The Crossdresser's Workplace Phrasebook.

Part 1

That morning I arrived at the office at 11 am. It was a little early for me, but I like to show willing. It should be said that while my time keeping has been the subject of some dissatisfaction among some of my colleagues, I comforted myself with the thought that the previous evening I had outdone myself. I had, after all spent much of the previous night out at the pub with two of the senior partners, and was nursing the mother of all hang overs.

Having dragged myself from my bed and spent a little longer than usual reconstructing my face and hair, I'd pulled on a pair of tight jeans, a pale blue sweater that showed off the pleasant shape of my chest, recently enhanced a little with both hormone replacement therapy and a push up bra, and pulled on my new knee high boots, with the three inch stiletto heels. Looking down on the world from this height things would eventually come into proper focus.

My head was clearing a little by the time I walked into the office foyer, to be greeted by Julie who brought me a large plate with cake on it and handed me a fork. This was as good a breakfast as any I though, and then thought of the corset I'd doubtless be wearing to an event that evening.

"Birthday?" I asked.

"Brenda. That human resources wonk," replied Julie. She handed me a brush, code for 'do your hair'.

A question came to my lips, but before I could say anything Julie cut in some how talking over the pounding sound within my head.

"I signed it for you." There was a short pause, and then before I could ask. "43."

You doubtless know that in my career as a crossdressing advertising executive I work in a dynamic agency, looking after many varied clients. What you likely don't know is that within this institution I am something of a healer. It's just part of my nature.

That same part of me that always lends those less fortunate than myself a helpful helping hand, has also led me to support those uncertain new employees who need a helping hand integrating to our corporate culture. Indeed, it was after a long drawn-out evening brainstorming at the King's Head, with two of the senior partners in the firm, that to my surprise I found an unusual chain of events were triggered.

Entering my office, cake in hand, I sat down behind the desk and stared at an envelope on my desk. This was unexpected. I wondered if it could be the envelope. Was this the end of my years of corporate indolence? It was true that most of my contemporaries had either left the company or been fired. Generally, they did so before anyone realised that they were so far beyond incompetent that their absence could only improve the company's prospects for future years.

The envelope lay there smoldering. I reached for it and taking a perfectly manicured finger slid it under the flap. I should remember to thank Sally, the client I'd had a manicure with the previous week. This shade of burgundy was excellent.

I stared at single sheet of paper in my hand for a moment, clutched my forehead, and then buzzed Julie and asked her to bring in an aspirin and a glass of water.

Slowly the events of the previous evening came back to me.

I'd been at the Kings Head, I was sure of that much. Yes, and there'd been a couple of the company's senior partners there. I had a vague recollection of sitting on Darryl's knee, and talking about something. Something that may have been important. It was all hazy, to say the very least.

According to the piece of paper before me I had just been promoted. And it wasn't just a promotion. It was a 'battle field promotion', whatever that was. As Julie came in, water in hand, and an aspirin on a little silver plate, I stared.

"Julie, I think you'd better read this," I said.

She scanned the short letter, a smile coming to her face.