It wasn't a huge surprise but Harriet was still in shock as she reread the dismissal email in her hand.
 

Dear Ms Deane
 
As know, Granchester Radio has been bought by the Lovin' Radio Group and
our shows are being amalgamated with our sister stations in the North West.
 
We have secured a continuation for our Breakfast show and many of our other
presenters will be transferred to the regional base. There is, however, no
scope for a vinyl show in the new Digital Lovin' brand.
 
Your last show is this Saturday evening, I would ask that you clear your
personal effects from the station by the end of the weekend.
 
I personally appreciate your input into the station over the past six years
and I wish you well for the future.
 
Yours,
 
Richard Teter
Interim Programme Director

Harriet had been hired nearly ten years earlier by the enigmatic programme director Charlie Walters but had taken a career break after three years before returning to the station. Charlie had been great but he'd also been the first one out of the door when Lovin' Radio Group had signed the deal. Unfortunately, Charlie had also been Harriet's producer so her show was going to axed, regardless.

The former chairman on Granchester Radio was now an even wealthier man, although no-one could remember the last time he'd set foot in the building.

All the of the UK's independent radio groups were currently involved in mergers and buyouts, centralising programming and automating much of the output. Regional, rather than local, breakfast shows had largely survived but almost all other programming was now being delivered nationally by presenters with a script, a computer generated playlist and no personality.

All that meant was that presenters such as Harriet Deane, the Queen of Vinyl, was surplus to their requirements. This was a great shame because she really knew how to engage an audience, and could turn a niche weekend show into an essential pre-clubbing experience.

What were they going to replace her with? Harriet had done her research and her slot, at seven on a Saturday evening, would now be a review of the week's news. She'd listened to another of the group's stations the previous week, whilst playing a very long King Crimson track, and it was a very slanted review of the week, highly politicised.

Originally her little station had resisted the take-over, even if the Chairman had sold out immediately. A few words in the right ear and the regulators, Ofcom, had decided that this was one station too many for the Lovin' group. It took three months to approve the buyout after political pressure was used and now the end was nigh.

What was strange was that the hourly news bulletins hadn't broadcast any mention of the station's own news, that had been blocked by Richard Teter and his team. The station was to carry on as normal until Monday's breakfast show and then the new branding would start. Apparently this was to minimise the impact on the listeners, or rather to try to stop them changing channel in their droves.

Harriet put out a tweet with the news, although she wasn't sure how many would still be listening come Saturday.
 

 
A phone call from Charlie Walters came in almost immediately.

"Have you changed your twitter password?"

"No, Charlie, why?"

"Remember I had it so I could put stuff out during your show?"

"Yes."

"Well, all the producers had access to those accounts, in case we deputised on someone's show."

"Oh, and the new lot have access to the passwords?"

"Yes."

She hurriedly changed her password.

"Done, oh I have another call."

"Okay, take care."

She answered the incoming call.

"Ms Deane?"

Harriet hit the record button. "Yes, who is this?"

"I'm calling from legal services at Lovin' Group. My name is Gina,"

"And what can I do for you?"

"You are to delete that tweet you put out."

"No, and why should I?"

"Firstly, you were given clear instructions not to refer to the station transfer."

"I had nothing in writing from you and, in any case, it's my last show. That doesn't infer anything about the station."

"In our opinion it does."

"Well, I couldn't give a toss."

"Well it puts you in breach of contract."

"It does? I'm a freelancer, not an employee, and I haven't signed a new contract."

"We're terminating your contract."

"It's with Granchester Radio and as far as I know, that company ceases to exist at midnight on Sunday night. That means my contract is secure."

"You won't be doing your show."

"I'll still have to be paid for it, or I'll see you in court."

"If you do that, we'll make sure you never work in media again."

"Oh, you want to threaten me? My solicitor will be in touch, goodbye."

She hung up and shut off the recording. Right now she still needed to prepare her show, despite what had just been said on the phone.

As she put her phone down she could see notifications, already there were twenty replies so her tweet. Some had suggestions, and a theme was developing, whereas others just wanted to know why the show was over. Harriet put another message out, to try and answer the questions.
 

 
That didn't help and the commenters were now questioning how they'd been kept in the dark? How could their favourite DJ just be dropped? What was going to happen to the station? Harriet couldn't answer all of these and had a feeling she'd be subsumed by the replies and private messages all day. She made a decision and put a final, for now, tweet out to the masses.
 

 
Her house phone started to ring, as did her mobile, she ignored all and closed the door as she walked into her home studio, it took just a few throws of switches to fire up the equipment. Within a minute her theme tune was being streamed through her website. She reached for the pile of vinyl that she'd already picked for Saturday's show and put it on one of her turntables.

"Well, good morning everyone. I wasn't expecting to be on the air today, but, hey, let's just go with the flow. This is going to be hit and miss, but, whatever, let's do it. First up, "Picture This" by Blondie off the original 45."

She quickly cued "Germfree Adolescents" by X-Ray Spex. Picking up on a theme she rapidly went looking for female punk acts in her collection. After playing Suzi Quatro's "Tear Me Apart" she opened the mic.

"Well that took me back! I remember watching all those girls on Top Of The Pops wishing I was up on that stage! As you'll have heard we had a wander through the girls of punk then I opened it up to the rock acts of the late seventies. Sticking to an all girl playlist for now, up next is Donna Summer with Love's Unkind."

After an hour she put a few longer album tracks on so she could read the messages. In her emails was a threat of a writ, she ignored it. She also had messages from local journalists asking for information and pleas from her audience not to leave the station. Her laptop wouldn't now connect to the station's email server and she doubted any of her accounts for the station still worked. She waited for Stevie Nicks to finish.

"I'm sorry I can't reply to all of you, and I don't think I can do more than another hour as I need to go shopping! Anyway, here's the background - Granchester Radio has been sold to one of the big boys in media, the Lovin' Group. Just about everyone you know at Granchester is leaving, or being kicked out, and my guess is that the studios will be closed straight after the weekend. I'll still do my show on Saturday but it'll be here, streamed from my website, and not on FM. Keep an eye on my personal social media for updates! Anyway, back to the music ....."

The female monopoly was over, for now, as Echoes by Pink Floyd began gently. She had spent a small fortunate building this studio but, it had made her transition easier to handle as she hadn't needed to go to the radio station to do her shows, just as well considering she really couldn't transport all the vinyl for a three hour show, let alone handle random requests.

