A Slice Of Ordinary Life free porn video

A Slice of Ordinary Life In many ways, life went on pretty much the same after our marriage ended. The divorce was predictably bitter and longlasting, not to say expensive. Each of our solicitors seemed keen to prolong the negotiations rather than try to bring about a reconciliation. But now all that was blessedly over. I still had a place in what's called leafy Hertfordshire, having bought a flat just round the corner from the old family home. My ex had moved across to the other end of the town. Luckily there were still friends in the neighbourhood. I still saw quite a lot of the Harkers, who had lived four doors down the avenue from us. Both Shirley and David had a lively sense of humour, and David especially used to like making good-natured fun of people, including me. It was also easy to keep in touch with Bob and Lorna Clyde, especially as Bob was one of the keenest members of the tennis club behind the park. Lorna didn't play, but she came to social events there. I wasn't a brilliant player, but I had a steady backhand and by the unexacting local standards quite a strong volley. Both my kids were keen to see me "make a fresh start," but I didn't see the need for that, as my life was more comfortable than it had been for years. Graham, as the elder one, decided I should move to a new place, and perhaps retrain for a new job even at fifty-nine because there weren't many opportunities in my field at this time. Melissa didn't make any open suggestions, but I could see that she too thought I was settling down into a boring rut. I could understand why they felt like that. They were still in their thirties, and had a busy life with energetic children (two each). Both lived within easy reach of London and popped down quite often to town. On the other hand I didn't have much inclination to take the train to Euston even when they were not so crowded at offpeak times. Maybe when I qualified for my senior rail card in a few years! At one time I had talked vaguely about getting a small place in Somerset, where some of my ancestors came from and which I'd liked when we went on family holidays there. But then I realised it would be a huge upheaval with none of my kids or grandkids on close call, and no experience in country living. Things went on pleasantly enough for the first couple of years. I continue to attend some local events, including the gardening association, though I no longer had a garden, as well as the monthly book club. I watched the statutory amount of TV, listened a lot to Radio 4, and occasionally played old DVDs. I sang along with songs I knew from the 1970s when golden oldies shows came on Radio 2. Sometimes I turned it on for programmes featuring Frank Sinatra or Ella Fitzgerald, because I like their music too. Naturally I enjoyed visits from my grandchildren - all the fun of your own, and none of the work. By this time I could even speak to them on FaceTime, as well as communicate with others on Skype. But I often turned off my phone for longish periods, as I didn't feel the need to chat endlessly. I was perfectly content. This cosy way of life would probably have continued indefinitely, if a newcomer hadn't moved into the block of flats, one storey above me. I He seemed totally unremarkable, in appearance and in habits. Also approaching sixty, with receding brown hair and grey sideburns. He had a neatly trimmed beard. Rather short, with a muscular torso and arms. At the weekend he was always casually dressed, with a taste for dun-coloured chinos and baggy pullovers that seemed to chime with his laid back personality. Quite willing to chat, but usually about fairly mundane everyday matters, and he supported the nearest soccer team in one of the lower divisions. Someone told me that he was a dedicated visitor to the gym on the Letchworth road, and I guessed that he may have been into some form of body building, as he appeared to have well chiselled abs. A faint hit of a Midland accent (I guessed Birmingham, but it turned out to be Leicester), with a pleasant baritone voice. It emerged in the next few weeks that his name was Ken and he had often been working abroad for some years. For short periods he went away, where and why he didn't say. I first got to know about this from Sandra, my neighbour across the hallway. He had asked her to pick up some important mail that might be arriving in his absence. (We had a communal mailbox in the downstairs lobby which anyone who had managed to get into the building could access.) However, when he was home he kept very regular hours. He didn't seem to drink too much, unlike some people I could name. Though he fitted into our little community smoothly enough, I thought he was maybe a bit dull if anything, and as he showed few signs of wanting to get to know me better I made no effort to develop any kind of closer friendship. It was about two months after Ken came to live in the flats that I got the first hint he might not be so completely blah as I'd supposed. Actually it was Sandra who first suggested that there could be some mystery about his past. She had noticed that three pieces of the mail she was storing for him had official looking return addresses from government departments, while another was sent from a French address in Belgium with a confidential sticker. Ken's vagueness on his past, and the absence of any known family (he'd just said he was long divorced and had no children) gave her the idea there was some secret we didn't know about. She didn't quite go so far as to say that he was probably an MI5 agent or an informant