

I was isolated, a despised outsider at school and to the best of my knowledge I never spoke to a girl, nor was I ever spoken to by one including my sisters. Actually I rarely spoke to a boy either. I certainly didn’t want to be a mindless thug, and I often daydreamed about how nice it would be to be one of the girls. The clever ones weren’t despised by the sporty ones. They actually helped each other. I would have liked to be able to join in. I used to think I’d maybe kill to belong, but I knew it was more likely that I’d die trying.

All the way through school, my sisters had never bothered with me. The only thing I had in common with them was like both our parents we all had red hair and skin that burnt in the sun after almost no exposure at all. The girls hadn’t done me any harm, but I wasn’t one of them, so I’d been ignored. I was cleverer than any of them, but they were clever enough to help each other and more than get by, and they didn’t need my help with their homework which was all I had to offer. The youngest in my year group, eventually I left school at sixteen with Advanced levels, two years early, with no fanfare. I didn’t go to any of the leavers’ events, there would have been no point because no one would have talked to me, and there was no one I wanted to talk to. I wouldn’t have known what to say. I’d never had any practice at conversation.

I went to university and left with a first in genetics at nineteen. University had pretty much been a non event, even there I’d been ignored by the girls and bullied by the boys. I didn’t wish to do post graduate studies. What for? More of the same? And the idea of job interviews terrified me. The idea of having a job and working with more girls who would ignore me and more boys who would hit, hurt and humiliate me terrified me. I was depressed and thinking about ending it all because the idea of possibly another sixty years like the last twenty was just too much.

I’d found a room in a boarding house and used virtually the last of my money for the deposit. I was desperate for a job. All I had in the way of assets were my laptop, forty pounds and a handful of loose change including a two pound coin, forty-two pounds forty-seven pence in all. [64 $] I didn't have a mobile phone because I had no one to communicate with. Mum would have taken me in, but I’d have had to face Dad and those of my sisters who were still at home. Later that morning, I was having a coffee in a grubby little place I’d been in before and knew was cheap when for the first time in my life I had the beginnings of an idea as to how I could get to the far end of my life without deliberately curtailing it.

The couple opposite me were ordering lunch, and their waitress was struggling. She was obviously intellectually challenged and had a terrible short term memory. She was short, dumpy, plain and distressed by her situation. She’d forgotten to pick up her notebook from the kitchen. The man said to her in gentle tones, “It’s all right, Dear. Go and get your notebook to write it all down. We’ll wait.”

No one had ever been that patient with me or that kind to me. It flitted through my mind that even though I’d never waited on tables surely I could do better than she’d managed. Later, I was sitting in the park just thinking about my plight and how could I possibly resolve it. The scene in the café kept returning. The girl was a thick as two short planks, had the memory of a goldfish, and was plain to the point of ugly, yet she had a job, was earning money and people were kind to her. I was intelligent and had a good memory. Hell, even I was prettier than her though that wasn’t difficult. More to the point, I did not have a job and no one had ever been kind to me. What to do?

It was the phrase ‘prettier than her’ that kept recurring, that and the word ‘money’. I’d never been brave, or adventurous. I was also only five foot two, [155 cm] of a slight build with size four and a half [US men’s size 5] feet and small hands. I also had androgynous features with bright green eyes, which was why I’d been bullied so much. My light red hair was down to my collar. It waved and turned up naturally. I liked it like that, and it was probably because of that I’d regularly been insulted with taunts of ginger pretty boy and worse. An outrageous thought, at least it seemed so to me, came into my head and wouldn’t leave. I could do her job far better than she. I had no idea what it paid, but surely enough to pay a few weeks rent while I looked about for a better paying job that used my education where I wasn’t bullied and didn’t have to live in fear.

I walked round the city looking in the windows of cafés and restaurantes, and noticed many of them had advertisements saying waitresses were wanted. Only one advertised for waiters as well as waitresses, but the few that said what the job paid were paying enough for my immediate needs. Most said the job provided uniform. Looking at the waitresses in uniform, the idea of wearing a skirt that short was intimidating, but I could get some practice first. I went back to my room and changed into a pair of jeans and a plain tee shirt.

The only thing my father had ever given me of any value was genetic. No facial or body hair. Not a single hair on my face, arms, chest, back, legs or pubic region, but I did have eyebrows and eyelashes. It hadn’t meant anything till now, and I smiled a wry smile as I considered what he would say if he realised how much he was helping me.

