The next few days passed in a flurry of activity. As May had some appointments Sandra and I did most of the clothes shopping on our own, but it wasn’t any less fun for either of us. We were more conservative on the money, though. Instead of designer stuff we went for high class but more economical, like Harvey Nichols, Selfridge’s, House of Fraser and Liberty’s. I could not resist to buy two Laura Ashley dresses though, and we included a visit to Rigby and Peller’s too, where I got properly measured and where a very understanding and also knowledgeable middle aged lady explained to me how to care for my changing (growing) bust’s needs, once started on hormones, so that I would never be uncomfortable. That service alone warranted the prices, that were, taking in what you got in service, almost modest.

We had lunches at Neal’s yard, a pub near What Else productions, where we met Florence and the blonde receptionist, a small Italian place we walked by in Soho and, as a treat, Fortnum and Mason, where I also bought all the fancy Ingredients I needed for the Gratin de Crevettes and the Tiramisu, that I had planned for Sunday lunch. As I wanted to dedicate the Saturday to Portobello Road I had left the Friday for me to visit several companies in connection with Lighting supplies, where I had made appointments on the phone on Tuesday. I cooked a couple of evenings and afterwards, while Sandra and May, who spent more and more time with us, read fashion magazines I started calculations of cost for hiring by comparison to producing our own rig. That plan won out by a mile.

The most interesting was my visit to the Rank Strand office on Friday. As I had already explained to “my girls” during my introduction that Saturday, we had used a Rank Strand desk at Frankfurt. What had happened there was almost funny. After a couple of days, as I was working more and more with the desk, towards the evening of the third day the floppy drive had started to play up. I let that pass and the following morning it was working fine again, so I concluded heat problems immediately. When the problem occurred again that afternoon, being pressed for time I simply sent one of the guys to buy a small fan heater, took the heating element out of it, undid the screws of the panels of the desk, propped them up with match boxes and taped the now fan only heater to the back of the desk to blow a gale through the electronics. It worked a treat.

The technicians of the Alte Oper had looked at me as if they thought me completely mad, as I had quite obviously voided the warranty, but since from then on the desk worked even at lunchtime with the tent becoming like a greenhouse, their respect for me had grown considerably. About a week later, four days before the actual opening, the head of customer service at Rank Strand Germany had turned up unannounced, and the overall technical director for the Alte Oper had sent him to Grüneburgpark, where he found me in front of the slightly (I still had to giggle at the thought) disfigured desk. The look on his face had been absolutely priceless.

But there we were, in an uncomfortably hot tent, and yet the desk, being designed for a climatised room in a theatre was working fine. We had not met before, but he immediately recognised my name as one of the founders of Amptown Cases, and so he accepted my explanation of why I had done what I had, and assured the Alte Oper, that the warranty was still valid, as nobody had thought about it being used in a tent like this. He also explained, that the reason for his visit was, that they only had sold three of these desks to Germany before, and that this was the first time they had not received a cry for help within the first week. My only problem now was how to approach Rank Strand UK with the demand of a modified desk without revealing my identity. It was Sandra, who finally proposed a solution.

“Honey, she said, this is what we do. You write up a protocol about the thing in Frankfurt and I type it and you sign it with your old name and signature. Then I dress like a PA and come along to your visit with a briefcase, and after you explained what you want, you simply ask me for the protocol Herr Dhyan Magna (that had been the name I was unofficially going by at the time) has sent, I produce it and nobody will be the wiser, we’ll just have to make sure not to crack up laughing.”

“I am sure that’ll work a treat. It will appear all the more professional for you to have an efficient PA.” May chimed in and they had me convinced.

“In any case, Honey,” Sandra said “if ever there was proof of you thinking like a woman, this is it. No man would ever have come up with a solution like that. It was simple and absolutely ingenious.”

Thinking about that I had to agree.

So that had been exactly how the visit at Rank Strand had played out and I would receive a detailed and well priced offer to What Else for the material we had listed together in terms of lights, power packs and a modified desk for me to make the rig I wanted. The visits to the hire companies I knew from the music industry also ended as expected. There was no rig that actually accommodated the needs for a theatre production, the lights and rigs were all designed to produce the much too dramatic effects for a Rock Show and the prices were geared for the music industry and not the much less well funded theatre scene. By sleepy time on Friday night I was well prepared for my meeting on Monday.