given a cover identity, but she did suggest that he was not such a commonplace character as I for one had supposed. Then there were one or two things that Sandra had noticed about his lack of social contacts in the town, which he obviously didn't know very well. I told her that she had watched too many spy films and exaggerated these "clues" to a more romantic history. She has a bubbly personality that's a good foil to my quieter nature, but she can be a bit over the top. The invitation came when we happened to meet outside the main entrance to the flats when I got back from a grocery trip. After a few pleasantries Ken paused and said in a slightly halting way, "I don't suppose there's any chance you'd be interested in having dinner one night when you're free?" He obviously had not been to the Oliver Barrett school of confident chat up lines. Though he must have known that I didn't have much social life, he gave me the credit for having other possible calls on my time. I was taken aback for a moment, but saw no point in prevaricating, so I just smiled and said simply, "Of course, I'd be very glad to." We settled on L'Italiana (better than its name may suggest), which was only a few hundred yards away from the flats. He suggested the following Wednesday, and I didn't bother to add that almost every day that week would have been free for me. We would meet at the restaurant at seven as he would be coming straight from a job at Harlow. This gave me a few days to get ready for what should not be a huge ordeal even if it didn't set the world alight. I set myself to rehearse some conversational topics, choosing safe ones as I could see he was a reticent type. Then I decided how much to share with him about my own world, since I knew that many men weren't greatly excited by recitals of what my family and friends had been up to. And finally I knew I must start to think about sprucing up my appearance, which I had cheerfully ignored for a long time. I don't think I've ever been all that vain. Even when I was young I wasn't specially pretty, and after I had the kids and not altogether by coincidence my husband lost interest in me, I took less care about these things. Since moving to the flat I had put on six pounds and magical thinking didn't work to restore my waistline - I blamed this on the fact I now had far less house cleaning to do. Like others in my age group I started to lounge around at home in yoga pants, with my hair scraped back in a bun, and never bothered with makeup except on the rare occasions I was going somewhere special. It must have been over eighteen months since I had bought any clothes, not counting a single trip to M&S for underwear and some thick winter tights. But the prospect of this date with Ken made me realise that I did finally need to smarten up a bit, as Melissa had hinted once. I even contemplated departing from my recent routine and going up to the London stores. No real need, I remembered there had always been some decent dress shops in Hitchin, which wasn't very far away. I put on some of the better surviving items in my wardrobe and tried to do something with my hair, that had grown lank with split ends. It turned out easier than expected. The bus was on time, and I found something suitable in the second place I went to, Monsoon in Bancroft (a branch that has now closed!) It was a dress and jacket, a fairly simple outfit in a sort of cyan colour with a demure high neck, age appropriate without being dowdy. The assistant was a bit bored and offhand, but I could understand how standing around for hours waiting on impatient customers was not a great way to spend your day. I also bought a silk scarf to accessorize, but decided my turquoise open toes would match well enough. The price was a little steeper than planned, but I told myself this was a one off and I could afford it. While I wasn't expecting to much of the occasion - it was after all just a single date between middle-aged people with no great romantic expectations - I did have some slight anxiety. It was the first time I had been out with a man since the divorce, and the first time I had gone anywhere much apart from a couple of pub meals with the Clydes the summer before, now almost nine months ago. When I told the children about it, they behaved in characteristic ways. Graham scratched the side of his cheek and said, "Well, I hope it will be okay," with the hidden suggestion that I was too long in the tooth now for that sort of thing. Melissa put on her serious face and stared at me with the comment, "Oh, mum, do make sure you're safe. There are an awful lot of real chancers out there now, what with internet dating and everything." I assured her that Ken was not some anonymous creep preying on vulnerable people. I knew where he lived, and had good reason to believe he was solvent. Just to be on the safe side we had agreed to meet up at the restaurant after he got back from a job in the next town. We would walk back home along three well lit streets after the meal and no violent assault could take place in the flats without neighbours hearing the commotion. Sandra was more encouraging, and said she would have been happy to go out with him if he'd asked her. Still, it surprised me that such a commonplace event should attract the slightest concern or interest from others. II Luckily it was a cool but fine evening and I got to the restaurant on time, despising all ideas about fashionable lateness. The place had an unimposing facade, wedged between humdrum commercial buildings. Since I wasn't sure if Ken would have arrived yet, I went straight