She thought back to those music shows, when she'd seen the girls playing guitars and not just the token singer, and she so desperately had wanted to be there. When she'd said this out loud one Thursday evening, her father had hit her.

"Harry, forget those stupid ideas."

He hadn't, but this was the late 70s and his aspirations were going nowhere, not that he could even quantify them. Harry had been relentlessly bullied at primary school but was bright so escaped to an all boys secondary school where academic prowess was more important than physical attributes or ego.

Somehow Harry had come out of schooling intact but had no wish to remain living at home so had moved away to Granchester for a place at the art college, studying music and this gave him some artistic freedoms Since graduating he'd worked at local recording studios for several years before being asked to take a mobile studio on a UK tour with one of the ageing rock dinosaur bands. That had led to at least one long tour every year, with world tours taking nine months of his life. Eventually the toll meant he wanted an easier existence and settled back at home, doing one-off jobs in his home studio for select artists and being paid appropriately.

Back at home he could also become Harriet more frequently, visitors weren't welcome and, as far as the neighbours were concerned, Harry could have been away again. A comment had been made to one neighbour, several years earlier, that his sister occasionally looked after the property when he was away. That neighbour had been known to natter across the fence with the others in the small close and the message was passed around in a few days, if Harriet was seen in the garden.

But at times those one-off jobs could be a month apart and boredom can lead one astray so Harry volunteered with hospital radio at the nearby General Hospital. He had started with a Sunday evening show and was in the small studio alone for three hours a week before switching the feed to a national station for overnight.

Echoes was just ending so she segued into Dire Straits with Telegraph Road.

Harry never saw anyone, anyone at all, between arriving at six thirty and leaving just after ten, so after a few months would leave home as Harriet, saving time changing. The six to seven show was prerecrded so no-one was in the studio when Harriet arrived each week.

It was near Christmas when the chairwoman of the hospital radio association, Corrine, arrived one Sunday evening, once the show was under way.

"Hello dear, how are you?"

"Ummmmm, I can explain."

"Why should you? You are doing a wonderful job here, the patients and the staff like the music you play and the tales that you tell. What do you call yourself?"

"Harriet."

"Well, Harriet, I was coming here to drop your Christmas card off but also to make a request, although it's up to you if you want to do it."

"What is it?"

"I'd like you to visit the wards, especially the long stay wards, and let them meet you. Perhaps you could take messages, dedications and some music requests?"

"In a dress?"

"If that's what you want to wear, why not?"

"I'm not sure, Corinne?"

"It is up to you, of course, but the weekday evening presenters manage it once or twice a week. Your show has a great music choice, where do you find it?"

"I have a room full of vinyl at home, I bring a selection in each week. I could play more vinyl if I did the show from home."

"But we don't have the ability to take remote shows and, then you wouldn't see the messages that are left for you, or answer the phone."

The following week, Christmas Eve, Harriet found a new staff ID card waiting for her.
 

 
It was early in the new year when Harriet made her first visit to the wards. She arrived half an hour earlier for her show and made a point of visiting one ward or unit each week, starting with the paediatric unit. By the third week she was spending an hour visiting the wards and barely making it into the tiny studio for seven pm.

It was on one of those ward visits when she'd come across Charlie Walters, he was in for his appendix and asked for an obscure track by Gordon Giltrap, "Heartsong if you have it?"

"I know it's not in the record library here."

"Oh well?"

"But I do have it at home."

"You collect music?"

"No, I collect vinyl."

"Can I come round sometime?"

"Sorry, I'm not interested."

"My apologies, I run a radio station, Granchester Radio."

"You own it?"

"No, I run it. The owner gave away all our vinyl when we moved into the new studios last year, said it was digital only from now. Big mistake."

"I think I bought a fair bit of that vinyl."

"So, can I come round? I might have a proposal for you."

"Wednesday morning? I'm at 22 Long Hall Close."

"I'm not out of here until Wednesday morning, how about Friday evening?"

"Sure."

She had a thirty minute mix made for circumstances like this so dashed home and found the Gordon Giltrap track, she played it at the top of her second hour.

Charlie's visit had led to the proposal to do a weekly vinyl show, and for that Harriet could present it from home.

She'd been living as Harriet full time for six months when eventually she found the confidence to speak to her GP. That led to a referral to the local TG gatekeeper - a consultant psychologist in Harriet's case. Of course, someone should have declared a conflict of interest when Harriet walked into Corrine's room at Granchester Hospital.

"That's a lovely frock, Harriet, where did you get it?"

"A tiny boutique called Chocodolly, do you know it?"

"Oh yes, how about we meet for coffee tomorrow?"

"Of course."

A few years later, she went under the knife and took a break from the radio station. She was back a few months later and hadn't missed a show since then, until now.

She closed down her broadcast and went shopping, finding an officious hand delivered letter on the door mat when she returned. She scanned it and emailed to her solicitor with a covering letter, let him sort it out.

Charlie came round for a meal on Friday evening and they worked together getting her Saturday show together, just as they had done for the past decade. It seemed as if Charlie knew the record library, previously a bedroom, better than Harriet did herself.

Harriet always made it clear that she couldn't do the Granchester FM show on her own, it was too much for one person and, so Charlie always had a name check during the show. Unfortunately, under the previous arrangements, whilst she'd been at home he had been in the studio handling the adverts and acting as engineer.

This week, for the first time, Charlie would engineer the show from Harriet's home studio. As it was set up for solo operation that had meant making a few alterations. They tested the new setup by doing an hour of Charlie's choices, which turned out to be a whole load of 1970s prog.

With a second microphone, it was also one of those very rare occasions when Charlie's voice was heard.

Satisfied the studio worked, they shut it down for the night.

Her Saturday show had a good listener base but this weekend, the local newspaper website had a link to her website, and had a scathing article directed at the radio stations new owners, and the former chairman.

Harriet's website log showed that hits were up five fold on the week and she wondered if she had enough capacity for all the listeners, on a whim she paid for five thousand listener slots from her streaming service, instead of the usual two hundred.

More journalists had tried to get hold of her, including the trade press, but Harriet went "no comment" on all of them, she wasn't interested in playing politics as only the music mattered.

