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I’m not Scrooge, and I don’t get bent out of shape with other people enjoying it, but it doesn’t do anything for me, not any more. Many years ago, when my son was little, we used to do all those Christmassy things, trees and fairy lights and decorations. Presents under the tree on Christmas morning and a visit from Santa during the night. You do those things when you have a little kid.

Neither my wife nor I were religiously inclined, so we didn’t do the Midnight Masses or the Carols. Maybe we should’ve for the sake of the boy. But we did try to make it into something shared with family. I was an only child, so my seasonal experiences weren’t particularly festive. Yeah, I got prezzies and we had a tree but mainly I remember our traditional Christmas lunch and then my parents went for an afternoon nap, leaving me to read a book or whatever. Sometimes they gave me a small glass of port, maybe hoping I would sleep too. I don't think it ever worked.

My wife was one of four kids so when we married I became part of a slightly more extended family and we always tried to spend the holidays with her side. By that time mine were on the other side of the world anyway. That was OK, I liked her brothers and sisters and her parents and their children were great company for our little boy.

However, all things pass, our son grew older, my work took me to all sorts of exotic locations and we spent many Christmases away from wherever we were calling home at any particular time. There were interludes where we could catch up with family and we did try to maintain that contact with other children of his generation. Also, there were new friends made, so we didn’t live in a holiday-less desert.

One of my major overseas postings afforded us with lots of benefits, including paid education for our boy in boarding school in Australia while we were out of country, plus enough travel assistance to enable my wife to go home and visit him several times a year without breaking the bank. So we either went to him for the holidays or he came to us. In those days we could even afford to pay the fares for some of his friends to accompany him and stay with us.

A good time was had by all, but it wasn’t celebrated like a traditional European Christmas. It was just one of many equally important holidays, like Tung, the winter solstice, and Chinese New Year , the most important holiday of the year in those parts. Trees and tinsel and ornaments played very little part. The main occupation was feasting. The Chinese love their food and will happily eat what the gwailos eat for one day. I had an American friend who was married to a Chinese girl and he would cook her family a traditional Thanksgiving dinner every year and they loved it.

Perhaps all of this served to weaken my observation of Christmas, but probably the main influence was my transgenderism. I never confided in anybody that I wished I had been born a girl, not my wife and not my son, nor any other member of the family. It was my dirty little secret, hidden from everybody other than myself. I didn’t dare to reveal it for fear of losing my wife, my son, my friends, my job. It was bottled up inside me and I only indulged myself in the safety of my apartment when they had gone on holiday or to school, leaving me alone.

I had no fear of shopping in Hong Kong. The locals didn’t care as long as you were spending money, and they regarded all Europeans (gwailos) as odd anyway, so I could walk into a dress-shop and order a skirt with maybe only a raised eyebrow directed at me. Not to mention that all the well-known places like Marks And Spencers and H&M existed there. The only problem was shoes. Given the difference in sizes between the Chinese and Westerners the only way was to get them custom-made. I found one shop where nothing was said when I ordered ladies’ shoes in a larger size than anything any local girl would want. They took my order and they took my money. Nuff said.

Years go by. My son went to university and got his degree and then his first step on a career as a dentist. My wife stayed with me but became homesick and spent more time back in Brisbane. This did not mean any estrangement. I still spent time with her whenever my job allowed, or she returned for a few weeks, but I was earning the money meant for our retirement. It did mean that Christmas became less important to us, but that seemed like a very small price to pay.

The company I worked for was taken over by a German conglomerate and I guess basically we didn’t like each other. The inevitable “downsizing” and amalgamation took place and I was “invited” to take a position which I didn’t want. Australian and German business cultures clashed, so I said “Thanks, but no thanks” which was obviously what they had wanted all along, I’m sure. I went back to Australia, thinking I would retire. A rest would be nice.

It was nice and relaxing, until after five months my wife told me I made the place look untidy, so why didn’t I see if there was anything interesting for me to do that would get me out of the house. I started looking at the ads, and soon found some possibilities, went for a few interviews, but the results were not encouraging. It became very evident that I scared the people who were on the established employment ladder, heading for the directorships and top management. They didn’t want a prick who had been overseas coming in and usurping their spot on the ladder just because he had more and better experience than they had gained by staying in the one place.

