10pm. Wednesday. The Victoria Line.
An amazonian transgender woman with the aesthetic of 80’s MTV and the legs of a Victoria’s Secret Angel has entered the carriage.
We gape, momentarily, before returning to our posture of well-worn apathy.
She sits, dramatically crossing the endless, gleaming limbs that extend from a hot-pink dress.
And she is irate. With the world. With herself. Reader, who knows.
But we will not be spared her wrath.
She leans forward, and begins, to everyone and to no one in particular:
“BITCH do NOT start with me, I will BEAT YOU with my BURBERRY HANDBAG” [brandishing a substantial bag at mildly indignant but committedly disengaged co-travellers].
Her thick New York accent carries in the compressed silence; this special vacuum where bodily threats are met with imperceptible recoil and an infinitesimal shift from one buttock to the other.
Queue fresh rage.
“And DO NOT ignore me and DO NOT mess with a TRANSGENDER on a WEDNESDAY NIGHT. Slag.” Emphatically tosses her impressive mane and glares at us all with unbridled contempt.
Against any metric, she is, undeniably, magnificent. I try to look less delighted behind my kindle. She might beat me.
The man next to her in polished brogues furrows his brow as he leans deeper into his paper. Flinches, fractionally, as the bag swings past his right ear.
Undaunted by the froideur, she continues to speak on behalf of the transgender community. “We will spread our legs AND spread our wings." [rising elegantly to exit] “LADIES — put your vaginas to good use. SLAGS. Out.”
True words indeed.