How to cope with rather small boobs

Oh dear. I'm not well at the moment. It's another upset tummy, from a Thai meal on Sunday night, I think. I felt half-dead yesterday, but today I'm able to convince myself that I'm over the worst. Certainly up to looking at my emails and posting something on my blog. But my plans for the next two days have been scrapped. I don't want to be far from home, certainly not out driving, so long as my tummy feels slightly queasy, and there are suspicious gurglings coming from lower down.

So I'm indoors, not doing much, hardly eating of course, mostly just sitting around, reclined if not actually in bed sleeping - for sleep is a marvellous cure for most things connected with dodgy eating and drinking.

Naturally I've not been putting on a bra. And strangely this spell of enforced convalescence seems to have reduced the apparent size of my boobs! Why, I do not know. Although they are still most definitely more prominent than they were a year ago, I'm afraid the bumps have never ballooned as much as I could have wished, and my current indisposition hasn't improved matters. No doubt they will be resurgent, to a degree, but they'll never give me a cleavage to be proud of.

What to do? One can resort to all kinds of artificial measures, but personally I find artificiality repugnant. I think the answer lies in cultivating the right attitude of mind.

Before me is the 2004 edition of What Not To Wear:The Rules by Trinny Woodhall and Susannah Constsantine. These two ladies seem to have disappeared from our TV screens of late, but in their time they were fashion gurus, or more particularly, ladies who were doing their best to point out the mistakes people were making with their clothes, and to prescribe what they considered to be The Right Way. It was fun to see the likes of Jeremy Clarkson being subjected to their no-nonsense ministrations. Not so much fun to see them boss less self-assertive people around. If I say that I was never quite sure that I liked their tone, you'll get the picture, and we can leave it at that.

In their slim volume about The Rules, however, that tone is under better control, and there are passages that give hope and encouragement. Take this, which is about having Big Tits:

People may look at you and think you have an amazing pair of tits - so what's the problem? Well, for a start, Susannah knows, and Trinny can imagine, that buying dresses, suits and coats to fit both the top and bottom halves of your body requires a degree in anatomy. And whilst we're all in favour of a girl making the most of her natural assets, she needs to be careful not to look top-heavy or tarty. It is lovely having men magnets when you're out on the town, but there are times when you want to be appreciated for your brain power. This requires decorous dressing and the implementation of surrepticious tricks to tone things down. The primary tool, and one that will become indispensable, is a well-fitting bra. Invest what ever it takes to find the best one for you. Hoick your tits up high and push them forward with under-wires and strong straps. Armed with the right bra, you are in control of your jugs rather than the other way around. It's much more exciting having tits that can be exhibited as and when the occasion requires.

And then this, on having No Tits:

If you are the owner of a chest bereft of tits, you have no doubt longed for boobs, thought about surgery and tried all breast-enhancing trickery to boost what isn't there. The ironic thing is, many big-titted women look at the daintily endowed with envy. Susannah longs to be able to wear clothes that Trinny can. Loads of clothes look better worn by flat-chested women. They hang better and this must surely be a compensating factor for worrying about not being sexy. You don't need tits to be alluring and at least you should have the choice of a breast day or a non-breast day. You can boost your sexiness with padded bras and silicone extras. We know it's hard sometimes for the unattached, because young men especially need an eyeful of tit before they even talk to you. Maybe this isn't such a bad thing, as turn this notion on its head and your dainty boobs are actually a filter for all the jerks out there. An added bonus is that there isn't a single coat or jacket you won't look fab in.

The ladies have spoken. But in truth, their words have given me great consolation, and that has saved this little book being tossed into my bin in seething annoyance, because I really do not like their prescriptive tone. But I can recognise wise words when I read them.

They're absolutely right about small boobs filtering out young men. They never ever talk to me. Only the old codgers do.

Street walking kit

No, I've not decided to go on the game. I want to show you my new kit for urban walking, my necessary equipment for town and promenade exercise. I had most of what I needed already: leggings, socks, a variety of suitable tops, rainwear. But I was lacking some dedicated trainers for this kind of activity, and none of my bags was quite right.

Getting a decent but not very expensive pair of trainers was a no-brainer. I went straight down to Sports Direct in Brighton. These online retailers have a big shop there, a bit no-frills, pile-it-high-in-all-sizes, but you can see, handle, and try on an awful lot of stock in most of the usual brands without having to ask anyone to get things out for you. I quickly narrowed down my choice to a pair of Nike trainers that would cost me £32.99. I think they might in strictness have been a men's design, but they looked pretty unisex to me, and hey, what does it matter? Pink detailling isn't required. Black and white is fine.

