Sex and Other Changes by David Nobbs

feet.’
    He really did think that Alison was going to giggle. He went red and began to perspire. Oh God, if this went on he’d make the clothes sweaty as he tried them on.
    He tried a fairly sober skirt suit and the assistant said, ‘Oh, yes, sir. It’s … her to a tee.’
    He almost confessed. Wanted to. Couldn’t.
    They bought a few oddments – bras and knickers and tights and a handbag, and as she packed them the assistant said, ‘Funnily enough I have a cousin who’s claustrophobic. It’s a small world, isn’t it?’, and Nick said, ‘I hope it isn’t if she’s claustrophobic. It certainly is if you’re agoraphobic.’
    He couldn’t wait to get out into the street. The air smelt so soft and sweet. He didn’t know if he’d ever smelt air as sweet as on that November day in Stratford.
    They took their purchases back to the car and went for a reviving coffee in Ye Olde Falstaffe Coffee Shoppe.
    Alison gave him a warning frown as he said to the waitress, ‘I’ll have ye olde toastede tea-cakey, pleasy.’
    â€˜Nick,’ she said very seriously, after the waitress had scurried off with some relief.
    â€˜That’s an ominously serious tone,’ he said.
    â€˜Well I’m being serious,’ she said. ‘I think you just have to start telling them the truth. That sister of yours is grotesque. You have to jump your first great hurdle. You have to think of yourself as Nicola. You are Nicola now. You’re wearing men’s clothes because you’re odd. This afternoon you are going to begin to cease to be odd. You are Nicola, not Nick or Nicholas. Concentrate on that.’
    â€˜Right. I am no longer sick Nick who gets on your wick. Ah, waitress, I am not Nicholas and I am definitely not knickerless. I am knickerful Nicola.’
    The waitress gave them their coffee and toasted tea cake as rapidly as she could, and beetled to the safety of the kitchen.
    â€˜Don’t be so silly, Nicola,’ said Alison severely.
    â€˜I can’t help it. This is frightening.’
    â€˜It won’t be frightening once you’ve faced it.’
    It helped that the clouds had been blown away, and it was a gusty but sunny afternoon, mild and soft with just a hint of invigorating crispness.
    Nick – he couldn’t see himself as Nicola yet, not in his Nick clothes – barged into the first women’s clothes shop he saw, he didn’t even know which one it was.
    â€˜Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have a …’ He swallowed.‘…a sex change.’ There! He’d said it. What a relief. ‘Before I have the operation I will have to live as a woman for two years. I need quite a lot of clothes.’
    â€˜I’ll take your measurements, sir,’ said the assistant calmly.
    While she went for a tape-measure, Alison said in a low voice, ‘You see. No problem. She didn’t bat an eyelid.’
    â€˜What does that mean?’ asked Nick. ‘How do you bat an eyelid? Have you ever seen anyone batting an eyelid? Have you ever heard anyone say, “Oh look. There’s a man over there batting an eyelid”?’
    Alison was happy to let him waffle on. She realised that in his nervous, self-conscious state he needed the outlet.
    By half past five he was the proud possessor of bras, panties, underskirts, blouses, tights (not stockings – he wasn’t going to titillate men with glimpses of his marble thighs), smart jackets, skirts, medium-heeled shoes for work, low-heeled shoes for home, outdoor coats, scarves, woolly gloves (couldn’t find any other sort to fit – large male hands – problem), handkerchiefs, high-heeled boots, low-heeled boots, ankle-length skirts, twinsets, cardigans, skirt suits and an evening outfit with evening bag.
    â€˜Why do I need an evening outfit?’ he had asked.
    â€˜For evenings. When we go