Some years ago we had a regular customer who was suffering from a sexual identity crisis. He was a repeat, albeit petty, offender. Eventually the medical powers-that-be decided to put him on the waiting list for The Operation - a year or two hence.
The first time that I saw him he was in jeans and T-shirt. The next time he was in a PVC miniskirt, fishnets, pixie boots, and a spiky hairdo. Oh yes, and makeup. Boy George he was not. However, in all the circumstances we tried to treat him with sensitivity, and the lawyers managed to get round the problem of using the he-word or the she-word by studiously referring to 'the defendant'.
We dealt with him without any problems, and sent him away. That's when the merde hit l'hélice. On leaving the courthouse he decided to go for a pee. The lady usher took one look at him as he headed for the Ladies and said "You are not going in there". One of the security chaps muttered "I don't fancy his chances in the Gents". There was a row, which I was glad to have missed when I heard about it later.
Sometimes I miss the old certainties, but I suppose that's because I am in my fifties, and things were different in my youth. Very different.
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