There were various excuses, like I wouldn’t be able to handle the Unions, even though I had been dealing with them for years before I went overseas, or I was too old! For fucks sake, I was all of 49! Or I lived too far away and I could have the job if I moved. I would have been happy to get back on site as a Project Manager but they all said I was over-qualified.

Well, long story short, I eventually got a job as Area Manager for Northern Australia, which meant Queensland and the Northern Territory. I’m sure I only got it because I had worked for the company’s Managing Director some years earlier, and he swatted some of the mosquitos out of my way. Actually, it was more of a marketing and development position, since the company had very little real work in those regions.

I have to be honest. Marketing wasn’t my strong suit. I was an engineer, not a salesman. I tried. I put in a lot of miles and wore out a lot of hypothetical shoe-leather, visited lots of companies touting our wares, and, yes, I got us some work, but I knew in my heart of hearts that I wasn’t really paying my way.

Eighteen months later my unspoken prayers were answered. I was invited to an interview with a company based in Hong Kong who had been one of the main competitors of my previous employer. Although we had been in competition I had no problems with them. Our rivalry had been fierce but honest and I had friends there. Coincidentally my father-figure where I was working had moved on, so I didn’t feel that I had any conflict of interest in replying to this invitation.

Their Chairman was soon to be in Sydney so we arranged to meet there. That only meant a day’s leave for me so it wasn’t too hard to arrange. On the agreed date I flew to Sydney and we sat and talked in the bar of one of the leading hotels, very informally. We knew each other quite well so there was no need for introductions and we were soon down to the nitty-gritty of what they wanted and whether I was the right person for the position.

It was right up my alley. I knew what they did and I knew I could do it. My only problem was to not appear desperate to take it. It was to be their Managing Director. They were a second-ranked construction company in Hong Kong and Macao and just needed that little push to get them to be a leader in the field. Without wanting to appear arrogant, my previous experience and my contacts could provide that push. The job was made for me. We agreed that I would have to be interviewed by the head-hunters who they had engaged, which would be in Hong Kong and then we would talk salary and conditions. If all of that went OK the job was mine.

I went home and talked with my wife and she agreed to go back with me as long as she could return to Brisbane whenever she wanted. I had no problem with that, I knew the pull that family had on her, and my son was very close to getting engaged and hopefully married, so that was her territory.

I, of course, had my own agenda. With her taking frequent trips back home I would be able to indulge myself and dress more often. Being on my own would give me many opportunities to be my true self without anybody being the wiser.

Within a month it was agreed that the job was mine. There were a couple of hiccups about salary and conditions but nothing major. They were somewhat meaner than my former employer but in many ways I was doing this for job satisfaction rather than pure avarice, not that they needed to know that.

My wife came back with me and the next five years went by with no personal problems. All jobs have their difficulties but nothing I couldn’t handle. Our son got married, my wife was totally involved with the arrangements and we both attended the ceremony. We shouted them a two-week honeymoon in Hong Kong and Macao. Everything in the garden was lovely. Then the wheels fell off.

On one of her trips back to Australia my wife went for a check-up and was diagnosed with breast cancer. At first I was told it was all early days so it wasn’t really a problem. I just carried on working, bringing in the money.

A few weeks later I was told it was serious and I should get back home soonest. It was Chinese New Year and there was no way that I could get a flight for a week. Only two airlines operated between Australia and Hong Kong, Qantas and Cathay Pacific. Everything was booked out. It was ten days later that I managed to get a seat, Business Class, and even then I had to travel to Sydney and back-track to Brisbane.

I arrived in time to meet my wife booking out of hospital, having already been operated on. Needless to say, I wasn’t particularly flavour of the month, even though it hadn’t been my fault. That didn’t cut any ice. I wasn’t there when I was needed. I stayed for a month, although I really should have been at work. When she was clear I went back. My daughter-in-law assured me she would look after her.

That was one of those unfortunate incidents that went badly both ways. My absence from work was not appreciated and my absence from my wife in her time of need was also not appreciated.

The coincidence of the two events led to some unfortunate consequences. Unbeknownst to me, which I later found out about and was thoroughly pissed off about, our major share-holder had been negotiating with a Spanish company about selling their holdings. This was something that I should have been made aware of, but they used my absence as an excuse for not telling me. While I had no personal financial interest in the company I did have a fiduciary responsibility. I could have made some trouble with the stock exchange, but coming with my wife’s problems I was distracted, and it was something I really didn’t want to do anyway.

