I'm 43 you know. Yes, yes, I know it's hard to believe. Thank you. Stop it; you're making me blush. Anyway, I'm 43, so I've done (if my calculations are correct) 43 Christmases. However, for 42 of them I was, knowingly or unknowingly, a closet tranny, hidden away in a secret little world of my own, afraid to come out.
Not this year. This year was the first Christmas since I came out; the first Christmas since the existence of Rachel was thrust onto an unsuspecting world.
This year was Rachel's first real Christmas.
And she had one. Just a little one; nothing spectacular, but something. Mr X got loads of lovely presents, as you'd expect from someone so handsome and popular, but tucked away in the stocking were three little packages for Rachel. A pair of ear-rings (clip-on, of course), a hair accessory and a book (Camilla Morton's 'How To Walk In High Heels: The Girl's Guide To Evrything'). Small presents, it's true. But a big step and a level of acceptance I neither deserved nor expected.
To my wife: thank you.
No, no, I'm fine; just a little something in my eye ...