My appearance en femme at company functions had began ten years before, as a bold statement of who I was. Over the years it had become something of a tradition, which I tried my best to uphold. There was always a new dress, new shoes and usually a new wig. Part of the tradition was my taking the afternoon off to get ready, sometimes the whole day if I was feeling insecure. Not everyone might appreciate why I did it, but they at least recognised the effort I put in.
As always there was a ripple of louder conversation when I entered the room, at a barefoot six feet two it would be difficult for me to make a quiet entrance, even without heels. I was pointed out to new staff, who had perhaps suffered the sharp edge of my tongue, while those with whom I’d crossed swords found it within themselves to compliment me on my clothes, my makeup, my bravery, and as always my legs.