BY five on Saturday evening the studio was ready, although the last hour was all requests so that was often a last minute affair. Harriet had her own jingles that didn't mention the radio station so she intended to make good use of them, a few friends in the music industry had recording snippets for her and she'd mixed these into unique idents.

With ten minutes to go there was a loud noise from the front door, even with the sound proofing that would still have been heard so she went to the door.

"Ms Deane, I'm serving you with a cease and desist order. You are not to call your show 'Harriet The Vinyl Queen', that is now a trademark of the Loving' Group."

"Strange that, seeing as my solicitor lodged my own trademark application ten years ago? I think you'll find that I allowed Granchester Radio to use it in order to promote my show? How, run along, I have a show to do."

She firmly shut the door and hadn't taken the proffered legal document, although that came through the letterbox. She'd have to send the CCTV video to her solicitor when she had a few spare minutes.

"Harriet!"

"Coming!"

The show started a few minutes later, she'd exceeded five thousand listeners in the first twenty minutes so rapidly showed Charlie how to increase it, choosing the unlimited option, if only she had a way to claw back the extra expense.

Charlie played a jingle, followed by an advert for the local curry house.

"What?"

"Play the next record, I'll explain."

Charlie explained, the curry house, Bombay Garden, had only advertised on her show. They hadn't been told that her show was being cancelled but had received an invoice doubling their advertising costs. The managers at the Indian restaurant had called Charlie and he'd agreed to hold the price if they wanted to advertise with the online show. That income would, indeed, cover the cost of the streaming.

By eight o'clock they had organised the request hour. The last half an hour would also be uninterrupted. Charlie updated Harriet's website, and gave his email address as advertising contact.

As the show ended, Charlie checked his emails, there was one from the local BBC Radio editor.

"He wants to speak to you, now."

"I need a drink!"

"Well, get one while I call him."

Charlie dialled the number for Stuart Mackenzie, based at the BBC's Salford centre.

"Thanks for getting back to me Charlie, is Harriet there?"

She'd just made it back into the studio. "Here now."

"Good. I loved the show, by the way."

"Thanks."

"Now, we don't have a vinyl show on BBC Radio NW, and I would like to start one. I understand you're available?"

"When?"

"Friday nights."

"Live or prerecord?"

"Live if possible, and you can run it from home if you like."

"I still want to do my Saturday night show, and my hospital radio slot on a Sunday."

"Not a problem."

"Charlie is my producer, that's non-negotiable."

"We'll work around that, but I can't see it as a problem."

"Can you put it in writing?"

"Sure, we're looking to start the show with the new schedule in four weeks time. Welcome to the BBC."

So maybe being sacked by the station wasn't such a bad loss?

By Shiraz     Originally published in 2011

 
“Martin, you of all people should know our equality policy here, of course the changes are ready to go, just logout and enjoy the weekend.”

“It’s Martha now Colin.”

“Sorry Martha, force of habit. So Monday's the day then?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to put a notice out to all the staff?”

“No, obviously Human Resources and the senior management all know, I’ll just take it as it goes with the rest of the staff, most of them don’t know Martin anyway, he was just a voice on the phone. Julie remains my PA and will handle external calls”

“Understood. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Bye, Colin.”

Martin Wilson walked back to his desk in the open plan HR office and locked the personnel files away. He’d worked here for four years and had the respect of his team. They had known about Martha much longer than her managers had known; they'd treated Martin as one of the girls although technically he was the token male.

Her management had known of her intentions for several weeks but this was the last day Martin would go to work and he had to make sure Colin, IT manager, had remembered to change the logins ready for Monday. Of course there had been questions but the new non-discriminatory policy, recently renamed the equality policy, had given them no choice other than to be supportive.

Martha, however, had secured her last promotion because of that revised policy, it had been her project of nearly two years earlier when she was in HR herself, as Martin Wilson.

Despite all this she had been scared today, and almost put it off, again. Martha knew however that it had to be this Friday afternoon when Martin left the building for the last time.

She walked to reception taking Martin’s briefcase with her, the usual security guard was there.

“Bye Mr Wilson, see you Monday.”

“Bye Frank.”

Martha had landed her dream job five years earlier. She was now head of HR at a company supplying services to the main contractors on the 2012 Olympics site to the East of London. She’d left a job in central London when the first major contracts were announced, her small house north of London had been comfortable but was too far by tube from the new job.

When her sister Tina announced she had landed a job at a major new development near London Bridge, they opted to buy an apartment in London’s fashionable Docklands. They finally bought a two bed place with (just) a view over the River Thames. It very close to No. 1 Canada Square, which was then London’s tallest building. That title would soon be taken by The Shard, the Qatari owned building site that happened to be Tina’s new project. The apartment hadn't been cheap but was already worth 50% more than the purchase price.

Over the previous few years Martha's previous house had also become worth many times the purchase price. Although Tina had been renting, she now had a better salary and could justify buying. By pooling their resources they could look for a better apartment in Docklands than either could afford independently. This arrangement suited them both. They’d moved into Docklands just two months after starting their new jobs,

Tina had already known that Martha existed, she probably knew even before her elder brother knew himself. However, she’d said nothing before Martin had left for University, two years before Tina herself left their parents' home.

Only when Tina had moved in with Martin did she realise that Martha was still much more than a minor part of Martin’s existence. Of course, it took a few weeks before Tina confronted Martin and the whole story came out.

Martin had, by then, become Martha on a part-time basis, although only at weekends and at first only in the apartment. Tina helped Martha but was trying hard not to encourage her, this had to be Martha’s rite of passage. When Martha finally worked up the courage to see her doctor it was not the support sge expected. Martha was brushed aside as an attention seeker and it was Tina who had to pick up the pieces.

Martha withdrew herself but that left an insecure Martin, he used his job as an anchor to stop himself going adrift and concentrated on writing the new anti-discrimination policy when it was clear that the existing one was out of date.

By the time this project had been cleared by the directors Tina had found a different GP. The referral had been almost painless this time but there was still a four month agonising wait for the first appointment with the shrink., private not NHS as the health scheme covered counselling – another recent change suggested by the HR department.

Martha was now buoyant and her love for life was back. Her employers thought this was because they’d won more contracts and the whole company was doing well, the staff bonus scheme certainly helped improve morale.

Martha knew different, but just kept a smile on her face most of the time. When she was given the promotion, none of the girls in the team were jealous, it was deserved, they’d said. Martha got on well with them, and joined them for evenings out, she thought it was because they wanted to involve Martin, but afterwards wondered if they knew about Martha.

