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This April Ashley has in abundance. When her privacy was invaded in , she was a top London model and rising social star. Overnight her bookings were cancelled, she was harassed by insulting phone calls and advised by friends that she might as well forget about London. Yet bitterness is not at all a tone which features in this book.

In this outstanding collaboration with friend and writer Duncan Fallowell, the descriptions of social scenes positively sparkle: This is an emotional and dramatic story as well. We encounter the Liverpool slum where a young boy was relentlessly bullied and beaten senseless by his peers; the first, unexpected remarks about his unusual beauty; the terrible confusion which set in when he went to sea; the suicide attempts and sentence to the most stringently policed section of a mental hospital; then escape to London, and soon after, to Paris.

It was the first break from many years' strictly androgynous dressing habits. Until then Toni had largely let people make up their own minds.

Of course, with close friends of which there was not just quantity but an endearing variety the labels were unimportant. Then the decision was made. Toni flew to Casablanca. The operation and its psychological effects are described in moving detail. The labels eventually became important, during April's divorce proceedings from her husband, the Hon.

Church and State demand strict definitions. The case was an extraordinary judicial undertaking to 'determine' the sex of an individual which had no legal precedent. One legal adviser predicted that it might be twenty years before the law would arrive at a more realistic, not to mention compassionate, way of viewing these issues.

This is a marvellous, joyful life despite its harrowing obstacles - dashing and hilarious by turns, full of not just notable, but interesting people. The book reflects tremendous wit and warmth, a great deal of wisdom and, most of all, generosity of spirit. He has written and travelled widely, lived in Berlin, Bangkok and Rome, and was for a time editor of Deluxe and Boulevard magazines.

This is his first full-length book. The room glittered with crystal and silver, pineapples, lobsters and champagne. And the smart talk - what a row! One side of the room was a semi-circle of colonnaded windows through which jewelled figures slid out to the candlelit terrace and the beating of a band.

I gave up toying with my truffles and let my gaze move across the breathless midnight Mediterranean lit up with yachts and beyond, way beyond, to the lights of Africa. Max was leaning over me and looking downwards. Click-swoosh, click-swoosh, on her way to the lavatory. He managed to stand, sway, and bow. She nodded from the crow's nest of her great height and proceeded fitfully through the wrong door. And quite wrong about my origins.

Don Pedro tapped me on the shoulder from behind. Don Pedro squeaked at the waist when he danced. But such a noble head. And we went off to Watutsi on the terrace. I didn't know what a present was until my eleventh birthday. I gripped the table to steady myself and broke out in goose-pimples. At home Mother was holding a brown-paper parcel. I took it breathing heavily.

Out rolled a pair of grey socks. Next, Mother brought me home to a black dockland slum called Pitt Street and christened me George. You didn't get lower than Pitt Street. Even in those days the police patrolled it in pairs. If you moved at all it could only be up. And we did, very slightly.

When I was a couple of years old the family was rehoused on a new council estate in Norris Green on the edge of town. Since the rest of Pitt Street moved with us, along with the equally notorious Scotland Road, the atmosphere continued to be full of fists. Families like ours stored coal in the bath to stop it being stolen.

But we had the luxury of three bedrooms. The smallest was reserved for me alone because for the first fourteen years of my life I nervously wet the bed. As a punishment I would be locked in there without heat or light and told there were ghosts. My parents were both Liverpudlians. Mother was born Ada Brown, a name I now use when attempting to travel incognito. She, a Protestant, married my father, Frederick Jamieson, when she was sixteen. He was a Roman Catholic and so virtually she dropped one child a year: Apart from us there were several who died at birth.

Being a middle child I never had new clothes. Just grey hand-me-downs, patched, darned, frayed, hanging off my scrawny frame. Even my clogs - then de rigueur among poor scouse kids - even these were hand-me-downs.

I thought I should never see the end of those clogs coming down to me, hard wooden shells with a steel rim nailed on to the undersides. These rims were always falling off and had to be hammered back on, so one felt like a horse. In her youth Mother was pretty and flirtatious, with fine brown hair and eyes and good teeth. She adored to go out dancing or 'jigging' as she called it. This was hardly ever since she was always pregnant.

My first impression of her was that she didn't like me. There was so little between us that was physical. But she had a large heart for taking in strangers. Big blue-eyed Roddy, who went to sea when I was very young, was constantly bringing back strays. One was called Reggie Endicott, half-Indian, always laughing, fabulous-looking, who stayed with us for a long time and shook up the house by buying a gramophone and playing Frankie Lane records until the plaster cracked.

An Australian, Bernie Cartmell, followed Roddy in through the door one day. He was skinny and floppy, all hands and feet. We called him 'the long streak of piss' and wondered when he would leave. And there was a Mexican girl, Beautiful Phyllis. Mother had gone out to the lavatory in the morning and found Phyllis in there asleep. In her arms was a baby covered with sores. Of course Mother took them both in. There were always processions through the house.

Usually they slept where they fell. Father was a cook in the Royal Navy and not often home. When he was, he would hand out bars of chocolate white with age and while we munched he would describe exotic seaports or indulge his passion for oysters washed down with Guinness.

Father was as short as Mother, slightly built but good-looking, with strong dark eyes which I inherited and a heavenly, puckish smile. He was also a scoundrel, a heavy drinker and spent every penny on the booze. I was mad about him. The house was always active, but I don't recall many other relations. My only living grandparent, Mother's mother, was so taken aback by the sound of the first air-raid siren that she had a heart attack and died on the spot.

One of Father's brothers was said to own a Stradivarius, but we never saw it. Father's irresponsibility meant that Mother had to work very hard to keep us alive. She heaved sacks of potatoes and boxes of oranges at a grocery shop and during the Second World War made bombs at the Fazakerly bomb factory. Because of the daily proximity of TNT, she lost much hair and all her teeth.

Doris Paper, Mother's best friend from across the road, worked in the same establishment. They would go off together every day in their. One morning in the factory Doris said, 'I feel all queer. TNT can do that to you. She and Mother were brought home in an ambulance. Mother made a pot of tea and Doris started yelling, 'I've got to go to the lav! I've got to go to the lav! Mother found her dead on the toilet seat. I was a problem child. Apart from the bed-wetting, I was born with a severe calcium deficiency.

This led to frequent accidents which left me unable to walk.

April Ashley's Odyssey

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