I was born Maurice David Pepper on 16 January 1944 and grew up in London's West End. My parents were what you might call ordinary working class; my father was an alterations tailor and we lived in a flat off Tottenham Court Road. I was an only child, but it was a happy childhood. Every Sunday we'd go to the cinema and because we didn't have a garden my mother would take me to the swings in Regent's Park.
Then, when I was five, I found one of my mother's bras. I couldn't get over the way it felt; the texture of it. I knew it was something I wanted to wear. From that point on I became obsessed with women's clothes. When I was 12, my mother caught me in one of her dresses. She was surprised and told me to take it off. We never discussed it again; it was just one of those embarrassing moments.
Through my childhood and teenage years I was confused by my feelings, it was like being in a foreign country without a map - I just didn't know where I was. I looked normal and I liked girls, but when I'd look at girls I also wanted to be one.
Despite this, I felt I could cope with these inner feelings and that I had them under control. I was 21 when I met my wife at a social evening in Hackney, east London, and she was 22. We weren't madly in love but we were infatuated with each other and were engaged within a year. I never mentioned my feelings about women's clothes to my wife. Ours was a traditional relationship; I went out to work and my wife stayed at home looking after our five kids. Life was ordinary.
Occasionally, when my wife and children were away, I would dress up. One day when they were on holiday, I bought a blue dress and some underwear, and I felt this mad excitement. Afterwards, feeling guilty, I got rid of the clothes.
By the time I was in my 30s, my feelings had become far stronger. When my mother died I went through a difficult time. I was out of work and started breaking down. I felt myself sinking into a depression, falling apart like broken glass. I would sit in an armchair looking out the window for days. It was at this point I first tried painting as a form of escape. I bought an easel and oils and did some local landscapes around Woodford Green in London. But I gave up after a few weeks and went back to trying to salvage what I could out of my life.
In 1991, while I was out of work, I visited a few clubs in north London and started chatting to people who felt the same way as me. I ended up going to a drop-in centre for transgender people, and found that it released some of my tensions. When my wife asked where I'd been, I told her. She just laughed at me and assumed I was joking. Then, when she realised I was serious, she was furious. It was the only thing we ever argued about. We were compatible in every way except this and I didn't feel I could really do anything about it. I even went to see four psychiatrists at my wife's request, but they didn't understand my feelings. Once I tried taking my wife to a transgender meeting. Within seconds I knew I'd made a god-awful mistake - her eyes glazed over and then she freaked out. She said I had no idea what it was to be a woman, so I refused to talk about it any more. It was such a taboo subject: it was more acceptable to commit GBH - to be a hard-core villain - than it was to change sex. And in the back of my mind I knew this is what I wanted to do. I told myself if the opportunity came up I would take it.
As we grew older, my wife began getting absent-minded. By 1997, she'd started throwing away important things and mixing up her words. The doctors couldn't find anything wrong with her, but by 2002 she was incontinent and I couldn't leave her alone. I was caring for her 24 hours a day and was at my wits' end. I just couldn't cope and I wasn't getting enough help. Eventually she stopped eating and had to go into hospital. When she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, she was taken into a care home.
Knowing my wife wasn't coming home was scary. Although life had been difficult at times and we had had money problems, the marriage did work for 20 years. Now I was 58 and alone for the first time. More or less straight away I started buying dresses, wigs, makeup and everything. Dressing as a woman was a form of comfort to me. I was determined to do it and this time didn't feel guilty - I found it thrilling. I just grasped life and went with my impulses. So, as my wife went in to hospital, I came out as a woman.
By now I was working as a quantity surveyor. I was dressing as a woman at home and, in the office, people noticed I'd started wearing studs in my ears, but were too embarrassed to ask about it. Then I went on a trip - you might call it Butlins for trannies - and everything changed. It blew my mind. I packed only women's clothes and when I returned home I couldn't switch back to "man mode". The next morning I dressed as a woman for work and went in.
I got odd looks, of course but I thought: "What the hell, you need a sense of humour in this business." If you're a transsexual you can't stand in a corner and hope no one sees you. People stare at anything that's interesting and transsexuals are interesting. My colleagues would walk up and down the corridors just to get a peek at me. I found it hilarious. My boss didn't know how to react; he said I didn't look well and sent an email round asking people to be nice to me, thinking I was going through a stressful time. I was the two-minute wonder, but everyone had forgotten about it within days. When my boss realised it was a permanent change he was very understanding. They did designate a disabled toilet for me though, as they weren't sure whether I should be using the ladies.
I changed my legal name to Margaret Dawn Pepper, so I could keep the same initials, and by the time I was 60 I felt I had worked everything out. Now it was crunch time. I'd been living in limbo for most of my life and I was ready for the surgery.
I was referred to a gender clinic but was told I couldn't have an appointment for a year because of NHS cutbacks, so I contacted a private psychiatrist. As things gathered pace, I was over the moon. I was offered counselling but didn't need it; I was doing something I had always wanted. I certainly wasn't depressed - I wanted to party.
You have to be tough to go through with such major surgery; you have to be obsessed. I paid £9,500 for the operation, but sitting in bed beforehand I was so terrified the whole bed was shaking. However, I knew if I didn't go through with the operation I would be back at the hospital again two years later in exactly the same position. The day after the operation I couldn't feel anything because the drugs I was on were so strong. I was on a liquid diet and had to lie on my back for five days. I became so weak that I collapsed. But when I had a bath for the first time things looked so different that I was really pleased.
I do wish I could have had the operation years ago and that I could have carried on living with my wife. But life isn't like a book. My wife now sleeps all the time. She's in a bed in a vegetative state and hasn't spoken for five years. She has no idea what I've done or who I am when I visit her and I know she wouldn't be pleased if she knew. But I don't feel guilty.
Four of my children accept the change, but my eldest son won't talk to me, which is disappointing. My other kids still call me dad, and I am still their father. They think I'm eccentric, which I am. I had a photo taken with one of my grandchildren recently and I look just like a grandma.
Becoming a woman has meant everything to me. Before I just had acquaintances; now I have a diary of social events and lots of friends. It's the first time in my life people want to know me - I've become an extrovert and people warm to me. I think it's because my inhibitions have gone. As a man I was timid, introverted and would always take a back seat, now I'm outgoing and much more at ease with the way I feel and look.
Soon after the operation I started painting and now I paint every day; I just can't stop. It's like a celebration. It's been an explosion of creative energy because my emotions have been released. Now my female side has been allowed to come out, life has meaning and excitement, it's a completely different feeling. Everything is in Technicolor.
• Margaret Pepper was talking to Jill Clark. Margaret's paintings can be viewed at conceptualpainting.com
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