in with a hint of trepidation. It was regarded as the best Italian establishment around, though not too snooty. Oliver and I had gone for an occasional dinner, and we had Melissa's thirtieth birthday do there. But that was quite a while since, and I was pleased that the same ma?tre d' was still there to greet me with patently insincere effusiveness, "Good evening, Mrs Barrett, it is so nice to see you again." He told me that Mr Jackson had arrived a few minutes before and ushered me to a table on the near side of the room. Ken was sitting there looking pensive. He made a point of standing up while a waiter loomed up from nowhere to seat me. We exchanged slightly stilted greetings. He complimented me on my appearance and I said quite honestly that he looked nice too. He was on the smart side of "smart casual," since he had a medium grey suit with a faint stripe and a light blue shirt, but as was now the fashion no tie - just a navy silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. His black brogues looked a little worn but were clean and polished. I was impressed since he had come straight from work. His beard was again carefully trimmed, but there was a slight stubble on his cheeks which I found not unattractive. Later I found out he disliked wearing a suit, so that was a kindness on his part. As for my outfit, it had seemed a little conservative when I was getting ready, but I was keen not to stand out in any way. At the last minute, in an effort to brighten it up, I had changed my mind and put on a pair of pewter coloured antique earrings that Oliver had given me in happier days - I hadn't thrown out everything connected with him when I left him, as some people do. Nor I had reverted to my maiden name: Susan Shellgrove had always seemed a real mouthful, and it was too much of a fuss to get all my documents changed. Ken called me Susan, though most of my friends said Sue, and David Harker often greeted me as Sister Susie. In the course of the meal, we gradually started to converse a bit more freely, swapping bits of information that we had not previously revealed to one another. Mine was, I imagined, the simpler task - a comfortable middle class childhood in the outer suburbs of North London, and a good education at the local high school. I came near the top of the class in English and French, but not in science subjects. I was average at tennis, a bit better at netball where they put me at wing defence because I was the second tallest girl in the class in that Lilliputian era. As a fullback at hockey, I was thoroughly useless, and spent many hours with my teeth chattering on the frozen wastes that bordered Epping Forest. Next I mentioned a succession of jobs in public relations firms, then marriage at twenty-eight, the two children and four grandchildren. Naturally I skated over some unsatisfactory relations with men earlier on, as well as the collapse of our marriage, Oliver's womanizing and the increasing distance from each other, my decision to leave him, and the protracted divorce which ended up with my getting fewer of the joint assets than was entirely fair. Instead, I tried to stress my happier experiences recently, once I had taken the plunge to go my own way, and how much I enjoyed my new home. In the wake of all that, I didn't think he could possibly match the drab conventionality of this life story, but he came near to it. He told me he had grown up in a village outside Leicester, had gone to school in the city, had a string of unrewarding occupations until he got a chance to join the Civil Service. It was a surprisingly fulfilling job, he said, though it didn't sound like it - as a middle-level regulator of import and export licensing. He did this for over twenty years, then took early retirement with a decent pension, and now was able to do consulting work freelance, which occasionally took him abroad, usually to the Low Countries. He hadn't played tennis since schooldays, but as I knew enjoyed working out at the gym. Obviously he didn't want to go on about his personal life, as his early marriage had quickly failed, while he had no children or longterm commitments since then. He represented himself as Mr Average, with nothing outstanding to relate. I was sure this was not doing himself full justice, even if he manifestly didn't fit the mould of the duplicitous international agent that Sandra had cooked up in her imagination. That was about all I learnt as we enjoyed the meal. We dispensed with starters. He had a smallish steak, following the standard "medium to rare" designation, while I contented myself with some of the pasta for which the place was known. He ordered a decent ros? while professing no great standing as a wine expert. For dessert he had a scrumptious looking ice cream, while after deliberation I opted for a tiny rum baba. Often I go without a dessert, but I didn't like to refuse on the pretence I was already full, as some women do rather than admit that it is out of weight watching (something I understand as sweet things seem to leave instant deposits on my hips and thighs). By the time we were ready for coffee I had found out that his full name was Kenneth Andrew Jackson, again the epitome of Middle England, he owned a five year old medium-size Nissan which he kept in a lockup garage in the next street, and liked cats but didn't have one at the moment. He asked what my interests were and I could only manage to come up with the book club, tennis and the church - not that I am greatly religious, but I do go to the local Anglican church, and serve on the roster for flowers. This only