Then it was merely a decision on size. That's not so simple. With ordinary shoes, I'm often a size 8. But 8 and a half is sometimes necessary, to give me enough toe room. The trouble is usually the width: ladies' shoes generally assume slender feet. These Nike trainers had plenty of width, but I was still doubtful about their length. Size 8 was definitely too small. Size 9 felt beautifully roomy, but I reckoned that once the shoes had flexed a bit, and given a little, they could prove to be sloppy on my feet - definitely not good for them. 8 and a half felt snug, but it was comfortable and I could wiggle my toes, so that seemed the best size.

Here they are, at home, before going out for my first walk:

And this is a close up view, next morning:

As for the bag, I wanted a clasy-looking one, but nothing too big. Something light and thin. I usually carry around a fair bit of gear, including my PDA, Leica camera, and minimum makeup items. But the only absolutely vital things were my keys, my purse, my mobile phone, and some tissues. I wanted a bag that would swallow these but force me to leave the rest behind, and so lighten my load for sustained powerwalking. Last week, then, while visiting Bluewater shopping centre in Kent, I bought a neat little number from John Lewis: a leather bag by Tula. That completed my kit. Here is the bag with the trainers:

The bag wasn't cheap: it cost me £69.00. But then I can see plenty of other uses for it. I don't like going anywere without a proper camera, but actually I can if necessary take reasonably good shots with the phone. They always need a bit of work on them at home to correct the pictures for exposure and colour rendition, but if something caught my eye while out walking those city streets, I wouldn't be without a lens.

Those trainers won't stay pure white for long! But I'll look after them, and they should last me the rest of 2012 at least.

Let the past go

Last night, on impulse, I typed out a letter to a couple that M--- and I used to know for many years. They were among those who became instantly silent, so far as I was concerned, as soon as I came out as a trans person. They have remained silent.

Of all our friends, I found them the most inexplicable example of apparently taking sides with M---, and shutting me completely out of their lives. M--- knew them from her student days, very many years ago. But they had still known me from the start of my relationship with M---, since 1994, and that's eighteen years by my reckoning. A long time.

I feared that many people would ostracise me, but I strongly hoped they would not. And I had reason for that hope. They had always seemed to like me, and had always given every sign of welcome to me. And I was equally friendly with them. Ours was an easy-going relationship. She was a Quaker with a sense of fun; a talented blues singer; and I considered her serene and sensible, a lover of life, and the last person to make an ill-considered judgement on hearsay alone. He was a Humanist; a poet; a gentle, reasonable man. Both were creative and artistic, and musical too. They had very nice friends.

I expected them to be surprised and concerned when I came out, and certainly supportive of M--- in particular. But I thought they would want to know all about what was driving me, in a spirit of wanting to understand and help. They could so easily have provided a safe and gentle space, an evening meal for four friends. It could well have eased the rapidly-growing fear and tension that M--- was experiencing. It would have helped enormously if offered at once. I thought it would be. But I was wrong.

Of course there was nothing to debate, no 'doctrine of transsexuality' to examine, nothing to argue me out of. It was about self-realisation and its what needed to be done about it. About what a person, especially an older person who did not have time on their side, was compelled to do now, having recognised that they had been living their life on entirely the wrong basis. It was about feelings and their consequences. How to manage necessary changes. The best way forward.

I couldn't have spoken clearly about these things at the very beginning, as I was reeling with what I had discovered about myself, afraid of what might happen, and I had no pat explanations to give. But their practical help would have given me time to find the words. Their provision of a controlled and civilised forum for discussion would have been a reassurance for M---, a place where the pressure would be less for us both, a safety net. But they did not step in. They did not ask me what it was all about. They listened to to M---, and presumably offered her advice and support, but they did not speak to me. Nor was there a letter from them to me, nor an email, not even a text. They could have done a good thing, something for us, something that would have mattered at the time. It was a missed opportunity.

I'm not saying that they made a deliberate decision to abandon me and cluster around M--- only. I don't know what they thought. It might easily be that they discussed it deeply, and decided it best to stay detached from the situation. In case intervention, however well-intentioned, made it all worse. Perhaps they knew something about what usually happens to couples where one of them finds they are trans. They might have made a realistic assessment of our chances, and concluded that whatever effort they could make ought to be reserved for M---. I can't dispute the reasonableness of that.

