Making Mika: The First in a Trilogy

By Jocelyn M Scott

After the intervention of an Olympian goddess, a male chauvinist wakes next morning a beautiful woman. An initial panic is followed by the need to face what he once regarded the great taboos or burdens of womanhood: makeup, hormonal swings, period pain, hair salons, dancing backward in high heels, makeup, waxing, sex from a new perspective, birth control, and more. The compensations are discovery of the importance of shoes, suddenly being found attractive rather than ordinary and what?

After each challenge she faces, Mikas body gradually takes control, and she becomes more feminine. Unfortunately, a part of her previous male self remains in her head, complaining about every female activity he has to endure. She finds memories of life as a red-blooded womaniser are sometimes a weak defence against the type of man she once was. Can she cope with what all other women seem to take in their stride?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477218822

Jocelyn M Scott

After four marriages, first in the age of Carnaby Street and new sexual freedom of the swinging ’60s, the author is not convinced Western women have been liberated. No longer tied to the kitchen sink, they are subject to a new tyranny. Some of its symptoms are rising number of single mothers, no change to the focus on body image, female trafficking, and sexualisation of young girls. Apart from applauding strong women, the author offers no solution, only an entertaining illustration of how men fail to understand how much harder life is for women than men.

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Contents

Ch.1: Beware Of What You Wish For

Ch.2: I Thought Shopping Was Just Buying Stuff

Ch.3: The Witching Hour

Ch.4: Shoes & Other Things

Ch.5: Getting To Know Me

Ch.6: In Which I Become A Little Emotional

Ch.7: More Hormones

Ch.8: Choices

Ch.9: It Was Just A Kiss

Ch.10: Anticipation

Ch.11: Great Night. Shame On The Men

Ch.12: Inconvenient! Who Writes That Stuff?

Ch.13: Who’s Harry?

Ch.14: Preparing For D-Day

Ch.15: Gone In 26 Days

Ch.16: Men, Don’t You Just Love Them!

Ch.17: A New Start

Ch.18: The Dilemma

This book is dedicated to my daughter Justine, who first encouraged me to put pen to paper to write my story, read the early drafts then helped me fine tune some parts.

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CH.1: BEWARE OF WHAT YOU WISH FOR

What man would wish to be female? I’m not suggesting a bit of cross dressing, nor gender reassignment. I’m talking about the full works, complete with the attending down sides. It might be useful for a day, to help understand what goes on in those woolly heads. What if the change lasted longer? How do you think a full-on, red blood, heterosexual man would cope? I can tell you. I did not really mean it when I put that stupid wish into words. When it happened, I accidentally lost all the benefits that went with being a successful, carefree male.

I was (still am) a travel writer, earning enough from two regular newspaper columns and book royalties to be comfortably off. At 29, I was fit enough to play rugby for a small Welsh club. I was not the same class as my dad, who had a Welsh trial, but good enough to be first choice No 12 for the local team. I owned my own cottage outright, where I expected one day to bring up children with my gorgeous girlfriend, Jennie, the latest in a string of relationships. I had hopes she would be my last. If not, I was arrogant enough to think I could easily tempt another beauty into my bed. That was the way it had always been. I was no Adonis but girls liked me. I had learned how to make them feel special, how to exploit them for my own benefit. You might say I was a self-centred bastard.

Then I had that nasty disagreement with Jennie. It was the evening I was almost certain I might consider suggesting we think about becoming engaged one day. She beat me to the punch, literally. Picking up on something I said, she accused me of lacking commitment. With no idea what she was on about, I joined in the row with gusto until she stormed out the bar. When she shouted at me she never wanted to see my stupid face again, I remember shouting back, Ye gods, I wish I could be a woman, just for a day, so I could begin to understand what goes on in that silly head of yours.

A voice close to me said, Be careful what you wish for young lady.

What the hell do you mean by that? Are you blind or bonkers? I asked the gypsy looking woman, sitting on a stool further along the bar.

Your wish may have been granted. It’s dangerous to make requests in front of one of them. You’ll see, soon enough. She nodded towards a rather battered statue of Aphrodite, standing on one of the bar shelves.

I think I replied, Get real woman. You don’t believe I meant that crap? Or something like that. I know I wasn’t exactly polite. Jennie and I were none of her business.