comes up once every four months and after choosing the right blooms it only takes an hour or so to do the entire arrangement, at which I am fairly good but not professional standard. He asked what kind of books I like to read, so I told him a wide range, but mainly biography and history plus classic novels, nothing out of the way, like Austen, Brontes etc. It was a relief rather than the opposite that he gave the impression of being keener to talk about me than about himself. Like everyone else I've had my share of mansplaining, too. At this point the waiter came back with a cheese board and asked if we wanted any. I passed on this, but then to my total amazement came the first big shock. Ken said no cheese, but could the chef possibly rustle up a round of dry toast, as he'd found this went well, with a liqueur he then ordered. The youngish waiter could hardly conceal his own astonishment, but quickly regained enough composure to reply, "Well, yes sir, I sure that can be done." I admired his sang froid. He turned to me and said, "Anything for you, madam?," maybe half expecting I would ask for a stick of celery or something. I just muttered that I didn't want anything more thanks, and wouldn't join Ken with his liqueur either. The truth was that I had downed two glasses of wine and I needed a pee, so I quickly excused myself. When I got to the loo there was a woman there I knew from the tennis club I hadn't seen for some time, and had not spotted across the room earlier on (I am a bit shortsighted and didn't have my glasses on). We brought ourselves up to date on things as we stood in front of the washbowls. When I got back to our table Ken said, "They bought me my toast so I've started on this, hope you don't mind?" He had hardly touched his liqueur but had demolished most of the slice of toast. He smiled in a slightly conspiratorial way, so I smiled back and thought, well, here's one (very small) way he is different! That was the end of the evening. When the waiter came with the bill, I made a token gesture of reaching for my handbag, but he already had his card out and brushed off my feeble offers to share the cost. He walked me back to the flat, our conversation less free than in the restaurant, though I had by now started to forget about the slice of toast. At the door of my flat he said goodnight and headed off for the lift. III Next morning I sat and thought about the previous evening. Almost all the way it had been much as I expected, with the usual proprieties and the usual British reserve on some things. He had been attentive, had helped me on with my jacket before we left, and had footed the not inconsiderable bill (feminist principles be damned, he had invited me after all, and thanks to his civil service pension he probably had more cash). His conversation had not been sparkling, but there was a pleasant dry wit in some of the things he said. On my side I had not disgraced myself and he had listened to everything I came back to him with apparent concentration. I had heard that people out of practice on the dating scene generally tried too hard. I resolved not to do that, but can you try not to try? I didn't see Sandra until later that evening. She naturally asked me how my dinner with Ken had gone. I said fine, we had got on well together - the meal was excellent, it was just the slice of toast that disconcerted me a bit. She replied that I had been portraying him as very staid and predictable - at least this proved he was capable of doing something out of the ordinary! I assented, but maybe with a bit of doubt in my voice. She asked if I would go out with him again. All I could answer was that if I would consider it if he asked me, but I wasn't at all sure he would, he may have thought that I was the dull one. Girls of Melissa's age or younger take the initiative in asking for a date, but that wasn't the way when I grew up. It was in early April that things started to develop. I had seen Ken in passing once or twice, but we had had only a brief chat about the usual things, such as the price of petrol, then on the rise - even though this didn't affect me as I no longer had a car. Another time I bumped into him in the produce aisle at Tesco's. He was friendly but didn't say anything more about meeting up. I kept off subjects such as the dinner we had shared. I half wanted to ask him about the toast, but restrained myself. Then one day out of the blue he phoned me (we had exchanged numbers) and asked me if I'd like to go with him to the Gordon Craig Theatre in Stevenage. They were putting on a lesser known Noel Coward item, starring an actress who had played the young married lead in a TV sitcom some years before. I had always liked the theatre but Oliver didn't care for it so we rarely went. It's quite intimate, with 500 seats. We arranged to meet on the following Tuesday and he agreed to get tickets. All we had to do was walk round to the garage, and then set off in his comfortable car for a drive of less than half an hour. In the end, the play was quite funny and the performance stylish. I had never liked the star in any of her television roles, she seemed a bit affected in her manner, but had to admit she carried off the key part with real aplomb. We discussed what we had seen in the nearby bar. It emerged that drama was one of the subjects on which I knew more than Ken did, whereas he was much more clued up on cinema, especially classic Hollywood movies - noir, musicals, romantic comedies, whatever. We both had favourite actors and directors, but he could rattle off the details of scores of pictures, dates, Oscar