There I was, a tall, still thin, large-breasted moderately elegant tranny with serious cultural pretensions and of course I got asked to things and of course people came up and talked to me. I went to some parties at London Fashion Week - which is where I met the male model boyfriend of one of my oldest friends who did not mix his lovers with his life as a literary figure. I was wearing my long white backless Ossie Clark wrap-around when I was introduced to Ossie Clark, who said something along the lines of not having envisioned its being worn by someone quite like me. I was wearing the gray corrugated Missoni when I dined with the Swiss and Dutch Ambassadors. I know I chatted to Zandra Rhodes and Vivienne Westwood and Tom Gilby and that guy with no hair who does the hats.
One of the things I resent about the medical frakkups that surrounded my GRS and nearly killed me is not just that the twenty or so general anaesthetics and overuse of topical cortisone caused me to nearly double my body weight in eighteen months and take away from me whatever degree of glamour I had, it is that they largely wiped my memory of the couple of years before I went into hospital so that I lack the total action replay which generally characterizes my memory.
I don't have all the people; I don't have the sense memories of perfume and smart nibbles: I don't have me. And I never bothered to collect photos of myself in that time.
Now, all things considered, I have a good life and adjusted to being heavier and found people that want me. I might not have put quite as much energy into being smart - except I was very very smart in those days and doing much of the sf criticism which is part of my reputation.
There is an alternate world, though, in which things went differently - I wonder how that version of me is getting on. I sometimes fantasize that dreams are telepathic contact with the other selves across the fanning differences of time. Sometimes in dreams, I am thin and stylish still.
I really must get back to this fic.