Crossing The Floor

http://jenksys.wordpress.com

2010-01-25T23:17:00.001Z

A whole new post is here
http://jenksys.wordpress.com
Why not take a look

Not Here...Over There

2010-01-18T22:33:00.003Z

Look, I have moved honest...Go take a look if you don't believe me

There are new posts an everyfink at

http://jenksys.wordpress.com/

I told you I'd moved !

2010-01-13T21:52:00.000Z

Hellooooo. I'm over here
http://jenksys.wordpress.com

I've Moved

2010-01-09T17:01:00.001Z

Helloooo
Sorry its been such a long time. Anyway, Ive moved
http://jenksys.wordpress.com
Please say hi

the facebooker Diaries

2009-12-07T00:00:00.001Z

I have been severely lacking blogging inspiration of late. Guess its a mood / laziness thing

Anyway I am going to post my facebook diary in the interim, just to show I’m still alive !

Friday 4th December 2009

01.00

Sleepless in Stoke. Still trying to come up for the title of forthcoming (eventually) unautorised autobiography...Options ruled out so far : May Still Contains Nuts |Thatcher, My part in her downfall | A-Jen-der for Change (my struggles with Job Evaluation) | La recherche du temps perdu|Zen and the art of Trade Unionism | Jenny Potter and the Gender Clinic of Secrets

08.30

Dose of shopping in Stafford this morning with my friend Joy. A friend whom I add, has just called to say she is running late as she's still in bed, while I on the other hand have dragged my sorry ass out of a snuggly bed into a bathroom as cold as a heartless Polar Bear's shoulder.

17.30

Back 'wom after a Joyful day's shopping with Joy... Jenny presents bought = 10, Christmas presents bought = 0.

23.30

Back from an evening with V & D (which I guess is better than VD) which went from sublime to less sublime (or subsublime?). V insisted on playing a poetry CD with famous odes narrated by such people as Patsy from Ab Fab and Hanibal Lecktor from Manhunter. Then onto D's to do battle with ½ Boxer dog ½ Linebacker Marley,... while we unharmonised along to the MTV top 40

Saturday 5th December 2009

05.30

Awake at the precisely calculated worst time. Too early to usefully get up, too late to comfortably turn over for a good solid 2nd slumber. I’m listening to my most unnecessary purchase of yesterday, an audiobook version of Joseph Heller’s Catch 22 on fifteen (count them!) CDs, and yet I never read the first 21 episod...es..(budum tissss !!) “Thank you, I’m here all week “

11.30

Saturday’s I am possessed by an identity passed. I will be shouting and sighing at the radio, listening to “mighty” Potters Stoke City, ply their trade against The Arsenal……. It’s Artisans Vs Artists, Clog Vs Ballet, Dairylea Vs Brie, Oatcakes & Cheese Vs Croque Monsieur or Arnold Bennet Vs Proust

17.00

Hopes dashed as Stoke lose to Arsenal (but only on goal difference!). Muzzy head has necessitated an afternoon in a darkened bedroom, with only Laptop Radio, Gammo and 200 odd Facebookers & Tweeps for company. Completed the section of my book covering my military service

19.00

Doing the Solo Saturday Night Shuffle between Strictly Camp Prancing and X Factory.... It's nights like this I miss the companionship of marriage.

Sunday 6th December 2009

16.00

Sunday Girl (apologies to Blondie)

I am a girl from a Stokey street/
Likes an ice cream, and a bag of sweets/
Eats your pies Sunday girl/
Hey, I was a guy, now a different girl/
Love that I’m in another world/
Live with pride Sunday girl

22.00

Have a sense of calm this evening, which ironically feels slightly unsettling....I seem to have finalised some arrangements for Chrissy that now have me filled with anticipation of good company rather than the dread of regret and bad memories... I do wish the whole thing could evolve into something more soulful, rather than the orgy of consumption, and go-through-the-motions ritual that it's become.

23.30

Don’t know why or when fb turned into my surrogate diary, but it clearly has. Anyhoo, I lie here bereft of sleep, trawling my way through my most tear inducing itunes songs, like some strange emotional lemming. Mind you my soppy playlist is a bit eclectic ranging from Roger Waters to The England World Cup squad ’82 via the wonderful but forgotten Faith Brothers

Week III, Family Favourites

2009-10-05T22:08:00.001+01:00

Monday - All Stoked up

meeting after meeting after meeting. Out of 4 meetings i managed to have the correct paperwork for 1, which is an improvement on my usual strike rate. At one point I pulled out from my bag what I thought was supposed to be an intricate project plan, but what turned out to be a “Guess the sporting stadium” quiz throwout from a week or so past. Never mind if I have one talent (and I don’t) its an ability to wing it. Last meeting finished at 7.30 pm, my brain checked out half an hour earlier.

Nice surprise in bed (ooo errrr etc) when checking facebook I found that my uncle and co Union activist had added me as a friend, and from that I was able to link to my 2 maternal cousins Joanne and Alison. The last time I’d seen Jo was at my wedding a dozen years ago. The last time I’d seen Alison well … more to come.

Tuesday - Pottering about

First thing I was on zoo keeping duties for Vicky, who was camping it up with a friend. I saw to the rabbit and cats. Not sure the cats appreciated the lettuce but Duncan the Wabbit seemed to enjoy chowing down on tuna chunks, hmmmmm maybe I’m not cut out for zoo work ? After a good afternoon’s Trade Unionising, the day was rounded off with a marathon first phone call to Alison, during which I may have said “this is amazing” about 14 times, and “this is freeky” about 12.

Wednesday - Live from Meakins its the quiz of the week

Took a leave day due to having a meeting free day, plus I felt a touch loussey (ie like a louse who feels lousy). I did have one work commitment first thing though which was a conference call (ooo get me !). It all went to plan. I dialled the number, entered the identification code, gave my name followed by hash, and waited for the chair of the call to join…and waited …and waited ..and waited while I ate porridge …and waited…and gave up

The quiz at night saw Simon, Wendy and I as the increasingly inaccurate 3nonBlondes quiz team take on our 3 rivals to a quiz delivered by our occasionally drunk (ie every occasion i have seen him) team member Michael. Michael as a quizmaster? Well imagine Oliver Reed crossed with a Hugh Laurie, presenting University Challenge complete with Pinteresque pauses between questions. I wasn’t sure that at one point he hadn’t nodded off between questions

Thursday - Day of Daze

Felt really poorly and muzzy headed, so for the first time in over a year I phoned in sick for work. The decision was helped by a couple of days with easily avoidable commitments. I may have watched a few too many episodes of House, but I narrowed my differential diagnosis West Nile Fever, Lupus, or maybe just a minor sniffle. I did check out the flu pandemic line but other than a bit of a temperature it seemed I didn't have Swine flu even though I have a pig’s appetite.

Friday - Sofa Sofa

Second day off work with unknown virus that main symptom seemed to be feeling sorry for myself. I was now back on my Slimming World diet and a Green Day meant carbs ahoy. Time for my just invented hot pasta curry treatment. Works much better than antibiotics. Instead of Penicillin think Penne-chilli (this could be my greatest joke ever). My pasta curry worked well and afterwards I had a moral boosting chat with my Doncaster based, shredder mending, star gazing, geekette friend Joanne, over the phone during her lunch hour.

Recipe for Penne Jalfrezi

1 bag Coop Penne Rigate
1 Jar of low fat Jalfrezi sauce. (or any proprietary curry sauce except for Korma which is eeeuuugghhh)
Shove Pasta in pan of boiling water and sauce in microwave, then watch episode of Friends until one is hot and the other al dente
serve in a big bowl and garnish with fork

For other serving suggestion see the back of this blog

On my twitter account the message popped up that i am being followed by Hollands Pies! Such genius marketing to find such their perfect target. If I followed them in return I had the chance to win free pies for a year. Not since The Blue Cat had tortured Dougal with sugar lumps has temptation been so heroically resisted

Saturday - Wolverhampton

After Dancing through Wolves I arrived at my cousin Alison’s flat. Not a remarkable fact by itself, except that I hadn’t seen Alison since 1990 and since then unbeknownst to each other our lives had been on separate remarkable but spookily parallel courses to finally collide on this Saturday. We nattered, reminisced, laughed, gasped, giggled, gabbled and blathered away for 6 hours only punctuated by tea and loo breaks. I am still staggered now 24 hour later by the turn of events, and how 2 people can be so alike after such a long time. 19 years passed by in a heartbeat. An extraordinary story to be told at a later date. Next I’m looking forward to seeing other cousin Jo, her daughter Nina and my Auntie Francis and Uncle David, hopefully in 2 weeks time.

Sunday – Sleepery

Was supposed to visit mum and dad but the emotion of yesterday on top of an irresponsible early rise just to watch the Grand Prix left me superlethargic. When I do tired I do it with enthusiasm.

In the evening cruising the ether, I had another blast from the past shock. For some reason (not vanity at all !!!) I clicked on the web page from the Stoke Evening Sentinel newspaper article on myself from last January. Just on the off chance someone had added a comment. Well I couldn’t believe it. I lovely comment, dated July from my high school friend Darren Roberts. I am now going to have to devote all my efforts (ok all efforts after work) to tracking down an email or contact for him. I would love to talk to him again after over 20 years. My life seems to be turning into one long computer based episode of Surprise Surprise. Down Cilla !

That Was a Week, Wasn’t it ?

2009-09-28T05:08:00.001+01:00

Monday-Stoke, Betelgeuse

A work-a-day day at work. lunch over my computer. Just read about today being the 25th anniversary of the seminal computer game Elite on the BBC Micro. I remember my excitement playing it on my Acorn Electron home computer (BBC micro for poor kids!). It was unlike any game that came before both in scope and presentation. The point was to roam the universe trading between planets and shooting pirates. I recall a box loaded with all sorts of paraphernalia to immerse you in its universe. I also have a vague memory of trading in both furs and slaves, so I think I may owe an official apology to some distant planets.

More in fantasy space news, my inbox contained an email from my brother Bill (actual brother not socialist anachronism) asking if I am interested in attending a Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy convention to celebrate it’s 30th anniversary. I replied with a succinct and accurate, absolutely.

Tuesday-Stoke, Birmingham

Arrived in Brum at 9.30 for a 10am meeting. Have decided it is physically impossible to arrive here at the time intended. Either half an hour early or 15 mins late every time. Had an interesting Regional Committee meeting. On the drive back home all I could think of was that I had wittered on too much. My new maxim will be: While Brevity is the soul of wit, blathering on is the sign of a twit.

Wednesday-Home, Cricket Club

Frustrating day waiting in for someone to measure my front widow for a repair. I was told they would call sometime in the morning. Apparently mornings now last till 2.30pm.

We were back to almost full strength for the quiz. Michael has returned from 4 weeks alcohol blotting in Spain. Sadly Vicky was tied up so I would have no one to bicker with. This quiz was an utter triumph, though sadly not for us as we finished just outside the top 3 (out of 4 teams). Post analysis was, that we did not answer enough questions correctly…. pointless analysis for a pointless performance.

Thursday-Bloomsbury

Down to sunny sunny London for a Unison Joint Regional Conveners and Secretaries meeting. This is a large gathering of the leads form all the Regions of both the lay members (me) and Unison management all of whom are much more experienced, eloquent and factually thinner than myself. Also present was Dave Prentis, our General Secretary as well as other HQ luminaries. My unworthy gene kicked in leaving me feeling like such a small cheese in a big pond (my favourite mixed metaphor). I did make a couple of lumbering contributions to the otherwise fine debate but hopefully I was a little less wittery than Tuesday.

Home for 7pm. Asleep for 7.15pm

Friday-Keele School of Nursing

It was student nurse recruitment today. Hooray !! That is not to say recruiting people to become nurses rather than recruiting the Students to join our Union. Its a bit like being involved in a low rent Trade Fair. We had a stand in the large registration room, alongside our sworn rivals, but close allies the RCN. We stand by our pitches like so many slightly nervous double glazing pedlars ready to pounce on our unsuspecting and possibly windowless prey. Its a tricky thing to engage a student in the way of the Union. Some of them have little idea of what we do, and couple that with an 21 century attention span of just under 30 secs, meant that at times we just had to fall back on throwing free stuff at them. Still, we had an excellent day signing up nearly everyone we spoke to. Even those who left, still a little unsure as to what they had signed up to, will realise the benefits once they experience the NHS from the inside. It has to be said that however much bad press trades unions get elsewhere, in the NHS only a tiny misguided minority of the workforce would question our relevance.

Saturday-Sofa

Pottering round my Potteries house. Stoke lost to Man United, but only on goal difference. A Tellycentic day catching up with vital DVD boxsettery in the afternoon, and the Usual Saturday night Suspects channel hopping. Headlines from the night’s viewing was that a Jockey galloped off from Vaguely Like Dancing and some singers returned home, hopes dashed on The Xploit Factory.

I think all in all, It had been a really productive day, with me managing to produce more inches on the hips and a deeper ass print on my sofa I have decided that day by day I am turning into The Moog from, Willo the Wisp so I have changed all my avatars and profile pics until I am back on the diet train.

Sunday-Britain

Spent most of the day tinkering around with a report for work while keeping one eye on the grand prix, another on my blog and a third on my cat Gammo, who despite being “done” some months ago seems to have returned to his sex pestering ways. Oh and I wrote up this post.

A Week on the Wild Side

2009-09-20T22:26:00.001+01:00

Welcome to this first stab at a daily journal.
Why, well I feel I’ve got bogged down in my blog. What was supposed to be as the name implied a Web Log has turned into a “sporadic lumpen overblown series of ill informed pompous essays” (Stoke Daily Shouter) and that is the best of the reviews !
I’m also feeling in a rut. Sitting on this tube train on the way back from an appointment at the haring Cross gender clinic, its hard to see what progress I’ve made in the last year.
If my life is a marathon (mmmmm snickers) I seem to have hit that 20 mile wall. A wall guarded by a rut (not sure this analogy make much sense but hey). Stuck in a rut of sleep>work>eat>self loathing>eat again>annnnd sleep
So sitting clanking along on the district line from Hammersmith back to Tower Hill I’ve a an epiphany.
I will start a daily journal. A daily journal written on actual paper. This retro journal or paper log, shall call my Plog (clever no ?) Enough of the yacking, let’s rock..

Diary of a Trans Unionist

Week 1 Monday 14th September 2009 London/Southend/Leicester Forest East/Stoke
2 pm - I’ve just finished my appointment with the mercurial Dr B at the Charring Cross clinic. AS usual our appointment squeezed in anything but gender identity into our 20 mins. We rattled through wonky eyes, 3D movies, Birmingham New St, the BNP, diet food cons, the recession and the possibility of a hung parliament. I can only surmise that he is pretty happy that I’m well set genderwise once I am less fat enough for the surgery. He bade goodbye with his usual “Hope to see less of you next time”. My next appointment is next May. Hopefully loads of time to make real weight loss.
So here I am scribbling in my new notebook purchased from a stationers at Hammersmith station writing with an actual biro. I’m on my way back to Southend on Sea where I’ve been spending the weekend with my friend Lucy. Lucy has been so sweet putting me up and putting up with me at the same time. Especially as she is fighting her battle with cancer. She humbles me when I see how stoically she copes with any setback when I am so prone to moan at relative trivia.

9pm - Leicester Forest East services In your face Leicester Forest West ! I've pulled over for a break on my way back north to Stoke. Ive kept myself entertained with Transanthems, a podcast by a blogging friend Justin Episode 2 is an insane 90 min mix of 80s beats that ended with me belting along to Electric Dreams. Hope to be back home not much after 10pm. Got a really early start again tomorrow as I have to be in Birmingham by 9am.

Day 2 Tuesday - Stoke/Birmingham
7am - Just finished a lumpy porridge. Long day ahead. I have a Recruitment and Selection training day in Brum, then a dash back to stoke accompanied by Unison’s newest and most inspirational Regional Secretary Roger Mckenzie who is visiting our branch meeting which starts at 7pm
9am - despite the M6’s best efforts, I managed to make our regional centre in under 2 hours. We are just waiting for a couple of fellow trainees to arrive. I've been small talking with the trainer who is called Ian from Hartlepool. He looks and sounds like the lovechild of Peter Mandelson and Louis Theroux. On nearly every training course I have been on there has been a loudmouth irritant, hogging the debate or shoehorning in misplaced humour. Unfortunately, on each occasion it has been me so this time I’m going to make a effort to just shut the f*** up a bit. Interesting debate on how “sense of humour” has started to appear of person specs for jobs and how you would test that at interview. I just imagine someone being turned down for a job because “your humour is a little base for us, we are looking for a little more irony”

6pm Unison Branch Office. Just got back after an interesting 90 minute drive accompanied by Roger M. We talked probably too much Union shop for him but he was very patient listening to my pontificating. We also talked a bit about his passion of jazz and he gave me the cd that we listened to on the way, notable for a track by Dinah Washington. Think I’m going to source some more of her music. Preparing for branch meet by hurriedly printing off agendas to dole out. I do hope the meeting goes well.