It took a year of appointments with the shrink before HRT was authorised, Martha found herself being a pin cushion owing the number of times blood was taken by her GP, both before and after she started the pills.

It was another six months before any changes were really noticeable. Tina saw them first, but soon Martha was having to put the elastic bandage around her growing bust. Even so, spending eight hours a day in close proximity to your female work colleagues meant that discrete questions were finally asked. Eventually they did meet Martha outside the office.

Today was the first anniversary of starting the HRT, Tina had decided that Martha had to declare herself at work and start her Real Life Test, something the shrink had been suggesting for several months. The notice to managers had been delivered 6 weeks earlier, leading up to this anniversary.

Martha walked to Stratford station and took the Docklands Light Railway to Canada Square, her apartment was a only short walk away. Once inside she threw the now unwated briefcase into a corner, and dropped onto the couch.

She started to cry, she couldn’t stop and wasn’t sure she wanted to, as tonight Martin would die, in a sense.

That’s where her sister, Tina, found Martha when she arrived home an hour later. Martha had fallen asleep but her eyes showed Martha had been crying.

Tina went straight to the kitchen, dropped her bag on the kitchen table and boiled water for a pot of tea,. Martha's latest bag, a purchase from the previous day was sat on the same table, ready to be filled for office use on Monday., She kicked off her shoes at the same time before walking back to the kitchen to pour the tea. Tea is the English cure-all at times like this.

“Martha, wake up.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Martha?” Tina shook her sister until she stirred. Martha slowly sat up, her clothes were crumpled but they were outwardly Martin’s clothes so did that matter? She took the offered cup of tea and sipped it carefully.

“Martha, what is it?”

“I don’t know, I mean I do but I don’t want to.”

“You’re not making much sense. Look, did you tell Colin today?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Nothing. It was fine.”

“So that’s not the problem. I guess whatever it is started when you got in.”

“Yes.” Martha took a tissue from a box on the coffee table and dabbed her eyes. She’d not worn make-up today, in case of this, but even so was careful not to ruin her non-existent mascara.

She picked up the cup again and sipped some more tea, it was still the best pick-me-up. Tina moved over onto the sofa and held her hand.

“Look, Martha, why don’t you take a long shower and freshen up. We’re out tonight, or did you forget?”

Martha wanted to argue but kept it to herself. Standing, she crossed to her bedroom where she slowly took off Martin’s clothes, deliberately hanging the suit up. She next took off Martins's shirt and the very plain camisole before she unbound the bandage restraining her developing breasts. The almost invisible scrunchie in her hair was removed and her hair hung loose, she gave it a shake then picked up a fresh towel and walked into the shower room in just a pair of knickers.

Tina found Martha sat on her bed half an hour later. Martha had put on fresh underwear, but little else. She was staring into space, lost in her own thoughts, clutching the silent hair dryer. Tina sat next to her and put her arm around her sister.

“Come on Martha. We have to be at the O2 arena in one hour. Sort out your face and I’ll find a frock for you. Don’t forget I’ve got to sort myself out too.”

Martha did not feel up to going to a concert, but they’d had the tickets for months. It was just bad timing that it had to be this weekend. She sat at the dressing table and put on her make-up. Tina had chosen a red dress for her that didn’t know the word ‘subtle’, that inevitably meant putting a coat of red on her nails, fortunately she already had two coats of clear from this morning's five minute manicure on the way to the office.

They made it to the arena with only minutes to spare. Thankfully their tickets gave them good seats that were easy to find. They were sat just as the support act started. The main act, a girl who actually wrote her own songs, came on a fashionable fifteen minutes late, meaning the show finished just before eleven.

Martha hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, and even then only had a simple sandwich and a mineral water. Her diet had helped her slim to a size fourteen, of course the hormones had also helped, even so she was hungry.

Tina was tempted to get a take-away Chinese or Indian but Martha resisted. Instead she decided to make an omelette once they arrived home.

"How long are you going to be in that bathroom?"

"A few more minutes, why?"

"It doesn't take that long, Martha. Look, get yourself out here, I've poured us a glass of wine. I need to get in there myself."

Martha re-appeared in the lounge in her nightwear, she sat on the sofa and curled her legs under herself, taking the glass of red wine in her right hand. Tina joined her in the lounge a few minutes later. It was well past midnight, but neither wanted to turn in for the night, not yet.

"What's your plan for the rest of the weekend?"

"I've got some letters to write, I have to delete Martin from the records, as if he never existed."

"I thought you'd done that already?"

"Not quite, there's a few I still need to do."

Tina wanted to ask her sister if she was certain, but they'd had that conversation several times before and the answer of late had been the same every time.

The last time they'd disagreed was at their parents' funeral. Both had died a few days apart, their mother of cancer and their father of a broken heart. Martha, as Martin, had walked from the churchyard wondering if she was desecrating her parents' memory. Tina had argued that as long as Martha was happy with herself then their parents would have accepted her. It took a few weeks more before Martha finally re-emerged.

That was nearly two years ago.

Tina looked over to Martha, who was by now barely awake. The wine glass, sat on the coffee table, was now half empty. Tina helped Martha up and sent her to bed, Tina then went to her own room.

Saturday morning should have been a lazy day but Tina didn't want Martha to dwell on any silly ideas. She had organised a full day, starting late morning with a ride into London Bridge station and a stroll around Borough Market.

Martha suggested lunch in the Royal Oak, on Borough High Street, but Tina was feeling a tad naughty and directed her sister to the Market Porter. The noise of the Kent mainline passing overhead made it difficult to hear at times, of course the volume of the market stallholders didn't help either.

Once inside the traditional pub, Tina guided Martha to the rear bar and the wooden bench seating. They passed a crowd along the main bar, a mix of suits and jeans. Tina figured that if Martha had any second thoughts about Monday she'd get them here, in a very male-centric London boozer.

"How come you know this place Tina?"

"My building is just around the corner, sort of. The guys like to get here on a Friday after work, to let off steam. You should try it, it's almost all suits and they spill out the door into the market. I sometimes pop in in the morning for breakfast as well."

"Breakfast? What time does it open?"

"Four a,m.. The breakfast is excellent, but coffee only for me, you're not allowed on site with alcohol on your breath. That's why I leave the wine alone on a Sunday, if you recall."

