The wrong trousers David Thomas’s transgender diary

If I had a pound for every time that a woman has said the words, ‘Join the club’, or ‘Welcome to our world’, to me, I’d be on the Eurostar to Paris right now, for an appointment with Maria Grazia Chiuri for a Christian Dior couture frock.

Sadly, however, the comments come without a cash bonus. But, hey, a girl can dream. And in the meantime, this particular girl has finally – to use the transwoman slang – ‘gone full-time’. That is to say, I’m now living in role, presenting as female 24/7.

It turns out to be much less frightening than I had feared. But it’s certainly an interesting experience. And a very instructive one.

So, for example, joining the club last week meant being in west London overnight, between the first and second days of my new hair installation. I went for a wander down King Street, Hammersmith, looking for somewhere to while away the time and realised as I went past numerous pubs, that I couldn’t just do what I would have done as a man.

‘He’ would have popped in, found a quiet seat with a view of the football on the TV and settled down for a pint. ‘She’ feared unwanted attention and possibly humiliating exposure and walked right by.

Then again, joining the club can also be more, well… clubbable. On the afternoon before my first posthair choir practice, I spent a mindboggling two hours washing, condistyling tioning, drying and (a compliprocess cated when you’re rocking a massive nest of weaves and extensions that I will reveal to you in due time).

Or, to put it another way, doing my hair now takes one hour and 55 minutes more than it took me before. At the end of my efforts, my hair looked as frizzy as a cartoon character who has just stuck their hand into an electric socket. Oh well, never mind. Off I went to the choir, which is currently about 45-strong – the vast majority female. My problematic locks were greeted with enthusiastic admiration for the artful colouring, along with the deepest sympathy expressed for the frizz.

Every woman there knew the grief brought about by hair that is as uncooperative as a stroppy teenager. Hence, there were half-a-dozen more ‘Join the club’, and everyone had their own preferred solution, from ponytails, to buns, to anti-frizz sprays and miracle conditioners.

I have long been blessed with the affection and support of the other choristers, but this felt to me like real sisterhood, and I basked in it like a kitten in the sun.

The following day, some bras that I had bought online were delivered. I have a Sumptuously Soft M&S bra, size 34C, that is indeed sumptuously comfortable, so I’d ordered three more. But when I tried them on, the same thing happened with all three: the cup size was fine but the band was as tight as a boa constrictor wrapped around my ribs.

I lined up the new bras beside the old one. Sure enough, there was a clear difference between them.

I now had a choice. I could wrap them up and send them back, or I could risk taking them in person to the returns counter at my local M&S. I opted for the Mission Impossible.

Now, you know the moment in an ice-skating routine where the teenage prodigy attempts her final, disaster-defying quadruple spin? She pauses at one corner of the rink, takes a deep breath and the tension is unbearable as she just goes for it.

Well, here was the newly full-time transwoman’s equivalent. This was not just a shop visit. This was a Marks & Spencer shop visit – involving a conversation about women’s underwear.

Convince the assistant that I was a fellow female and I would land the jump; betray the least shred of maleness and I’d come crashing down on to the ice.

I paused at the top of the escalator, took my deep breath, set out across the floor, approached the counter… And I had a nice little chat for the next few minutes as the assistant tallied up my items, while we agreed that, of course, one could be different sizes for different brands, but it was very odd for that to happen with the same items from the same brand.

And she didn’t say it, but I quietly thought it, ‘I just joined the club.’

This was not just a shop visit. This was a Marks & Spencer shop visit – involving a conversation about women’s underwear