To be precise, the locality was Haggerston: a rundown area where many large family houses had been converted to small upholstery and furniture workshops. Poverty had been the predominant influence since the nineteenth century: indeed, Charles Dickens had drawn extensively on its living conditions as graphic background to his renowned novel Oliver Twist. Carlos had chosen the area as a priority on the list of possibilities that his resettlement plan proposed because the factory he worked in was there and his friend Georgina planned to move into the neighbourhood. He had arrived at a time when the developers and estate agents were talking up the area as being on “a cusp.” Housing, social and commercial change was inevitable and neatly encapsulated in the way a letter writer to The Hackney Gazette put it: “The Nigels and the Pamelas are arriving on a tide of builder’s skips.”

In what seemed an overnight transformation the whole face of the area changed as artists moved in and the likes of Rachel Whitereade, Tracy Emin, Damien Hirst and Gilbert and George set up their studios and small art galleries opened their doors. The writer Martin Amis came and was inspired to write a best seller novel: London Fields. For Carlos and his friend this nouveau bohemia would easily accommodate, nay indulge their, how should I put it, as I had been given the merest hint, their unusual proclivities? Here they could safely put another face on their relationship.

I hope the reader will not be disappointed when I fail to describe in detail the work of furnelling except to mention, that it involves the stripping of animal skins and stroking the fur in one direction to match it for sewing into garments. Carlos showed me a few examples from his wardrobe – in which, I noticed, hung a disproportionate quantity of women’s clothes. I surmised that they must be owned by Georgina who, during this period of Carlos’s transition, I never actually met.

Some years passed and I again found myself in the area. I decided to call by and re-new my acquaintance with Carlos. The change in the locality was compelling and as I enjoyed the ambiance of a wine-bar I studied an artist’s embellished advertisement. It featured a ‘photo of a fur coated dancer billed as Carla Candida who performed on a regular basis in a nearby pub cum restaurant cum disco: The Queen’s Arms. Although the face in the photo was unfamiliar I thought that I might have seen it before.

At Carlos’s flat the door was opened by a stranger and I stated my reason for calling. The face I looked at was not that of Carlos but I noticed as I was invited in, that despite a bushy moustache, it was of a woman dressed as a man. “I’m George – it’s my wife that you must be after!” he said, as I followed him into the flat. Before I had time to take in the surroundings a perfectly made up woman in a mini-skirt approached and embracing me firmly planted a lipstick tasting kiss on my lips. I looked directly into her face. I took in the perfect false eyelashes, the carefully applied mascara, the delicately rouged cheeks, the deceptive wig, the striking ear rings. It would be an exaggeration to say I felt a heaving bosom pressed to my palpitating chest and that I detected a hint of Chanel No 5. Resistance was futile.

One thing was inescapable: Carlos had become Carla. I was de-clutched and invited to tea. This was efficiently laid on by his “husband.” An amusing hour or so passed but I had to decline the invitation for that evening’s performance in The Queen’s Arms.

Anthony J M Brady
Formerly Administrator
Providence Row Night Refuge
50 Crispin Street
Spitalfields
1973-1980
This is an extract from his book:
Nothing Matches – but It’s Home
A Quartet: Scenes from An Examined Life
publisher tradition.com