RELUCTANT PRESS

As already indicated, his name was 'Bulldog' Buller, just like General Buller, who, in the Boer War, like the Grand Old Duke of York, marched his men to the top of the hill and marched them down again. He was reputed to have had his own private liquor wagon that followed him everywhere in Natal. I never got around to asking 'Bulldog' if they were related.

But let me get to the crunch.

You see, I'm a transvestite. I even look a bit like a girl and, in fact, I think I would like to BE a girl. At twenty-two, my skin is flawless and smooth and I look more like sixteen. I had, in fact, got into the habit of always carrying my birth certificate around with me to show barmen who would often refuse to serve me.

The fact that I was not able to put my women's clothing on now and again was driving me scatty. I felt cornered and utterly miserable. I would lie awake at night in my barrack bed with its coarse woolen blankets and, in the merciful privacy of the dark, dress myself up over and over again, down to the last exquisite detail. These fantasies always started off with my making a bonfire of that bloody awful serge uniform. There were some 2,000 men in that camp and, if statistics are anywhere near valid, there must have been at least another ten TVs among the 2,000. Alas, we never met and the Information Board never ever carried the notice: TV meeting in hut 17B at 7 p. m. on Tuesday and every Tuesday thereafter. Only sisters en femme will be admitted!'

My life in civvies street was quite another matter and like a distant dream. I'm a clarinetist in a band.

(Note the present tense; I cannot bear to say 'was'.) Forgive this please, but I'm good and I earn enough to prove it. I live in a lovely flat near the River; can afford to change the flowers in the hall at least once a week and have a grand piano on which I strum out my own compositions. I have sold several for real money but haven't hit the big time yet. I have an original Hockney on the sitting room wall, and wall--to--wall carpeting on the floor.

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JOYCE'S GIRLS

BY JOYCE

The Hockney, I must confess, wasn't bought, but inherited, but at least I have never felt pushed to sell it.

My sister, who is staying in my pad now, can afford to pay the rent. She is a high powered solicitor's secretary and is well paid. She knows about me and, if anything, is mildly approving of my life style.

I have a wardrobe full of femme gear and to have hidden it all away in a locked case under the bed would have been next to impossible.

For starters, last year I actually played in a girls' band, AS a girl! (Shades of Some Like it Hot!) Their clarinetist had to be laid off to have a baby and Sue Jankelsohn, their leader, was desperate. She knew I was a professional, had even seen me at a party dressed as a woman (me, not her) and thought I looked pretty convincing.

I played as a girl clarinetist for three months and no one twigged. For that, I needed several evening frocks that had set me back over a thousand quid.

Like I said, I was well paid.

After the debacle with Major Strickland where I landed in the shit for my military ineptitude, I did eventually qualify for a weekend pass.

Thank God I had a couple of decent mates who lent me their own immaculate kit to show to SIR that Monday morning. When I think about it now, it is passing strange that that particular ploy had never occurred to him. 'Zeal,' it would seem, is not necessarily married to a lively and suspicious imagination! He grunted approval and I was so bloody respectful you could have cut it with a knife! I just lay back, opened my legs and thought of Boadicea; I adore STRONG women astride of me!

A certain Saturday morning found me clutching a return bus ticket to Leeds and to Aunt Helen's very comfortable house in a 'better' part of the city. She actually met me at the bus station in her pink Morris.

Aunt Helen looked strikingly like a slightly older version of Shirley McLaine slightly widish mouth, always exqui-

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