I’m sure you will be quite tasty. Aphrodite wouldn’t have it any other way. She said the words with, what I now know, was quiet understanding. I heard only a stupid old woman.

What the fuck are you on about? You really are a mad woman! With no reason to stay, I drank up and stomped towards the exit.

Goodnight Miss, the gypsy called after me, following this with what all I can describe as a traditional witch’s cackle. I gave her the finger and walked through the door.

I thought about calling Jennie, but decided to let her stew. She would come to her senses soon enough. She always did. She must know I really did want her in my life, even if I was a tad reluctant to formalise our relationship. My only regret was purely selfish. I went to bed without the usual romantic conclusion to our evenings out. All I got was that silly dream, or that’s what I thought it was at first.

I tend to wake up in the morning quickly, so was immediately aware of changes. I appeared to own extras above the waist and a distinct lack of attachments below. ‘That is just stupid’, I told myself. It could not be real. I was imagining things. I carried on as usual. I went to my bathroom for the ritual start to most men’s days—a shit, shower and shave. I was still smiling to myself for having such a ridiculously inventive unconscious when I first saw the image beaming back at me from the mirror.

My first thought was she was really quite attractive. In fact, ‘quite’ did not do her full justice. She had a lovely smile and… that line of thought evaporated in less than a second. What the hell was I thinking? That should have been me looking back. The smile, wiped from that reflected face, was replaced by a look of panic. I managed to regain control of my brain and begin to think. Well, at least, I stopped fancying my reflection.

My second thought was to remember the wish I had made in the bar. ‘That’s bonkers,’ I said to myself. ‘No way can I have woken up like this. I must still be dreaming.’ To test this, I banged my head against that very attractive reflection. It did not change. Illogically, I ran to the lounge mirror, where the same face peered questioningly back at me. It remained so terrifyingly female. When certain I had overnight grown boobs and lost my genitals, my brain went blank. I did my best to imitate a headless chicken.

I raced round the house, vainly hoping that somewhere things would be normal. The same face showed in the dining room mirror, the one in the hall, and back upstairs in my bedroom. There was no getting away from it, wherever I went I looked female. Stop it! I shouted out loud, Running around like a demented idiot isn’t helping. This can’t be happening. Get a grip on yourself. There’s got to be a logical explanation

‘What logical explanation?’ someone in my head asked me.

There was no time to think further. I could feel my bladder was bursting. I rushed back downstairs to my bathroom, where I came very close to peeing into my pyjama bottoms as I scrabbled unsuccessfully to find a non-existing penis. Imagine my horror at having to drop my trousers, turn and crouch, just in time to hear my water splash into the bowl. I was also given a lesson in why women like men to put the seat down. The porcelain felt cold and uncomfortable as my thighs touched it. My reflexive jerk upwards nearly caused the accident I had just narrowly averted. If this was a joke dream, I had already had enough.

I was beyond rational, totally deprived of logic. All I could think of was where I could get help. My feverish mind blamed only one person, Jennie. She had to be the one to put matters right. I ran to the lounge to pick up my mobile. It was dead. I had meant to put it on charge. I reached for my main-line phone and automatically dialled Jennie’s number. A rather bleary sounding voice answered, asking who was calling so early.

If it’s you, Mark, you can bugger off. She said.

I don’t know what to do. I replied, becoming almost instantly aware of a very different timbre to my voice.

Who the hell is that? Jennie, who had also heard a female voice, sounded annoyed.

Oh! Shit! Wrong number! It was all I could think to say. I slammed the phone down in panic. For a moment my thoughts were clear. I thanked the gods she would not be able to trace the call. My number is ex-directory. She would never forgive me for having another woman in my house. Worse still, I realised I could not seek help from anyone who knew me. No one would believe who I was. I had to find a way to calm myself.

I knew this could not be real, but the memory of that gypsy woman was burned into my synapses. To those who may be wondering, my memories of living for 29 years as a red-blooded, skirt—chasing male were still very much intact, which lent an awkwardness of its own. Both the face and the body I inspected with some curiosity remained definitely female. This alter ego of mine was not only a woman but, despite her early-morning unattended look, she was seriously attracting my admiration.