10pm - home at last. Branch meeting went ok I suppose. Roger grave a great talk on the current state of play for the Trade Union movement and sparked some lively debate. I was a bit disappointed that there were only a dozen or so people there.
The house feels really empty without Gammo Speng my cat, who is still in the cattery. Its at these times I really miss being married. I always suffer a bit of a crisis of confidence and a low after a meeting where I’m so hyped up and it felt so comforting in the past to have someone to offload onto when I get home.
Don’t know why, perhaps because I’m bushed but I can’t hold back tears…Hey ho

Day 3 Wednesday Stoke/Meakins Cricket Club

Late start in work, mainly due to yesterday’s long long day.

2pm JNCC meeting (Joint negotiating meeting thingy). I’m just about to chair this meeting. They all think these notes I'm scribbling are for the meeting. How little they know. I’m going to start the meeting with my new Chairing catchphrase “Do we have a go / no go to start the meeting”. I may have watched Apollo 13 once too often.

4.30 pm meeting over. Catchphrase was met with both bewilderment and irritation. Still I found it amusing. I also managed to shoehorn twitter into the meeting, don't think I won any new followers though.

9pm Meakins Cricket club. Half an hour ago I was in bed with the firm decision to give this weeks quiz a miss. Vicky is working nights and I wasn’t sure any of the rest of our team were turning up Michael being drunk in France rather than drunk in Stoke. However I was awoke from a slumber by my mobiles message alert tone, Alexander the Meer cat saying “You are having a message…Simples” from that ad offa the telly. So a quick slap of makeup and a bleary eyed drive and I’m here with Simon and Wendy to do battle on the quiz floor.
Midnight – Home again, alone again. Basking in the glory that was our shock quiz win. I almost totally failed to be magnanimous at our victory. We are good losers and bad winners in equal measure

Day 4 Thursday – Bed/Work/Bed

8 am After playing a bout of alarm clock chicken a relative run of the mill day awaits. Meeting meeting and meeting and then hopefully the return of Gammo Speng. Today is also to be the relaunch of my diet. So today will be a porridge and pasta (not together) heavy menu.

2pm - Keele I’m sitting in an open plan office in what is called an Innovation Centre within the socialist republic of Keele University. Surely the only higher education establishment named after a motorway service station.

9pm Bed- Much twitter chatter about some Tranny social events. Feel a twinge of jealousy that while post transition life may be more fulfilling it’s much less fun

Day 5 Friday Sofa/Vick’s

Grabbed chance for an annual leave day when my one scheduled meeting for the day was cancelled. Would like to have said I made the most of the opportunity, but sadly the lure of West Wing DVDs took hold. However I did manage to consume a vast amount of pasta so the day was not totally wasted.

10pm Vicky’s Lounge. I came round V’s at 6 for a coffee and ended up staying after she left for a night shift. So me and her half dog half idiot Spartacus have just watched Strictly Come Dancing followed by Derren Brown’s attempt to stick us to our sofa’s. Derren failed to stick me to anything but Spartacus did vomit up an almost perfect pat of butter . Derren does move in mysterious ways

Day 6 Saturday Meakins/Laundrette/Vicky’s

3pm Sitting in the almost sun watching a confusing charity cricket tournament. There seem to be 3 teams of varying numbers and oddly mismatching kit. Just realised that my car is parked well within an off driven six from the canal end. Handily Autoglass have a branch at the end of the street. The charity is to raise funs for a thirteen year old member of Meakins club who sadly lost both legs after his fishing line touched overhead cables. Can’t help feeling that there is barely a worse age to suffer such an accident. V and me have done our bit by buying and consuming more burgers and hotdogs than is ever necessary or reasonable.

5pm Hanley Laundrette- Broken washing machine has necessitated a first visit to the laundrette for 10 years. Quite a relaxing experience scrawling in my diary while my week’s washing chugs round in the huge tumble dryer. Disappointed that the Laundrette is lacking any Eastenders style melodrama or even a Dot Cotton a like. Mainly seems to be populated by students.

10pm Vicky’s sofa- just finished loading up my car for tomorrows car boot sale. We are both attacking this with no enthusiasm whatsoever and the only reason we are doing it is that we are doing it for Vicky’s mum and there is no way we are brave enough to back out now. My suggestion that I buy everything for 30 quid, take to the dump and hence have a nice lie in Sunday morning was deemed bad form.

Day 7 – Hanley Car Boot Sale/Bed and Laptop

7.30 am Sitting in the car waiting for the 8pm deadline before we can set up our car boot stall. Had to get up at 5.30 am for this pleasure. We timed arrival precisely to be allocated a prime pitch. That is if prime means down a ramp behind some bins parked on a slope on which only a mountain goat could feel surefooted

1pm car boot has been a roaring success. Well it made me roar with something anyway, possibly frustration. It started with the usual rush and soon as the clock strikes 8 the dedicated booters swarm your stall before you can even get your stuff out of the boot. Once set up our stall was a kaleidoscope of ceramica ranging from quite nice Aynsley china to an utterly bizarre green fish “crafted” from modern plastics and pacific seashells . We also had a box of children’s clothes which went down well and a box of romance pulp paperback novels which did not. I am certainly impressed by some of the haggling ability on show. One lady haggled down a school blouse from 20p to 10p. Cashing up we have taken the princely sum of 29 whole pounds sterling. If we deduct £9 for the pitch £3 for bacon baps and £2 for price stickers we ended up with £15 clear profit. Split between the two of us that makes just over £1 per hour each. Well worth the effort I’m sure you will agree. Still the weather has been stunning and the whole thing was quite surprising fun.

8pm finished Blogging from my scrawled notes…… apart from this bit.

Ah, That Codnor Moment

2009-08-15T21:38:00.001+01:00

Just got back from a day’s worth of protesting, marching and shouting around the Derbyshire village of Codnor. I’m not quite ready rubbed but i do have a sore knee. (if none of this makes sense then blame 70s tobacco advertising)

We had nothing against sleepy rural Codnor, but we did against the bunch of neo-fascists assembled at a nearby farm under the banner of the BNP’s Red White and Blue Festival, or Dread, Hate and Poo Farce-ival as I shall call it. As far as I’m concerned the BNP are a disgrace to our nation and their waving of the flag disgraces our recent history of fighting fascism.

Vicky in her best game face and me staring middle distance being watched by a surveillance drone

So at 10am we gathered in Codnor market square, for a pre march rally organised by Unite Against Fascism. I was there with my best friend Victoria and we had managed to find our destination with less than 3 rows about direction, mainly due to my arrogant mistrust of her Satnav. We were dressed in our best protesting gear, which for me consisted in a gypsy top that for some reason was inside out and for Vicky was a bright fluorescent kagool which was constantly mistook for a stewards tabard. We had our placards and tucked in our handbags were our bust sheets, with info if we were arrested, and we were all set.

Before the march was the rally and as we munched on vegan pasties welistened to increasingly rabble rousing sweary speeches. The best reception was reserved for a lady who was a veteran from the Battle of Cable Street in 1936 when the east enders turned back Oswald Mosely’s blackshirts with the cry of “No Passan” (They shall not pass, from the Spanish Civil War).

11.30am and we gathered in formation behind the “thin fluorescent line” that was our police escort. The police were out in impressive numbers, and from the air kept their eyes on us with a drone remote helicopter thingy. So many of the police had cameras of varying size they start to resemble some bizarrely regimented photography club.

As made our way out of Codnor, down valley and up the other side, passing though a normally subdued semi suburban area. The locals, lined their properties watching with fascination. As we marched we chanted we sang and we shouted our way through some of the classics such as“Black and white we are united…Smash the BNP”, “Nazi scum, off our streets….Smash the BNP” and that old family favourite “The workers united, will never be defeated”. Its all very rousing but not very tuneful, and my attempts to start a version of “Do you hear the people sing” from Les Miserables, fell of mainly bemused ears. The highlight of my march was meeting up with my twitter buddy, Laurel or @debaucherydean for you aficionados who had trekked all the way from Hastings.

It may be an uphill struggle but its worth it

The plan was for us to try and surround Griffin and his cronies, which included some of the nastiest pieces of work from Europe's far Right parties, although I understand that some splinter demos had managed to turn back some of the speakers to the event. The best laid plans of mice and marchers etc. We were only allowed to march to the lane next to those animals on their farm. So we stood there, stood our ground and chanted as loud as our throats allowed, determined to make our presence felt to the evil behind the hedgerow.

2pm After an hour or so, with only a few minor scuffles between the foolhardy and the police horses, it was time for some of us to turn back. However it seemed a few thuggish bullies had decided to gather down the lane and the police kept us back, worried that if people became separated from the march they may be vulnerable. So for a while we were hemmed in so some tired legs turned standing ground to sitting our ground. When it was felt safe we were allowed to march back to the village. When I say march , shuffle would be more accurate as we were going so so slowly as not to split into groups. Its actually quite difficult to walk really slow so I amused myself by imitating the 6 million dollar man’s slow motion run. The few thugs and thugesses that we saw at the at the roadside were fairly quiet, but apparently behind us some more gathered throwing Nazi salutes. How utterly stupid and more utterly unimaginative, I thought. The old Nazi movement is really in need of a makeover and perhaps a new salute. I suggest a half raised arm with clenched fist moving through to a sharp punch to the face.

Our written instructions (click if you want to read) with our highlighted protest point. A few scuffles did not divert this Mountie’s stoical gaze

The police dealt with some fascist sympathisers as their ‘copter looked on

As we walked Vicky and I chatted with the police, who to a man, and woman were sweltering in layers of uniform and stab vests. One young copper looked at the hill ahead back to the village saying “Have we really got to go back up that”. It was heartening that a young fit copper was more moany about being tired than me. We got back with not much more ado, and after a couple of bars of “Smash the BNP” we dispersed into our cars minibusses and coaches and set off to whichever corner of Britain whence we came.

We may not have stopped their festival of hatred, but we made our presence felt and we will be back next year and every year until this bunch of preposterous, deluded, nasty nutters finally realise that racism and bigotry has no place in this or any future century.

The Battle Of Cable Street

Identity Crisis ?

2009-08-09T18:17:00.001+01:00

Its nearly a month now since my last post. It will be a wonder if I have any readers left. Perhaps I should pack my blogs and be content with facebooking and tweeting.

My blogging rate has dwindled to but a trickle. From those halcyon days of early 2008 where posts came as thick and fast, as a fat thick thing, to this last month where I’ve spent every second evening thinking…“right now for some blogging…erm what shall I say ?”…hang on, I’ll just watch another episode of The Wire/West Wing/Battlestar/Heroes, for a touch of inspiration” before falling to sleep in front of said episode, only to wake up 4 hours later curled up on the sofa in a position perfect to aggravate both my bad back and dodgy knee and a blank laptop screen.

I have no real excuse for my alacrity, other than my annual summer month of self pitying, self indulgent, soul searching. Perhaps its my own take on Seasonal Affected Disorder: The more sunny everyone else is, the more lonely and pathetic I am. Mind you cant say its been the sunniest of Julys so my theory fall at the first hurdle.

>>>>> Now I must interject here. Despite what I have written and may come to write in this post, I absolutely do not regret my decision to transition. “Je ne regret pants” as they say in remedial French class! I can barely envisage what it was to live confused and trapped as I did. No, I absolutely stand by my transition, albeit in very uncomfortable shoes <<<<

A clue to the root of my problem lies in the url of this blog : jenny-vs-theworld. I never really liked it as a blog title and hence very quickly changed it to the more poetically oblique, Crossing The Floor. However there remains a nugget of truth in the phrase and at times I still seem to be battling the world rather than embracing it. So, It’s the 4th anniversary of my Gender Modernisation (I’ve been around NHS speak much too long) and once the euphoria and downright craziness of the first few transition months have passed, the reality of a life changed forever, finally dawns…….

So what have I learnt and have yet to learn.

Well I think I managed my transition ok, and I’ve kept my family and friends and job, the holy trinity of transition if you like. I can walk in heels without a safety net. I can apply a face full of makeup in under 5 minutes that will last for a days work. I can coordinate within an inch of my life, although Ive discovered too much of this years purple turns me into a huge Ribena berry. I can tease, straighten, curl under, flick out, colour, condition and my hair.

These are all very practical skills vital to survive in the heady world of womanship, but it is the more subtle and therefore more darn tricky aspects of female life that perhaps I am still to really master (or mistress!). I have to face it, that it may not be until I truly come to terms with that intangible essence of being female, that the rest of the world becomes truly blind to what I was, and only sees what I am.

Ok, if you this sounds pompous and whinging at the same time, then you’re probably right, but as they say in all the best dentists, “better out than in” and maybe if a get a little rant out of my system, I may find my blogging mojo once more.

I can site 2 incident in the last couple of months that have contributed to my current mood.

The other day I was dressed in a ruffled strappy summer top, jeans and heels, with makeup that although had been clinging on for 6 hours was perfectly presentable. As far as I was concerned, my appearance was as feminine as is ever needed. I went into Argos to buy, what I thought was a “micro” ipod dock system thingy. I wanted to check that my particular ipod touch would fit said thingy, so asked if I could take a look inside the box. The young female assistant turned to a colleague and said “this stereo is for this …(hushed) errrrrr gentleman, (normal voice) can I open it up ?”. Thankfully no one bar the 2 assistants and myself heard her hesitant confused whispering, but the damage was done. I left the shop with a nice new stereo, an apology from the other assistant and a self esteem dragging on the floor behind me. Mercifully this sort of encounter is rare.

The other recent disheartening event happened a month or so ago. Stood with colleagues in an entrance lobby shooting a huddled breeze, I dropped into a conversation that so & so was my uncle. One of my colleagues, and someone I could not respect or admire more, surprised at this news turned to another and said “did you know that so & so is *his* uncle”. It was a tiny, minor, almost imperseptable slip, but it revealed so much. You see, this person had never known my previous life, and has always accepted me as a woman, but off guard and without thinking, the subconscious part of the brain took over and the mis-pronoun spilled out. He was genuinely apologetic and of course he never meant to say it, but that didn’t help how I felt.

I have to come to terms with the fact that from that at time to time these sort of things may happen. People will slip up and its not always their fault. Most people tried their utmost hardest to do the right thing, and to say the right thing. Ironically the harder people try, the harder I find it. I see it in their eyes and I hear it in their oh so slight hesitations, as they grasp for just the right word, and worse of all I see it in their genuine heartfelt sorrow, when they realise they got it wrong.

I have to be confident enough in who I am to be able to shrug off these slings and arrows of slight misfortune. I have to toughen up and tough it out. I should take heart that people try hard for me and not resent that they have to try. Should it matter if I am forever Jen the trans woman and not just ,Jen the woman. After all, I am not beyond hypocrisy, and have used my trans situation. For instance I included the fact that I am transgendered in an election address. I seem to want to have my cake and eat it (isn’t this a mad phrase, what else are you supposed to do with cake!!). Yes now its time for me to stop urging the society to accept me and find the way for me to accept society for what it is. I am after all blessed. Blessed that I live at a time and in a place that has allowed me to transition, a blessing denied to oh so many.

As the saying goes (or doesn’t): If I look like a duck, walk like a duck, talk like a duck, but everyone believes I’m goose then i guess I’m a goose…..or a duck….or maybe a swan even, anyway I hope you get the point, because I’m not sure I do.

Any of you still reading, thanks, I’m sure there is something your putting off something far more important, or at least you could find a funny youtube video to watch…. Speaking of youtube I came across this :

SO I guess I’m not as clever as I thought, what with my “la de da” blog title.

Hopefully normal service will be resumed, as soon as I’ve found out what normal is.

Universally Challenged

2009-07-07T00:04:00.001+01:00

Its over 2 weeks now since my last post. Time for some gratuitous reminiscence.

I was clearing out my stuffed inbox this morning, and noticed a couple of emails from my long and thankfully not lost University (Polytechnic to be honest) friend Simon. Its a period I haven’t thought about in a while, so indulge me if you will in some late 80s nostalgia

Those couple of years spent in Liverpool seem like 2 lifetimes ago now and everything feels a bit detached and blurred, like I’m looking at my double through a neighbour’s bathroom’s frosted window.

