My ex was an A-wife in things regarding Cheryl.

When we were separated (do to death of our son, not Cheryl) she confessed, that she never felt desired as a woman, because she thought the clothes turned me on not her. I regret, I never got to tell her:

“Thank you all!” Becca yells into her microphone to the screaming crowd as we all wave happily. “Thank you all so, so much!”

“Thank you Glasgow!” I scream into my microphone, taking several deep breaths (despite my tight clothing) to rest my tired voice.

“We love you all!” Lauren yells into the microphone, her long, ginger hair pinned to her face with sweat thanks to our two hour long concert- our tenth in twelve days, and thankfully, our last for the time being.

“So… Yeah,” I say as the professional make-up artist applies a layer of adhesive to the tops of my ears. “Why, exactly, again?”

“It’s his favourite show,” Charlotte explains. “He’s done so much for us over the years, it’s only fair we throw him a party for once.”

“And he’s 55 this year, it’s as good a time as any,” Hannah says. “And the show’s celebrating its fiftieth anniversary, it just makes sense, really.”

Never in my life have I felt more comfortable.

I'm dressed as shabbily as I have ever been. Old, tatty jeans and a loose, long-sleeved t-shirt. I'm wearing no make-up whatsoever, and my short blonde hair is messy and unstyled. I have a paint brush in one hand and a stencil in the other, and for the first time in a very long time, I can truly forget that I was ever a girl.

"Kayleigh-Ann!" Miss Fullerton- my ballet teacher- yells, snapping me out of my fantasy. "When you're done with that wall, can you come and see me in the storage room?"