At a guess, I would say we were the same age. There most resemblance stopped. Where I had dark hair, she was blonde. Yes, I checked, she was born that way—soft golden curls both on her head and below. Her face had a classical, chiselled look to it, much more delicate than my own bone structure. Her nose was also more finely cut than the putty-like object I more normally owned. Add a set of full lips, neat small-lobed ears and eyes that dazzled with their pale blueness (the one feature we shared). If this was not enough, that lovely head was set on top of a body most men would drool over. But I run ahead of myself. I promise you will learn more about this lady and the problems her stunning looks have caused me.

Although I could only check her face in the mirror, I saw the torso that went with it matched the reflection. A body, four or five stone lighter than the one I had taken to bed, had woken up in my pyjamas. That body had already delivered my first lesson in the inconvenience of being a woman. I was about to get another. After a hasty wash, not sure what I should or should not touch, I returned to my bedroom to dress. That caused another panic. What could I wear? My wardrobes and cupboards remained stuffed with familiar clothing, but nothing that would fit me now.

I am not sure how I remained even partially sane. I guess it was the thought my wish had been to be a woman for only one day. Logic told me I would come out of the dream-state or the penance would be short lived. Either way, it would soon be over. It caused me problems, but nothing insurmountable. It was not difficult to remember to sit down to pee. A bonus was I did not need to shave. I wrapped up well to stop my neighbours from seeing a girl run my dog, Belle, in the field between our houses. I was cheered to note she still knew me. It could be only I saw myself as female. As a precaution, a few texts made it possible for me to spend the rest of the day indoors, in case others could see what I saw.

The worst thing was adapting to such uncomfortable clothing. My height had dropped by about three inches (from 6’1 to 5’10), which involved no more than rolling up the arms of a jumper and the legs of a pair of jeans. The bigger problem was a waistline reduced from 36 to 24 inches, maybe less. To keep my jeans up, I scrunched them tight about me by putting an extra notch in my smallest belt. I have to admit I was more fascinated by my breasts than worried by their lack of support. They were not so big they could not manage on their own. Penance or dream, in the short term, the inconvenience was bland enough.

There are times when dreams can seem horribly real, even at the moment of waking. I think that was firmly in my mind as the day passed by. Apart from the obvious pleasure of having a great set of boobs to fondle, I remained essentially a bloke in disguise. That was why I went to sleep that night, both relaxed and expecting things to be back to normal the next day.

As you already know, I wake up quickly in the morning. So the feeling of ‘déjà vu’ was almost instant. I woke with a hand on one of my breasts and did not need to be told my manhood remained horribly absent. I felt cheated. It was supposed to be only a dream or, at worst, one day to get through. In addition, today, I seemed to have a different mind-set. It was as if two people were fighting for possession of my head. There was the old me, wanting to caress my new curves and appreciating my new body from a male perspective. There was another version of me, telling me not to be so perverted and leave them alone.

It got worse. Despite my previous very male—some would say chauvinistic—outlook, a part of me actually liked the changes. In fact, that part wanted me to dress appropriately, not wear that ‘man stuff’! The logic behind such thoughts had to be I did not want to look stupid. At least that was what I told myself at the moment I started thinking lipstick, silk underwear and shoes! Shoes! I had never in my life thought seriously about shoes. Although my mind was the same, it was being pressured by the instincts and drives of its new female body.

What I appeared to want was not available. I must make do with the clothes that served me the previous day. As I dressed in a T-shirt, boxers, jeans and jumper, I found I was doing so with a growing distaste for each garment. I have been told a well-made female can look good in anything, but my body was begging me to find things more suitable. The urge for ‘proper’ clothes was almost unbearable. I was also more aware of a lack of support in the chest area. Although I had a bust I considered capable of going braless, it was clear even to me a little extra support would be more comfortable.

Once clothed, the more pragmatic male in me tried to stay in control. Maybe this was only a temporary state. Maybe I was still in a dream, even some sort of coma. You do read about such things, don’t you? Yes, it had to be a coma, so no worries. It would all be over soon. I would wake up in a hospital bed with a bandaged head. In the meantime, I might as well act as if this madness was really happening—to sort of humour the dream.

‘First things first’, I said to myself, ‘Check the date. Is this still day one or really day two?’

The date on my lap top showed it was two days since I rowed with Jennie. There was neither a message on my mobile nor an e-mail. I guessed she must still be angry with me. I had a choice of beliefs. This was either a very long dream or my second day in a new body. I feared the second alternative, however unlikely, was looking more probable. I had a strong desire to scream. I was not as calm as later the day before, when I eventually began to take it in my stride. The reason was clear. Yesterday, I thought I was in a dream or that my altered state was temporary. Today, things looked more permanent.