Next stop, the charity shops. In the first I bought a pair of cheap women’s low heeled shoes. Even at an inch taller I felt better about myself, and I left wearing the shoes with my trainers in a carrier bag. I’d seen some of the waitresses’ skirts were so short they couldn’t help but flash their knickers from time to time and I didn’t want to do that wearing Y fronts, so I bought a three pack of the plainest white knickers for £1.69 in the Factory Shop. The ones I’d bought had a little bow at the front and were edged round the waist and the legs with narrow elasticated lace. I hoped the lace would distract any curious male eyes. At the next charity shop I chose a salmon coloured blouse, a dark grey woollen cardigan and a just above the knee pleated black skirt. I’d tried them on in the shop with a pair of the knickers and looking back at me from the mirror was a girl with a smile on her face. “Very nice, Dear, they go together well,” the woman in the shop said. “But a slightly higher heel would look better. Here try these. They’ll give you a bit of height, Dear, and black will go with anything not just that outfit.” She passed me a pair of shiny black shoes with three inch heels.

I looked good, unquestionably like a girl, and I was already beginning to like the new me without the heart hammering nerves of earlier. I wasn’t too steady on my feet and was afraid the woman would guess when she said, “You’re all alike you young girls. It’s wearing trainers all the time that’s your problem. When I was your age we could all dance in heels twice the height of those. Never mind, Dear. A bit of practice and you’ll be fine.” That was encouraging. In fact I think it may have been the first encouraging thing anyone had said to me in my entire life, and it felt really good.

I walked from my room into the city centre in my new outfit. Whereas before I’d been completely invisible to passers by now they smiled at me which spooked me for a few minutes till I learnt to smile back after which I felt remarkably calm. The heart hammering bit was when I asked to speak to the manager about a job in a medium sized up market café that provided uniform. Delia, the manageress asked me a few questions and said, “Dearie, I’ll give you a job, but only because I can tell you’re desperate. You can only stay a fortnight because after that questions will be asked. You’re not eighteen are you?” I shook my head. I was nearly two years older than that, but that was not what she meant. “You’ll be safer if you put couple of hankies in your bra, use a bit of make up and get your hair done because you’ll look older. If you’re a runaway I don’t want to know about it, but use another name. It’ll be fine if you are only here a couple of weeks. Can you start tomorrow?” I nodded “The girl who just left was called Sarah. You’ll probably get called that for a few days anyway. I’m happy enough if you go with that. You okay with that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Sarah Greensmith it is, and you’re eighteen if anyone asks. Right?” I nodded. “Right, Sarah. I’ll get you a uniform to try on at home. It’ll be a bit loose around your waist, tighten the belt till it looks okay, and we’ll see you ready for a seven o’clock start tomorrow. Normal start is six thirty and finish at six. We open at five five days a week for the market traders, and everyone does one four thirty start a week finishing at half two. I do them all. And remember, a couple of hankies, and make up. Hair when you can afford it, You could get it done in the slack time with Daisy round the corner, she’s not expensive and a lot of the girls use her because she’s good. If you look a little more mature you’ll get better tips.”

On the way home I stopped in at B&M bargains where I bought a cheap, white bra and a lipstick that was described as coral. When I got home I used a pair of socks in my bra and tried the uniform. My bra, now that was a weird thing to say at the time, but I had a job, well for a fortnight I did. The bra was embarrassingly obvious under the thin uniform blouse. I was happier when I used a white tee shirt as a vest and, despite my nerves, I thought I looked convincingly like a girl in the uniform. I felt safe in it because boys wouldn’t hit me. Then I remembered the lipstick. I couldn’t get the hang of it to start with, lack of experience at working the wrong way round in the mirror was my major problem, but after an hour with a Youtube tutorial I was okay. I found a make up site for girls with green eyes, and made some notes. I slept well that night. I was a bit excited when the alarm woke me, and that was a novel emotion for me.

When I arrived at work Delia said, “Looking good, Sarah. Get changed and I’ll introduce you to the other girls.”

The other girls treated me just like one of them, and Cordelia, a large breasted girl, said, “Wise move that, packing your bra, Girl. Though that tee shirt hides it well. You obviously know the score on tips. What you using, hankies?”

I felt comfortable saying, “No. A pair of socks. Why?”

“There’s a sex shop on Union street that sells breast forms. That’s where I got these big girls from. Forms look better than socks or hankies, and you can get away without wearing a cami or a tee under the blouse, but be careful, cos there’re are a lot of weirdos go in there. You don’t have to worry about the trans girls, they’re okay. I’ve a couple of friends that way out, but watch out for the pervs. I’ll go with you if you like.”

