I even love the throngs of Poles who hang around outside employment agencies at 8.30am and assume that because I wear a suit I can secure them employment on a building site for the day.
I love the fact that there is a certain ‘quarter’ of the city that I cannot set foot in because for reasons I have yet to fathom I am like catnip to homosexuals.
I am walking to my office. It is morning.
Here she comes, I think.
And like clockwork, she strides toward me. I could set my watch by her. Proper strides, mind you. She is nearly seven foot tall. Really. The perm would shame Elkie Brooks. Facially, she resembles an un-surgically enhanced Roger Daltry.
Being of very broad shoulder, many people who step near her are sent reeling.
I say ‘she’ and ‘her’. I have no idea if she is entirely post-op and have no strong desire to find out. But if I’d had implants, hormones and my cock split in half and shoved back inside me, I’d feel I’d earned the title as well as anyone else.
I reach the building that I work in.
The colleague that I work most closely with is the same height, age and build as me. And has the uncanny ability of making people feel unsure as to whether he is about to propose to a person or murder them. I like him.
Uncannily Similar to Myself Colleague: Morning Tired.
Me: Yeah. You know transvestites?
USTMC: I can find out for you. Jesus. I had no idea.
Me: Fuck off. I mean, you know, those men that decide they should actually be women and have surgery?
USTMC: They’re transsexuals.
Me: That’s fucked the title then.
Me: Nothing. But. Look. Have you ever seen a transsexual that didn’t look like a goalkeeper? Seriously. They all look like rugby players in drag.
Some thought takes place. This is a serious matter and nobody has drunk any coffee yet.
This is going to trouble me all day.
USTMC: If they didn’t look like centre-forwards, how would you even know they were transsexuals?
Me: Of course. I’ve probably seen and met and known thousands and not even known.
I feel a huge weight has been lifted.