Friday was strange.
Something was missing. But what? As i walked down the street, in the middle of London, it came slowly, slowly into focus. The looks: those rapid sideways glances; where were they?
Sure: the occasional shifty look – but about as many of those at my boobs as at me!
I was bemused. Befuddled. Where have all the gawkers gone?
One more time: i can’t believe its because i pass THAT well! But maybe i have passed the tipping point. Or London is incredibly tolerant. Or they’re so bored of trans persons they can’t be bothered to look. Or for the vast majority, i am no longer in any way exceptional.
Underground, i kept flicking my eyes back at passers by. Had they just got more subtle? Were they still looking, but only as i was almost past them? Nope.
It has its downside, of course.
I was wearing sandals (ultra-blingy, natch!) and on Kings Cross station a large burly man just bulldozed past, wheelie suitcase following. He ran over my toes! I squeaked in protest – and he just kept on walking.
No. Its definitely strange. I don’t exactly want the staring back… but i’ve grown so used to it, i’ve maybe forgotten just how omnipresent it had become.
As someone helpfully observed. Not! This is the lot of middle-aged women: to become invisible. So if no-one can see me, i’m passing.
Perhaps i should start staring at the other folks. Or take a leaf or two out of Vivienne Westwood’s style book.