I ended up at Liverpool Poly thanks mainly to the efforts of the Toxteth rioters. In the eighties, communities were being ripped asunder under the social engineering of Thatcherism. Mass unemployment was apparently a price worth paying for the rich to prosper. In 1981 the civil powder keg that was Liverpool borough of Toxteth exploded in a week long riot between the disaffected and the police, who even more so than today were seen as an arm of the government.

Qualifying Round

So how did those events 5 years earlier impact on my choice of higher learning. August ‘86 found me anxiously awaiting the doormat plop of my A level results. I had completed the ritual grand tour of prospective Universities and Polys over the previous 6 months and had a few offers contingent on grades. These were mainly from lower league universities and a smattering of Polytechnics. I had my bases covered. My lowest offer was for a place at Portsmouth poly if I got a C and 2Ds, the highest offer was 3Bs from Salford university. I was not fooling myself that I had any likelihood of reaching the lofty heights of Salford academia, but Pompey Poly was surely in my reach. Plop went the innocuous but so important envelope on the mat. I opened it and peeked inside as if just taking a sideways glance would trick the letter out of its bad news…. it didn’t work, bad it was.

Maths – O (back in the day they took sympathy and gave you an O if you just missed out on an E). This meant I had the symmetry of an A at O-level and an O at A-level.)

Chemistry – F Actually I had pretty much given up on chemistry by then. I could never tell my Arsenic from my Alkaloids

Physics D – a pass, yay. Not the greatest pass I admit, but as I had applied to do degrees in Physics it was sort or important I passed the subject at A level, and D was a pass, just about.

General Studies B – yay and yay again (actually I dont think we said yay in the eighties! ace and brill then). Now General Studies was a bit frowned upon as unworthy compared to the other more lofty A-levels, but for me it is the king of qualifications, as it relies on just knowing about stuff, rather than all that constant swotting. Which was a plus for me as I was about as diligent with my revision then, as I am with housework now.

So there I had it, 1 frowned upon B and a below average D. Oxbridge here I don’t come. My only hope for a future as a famous Physicists would be left to the lottery of the clearing houses. The summer was drawing to an end and I was about to give up and resign myself to a career in food vending, when another letter plopped. It was from Liverpool Polytechnic offering me a place on a BSC hons course in Physics and Electronics. It seemed that Liverpool was a city still struggling to attract students in the aftermath of those riots five years hence. My life as a mad scientist was up and running. As I said every cloud an all that..

F=mc² ?

Why I chose Physics as a degree I still don’t really know, it just sort of happened. Somehow it was expected that I did physics. I did have an excelent inspiration though in my teacher. Mr Edwards has since gone on to win both Mastermind and a million on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. As far as I know a unique double. Mind you getting me to pass A level Physics must be his greatest achievement. I’m sure that’s what inspired him to TV quiz glory. A Physics degree was a beast of a course, with more hours of lectures than any of the others. I secretly wished I’d been artistic, as the art students appeared to only have a handful of lectures a week (although the downside I discovered was that art students had real trouble finding digs). The other aspect to a physics degree was the time spent in the lab, which for the most swung between maddening and downright frustrating. With lab experiments the mantra goes like this:

If it smells its Chemistry. If is moves its Biology. If it doesn't work its Physics.

I had all the right gear. A white lab coat, goggles, a pencil behind the ear and a permanently puzzled expression. If I ever understood the point of any particular experiment, then it was guaranteed not to work for me. Many sessions were spent tweaking knobs and fiddling flanges and finally banging things, just to stare unblinking at an unflinching flat lined oscilloscope. I did become very efficient at appearing like I understood everything and was working diligently. A skill that still serves me well today. However, there was one aspect of being a late 80s science student that was so much more frustrating than the uncooperative lab experiments and that was the Mainframe Computer back in a time when windows was but a glint in Bill’s bespectacled eye.

Up to that point I’d learnt all my computing “skills” from my ZX81 and later the Electron, which was the BBC micro for the working class. I became an avid viewer of the Micro Live broadcast on BBC2 on a Sunday morning and I was even able to write the odd little programme in BBC Basic computer language. I was all set for a life of computer geekery. For the only time in my life I was cutting edge. That was until I met my nemesis that was the DEC 20 and its evil computing language Fortran 77. My love affair with computing was shattered.

A Rant at a DEC

The DEC 20 was the mainframe computer used by the Polytechnic and for its time was probably state a of the art system for multiple users. Problem was that the art was equivalent to scrawling with crayons held in a fist. The first barrier put up by the DEC was the interminable length of time to log on. It was a good job the film Tron wasn’t set in a DEC 20 else it would have bee 10 hours long. Now if you had managed to log on before the end of the college day then you had to endure a tense session holding your breath for fear of being kicked off the system,which happened at least every time.

I cannot adequately explain the brain mangling hell that was FORTRAN 77.

To me Fortran 77 made as much sense as a Klingon / Esperanto Dictionary put through a German Enigma code machine to be read out backwards by Kenny Dalgleish in a big echoey cave. If that version was the 77th attempt God knows how impenetrable the previous 76 drafts. Anyhow the inventor of Fortran now resides in my ever expanding nemesis list. Can you have more than one nemesis ? and what's the plural ? answers please…I choose nemesissies.

My tolerance for studying Physics lasted for 3 whole weeks, which for a course that was 3 years long meant that my ambitions to be the next Stephen or indeed Stephanie Hawking were always doomed. Its funny I would struggle to now recall Newton's Laws, but the memory of my computing hell was burned deep, and it took a full dozen years for me to log in again.

My Nemesissies

Thatcher (natch.)

Alan Ball

Hugh Jackman’s wife

Messers Cadburry and Kipling

Sixth Sense quiz team

The Bankers

Mr Fortran

I’m @spartacus

2009-06-21T22:02:00.001+01:00

A week in Twitter. (For an explanation of terms see foot)

One of the reasons I was looking forward to Unison conference was the chance to meet my co-twitterer @debauchery. Before we arrived we had decided to enliven the conference with some real time, live tweeting. To coordinate this wee needed a hashtag, and because at our preceding Local Government Conference they had used the tag #lg09 I started using the tag #ndc09 (National Delegate Conference). Soo for the couple of days leading up I merrily contributed to #ndc09 with tweets. Pretty mundane stuff, but I got a few replies and was even retweeted with my comment about buying a net book so I could tweet from the cheap seats. I even looked at some posted photos of the conference being prepared. It all looked very exciting.

Hmmmm, however something didn’t seem right. The more I looked at #ndc09 the more it didn’t seem quite right. All the contributors were men, and although I realise geeky net stuff like twitter is more populated by men than women I expected a few more other women than absolutely none at all. Hmmmmm, I though…where were the tweets talking about the detail of proposed rule changes ? Where were those tweets criticising the union’s leadership ? Where were the tweets talking about the best drinking holes in Brighton ?

and most of all why were so many tweets referring to computer geekery ? Hmmmmm a penny dropped, albeit through the treacle of my mind. After some further digging I found the root of my Hmmmmmms. #ndc09 apparently stands for the Norwegian Developers Conference taking place in Oslo, the same week as our conference. I really do put the Twit in Twitter (better than putting the Fake in Facebook)

I decided that I would continue to follow the Norwegian Developers Conference. After all I had no clue how to develop a Norwegian and I had always wanted one of my own. Must admit during the week they did appear to be having a livelier time than us and I did regularly update them with our progress, sometimes even on purpose and have now declared solidarity for our Norse comrades from Unison in Brighton.

Soooo we needed a bigger boat, i mean a bigger hashtag so after flirting with other options I suggested the snappy and innovative title #undc09 (U being for Unison). We were all set, we merry band of followers. It really added a dimension to our conference to have opinion from all corners of the hall. There was also some interesting debate which mainly involved me against everyone else. Wasn’t it ever thus. . . This was to my knowledge the first trade union conference that had a real time twitter feed. Indeed we were tagged by a HR Blogging site pointing its readers in our direction. I reckon all considered our conference tweeting experiment was a success, but watch out next year, with more participants and better publicity it could really take off and become a valuable mainstream resource for debate and connection to a wider membership. The best thing of course was to meet @debaucherydean. It just shows those who dismiss social networking, that virtual friends can become real friends.

A much more important aspect of Twitter came to the fore later in the week. Twitter found itself as the predominate method to get news out of the Iranian protest movement and the violent crackdown by the forces of their illegitimate government. The Iranian secret police had been successful in squashing nearly all other news outlets and the broadcast media were being restricted in its efforts. Twitter though was still working. Hashtags such as #iranelection became a constant feed of news, views, pictures and videos from the streets of Tehran. As a twitter community many of us changed our avatars to a green version to show some solidarity. Then the tweets came through suggesting that we change our listed profile locations to Tehran to help disguise the real Iranian twitterers. Effectively we all shout “I’m Iranian”. I’ve no idea if it really made any difference, but if it did hamper the ability of Iran to block individual twitterers then it was certainly worth it.

Saturday night was an extraordinarily harrowing and humbling experience. I followed the events though the hashtag and regular ReTweets from @debaucherydean who did a great job filtering out some of the noise, and at one stage organised a phone campaign to the Foreign Office to ensure their Tehran embassy was open to the injured. At one point a video was posted showing the aftermath from the shooting of a young woman. She was being carried by a group of protesters and they laid her on the road as her father ran over. At first you could see no sign of a wound. As she lay their her eyes glazed and then blood started to seep out all over her face, from her eyes, from her nose, from her mouth… and then she died. It was the most stark and upsetting video I have ever seen and to know It had happened just moments earlier made it all the more real. This video brought home the plight of the Iranian protesters, with heavy heavy thud. We later found out that her name was Neda. Her face with live with me for a long time. I’m not sure whether to post the link to the video. If anyone wishes to see it then I guess you can track it down.

Other tweets that night were for information between protesters. Advice was given as to how to be protected from chemical attack. Information was posted as to which foreign embassies were taking in the injured. We also say great compassion from the protesters. One picture showing a fallen riot police motorcyclist being shielded by a protester was particularly humbling (see above).

A Twitter week from the mundane to the vital.

Twitter Terms Explained :

Tweet = a short message under 140 characters, can contain links to pictures or videos

@username = your twitterer username

Followers = the people / feeds that you follow and follow you

RT or ReTweet = a tweet passed on

Hashtag or #something = a webpage automatically created to elicit shared real time contributions on a topic

Bye Bye Brighton

2009-06-19T22:42:00.001+01:00

I love Brighton just a bit more each time I’m here, a city with vibe, verve and verisimilitude (I just like the word).

I love its burnt out pier with its twisted, haunted beauty jarring against the shimmering sea.

I love lying on the surprisingly comfortable pebbly beach, listening to the cool hubbub from the very many underarch beach bars.

I love the twisting Lanes with their quintessentially quirky and damn expensive boutiques.

Most of all i love Brighton because I’m at Unisons national delegate conference. Sadly this may be our last visit to Brighton until the Conference centre sorts out its seating arrangements, which for some delegates amounts to 4 days of cruel and unusual punishment.

I for one will miss it, even if my sore bum doesn’t

Planet conference is a time and place like no other. A time and a place that is truly egalitarian. Where else can a rank and file everyday worker, who in daily life goes about relatively unnoticed, hold 3,000 people enthralled for those 3 minutes of a speech. 3 minutes that can change opinions about face, and influence a million members and more, just with the power of an experience shared. Politicians would give up an inflated expense claim for that sort of exposure.

Unison’s Conference is writ through with unwritten tradition.

The gauntlet of leafleters, campaigners and paper sellers that greet you on the first morning, whom I swear would be there however early you arrived.

The hush as we stand heads bowed, reflecting on comrades lost during the previous year.

The warmth of applause given to each declared “first time speaker”

The mostly good natured and healthy bantering towards our elected leadership.

The baiting of the Standing Orders Committee and the unflappable humour of it’s chair, Cletus’s responses.

The fake joke emergency motions submitted on the last day.

The final day song by Cletus which this year was a version of Mercy by Duffy delivered in a singing style that defies definition and makes Jeremy Hardy sound beautiful (see I’m Sorry I haven’t a Clue).

Most of all what I love about conference is the feeling of belonging. Belonging to the greatest trade union in the nation. I have so many friends now, that I may see for just 1 week each year, a number that grows each time. This time in particular my fab Twitter friend @debaucherydean or Laurel. (More about my Twittery week later)

Sometimes, listening to the passionate debates you would think that we are a union split asunder, but I know that behind our differences there is so much more that binds us. I know that when the crunch comes we are there for each other. Successive governments since the eighties have sought to limit us, to hamper us, and to break us, but we remain.

We are here, We are growing and We will prevail ….. We are Unison

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Vulcanised

2009-06-16T02:11:00.001+01:00

So Sunday morning Vicky and me headed off at the crack of dawn (well if not the crack, the echo) to RAF Cosford just a couple of runways away from Telford.

I seem to have become an Air Show junkie, this being my second in as many months. Now as I said below I’m a touch conflicted by these events, what with me being a lefty relic from the eighties CND movement and all that. I remember being a sixth form anti war barracker pontificating against the Falklands Conflict yet here I will be oooooing and ahhhhing at a Vulcan bomber that was like the ones that bombed 19 year old Argentinean conscripts. I decided that at least i could throw in the odd tutt amongst those oooos and ahhhhs.

We arrived at the airbase at 8ish. Some cars were being stopped and searched by eager young military personnel. I was just relieved that we hadn’t used my car, which is so full of junk, they would still be sifting through it now.

Neither of us had been to this show before so we weren’t sure of the drill. We decided to find a spot by the runway and mark our pitch with our camping mats. I must admit next to the elaborate set up of Air Show veterans, complete with windbreaks, chairs tables parasols at al, ours looked a bit woeful, but we at least had a good spot. After all location is everything.

We left our pitch confident that it would not be disturbed, to wander around the stalls. The highlight was the Enigma code breaker machine, which if Hollywood is to believed was bravely stolen by Jon Bon Jovi. Our second favourite stall was the Air Force Intelligence stand, which had the best free stuff. Vicky impressed one of the imposing becamouflaged men manning the stand with the probing question, “What do the intelligent people do ?”

We weaved our way back through the growing throngs, picking our way carefully through the maze of picnic rugs and deckchairs. Our stake was still intact even though in was now hemmed in on all sides. As we slowly baked under the gas mark 8 sun the show began. The appetiser was a display by large model aircraft, which once aloft were tricky to distinguish from the real thing, except for their lawnmower sounding engines.

The first proper display were the parachute display team. I was pleased their parachutes worked better than my childhood Action Man one, which if my memory serves me right just made the Action man’s death plummet more colourful. I was most impressed with the accompanying music which was from the brilliant documentary film Fog of War. As we sat, lay and stood our way through 6 hours of flying Vicky and me jostled to take the best photographs. Vicky and me are so competitive that we will compete/argue/bicker over just about anything. We were well matched, I may have had the better camera but Vicky’s reactions are like a fast jet pilot to mine of a balloonist.

Once the mighty and spocktacular (sic) Vulcan had become a dot we decided to make a bolt for home. It was clearly going to be a battle to get off the car park in under an hour. Our finely tuned sense of direction, spatial awareness and spritely car control served us well. We finally left the car park 2 1/2 hours later after managing to find the longest and slowest moving of the many intertwined car cues. As I flopped down on my sofa at quarter to nine, I looked at the gaping empty suitcase needing to be packed for the next morning’s trip to our Brighton conference I thought If man can put 40 tons of metal in the sky then I’m sure I can pack in the morning.

Its not the most poetic end to a post but when your as knackered as I was eloquence can get stuffed

BTW there are some planes in the album at the bottom

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Mia Culpa (Mya Cockup)

2009-06-14T23:56:00.001+01:00

Hi, I’m Jenny. I’m a blogaholic. I’s been 2 weeks since my last post….So I need to pull my typing finger out (its this one!).

Truth is, that I’ve had my annual bout of self obsessed anxiety, that left my mood as low as Trevor Chapel grubber. I blame Nick Griffin, if only because I choose to blame the deluded, fascist, shit in a suit, BNP leader for all life’s ills, now that the bankers have dropped off the radar. Actually he does have a bearing on my recent lost fortnight. Tomorrow I’m off down to Brighton for Unison’s (and my) highlight of the week, our National Delegates Conference. For the first time our branch had a motion on the agenda, motion 90 : Stop The BNP. I was looking forward to moving a motion that I’m so passionate about, and to be able move it from the perspective of BNP infested Stoke-on-Trent.

