transretrogurl

A little caveat before we start on this fun post – all of the pictures are going to be selfies, and as the night progressed my ability to take a picture/focus/stop smiling faded rapidly….

So, I did it. My planned bucket list second tick off; the one I may have mentioned in overly great detail in the last blog post. Just got home, absolutely knackered, and had so much fun…. but it was, well, entertaining as per usual.

Pictured – selfie number 1; Patti’s place. Beer count, 6….

So, firstly, the trains decided to be on, well, strike. And I came within thirty minutes of cancelling the whole thing, even though I was looking forward to it so much it almost hurt. But I made that classic mistake of actually working for a living the week before; I went into London for the day, three hours in, three hours out. Talked to one of the big banks in Canary Wharf which was next door to a BrewDog. I like BrewDog. A lot. That will come into the story as we go along.

So, after six or maybe seven delicious Elvis Juices myself and a work colleague ended up in a brilliant Mexican restaurant near Euston. This colleague is one of the few who I have (drunkenly) let in on my other life, so we had a cool chat about the upcoming trip/bucket list moment. A margarita or two may have been consumed. Fast forward an hour and, after a hot chocolate from Hotel Chocolat in Euston I found myself on the train home…

Next morning my nose was like a shower. Turns out the common cold is a little annoyed that Covid has had all the limelight lately and is making a concerted and enthusiastic comeback. This was on Thursday – the next Wednesday was the start of my planned fun. Two days of lots of Lemsip, cough syrup, and not only had the nose not stopped flowing (at one point, in order to play Starfield without sneezing or having to pause every 45 seconds to wipe my face, I stuffed two sheets of toilet paper up my nostrils; one in each. Within two minutes it was too damp to stay up there) but my head was pounding; another day and the nose stopped but everything felt blocked and dry.

Pictured – selfie number 2; just out of the taxi, still at beer count 6

Cue two days of miserableness. I so wanted to go on my fun trip I was trying to force the body to be better.

The plan was this – drive up to Manchester (never driven into Manchester before but having driven into London on countless occasions now I assumed, completely correctly, that it would be much better), park the car in a Q-Park (I like those – you book in advance and there’s no fumbling for a credit card on the way in or out), wander over to the BrewDog hotel (my favourite place), shave the stubble (and underarms, my dress of choice was a lovely sleeveless body hugging LBD), head over to Patti’s, get the face put on, hit the Gay Village.

The plan almost worked perfectly. I arrived an hour before I could check-in, and they give you a free beer. I’d had one piece of bacon and an egg for breakfast at 6:00am when I got up, and kinda forgot to eat. For the rest of the day. This will factor into the fun.

So I had my free beer. And two more for good measure, before I hit check-in time. Went to the room, swapped my jeans and t-shirt for some running kit (again, this will make sense later), shaved, grabbed three more beers from the fridge (all of them were Elvis Juice which is, well, strong) and put them in my luggage with the lovely dress, heels, my undergarments and my new pink crop leather jacket.

Pictured – selfie 3, toilet at Via, beer score 8

Walked over to Patti’s (about a mile). She was on fire (and had Starfield paused while she made me up, which is commitment). I drank the three beers while she worked and then it was time.

So, a little bit of context. I’ve been out a number of times (she says as if it is more than 7. Or maybe 8) but every time I have gone out I have had a (sensible) chaperone. I’ve been out six times with Cinders, once with Patti, and once with a lovely woman called Rachel Cole back in the day. But I have never been out by myself.

Patti made it very easy; she ordered a taxi for me, wished me luck, and bundled me out of her place.

I was……. out. Alone. By myself.

For about 30 seconds. The taxi driver turned up and the evening started as it was going to go on. Brilliantly. The taxi driver was wonderful; I guess he must have seen a lot of, well, ‘Manchester’, so a mildly hyper cross-dresser, absolutely reeking of Chanel No.5, can’t of been new. We chatted about hybrid cars, how tense Manchester was this week because of the political conference, and where abouts on Canal St I’d like to be dropped off.

Pictured – selfie with one of the lovely people I met – more of this later

It was only about ten minutes but the time flew by, and suddenly I was stepping out, gently because of the heels and having to extract myself from the back of a Toyota (not a Prius!). And then he was gone, and I was stood there.

It wasn’t cold but I was happy I had my pink leather jacket on. I was superbly unprepared – I had a little purse over my shoulder with my perfume, my phone, my bank card and my hotel keycard. And a condom, just in case. But that was it.

I strolled down Canal St., loving the feel of the wind in my dark hair. We went for the dark look as it’s nearer to my natural colour. I knew where Via was, which is where we went for drinkies the first time, so I wandered in there by myself. Order a pint of Neck Oil, flirted with a couple of gentlemen at the bar (beer was really helping), used the toilets even though I didn’t need to (and they are unisex – the one place I would feel safe to use the ladies and they don’t have them).

