Although I'd chosen the cheaper option of transitioning on the NHS, failure to maintain a full-time job could still stop me in my tracks. Appointments at my nearest Gender Identity Clinic (GIC) would be free, as would surgery (with hormones incurring a prescription charge), but there were still essential physical processes that would be expensive, and I was already spending heavily on a new wardrobe that might allow me to pass convincingly. My main concern, though, regarded the pathway itself: specifically, the GIC demand that the 'real life experience' includes full- or part-time employment, voluntary work or study. (This, incidentally, is why transsexual people often work in charity shops.) Unable to sustain myself in voluntary work or further education, it became doubly important to remain employed - preferably somewhere I'd feel comfortable.

Work was the last place I began presenting as female, as I was temping and wasn't certain I'd get another contract. I wanted to stay, as I knew I was in an incredibly fortunate position, working for a public sector organisation that would respect the Sex Discrimination Act, which stops employers discriminating against transsexual people. The presence of another trans woman in the office seemed to confirm this.

I consulted the HR manager and the equality and diversity manager, who assured me that most employees would be supportive, and that I shouldn't let my plans stop me from trying to secure another position (the days of transsexual people being urged to find a new job before changing their gender presentation are, thankfully, past). There was a similar position to mine going. I spoke to the relevant manager, who calmly talked me through everything. "There aren't many men on my team," she told me, apologetically. "Well, it's funny you should say that ..."

So I changed role, returning on Monday as Juliet. I'd emailed everyone I'd worked with, and my new boss had informed her team, but not everyone else knew. At least one person did a double take on seeing me. I'd assumed the matter might have been the subject of office gossip, but perhaps I'd overestimated the newsworthiness of my actions. Once I'd talked them through my situation, my colleagues were sympathetic, stating their intentions to use my new name (and the right pronouns) and to respect my decision.

Briefly, I thought I might almost have been too fortunate: working in healthcare, several colleagues asked if they could discuss the process with me. Not yet, I told them: I'd spoken of little else for weeks and wanted to talk about anything else. Then I got over myself - most transsexuals would love to have such an easy time at work. (And anyway, talking about football seemed less appealing when the one man on our team printed out the weekend's most notable result and stuck it to my monitor.) I noted the contrast with my horrendous previous job with an assurance firm, where conspiratorial comments had been made about a transsexual woman on our floor.

Now I noticed that people seemed keener to talk to me than before, and not just about medical matters. I put this down to the sense of liberation I felt being reflected in my body language, and soon I felt completely at ease with my co-workers.

My main problem was telephone conversation. In person, people saw how I presented and addressed me accordingly; email was pleasingly genderless. On the phone, though, people calling for Juliet (or called by me) often expressed their difficulties with hearing a female name and a male voice. In my quieter moments I began looking at voice therapy options, keen to make my communication less stressful.

That became less pressing, though, when my contract expired without me having lined up another. So I dug out some mid-80s indie classics to accompany my visits to the job centre, fretting about where I might end up. The staff treated me fairly but couldn't find me work, and interviews for other temp jobs proved fruitless. I wondered how much this owed to my gender: the aforementioned Sex Discrimination Act might protect people in work, but does little to prevent employers from passing over transsexual people, as long as this is not their stated reason.

Nor is it impossible for transgendered people to be bullied out of jobs, or be made to feel that they (particularly the way they present themselves) are the problem, upsetting the balance of their workplaces. Although the law allows recourse against this, it's unsurprising that some people feel too worn down, especially when such discrimination extends to spaces as intimate as the bathroom. Perhaps this is why, according to a Count Me In Too survey, 26% of trans people in Brighton and Hove are unemployed (with a further 60% earning less than £10,000 per year), despite the efforts of the Gender Trust and Place at the Table to help transsexual people at work and educate their employers.

Given these difficulties, as well as the fetishisation of the pre-operative male-to-female body, it's unsurprising that many transsexual people have found themselves in sex work - one of the few vocations where supply and demand operates to our financial advantage. Invited to return to the same office after six weeks of signing on, when another temporary position came up, I never had to consider this, but plenty of transsexual women do - including some of my friends - and, for some, the consequences are grave.

So I was back in employment: another sphere in which the parameters are radically different for trans people. To me, anyway, feeling accepted in my environment came above all the other things that many people want from work - a higher salary, a career ladder and so on. I determined that I would never again take a welcoming workplace for granted, whatever the pay, whatever the opportunities, and just felt thankful to feel economically - and socially - secure.