That was until I called the Conference office to routinely enquire when the delegates credentials were being sent out. I was met with a heart gulping response. “We don’t have anyone registered for your branch”

I felt completely flattened. How could this have happened. I was as sure as sure can be that I had posted the forms, but they clearly hadn’t arrived where they should of. Had I become convinced by some sort of false memory ? Who knows what, I still don’t, even after a week of brain racking. I just know that all evidence shows that i can’t have done a task that I was utterly convinced that I had. The upshot is that our branch will not have any delegates at this year’s conference, and only allowed to have visitors in attendance. I was gutted, but more than that I felt I had let the branch down badly. I am ultimately responsible for 2,500 members being denied a democratic vote. My mood tumbled, as my sense of shame shot up. I found myself unable to blog, unable to tweet and unable to function with any purpose. My head was a maelstrom of negative thoughts, building upon each other in waves and leaving any sense of perspective trailing in its wake.

Its been a week, not to forget, but to learn from. Eventually the patience, kindness and common sense of my friends and colleagues did drag me out of this pathetic self induced and yes, just darn selfish stupor. So here I am on the eve of our conference still looking forward to a week in which, although I shall be attending as a visitor, I aim to play as fulsome a part as possible in the proceedings.

Its now 11pm and by now I should have packed for our pilgrimage South, but I’m just too darn tired to move from this laptop. This is because I’ve just got back from a scorching day at RAF Cosford Air Show. Now I know I should instinctively disapprove of this glorification of machinery of death, being at heart a lefty, peace loving hippy, but I do love a big roaring plane. Vicky had sprung the suggestion of the air show just yesterday, and it certainly beat our planned Car Boot sale, as fun day.

So tomorrow night, once I’m ensconced in my hotel room I shall inflict yet more air show based hi jinx on you all, and of course complete with pictures of huge earthshaking hot jets, darting spinning swooping aerobatics..oh and a couple of blokes having a kip.

Vote Hope Not Hate

2009-05-31T18:38:00.001+01:00

Saturday was the Love Music Hate Racism Festival at the home of the Mighty Potters, the Britannia Stadium.

We (Unison) had a stall there amongst the other Trade Unions, Pressure Groups, and sellers of colourful things. It was a scorching hot day coupled with a blustery wind left me regretting my choice of summer dress for two reasons. Firstly a couple of Monroe style incidents of billowing skirt. Love Music hate Flashing. An secondly my telltale sunburned shoulders and décolletage (always wanted to use that word). The mainstay of activity on our stall seemed to be the supply of Helium filled balloons. I wondered why all these supposed cool teens were so into balloons, but it turned out that they were actually into inhaling the Helium. Made me feel just a bit like a drug pusher. By the end of my stint on the stall I was highly proficient in the balloon inflating department developing a two handed technique that could surely see me through in next years Britain's Got Talent, failing that a sideline as a children's party clown, Jolly Jenny and her Amazing Balloons…or something

We didn’t get to see the show, but certainly heard it. If the cheering crowd was anything to go by it was a roaring and whooping success. The one person I would have bitten off a small finger to see was the TransFather Himself and all round comedy god Eddie Izzard, who was doing a spot of comparing. I love Eddie from the first time I saw him on the Royal Variety Show, with a routine that involved monkeys, trees and French. I can still remember the day when I heard he had announced that he was a transvestite. Somebody famous that I liked, was like me (I identified as a transvestite back in those days). He will never know it, but he had a profound effect on me at a time when I was struggling for self acceptance.

Anyway enough of the Fluff. There is only one real reason why this important event was in Stoke for the first time and that is the insidious presence of those cloaked fascists the BNP (British National Party).

They currently hold 9 seats on our council, more than the Tories and its not beyond credibility that they could take control of the local authority in the medium future. I have a BNP councillor, and lets get this straight they are not only racist but homophobic and haters of anyone of difference. I love my idiosyncratic city, but I can only feel ashamed of the current state of its local politics. If these nasty hate filled bile mongers ever do get control it will not just be a stain on my city but it will give them a power base to spread their infection throughout the country. If you don't believe that, then just look at France and the rise of Le Pen, who eventually stood for president. Europe’s history is peppered with examples of what happens when these racists gain a the veil of credibility and as the quote sort of goes, “Evil prospers when good people do nothing”

So at the risk of being preachy (understatement alert!) I come to my main point and that is the upcoming European Elections on June 4th. Hands up who is not intending to vote (gotcha, you voted now!). Turnout for the Euros is poor enough at the best of times, but right now after all the expenses kerfuffle the major political parties reputation ranks below even that of Bankers, Spammer’s and Loan Sharks but maybe. However, this must not stop us from voting. Everyone, but everyone needs to vote for someone or something, just as long as its not for the BNP (or maybe UKIP too. If the BNP are bad the UKIP are their mad cousins). Of course as a lefty Trade Unionist I hope that people vote for progressive parties, but even if you are misguided enough to be a Tory, just damn well make sure you vote. Every vote not cast is sucker to the racists. They only need to few percentage points more to get a couple of seats in the West Midlands or a seat in the North West or Eastern region. For every seat they gain, will mean a chunk load of money from the European Parliament. Now we know they are not interested in Europe at all. Nationalists as Internationalists just doesn’t work. The money however does. They may well use this to fund paid organisers in cities like Stoke. Indeed, I understand that if Nick (Holocaust Denier) Griffin gets elected in the North West then he intends to buy a house in Stoke on Trent. What is happening in Stoke could be coming to a council ward near you.

If you have never had to fight the BNP locally, then you do now. Everyone gets to vote in these Euros and every single vote matters. These elections are important, they do matter.

Anyone says they “Don’t do Politics” is wrong. Life is Politics. An uncast vote in the Euro elections is doing politics, a politics that sees the fascists prosper.

Vote Hope not Hate… Vote on June 4th

http://unison.org.uk/stopthebnp/doing.asp

Preaching over…normal service will resume with more tales of my misadventures (mainly falling over)

The Full Essex

2009-05-26T23:49:00.001+01:00

I was down (or up, never sure which) in Southend again this bank holiday, visiting Lucy.

This time it was an altogether more planed affair than last time, without the need for any emergency blood transfusions (though i did draw blood in one overenthusiastic plucking session !).

The main reason for coming.. no the second main reason was that it was the weekend of the Southend on Sea Air Show, the first obviously was to see Luce again. Lucy looked so much better than last I was with her, which I accept is not difficult as she was lying in a hospital bed at the time. Since then, she was discharged and has had some tests the results of which are that her acute anaemia may be caused by…well that's up to Lucy to tell you . Anyway Lucy is really positive, not just because she is feeling a whole lot better, but at least now something is being done to fix her. Whatever fight she has coming I know she will face it with the same courage that has been writ throughout her life.

The excitement for the weekend didn't end with the air show, because on the Saturday night Lucy's sister was coming down to see her. Not a big deal in the scheme of things, 2 sisters going out for the night, but Lucy had not seen Jeanette for over 3 years. Its seems like my life is becoming an extended episode of the little missed show, Surprise Surprise. Now I’m no Cilla, although I can belt out a mean, but frankly disturbing rendition of “What’s its all about Malfoy”. Here I am with another reunion hot on the heels of the last one. What’s next week? I meet the midwife who delivered me !

But back to the point. I can’t really know why Lucy and Jeanette have kept apart do long. What I do know that they had a tough upbringing, and that unresolved slights in the past can become so magnified and distorted through the lens of time that they become unrecognisable from that they once were. I’m not saying this is exactly case for them, all I know is that the older I get the more important family are to me, I guess you start to realise that someday there will be no tomorrow to get back in touch.

That Saturday night after hugs and wine we set off for a night out on the town. This was going to be an authentic Essex gal night out, so I had to go for my sexiest and most unbearable heels. I will try not going to make any disparaging or snooty comments about Essex, after all I like in Stoke, The Basildon of the North!! In 3 trips down I have developed a fondness for Southend on Sea. If America and Britain are 2 nations divided by a common language, the Essex and Staffs are 2 counties united in their lack of pretension. It was a fun night and worth the agony of heel induced lameness. All said, it was heart warming to be just a small part of L&Gs reconciliation, and I feel I’ve made a good new friend in Jeanette.

So on to Sunday and the Southend Air show. A brisk (plodding) walk down to the seafront then a rugby scrum along the promenade to find a good spot for Plane Spotting.

“Choose Life, Choose Essex, Choose sisters for ever, , Choose Saaffend, Choose squeezing through the crowd to find a tiny rocky spot to sit on, Choose waddling home with a very sore bum.

The show was utterly brilliant. I’ve seen air displays before, mainly at a Grand Prix race at Silverstone or Brands, but they had nothing on this. The hot hot early summer weather, a huge joyful throng, the shimmering sea and a stunning display of flying bravura, combined to make this a day of days.

We had 2 Apache helicopters facing off against each other, wing walkers defying gravity and common sense, The Red Arrows synchronised swooping, The RedBull Air Race chaps touching wingtips and the majestic Battle of Britain Memorial Flight

“Never… in the field of human sunbathing… have so many gawped so much…. at so few”

We rounded the day off by buying a bags load of pseudo perfume from a lorry trailer market trader. Apparently I had bought £300 of scent for 20 quid. I’m sure its quality stuff that I can at least use on Gammo’s litter tray. What with the heels and deals, I was really getting the total Essex experience.

It was sad to see Jeanette have to return to her big smoke, but that sadness was dwarfed by the joy of their renewed sisterhood. My mind turned to my bond with my brother, stronger than ever despite that most of the time he is in some far flung spot or near flung pub.

2 weeks, 2 reunions and maybe 1 lesson: Always keep talking. However long has passed 22 years, 3 years or a few days ? Its never to late or too soon. Just keep talking

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Ashes to Lashes

2009-05-18T00:00:00.001+01:00

I am writing this on an evening train back home from London after one of the most intense but ultimately wonderfully strange days of my strange transitioned life.

The story starts in the depths of the early eighties. Two lads in their early teens, a year apart, bond over Sir Clive Sinclair’s computers. More over, the older one, who we shall call G was impressed with the one we now know as A’s, Spectrum compared to his G’s ZX81.

G and A grew up together through that foreign land of, Thatcher, Royal Weddings, Miner’s Strike’s and death at football grounds. They shared a geeky passion for Dungeons & Dragons, painstakingly painting their lead (and probably toxic) figures of orcs, goblins and dragons with unnecessary detail. They sat in bedrooms listening to long deleted music, on flimsy plastic Amstrad Hi-Fis and clunky mono cassette recorders. Albums of obscure electro eighties pop and angry Thatcher hating bands of the Red Wedge generation (Faith Brothers in particular, were our favourite). That same cassette player would double as a Spectrum software driver, as long as you could get the volume slider set just, just, just right.

G and A would spend hot summer days improvising cricket against the

garage door, and sweaty nights bouncing along at their first pop concerts.

Tears for Fears at the Vicky Hall in Hanley, with faltering sound equipment, having to repeat their biggest hit, Shout; An Ultravox-less Midge Ure singing “Feed The World” to a swaying crowd at the Manchester Apollo; Sting and band of Jazz musicians, covering more obscure The Police covers on his Bring On The Night Tour; Chris de Burgh in the “Cow Shed” of Stafford County Showground, dedicating a song to local train crash victims, before launching into Patricia The Stripper.

Then they turned 18 and trotted off to Universities (well G’s was actually a Poly) at opposite ends of the country, and that was that. They lost touch completely. The ashes of the friendship just strong memories and the odd gatefold sleeve album.

Fast forward 22 years. G is now J and living that life you read about on this blog. (yeah I know you figured that already, but you know me, style over substance every time)

Losing touch with A was my biggest regret by far in a litany of lost friendships. In fact I blogged about it over a year ago, but after a brief unsuccessful foray trying to track him down I pretty much gave up hope of seeing him again.

Then, a month or so ago, I was travelling back at night from the G20 march when I checked the hotmail on my Blackberry, when amongst a list of emails that appeared to be spam I spied a name that tugged at me. I opened that email and was shaken out of my Motorway induced stupor.

As I sat on the dark snooze filled coach reading the email for my best friend of those far off days I could not hold off the emotion. My eyes filled with tears and my body quivered quietly. I thought that no one had noticed, but Vicky sitting opposite touched my arm and whispered, “Whats up”. “Read this” I said, and showed her A’s email. I couldn’t really explain to her the effect it had on me. 2 decades had gone with the click of that icon.

Well today (the today when I’m writing this) we met up again, and it was brilliant. We talked for over 3 hours,

before I had to get this train back up north. You know, even after more than half our lives we were essentially those same two friends from so long ago. I guess I may have changed a bit more physically what with the gender and all that, but neither of us were that different than we remembered. We slipped into conversation so easily, without a hint of awkwardness. That has to show how strong a bond we had. Apart from trying to précis the last 20 years, we mostly just talked about the same stuff we talked about all those years ago.

I had one of the best days I can remember in a long time (maybe 22 years). Sitting on this train home the rhythm of the track being echoed by the tapping of a dozen laptops, I cant help but look back on my life. For all that had happened in 2 decades I’m not sure I’m all that different from that geeky, insecure teenager. Back then I had no real idea where I was going, and even now I tend to live in the moment and struggle to make any plans more than a couple of weeks hence. The world is a significantly different planet in 2009 than it was in 1987. I am still the same alien creature I always was.

Thank you A. A better friend than I deserved, then and now.

Video Killed the Trade Union Spart

2009-05-13T18:07:00.001+01:00

Thursday I took part in my first ever video conference.

The meeting was Unisons Trans Caucus, which in a nutshell is the core of Transgendered Unsion activists opportunity to tackle those equality matters, that matter the most to us.

I did my bit from the basement of Unison’s Birmingham offices. When I say Basement, it is a well appointed meeting room, but it still had that characteristic muffled ambience and lack of natural light.

The meeting was to discuss the upcoming Parliamentary Equality Bill in relation to Transgendered discrimination. I was a bit early so I sat and placed with the video camera, to try and get my best look on screen. After a bit I decided I looked best if I just sat underneath the table, but I guess hiding from view somewhat negates the point of a video conference. I then decided I ought to familiarise myself with the matter at hand, as typically I had failed to read the Bill in depth. All too soon the screen flashed up an incoming call. Guess I would just have to wing it, for a change! It took a little time to get used to this method on holding a meeting. The inevitable short delays meant it was important to try not to talk over each other, else we all just ended up saying sorry and excuse me to each other repeatedly.

Being serious for a moment (at last !) The new Bill is an improvement but it typically does not go far enough.

There is not any improvement for the protection of children in schools from bullying and harassment related to gender identity, either their own or a relative.

There are also some worrying exceptions contained in the guidance around provision of services. Such as it may be reasonable to exclude a trans woman from a communal changing room in a shop if certain considerations are made by the proprietor. This is irrespective as to whether the woman has completed transition and has undergone GRS (Gender reassignment Surgery). Now there is nothing that would horrify me more than using a communal room to try clothes on, but as a woman I want that right. Any exceptions in legislation that set me apart from other women, lessen me by a degree each time, so unreasonable exceptions such of this are damaging. I see no need for this sort of exception and think it could be the slippery slope, thin end wedge type thing.

Anyway we had an excellent debate and found a sensible focus for our future campaigning.

Sheffield Sisters

2009-05-06T18:57:00.005+01:00

This last week, aside from my getting lost in what’s been called the “vibrant, pulsating hub of the North West” (I Manborde, 2009), Manchester, I went trekking the length and breadth of the country (well up and down the M1 at least), to see good friends, Joanne and Lucy.

Sunday last but I headed North to Sheffield and the Meadowhall shopping centre.

I had arranged to spend a morning shopping and chatting with Jo. We planned to meet on Meadowhall’s car park at 10am, which was a bit daft, as the shops didn’t open till 11. I judged my eta very badly and got there at 9.30am. It’s a bit disconcerting sitting in the only car on such a huge carpark in the bright sunlight. It was like a scene from some distopian sci-fi zombie flick, think Dawn of the Dead crossed with The Full Monty (well It was Sheffield). I was eventually joined by 2 other cars, though this didn’t settle my unease as the cars screeched to a halt side by side, facing opposites, and the occupants got out only to exchange packages, before they screeched away again. I suppose they could have been handing over an Avon delivery, but for what I could see under their Burberry caps the two young men were pretty well moisturised already. Anyway, the speed of the transaction left me thinking that the customer was satisfied.

