‘This is a clothes shop – there isn’t a changing room?!’
The new trousers hang limply over my arm.
‘There’s a 28 day returns policy. Bring them back if they don’t fit,’ the assistant says.
‘Will I get cash back or store credit?’
She looks at me like I’m some kind of genetic accident.
To prove a point, I’m about to take off my jeans and try on the trousers in the middle of the shop. Then I remember what underpants I’m wearing and how old they are.
I storm off, chuntering, and put the trousers back on the rail.
The transvestite in the pub always seemed a bit crap. The skirt’s ok, the aran sweater is reasonably girly but the fake breasts are too high and he walks like a docker. Aside from the clothes, his whole approach to transvestism seems a little half-arsed and I’ve never been able to work him out. Until recently.
It was karaoke night and he got up to sing three times. Each song was by Monty Python and the name he used to announce himself was Wanda. I understood then: he wasn’t a crap transvestite at all, he was trying to be funny.