| Emma's Diary - or "Why I do this" |
| I know nothing about my real mother or father as I was put up for adoption immediately I was born. If I look at it bleakly, although probably realistically, I suppose that I could have been the product of a swinging sixties party on Valentines Day, exactly 9 months and 1 week prior to my birth. My natural mother would have been better off staying in that night and washing her hair, or at least keeping her legs crossed, but she didn't and her "joie de vivre" led to my ill-conceived conception. There could have been many reasons why my natural mother did not need a sprog about - maybe she wasn't married, maybe she was too young, maybe she was poor, maybe she had enough kids already.......maybe.......maybe........maybe....... I am sure that whatever it was, it must have been a tough decision to let me go, that crisp November day, but I will never know and frankly feel it is too late to care. Anyway, I spent the first 6 months apparently wriggling around in some orphanage somewhere awaiting adoption. Life must have been dull, because when my new parents (as I now call them) say that they turned up, I instantly attached myself to my father`s little finger as they walked down a line of similar wriggling babies looking for one to take home. To tell the truth, I was probably after something to eat and the presented fingery sausage-like feast in front of me, was obviously not to be passed over lightly. My parents, however, took this as a sign that I was the one that they should take and hence I was whisked from the cot of obscurity into a household that desparately wanted a son to be proud of. All initially seemed well, but I obviously reached a tender age of about 9 or 10, when the environment in which I lived started to affect me. Let`s be clear, my parents adored me and I was raised in a very lovely home in a lovely part of the UK, amongst the South West's glorious countryside and sandy beaches. However, my father worked away on business a lot and I once asked my mother why it was I only had a weekend Daddy! I now realise that my mother`s affection and unstinting need to look after me has turned me into the "girl" I am. Her constant affection and desire to protect me from the evils of the world, coupled with the fact that I lived in a remote area where it was not easy to get together with school friends, meant that I was left to develop and play on my own using my imagination. At the age I was, my imagination was getting bored with destroying toys soldiers and Lego models. I started to explore new things - obviously in secret - to find a new challenge. That came in the form of dressing in my mums clothes and trying to do this without her finding out. Thus a game was created, which became more serious as the years went on and one which I became very good at. I don't despise anyone for this; I don't blame my mother at all as I am actually very happy to want to, and be able to, dress occasionally as a woman. I love wearing a skirt or a dress and wish that I could do so more often. I love going out as a woman and I have spent some very happy times in different parts of the UK. I love shopping as a woman, buying new clothes and just being able to do normal female things naturally. I once joined a sort of informal dating club for TV`s in the UK. I met other TV`s and some TV admirers; it was great meeting people who accepted and only knew me as Emma. When someone wants to take you out to dinner as a woman because they feel you are passable enough and they want your company because you are, in their mind, a different kind of woman, that is an unbelievable buzz. |
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| I guess this section of my diary may read pretty much like any other TV life history, but this is mine and I am not ashamed to tell you about it. It is a bit more psychological than some diary entries you may read on the Net but seems to summarise things well enough. As the old cliché goes, the best place to start is probably the beginning - actually, in my case, that could even be before I was born! I came into this world on the 21st November 1969, a child of a swinging sixties sunset, and no doubt a newborn son to swinging sixties parents. |