Eventually the car park filled and even more eventually Jo arrived. As before Jo looked annoyingly pretty, and slimmer than any friend needs to be, still it would be unfair of me to ask her to bulk up just for a shopping expedition with me. As we sat over coffee we shared tales from the road. I tried to impart some of my wisdom borne of 4 year post transition, but it soon became apparent that there was nothing I could teach Jo and the nearest thing I would come to Wisdom was when if I changed my toothpaste brand. As shopping trips go, we fared pretty badly, as our constant wittering got in the way of actually buying anything, that was until we were pounced upon by a lady from a stall selling Dead Sea beauty stuff.

Pretty soon we were rubbing some salt scrub into our hands and marvelling at the smell of some soapy stuff. The sales lady was charming, insistent and persistent. At one stage she asked our names. “I’m Jenny and this is Joanne”. “Are you sisters she enquired. This was clearly wrong whichever way you looked at it.

1) Did she not suspect that either of us was Trans and therefore both original born women? Flattering but unlikely, as she had both looked a

t me and heard me speak, and anyway even if this was the case we could still not have looked less like sisters.

2) She sussed that we were trans, and thought we were brothers that had become sisters. Possible but highly improbable

3) She sussed me and thought that Jo was my sister and I had decided to join her in sorority. Not flattering for me I guess, but possible.

4) She was just high on smelling patchouli oil flavoured soap, day after day.

5) She was just an overzealous soft soaping soap seller

Whatever the reason it worked on me and I left clutching a bag of way too expensive soapy/salty stuff that would transform me into a soft skinned temptress. The price to pay for this pleasure was the abandonment of my principles. I realised that I am supposed to be boycotting goods from Israel (see post passim), but doh! where in the world did I think the Dead Sea was. Jo just looked at me with bemused wonder.

It felt all too soon to be heading back to Stoke but time and Sunday lunch wait for no woman. As I drove back down the M1 my ebullience at an enjoyable morning turned to melancholy. The empty house that I was returning to felt just a bit more empty. Its funny the more time I spend with any of my fabulous bunch of friends the more lonely I feel. I guess the highs of good company exaggerate the lows of solitude. I despise regret, its a waste of time, effort and brain ache, but I do sometimes think that although when we transition it is absolutely the right thing to do, the sacrifice of future family is a high tax indeed. Anyway I had pulled myself together by Derby, just in time buy a pair of great shoes. Hey, I may be a moody cow, but I was a moody cow in 3 inch black patent killer heels.

Lost in La Manchester

2009-05-02T02:17:00.001+01:00

With apologies to Terry Gilliam

Wednesday early evening, found me adrift on the mean streets of Manchester after representing one of our members. I hadn’t been to Manchester for over a year, and having 3 hours to kill before I was due at our quiz I decided to go on an impromptu shopping hunt. My quarry was the almost mythical Arndale shopping centre, and instead of “tilting at windmills” I wanted to tilt at the perfect fitting summer dress.

I wasn’t exactly sure where I was in Manchester, and I wasn’t exactly sure where The Arndale was, but I decided to trust my innate (and mostly misjudged) sense of direction. So off I strode down the narrow, mill lined streets with a confidence and hope. This turned to bewilderness and panic as the landscape turned from the quiet grandeur of Victorian industrial architecture to shabby sleazy “private” shops and litter strewn booze vendors. Between every other surviving business, was a boarded up, fly-postered relic, complete with huddled homeless person wedged in the doorway. I had lost faith that I would ever find my gleaming shopping dream, and was just about to turn heel and retrace my steps home, when I spied a large, friendly blue P. Where there is a car park surely there would be a shopping centre. And Lo, it came to pass, that I spent a happy hour trying my way through most of the summer dresses that my favourite (ie the only one that stocked my size) shop Evans, stocked. In the end I plumped (such an apt term) for a gorgeous full, tiered, print skirt. Buoyed and emboldened by my purchase, and with a little time still on my hands I set out to explore a little more before heading back to my car.

Picadilli Gardens bathed in the evening sun was a pleasant diversion. I sprawled amongst my fellow travellers, taking respite on the grass, until my watch reminded me of my impending quiz appointment. So refusing to learn from my countless failures of a sense of direction I set off in the vague direction of my car park on Dale Street. After half an hour or of wandering where each street became less recognisable than the one before I made a firm decision. I was utterly lost. Lacking a Sancho Panza for a companion I scanned around for anyone who looked like they had a working knowledge of Manchester's geography. However the only people I could see appeared drunk, very drunk or were a bouncer at one of the countless clubs. I figured that the bouncer’s knowledge of the streets ended at how much they hurt when they threw someone to it. The decision as to who to ask, was taken out of my hands by a mildly scruffy and deceptively young man who approached me calling “Could you lend me 75p so I can get to Rochdale, luv”. Well quid pro quo, I thought, or almost a quid anyway. I decided to give him 2 quid in the hope he would return my generosity with some clear directions. I enquired to where Dale st could be, but he just waved wildly in a direction that covered at least 3 points of the compass. Giving up on him as a guide I walked away with an insincere thanks. Not taking the hint he walked alongside me and then confessed that he really wanted the money for a couple of pints and if I gave him just one more pound he would reach his target, adding that I looked lovely by the way. His candour made me laugh and I declined this opportunity to further invest in him with a chuckle and a congratulation for his hustling style.

15 minutes and drunk hustler behind me I was now exactly 15 minutes more lost. I figured that I must have overshot my destination and turned back towards whence I came…ish. As it the light dulled my anxiety sharpened. At one stage I just stood stock still, utterly devoid of ideas and feeling just about as alone as I have ever done. I vainly searched for a hailable Taxi to provide salvation, but everyone I saw was taken with snug smug customers. The city that had been bright and welcoming on the grass of Picadilli Gardens was now just plain menacing. I passed a group of young male twats who shared bonding sniggers of hatred in my direction. Then just as I was about to sit down and make wherever I was my new home, a bell rang, a penny dropped and thingy thingyed (last one needs work). I had my blackberry in my black bag and on my blackberry in my black bag was blackberry maps app. Oh why oh why did I not twig sooner. I found Dale Street on my mobile. It was only a couple of streets away from Picadilli Gardens. I had spent the best part of an hour walking in the wrong direction, but thanks to my inabillity to stick to one path I was not an hour away from the car. My car stood alone on the now empty lot as if to mock my late return, but I cared not. I was just so glad to be back in one piece and back at peace.

Of course I was late getting to the quiz, and to top off a crap night we lost on a tiebreak.

‘arrogate & brum

2009-04-24T11:53:00.001+01:00

Its been like a poor mans 2 centre holiday this week. errr except I’m not a man, and its been work not a holiday, and to be honest I’m hardly poor. OK scrap that and start again.

Well for the weekend I was in Birmingham at a Unison International Weekend weekend. A bunch of us from the West Midlands and the Northern region were there to discuss international solidarity with Palestine, Columbia and Southern Africa.

The main thing I took away from the experience is that I didn’t know how little I knew. Although I have always instinctively supported the plight of the Palestinians, I hadn’t really grasped the level of their suffering and injustice, or Britain’s shameful part in their history.

We also heard from a Columbian Trade Unionist about the government backed paramilitary suppression of their movement, and the role companies such as CocaCola play. Finally, we had a talk from a member of Actsa, a charity borne from the Anti Apartheid movement. They campaign on a number of issues including the situation in Swaziland, HIV and a campaign called Dignity!Period. which supplies sanitary products to women in Zimbabwe. Zimbabwean women cannot afford sanitary protection and are dying from infections caused by the use of rags, newspaper and bark. On top of that ignorance and cultural taboos over the subject cause girls to miss school and have led to beatings of women accused of adultery. It is a powerful cause and our Unison branch has affiliated to the campaign.

Some may think that these issues are not the business of a British Trade Union. I could not disagree more.

. . . . . . . .

No sooner than I’d finished the weekend, then I was driving myself and 2 colleagues up the M6 and over the Pennines to Harrogate for Unison’s Health Conference. The largest annual gathering of Health workers in Europe (not actually sure that's true, but it sounds good).

Harrogate is a large sunny posh town about half an hour north of Leeds. This week it was more sunny than usual but just a bit less posh with the influx of more than a thousand scruffy lefties. I love our Health Conference, great debate with great people. I always bump into so many friends from all over the country. The feeling of comradeship is the thing I love most about the Trade Union movement.

As I mentioned in posts passim, I have found myself at the centre of the big debate of the week on our Pay negotiation mechanisms. Its a bit dull to explain the details of the argument, but let me assure the debate was far from dull. The debate was set for the Tuesday afternoon, and after many strategic huddles during lunch the main players strode into the magnificent Conference arena, as nervous but determined gladiators (well there were at least sandals anyway). Our motion was the second of the two in the debate. We were up against some of the most passionate and experienced speakers, particularly Mike from Scotland who delivered a magnificent open salvo. I was lined up in a long queue to speak against their motion. If theirs was passed, then ours would fall and I would not have to move our motion (please no jokes about moving motions…its not big and its not clever).

Punch and counter punch followed, each side trying to outdo each other with facts and shouting. As my spot neared, someone from their side jumped in and raised a Point of Order to end the debate and go for the vote. The 2 seas of yellow voting cards held up for and against were too close to call so it went to the card vote. This is when each branch delegation fills in a card (duurrrh!) with their branches voting strength. My branch had 2,500 votes. Everyone gets a little over excited at card votes as the bell is rung and people rush around making sure no card is missed, and every vote is counted. All done, a calm slowly settled and in, like children coming down after a sugar rush we all sat back for the next speaker.

The card vote count meant that my motion would not be moved till the following day (now, I have told you, stop making your own jokes!). I was disappointed, because that meant another night of tinkering with my speech, and worse I had blown my best frock on nothing.

The next morning was a bit of an anticlimax. We won the card vote relatively easily and my motion was pretty much unchallenged. I was still pretty nervous as I stood before everyone. For a transwoman who for most of her time tries to blend in with the world, having your face broadcast on 2 gigantic projection screen as your voice boomed out on a dozen speakers while 2 thousand eyes bore down on you is a trifle unsettling. I rattled through my speech far too fast and as I sat down to some sympathetic applause, I was a little disappointed with myself. However I would get another chance, when I would speak in the afternoon on a motion that mattered to me more than any other. Motion 58 on Transgender discrimination . . .

I had worked really hard on this speech. I was not moving the motion, but as far as I knew I was the only visible transgender member at the conference. The motion was always going to be passed easily (please!!) but I wanted more than that. I wanted the delegates to engage with the issue. Because we are still so relatively rare, the issue often disappears from delegates minds as soon as the next motion starts. I was so determined to make some sort of impact. The world of work will only truly become a safer place to transition the more we are seen. It’s a bit of a Catch 22 thingy.

I was not nervous this time as I stood at the podium…..”Chair, conference. Jenny Harvey, west midlands health committee. I am proud to be a trans member. I am proud to have become a woman member of Unison” . . . cheap applause followed and away I went.

I got a couple of jokes in early. Jokes based on NHS pay systems (called Agenda for Change, so work it out) and on Unison rules don't translate on a blog, but they went down well and the laughter got the hall on my side, ready to hit them with the substance of my speech, the struggle for real acceptance at work and the part employers take in making things harder. I made it personal, giving examples of discrimination I had faced. I finished my speech spot on when the red light came on. I was chuffed, it’s really tricky judging your timing as pauses for applause and laughter can throw it off. As I walked back to my seat, the clapping felt genuine. As a sat behind my table, I started shaking and had to hold back tears. It was a combination of relief, pride and emotion. I have never felt like that after public speaking before. I can only surmise that it was because to topic was so personal.

I was glad to get home to Gammo. Now looking ahead to our June National Delegates Conference in Brighton, where Ive got to move a motion attacking the BNP.

Sarffend

2009-04-17T10:28:00.001+01:00

Easter Bank Holiday I travelled down the M1 to visit my internet friend Lucy.

I have chatted to Lucy for well over 18 months, and we met last November at Unisons LGBT conference. We hit it off at conference but we were so busy, we didn’t really get much time. So this weekend would be a test to see if we would really get on after a friendship built through the internet. After all, in real life there is no delete or backspace key, so a transition from virtual to actual is not always a given. Trading semi humorous asides through the ether, is all very, but how well do you really get to know someone, when you have to follow every third comment with “lol” to make sure they know you’re joking (btw I never use these text diminutions!) and happiness is indicated by a colon, hyphen and close brackets. I was excited about spending the weekend with her, but at the same time a touch nervous. I can be annoying after 10 minutes, so 3 days of incessant prattling chirpyness, broken by bouts of whining self pity would be a test for anyone.

My route down read like a greatest hits of motorway congestion, so I allowed myself plenty of time. M6 past Birmingham > M1 southbound > M25 Clockwise (or anti, not quite sure). I would pass those exotic sounding service stations, Hilton Park, Newport Pagnall, Toddington and South Mimms. A suprisingly jam free journey was only spoiled by some horrid billboards visible from the M25 proclaiming “Britain is a Christian Country”. Apparently this is the Christian Party’s response to the BNPs use of Jesus on a poster. The misguided and the maladjusted arguing over who an imaginary friend loves best (bald men and comb etc). I can’t help thinking that Britain would be a much more christian country, if it wasn’t for all the Christians!

I arrived in Southend at 5ish, after a brief stop at another huge Tesco to buy some wine for my hostess. Not being a heavy drinker (a heavy non drinker is more apt), I have no idea about wine. It all tastes like vinegar to me. So how to select a good bottle. I didn’t know Red or White so I chose Rose and my second criteria was which bottle had the most money knocked off. I ended up with a £4.99 (down from £7.99) New Zealand Rose made from some grapes. See, I’m almost an expert. As a rule I don’t usually drink alcohol. Not for any good reason other than I just don’t like the taste that much. As this was a special occasion I thought I ought not to be a pooper, so I went crazy and bought myself 2 Baccardi Breezers. With my tolerance for alcohol as low as a limbo dancer who has been steamrollered, who knows what could happen with an alcopop crazed Stokie in the house (err nothing much really it turned out)

Not owning a SatNav I was relying on half remembered Googlemap directions. As a navigation method this was completely successful right up to the point I got lost. I eventually found my destination through a mix of educated guessing, dumb luck and an eventually phone call to Lucy.

Lucy has a lovely immaculate flat, and i could almost hear it’s fabric groan as I entered. Hugs over, and my clutter transferred from car to front room, we settled in for a night of pizza and parlez. Well, I thought I could talk, but Lucy is certainly a match for me. She is also as much of a geek as me so much of the talk revolved around a shared love of Sci Fi TV series and a mutual excitement at the upcoming Star Trek revival. Shaun as Scotty and Sylar as Spock, genius! We talked and talked till our heads were flopping. Talking to Lucy felt so easy and we traded tales from from the road, until our heads were dropping. I became very apparent that there were two guests in the house, and that the real owner was Smudge the cat. Smudge is a verging on the spherical mass of cuteness. With an air of superiority he paced around the house, occasionally pausing by either of the guests to demand some attention, which of course he got every time. He was so confident and gentle, in stark contrast to my Gammo’s, nervous mewing and constant arm shagging

After a wine and Breezer reinforced sleep, Saturday was to be our trip to the big city (No not Stoke!). Train and a Saturday disrupted tube eventually put us in a drizzly Camden Market. I haven’t been there for 10 years and I’d forgotten what a bustling, vibrant, wonderfully mad place it is. While the rest of London was unusually subdued under this drabbest of April skies, Camden shrugged it off and was a bustling cacophany on noise and colour (although with the highest Goth quotient in Europe it was mainly black). Lucy was like a guided missile swooping on some absolutely fabulous outfits, to match her fabulous figure. Every item lifted off the rack was met with a haggling charmer, ready to knock off a fiver for a quick sale . As for me, I enjoyed a day free of clothes shopping stress. No beating myself up over the cost of an impulse buy. No two-ing and fro-ing over which item ill fitted me least. The liberation from being half a dozen sizes bigger than any of the clothes on sale, let me enjoy people watching to its fullest.

We managed to get back to Southend just in time for the Time Lord, despite the best attempts of London Transport to thwart us at every juncture. Highlight of the night’s telly had to be the stunning rendition of “I dreamed a dream” from Les Miz, by the middle aged Scottish lady, Susan Boyle on Britain’s Got Talent who immediately silenced the 4,000 cynics that made up the baying audience, from the moment the first note left her lips.