Also, it made me think about where my future really lay. Loyalty is supposed to go in both directions, upwards and downwards. Clearly, in this case it went only one way, so when I heard of what was going on, I resigned immediately. They didn’t expect that and I was asked to stay on and manage the transition. I told them where they could stick that. The press release said I was resigning for “family reasons” which was half true I suppose.

So I returned to Brisbane and again became a gentleman of leisure, although there isn’t much leisure involved in looking after a sick wife. Things didn’t get any better on that front. The cancers spread to her liver, her eyes, her adrenal glands, and god-knows where else, none of it good. She had multiple chemotherapy sessions and then radiation therapy, which did prolong her life but left her a shadow of her former self. In the end her oncologist told her that another round of chemo would probably only extend her life by maybe two months.

She basically said “bugger that”, she would rather go on a cruise and feel OK rather than waking up feeling sick every day, so that’s what we did. We went on a cruise to New Zealand, Tahiti, Moorea, Bora Bora and Hawaii and she enjoyed it, although I must admit by the time it ended I was wondering if we would get her home. Well, we did get her home and she died six weeks later. She was only in real pain in the last twenty-four hours.

I hope cancer is not what finishes me.

However, life goes on and a couple of years later I was wandering the aisles of a local mall looking for inspiration for Christmas gifts about a week before the big day. I had just about given up on that and was heading back to my car when I came across this girl sitting in a corner on one of their seats looking forlorn and sobbing her heart out. Her only possession seemed to be a sports bag at her knees. She was wearing sandals, short shorts and a sloppy T-shirt.

Now, normally I wouldn’t have interfered or intervened in the plight of a teenage girl sitting in a mall, but there was something that told me that this was not normal. I sat down close to her but with some distance between us so that I would not appear threatening. She could easily have taken me as some kind of predator.

“You OK, love?” I asked and passed her a tissue. I always carry some. She took the Kleenex without looking at me and blew her nose.

She turned to me, red nosed and red eyed. “What’s it to you?”

“I just saw you crying and wondered if I could help.”

“Nobody can help me.” Big sniffle.

“Well, I won’t know if I can or can’t if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

I was thinking, “Careful, you don’t know what you’re getting into here.” but I ploughed on, digging myself deeper into whatever her problems were.

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been chucked out of my home and I don’t have anywhere to go.”

I was struggling to understand. How could anyone throw a youngster out of her home unless she had done something dreadful.

“What did you do?” I asked her.

“Nothing. It’s just who I am.”

“Well, you must have done something,” I persisted.

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

“Try me.”

“I’m Trans.”

I didn’t need to ask any more questions. I knew THAT problem.

“Is that all? OK, look if you want a bed for the night you can come home with me, and we’ll sort out something tomorrow when you’re feeling better. You don’t have to trust me. Here’s my phone and you can ring anybody you like, even the cops. We’re here in public so you can run anytime you want to. You’ll be faster than me.”

I was torn. I wanted to help someone with the same problem I had, even though I didn’t know her from….Eve, but I didn’t want to get saddled with a fugitive waif either. All right, sometimes you have to do the right thing.

She looked at me a little less suspiciously. “You sure?”

“Let’s give it a try, eh? We go down to the carpark in the lift. You can stand at one end and it’s only two floors. You stand at the door end, so if you get scared you can run. I’ll stand at the back. When we get to the carpark you stand aside and I go to the car and you follow. I open a back door and get in the front to drive. If you trust me you get in the back. I can’t do anything funny.”

“OK, sounds all right. Where are you taking me?”

“My home, of course. It’s in South Brisbane. If you want to run there’s no way I can stop you. When we get there I’ll take you up to my apartment, let you in and then come back down and park the car. If you decide you don’t like it all you have to do is call the lift, press one and go. Otherwise wait for me to come back. I’ll be about two minutes.”

We completed the trip in about ten minutes. I stopped the car in the small carpark on my side of the block, fifteen metres from the front door. I took her to the entrance and then to the lift. I called it from wherever it was and shepherded her inside.

“The door to No.62 should be open, just go in. Now, if you want to bolt, you call the lift and press one and press that green button by the front door to get out, but please leave my mobile inside, all right? I’ll be back up in a couple of minutes.”

