I was 14 years old and had been dressing in earnest for about 18 months. Up until then I had occasionally ventured into my cousin's tutu and school uniform and had famously played all afternoon in her garden in her wonderfully garish party dress. By Susan Russell

But when I turned 13 I suddenly became more serious. I wanted to wear underwear, jewellery and make-up. I wanted people to pass me in the street and look at the sensible young girl across the road. I had wonderful fun working out the order in which the clothes went on and feeling the beautiful constricture of a bra for the first time. After about 18 months of bunking off school or pretending to be ill and sneaking into my mother's wardrobe I wanted to go out dressed. My opportunity came one cold November afternoon. I had been left in the house on my own with the certainty that I would not be disturbed until early evening. My only task was to walk the dog.

On hearing the front door close I decided to start the day again en femme. I went to bed in a nightie for a cat-nap and woke up and had a bath. I then went over to my mother's dressing table and applied make-up, mascara, eye shadow and lipstick, none too expertly. Having put my face on I put on a pair of earrings and a pearly necklace. I then dived into the wardrobe, desperate to transform myself from a gangly teenager to a gamine young woman with a taste for sensible clothes. I stuffed my white bra with a pair of socks, put on a pair of matching panties and dark blue tights and a lovely slip with a lace trim around the hem. I then chose a white chiffon blouse with bell sleeves and a long bow at the collar and a dark blue pleated skirt. I donned a pair of dark blue patent leather court shoes and after choosing a handbag I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. I looked so feminine it was ridiculous to think of me as anything else. It was then downstairs to find a suitable coat and headscarf (well it was the 1970s and I did not have a wig) to protect me against the cold.