(Outing 2): So, getting back to my original story...

...which was really about how I felt when I finally went out properly onto the street dressed up and expecting the unexpected!

OK, a couple of weeks have passed and again the invitation is extended to go to get a quick drink and maybe even a quicker bite to eat before the main acts are on.This time Tina is on her own as Julie's having a quick break in France so it would just be the two of us... but this time I'm feeling much more prepared. Gone are the high heels, the 'not quite old enough to be vintage' cocktail dress, the opera gloves, new wig and glasses. In their place is Alexandra Mk II the all terrain, multi-tasking comfort-tranny designed to get in and out of a hostelry with minimum fuss.

Let's get ready to Ruuuummmmble!!

The improved version is wearing contacts (not themselves without issues it has to be said...), a wig that at least pretends to behave, thick tights, flat pumps, t-shirt, baggy jumper and lightweight skirt with all the essentials carried around in a sensible and hard wearing ruck-sack. Oh yes, there's the casual girl about town scarf draped over the shoulders in a 'this old thing?' sort of style. So there I am ready to go for it and take in the whole experience. Up we go and out onto the street.

I'll be the first to admit that walking round Soho isn't exactly the hardest place to go out dressed in feminine garb. In fact it has to be about the easiest but even so for a beginner it's as much about the potential embarrassment as it is any fear of possible physical or verbal grief so it's still very much a 'gulp and plunge right in' moment as you leave the confines of the club.

So, what did I feel? Not fear that's for sure, more a sort of worry that in my slightly heightened state of anxiety and tension I might actually do something stupid. Like walk out in front of a car or a speeding rickshaw. Of course I'd be fine if I was taken to hospital because I had indeed followed the folk-wisdom of my mother and made sure I had clean undies on, even if they were rather lacy and decorated with a pink bow... So I made sure to look before stepping out to cross over - and that's when instinct kicked in. I found myself going into a sort of avoidance mode - not looking directly at people, more through them as though I was desperate to meet up with someone just behind them. I found I wasn't looking at faces either and was aware of people around me more as a blur than as a solid shape. I was pretty sure that people were noticing and looking at us in a casual 'Oh look there's another tranny'  sort of way but if they were I couldn't have identified who it was. Of course walking with Tina was a big help because you can go into a sort of mindless small-talk mode that gives you another excuse not to engage with others. And here's another odd thing... in my eagerness not to find myself bunched up in the middle of the pavement crowd with it's possibility of shoulder bumping and mumbled apologies, I found myself actually walking down the middle of the road, possibly the least obvious place for us to walk if the intention was to blend in. In fact for a short while it felt rather as though Old Compton Street was briefly becoming Alexandra's red carpet!

Anyway, The French House is literally just round the corner from the club so we didn't have far to go before we entered the pub and the fun of a new set of experiences and issues. For a start you're pretty close to people and I was all set for some delicate soul to swoon away or recoil in terror at the sight of me trying to force a passage through to the bar. Fortunately there was a bit of space inside and as the trainee tranny I was more than happy to offer to get the drinks in.

Now that's a thing to think about as well. What sort of voice should you use when out and dressed - your normal bloke voice, a slightly modulated campier version , the full blown "I'm a laydeee!" parody (which I find very difficult to get out of my head sometimes) or the gruff male+ basso profundo 'It's OK I know I'm a man and all of this is just a bit of post-modern irony. Normally I have a beard and did I mention that I'm married?"  version. All this goes through your head and basically you have to run with whatever comes out first, which luckily for me was pretty much my own voice. Illusion shattered straight off then for the rest of the punters!

And here's yet another odd thing. When I'm in drab I'm a very ordinary middle-aged, white, male, hetero with very average looks, personality and dress sense. Nobody would normally strike up a conversation with me without some reason but shove me in a dress with a dodgy wig and some badly applied make-up and within minutes I'm talking to a couple of complete strangers at the bar, a young man and woman who were enjoying the fag-end of what had obviously been a very enjoyable afternoon in the hostelries of Soho. What was even more interesting was that they were actually Guards musicians who regularly did their stuff at Buckingham Palace, Horse Guards Parade and other ceremonial events. We had a very enjoyable discussion about (surprise, surprise...) gender, clothing (he commented on the campness of his bandsman's outfit for one thing) and how I was finding the whole cross-dressing experience. It was a really nice way to start the evening but Tina had an eye on the clock and it was soon time to drink up and set off for my biggest test to date - dinner at Balans Restaurant!

Pubs are one thing, but how would I hold up in the sophisticated environs of a fine dining establishment? Quickly knocking back my Ricard (when in The French House etc.), I followed Tina out into the evening and on our way further up Old Compton Street...