14

I lay in a strange bed. It was harder and much narrower than the bed I had got out of that morning.

Tomorrow I would start making preparations. I would have to buy a foam rubber cushion to make breasts. It would be possible to buy a false bust, but I could not be sure that it would be right for me. I must start thinking about my voice. And I must start thinking about my walk.

Mrs Ford turned out to be different from what I had first thought. She seemed foolish when she kept saying, ‘You men are all the same.’ I had not suspected that she could be like that when I had first seen her.

I wondered what I would look like in thick-framed spec­tacles.

Mrs Ford’s behaviour at tea-time had shown how stupid a lack of self-confidence could make people. I supposed she got affection from the stiff-legged terrier dog, but she wanted Jack to show her that she was still a woman. I hated Jack. Or perhaps Mrs Ford wanted a man very much, not to prove anything, but to hurt her. I supposed that, if one had a woman’s body, one could want a man very much—one could want and want and want. When one wanted something from another person one was most vulnerable. One could easily be driven to stupidity.

If Mrs Ford wanted to be hurt, I forgave her with all my heart. She had a right to be foolish. A woman was a woman.

And I forgave her if all she wanted was evidence that she was still attractive. When I started to live as a woman I would want evidence as soon as possible that I was attractive.

I was attractive as I was—but not to real men, only to queers—and poor old Jim.

I hoped that Peter would not bother me too much.