wins, supporting cast and such like. It was increasingly clear that we had more in common than age and background in Britain of the 1970s, and more than I had suspected. In the following weeks, as the lime trees came into full leaf along our road, we began to spend more time together. Twice we went to see films, and unremarkable as these were we found that we agreed on their merits and demerits. I was quite disappointed when Ken said he had to go off to Belgium again for a few days. He would phone me when he got to Li?ge. Reliable as ever, his call came in at almost exactly the minute he'd promised. Why couldn't I ever depend on Oliver like that? I started to look forward to our meetings when he got back. I could no longer indulge in schoolgirl moonings over anyone, but our relationship had certainly brought back a spring in my step. Shirley Harker didn't say anything, but I noticed her glance over me with a questioning look. When I ran into Lorna Clyde at a tennis club get together, during the time Ken was away, she said that I looked particularly nice, something I don't think she had done for a very long time. It was true. I had started to go back to the Pakistani hairdresser in the shopping centre close to home, where Azrah had tended to my locks previously, and knew just how to cut them for best effect. She put some highlights in and got rid of grey roots. Later I went to a nail bar in Bridge Street, close to the bus station, where I tried semi-permanent gels for the first time. I knew that while this attention to myself wasn't just for the benefit of Ken, he was a sort of catalyst. I did it because I felt better, not because it made me feel better. Graham appeared not to spot much difference, and Melissa just said drily that I seemed to have got a new spark from somewhere, she didn't know where. I didn't rise to the bait. Actually Melisssa and I spent more time together that summer. I wondered whether she was discreetly monitoring me! One day she came over to take us to Welwyn, where she wanted to get some new sheets and bedroom furniture for her growing boys. She's a commendably quick shopper, and it didn't take long for her to choose what she wanted, after scrupulously pretending to take note of my advice. We could have a leisurely lunch as she didn't have to be back to do something at home, as was often the case. Then, just as we were leaving, we bumped into a tall blond woman of about thirty-five in a magenta trouser suit. She greeted my daughter warmly and asked how the family was, with a glance at me. Melissa seemed flustered and mumbled an introduction. The other woman's name was Judy Scott. After some desultory conversation, she gave a broad smile with flashing white teeth and went on her way. "Who that's then?" I asked, thinking it might be some former work colleague of Melissa's. "I'll tell you when we get back to the car," said Melissa, striding towards the parking area. It came out as soon as we had negotiated the tricky narrow turns to exit the multistorey. "Look, mum," she said with an anxious expression. "You'll have to know now. Graham and I thought it was kinder not to tell you, we've known for ages. That's Judy - Dad's new girlfriend. They've been together since soon after you split up and Dad got his new place. She works for a firm that does business with him, assessing workers' compensation or something. I've met her a few times and she always greets me like a longlost friend. I find it embarrassing but I don't want to do anything to cause trouble with Dad." As we drove out to the arterial road, I sat there musing. Of course this was all a bit sudden, but not totally unexpected. I wasn't as upset as Melissa evidently thought I would be. Oliver had always been successful with women, despite (or I sometimes thought, because of) his reliance on looks and superficial charm rather than depth of character. It was unrealistic to expect that he would remain on his own for long. It really didn't make much difference that he had found someone with no ties who was also younger, prettier and more socially smart than me, even if I had taken an instinctive dislike to her even before I knew who she was. For the rest of the way home we went quiet. Melissa left me to my thoughts, and probably supposed I was in a state about Judy. Actually the first thing that struck me was it would be hard to keep the affair secret for ever, as Oliver was living only three or four miles from me. That led to a recognition I had had before of how limited the world of our family was. The Harkers' son worked in the Czech Republic, and one of my other friends had a daughter living in Australia. Sandra's sister had moved to the Chicago area in her youth. Even plump and homely Maureen Clark, who had been the next door neighbour and good friend of Lorna Clyde, had suddenly upped and relocated in North Wales. On the other hand, Melissa had gone no further afield than the University of Kent, had married a local boy and had always stayed within a short distance of us. Since the boys were now older she had got a good job in the HR section of an engineering firm. Graham had exhausted his wanderlust with half of a gap year working on a forestry project in Norway, and had soon settled down as an actuary. He lived with his amiable but not very bright wife, their girl, boy and Alsatian in Chingford, quite close to where I had been brought up - indeed his daughter had now started at my old school. Small wonder that my ex should not have looked far to find his new partner. Let's face it, the Barretts were not an adventurous lot. IV Ken had been