Whatever their position, they left me strictly alone, and did not enquire nor offer a mediating hand, nor keep in touch in any way. I had thought them persons of understanding and tolerance, the very sort to throw down a line to a drowning human being, even to someone who might be mad, or a monster. But no line came.

At one point I felt like saying, 'So much for Humanism'. And, 'So much for being a person of religion'. Where was the fellowship that should be offered to all people, regardless of their crime? Where was the love of God, that enjoined those who accepted His will to go that extra mile with the errant? Where was the Good Samaritan?

But then time passes, and you see things differently, and you want to break the dreadful silence. To test the water. And to have a proper farewell, if farewell it must be. So last night I decided to risk a rebuff and write to them. It was a good letter, and I've kept it on file as a draft, but I've decided now not to send it.

It comes back to that word: time. Time has changed things. I can't revive my relationship with M--- as it was. I can only, at best, form a fresh connection based on how things are now. These old friends will have moved forward too. Their lives will have developed. Could we even speak to each other, after an hour of catching up and explanation? What would there be to say? How could I fit into their lives now? Or they into my own life, so different from the one I used to lead. What if their first loyalty remained with M---, and they wanted to keep it exclusively that way? Should I embarrass them with an approach?

I saw all this, and turned off the printer. They would not welcome a voice from the past. There had been too much silence for too long. I let them go.

Outing trans people

This is about the current fuss over the 'trans man who has had a baby', and the efforts being made to out the person concerned.

First thoughts: is this the only instance in the UK? Is it really that rare? Is it even newsworthy? Knowing that trans men cannot routinely have hysterectomies, and can't routinely get their vaginas sealed up forever, am I surprised that occasionally they make use of their baby-ready anatomy? What's wrong with that? What's the issue? Is having a baby a bad thing? Is experiencing parenthood a bad thing? Something to be denied? If a severely disabled natal woman can have a baby, then why not anyone else?

Trans women are always asked, before hormone treatment commences, whether they'd like to freeze some sperm. Freezing sperm is officially all right. That sperm could fertilise a female egg and produce a baby in someone's womb. That's generally all right too. Maybe a trans man's womb: ah, what about that? Isn't that perfectly all right also?

Imagine a scenario where a differently-gendered couple are both trans, and both decide to transition. The male-bodied partner freezes her sperm, and after each have undergone the usual procedures in transition, that sperm is used in the female-bodied partner's womb to produce a child that they both want. No question that he, the female-bodied partner, is naturally a suitable vessel for conceiving the baby, carrying the baby, and giving birth at the natural time. Maybe he now has reduced breasts, maybe not, but there is still a proper womb, all the correct physical connections between the embryo and the parent-to-be, all the correct muscles, the right kind of hips, and so on. The child is born into a parenting situation that both partners feel very comfortable with. The child's welfare, and the love it gets, and the nurturing skills given to it, are all as they should be. The eventual outcome is actually likely to be much better than it would have been pre-transition, because each partner is in their proper natural role, and free of internal conflicts that might have adversely affected the child. Some time later they repeat the process.

Is anything wrong with this scenario? What can be bad about it? Why would it be the business of a media organisation, such as a newspaper, to poke into it and make all the details public? What interest does that serve? Who takes responsibility for the damage done?

I don't care whether or not this particular trans parent has used the National Health Service. I do care whether this was a baby that was wanted and will be loved. I also hope that whatever high expectations this new parent had for the birth and its aftermath are now being fulfilled. And I'd wish to ensure that those conditions continue and are not put at risk by outside intervention. This is not the time to be intruding into the parents' world, when their attention should be focussed on the baby.

So why does the Sun (and no doubt others yet to come) consider that intrusion is justified in the public interest?

The point has been made elsewhere that what interests the public is not always in the public interest - meaning that there is always a standard to be observed, a line drawn, a distance to be maintained. That while media articles, documentaries, advertisements and crusades may indeed appeal to a large number of people, they may yet be so wrong and inappropriate and subversive of decent standards that they simply encourage the bad sides of human behaviour. In other words, they make life worse. That effect can't at all be in the public interest.

It isn't a good thing to encourage people to look down their noses at other lives and purse their lips in righteous indignation. It isn't a good thing to encourage a feeling in some that they are better than others. Or that their views are more valid or healthy. Or simply 'normal', as if all deviants from normality must, of course, be freaks to joke about, or shudder at, or commit social murder against. Consider those who are wonderfully intelligent, or wonderfully artistic, or wonderfully beautiful, or wonderfully saintly. They aren't 'normal' either. Will the Sun be mounting a campaign against them soon, in the public interest?

