It’s strange the things one has to consider when transsexual and in the closet. The mundane aspects of everyday life that take on a new dimension and develop an element of danger. For instance, I need to wash my clothes and normally this isn’t a problem. All you have to do is fire them in the washing machine then whip them on the line to dry for a few hours; simple stuff. However when you’re in the closet and the clothes you need to wash are a bright pink bra, (because the colour makes a different in this scenario, like a black or white one wouldn’t be as noticeable draped over a clothes horse in a flat that two guys share) skinny jeans, denim shorts and tights; laundry becomes an exercise in cloak and dagger exploits. Requiring a well-timed plan that sadly doesn’t involve night vision goggles or a spy watch with built in poison darts and defibrillator.
Plan A: Codename Leviathan
Step Two: At approximately 0300 hours parashoot from overhead helicopter to roof of target location (my flat) under the cover of darkness.
Step Three: Remove roof tiles and enter loft, locate ceiling above flatmates bed. Cut hole in ceiling with some sort of high-tech laser (preferably built into a watch).
Step Four: Attach abseiling equipment to roof joists and self. Descend into flatmates room and place noise cancelling headphones on flatmate (preferably over his ears (I’m told they work better that way)).
Step Five: Exit room and neutralise security attack cat by non-lethal means (I’m thinking tranquiliser gun).
Step Six: Retrieve clothes that will have been hidden inside ornate Japanese statues that will have been smuggled into the flat the pervious week.
Step Seven: Put clothes in washing machine.
Step Eight: Add detergent and fabric softener.
Step Nine: Turn on washing machine.
Step Ten: Get comfy and wait for cycle to end. Maybe make a cup of tea and play Xbox or catch up on Fargo.
Step Eleven: When cycle has finished, put clothes in tumble drier.
Step Twelve: Repeat Step Ten.
Step Thirteen: Return to flatmates room and ascend into the loft removing noise-cancelling headphones on the way.
Step Fourteen: Seamlessly repair ceiling.
Step Fifteen: Exit to roof, and replace tiles.
Step Sixteen: Using a grappling hook, re-enter helicopter and get dropped of at safe location.
Step Seventeen: Pay pilot for a job well done.
Step Eighteen: Rendezvous with shady but ultimately reliable petty criminal connection who owes you a favour from that time you helped him escape from a prison in Venezuela.
Step Nineteen: Arrange for him to smuggle clothes back into flat inside WWII memorabilia.
Step Twenty: Assure him that the debt has been paid and that you are now even. Shake the hand of your old friend and wish him well.
Step Twenty-one: Return to flat via civilian means.
Step Twenty-Two: Shower.
Step Twenty-Three: Leave bathroom, just as flatmate is waking up and coming out of his bedroom.
Step Twenty-four: Ask him how him how he slept. When he tells you that it was the best nights sleep he has ever had wink at the camera smugly, and bask in the glory of a successful mission.
Step Twenty-five: Repeat as necessary.
Plan B: Codename Kraken
Step One: Wait for flatmate to go to work.
Step Two: Wash and dry clothes like a sane person.
Ok, so clearly I got a bit carried away when writing this post, but it does help illustrate something I feel, and that’s that there is something amusing (in an this is absurd sort-of-way) about sneaking around when you’re trans. Is this really how I’m living my life right now? Making plans for when I can safely wash my clothes without getting caught? I mean when you take a step back and look at it, it’s pretty damn funny in a this is fuckin’ ridicules sort-of-way. I guess it’s one of those laugh or cry situations.