A few weeks ago we received a flying visit from my sister on her way to an event for her work. On a chilly Friday evening she arrived by train and caught a bus to the small town nearest the village where we grew up. Her plan was to walk the six miles to our parents place through the town and along country roads in the dark. She has always been an obstinate soul, so despite us all pleading with her to let our parents pick her up in the car she was determined due to their advancing years not to put them to any bother. In the end our dad, furious at the notion that he might somehow be past it for collecting his daughter from the bus, staked out the bus stop and drove her home anyway.
Last night was Swindon transgender group night. We made our usual trip to the restaurant, me in my imposing girl mode, happy at last to have found a pair of trousers in a cut I like from Long Tall Sally with that rare thing in either gender, enough length for my extra-long legs.
Our walk from car park to restaurant and back involved crossing part of the town centre in the dark and rain, through some poorly lit areas at the most boisterous time of the week. Not too dissimilar to my sister's intended path, though much shorter. But that's different for us, isn't it. Oh.
My sister reads this blog. I think she is entitled to a laugh at my expense.