While it is right to search for the perpetrator where a genuinely criminal act has been committed, it isn't right to conduct a witch-hunt against those who have merely done unusual things. Witch-hunts remind me of other kinds of hunt. And of phrases like 'hounded to death'. And of ritual purging and killing generally. An advanced society shouldn't be shouting 'Tally-ho!' and turning on its own members. To take part in any hunt is, at best, to agree that the quarry is fair game, even if it has done nothing worthy of harrassment. At worst, it is to be complicit in an appalling and wanton act of destruction.

Getting back to this current affair. I ask again: what is the precise public interest? Whipping up ill-feeling against this trans parent is degrading the moral standards that society needs to maintain. Offering rewards to informants even more so. That kind of thing simply isn't in the public interest - to foster an atmosphere in which denunciation is OK. A bounty hunter world. Who will be safe? Is that in the public interest?

Then there's the collateral damage done. The notion implanted that all trans men want babies. Following that, the idea that all trans people, male or female, are frauds. That trans women still have male capability. I know: that would be completely in defiance of the physical facts - hormone treatment leaves you sterile, and, if post-op, male-type penetrative sex is impossible - but when have details like this stopped people believing whatever they want? Horrific things like 'trans women are perverts, not to be trusted near children'.

How can misrepresenting and outing trans people be in the public interest, when a large number of ordinary UK citizens must be to some extent trans? Maybe several million? It's a natural thing, weak in most, strong in a few, like so many birth conditions that endure lifelong. Do we want to create a national neurosis?

It is newsworthy to draw attention to astonishing and inspiring human experiences. But in a spirit of celebration, surely? Not in a spirit of victimisation.

And certainly not while mouthing those empty words, 'in the public interest'.

February the Fourteenth

The Day of Lovers.

Twenty-nine years ago, in 1983, I got married on St Valentine's Day. It was a romantic gesture, and my own idea. The marriage didn't last. W--- and I separated in 1991, and divorce followed in 1996. But the event hasn't faded into oblivion, because every year St Valentine's Day comes up again, and I am reminded once more.

Back in 1972, forty years ago now, the commercial nature of February the Fourteenth was already well established. Bosh and humbug indeed, but it could be fun. There was a convention that all cards sent had to be completely anonymous, supposedly from a secret but passionate admirer. The fun came from sending them, or, if on the receiving end, guessing who had sent them to you. Secrecy was absolutely the essence. Many a shy teenager (and many a bit older than that) must have had their heart thumping with delicious pleasure when a card arrived in the post, or on their office desk perhaps, quite out of the blue, confessing or pledging a yearning love. A lot of artfulness and cunning went into writing these cards, using a disguised hand and, if posted, paying attention to where the card was posted from, so that its recipient couldn't easily guess who had sent it. Of course, sometimes there was a deliberate clue, to be hotly followed up at the very next disco.

Sometimes of course cards were sent merely to tease. And sometimes with a frankly cruel intention. There must have been quite a number of testy old codgers or spinsters who got a sugary card that spoke sweetly of love, but actually mocked them and made them angry and embarrassed - as it was intended to do.

I wonder if the proper ritual is still observed? Or do people simply send openly-signed cards to whoever takes their fancy, as a clear message that A fancies B, and how about it?

I'm sure that many long-established couples go through an annual routine of buying a card for each other, as if to say, 'Yes, despite our humdrum life together, we're still in love'. As if an exchange of Valentine cards, plus a meal out, and maybe a bunch of red roses from the man, is an insurance against the breakup of an exhausted relationship.

And what am I doing today? Well, my new fence was put up this morning. That was a great start to the day. The two men arrived at 8.00am and had finished the job by 11.30am, assisted by three rounds of tea and chocolate biscuits from yours truly. I expressed great satisfaction with the end result. This afternoon, a trip into Brighton for a little shopping - trainers, socks and a smaller handbag for serious calorie-burning walking - not in the country - in the town, where I can do it in most weathers without getting muddy. Another part of my quest for some fitness. Then I'll catch up with friends at the Clare Project. Then a drink somewhere. Then home to a defrosted meal. All this with nary a card in sight, nor a rose tenderly offered. What's not to like?

