[ADD 15 March 2015: a few parts of this post have been altered in the light of subsequent events.]
I have just come back from sunny Brighton, which you will hear about soon. But first, London Kings Cross, three women and an amusing anecdote
…
Last Thursday was a beautiful summer’s day and I met [some friends] at Kings Cross as we wanted to see the new development
at the back which is replacing the old gasometers and run-down streets renowned
in the last two decades for prostitution and general seediness. The wonderful
’50s Ealing Comedy The Ladykillers was
set in the area, but it’s harder now to imagine Alec Guinness, Peter Sellers
and Herbert Lom skulking in bomb-damaged Victorian terraced houses when you see
the new glass and steel additions to the stout brickwork of former train sheds
and warehouses. The Victoriana is still there, but disguised and reworked into
the new Central St Martins art college (which is obviously now no longer
central or close to St Martins). It didn’t take long too look around as,
actually, this area is not going to be fully operational as a new office and
commercial centre for another couple of years at least.
Funnily enough, Ann Drogyny had been there a few days before
(see her blog entry here
http://transfastic.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/a-pheonix-rises.html)
so I was mindful of her comments. Nevertheless we decided to have lunch at the
Grain Store restaurant overlooking the fountain that boasts over a thousand
variable jets. Lunch there was amazing. My starter was a pear and Roquefort
salad which, although a dish you see from time to time, was very fresh with
crisp endive. The poached salmon with peach and salted watermelon was
extraordinary. I have never eaten this combination of foods before and never
had salted watermelon but it worked brilliantly. The pudding of chocolate
mousse, almond icecream and chocolate rice crispie cake was delicious. And I
had a Roman cassis and clove wine, which was certainly interesting. My
companions had the grilled woodcock skewers with pumpkin and leaves as a main,
which they said was good. Service was attentive and pleasant and the staff were
enthusiastic about the food, its sources and the way it was cooked. Though more
than I usually like to pay for lunch, I thought it acceptable at under £39 a
head. And the outside setting was very pleasant and the sun was lovely and
warm.
 |
| There are over 1000 jets in the fountains at the new Kings Cross development. |
My companions, having had the privilege (a somewhat dubious
one in their view) of having been born girls, were again very full of questions
about me and how being trans affected life and how I saw things going forward.
It’s so hard to give answers that are full and can be comprehended by someone
who hasn’t spent forty years wondering every day about her gender. When you are
brought up a girl, you never really think about it, it’s just life. For me,
it’s the question that’s been in my head every day since I was a toddler. How
much mental effort have I expended in all that time? An awful lot. How many
answers have I come up with for all that effort? An awful few! The trans community has a habit of
isolating itself and gazing at its own navel rather too much sometimes and
being asked challenging questions is vital in
clarifying one’s own thoughts and feelings within the wider contexts of life
and society.
And I got a lot of stick for wearing tights. Excuse me! They’re
the lightest, most gossamer-thin 5 denier pair available, almost invisible and
make my legs even more fabulous! I reckon it’s jealousy! But this girl is a
hosiery uberfan and will always wear
hosiery, whatever’s appropriate to the occasion. So there!
Anyway, we caught a lot of sun and one thing we agreed on
was that being a little kiddie splashing worry-free in a fountain was a good
thing to be.
Now, let’s end with a true story about Kings Cross
prostitutes. They were famous at one time: the Director of Public Prosecutions
about 20 years ago had to resign after kerb-crawling in the area and the whole
phenomenon there became widely known. But my story concerns a guy I used to
work with. Throughout the morning he would drink cup after cup of coffee. At
lunchtime he would go to the pub and drink two or three pints of Guinness. Then
he’d return to work and drink mug after mug of tea before finishing work and
heading back to the pub for more beer. He must have had the most robust kidneys
in the world because I never met anyone who could swallow so much liquid in a
day. Anyway, his enjoyment of beer would often go on late into the night, so
much so that he would sometimes miss the last train home and would be stranded
at Kings Cross. However, he would just wait the four hours or so until the
first train of the morning, get home, have a short kip, shower, and head back
to work. Anyway, one time when he had
missed the last train and was sitting out the night at Kings Cross station, a
prostitute approached him with her cheery cry, “Business, love?” He politely
declined and she went on her way. An hour or so later she passed him again. “Come
on, darlin’,” she said, “’ow about a bit o’ business, then?” Once more he
declined her thoughtful suggestion. Later that night she passed him a third
time, with a further offer of her tailored services, with discount, and once
again he turned her down. Annoyed, she shoved a pound coin in his hand and told
him for Gawd’s sake to go get himself a cup of coffee!
Sue x