Cordelia seemed safe enough, so I said, “I’d appreciate that. It’s not the sort of place I’ve ever been in.”

“I’ve only ever been in the once. I was on my own, and I didn’t like it, but the investment was well worth it. I only wear these for work.” She smiled and admitted, “If you’re going out there’s not much point in letting a fella chat you up if you’re not going to let him cop a feel, and these won’t do anything for either of us, but they’re good for the tips, it you’ll pardon the expression.” There were four of us giggling at that, and that was the best experience of my life up till then, belonging, sharing something.

It had been a long day when I finished at six, but I’d made twice as much in tips than my wages would come to. I’d not get my pay till Thursday, but my tips were in a paper bag. I’d been all right at work because my apron had pockets, but I’d not even thought about my skirt not having any. Not that it would have made any difference if I’d thought about it because after paying for the bra and lipstick and buying some food I’d been down to less than a pound with my fiver reserve. I needed a purse and a handbag. [US wallet and a purse]

On the way home I looked in Boots the chemists and picked up some make up booklets. I read the print off them that evening and had a reasonable idea what I was going to buy on Friday after work when I started at four-thirty. I was planning on a shopping trip round the charity shops and B&M again. Clothes and make up. Oh, and a purse and handbag.

The first week was a busy one, and amongst a host of other things I’d acquired some ID that would do for a month or two including a library card with my new name and a photo on it. My life was better than it had ever been. I bought and tried some eye make up and Denise at work shewed me how to make my eyes look bigger. I had my hair done, and Daisy gave me red highlights, and it was definitely a pretty and happy looking girl in the mirror. I made friends, and for the first time in my life I had a social life. I went with a crowd of the girls to the Irish club they frequented and fell in love with the music. I enjoyed learning to dance with the girls, and discovered pop music wasn’t so bad. I couldn’t believe how easy and how much fun dancing was. I’d finished at the café after a fortnight, and started work the day after at a really upmarket restaurante. The pay was better, the tips much better, but I kept in contact with the friends I’d already made.

I found better accommodation in a large Edwardian house on a quiet linden tree lined avenue in a decent area. The house had six tenants and only took women. Each tenant had a sitting room with a separate bedroom, and each floor, I was on the first floor [US, second floor], had two tenants who shared a small kitchen and a bathroom. There was a loo separate from the bathroom though there was one in the bathroom too. The other tenants were all young professional women and I think surprised that a ‘mere’ waitress was their intellectual equal. I learnt some important lessons about humanity living there, and I suspect that’s where the seed was planted about a career in medicine.

At my new place of work I was regularly being chatted up by young men. Did I like that? I don’t know. I didn’t dislike it, but I did nothing to encourage it. Even when the odd one ran his hand over my bottom it wasn’t unpleasant, certainly nothing to get upset about, but it didn’t do anything for me. They were the only non disdainful interactions I’d ever had with males, so they meant my disguise was good, I passed. I suppose I did like it in one sense because I accepted it as part of being a girl and I liked everything that was part of being a girl.

The other girls at work nicknamed me ‘Miss Cool’, and said I really could handle the over adventurous males with wandering hands, because when they’d groped me I would just silently gaze at them till they backed off. Most blushed and hurried away, some muttering, ‘Sorry,’ others something along the lines of, ‘Bloody frigid lesbo.’ I did enjoy being liked, appreciated and treated well as opposed to being abused and bullied. As I’d suspected as a child would be the case, life for me as a girl was infinitely better than as a boy. Did I want to be a girl? I had no idea. I liked living as one, and the benefits far outweighed any disadvantages, simply because I’d never had any of the advantages of being male.

I wasn’t feeling very well one day, and the girls put it down to period pains. Mavis the manageress, who was a kindly woman in her late fifties, told Yvonne, “Get Sarah a weak brandy from George at the bar. Tell him I sent you, what it’s for, but not for whom, and he’ll know how much. She’ll be okay in ten or fifteen. It’s quiet, so we’ll manage for a while.” I protested saying I could work, but Mavis said, “We’ve all been there, Sarah love. Just think yourself lucky you’re not my age. My mum dosed me with some vile black poison called Indian Brandy. It stunk like boot polish and tasted disgusting. My sisters and I only admitted to period pains once. The cure was worse than the curse. I always thought that was idea. It did nothing for the pain, but it stopped you complaining. You won’t be the first George has made some ‘medicine’ for and you won’t be the last. Now be a good girl, drink your brandy, it’s the best treatment I know of for the curse, and have a rest before you even think about going out there.” It’s much better being a girl because girls care.