She was still there when I got back and looking calmer, no longer weeping, parked on the sofa.

“Well, did you have a sticky-beak while I was downstairs?”

She actually smiled and nodded. It wouldn’t have taken her long to do that. I have two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a laundry, a living room, kitchen and a balcony with a table and four chairs.

“Can I really stay? Just for a little while?”

“Yes, I wouldn’t throw you out. You can tell me when you’re ready to leave. What’s your name? You can call me Mac.”

“Ali.”

“Short for Alison?” I knew it probably wasn’t but it was important to let her give me whatever information she wanted to.

“No, Alistair.”

“Well, if you’re happy with Ali, then Ali it is. If you want to be called something different, just let me know. What do you want to do now?”

She got a pleading look on her face, as young girls do when they really want something. “Please can I have a shower? I feel so grubby.”

“Yeah, of course. Hang on and I’ll get you some towels and some soap. Use the second bathroom and the second bedroom to change. I’ll get you a dressing-gown too. What’ve you got to wear?”

“I’ve some undies in my bag, but only these shorts and this top.”

I went and got the towels, a dressing gown and soap. She looked at me sideways when I handed them to her. The soap was Dove, and I used it when I was able to dress properly. The dressing gown was obviously feminine. I also handed her some shampoo and conditioner, which were scented Palmolive. She obviously wanted to ask me about those, but I wanted time to think about it.

“OK. Shower first, talk after.”

She disappeared into the bedroom and then into the bathroom, while I went back onto the balcony and wondered what the hell I was doing. She was obviously curious as to why I had feminine toiletries. The dressing gown was a dead give-away too. Of course I could lie and say they had belonged to my wife, but inevitably that would lead to further questions and soap, shampoo and conditioner don’t last for over two years. The robe I could explain away as being hers and unused since she died.

But all of a sudden, I was sick of subterfuge. The girl was a temporary complication. She would be gone soon enough, and maybe she would need a helping hand down the track. I would tell her the truth and it would give her the confidence that there was someone who genuinely had a reason to care.

It was over half an hour before she re-appeared, hair washed and combed, wearing the robe. There was no doubt in my mind that she was a girl.

Together we went out onto my balcony and sat facing each other. I waited for her to start. I knew she would be curious.

“Why have you got scented soap and shampoo and conditioner? And this dressing-gown is a woman’s.”

“Yep, I’ll let you into a secret. I’m like you.”

“But you’re sixty.”

“Not far off but in the wrong direction. All that means is that I know how you feel, because I’ve been feeling that way for nearly fifty years. It’s something you can’t change.”

“But you look normal.”

“You learn how to hide things. I’ve had lots of practice. Just hang on. I’ll show you something.”

I went to my desk and got my laptop, opened it to my photos and handed it to her. “Check that out.”

I let her page through my pics; there were about fifty that I had kept from my make-over sessions. The ones I didn’t like I had already deleted. I may have been kidding myself but I thought I looked all right, no longer a young beauty of course, but definitely female. They do say that cross-dressing takes ten years off your age and I reckon at least that.

She finished scrolling through my memories and looked at me with tears in her eyes. “But, why? Why don’t you live as a woman? What do you call yourself?”

“When I’m dressed I call myself Joanne. Life is complicated, and it was even more so fifty years ago. Then I suppressed my female self, got married, had a son, had a wife, had a job. I just had to live what most people call a normal life otherwise my family and my friends would have suffered. You are just starting and times are different. It’s still not easy but if you want to you can be who you want to be.”

“Why would you help me?”

“Because I know how hard it is. You’ve been rejected by your family and maybe because it’s time I gave something back. I can get you the help you need, if you want it. You can stay with me until you want to leave. We’ll go shopping tomorrow and get you some decent clothes and whatever else you need. Or you can do it all by yourself.”

She considered for a minute or so. “I’d like to stay, if it’s OK. But how can I repay you?”

“We’ll worry about that later, shall we? Let’s just say your company is sufficient payment for now. Are you hungry?”

“God! Am I? I haven’t eaten since yesterday. What’ve you got?”

“I was thinking pizza, OK?”

Her stomach rumbled, as if on cue, “ Definitely.”

So I rang Dominos, ordered a large Hawaiian and half an hour later we shared it. She had orange juice to wash it down and I had a very much needed glass of Chardonnay. Confessions take it out of you.