Sundays weather was a distinct improvement on Saturdays feeble effort. Time to find the sea, after all in Stoke I live just about as far from the seaside as its possible to find. After a tour of Southend’s one way streets, cul de sacs and carparks, we found ourselves at the eastern end of the long seafront. The sea would still have to wait for a moment longer, as we had hunger to abate, and being on diet holiday, I was able to snaffle away a rather fine sausage and mash. I was so relaxing to sit on the sea wall with Lucy, just letting troubles ebb away with the tide. Lucy is such great company, and to have someone with whom I share such a common life history is both a comfort and joy. I of course cannot rely on memories alone so out came my camera. I really wanted a snap of the two of us, so I set my camera on self timer and sat it on the sea wall. After directing Lucy to her mark on the beach, the plan was to squat to focus the camera on Lucy before I had 10 seconds to vault the sea wall, sprint to Lucy’s side, compose, pose and then smile. The plan worked really well. My vault had the grace of a lame Hippo and I landed on the sand with a “thickening sud”. My sprint turned out to be a 10 yard stumble arms a flailing, and by the time I reached Luce I was nearly on my knees. I grabbed her to my side and almost collapsed laughing, certain that I had missed the snap moment. A kindly lady passing by witnessed my pantomime and with a huge smile offered to take a photo for us. When I checked the pictures afterwards my chaotic first attempt had turned the best and for once in a photo I am actually smiling. In fact we both are and I have to say its one of my favourite pictures ever, and a fitting reminder of a weekend to treasure.

It was soon time to head back north to civilisation and as the nighttimes' motorway drive morphed into a steady blurring stream of oncoming headlights and cats eyes, I kept my mind alert by thoughts of the next visit to my Southend Friend.

A friendship that was now cemented as strong as that blasted seawall.

Sea Gazing

Adendum…Lucy has just succumbed to the way of the blog http://lululastresort.blogspot.com check it out

Under Pressure . . . bum bum bum bum, bumbum, bum bum

2009-04-13T13:27:00.002+01:00

As Queen and David so eloquently put it “Pressure pushing down on me Pressing down on you no man ask for”.

I've found myself at the centre of things for Unison’s upcoming Health Conference, the biggest (and best) conference of health and NHS workers in the country. This year it will be held at the very genteel and Yorkshire (and hilly) town of Harrogate. Its a huge conference centre for a relatively small town and when we invade every 3rd person has a telltale
Without going into too much mind numbingly dull NHS pay and conditions twaddle what will happen is that I will be moving a motion in the most contentious debate regarding our participation in a Pay Review (PRB). The PRB hears evidence from both the Trades Unions and the NHS trusts to recommend an annual pay increase rather than us directly negotiating with the employers, which effectively turns out to be the government. It is vital that in this economic and political climate that we have a buffer between ourselves and the government so that future increases are judged on an economic and fair basis, rather than political expediency. I’m am sure that whichever shade of government comes next, are going attempt to use public sector pay restraint to score cheap points with those percieved oracles of middle England The Daily Malicious and The Daily Exploits. Our Pay Review Body gives us extra ammunition in any upcoming pay battles that would be folly to decommission. We know that the Treasury would be delighted if Unison withdrew from the process, and for me if the treasury is against it then I’m for it.
Anyway enough of the Trade Unionising already.

The upshot (is there ever a downshot ?) is that I am feeling a little (make that a lot) under pressure to deliver an effective 5 minute speech, because I’m sure to be followed by some experienced passionate speakers from the other side of the debate. My only previous speech at health conference was on violence and aggression in the NHS and lets face it I would have had to be pretty cack footed to miss that as an open goal. I did think about starting off by saying that Violence and Aggression was a good thing, especially towards patients and that we should routinely arm our nurses, just to see if anyone was listening, but sense got the better of me.
So right now 11 days ahead of the event my head is a whirl of what I hope it snappy soundbites and punchy comment, but more likely incoherent waffle that may find its way into my text.
To try and get some clarity of thought, the other day I found myself in Leek at 4pm, after doing an induction presentation, so instead of crawling through traffic to the office I decided to sit in the sun and get some perspective. Where better than the Roaches, a fabulous rocky hilly outcrop just 10 mins above Leek, on the edge of the Peak district national Park.

Parking the car, below the climb I suddenly realised (my brain is so slow sometimes) that I was maybe not best dressed for a scramble up the rock, sitting as I was in a long black and white print dress and flattie work pumps. If there had been a summer garden party or a wedding do on the hillside then I may have been ok, but scanning the horizon I saw neither. Hell, In for a penny, in for a Euro (The Pound is pretty weak right now). So off I went a-climbing and a-scrambling up to the rock. After much tripping over teetering and some undignified crawling on all fours I got to my targeted spot, and looking like a lioness crossed with a Fresian cow I basked in the sun on my hot rock. At times small groups of proper hikers and climbers

would pass me all tooled up in their hiking boots, fleeces and rucksacks. As they chewed on their Kendal Mint cake they would glance at me with a mix of scorn and bemusement, if they had children with them they would gently guide them away fromthe “strange lady”. To make myself just that bit more conspicuous I decided to take a couple of pictures of myself, and with the aid of a carefully balanced camera, a self timer and a short dash to position I succeeded. I did think to myself that this was such a Tranny cliché, photoing myself in a frock in the middle of nowhere, but the deed was done. I took a few more shots of rolling hills and jaggedy rocks, then briefly toyed with the idea of staying long enough to snap a sunset, but I had no idea what time that would be. I was rather pleased with a shot I got of Holiday jet passing by the evening moon, and that signalled the time to slip slide may way back to the car .

The endeavour worked really well and not once did I think of Conferences, Motions and PRBs

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Anton du Burke

2009-04-06T20:54:00.001+01:00

I have fallen out of love (I’m just oh so fickle) with the suave, fragrant, orange, grinning dancer.

It’s my dad’s fault. When recounting our encounter below, he mentioned that Mr du Biggot had said that fat people should be shot. I took this with a pinch of lard, but against my every principle took a look at the interview on The Daily Malicious web site.

This is what he said below in an interview about health matters. It is hard to argue he was reported out of context

________________________________________________________________

Have you ever been on a crash diet?

I've always been slim and active. I weigh 71kg and I'm 6ft tall. Diets are all nonsense: they don't work. Just don't get fat in the first place.

I've no time for fat people, they should all be shot.

What really upsets me is when I see fat kids. They've invariably got fat parents and they're the ones who are to blame. They need a good slap for having forced their bad ways on their kids.

When I was at school, there would be one fat kid in the class. Now there are hordes of them. I don't understand the psychology of fat people, nor the flip side of that, size zero.

I once taught dance to a girl with an eating disorder. I had to send her back to her mum because she had no stamina.

I don't mean to sound like a body fascist. In fact, it can be quite pleasant to have someone with a bit of wobbly flesh dancing with you.

I'm in two minds about whether very overweight people should be refused surgery unless they slim down. They have paid their taxes and they're entitled to treatment. But maybe they should be shoved to the back of the queue if someone comes in with a condition which isn't the result of eating themselves to 400st

____________________________________________________

No wonder the poor confused man looked so scared when I approached him. I guess i had a bit too much wobbly flesh, perhaps he thought I would eat him or at the very least be standing in the queue in front of him for NHS treatment. I so wish I had trod with all my poundage/square heel on his right wing foot.

Lets hope his next dance partner is Dawn French, Jo Brand or maybe Hagrid

Yes it is extremely childish to make Anton look fatter but it was fun for a few minutes

Vaguely Come Dancing

2009-04-05T23:04:00.001+01:00

The Friday night before we Marched in London (see blog passim.) Vicky and I had an appointment with Anton du Beke and Erin Boag from Strictly Come Dancing (Dancing With the Stars, everywhere else) This was a Christmas prezzie from V to me.

The show was at the quaintly named Dukinfield Town Hall, just outside Manchester. Well, as usual we were in five minds about what to wear. In the end I went for a low cut sparkly top, black trousers (boring!) and uncomfortable high heel. Vicky was much more daring, debuting a short black, zip festooned punky dress and an even more unwearable pair ofheels.

Luck and Satnav, got us fairly near our destination till an overwhelming hunger forced us to visit the nearest Tesco Extra megashop thingy. Tottering and hobbling through the store full of soberly clad shoppers we looked kinda like off duty hookers. In my case well past her peak. By now, Vs shoes were so uncomfortable she toyed with buying an emergency wearable pair right there and then, but in the end just soldiered on. A car park refuelling on cheap sandwiches and pop over, we made our way through the Greater Manchester suburbs to arrive at our town hall venue. As we parked up we saw a couple of car loads of fellow dance fans disembark. My best guess was that they had an average age somewhere mid 70s. Looking at the pair of us, we thought that we may have misjudged outfits somewhat, and could end up standing out like sore thumbs at a hitchhikers convention (not sure that works!!). Still in for a penny in for a Paso Doble .

When we joined the queue inside our fears were allayed a little. We couldn’t really stick out amongst such an eclectic bunch of people. The Local gentry were there in force. He all tux, chunky gold and Masonic bearing, she all ball gowned, painted grin and orange tan, contrasting with the teenaged dance school girls stood in giggly huddles, all prom dresses, dance pumps and vivid eye shadow. Then, there were the young couples, she in her best going out gear, while he wriggled uncomfortably in a new tie and shiny shoes. Oh and there was me and Vix.

The evening started with the dance floor open to all, although it was clearly not a space for the inexperienced hoofer. There were couples of all size, age and background, but the only status that mattered was their talent for a Tango. Some of the best dancers were the young girls whirling together without need for boys, who before Strictly’ hit the airwaves would surely have scorned ballroom dancing. Thankfully to any attending Health & Safety officer I decided to keep the light of my particular dance talent underneath my huge bushel. The only dance I know the steps to is The Timewarp from the Rocky Horror Show, and to be honest it would have been tricky to make it fit a Waltz.

The lights dimmed for the main event, and to the “duh duh duh duh, duh duh duurrhhh” of the Strictly theme on strode Anton and Erin. He was even more smiley and shorter than I imagined and she was just plain stunning, a figure that dying for would have been scantly enough. To be honest up close it all seemed a little unreal. Like waxworks come to life. At our table on the edge of the dance floor we were in tripping distance of them and we had to suppress that Lemming Syndrome that dared us to stick out a crafty leg. The dancing was an amazing spectacle of whirling colours and immaculate footwork. Highlight for V was that when Anton was bantering with the audience while Erin was undergoing a second costume change, Vicky ended up in a verbal spar with the Sultan of Suave, the upshot being they seemed to have arranged a dancing night out on Tuesday.

All too soon it was over and we took our cue to queue. A&E had decamped to to an upstairs room where willing punters could have a meet, photograph and autograph. I decided to go barefoot so as not to tower over the petite couple, but mainly because after 20 minutes queuing my feet were killing me. As we were eventually ushered in, I could detect genuine terror in Anton’s eyes. He was a gentlemen though and after a hugs, hellos and a shared quip at Vicky’s expense we posed for pics, although the young aide who was using my camera somewhat struggled with the concept of focus. Vicky cheekily asked if she could have a pic for her phone and since then everyone she has met, has had her mobile thrust under their nose with an image of Anton kissing Vicky. I still maintain he may of been kissing her, but he was thinking of me.

All in all it was a slightly bizarre but fabulous Christmas prezzie outing. Soon back down to earth though as the next morning we were heckling the G20 from the Streets of London. A real compare and contrast couple of days.

Genderally Speaking

2009-04-05T16:19:00.001+01:00

Well after my cock up at missing my appointment at Charing Cross Gender Clinic (insert your own cock up/gender clinic pun), I did manage to make one gender related appointment. This was the long awaited follow up with my Speech Therapist. I say long awaited because it had been afull 4 months since my last sesh.

I am acutely aware that my voice does not aid in my acceptance as a born anew woman. As an understatement that rank alongside saying that my size does not help me run a marathon ! My vocal failings were brought into sharp focus when a short interview video was posted on a local paper’s website. I cringed at every flat dull syllable.

One of the added stresses is that speech is so vital in my job. Ranging from a compassionate sotto voce when empathising in a one on one with a distressed Union member, to needing clarity and enunciation to convey detail over the phone, through assertive emphasising in negotiation meetings and upward to passionate oration at a conference before maybe thousands. Eeeeessshhhkk ! when I think about it my head spins. I’m not convinced I make much of a fist in any of these categories at conveying a female voice. Hence Speech Therapy sessions, which thankfully my PCT NHS Primary Care Trust) fund, whereas some will not.

I have thoroughly enjoyed my sessions to date. If nothing it is a fascinating intellectual exercise. The differences between a male and female voice are not instantly obvious. It’s a self evident truth of course, that women generally speak at a higher pitch but that’s only part of it. There is the undulation, intonation, soft onset and more that make up women’s speech. After a casual introductory chat, where I know my Therapist is assessing my voice quality, we then went into a few exercises hhmmaaarrr, hhmmeeeee, hhmmmooooaaaa all with lips a tingling, trying to place my voice in the front of my head and not my chest. All seemed to go pretty well, and I was able to keep the practice going , until my first meeting. I have this terrible learnt behaviour, in that when I need to be taken seriously I subconsciously lower and flatten my voice like some pompous preacher. My verdict C- must try harder.

“By George she’s not got it”…yet

Do You Hear The People Sing

2009-03-29T22:33:00.001+01:00

Yesterday was the Put People First march and rally in London

5.00 am struggle out of my bit. Last nights flirting with Anton but a hazy blur.
6.15 am . Finally decide on my rioting gear. Off one shoulder top, black jeans. Trainers (men's through necessity over choice) black hoodie, denim jacket. Weather forecast is dreadful. Packed vitals for day. Camera, blackberry, other mobile, emergency makeup, brolly,
6.40 am pick up Vicky. Join in some shouting at a naughty Spartacus.
6.55 join our ragbag 16 fellow Stokie marchers. We hoped for more but most of the Socialists failed to get out of bed in time
7.10 hit the road Jack. Actually the driver is called Kenneth but it didn't scan
8.45 Watford gap services . My second favourite gap (after the Cheddar) indulged in some non ethical corporate coffee. Least it wasn't Starbucks.
9.15 Cashpoint after spending all the days budget on a latte.
10.30 Dropped off at Horseguards. No horses disappointingly.
10.45 Charged 50p to use loo (I blame the bankers) lady attendant told me enquiringly it was the Ladies, I said with much annoyance, 'where else would I want' (I blame the bankers)
11.15 Raiding the unison stall for freebies for our branch. Bagged 5 caps 4 tabards, 2 flags and a dozen 'blow up thunder sticks' whatever they are
11.30 Assembled behind our UNISON Region banner mid way in the March queue. Indulged in some banter with Regional staff (or the those from the dark side). I Got up everyone’s nose by taking pics (I blame the bankers).

12.15 WE MARCH, 12.16 WE STOP, 12.20 WE MARCH 12.21 WE STOP…continue for 3 1/2 miles or until your knees give out..

We marched and we stopped and we marched our way around central London. Down the Embankment and hung a right by Parliament we went. I’ve been on a few of these marches and this was by far the biggest, most vibrant, colourful, widely ranging, angry but peaceful protests I’ve been involved with. We rubbed shoulders, banged knees and clattered banners with:

Belgian Construction workers, French Fire Fighters, German Public Servants

TUC, RMT, NUT, an Alphabet Soup of Unions

Friends of The Earth Workers, Greenpeace Activists, Environmental Lobbyists

Anti War protesters, Pro Peace Campaigners, Charity Lobbyists

Communists, Socialists, Socialist Workers, Socialist Idlers,

One man band hectorers, 10 man band musicians,

Party Politicos, Party Animals, Anarchists, Organisers, Agitators, Preachers, Shouters, Singers and in the vast main just workaday people.

We merry band, we happy many, we angry mob. We sung chanted and chatted as the sun burst out. That day the sun shone on the self righteous. As we passed various bêtes noir such as Downing Street, The banks and The Ritz the crowd would break into chant many linking bankers and bonfires. Although there was much collective anger there was never any hint that it would turn to trouble as some of the press had suggested. The friendly police marking the route enjoyed our banter as much as they must have enjoyed the overtime. As we took in the famous landmarks, Big Ben, Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, St James we made solid friends for the day, sharing stories of previous campaigns and remarking on the good weather. I became increasingly glad I was only carrying a flag and not one of the large banners which transformed into back breaking wind breaks.

We made the rally in Hyde Park at 4pm much later than expected and the speakers had already started. Compared by Tony “Time Team/Baldrick” Robinson there were passionate speakers from around the campaigning world. Best and most shouty of all was Mark Thomas comedian and activist. Check out his stand up on iTunes, especially “Dambusters”. Funny passionate and moving, a rare combination.

