I went to Manchester mainly to meet up with the widows of two beloved trans friends who have died recently. A trip tinged with sadness, therefore, but one that went beautifully for all that.
My first evening out was with Sandy, wife of Bobby Sox who passed away three years ago. I wrote a tribute to Bobby here.
Sandy sold their home in Wales and moved to Lancashire six months ago. As Manchester was a little far for her we agreed to meet half way, in Bolton.
I had been to Bolton once before, for work in the 1990s. But that was just straight from train to office by taxi and back so I'd never actually set foot in the town. For those who don't know, Bolton was once the cotton spinning capital of Britain, with over 200 mills, and therefore a city with a significant industrial heritage. All gone now, although those who watched British TV in the 1970s and '80s may recall Fred Dibnah, a Bolton steeplejack who fascinated the nation with the way he dangled off high roofs, his ways of bringing down industrial chimneys without explosives, and his traction engines.
Anyway, we agreed to have an evening there. So I got into a little floral dress over leggings and my beloved old ankle boots.
When I first started going out in public as a woman, the prospects of taking public transport made me nervous as hell. And although I have been out very little in the last ten years, the last few trips this year seem to have killed off any recurring nerves to speak of and I merrily set off to do a train journey I'd never done before. Living life as a woman becomes too joyous to worry so much about whether you pass or people will notice you. The increased confidence you get as you go out more and more eventually does away with such niggles. I am a woman getting on with her life, and how I feel about that affects my demeanour and how people treat me. Nobody took any notice of me, which is how it should be. Of course, if you want the attention, I'm not saying you shouldn't get it. But I was just off to have dinner with an old friend I hadn't seen in years so what's that to anyone else? I was just another commuter at a crowded station.
So I bought a ticket from the machine, found Platform 14 and its airport-style waiting lounge where a crowd was gathering and eventually the train came in and rattled its way to Bolton.
It was so lovely to see Sandy again and looking well. We went straight to the Achari Indian restaurant near the station where they gave us a big table to ourselves and unfailingly referred to us a "ladies" and called me "madam" and what could one possibly want more than this affirming treatment? That is the joy I derive from doing this. It makes all the aggro with makeup and wigs worth it.
Anyway, we had a lot to catch up on. Sandy seems happy in her new home and is settling into her new work and surroundings. Her son and daughter-in-law are not too far away in Yorkshire. So I'm glad to hear all that. I hope she may visit me in Italy one day.
The food was not at all bad, by the way. Perhaps not the most memorable chicken balti I've had, but certainly tasty, and I was hungry.
We had a bit of time left and so went to look for a quiet place for a drink afterwards and the York Hotel seemed like a possibility. You can never be quite sure in an unknown place what a pub might be like, what sort of people patronise it, how welcoming it might be. But once inside we found it festooned in Pride flags and that was an immediate reassurance. And the other unexpected find was that they served Britvic 55! For those who don't know or don't recall, Britvic 55 was soft drink that saw its heydey in the 1980s with a hard advertising campaign that touted this mix of orange juice and fizzy water as a drink that was both healthy, fun and very much the 'in' thing. I couldn't believe they still make it but there it was. I felt like I was reliving my student days! So we guzzled our Britvic as we chatted.
It was really nice to see my friend again who has always been a staunch ally of the trans community, frequently joining us girls on our nights out. And I got the benefit of an evening as myself with that positive support.
I'd normally leave my narrative there but I have to describe my journey back to Manchester as it required some innovation on my part. The trains to Manchester Piccadilly were cancelled. Typical! The best I could hope for was Manchester Victoria after some wait. I don't know Manchester well and had little idea of where Victoria was. But it was that or walk. So it was that. I assumed there'd be surface transport from Victoria to Piccadilly and I found on arrival that there was a tram. I've never been on a Manchester tram before and working out the route, timetable and ticketing arrangements took a bit of time. No big city ever really helps visitors work out how their complex transport system functions in any easy way.
Anyway, having worked it out and got a ticket, I took the tram which was reasonably empty and I took some bad selfies just to prove I'd been on it. I think I'm getting old and ugly and by evening's end my makeup isn't looking so good. But here's the least awful picture. Let me look down on you, little ticket inspector!
Apart from a lesbian shouting abuse at a man who'd joked "get a room, you two" when she kissed her girlfriend, there was no trouble. (You can tell I don't really like late-night transport!) So I got back to the apartment later than planned but exhilarated by my adventure. A mundane journey for some, but an uplifting experience for a trans woman who hasn't been able to live as she'd like for years.
Thank you, Sandy, for your friendship, kindness, support and company. May we meet again soon. And here's to you, dear Bobby, you never-forgotten glamourpuss.
Sue x
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