When we finished we made up the bed in the spare bedroom, I gave her a new toothbrush and some toothpaste I always kept just in case and told her she could go to bed anytime and I’d see her in the morning. She surprised me by giving me a big hug and “Thank you so much.” In my ear.

So I did my usual computer things, showered, went to bed and surprised myself by having a good night’s sleep.

In the morning I had my pills, orange juice, coffee and biscuits. She joined me in the OJ, had a cup of tea and a couple of boiled eggs and a slice of toast. She had put back on her shorts and top, so I said we should go and get her some clothes. She couldn’t wear the same old things all the time.

Off we went to the shopping mall, the same one in which I had picked her up yesterday, and my first stop was an ATM. I got out five hundred and gave her three.

I pointed her at Target. “Is that enough?” I asked.

"I'll meet you back here in an hour,OK?"

If she was going to do a runner and prove to me that I was an idiot this was her chance.

Meanwhile I went to Coles and stacked up on groceries. It was a nice change in a way, shopping for two instead of one. The supermarkets don’t really cater for singles, plus I bought things like cereal, milk and more veggies that I would normally not have done. She was making me eat healthier!

After an hour I went back to our appointed meeting place near the bank with the ATM and she was there waiting for me with half a dozen bags.

“All OK?”

“Thanks, Yes. Here’s the change,” and she tried to hand me thirty or forty dollars and some silver.

“Forget it. You might need it for McDonalds or something.”

I was actually impressed that she hadn’t spent everything I gave her and she offered the unspent money back.

So we went back home and she couldn’t wait to show me what she had bought. It made me jealous, what wouldn’t I have loved to have all those nice clothes? Target may be cheap but they still have some good stuff. The problem was, I’m not a teenager anymore. Very far from it.

She looked lovely in her new clothes and she was just so delighted in having them. I patted myself on the back, money well spent.

So, Christmas was fast approaching and I had been invited to lunch on the day with my son and his family. What to do with Ali?

“Listen, are you happy to stay with me over Christmas? I’ve got an invite to lunch with my family on the day and I’m sure they won’t mind if I ask you to join us. Up to you.”

“I’d love to stay, if it’s no trouble for you. Do you think they’ll be OK with an extra guest, though?”

“Only one way to find out, but I’m sure they’ll be all right.”

So I rang my daughter-in-law and told her I had an unexpected guest and could I bring her to Christmas lunch.

She was naturally curious about an unexpected guest but I told her I had found someone who needed a bit of help over the holiday and all would become clear on the day. I didn’t want to leave her sitting alone at home while we all enjoyed ourselves.

Kylie is a kind soul and she is a great cook so she said yes, of course. That was settled and I told Ali she was coming to Christmas lunch with us. It took me five minutes to stop her crying.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“It’s all right, love. It’s time I did something to help, should have done it long ago.”

“But I haven’t got anything to give them.”

“We’ll get some chocolates, that’ll be enough.”

Everybody loves chocolates, don’t they? If not they can always regift them. So we got four boxes and gift-wrapped them. It’s such a female thing, isn’t it? Gift-wrapping.

By Christmas day I was really used to her. She was no trouble and I liked her presence in my home. Damn, how was I going to get rid of her? Would I get rid of her?

Time came to go over to my family’s house. No problem for me, but she was so worried about whether she looked all right. She did look all right, she looked very pretty and was just another teenage girl. She’d be fine. I had to give her a hug to convince her. Kids!

So we arrived at Chez Family, only a ten-minute Uber away, me with my prezzies and she with hers and went through introductions, which all seemed to go off OK and soon we were sitting around with drinks and nibblies.

My son, Anthony, wife Kylie, grand-daughter Dixie, grandson Max, Ali and me. I should have known there would be an interrogation.

Kylie started by asking, “So how did you meet Mac?”

Ali looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh, you mean Joanne.”

With all the innocence of youth she had just thrown me under the bus. Four pairs of eyes turned on me; four mouths goldfished. Nobody actually screamed.

Kylie was the first to recover and did an admirable impersonation of Pauline Hanson. “Please explain*.” That was to me.

“Oh, shit!”

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* Pauline Hanson is one of our prominent fascist senators. An interviewer asked her if she was xenophobic, to which she replied "Please explain."