busy but at the end of July he phoned to ask me if I'd like to take a trip the next day to a nice area he knew in the Chilterns. We could walk through the beech woods and have a pub lunch at a well respected hostelry. It was only about an hour's drive away but I had had never spent any time there, so I was keen to go. The weather was no more than mild, almost cool enough for a sweater, but he wore a crisp white dress shirt and black slacks with a sharp crease. I was pleased he had made a bit of an effort again. We parked at a rest stop which gave entrance to a trail through the tidily managed woodlands. From the top of the hill there was a lovely view off the southern escarpment. Though I hadn't walked so far for a long time I didn't feel at all tired. Ken seemed relaxed and I was wondering if he was keen to get back for the lunch and a pint of best. So much for my perception! After a while we found a rustic bench at the viewpoint and sat down, I imagined, for a couple of minutes. The sun had gone in and it felt slightly chilly. As I shaped to put on my cardigan, he pulled it round my shoulders and then took a look around in each direction. There was no one else in sight apart from a younger couple who were inspecting the bark of a tree two hundred yards down the slope. "It's time to tell you, Susan," he said in a flat tone. "I should have done it earlier, but it's hard. I don't know if you will feel betrayed." I hadn't the foggiest idea what he was talking about - did he have a wife and five children hidden away in Belgium? Would this be more of a shock than the earlier revelation Melissa had sprung on me after we ran into Judy? Seeing that I was puzzled but receptive, he embarked on a long explanation. In fact, it was the longest I had ever heard him speak. He began by saying we had become quite close over the past few months, and I deserved to know the truth. I mentally agreed: we had not got physical, nothing more had passed than a warm hug on meeting and a light kiss on the lips when we parted, but there was an undeniable emotional connection that had slowly developed. To be honest, I would have felt keenly disappointed if he was about to say we should not go on seeing each other as we had been doing. I can't pretend to reproduce the exact words Ken used in what he said next. I was too gobstruck, But the gist was perfectly clear and simple. He told me he was born female, brought up as a girl, and had lived that way until he was fifty. He had always felt wrong in his body and his life. As a child he had just passed as a tomboy who liked short hair and scruffy jeans. At nineteen he had experimented with a lesbian relationship, but soon realised that didn't answer his needs, though he was attracted to women. At twenty two, to try and fit in, he had married a nice girl he had met at work. It didn't take long for both of them to realise that though they were humanly compatible the relationship was doomed to failure. After that he led an asexual life and concentrated on building his career until he had saved enough to make a break - a much bigger break, too, than the one I had found so difficult to contemplate. Able to retire with a partial pension, he had immediately begun to live the way he always wanted. The transition took almost nine years, all told. He began with the mastectomies, since had always regarded his breasts with a distaste approaching horror. After that he started hormone treatment under medical supervision - luckily he was able to find a doctor who would do this on the NHS, though there was a waiting list of a year or two for most procedures. He was astounded to discover how quickly the daily dose of testosterone began to produce obvious effects. Inside eight weeks his voice had begun to break, and within six months his facial hair had grown to the point that he needed to shave almost every day. It took longer for other bodily changes, but after little more than a year he began to lose some fat deposits on his upper arms, bottom and thighs. After another year of gradual improvement, he felt confident enough to open up a consultancy business with firms in the export business, which helped to pay for the unavoidable costs of treatment. He had largely lost touch with his previous friends, his parents were both dead, and he had no siblings. As a result he managed to achieve what he most desired, a transition "in stealth," as he said it was called. I sat there staring out at the scene below, and watching some kind of hawk hovering in the sky, as I tried to absorb what Ken had told me, but uncomprehending for the most part. I knew next to nothing about sex changes. Those I had come across in the media often seemed to involve publicity seekers on TV or sad misfits. They were virtually all male to female as well. I knew vaguely that there were about the same number of female to male individuals, but somehow you didn't hear about them nearly so much. I couldn't identify in any way with their urges, and I had never met any personally - they must have existed in outer suburbia, but I imagined most would tend to prefer the anonymity of a big city. Equally, I was astonished that I had never had the slightest suspicion of Ken's past. There were no give away signs that I could remember. His fingers were a bit stubby, but his feet were a regular size 7, not too small for many men. More to the point, his demeanour and manner had always been perfectly normal, not aggressively macho but just standard male in the way he moved, talked, and went about his life. Ken went on to describe the next stages. He began the cumbrous process