I was on to my second Neck Oil when a lovely TV tapped me on the arm. And it was then that all my fears (and I did have some) just evaporated. She was delightful, and was out drinking with two male friends. I was invited to join them.

So, I’m not used to talking to people in bars. Because of my early career I tend to sit quietly in bars and watch people. Suddenly I was, gasp, involved. And they were lovely to talk to; genuine people, openly friendly and inviting to the ‘not as scared as I should have been’ solo cross-dresser.

Pictured – start of. the long walk home….

Cue another couple of drinks and we decided to try another bar. At this time I was not much help; I’d tried googling ‘good bars’ and a lot of the ones Google suggested closed in the last four years. However, my new friends suggested somewhere called Molly’s House (I think – by this time I was both in seventh heaven as I felt, well, pretty, and mildly numb.).

This pub was one of those classic, comfortable places that is very recognisable to anyone who grew up drinking in the 80’s and 90’s. It was friendly, full of. a mixture of T-Girls and admirers, and had some good beer. Although by this time I had added a bottle of Hooch (the 19 year old girl in me from the late 80’s had a squee moment when I spotted them in the fridge at Via) and, on the advice of one of the boys in our group, a spiced rum and coke, so I was pretty (and comfortably) fizzled by now.

Cue two hours of talking to everyone I possibly could in the bar. I chatted to a lovely CD who organises nights out (and had picked up an admirer with a mohican haircut from somewhere on her travels). I spent way too long talking to the lad who had suggested the rum and coke.

Pictured – I wanted a selfie showing my eye makeup. 00:25am, streets of Manchester

A little confession time. I couldn’t tell you right now where my sexual preferences live; I have never explored my feelings when dressed, but I had the biggest crush for this guy. For a start he was 6ft 5in, and I had to look up at him even in my 1in heels which was a delightfully feminine and completely new experience for me. And he was funny, polite, clever. Everything a girl wants. If I was just a tiny bit more brave, or four beers less happy, I would have flirted harder. It wasn’t to be, but it was lovely to swoon just that once.

So the clock ticked towards midnight and Cinderella here started to realise that I hadn’t quite thought things completely through. My hotel was a mile and a bit from the Gay Village, and experience of walking through various cities at night has left me with a number of interesting and scary memories; and that was when I had the armour of pretend masculinity on.

I said my goodbyes. to the wonderful people in the bar (and yes, I came frighteningly close. to kissing. the boy). And I stepped out into the cool air. With not a clue of direction to hotel.

Pictured – I got a couple of full length pictures before…… no spoilers, keep reading.

I stood there, legs crossed in a way I have seen many women stand, as people walked past, and the feeling was utterly freeing. I felt alive. I felt happy. I felt complete.

The walk back took slightly longer than I expected, partly because, as with all women, walking in heels all night was starting. to hurt. Plus I kept stopping for selfies. And took a number of videos. And smiled at people. Who smiled back.

I got back to the BrewDog hotel just as they were closing. A part of me would like to say I had forgotten I was completely dressed, but of course I hadn’t. The three guys on the door didn’t bat an eyelid as I did (my lashes at least), explaining I was actually staying there. I stepped gingerly up the three flights of stairs (a tight dress doesn’t lend itself to moving fast). Got back into my room with that lovely bittersweet feeling; happy I had got back but sad the night was about to finish.

And then, courtesy of the copious amount of alcohol I had consumed (I finished the evening in Molly’s House with two glasses of red wine because at that point, having not had anything to eat since my one rasher of bacon and one egg about 18 hours before, I felt invincible) I simply fell into bed and was instantly asleep.

Still fully dressed and made up.

Pictured – one last selfie before I feel asleep. I did manage to get the jacket off before snoozing

I woke at 6:30am, mildly confused as to why my boobs felt so large and why my shoulders were sore where I had slept on my bra straps. I then spent twenty minutes ineffectively removing the makeup (in my defence I really wanted to go get breakfast still wearing my LBD and heels). I ended up wandering down to breakfast in a bit of a fuzz, ordered a full English which was the best food I have ever tasted, and then spent the rest of the day chilling out in my hotel room and completely oblivious to the fact I still had mascara on. I thought the guy at the bar had smiled.

So there we have it. Another of my bucket list items checked off. It was bloody brilliant.

Stay beautiful, and if you are ever out on Canal St. and see a happy looking, slightly tall, slightly squiffy looking older woman, say hi. It might be me.

Pictured – normal retro service will be resumed in a couple of weeks. I have a load of new retro outfits I need to model….