Never trust a lady

The estate agent was hopelessly late — stuck in traffic, she said — so I gave the couple the tour of our home instead. It was clear that they had no intention of buying: they lived nearby and were just being nosy. What’s more, I caught them exchanging superior glances, first at the framed portrait of Her Majesty the Queen, and again at the stuffed cuckoo at the top of the stairs. He was embarrassed at being caught out; she was shameless and haughty. I whipped them around in record time.

On their way out, they paused in the conservatory to pass a patronising comment on the bougainvillea and the view of the bay. As we looked, two young coastal-path walkers came along the road, which runs along the front of the house. It was difficult to tell whether they were male and female, two females, or two males, until they drew level, when it became clear that they were two crop-haired young women whose aim was perhaps to appear as masculine as possible. They smiled at us as they went by. ‘One hardly knows these days which is which,’ said the woman.

The asperity brooked no reply or qualification and drew a neat line under the visit. She began to lead the way back outside to their all-terrain juggernaut. But, in spite of my gladness at seeing the back of this pair, I decided to detain them both with my ladyboy story.

Everyone’s got one. Mine goes like this. When I first became a journalist, I was sent to Kuala Lumpur to cover a trade delegation. On the afternoon of our arrival, what I thought was a woman approached me outside the hotel and offered to give me a massage and I readily agreed.