They looked at the menu for a minute before settling on a hot chicken salad each. Tina ordered them both a J2O at the same time, the apple & mango variety. The food arrived as they took the next pair of bottles off the bar.

The talk was mostly gossip about Tina's colleagues. There was a high turnover of staff, mostly contractors, on the project. Very few stayed for more than three months.

"Hello Tina."

"Hi Robert, what are you doing here today?"

"I live down there," he waved his arm vaguely towards Elephant & Castle, "and this is a great pub. Do I need another excuse?"

"No, of course not."

"Anyway, who's the lovely lady?"

"This is my sister, Martha."

"Hi Martha, Tina has talked about you frequently. Do you mind f I sit?" Robert put his pint glass on the table before either lady replied then lowered himself carefully onto a bench seat.

"Robert, if I said we wanted to be alone, would you take the hint?"

"There's no way I'd let either of you sit here without male company, you never know who might want to bother you."

"Indeed." Martha was beginning to like the guy but still had reservations.

"So Martha, do you have a man in tow?"

"No, Robert."

"What's your job?" Martha was being targeted, and she knew it. She just didn't know how to deal with it. Tina was smiling, starting to enjoy the scene.

"I'm the head of HR for Turners Consulting in Stratford."

"You're kidding?"

"No, why should I?"

"I've just signed for Abbots Construction."

"They're one of our customers. Oh."

Tina was becoming a little concerned, "Robert, does this mean you're leaving?"

"Yes, the revolving door caught me. I finished on Friday. Didn't you know?"

"Plainly not. So what's the deal?"

"I get the Media Centre on the Olympics site, it has to be up and running by next Spring."

"That's over a year before the games start!"

"Yes, that's why they need me, Robert Taylor - troubleshooter."

"Are you insecure, Robert?"

He laughed, despite the poor attempt at humour. "No Martha, but keep talking."

Robert reached across and gently took her hand. Tina quickly became concerned.

"Leave her alone Robert." Robert was looking into Martha's eyes, Martha into his. Neither heard the remark.

"Martha, we're leaving?"

"Hmmmmm."

"Martha!"

Even though the bar was busy, most heard Tina's voice, or the noise as she slapped the heavy wooden table to get her sister's attention.

"Sorry Martha, it looks like your sister is trying to say something."

"I need the loo, come with me, Martha."

The two girls disappeared into the ladies, returning five minutes later. Tina was plainly not happy.

Martha walked over to the waiting Robert, who stood. She gave him a kiss and accepted the business card he was holding. Tina was less than happy and tugged her sister's arm as they headed for the nearest exit.

"You amaze me," accused Tina.

"Me? Why?"

"A few of us tried to chat up Robert and failed. He meets you and he's smitten."

"I don't know what you mean?"

"And your first day fulltime, as well."

"So?"

They walked around the market, it was now gone two so they picked up some supplies before heading back to the station for the ride home.

Tina was not good company for the rest of the day, especially when the phone rang.

"Robert, how did you get this number? No, you can't. Bye."

She put the phone down as Martha came from the bathroom. "Did I hear the phone?"

"Yes, a wrong number."

Tina said that so abruptly that Martha knew she was lying, but decided to say nothing. Then she changed her mind. Martha sat on the couch and waited for Tina to do the same.

"We sort this out now. Come on, what's your problem?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't give me that crap. Out with it."

"You snared that very eligible engineer without trying."

"So, it's jealousy?"

Tina said nothing, she didn't need to.

Martha continued, "Tina, dear, I'm really grateful for your help. I wouldn't have gone anywhere near the Borough six months ago, let alone get chatted up. Martin was too scared and Martha too insecure."

"Yeah."

"It's thanks to you that I sat there without freaking out. So what's he like at work?"

"He's kind, thoughtful and a professional. I hate him."

"No you don't."

"Okay, I hate you."

"That's not true either. Come on let's have a glass of that Chablis then I'd get some dinner organised."

Monday morning came too soon, way too soon. Shortly after six Martha exited the shower and started to choose the right suit for the day, one of Martha's suits. She didn't bind her breasts this time and vowed never to again.

Just before eight Martha walked into the offices of Turner's Consulting.

"Good morning Frank."

"Good morning Miss Wilson." Martha pondered on the question of how the security guard knew who she was but dismissed the thought.

"By the way, there's a Mr Taylor waiting for you, Julie's looking after him."

"Thanks."

Martha walked up the two flights to her floor, her life was changing in too many ways.

Originally written in 2011
Edited July 2014

In Hot Water   A Cautionary Tale   © Shiraz 2015

"Mummy I don't like it in here."

"Neither do I, but it's the law."

"But I'm frightened, and they keep looking at me."

"Who?"

"Everybody, all of those men."

"But you're a boy, so why would that be a problem?"

"Because you don't belong in here. Tell me why you have to use the men's toilets, Mummy?"

"Don't you remember, we were in that shopping mall yesterday?"

"I was really uncomfortable."

"I know, the weather was awful. Anyway, I took you into the ladies to use the loo and to wet your face when the toilet attendant saw us."

"She didn't look nice mum."

"She wasn't, do you remember what she said?"

"It was about the weather?"

"Yes, she said 'man, it's hot in here'. I said 'it sure is'. That was then she called security and had me banned from all the ladies loos in the state."

She saw him across the room, he was about the same height as her, smart, on his own and seemed not to know anyone.

The party invite was odd, it had arrived by email but when she tried to reply it had bounced. She'd phoned the venue, The White Hart was a short taxi distance away, and there was no charge on the door but it was ticket only. The barman didn't know who had booked the room but it had been a long standing booking.

The party was Feb 13th, a Saturday, so she had all day to prepare. Of course, by the time she'd decided to go to the party it was already Thursday.

"Debbie, it's Sandy, I need your miracles on Saturday."

"A party?"

"Sure, can you fit me in?"

"The short answer is no."

"I don't go anywhere else, I don't trust anyone else."

"I know dear, but you should have called me last week, or even last month."

"Why?"

"What land are you living in, Sandy, it's Valentines Day."

"That's Sunday, the party's on Saturday."

"And I'm closed on Sundays. Look, I can do you at half seven on Saturday morning, that's my best offer."

"Okay, okay, I'll take it."

"Don't be too grateful! Bye."

