Rightly or wrongly, two words strike fear into the transsexual community: Charing Cross. The BBC's groundbreaking trilogy of films, A Change of Sex, first screened in 1980, seriously damaged the Gender Identity Clinic's reputation, demonstrating (as this site puts it) the "arrogance" of the psychiatrists working with Julia Grant, at a time when certain 'feminists' were launching searing attacks not just on male-to-female transsexuals but also those providing their services. Thirty years later, the clinic - now under the auspices of West London Mental Health Trust but still widely known as 'Charing Cross' - struggles to shake a reputation for being cold and overly demanding. This is not always diminished by the experiences posted online by patients, some of whom have reservations about gender services being 'pathologised' under mental health (rather than being treated as an endocrine issue).

Gender dysphoria is currently classified as a 'mental illness' by the World Health Organisation, despite growing pressure to revise this. As for 'Charing Cross', a clinic staffed by clinicians will always feel clinical, and there's a detached, paternalistic streak running through the NHS that reaches far beyond its gender services. The long waits for appointments, too, are not exclusive to the Gender Identity Clinic, frustrating as they are. During my initial assessment in Hove, the psychiatrist suggested that he'd have no problem referring me, but asked that I return in two months for a follow-up interview before doing so. My second interview lasted ten minutes: nothing had changed, and the psychiatrist wrote to the clinic co-ordinator to request they 'offer an assessment' to me.

A week later, a letter from the clinic arrives – addressed to my male name, as they refuse to use 'Juliet' until they've seen my deed poll. Due to the high number of non-attendees, I'm asked to confirm my willingness to attend. I'm also asked to bring along the enclosed checklist on attending: aiming to manage my expectations, it tells me that a re-referral will be needed if I miss this appointment, and that hormones may be prescribed after the second consultation.

Finally, a date for my appointment: I must wait seven months. A few days later, a second letter arrives, postponing it a further ten days. After getting my psychiatric referral far quicker than expected, it was disappointing, but at least gave me time to chat to friends who'd recently been through the clinic.

They cut through the myths: most of the horror stories about 'Charing Cross' are propagated by people who've never been, they told me, and if you arrive prepared to work with the clinicians, you shouldn't have many problems. Part of the friction, they said, resulted from the fact that for us, 'Charing Cross' represents the beginning of the end of transition, whereas for them it just represents the beginning. I had plenty going for me, they said, being in full-time employment, having changed my name and begun living 'in role'. One friend advised me to downplay the depression I'd experienced intermittently throughout my life, but otherwise, I had everything in place.

People told me I wouldn't even notice the months passing: I did, but decided to see where things would settle after announcing my transition had thrown my life up in the air. I tried not to focus on the wait, or form expectations of my appointment. When it finally came around, I travelled with a close friend for support. After a nervous journey, we found a small sign for West London Mental Health Trust near Sainsbury's Local on Hammersmith's Fulham Palace Road. We pressed the buzzer and went up to reception. I was struck by how normal the clinic felt – much like my GP surgery. I sat and waited, thumbing through the magazines and the pamphlets promoting the independent online Charing Cross GIC User Support Group.

Finally, I entered room seven: my first contact with any gender-specialist clinician. Dr Davies began an hour-long interview with questions very similar to those asked at Hove Polyclinic: my family history, when I first realised I was transgendered, my sexuality (and any sexual element to my cross-dressing), my psychiatric history, how long I'd been living as female and how this had affected my wider life – the kind of things I get asked all the time.

And that was it. No questions about how I presented as female, or any comments on my clothing, contradicting the long-standing criticism that Gender Identity Clinics attempt to bludgeon their patients into conforming to conservative gender roles. This was about becoming female in body: my gender presentation was my choice alone.

Dr Davies told me that my second appointment will only need thirty minutes as I'm comparatively close to a hormone prescription – which, above all else at this point, is what I want from the clinic. The receptionist told me they don't have a slot for my next appointment for seven months. On realising I don't need an hour, this falls to five. She prints a letter, still declining to address it to 'Juliet' as they can't find the deed poll I sent. Disappointed, I headed to the nearby hospital for a blood test: the clinic will analyse the results to decide which hormones they should offer when they finally prescribe, as well as picking up any underlying health problems.

Then I went home, quietly surprised at how low-key and uneventful it felt. To me, it seemed as though my initial sense that the appointments would be the defining moments of my transition was somewhat misguided. Yes, they are the gatekeepers of my physical transition, but their main role, seemingly, will be to help me navigate the social and psychological (and, later, hormonal) changes that I encounter along the way. Also, as their official name suggests, they will monitor any mental health matters related to my gender issues. This – like 'Charing Cross' – is something to which I shall return.