I was still me, but in a new shape and aware of unsubtly changing desires that matched my new shape. Since the new me had not brought with her any suitable clothing, I wondered what else would remain unchanged that might cause problems? Unfortunately, everything in my little office appeared normal. All documents remained in my name, Mark Rowley Carrington, not a name that squared with my new image. All utility bills, bank accounts and credit card belonged to the man who, for the time being, I was not.

I asked myself again why this had not bothered me the day before, but seemed such a disaster today? The answer was simple. Unless I could procure a sex change, or pass myself off as a man, I would have to live as a woman, not for a day, but for who knew how long. That was bad karma. Surely I had not been so evil to deserve this? There were also alien feelings kicking in, telling me being female might not be so bad. How wrong could that be?

I thrust such mad thoughts from me. There was still enough of me in my head to want to deal with my predicament logically, but I was finding it harder to keep my next panic at bay. I wanted to run screaming into the garden, I wanted to drop on my knees and cry and cry. I wanted to run to someone who would just give me a cuddle. I wanted to behave like a girl! I really did need to get a grip.

If it was true, who could I trust? Who would believe me? I might be accused of doing away with Mark or, at the very least, stealing his house. I needed a plausible story to tide me over until I could find a way to get my real body back. Without it I would be seen as an opportunistic squatter, especially as I was dressed like a tramp.

‘What if I don’t ever get my old body back?’ I asked myself.

‘Good god! I haven’t the faintest idea how to be a woman!’ I replied.

‘I’ll get used to it somehow.’ Something inside me hoped that would be true.

‘I’ll need a new name, something similar to the old one, so I can get at my money.’ At which point the physically female part of me wanted to break down in tears again. Although I knew I was having this conversation with myself, it still felt like a discussion. It was not easy to deal with, realising part of me liked the changes and thought I would have an interesting time in this new body. Why worry that my female nature seemed so strong? It was not all bad. What if I had become a mousy 18 stones, addicted to cakes and chocolate? At least I was attractive. What was the point of being attractive?

‘I like chocolate,’ I thought, ‘I also like beer and wine.’

‘Oh! Dear! 18 stones, here we come!’ My body responded, not feeling quite so pleased. Why was I getting the feeling my alter ego had its own personality?

‘I also like exercise’, I added, trying to sound conciliatory.

‘Oh goody! That’s probably why we’ve got such a great body’, chirped what I was beginning to think of as my female persona. Yes, the voice in my head sounded a bit like a chirrupy song bird. I wondered how I sounded to others, who heard my voice from outside my head? Jennie had already heard me. I hoped she would not remember how I sounded.

‘I guess I can still play squash’, I mused, ‘but the rugby club is probably out.’ Suddenly I was horrified by the different way I was viewing those ‘hunky men’ in the showers. For a few seconds I was in freeze frame, realising how far my body was taking over my brain. Those were definitely not images I wanted in my head.

That is totally out of order! Stop distracting me! I shouted out loud, presumably at my body, but the voice still sounded sweet, not at all like my real one. ‘We, I mean I need to plan. I need coffee! Lots of coffee, I think.’ I did not appear to be in disagreement with myself for once, which made a change. Apparently my alter ego understood we would come a serious cropper unless we behaved pragmatically.

Once I had a plate of cereals and a large mug of coffee, I took them with a pen and paper pad to the dining room. I composed a list of things to do. Clothes were high on the agenda. My old ones were totally unsuited to my present shape. I gave out a very audible screech! For clothes, I needed money. I was relatively well off but, apart from some cash in my wallet, the rest was in my accounts. Solution: I could use my bank card for immediate needs and order more items from catalogues or the internet, if it became necessary. As far as I knew, my passwords and pins should not have changed.

‘So, no problem there’, said my alter-ego, ‘I’m going to love all that shopping. Don’t forget you can’t order shoes. You have to try them on. Such fun,’ I finished with a giggle. Did I say giggle? That was me giggling. It was such a bubbly sound. How could I get used to that? And how had shoes suddenly assumed such pre-eminent importance?

