My faith in human nature is restored. At lunchtime today I remembered to book a hotel room for my night out at the end of April. Tara suggested Hotel ‘C’ and mentioned a room rate of £89. Well the name cropped up several times in a general search on the internet one of which was a well known support site for trannies. The hotel is close to the club we’ll be going to. “Mention ‘Violets’ to get a special discount” the site said.
I phoned the hotel and a polite man answered.
“How much for a room?” I asked.
“£132” he replied in a voice that conjured images of his neatly pressed uniform.
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “I thought it would be much less than that! Aren’t there any special rates?”
There was a pause. “What company are you with?”
“Er…not a company really,” I stalled, remembering ‘Violets’, momentarily unsure.
Perhaps the website the password is old and this smooth fellow doesn’t know it, or perhaps worse he does know it and I’m just about to spill all to a total stranger; ‘Violets’, in other words “Yes, I am a bloke, but sometimes I like to dress as a woman and go out!” Oh to hell with it! I’m way past those inhibitions and besides, I can’t afford the standard rate.
“Violets,” I offer after a very brief pause.
“Excellent sir,” says the man in charge of reservations. I can sense the smile on the other end of the line, but there’s nothing sneery about it.
“That will be £79 sir. I didn’t want to presume or suggest anything until you did.”
WOW, fantastic! It’s almost worth a straight guy pretending to be a trannie to get a discount like that.
—– And now for something completely different —–
In the process of getting little T (5) ready for bed, I’m shampooing her hair. She and R (8) are engaged in another prattle about humorous body parts.
“Toby says he’s got a bagina, but I told him it’s not a bagina, it’s a VA-gina!” she adds authoritatively to me.
“Well done,” I smile, “except of course he’s a boy, and boys don’t have vaginas, they have willies.”
“Of course!” T scoffs. There’s a short pause then, “Mummy…”
“No,” I correct patiently. “I’m Daddy. Mummy’s the one with the bumps on her chest.”
“Can I go downstairs after my shower?”
“Yes, for 5 minutes. It’s late.”
“And have something to eat?”
“Yes, if you’re quick.”