Her manager had overheard the conversation and Sandy was certain to be chastised for wasting office time booking a hair appointment.

"Trouble?"

"You could say that, a party on Saturday that I may or may not attend, and a hair stylist who tells me when I can see her!"

"That's the way it works, honey. Where's the party?"

"The White Hart."

"I know it, that's the Valentina Surprise party."

"Yeah, how do you know?"

"I had an invite once, it seems you only get one if you're single."

"So it's a singles and no-hopers party?"

"If you carry an attitude like that it will be. Do you have a suitable frock?"

"No, not a party frock.

"We're quiet today, finish at four and do to Dress Heaven in the shopping centre, tell them where you work and you'll get ten percent off."

"How come we get a discount?"

"The store manager shags my boss."

Sandy risked a trip to the ladies to inspect her face before making her approach to the handsome man. His skin was so clean, his hair perfect.

"Hi, I'm Sandy."

"Hi Sandy, I'm Jules." His voice was pitched a little high, but had a nice note.

"Are you here with anyone?"

"No Sandy, but I thought it was a singles event?"

She giggled, badly.

"Nice frock by the way."

"Thanks, Jules, I got it for tonight, smart suit!"

"Err, yes, your glass is nearly empty, how about a refill?"

"I'm not drinking, Jules, I can't afford to lose control. It's soda water and lemon."

"Same here, but I'm driving."

"You drove to a party?"

"Until eleven this morning I wasn't even sure I would be here, by then you couldn't get a taxi anytime after six and forget about going home late in a cab. So I drove. I found the suit in M&S just before they closed."

"Why be here at all if that was the case?"

"In case I met someone, someone I felt comfortable with, someone who I could talk to."

"Wow, my first date criteria."

"And how many first dates have passed that test recently?"

"None, Jules, none, except you."

"Do you know anyone else here?"

"No."

"Look, why don't we drive back to mine. I have a bottle of white in the fridge and you could get the cab to pick you up there."

"Sure sounds a better plan."

Once they reached the car, Jules hesitated.

"I'm not a man, at least not fully yet, does that worry you?"

"No, but I'm all woman now, I had my surgery at Christmas, does that bother you?"

#FIN

Amy Roberts parked her car in the middle of the small town but just sat there, uncertain if this was the right thing. On the seat next to her was a box of election literature - flyers - and a map of the town.

 
She didn't need the map, she knew the town well, she just hadn't been there for a few years. Slowly she grabbed a handful of the flyers and stepped out of the car, expecting the worst.

Nothing happened.

The election was only a few days ago but she'd put this trip off for as long as possible, asking her small campaign team to do the work. They'd complied, but the Party HQ wasn't happy, the candidates needed to spread themselves across the constituency.

Amy considered it a bit of a farce, not even certain how she'd been selected to stand for Parliament. She'd long supported the Violet Party, joining when she was just eighteen, but never wanted to be more than an enthusiastic supporter, helping out occasionally.

The Party was minor, but not the smallest. They'd had one Member of Parliament in the previous ten years when an incumbent MP switched parties and had steadfastly refused to resign his seat. The publicity hadn't helped the Violet cause, although no-one was absolutely what that was.

They stood for world peace, but knew that was impossible, they loved the environment but weren't as green as the Greens, then they supported free education until twenty one years of age, but had no idea how to pay for it.

That last one had a mixed reaction in the press, some journalists openly laughing at the Party. Amy was used to that, they couldn't afford the economists or researchers who could turn hot air policies into hard proposals.

What had happened, however, was that they gained positive publicity amongst the students and parents of students, even though the Party didn't have a policy on taxation, Europe or space travel.

It was clear to the Party when the snap election was called that they couldn't afford to field candidates in every constituency. Given that the election had been called several years before it was due they also didn't have the infrastructure in place. It was all a last minute affair.

The original candidate in Amy's area had been a TV weatherman in an earlier life and everyone had been surprised when the police whisked him away early one morning with murmurings of alleged gross misdeeds; the seat became vacant very quickly.

The local Violet Party committee all excused themselves on various grounds, they hadn't needed a deputy candidate with a former celebrity on the team and most of the committee were only there to bask in his shadow. One by one they started to resign, not wishing to be dragged into the mire.

That left the young activists, although that was too strong a word for the tea drinking 'save the world' group of twenty year olds. Amy was the oldest and clearly the best candidate, they'd said, or they wouldn't field a candidate at all in that area. Amy protested that she was trans, the others said that was irrelevant, Amy still wasn't convinced.

She liked the alternative plan of 'do nothing', anything for an easy life? Party HQ, however, needed to recover from the scandal and readily endorsed Amy, making this news public. She'd never had media training, but found herself giving interviews within hours, totally unprepared.

Slowly she learned the skills needed, even though she was still angry, and terrified, of what had been asked. HQ did send up a media trainer, and the deputy Chairwoman spent two days with her, but they only had four weeks to prepare Amy for the biggest show of her life.

Now she was on her own in a small market town in central England. There used to be industry here but it had gone. The dirty town, from the smoke stacks, had been cleaned up and gentrified. It wasn't the socialist heartland it used to be and was now part of that mythical 'Middle England', perhaps twinned with 'Middle Earth'?

She'd been born here, had gone to primary school, and had left when she was eleven. She'd been bullied, teased, and hurt all through her early school life. Amy had still been Anthony Roberts then, a confused boy. He had been the target but they had hurt Amy.

The town's industry had been going through it's death thralls back then, fifteen years ago, and Amy hadn't been back here since.

She started her walk, firstly going to the old cottages just off the market square, knocking on doors to talk to the voting public and handing out the flyers. She'd done this in eight other small towns so why did she feel trepidation? Her fear was real however, when she reached the end of one road.

"I know you?"

"I've been on the local news and in the papers."

"You went to school here?"

"Yes, I'm local."

"Yeah, I remember you, you had freckles and wore glasses?"

"That would be me."

A little fib, but Amy had extra confidence. As she went from street to street she heard very few local accents, the area had changed. The town still had a station that served Manchester and Nottingham, as well as London and Birmingham, so had become a commuting town. The line had only survived the cuts of the 1950s and 1960s as the industrial plants had needed it, now it was ferrying suits and students every morning instead of bricks.

Amy finished her walk and went back to the car; at least that was done, just a couple of days to go until the election and she could slide back into anonymity.