of getting a gender identity certificate, which involved some lengthy physical and psychological tests before he could apply for fresh documents - most importantly an official name change, a new passport and a driving licence. But this was not enough for Ken. He had grown his beard, besides chiselling his body with targeted weight training different from that of regular body builders. He still needed two things. Unable to get what he wanted on the NHS, he used a connection in Li?ge to get treatment at a just affordable cost from plastic surgeons there. First came the most advanced genital surgery yet available. This he had undergone three years before. It didn't allow him to have full penetrative sex, but it did permit stimulation in that area and make it possible for him to urinate standing, which simplified his life day to day in social situations. A year ago he had an operation to further masculinize his appearance by a reshaping of the brows and a suction of some fat on the cheeks, so that he had almost entirely lost any traces of his formerly rounded face. That was where matters now stood, and he did not envisage any more medical treatment. He was still paying off the cost of the last surgery, but this had become viable. He sold the maisonette that he bought thirty years ago in a part of Croydon where house prices had rocketed both in the nineties and the twenty-teens. This meant he could afford the flat in the block where I lived, which had risen in price but was a lot cheaper than the property he had sold (the absence of parking places made our 1930s building less attractive to most buyers). Sandra had been right about one thing - he didn't know the area at all. He was not rich, but he had enough to live on at the modest level that he found entirely to his liking. There were no expensive hobbies or secret vices. With me, there were no secrets at all now - unless it was his liking for toast with his Chartreuse. What this did explain was those official letters (some regarding his Home Office pension, and a confidential one regarding his gender certificate), as well as a message about check-ups from his surgeon in Li?ge. I wouldn't be able to tell Sandra just how wrong she had been. It was too much to take in fully. I suggested we head back to the parking area and then have our planned lunch, which would be a welcome distraction for me as I didn't really know how I felt. Ken agreed, and we spent the remaining part of our trip on passing comments about the scenery. We got back by 3.30 and I just said, "I'll be in touch when I have had time to think about this." I let him kiss me before I closed the door, uncertain what the future would hold. In fact it took just a week's silence on both sides and a lot of consideration of everything Ken had told me to be sure that it made no difference. I wanted to continue with our relationship, and I called Ken to let him know. We resumed our visits to the cinema and it really seemed just as it had been, except that I felt a closer bond because he had trusted me with a secret he didn't want the rest of the world to be in on. I asked him if I could tell just my children, as they grew skilled in keeping mum after shielding people from the knowledge of how bad things had got between Oliver and me. I was surprised at the completely supportive response they both showed, especially Graham, who I'd thought might find it hard to accept. They were young enough not to have learnt the prejudices of my generation. There was no need to share it with anybody else. So that's almost the end of our story. Ours, because in the middle of September after a nice night out, Kenneth asked me to marry him, and you can guess my answer. Nor will it be a shock that when we went choose my ring, I opted for a Victorian rose cut diamond. We are planning to marry in the New Year. It will be a small civil ceremony, but we'll have a semi-swanky reception at L'Italiano. Shirley will be de facto matron of honour, David the emcee, and both Graham and Melissa will propose toasts (we had to have those!) I'll move into Ken's flat, which is plenty big enough for us. Already I have a few ideas for redoing the decoration. I told Ken I will be taking his name, as I have no affection for either of my previous surnames. And Susan Barrett Jackson doesn't really have the ring of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, does it? We'll just be the Jacksons, and that doesn't make me feel like an appendage to my lovely husband. It was huge luck to find someone who was so dependable, so much a Mensch as well as a real man. Recently we had our first weekend away in a quiet hotel on the Suffolk coast, watching the waves buffetting the shore, like a background shot to "Peter Grimes." Without being coy, I can say that it went even better than I expected in every respect; Ken knew his way around my body quickly and found the spots where his touch was most arousing. I had forgotten how much pleasure it could be to have strong arms holding you, to sense the hint of a musky aroma, and to lie in the shelter of a caring male. In the morning Ken woke first and took in the previous night's order that room service had left outside our door. He started to brew some coffee, and fussed around with the breakfast things while I lay in bed glowing from happiness. Finally he came over, slid a tray over the sheets, and there was a single slice of toast with a red rose perched on it. "You see," he said with a crinkly smile on his lined face, "I told you I was a conventional lover. Here's a real clich? for you..." Ordinary Life 2: Cassandra Lane