‘We’ll only need enough to get by,’ I told myself, ‘this is a temporary situation. As soon as I can go out, I’m going to hunt down that gypsy woman. She’s to blame for all this.’

Make-up: Instinctively, it seemed the next most important thing after clothes. Once I could dress more suitably, a trip to Boots would be simple. The problems were what to buy when I got there and how to apply those purchases once they were made. I could go on a course, confide in a female friend, or hope I could do the job without help. I was overthinking this. There was a place in town that specialised in such advice. As my mind wandered, I realised I would need to visit a hairdresser—my hair was a mess.

‘Hell, why couldn’t I stop thinking like a female?’ I needed to remain stable. I giggled!

Friends: How could I deal with them? Was there anyone I could trust with the truth? What could I tell the rest? An e-mail to say I was going away for a while. That would be normal in my line of work. As a freelance travel writer and occasional author, I travelled a lot. What about Jennie? Was it a blessing or a curse she decided to opt out of my life? Was it a temporary spat or permanent? How could I find out? I could certainly do with some female help and advice. Nor did the word ‘curse’ carry with it the happiest thoughts. That would be too much. There just had to be someone I could talk to.

My biggest problem was how to explain who I was. I had no papers, no passport, birth certificate, national insurance number, any form of identity. How had I not thought of this? Could I disguise myself as me, Mark? When I looked at myself, my first thought was it would be difficult to disguise my very female face and form. Perhaps it could be done, but my mind was rebelling against the idea. Something inside me accepted, no, welcomed the change. I really did need help. The part of me liking the changes must be cut off at its root. It would stop me finding out what caused the problem and how to reverse it. That is, if I wanted to reverse the change. Another screech! Half my mind was working against me!

‘Now who’s going all Essex?’ I asked myself, ‘I can tackle my identity later. I could easily be my sister, even better my twin, so I have no birth date problems. I have come to house-sit while Mark is away. That might cause a problem with Mum, but first things first, I need to be mobile. That means a visit to the shops.’

‘Do we have to go out dressed like this?’ asked what I had come to think of as my body’s mind. ‘Not a pretty sight to take into NEXT, but probably better than the alternative. Running around in the nude might raise a few eyebrows.’

I got up to go to the bathroom, wondering whether women needed to pee a lot or was it just nerves, before heading to the shops. As I sat there, I thought of something else that must be done before we headed out. It seems I was indeed going ‘Essex’ on myself. I had no idea what size I was. Even I knew I was unlikely to be able to try on a variety of bras until I found some that fitted. To buy wearable jeans I needed to know my inside leg, waist, and hip sizes. ‘This is going to be fun, not’, I moaned to myself.

And so it proved to be. An old catalogue showed how all the necessary measurements need be made. I found getting the right bra size would have been easier with a second pair of hands. I seemed to come out at between 34/35B. The old me thought this quite respectable—not too much, not too little, just nice handfuls. I had never been impressed by massive boobs. I actually preferred stick thin to that. My old self really did like the feel of them, but my body urged me to leave them alone.

I baulked a little at the inside leg measure. Pressing the tip of a tape measure to what was now a much neater crotch did seem a little too intrusive. Although I had never flinched from activity in that area with girl-friends, I was still appalled at having my own vagina. My imagination started to run riot. Life was going to be a lot different with one of those between my legs: P.M.S., period-pains, cervical smears, bikini waxes. If I could not get it changed back at the earliest opportunity, I was going to become far too intimately acquainted with my brand new pussy. Then there was choosing a suitable form of birth control. It was as if my body really wanted to rub it in. That last thought was, giggle, below the belt.

‘Please don’t go there’, I begged myself, ‘none of that will matter. This is temporary.’ I was really pleading with some unknown entity. ‘Shopping is quite enough for the moment.’ I could still sense the female in me was amused by the prospect of things to come, while the real Mark wanted to postpone as many changes as possible.

Although a shopping trip was necessary, it still needed to be planned. It would take at least two trips to obtain some basics. At that moment, the best I could muster was wrong gender clothes that were a million times too big, and stayed put only through courtesy of safety pins. I solved the shoe problem by stuffing screwed up newspaper in the toes of my trainers. There was nothing I could do about appearing in public looking like a badly put together bundle of washing. I required suitable underwear, the right size shirt and jeans, a pair of shoes that fit me and maybe a sweater. My plan was to merely dress well enough to hunt down the gypsy and put an end to the madness.