I got my first kiss when I went ice skating with a crowd from work. Cordelia had followed me to the restaurante and was with us. The girls were all as bad at skating as I was, so we were having a really good time. Cordelia no longer wore her ‘big girls’ at work, but she was pretty impressive without them, which probably explained why we were being followed by a crowd of boys. There was a bit of banter, but nothing crude. Gail, who was in her thirties, weighed them up and said, “All nice boys, probably virgins. If one chats you up there’s nothing to be afraid of, Girls.”

Simon and I had introduced ourselves as we skated, but not much more. Our conversation was constantly being interrupted because of the concentration we both required to stay upright and our inability to go in the exact direction we would have liked. Everything was going fine and we were reaching to hold hands like a lot of skaters were when all of a sudden there were thirty or more of us in a heap on the ice. No one was hurt, but my bottom was freezing.

Simon pulled me up to my feet and asked, “You all right, Sarah?”

“I’m fine, but my bum is freezing!”

“Warm it up for you if you like?” At the look on my face, his drained and he stammered, “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I’ll buy you a coffee if you like?” There were six of us from work all being bought coffee by the boys. They were nice, but younger than us. We were about to go when Simon said, “I’ll look out for you, Sarah.” I was about to say something when his lips touched mine. No tongues or anything like that, but the wolf whistles weren’t all from the boys. By the end of next shift there wasn’t a girl who didn’t know Miss Cool had been kissing at the rink. I was getting called Miss Hot too.

I rapidly got used to living as a woman. I wasn’t that it became hard to remember what living like a boy was like, but I could go weeks without thinking about it because the lack of fear made life so easy, fun too. I changed my name, to Sarah, but I became Sarah Alice Fleming. Why Alice and why Fleming? Because Alexander Fleming was someone I admired. I acquired a wardrobe and donated my few boy clothes to a charity shop.

I started to become interested in a few knick-knacks for my room, and I bought a teddy bear because he was irresistible. I watched Youtube tutorials on using make up and how to make clothes fit better. I became adept with a needle and thread, good enough to fit a new zip, cost ten pence off the market, in a designer label skirt I was given because the zip was no good. I wasn’t driven to do any of it. It was just the way I lived, and the idea of going back to how life had been before simply never occurred to me, though if it had I’d have rejected the idea instantly.

After two years of waitressing I finally had my life in some semblance of order and felt I was in control of it rather than just accepting what it threw at me. I’d just turned twenty-two when I went back to university as Sarah Alice Fleming to study medicine. I carried on at the restaurante on reduced hours and was a bit of a celebrity. A, ‘One of our girls is studying medicine’, kind of celebrity.

Life had been suicidally bad living as a male and it was enjoyably good living as a female, but at no time did I have any inner driving need to be female or male come to that. My family said they were finished with me when I told them I was living as a woman, which made no difference to the way they treated me at all, since they’d been ignoring me from birth. I met a couple of my sisters at a party once. We chatted for a bit and they were complimentary concerning my outfit, but they’d no idea who I was, and I didn’t enlighten them.

Looking back I still can’t answer the question, ‘Am I trans?’ I’d never been attracted to girls and later women. They’d never interested me never mind excited me, and I could count the number of erections I’d had in my entire life if not on the fingers of one hand then on two, and I’d always been small and never got much bigger nor even hard. It’s possible I’d had more and been unaware of them. However, I’d started on female hormones in my first year at medical school, and never had an erection again.

My consultant said though my testicles had both descended they were maybe an eighth of the size of the bottom end of the range for an adult male which was small even for a prepubescent boy, and my testosterone levels were at the bottom of the range of a prepubescent boy. Apparently some women produced more testosterone than I did. He was amazed I’d reached five foot two, and said though he was recommending my family doctor prescribed testosterone blockers it was as a precaution rather than out of necessity.

It was maybe six months after starting the hormones that the first tentative thoughts of having a relationship with a man occurred to me, but again it was no great thing. Rather I knew the way my life was going, and it seemed logical. It was what my friends did and many had asked why I didn’t have a boyfriend. I think some thought I was a closeted lesbian.