As I went to bed I realised, that not once during the flurry of activity I had spent even a minute doubting my decision, even though I still shaved every morning. That would have to be remedied next. That night I slept like a baby.

On Saturday morning Sandra and May woke me with a mug of coffee, explaining that May had kept the day free for us three to raid Portobello Road market. That was a nice surprise. I loved that market. In my year in London I had first worked at the ‘Prince of Wales’ in Princedale Road just off Holland Park Avenue, and I wanted to revisit the place for old times sake. It had been like a common living room for most of the brickies, plasterers, sparks and other craftsmen, who lived in the squares nearby as well as some of the posh folk from across Holland Park Avenue. I had made some friends from both sides of the spectrum there and was wondering what it was like now, more than ten years later.

They had got up early enough for us to be early at the market, too, even calculating the extra time for me to get ready. After my coffee I was out of the bed in a flash and ready quicker than expected. We took the tube and changed at Tottenham Court Road for the Central line, to exit at the now famous Notting Hill station for the market, where we had an absolute blast. Between trying on outrageous stuff, joking around and talking to people we never met before we actually bought some really cute things at bargain prices, and in the food section before and under the fly-over I bought the fresh crevettes for Sunday lunch. Then we repaired to the tube for two stops down the road, where we then went to visit the Prince of Wales pub. It was still there and not that much changed inside, but the atmosphere was gone.

All the houses around the Square had been renovated and were now populated by people, who were snooty or yuppy or simply stupidly arrogant. What had been a crowded bar with happily chatting people of all walks of life, mixing without restraint, was now a soulless bar with a blaring television and an unbearably boring crowd. I took one look around and put my arm through those of May and Sandra and said:

“Come on girls, lets leave.” my disappointment visible to both of them.

A guy that had watched us coming in tried to stop us by stepping in front of us and asking:

“What’s the matter, ladies, are we not good enough for your company?”

I could not help myself I had to say it:

“Sorry, but I don’t mix with zombies.”

Then I just pushed him out of the way and before he had a chance to react we were gone again.

“Wow,” May remarked “that was probably the harshest turn down I ever heard. God, Monique, did you really think it that bad?”

“Worse, May. We were like a huge family in there. Lots of simple but really nice people and some posh ones from across the road, who were rich but still just people. That crowd now would have made me throw up my drink.”

Sandra giggled almost uncontrollably and I had to laugh myself now at what I had said. It was true, though. These people were worse than dead. No real life but so full of themselves. If anything all they had was money. That brought back the memories of my friends in the past. Gavin, whom I suspected of being the son of a very posh family (his classical education suggested that), who had but a single room without comfort, trying to make a living as an artist, but one of the most interesting people to chat and drink with I had ever met. John, the American journalist, trying for a break through as a foreign correspondent, the two lesbian German girls, who had fled their home town to the more accepting swinging London, Peter, the Irish head barman, who might or might not have had a crush on me, and last but not least Bill, the manager, who simply gave me the job, because I could clasp a five pound bill between my flat hands behind my back, without him being able to pull it out. Those memories were just too precious to taint them with the image of the place now.

Just as well that Muswell Hill still retained that family atmosphere I was so fond of in the seventies. Had I really already made so many different experiences? Looking back I thought what I had lived through could already fill some people’s life time, and here I was just into my thirties starting a completely new life as a woman! But now I loved life even more than before. I had always embraced it, good times and bad, but never had it been so full of promise as now.

So, slightly disappointed, but not really put down, I suggested to go for lunch somewhere nice and Sandra recommended a pub in Notting Hill. So back it was and sure enough the atmosphere around Portobello Road cheered me up in no time. We went for the Castle, probably the oldest and most established of the pubs and had a nice time in the thoroughly crowded place, having some halves of bitter and some sausage and chips. Then we headed home for an afternoon of snuggling in the sofa or arm chair respectively, reading with the fire going and tea and biscuits.

For dinner I prepared the tortellini I had got with a Gorgonzola and cream sauce and opened the Bardolino I had got at Fortnum and Mason, reserving the two bottles of Pinot Grigio for the gratin de Crevettes. Sunday Lunch came and went, the meal as much of a success as the tortellini had been, both May and Sandra now firmly hooked on my cooking skills, and I started mentally preparing myself for the meeting on Monday. My new employers certainly were in for a surprise. I had rarely been so happy with myself.