By this time the weather gods had turned. The sunshine of the march turned to darkened skies and freezing sleet. I cannot recall being so cold in a long long time. Cold as we shivered, knees aching and hips sore, we were not going to leave early. There is no point to a protest if it is easy. Eventually it was time to find our coach for our journey back to northern civilisation.

As everyone else snoozed in on the cosy night darkened bus, I indulged in a little reflection. The blurry lights of the motorway traffic merged into remembered visions of rainbow flags. I felt bolstered to have been part of such a huge movement. We may not have changed the world on that Saturday. The poor were still poor, the oppressed still oppressed and the planet still creaked.

Who knows if we 40,000 made a difference ? One thing I do know, doing nothing would not.

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Facing Up to Being Down

2009-03-22T21:03:00.001Z

Again another week has passed with as many Posts from me as Stoke City away wins this season, and this has been pointedly pointed out by tweeting pal Simon, who feels I may have lost my blogging soul to twitter.

My Depression and Other Animals

Its sharing time…” Hi everyone, I’m Jenny and I’m a screw up. Its been 2 hours now since my last screw up”

I’ve had a humbling week.

It came to a head with a card pushed through my door. Apparently there is a rat taken residence under the back step up to my yard. Seems this rodent is using this nook as a base to make raiding parties to the plethora of take away businesses that make up the commercial sector of my little corner of Stoke-on-Trent. It was bad enough thinking a rat was squatting at the edge of my yard but the card said that someone wanted to pop round to explain how they were going to dispose of it. It was the fact that someone wanted to come into my house that alarmed me most. You see I am not the most domesticated of creatures. Actually that’s like saying, Trevor & Simon weren’t that keen on doing bedding*.

To be utterly honest, and what other honesty is there I have been living in a absolute dump. Such a dump that I would not have dared to let anyone in my front door. Why have I allowed things to get to such a point, well I’m not absolutely sure. Yes, an inbuilt messiness is certainly a factor but how I have had so little self respect is more complex, or perhaps more likely more to do with my complex.

I think it is fairly obvious to everyone (evidently except me!) that I am prone to depressive slumps. I know I did last summer, which coupled with a dose of anxiety frankly left me a bit nuts (sadly still with nuts!) for a period. During spells like this I tend to withdraw under my bed covers, only venturing out to go to work. The legacy of this is the state of my house. Well no more. Now I’m not blaming my messiness on the state of my mental health, but it is certainly is a trigger, and vice versa. Well as I said, no more. An egg is enough.

I have to say its friends who have dragged my by the bra straps. Firstly Heather gave me a good pep talk during a late night MSN session and then, while I was working on Friday, a small swat team of 3, Vicky, Sam and Helen descended on chez Jen, unbeknownst to me. Well I knew Vix was going round but I didn’t know she had enlisted the others. They must have worked like Trojans on a bonus scheme, because when I got home I found myself in someone else’s house, with an actual floor to walk on. Anyway on top of that I was given a firm lecture to stop being so pig headed and if I get depressed for god’s sake see my doc. Its typical of me, someone working within mental health services yet too stubborn to recognise my own needs.

D’OH

Earlier in the week I made another screw up. To be more exact I made my screw up on the March 9th **

On Wednesday I was sitting staring blankly at my Calendar on outlook trying to find a gap to slot in, when some Annual Leave when I though to myself “when is my next appointment at the Gender Clinic ?”. As I scrolled down my diary as far as November with no answer forthcoming I realised I ought to call the clinic and find out.

Bbrrrrrr Brrrrrr …click “I wonder if you can help me. I’m ringing to find out when my next appointment is. My name is Harvey, Jenny Harvey.” “Can you hold a bit…cue, dum deeee deee dummmm deeee dumm deee dummmm click….hello? yes I’m afraid you missed your last appointment on the 9th March. We can’t arrange another appointment, Dr thingy will be writing to you in due course”

Oh Crikey, Oh F***, Oh Blimey, Oh S***.

Well I know the Gender Clinic is rightly very strict on missed appointments and feeling a touch ashamed and worried I wrote off to Dr thingy. For as much as anything it was because he has been tremendously supportive and I genuinely look forward to my sessions with him and I wanted to apologise personally. Missed appointments are a blight on NHS resources and on 9th March, I added to the blight. My excuse for missing the appointment is that I’m a dizzy idiot. Granted its not the best of my defences, but there you are.

So a week to forget . . . . .What week ? . . . . See I can get something right.

* If you never watched Going Live in the late 80s then don’t worry, just don’t bring your duvet * *pointless aside: my Union has stopped using the ths so it should be 9 March. huh!

Next up, this week :

Speech Therapy, Anton & Erin, and on Saturday 28 March the G20 are in town , so as Marillion put it in Market Square Heroes…. ”We March”

http://www.putpeoplefirst.org.uk/

Playing the Field

2009-03-15T20:10:00.001Z

I’ve been seduced by the lure of the twitter….eyes right!… There is clearly no internet fad that I wont tag along with. Blogger, facebook, messenger, twitter et al, if only real life didn’t get in the way then I could really embrace the 21st Century.

twitter is the latest social networking phenomena. Its basically a micro blogging network where you are limited to 140 characters to post, or tweet what you are doing. Sounds dull but it is addictive. You follow other twitters and every time they tweet it you are notified. The main plus of twitter is that it can be easily done by a mobile phone text. It also focuses your mind and as is obvious, I struggle to bring in any cogent thought at under 140 characters. The other thing that twitter is fab, for is stalking, I mean following famous people. Stephen Fry is the most infamous Twitter evangelist, currently followed by over 250,000. I have tried not to become a slave to celeb following, but I am now aware that Stephen Fry saw Watchmen yesterday and enjoyed it, that Richard Bacon ate a Fry’s (no relation) Chocolate Cream and learnt from Dave Gorman that yesterday was US Pi day, 3/14. Vital info I’m sure everyone can agree

Anyway I’m sure you all know this. The thing is I’m starting to feel disloyal to my blog. Twittering feels like I’m cheating on my blog, sneaking away when its not looking. My 1 year marriage to blogger must be creaking if I’m looking for excitement elsewhere. twitter feels like a younger, leaner, hipper model. I was going to use a different word than model, but couldn’t think of the male equivalent of a mistress, doesn’t that say a lot about our patriarchal society. However I will always return to Blogger. Tweeting has fun but Blogging has substance. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but how many of the greatest poets wrote limericks (my gawd that sounds pretentious!). This old thing has been such a positive force in my recent life. Not only have I made some great blogging friends, and you know who you are, but through it I feel I’ve gained a little more understanding from friends and certainly it has brought my brother and I closer.

I think I can manage to keep both relationships going in tandem, although friends have been claiming that since I was been tweeting, and my how I’ve been tweeting I have neglected to update my blog. I, of course, claim that this is nothing to do with my new suitor but that I have works in process and it is the tortured perfectionist writer that has been behind my delayed posting, but I fear no one outside my head believes this. So I’m going to try and keep up the post count while tweeting away in the background.

As Michael Jackson & Paul McCartney didn’t quite sing “Bluey Bird and Orange B, sit together in perfect harmony. Side by side on my Windows desktop, let us post and tweeeeet”

A Tale of 2 Sittings

Anyway back to real life (if we have to)

This has been a week of the same old same old mainly. Work is fairly depressing having to deal with distressed members (that is not a side effect of my hormone therapy , before no one asks) and continual organisational changes (its a default position in the NHS). Outside work has been noticeable for 2 meals out. On Tuesday it was a rare chance to get dolled up, as we celebrated Debbie’s birthday in a charming Italian restaurant in Stone. As usual I panicked that I had absolutely nothing to wear darling, so on this thin excuse I hit Hanley spending nearly 80 quid on trousers, heels and handbag. I was unusually brave that night in plumping for a strappy top and bearing my strapping arms! Still I managed to get away with it and even my new heels still felt walkable by the end of the night, so I feel it was success all round.

Must admit that although I’m getting a little more confident with my appearance on a girls night out, I still think that I a tread a very narrow path between being lazily underdressed and inappropriately overdressed. I guess my compass is wobbly but still pointing Northwards.

Last night was a dinner do at quiz colleague Michael’s house. He was entertaining the complete female contingent of our quiz team,, in Victoria, Heather and myself. He was really sweet in offering to cook for us to make up for missing mine and Vic’s birthdays back in February. However, he slightly soured the sweetness by informing us that he was cooking a Weight Watcher’s meal ! (like we need to diet!). He then compounded this souring, by marking one of the chairs for only himself to sit on, as it had a dodgy leg that may not survive the ordeal from us three (actually it was me that posed the greatest risk to life and chair limb). Again, I toyed all afternoon over what to wear. This was not because it was crucial to create the right appearance, after all I was just our quiz team. No, my inner Tranny was back, nagging at me. While sorting through some a pile of clothes I found a short denim dress. Now I had bought this dress over 6 years ago, back from those closeted days when things were bought without any expectation of actually having to wear in public. In those days, I was never able to try on in the shop, and frankly this dress had always been woefully short of fitting. Indeed, on the first attempt I couldn't even pull the thing down my torso. Anyway, as I have lost some decent weight I decided to give said dress one last try before chucking. Lo, behold, it actually fitted, and although I would not have won a best dressed at Ascot prize, it looked sort of ok. So now a germ was planted and I started obsessing that I was going to wear it that night, even though I rarely wear dresses and certainly not one so short. I was going to bottle out and go for something more trousery, but that inner Tranny of days gone by, won over and with the thought of “Oh sod it, why not. I will wear it just because I can” that was my outfit for the night and for the second night of the week I think I got away with it.

In between socialising, I managed to fit in an afternoon at the scene of my first “triumphant” public outing Stafford town centre. It was an unusually bright afternoon and I took the opportunity to snap the church where my parents married, and stumbled upon an impressively fiery, busking juggler.

Testing the Pass

2009-03-06T18:12:00.001Z

< Mine’s the blue one

It's that time of year again. The one moment I dread more than the dentists, an inoculation and a work appraisal rolled together. That is MoT* time. I have a love hate relationship with cars. I love to drive them, to look at them, to feel them! but hate all the stuff goes along with keeping them on the road. My car history is as chequered as the flag. So far, every car has left my hands as a pile of junk, mainly on the back of a low loader, or occasionally as a part exchange, where some auto supermarket knocks off 1000 quid, that they would have discounted anyway, just for the privilege of taking out finance at their extortionate interest rates. On top of that, I have at various times, had a wheel fall off one, another set on fire and an engine totally seize at 50 miles an hour due to bring completely oil free. You see, my tried and tested and evidently failed method of car maintenance, is to turn up the radio so I can't hear the knocking noises anymore. Hence, I dread MoT time. I’m always expecting an insincerely glum mechanic with the to return from the test wielding a red ink filled form that turns out to be a bank balance draining list of auto woes. This is usually accompanied by that slow head shake and intake of breath that builders and mechanics use to convey bad and ultimately expensive news.

For the last few years I have a second reason to dread the test in that garages are grease filled black holes of masculinity. I am as likely to pass in this environment as a wolf in a flock. I usually find myself being referred to as mate, I I have known to subconsciously de-evolve into my historical maleness of old. I have even found myself grunting in harness with the mechanics with phrases such as “Hhhrrruuuurrrr Its all those speed humps that have buggered the shocks. Hhhuurrrurrr I blame the PC brigade** ” Well, this time I was deternimed not to fall into this trap, and in the words of every Big Brother contestant “just be myself”.

Tuesday morning found me sat in the reception / waiting room, pending the results from the probing of my Kia Shuma ***. I had dressed deliberately in a skirt and high heeled boots, rather than my usual trousers and flats for a working day. It was as if I needed to reaffirm my femininity. I watched as a string of customers came in dropping off and picking up their cars. A typical conversation went “I’m dropping off the red Modeo, mate”, “ Thanks mate, it will be ready Friday, early doors”,”Cheers Mate”, “Will you be paying by cash or check mate ?”. OK I made up the check mate gag, but you get my drift. That morning everybody was everybody else’s mate. What a friendly place!

I saw the mechanic who had been working on my car appear behind the reception desk with his sheaf of results. I tried to read his face, but could spot no tell. He would have made a superb, but oily poker player. “Miss Harvey?”, he said looking up. “All done, love”. “Has it passed ?” I replied with hope over expectation. “Yes, no problems. Just an advisory, your brake pads will last about another 5 k” . I almost grabbed the keys and paperwork with rude haste, wanting to get out in case he changed his mind. “Hang on sweetheart, I just need to take a few details”, and with only a short ado, I was away. I guess as a Guardian reader I shouldn’t approve of being called sweetheart and love, but for me, that morning it felt like I had entered the lions den and passed as an antelope, and still got away unscathed. It may have been true that the mechanic had read my gender status, and he was just a well adjusted and frankly nice man, but without doing him a disservice I choose to believe that I had both, passed the test, and passed the pass.,

* A mandatory annual check that your car is road legal.

** I would love to see a Politically Correct brigade, charging into battle considering the enemies feelings through the use of appropriate language.

*** A fine example of South Korean craftsmanship of cheap plastics.

emergency post ??? Help Needed ???

2009-03-02T21:53:00.001Z

Crossing the Floor is temporarily suspended

I have to set our quiz this week and so far out of 80+ questions I have set 6

Any ideas for interesting questions would be gratefully received and in return you would receive the very inconsiderable honour of having your name read out at the Meakins Cricket Club quiz (for our friends over the water, Cricket is Baseball with a degree)

I apologise for the gratuitous use of the word emergency

In case anyone was alarmed, I leave my favourite cat picture.

A Dry Spell

2009-03-01T00:16:00.001Z

"Hi, I'm Jenny and I'm a Blogaholic. Its been 10 days since my last post"

I'm stuck .....

I went on the internet, and all I brought back was this lousy poem !

In your leathery face, Prostnic Vogon Jeltz

(Normal service will be resumed, whenever I have the faintest of an idea)

Womanising

2009-02-19T21:46:00.003Z

Today is Thursday, so it must be Southport. Right now I’m tapping this out in the smallest hotel room in the Northern Hemisphere.

I am here to attend Unison’s Women’s Conference for the first time. No big deal in the scheme of things, I suppose. For me, things are never that easy. I was unsure about attending. Not because I thought I shouldn’t. As a woman member, I am absolutely entitled too. Its more about Me, Myself and My. My own perceptions of who I am. I do, self identify as woman. I do live as a woman. I walk, run, swim, sleep and breathe as a woman. But when push comes to a shovel, do I deeply feel as other women do?

Back on a Trans Community forum, buried away in the net, my blogging pal Penny posed the question “What gender do you think you are?” with an attached survey. There were some interesting replies, and it got me thinking (never a good idea). You see, I maintain that I am a woman, but don’t claim to always have been one. I squirm a bit when read the old chestnut “I was a woman trapped in a mans body”, although I do subscribe to the belief that I’m a gorgeous thin girl, trapped in a fat bird’s body (actually at least 3 thin girls!). You see, for me, I absolutely can’t say I feel and think as other women do, because I don’t know how other women feel and think. Just as I can’t know how any man, cat, dog, fish or mattress feels (although mattresses actually flollop (enough of the hitchhikers references already!!)). All I know, is that living as a woman right now, and eventually, NHS permitting, will have most of the right kit for a woman, just plain works for me. This peg has found her square hole.

Now back to my slight unease at attending Unison’s women’s conference. It was not because I thought there may be any flutterings of transphobia. Far from it. Everyone is really welcoming and I have already bumped into a dozen old friends. No, my slight reticence was the question that as I sat there, would I inwardly feel like an outsider? Would I sit listening to the motions on women’s, equality, empowerment and health matters, and somehow think that they just didn’t apply to me? Would I feel that my lack of a shared experience, growing and blossoming into womanhood, set me apart? Would I feel a stranger on home ground ? Thankfully, the answer was No on all accounts. From the moment I arrived, I belonged. The truth is, this public assertion of my woman-ness raised my self acceptance to its highest level yet. Am I glad I came ? Damn right I am !

All this soul searching aside, I still found time to take a few snaps on a cold, Thursday, Southport evening

View Full Album

Oh, and what about my teeny, tiny windowless hotel room.

