Cross-dressing and the City

Like a disorientated salmon caught in shoals of grey tuna fish I ineffectively try to navigate myself along the uneven, cobbled streets snaking away from the primly imposing walls of The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street.  The air is thick with toxic fumes and day-old heat built up between the walls of The City.  The names of the streets are regally familiar; Prince’s Street, King William Street, Queen Vitoria Street; its old imperial London.  Inside these offices I imagine moss green leather chesterfields, decanter bottles with amber liquid in them, cigar paraphernalia – the stuff of gentlemen’s clubs, not of the stripper variety but of the self-congratulating, middle aged kind.  My vintage style, damson heeled shoes are making it difficult to keep pace amongst these serious looking men and women marching home or to a bar in monochrome uniformed unison.  Something bright catches my eye, a bright tropical bird – all tangerine orange bob, skyscraper heels and mini skirt.  He swaggers brazenly amongst the downturned gazes of the greying men around him, mischievously daring them to look at him.  He notices my stare as he goes past and in that second it’s as if he recognises a kindred spirit, he lifts both fluorescent pink eyebrows at me in collusion.