She had begged her parents not to send her to the local secondary schools, where the bullies were even bigger. This was one of those rare occasions when parents had heard the cries and sent Anthony to a progressive school, a private one, despite the fees. Amy was bright, however, and won a scholarship that relieved the financial pressure. At eighteen she went to law school and had now qualified as a junior solicitor, having transitioned at law school. Anthony was now a distant memory.

She was the young professional who, only a year before, had still been a student.She'd participated in a campaign to get eighteen and nineteen year olds registered and then to promise to use their vote. It was well known that new voters tended to vote with the apathy party then complain loudly that they weren't being listened to.

The election day arrived, Amy went along to the polls and watched the major party candidates working the public, and the media, trying to wring every last vote. When the doors had closed, the turnout was under thirty percent at the polling stations, but Amy knew there was also a large postal vote.

The count started just after ten on that Thursday night, Amy had to be there but she really wanted to be in bed. Coffee helped, a little.

At 2am there was a result, Amy was second to the Socialist candidate, but there were fewer than fifty votes in it. That called for a recount.

At 4am the Returning Officer declared that Amy had ten votes more than the Socialist candidate. That sent the counters back to check again.

At 6am Amy had been up for twenty four hours and her sense of humour was rapidly evaporating. She would willingly have walked away, regardless. The Returning Officer now declared a tie, a dead heat, and the room went quiet. Both of the leading candidates were given the option of another count, but neither was willing to drag this on for a further two hours. The Returning Officer suggested resolving this using straws.

The concept was easy, two straws of different lengths are obscured in the Officer's hand. Whichever candidate draws the longest, wins.

Amy couldn't believe what was in her hand; the Socialist candidate shook it, "Congratulations, you're the new Member of Parliament."

A media event followed and, for a while, Amy became the best known new MP in the country. Her pleas for a quiet life fell on deaf ears.

Ziggy's Coming Of Age     © Shiraz 2016

Today was not starting well, I wasn't certain right now if it would end well.

Just after seven this morning the radio news reported the passing of David Bowie. The irony was that I'd been playing Hunky Dory last night, and was expecting the brand new CD in the post later this morning.

David had been much more than a musical artist to me, and my parents; I'd been named Ziggy when I made my first appearance in the mid seventies. Of course, most kids at school assumed it was a nickname, as did the teachers. We would go through the same routine every time a new Head arrived at my secondary school every six months, under the inner city rotating door policy:

"What's your name, boy?"

"Ziggy Marrs, Sir."

"Your real name."

"Ziggy Marrs, Sir, that's what it says on my birth certificate."

"A fake one, no doubt."

"With respect Sir, you're the one taking the piss out of me."

That usually led to suspension and a few days off school. My mum would try to see the Head but he was always too busy to be proven wrong. My discipline record was therefore appalling, even though not one teacher had ever complained about me and my work was always on time. My last day at school had affected me in more ways than I could have imagined.

Punk had been and gone by the time I was sixteen, the New Romantics were the idols of the time. There was a grudging acceptance that boys could wear make-up, so long as it was on the stage or in a TV studio. The girls, however, would compete among themselves to create the craziest current pop star look, in school, in the street, or anywhere they chose. I was content with a haircut that almost shouted "rebel" - it nearly reached my blazer's collar.

On my last day at the school, June 1989, we were to be treated to a local covers band in the school hall. School leavers were also excused uniforms that day as we'd finished our exams and lessons were a distant memory. One of the drama teachers, Miss Thompson, didn't look much older than us sixteen year olds and was a breath of fresh air compared to the crusty old teachers. She decided there would be a musical-themed fancy dress competition half-way through the band's two hour set. She didn't even bother telling the latest Head, our first female Head had only just arrived at the school and was still settling in.

I had a few days after the last exam to decide what my costume would be. That was easy really, Ziggy Stardust. Mum had a silver jumpsuit I could borrow, but the legs were slightly too long for me. Mum's solution was to borrow a pair of her heels. Her sister had been a hairdresser before having children so agreed to style my hair for me, after dyeing it red. A little flashy makeup and I would be set.

I hadn't been one of the popular kids at school so just kept my head down, at five foot eight that was easy. Even my name was, by this time, not regarded as extraordinary. Therefore no-one was even expecting me to turn up to the gig.

The gig started at three, just as the school day ended, it had been suggested that all the school leavers met up half an hour beforehand, there was also some administration to deal with, following a phone call the previous evening.

"Hello Ziggy, it's the school office."

"Hello, has the concert been cancelled?" Ziggy's hair was already bright red - had the effort been wasted?

"Oh no, it's just to remind you to bring a self-addressed envelope with you tomorrow if you want your exam results posted. Are you going to be at home for the summer?"

"Probably not, I guess I won't be able to pick them up."

"Okay, don't forget, will you?"

"I won't."

At two I was dressed and made-up. My mum was still at work so aunt Claire had been over, and had since gone. There were now two problems; it was raining and I realised that the jumpsuit had no pockets; I didn't have a plan B so tried my best to work around it. None of my school bags seemed suitable so I went looking for one of mum's spare bags that didn't scream 'girl'. I found a small silver shoulder bag that seemed to go with the jump suit and decided that was the less-than-ideal solution.

I didn't worry about emptying anything of mum's out so a pink lipstick and waterproof mascara stayed in there, with a packet of tissues. I put my wallet, keys and a brush in the bag then remembered a small camera, first checking if it had a film in it.

While going around the house I realised I was a little uncomfortable. I'd put a white t-shirt on but this was not working, my shoulders were rubbing every time I lifted my arms. Back to mum's room where I found one of her vests. That fitted better and was more comfortable, at least no-one would see it under the jumpsuit.

I slipped my feet into the shoes mum had left for me, these were higher than the pair we'd originally settled for - at least a two inch heel - but were silver. The hem of the leg would cover much of the shoe, and how many people look at feet anyway? I needed a coat but none of mine came below my waist. Mum came to the rescue again, or at least one of her raincoats. This was knee length, even if it was almost completely clear.

I put my house keys in the bag, slipped it over my shoulder and put the raincoat over the top. Finally I was ready to leave. I hadn't even stepped out of the door when Hazel, one the girls in my English and Maths classes, stopped and did a double take.

"Woah, Zig, is that you?"

I was suddenly very aware of how I looked. "Err, yes Haze."