Selsey

Yesterday - Sunday - was a chilly, overcast sort of day, but I felt a bit cooped up indoors, and so in the afternoon I fired up Fiona and we went off to Selsey.

Selsey is a small town at the southern tip of the flat bit of land that sticks out like an upside-down shark's fin into the English Channel east of the Isle of Wight. It's a landmark feature, if you're a bird flying along the coast. Indeed, the first thing I encountered after parking was an information board saying just that, and giving details of all the birds you might see. I suppose they all bank to port on a new 030 degree course as they pass Selsey Bill. What a sight. Selsey also has a well-known resident: Sir Patrick Moore, the famous astronomer. But I didn't bump into him.

My plan was to walk the half mile or so to the lifeboat station, and maybe take a look at the lifeboat if the place was open. I like lifeboats and all the brave work they are put to in all weathers, and never fail to pop £2 into the collection box if I visit a station. Because of course the Royal National Lifeboat Institution is largely funded by voluntary donations. It's one charity I have no reservations about at all.

The Selsey lifeboat is housed in its own little building full of winches and other stuff. At least one lifeboat, the one at Cromer in Norfolk, is housed at the end of a pleasure pier, but this one had its own little pier, very similar to the Bembridge lifeboat on the Isle of Wight, or, in more dramatic surroundings, the lifeboat at Porthstinian in Pembrokeshire. As at most places, the Selsey boat is launched down a sloping slipway straight into the sea, but some are launched by tractor, a driver pulling the boat into deep enough water - as with the boat at Wells-next-the-Sea, also in Norfolk. Here are some photos I've taken over the years of the setups at Cromer, Bembridge, Porthstinian, and Wells-next-the-Sea:

And here is the setup at Selsey, in shots I took yesterday:

I climbed the steps up to the pier gangway, and after walking down to the end, found the entranced door unlocked.

This was unexpected - it was half past three on a winter Sunday, and I thought it would be all closed up. Touching the door handle, the door suddenly opened out towards me, and there was a man in seagoing clothes! We both jumped, myself whooping in surprise. He was twenty minutes away from closing up for the afternoon, but welcomed me inside, and treated me to a one-to-one tour of the boat, or at least I was permitted to come onto the deck, and look inside from there.

I felt privileged, and in fact it was the first time I'd ever stepped onto a lifeboat. I suppose health and safety requirements usually rule this out. It was, for example, quite easy to bang your head on the radar mast, which was folded down. This was necessary so that the boat could be launched without damaging the mast, as the doors to the sea had limited height. My host told me many things about the boat, and I had several questions of my own. We agreed that despite speed and seaworthiness and carrying capacity being so vital, these requirements produced some of the most graceful designs found in boatbuilding. It was easy to see how such a boat inspired confidence, respect and pride in the hearts of its crew, who were after all risking their lives to assist others in distress on the sea, and utterly depended on their boat.

I asked how many could be saved, and where they were housed. The answer was, as many as could be packed in. The boat was so buoyant that within reason - and of course possibly beyond it - they could carry as many as could be got off. They were primarily put into a chamber that occupied most of the after part of the boat, but there was another space forward, although they'd have to hang on tightly if in there, as it would be pitching up and down pretty violently in a storm. The crew themselves - six of them - sat on special seats in a spacious bridge, surrounded by high-tech instruments. My host remarked that they were mostly fishermen, who might not have anything like all this gadgetry on their own boats. But they were well-trained, and slipped seamlessly into high-tech mode for every rescue. Everyone - crew and rescued - were sealed inside wave-proof compartments, so that it wouldn't matter if the boat was pushed under or rolled over - it would self-right, and let no water in.

The crew were all local. If an alarm was raised, they would drop everything and get to the lifeboat station as fast as possible. Their sea clothing, tagged with their names, was ready behind a curtain (I was shown this). While they donned their waterproofs, the twin diesel engines of the boat were fired up - with a special pipe clamped over the exhaust outlets to take the fumes out of the building, so that nobody got gassed before launch. The sea doors would be opened. My host opened these partly for me, so that I could see what the boat would be launched down into. Even though it was a calm day, there was clearly a strong sideways current running, and I could imagine how it might be in a storm, with the waves huge and confused. The activity in the run-up to a launch must be a picture of orderly haste. Impressively, from the first distress signal to launch usually took only ten minutes.

The boat had been last launched only a week before. On its return, it had been washed down with fresh water to take all the salt off, then polished up again. It looked immaculate, almost new.