I should have expected my body to want the last word. ‘Don’t forget, I need to get my hair sorted and some make-up. Boots is next to M & S, so that shouldn’t be a problem.’ I don’t know how to describe the sound that came from my mouth. It was a sort of groan and giggle combined. Unfortunately, the giggle seemed to be in the ascendant. It did not help that I saw some sense in what my body wanted. Not necessarily the hair thing, but to look convincing, I supposed I would require basic make-up.

I had been a woman for barely more than a day, so really had no idea what that would entail. I was aware that some of my body responses were changing and these were also altering the way my mind sometimes worked. It appeared my new body had arrived, primed with its own set of alien instincts. It really would have to go!

CH.2: I THOUGHT SHOPPING WAS JUST BUYING STUFF

With a list of measurements in my pocket, and disguising some of the mess that could loosely (very loosely) be described as clothing by covering it with an equally ill-fitting mac, I set out to find something more suited to my new shape. Driving was not much fun. I had to sit a lot closer to the steering wheel than I was used to, and paper stuffed trainers are not sensitive to pedals. I was also worried about being stopped and asked to show my driving licence. The picture on it would take some explaining.

‘I just want the basics.’ I mused to myself as we headed towards town. ‘More comfortable underclothing and one sensible outfit should do the trick.’ At the same time, I had a strong urge to deny that thought. A T-shirt and jeans would not be enough. There was a part of me that could not wait to get to the shops. That was so scary. Shopping and I had never been the best of companions.

‘Other clothes can wait. With luck, they won’t be needed.’ I protested to myself, beginning to be irritated by having to argue with my nature all the time. No, that’s not true. I was well beyond beginning to be irritated.

It did not seem to matter. I was thinking maybe I’d need a nice dress to wear to the pub. Perhaps a few other things, in case the gipsy could not restore me immediately. ‘After all, I don’t wear the same clothes all the time now.’ I told myself, attempting to rationalise such involuntary thinking.

When I thought about it, I had to admit my new instincts were right. I did need more than a T-shirt and jeans. If I was to look the part when I went to confront the gipsy, I would require shoes that fit me (really nice one’s a voice in my head told me). I would need tights and some sort of jacket or jumper. It was almost Spring but still cold at night. And yes, maybe a dress would be smarter.

I thought of Jennie’s nail polish on the dressing table and she usually left some perfume. If I looked around, I might find other stuff. The thought seemed reasonable to me until I was slowly pushed out of my own head. It may be thought the brain rules the body but, in this instance, it seemed my body was taking over the brain. Apparently, I wanted my own stuff. I could argue with myself as much as I liked, but that was how it was. It was one of those things to do with a sudden onset of femininity.

With no more time to think, I pulled into the retail park, where Boots, M & S and NEXT were located. I (a substantial part of me) decided to follow my instincts. I had not been a natural shopper for my previous self, let alone for whoever/whatever I now was?

‘Where do I go first?’ I wondered. There was little resistance from me, when my legs urged me towards Boots.

"My baggage got lost In Bangkok, I found myself explaining to a beauty consultant, so it would be a perfect time to take advice on what would suit me best in this climate. As I haven’t been over here since I was a child, I really have no idea." The lies slipped off my tongue as naturally as if I’d been practising such subterfuge all my life.

I was referring to the damp, muggy climate of West Wales, hinting I had recently arrived from somewhere dryer. Over an hour later, I was holding a carrier filled with make-up case, different shades of lipstick, several eye-liners, blusher, brown and blue eye shadow, dark and light mascara, a few bottles of nail varnish, a powder compact and a bottle of Nina Ricci toilet water. I didn’t argue with myself once. The beautician was totally convincing when she insisted I was leaving with the absolute minimum in essentials.

Before leaving this helpful assistant, I was shown how to effectively apply most of the items to my face. A glance in a mirror, larger than that in my compact, showed me the ‘essentials’ had indeed been used well. What I had thought that morning was already a lily had been gilded. I just loved that face. That was not how I wanted to react!

Thank you so much. I gushed, giving the beautician a generous tip, unaware whether that was the proper thing to do. I am sure my voice had become more seductively husky, but then I was listening to it from inside my head. Unless I recorded myself, I would never know how I really sounded. I made a mental note to make a recording before that voice was lost.

‘Definitely different’, I said