I discovered having small breasts is better than stuffing your bra with even the best of breast forms. I’d never gone for thigh and bum pads, and having do it yourself hips and a bottom means clothes fit better and I rarely had to alter them any more, and those I had to alter were easier to do after I bought my sewing machine. I can’t say I disliked the way I looked when I lived as a male. I didn’t think about it, but I do like the way I look now, and I’m fussy about clothes and my appearance. Many have said, without knowing anything about me, that I’m a typical woman. I wouldn’t know.

I didn’t have to justify myself to my psychiatrist because I’d been living the real life test since nineteen, though for me it was just real life rather than any kind of test. I was twenty six when I had SRS and legally became female. Again it was due to no driving need, it was just the next logical step. I lived as a woman, went out with men though usually in a group rarely as a couple, and though I wasn’t sexually active beyond kissing I accepted that what my friends had or wanted was normal and thus I had come to want them too, a husband and children. I was unlikely to achieve that unless I could offer the full package that a man could reasonably expect from a wife, so I had SRS. I wasn’t losing anything I’d ever used, or was ever going to use, not even on my own, so it wasn’t anything that mattered. It was just something that prevented me from getting on with my life.

I was twenty seven when I met Patrick at the hospital where I was continuing my studies. Patrick was a thirty-seven year old divorced ear, nose and throat specialist with no children. I told him about me, and also that if he couldn’t accept that sex was not on the menu till I was married he may as well look elsewhere. He was an Irish Catholic and took it calmly and said he was fine with that. He later admitted that knowing he was marrying a virgin was something that was worth any amount of waiting. He suggested should we not have set a wedding date within twelve months we probably never would, and at that point we may as well bring it to an end, and I agreed. Patrick told me his first wife hadn’t been what she’d told him, and she carried on, perhaps an overly apposite choice of words, as before her marriage. She left him because he was ‘boring’. He found out afterwards that was because he’d turned down her friends’ offers of sex.

Six months later I had turned twenty eight and I became Sarah Alice Armstrong. I hadn’t bothered to inform my family. I’d become a Catholic before the wedding, so we could be married in Patrick’s church by Father Riley. Initially I’d been reluctant because I’d expected to be vilified by any member of the clergy, so considered the idea pointless. Patrick told me he was the the only priest he’d ever come across who asked your permission to bless you. After a couple of chats, I’d eventually told Father Riley about me and he was of the opinion God didn’t make mistakes, but it wasn’t the usual bible bashers’ ‘God doesn’t make mistakes and you are an abomination’ rhetoric. He told me, “Like all of us, you are a perfect creation of the Almighty exactly as you are, irrespective of what has happened in your life, and the trials you have faced were doubtless placed in front of you for a purpose, Sarah. All you have to do is your best to be a good person, and for you that includes being a good wife to Patrick. If I can help in any way I will.” Then as usual he asked for my permission to bless me.

I’m pretty certain that is not the official Catholic view on any in the LGBT+ section of society, but when I asked Patrick’s mum about it she told me, “He’s a great soul and a mighty compassionate man, Sarah, and he has one of the largest congregations in the country. Congregations everywhere are shrinking and his is still growing. When he came here the congregation was about a dozen regular attendees and most were elderly. I never used to go when Father Jacobs was here for surely there wasn’t a drop of kindness in the man. Father Riley has never turned anyone away, and his acts of charity were legendary before he reached the age of thirty-five. There’s not a body has had to sleep outside in the cold in the parish since he came here, and some of them require a saintly amount of compassion to feel sorry for. He’s not a one for dogma when some poor soul is needing help.

“He believes that God doesn’t makes mistakes and he intended the gay to be gay and the trans to be trans. Even the bishop concedes Father Riley’s view of the totality of the power of God can not be challenged, though there’s little else they agree on. If he ever gets into trouble with the church there’s a sizeable local interest group more than willing to finance him and provide him with a church and a house. They are negotiating the purchase of the Presbyterian Saint James Church site at the moment. They’re buying the church, the hall, the land and the manse too as an investment for the community or as a just in case, if you follow me? The labour costs of the restoration will be nothing, for the congregation would go with him and many a non-Catholic and even non believer too would help do the work for the community and the good Father Riley does in it for all, no matter what they do or don’t believe.