We chatted a bit. My host was a retired naval man from Tyneside, too old to be an actual crewmember, who had quite naturally been drawn to looking after the boat as a retirement job. How appropriate that the present Selsey boat was of the 'Tyne' class! He told me it had been in service at Selsey for some six years, and was expected to be replaced in four years' time. Replaced but not scrapped - these vessels were passed on to other live-saving agencies. Its predecessor went to China, for example.

We talked about various aspects of life with boats. I made it quite clear that I knew very little about them, merely having been brought up by the seaside, but, encouraged by our rapport, I mentioned in passing a recent dream in which I had applied for a job as the PA to the managing director of a Littlehampton boat-building firm. The interview had begun conventionally, then it had been sidetracked as I showed unexpected interest and passion for the practical aspects of boat construction, with a visit to the yard, discussions with the skilled men, and eventually formulating a ongoing business plan that had the directors offering me a position without further formality. How strange was that? I didn't even know whether, in real lfe, there was still any boatbuilding anywhere along the Sussex coast! But the dream had been vivid, and possibly was pointing me in a direction to take. Something connected with the sea. Obviously, my seafaring Scandinavian blood.

As an uncontrived exercise in successful passing, by which I mean behaving naturally and not arousing any suspicions, this was surely rather a triumph. It was certainly a stiffer test than getting through a supermarket checkout without bother.

Creepy

A couple of days ago I took a friend to Gatwick Airport for her flight back to Scotland. As I drove into the Short Stay car park I got a ticket to retain until it was time to leave. You know: you feed the thing into a payment machine, fiddle around with your credit card details, and then you get it back in a state ready for the exit barrier - assuming you can find your car in time!

Well, I went through the usual procedure, and happened to glance at the exit-enabled ticket. I was amazed to see this:

As you can see, Fiona's registration mark - SC10 CUR - was printed on the ticket! How was that possible? How did they know it was Fiona (and therefore probably me), and not just any anonymous car? Creepy.

There was no time for speculation. One hour had cost me £5.60 - it was worse than parking in Brighton - and having photographed the ticket for later pondering, I set off for where I thought I'd left my car. I'd made a careful note: Blue car park, level 1, row K. But how to actually get there was like finding your way into a Klein bottle.

For part of the way, the young man who had paid on the adjacent machine was with me, and while we experimented with a lift to another level, I asked him how Fiona's registration might get printed on the ticket. He thought there was a security camera facing each car that stopped at the entrance barrier, and that an automated link between this and the printer might be the answer. This certainly sounded plausible, although very Big Brotherish if true! (That's Big Brother in the Orwellian sense)

I did eventually find Fiona, and I wasn't sorry to get away from Gatwick Airport as rapidly as possible. It had seemed an overlarge, unfriendly place, in which it was easy to get disorientated and lost. A factory for processing travellers. It wasn't always like this. Back in 1971 and 1972, when going to Mallorca in a family party, the place had seemed intimate and comprehensible. Guernsey Airport in 2010 had the same pleasant feel, despite its modernity: it wasn't too big, you could park close by, you could see the planes, and you actually walked to them over the tarmac and climbed stairs to get inside! And there was no oppressive security to make you vaguely fearful. Guernsey Airport still had about it some of the old excitement of flying. Not like trekking through the echoing halls and corridors of a much larger place, then down a tube into a crowded capsule.

The largest airport I've seen so far was the one at Hong Kong. It was an architectural triumph: its vast roof and open-plan design gave it a spacious feel. But each part looked very much the same.

I was there in 2007, coming home from New Zealand with M---. While awaiting our flight back to London Heathrow, she wandered off for some exercise and lost her way. She didn't have her mobile phone. We both had an anxious time before she finally made it back, with ten minutes to spare, to where I'd stayed put with our hand luggage. That was scary, but it wouldn't put me off going to Hong Kong again - a colourful and fascinating place.

The worst impression left by any airport I've been to was by LAX, Los Angeles International, on the way out to New Zealand in 2007. The waiting areas were grey and dirty and prison-like. And the suspicious officials were surly and rude. Or at least the one I encountered was.

This was also the place where I twice had to undergo a hands-on security search of my person. It made me convinced, later on, especially when body scans were announced, that international flights were a complete no-no until I'd had my surgery, and had secured all the proper documents that might conceivably be asked for if my gender were in doubt. Otherwise argument and humiliation were going to result - especially at airports like LAX.