"It looks great, come with me as Louise's mum is giving us a lift. There'll be room in the car for you, walking in those heels on these pavements is a non-starter, girl."

Girl? I wonder if anyone ever called David Bowie a girl? I decided not to answer anything more than "Okay" and followed Hazel along the street. I knew Louise from school but had never really spoken to her, however her mum recognised me.

"Get in Ziggy, you'll be soaked before you reach the school."

"Are you sure? I don't want to ..."

"Just get in!"

I slid in the back with Hazel and grunted a hello to Louise who was trying not to giggle. I felt myself going red, was this all a bad idea?

Ten minutes later we pulled into the school carpark and the three of us walked into the school main entrance. A sign directed us to the fifth form common room, I became very aware of my heels as they clicked across the tiled floor, although I noticed Louise was also wearing heels, Hazel was wearing boots. So, I was checking out their feet - so much for me thinking .... I started to panic.

"Ziggy, what's up?"

"I'm going home, Hazel."

"No, you're not. You've put a fair bit of work into that outfit." Hazel took my arm and guided me into the common room before removing my raincoat.

I wanted to slide into a corner but the two girls seemed to have other ideas. Fortunately we were first in the room.

"Come on Ziggy, come with us."

"I need the loo, I'll meet you back here."

"That's where we're going, bring your bag - I presume you have some make-up in there?"

"Mum left some, why?"

"Come!"

I followed them along the corridor and they held the door of the girls toilets open for me.

"I can't go in there!"

"In case you hadn't noticed, there's no fly on that outfit of yours, so you'll have to almost strip to use the loo. Are the locks on the cubicles in the boys' still broken?"

"Yes, how would you know?"

"Never mind, I guess the mirror's still broken too?"

"Since Christmas. Last year."

"Come in, before you're noticed. We've got twenty five minutes."

In my five years at this school I'd never once stepped inside the girls' loos so had no idea what to expect. In practice, apart from the lack of urinals and a dispenser on the wall it looked just like the boys' - so long as you ignored the graffiti and damage.

I stood looking around when one of the girls opened a cubicle door and pushed me in. "We'll be waiting for you when you're done."

I hung mum's, my, bag on the hook and started to disrobe, trying to keep the jumpsuit clear of the pan. A couple of minutes later I was at the sink washing my hands.

Hazel was going through my bag that I'd dropped on the vanity.

"This lipstick is a different shade to the one you're wearing, where did that go?"

"My aunt must have taken it, she did my hair and face. I don't think I need more lipstick."

"You must have brushed your face just now as there's a streak up the side of your mouth. It looks like plum and I don't have anything close, Louise?"

Louise was in a cubicle but swung the door open.

"I don't think so Hun, I'll check tho."

I didn't want to look at my new friend who was sat on the loo just a few feet away. If I looked uncomfortable the girls didn't mention it. A minute later Louise was stood at the vanity.

"Okay Ziggy, that pale pink isn't really suitable. I have a tube of cherry in here that I won't use, an ex boyfriend bought it for me."

"I couldn't take it."

"It's still sealed, I was going to throw it away but you can take it."

"I can't do it myself."

"You wouldn't be the first girl I've sorted out."

"Girl?"

"You don't think a boy would be in here, would you? Stand Still and purse your lips."

I felt like a real idiot, but figured Ziggy Stardust wouldn't have given in. I kept trying to look in the mirror but Louise pulled my head back towards her.

"If you won't stand still I'll have you looking like Coco the Clown." I stood still.

Finally the three of us made it out of the loo and back to the common room. The room that had been empty was now filled with eager sixteen year olds, some had even made an attempt at a costume, although I couldn't see any boy that had bothered to make an effort.

"Ah, Ziggy, Hazel, Louise. Good. I'd like to introduce the new Head, Mrs Garnett."

All eyes were upon the three of us, although I guess Hazel and Loise were enjoying the recognition. I wasn't.

"Thank you to all of you who have come back this afternoon. I only started here as Headteacher last week so won't have met any of you before today. Anyway, I have read your files and know that the little urchins who started here age eleven are leaving here as young adults. Having said that, your files do not always make sense when confronted with the student him or herself." Mrs Garnett was looking straight at me, smiling.

"Anyway, I've been informed that a few of the adjacent schools may try to get into the concert so we're using a little sensible security this afternoon. Boys will get a blue wristband, girls a pink one. No wristband, no entry. The caretaker, Mr Pentecost, will be checking the boys for booze, cigarettes and interlopers. Miss Thompson will be checking the girls."

While the Head was talking, the drama teacher was moving around the room, reaching me last - she handed me a pink band.

"Miss?"

"Yes, Ziggy?"

"Pink?"

"Firstly, I'm out of blue bands but I think you'll be safer with the girls anyway, nice cami there."

I didn't know what to say, but Hazel intevened. "We'll look after her, Miss."

"Now, we won't have any booze in the hall and anyone found with booze will be ejected. But, to prove I'm no grouch, there's a few dozen bottles in the corner that I brought back on a duty-free trip recently. Put the empties in the box please, the bottles do not leave this room, understood?"

"Yes, Headmistress."

I wasn't going to have any lager but someone put a bottle in my hand, the cap was still on it. A moment later Louise had whipped the cap off. "My Dad told me to always carry a bottle opener to a party."

By half three when we moved to the hall, a few dozen bottles had been downed and everyone was relaxing. Louise and Hazel pulled me into the girls' loo again.

***

The concert went well, even though the band weren't brill. I stayed with the girls, plus their friends, until six when the gig finished. Of course I knew all of them by sight but I'd never talked to any of them before, I mean really talked. I'd joined in with the herd mentality and even told some gossip about two of the boys in my science class.

Mum was waiting at the entrance for me.

"I see you borrowed a few things?"

"Yes, sorry."

"So long as you didn't lose anything, or leave it behind? Get in."

"Can we give Hazel and Louise a lift? Louise's mum can't pick them up."

"Of course." I waved the girls over.

"Now, who won the fancy dress?"

"She did, Mrs Marrs, I mean Ziggy."

***

That day in 1989 had been an eye-opener to me. I'd experimented with clothing, hair and make-up from that moment on but when I heard the news this morning my world stood still. Only last night I'd been playing one of his albums, the vinyl was still next to the player. Bowie had been my inspiration, so did my aspirations die as well?

No, from today I make my own way in the world, except isn't that what I've been doing since I was sixteen?