“Father Riley’s the one who gets the kids off the drugs, and the unmarried with babies back into school to make something of themselves. He’s the one who rebuked their holier than thou besmirchers from the pulpit for un-Christian behaviour, and the parents of those turned around kids will do anything for the man. That’s why I think the bishop leaves him alone. My mother used to say ,‘What goodness there is in the world is to be found in people, not in all of them, but in people, not in a book, nor in a building.’ I’m thinking maybe the church should be looking for folk to ordain with a bit more goodness in them if it wants people back in the pews.” Patrick’s family all knew about me. His parents and their generation were philosophical and his mum told me, “You make my boy happy, Sarah, and I never believed that other body did so. I tried to like her, but I’ve never had to try with you. As for how you answer the children, tell them as much of the truth as you are comfortable with. As a daughter at least you wish to give me grandchildren. T’other refused to even consider children in the house.”

I married in white in a gown made by myself and Patrick’s mother, was given away by his father and was attended by his sisters and nieces. I lost my virginity on my wedding night, and I can only describe it as blissful. Patrick told me it was the happiest day of his life and I was more than worth waiting for. We adopted two boys Hilary aged two and Quentin aged three when I was thirty through a Catholic fostering and adoption agency that Father Riley is involved with, and being a mum is one of the most rewarding things in my life.

Patrick is a big heavily built man, over two metres tall [six foot seven] and eighteen stone [two hundred and fifty-two pounds, a hundred and fifteen kg] and he loves my entirely natural if small breasts and bottom, and I enjoy the pleasure they provide him. I have never made love with a woman, so I can’t comment as to which is better. Since Patrick is the only partner I have ever had I have no one to compare him to, and I don’t wish to be able to.

I love my husband and enjoy making love with him. It was only after meeting him that I first experienced sexual desire. I am precious to him and most of the time he is gentle with me which given his size, weight and strength I appreciate. It’s wonderful being cared for like that, but I do enjoy the odd time when he is a little hasty bordering on rough in his need for me because it’s deeply satisfying being needed like that too.

I love being a mum and being able to kiss skinned knees and other hurts better. I am proud to be a well regarded and respected family doctor at the local medical centre and parent governor at the boys’ primary school. I enjoy the choices that being able to use make up, having my nails and hair done gives me and the choice of clothing that living as a woman gives me. Patrick likes my toe nails painted gold because he thinks it’s really sexy, naturally I’m happy to oblige him from time to time, what good wife wouldn’t?

Patrick prefers to be clean shaven, but I think he’s irresistible with a beard, so like any good husband he obliges me from time to time for a few weeks. When he stops shaving towards the end of June I know he’s thinking about my birthday. I’d be less than human not to enjoy the envy of my friends concerning my figure which is still that of a teenage girl, somewhere between a size eight and a size ten, which is nearer a US Miss size four than a six.

I’ve never been sure any of those things I’ve written about in the preceding paragraphs necessarily have anything to do with being female or being trans. I am a member of a mental well being group, where like my colleagues I have never hidden my past. I was one of nine medical persons who on realising we all had struggled to be ourselves for various reasons founded the group. Anyone who wishes may attend, but perhaps three-quarters of those who do are having problems relating to LGBT+ issues.

Interestingly, in their efforts to understand their own mental processes and conditions, new group members invariably ask not, “Are you female?” Nor, “Are you trans?” But, “Do you consider yourself to be female?” And, “Do you consider yourself to be trans?” My reply is always to ask, “Why do I have to consider myself to be anything just for the convenience of others so they can label me, and having categorised me place me into a box of their making which others will then use to assume all sorts of things about me which may or may not be true? Isn’t that what stereotyping is all about?”

However, though I can truthfully answer that I find it easy to answer the first question with, “Legally, I am certainly female, because my birth certificate, marriage lines, driving licence and passport all say so,” when it comes to answering the question, “Do you consider yourself to be trans?” I have to reply that it’s a long time since I thought about it, and even longer since I worried about it. The truth for me is I don’t care what I am because I am happy, and my happiness provides happiness for the three persons in my life whom I love. How can anything else matter? Am I trans? Do I consider myself to be trans? I honestly don’t know.

Marriage lines, old term for a copy of the registry certifying a marriage had been officially sanctioned and witnessed between the two named persons and performed by the named official, usually a clergyman. At the end of the ceremony they were presented to the wife, and they were her property. They were her proof in the event of anything happening to her husband that she was a widow and her children were legitimate, elsewise she was in danger of being treated as a pariah, a slut with a collection of bastards. The term is still in use in the UK, more by women than men, and registrars still hand the copy of the registry to the wife even if the ceremony was a civil one in a registry office rather than performed by a member of the clergy, who will be licensed registrar, in a church.