"I tried to hold you back but you were stronger, and now it seems my only chance is giving up the fight; and how can I refuse, I feel like I win when I lose" : Abba
Platform 4 at Preston to Platform 2 at Brighton.
30-years of travelling.
I can't help but smile.
The sun has burned away the earlier morning rain clouds which followed the 5:25 train from Newcastle and tranquillity reigns.
A glorious rainbow arches above me, which I'm taking as an omen.
Arriving at this point was always the goal, but I've realised in the last few weeks that the actual journey has been just as important.
Nobody can be two people at once. I thought I could keep everyone happy by juggling genders and being boy and girl until the day I died. In actual fact, I was short-changing friends and family.
For the last five years I've been a shape-shifting ghost.
Able to appear, but nothing else.
The reality is that Jonathan passed away so long ago I find it hard to put a precise time on it.
People watching fascinates me.
Sitting on the bus which climbs the steep hill towards the hospital it's interesting looking at all the faces. Old, young, men, women. All with different expressions on their faces.
I wonder what secrets they have? What they have experienced over the years? How many different versions of their selves exist? A wife, a mother, a daughter.
A mistress.
We all wear many different hats during our life.
I think my experience has taught me not to be so quick to judge a book by it's cover. Who knows what's bubbling away deep inside someone, or why they are behaving in a particular way?
Arguments and rows are usually temporary. Love and friendship are much more important.
I understand now that some of the people I row with the most are also the closest to my heart.
They know who they are.
Being passionate about something is good, but don't let a disagreement spoil something much bigger.
Take the last few weeks.
The first person I told about how I was feeling was Alan. Gut instinct made me spontaneously blurt it out. I trusted that as a minority himself he would understand.
He did, and has helped and protected me so much that I will always be in his debt.
I couldn't have picked a better person to keep my secret until the time was right for everyone to know.
Yet I forget that, in some ways, Alan is about to lose his old buddy.
Just as my family are about to lose a son, brother and - in word only - a dad.
Heartbreaking. I really wish this wasn't so painful for everyone.
I know this is difficult for Al, even if it's not something he's comfortable admitting.
When he told me this week that he would always see me as Jonathan I took it literally. As a dig.
It wasn't.
Our friendship is almost 30-years-old. He knows my humour, personality and fears, all of which will be the same tomorrow morning.
Yet the face sitting across the table has been erased.
I hope we will be meeting for many years to come to have a whinge and moan about life, and when we tell for the millionth time a story about a pyrrhic victory or embarrassing failure, an image of the old me is going to surface in our heads.
Alan is a good guy and I know he is upset about what is about to happen.
The essence of me though will survive.
Our time here is so short. I've missed out on so much by not being braver earlier on, and I don't want to throw away my whole life.
Despite the gloom of the last few chapters I'm actually quite funny at times.
Ian Fleming was wrong. Nobody get's to live twice. My boy licence has been revoked, along with my driving licence and passport.
There's no room for Jonathan and India.
I surrender completely, willingly, and with 100% percent conviction.
Tomorrow morning is my Waterloo, which appropriately is an Abba song which won the Eurovision Song Contest in Brighton.
Abba is also Alan's favourite band.
It was playing today at a cafe where I stopped for a quick Americano, to help shake off the early morning tiredness.
Even though I've heard it countless times before, this was the first time I'd actually listened to the lyrics.
Very apt.
Weird how things come neatly together.