Jenny is 41

2009-02-17T17:39:00.001Z

But only 5 in born again woman years

This is in no way a cheap and tawdry attempt to garner Happy Birthday comments

Spiced Ham

2009-02-14T11:54:00.001Z

The following email found its way past my firewall, anti spam filter and junk mail box. . Of course my junk mail box contains dozens of such emails, but the persistence of this one worming its way through makes it worthy of attention, so I figured it ought to give it the courteousy of a reply, and who couldn't do with another million dollars.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Attn My Dear‏

From:
Peter Mike (PeterMike@yahoo.com)

You may not know this sender.Mark as safe|Mark as unsafe

Sent:
14 February 2009 02:52:15

To:
jenny.2000@hotmail.co.uk

Attn My Dear
We have arranged your payment of ($1.5Million) One Million five hundred thousand united state dollars Previously in ATM payment card to be sent to you through western union money transfer payment: Your payment will sent to you by western union The amount you will receive per day is $5000 The minister trust funds and IMF boards of Benin Republic will send you the current standard track details you will need to pick up your ($5000) payment by western union you will receive every day till you receive the $1.5Million united state dollars now no need to send you this ATM card because you can not be able to withdraw the ATM card due to the atm master card contain large money on it The director administrtor trust funds has already signed your payment now you are free to comply with wemaco payment office on this email (western_union004@hotmail.fr) however kindly contact the below person who is in position to release your payment by western union per $5000 a day TONY NNAMDI western !
union department Telphone (+229 9842 8092) E-mai (western_union004@hotmail.fr) The financial western union payment center has been mandated to issue out your payment and you have to stop any further communication with any other person (s) or office (s) to avoid any hitches in receiving your payment. Note that the administrator payment need this details from you to process your payment and the only money you will pay is the processing and administration fee which is only $135 usd before you will start receiving your fund. Receiver
name---------------
Country---------------------
City------------------------
Tel-------------------------
Test question---------------
Answer----------------------
Comply now because as soon as you send this required details to MR TONY NNAMDI he will start sending your payment by western
union.
Regards Senator
Peter Mike

------------------------------------------

From:
Jenny Harvey(jenny.2000@hotmail.co.uk)

Sent:
14 February 2009 02:52:15

To:

Peter Mike (PeterMike@conartist.com)

Dear Senator Mike or is it Senator Peter

Thank you so much for the arrangement to pay me (£1.5Million) One Million five hundred thousand united state dollars. The money is very timely as I have a car to MOT, so this might just cover the bill (unless my wheels need tracking).

I am a long standing supporter of Benin Republic and all thing Beninian. Unlike Nigeria, from where I constantly receive pointless, irritating, inbox filling, scamming spam emails, all offering me huge sums of money. Would you please pass on my gratitude to Mr NNAMADI, and could you ask him if he is the same Mr NNamadi that I met over drinks at a New Year's Benin consulate do. I remember we shared a ripe joke at the expense of the Togo ambassador, and ask him what he thought about the quality of the vol-au-vents, which I felt well below par.

The arrangements for you to receive my $135 usd administration fee are as follows. There will be an administration/handling/conning fee of $235 usd to be paid before you receive your fee. The fee will need to be paid in Altarian Dollars or Triganic Pu (bearing in mind the size of the envelope needed). Could you please contact my administrator by email(jerry.harvey@madeup.co.uk) or Telphone (+5318008 or +5407708) I suggest these phone numbers are best entered on an upside down calculator.

I note that you intend to send me £5000 per day. On that basis it will take 300 days for me to receive the full amount. We will also have take weekends into consideration because our local Western Union does not open on a Sunday and Saturday mornings are taken up with composing facetious blog posts. This would increase the payment period to 386 days. We also have 8 bank holidays and at least 10 days per year when its just too darn snowy, so lets call the whole thing 400 days. I believe that this is an unreasonably protracted period in which to settle this account, so I request that you contact me at your earliest convenience to arrange a more appropriate payment plan. I would be grateful if you could fill in the income/expenditure attachment so we can asses your ability to pay.

Comply now because as soon as you provide the required details, I will straight away shred them and give to my friends daughter to be used as Rabbit hutch flooring.

Regards Senatess

Harvey Jenny

--------------------------------------------------------------------

I have also replied to a number of other emails and am looking forward to receiving my penis extension, blue pills, and a total of 4.5 trillion dollars. I have also managed to reactivate my accounts with all of the major banks and building societies .

Addendum.... I have just had a thought. Wasn't Mike Peters the lead singer of U2 lite , Welsh 80's band The Alarm

The Pack Unleashed

2009-02-13T01:56:00.001Z

Well my brief flirt with fame in our local paper, produced a unexpected minor flurry of press interest.

Three journalists found there way to me via three different routes.

First of the mark was Dan from a press agency in Birmingham, who tracked down my office phone number. I guess it was through my union details and he cleed me just minutes after the paper had hit the stands.

Dan wondered if I was interested in telling my story to a national paper. He seemed to think ,my being a Trade Unionist was an angle, as the Union movement is perceived to be the domain of gruff middle aged men (this is certainly not the case in my union). Anyhow, he left me his number and said sleep on it. Must admit I was not really keen to get into the national press. Of course,, if the Guardian, Observer or Independent wanted to do an in depth piece then I would jump at the chance, but to be honest they will not be interested in my small story. As for the rest, well the tabloids would only trot out a cliched exploitation piece and as for the Mail or Express. Well, a full time, Transgendered,, NHS Trade Unionist, is pretty much everything they stand against.

I can hear their readers now, hurrumphing, over their indignant letters.

So all in all I think talking to the national press would be about as bad a move I could make. To be honest I can't see that they would be interested in my story anyway. Its not really newsy.

Second up, was a lovely lady called Nicki, from my second favourite city Liverpool. She got in touch by emailing me from the link to my blog on the sentinel web page. She was really polite and said she was a freelance journalist who wrote for many of the women's magazines. Now a magazine feature would be more attractive for 3 reasons. 1 ) There may be more space to say something. 2) I would be able to have a little more control over the article 3) errr cash !! Another plus was that she was looking to write the article herself and we struck up a good rapport on the phone. She did seem genuinely interested in what I had to say

So not wanting to rule anything out or in, I let her waltz off and tout my synopsis around and about. She hasn't got back to me at the moment so I guess she drew a blank.

Third out of the blocks was a mysterious un addressed envelope on my doorstep the next day. Now an unmarked unsolicited hand delivered letter usually fills me with foreboding, but on opening it it was from a news agency based in Bristol. They must be keen, I thought because they had snooped my, address and then faxed the letter up here to be hand delivered. So I thought I ought to give them a call. I spoke to a bubbly feature writer called Lauren. She was very positive that she would get some offers. So again I didn't rule anything in or out.

Well over the next few days there was an snowballing or emails between this news agency and myself. Must admit, as time went on, I went cooler on the whole thing. It seemed any magazines, interested would be of the weekly type, that wouldn't give much space to say anything new. Secondly and more concerning, they seemed more and more interested in focusing on my marriage, which wasn't really the point. They were insistent on photos of my ex wife, and the old me. It became very clear that most of these magazines just wanted to roll out another "sex swap" marriage breakdown story from the wife's point of view. This really disappointed me.

Putting the story over this way, could be seen, not to respect me as a woman. The story becomes the woman, and her sex change husband. It becomes a cliche that marginalizes me, and in some way treats me as sub woman. Treats me as not like their readers. The reason I agreed to the local paper feature in the first place, was that it was for the women's section, and the odd tabloidy phrase aside, it respected and accepted me as a woman. The article that these magazines seemed to want, would almost do the opposite. I am not saying that they would deliberately set out to be unsupportive in their copy, but the laziness of not thinking beyond what has been written a thousand times before, and their obvious ignorance of the issues for transgendered women would result in something that may just reinforce prejudices.

So I have said that neither Caroline or myself would be interested in such an article. That left one offer still on the coffee table. Chat magazine were looking to do an article from my viewpoint, and to include my experience of transitioning at work. Of course it is to Chat's credit that they see the point of what I would say, but to be honest I'm not sure there would be enough space given over to do anything beyond what was in the local paper. I haven't ruled this out yet, but at the moment I'm as cold as tonight's air. Of course wodges of cash in a bulging brown envelope could always warm me up somewhat.

For all my protestations at media's inability to grasp a different message, I'm as shallow as Z-list wannabe in a paddling pool.

Pointless A to Z blog photo project thingy

2009-02-11T11:23:00.001Z

I've been lulled into participating in a thing by a young blogging marketing student ( but don't hold that against him), called Charlie.

The pointlessness is on that each day in February I have to snap something relating to that day's letter 1st=A, 2nd=B and so on and on and send them to him, along with the other feckless, time-wasting bloggers. There are actually some very good pics on there

Not sure what to do on 27th and 28th though.

I've managed it so far, but today is K and I'm struggling. My problem is that I have accidentally found a theme of pictures of commercial signeage or advertising. Don't know how this happened. Being anal, I amnow loathed to divert from this pointless and quite dull theme, even though my first 2 pics had no theme at all. Any suggestions for forthcoming days much appreciated. K is for .......

The first 2 A for lack of Ambition and B for Bottle Kiln were un stressful, un thematic! and very poor!

I do need (I really dont' need!) to revisit these.

C for Claptrap D for Discount Diver E for an Elephant with the Room

F for Faded Ferodo G for Gender Gap H for Happy Hoarder

I for Iggymonimy J for Just the Initials

I really do have better things to do right now. Just can't think of any of them right now.

Oh heck, Q, X and Z are still to come, and the letter W has always been the bane of my life!

Infamy, Infamy, They all got it in for me

2009-02-07T18:24:00.001Z

I've had a week in the spotlight. Actually spotlight is overstating it. More like table lamp with a 40 Watt bulb ! (not sure what the Ecco bulb equivalent is), that is not plugged in!

The article in the local paper (I think I might have mentioned it !!) has provided me with a strange and somewhat uneasy week. I know in the scheme of media things its a very small deal indeed, but the thought that 60,000 (thanks bro. for the circulation figures) people in my area have read such personal details left me feeling slightly uneasy. From a life point, where I went about my business mostly unnoticed and fairly relaxed, I have had a reoccurrence of those old neurosies from my first outings as Jen. For instance if someone reads me as being Trans, they may not say anything for fear of being mistaken. Now there is the chance that If I am recognised, they will know exactly the status of my transition. So from a position that any unwanted attention or comments were as unlikely as to be unconsidered, I now have my radar turned back on. Of course, these feelings may say as much about my inner imbed insecurities and the brittleness of my outward confidence, as anything else.

I have been recognised twice as a result of the article. I would love to say it was while in Harvey Nicks or some fashionable Nightspot, but it was all much less glamorous, but suitably Stokeish. The first time was at the Deli counter in Tescos. "Are you the lady out of the Sentinel", the assistant asked. I laughed it off self consciously, saying it was my better looking twin. "Well I thought it was a really nice article", she said. "Thanks" I replied " errrr 6 slices of Haslet* please".

The second time was even more mundane, and didn't involve any exotic meat products. While at the till in the local Co-oP I was buying un unflattering list of items. XXL Chiffon Tights, Tinned Mushrooms, and Mouthwash. The till lady remarked that she had seen me in the paper, and this time I my response was a bit more gracious, and I chatted to her for a few moments about being transgendered, which I guess was the whole point of the endeavour.

While trying to take this local notoriety in my nonchalant stride, and appearing not to be bothered, I have been regularly checking the Sentinel web page for comments. Vanity is as Vanity does.

There have only been 1 or 2 negative comments, although any abusive ones are swiftly removed. In some ways its a pity, because they say more about the author than they do anything else. One called me a freak, which could be seen as fair comment! Better a freak though than a narrow minded idiot. As Brian said in Life of Brian "We are all different".

I did have one comment that nearly brought a wonky tear to my wonky eye, especially the last sentence. If I ever come to regret what I did, I will try and think of Stewart's comment

______________________________________

Jenny - given the hostility you have undoubtedly endured throughout your life, you will probably be surprised to read this comment from me because I tick all the wrong boxes!
I am a pensioner (just!). I have served in Northern Ireland (quite late in my army career). I drink far too many pints than is good for my health on a nightly basis, have been in one or two scraps (I'm embarrassed to say) and play darts and bridge with my old mates at our favourite pub.
But I admire you Jenny, not only for having the courage to be yourself (why should anybody need courage to do that!?!), but for being so ruddy brave!
That somebody would wilfully adopt a way of life they know would attract such hostility in an unfair world like ours, not only demonstrates how trapped they must really have felt before, but indicates an amazing strength of character just to go through such a transition.
I wonder how many transgendered men - and women! - feel unable to do so, and how many will be helped by stories like this with such a positive role model as yourself?
You look great Jenny, and if you were one of my children, I would be proud to call you my daughter. Very proud indeed!

Stuart Edwards, Trentham

Report abuse

commented on 06-Feb-2009 13:06

______________________________________

I have tried not to let fame change me, although I do now have a few new demands:

All media requests must go through PR guru Max Clifford... or if not via a flyer in any reputable local kebab house.
I will now, not get out of bed for less than 4 double Sausage and Cheese Oatcakes**
No one should look me directly in the eye (either one!). I have borrowed this from Tom Cruise.
My dressing room needs to be painted completely and utterly black. As black as a Hotblack Desatio space ship***.

My rider will consist of :

2¼ kg of Smarties with exactly equal numbers of each colour, except yellow.
4 Double Cheese Oatcakes cut into dodecahedrons.
Spangles, Marathons, Minstrells and Opal Fruit or any other sweet names of my youth.
Hugh Jackman
Cake

* Haslet is a herb pork meatloaf from Lincolnshire, mmmmmmmm. **Oatcakes are the food of the gods, delicacy of North Staffs (not to be confused with inferior Derbyshire oatcakes, or those odd Scottish imposters). *** See Restaurant at the end of the universe, by Douglas Adams

The post title is of course from the epic Carry On Cleo

Tomorrow's Chip Wrapper

2009-02-03T21:41:00.001Z

Well today came and went. Just your average snowy day in Stoke....Except somehow I've found my mug plastered on the front on the local newspaper. ( I may have mentioned this about 50 times already)

I woke with trepidation and alarm, though the later was courteousy of my mobile phone. I new the feature on me was due to be published today and my short video interview was to be on the web site.

I entered the Coop supermarket with a forced casualness, and walked over to the newsstand. There on the front of the topmost copy of the paper is my mug alongside the masthead. with the tagline "I FEEL MORE NORMAL AS A WOMAN". It's a crap quote as I think normal is an absolute, but I did say it. On the scale of 1 to 100 in cringiness, buying a newspaper with you face on the front ranks at 97. I bought 2 copies and folded them front to back so as to hide my picture, forsake someone thought I was only buying them to read about myself. Which of course I was.

My reaction to the article so far has ranged through horror, annoyance, self satisfaction, nonchalance, pride, embarrassment, vanity, petulance, acceptance and hunger. Although the last one is due to skipping breakfast.

Everyone had been positive about it, but I feel frustrated that I didn't end up saying something more meaningful and I have been a bit picky about some of the finer points. One particular bugbear is the fact of my weight. Now I mentioned to the reporter that I had to lose a significant amount of weight to be referred for Gender Reassignment Surgery. I mentioned that I had been nearly 30 stone and had lost over 6 ½ so far. All that was said was that I was well over 20 stone and no mention of my weight loss. So great, the only reason I declared my weight to the populous of Stoke was to demonstrate my weight loss commitment. On top of that they knocked 2" off my height, so I am now to everyone squatter and fatter. Still it was never going to be my dating profile. To be fair to the reporter the article is well put together and is a positive take on the old story. It's interesting to note that the thing that seems to have bothered my parents most is the fact that I underplayed my 'O' levels! (It didn't even mention my 'ology). Anyway if you are bored enough to want a gander then you can read the whole shebang on The Sentinel's web site at here.

The video from the web site is another matter. I have never been filmed before, so had no real idea how I would come across. The filmer and editor Martin has performed miracles to make something vaguely intelligible from my machine gun waffle. I just wish I had done one or two things differently. My hair, My Makeup, My Outfit, My stupid big hands, My stupid big gazing out of the window, My stupid big waddle along the canal. and most of all my voice, which is a cross between George from Rainbow and Brian Blessed. Apart from these minor points , oh and the words I used too. Apart from all this my performance is a huge tour de force.

Checking the article online this evening (like I haven't checked it a thousand times already), I discovered that my bit had created some comment. Most of it was supportive though one comment caught my eye.

_______________________________

I think this is an absolute disgrace. Not only is this persons behavior kept in privicey of their own for walls but also is a union representative. this is just another factor why Britain is on a slippery slope down into oblivion.

m. davies, blythe bridge

Report abuse

commented on 03-Feb-2009 14:46

______________________________

I think m.davies is very insightful. My behaviour kept in privicey of my own for walls is a disgrace. I have been known to wash coloureds and whites together, leave the top off the toothpaste and once ate a whole packet of Cadburry's fingers in one go (actually more than once).

Still lets all enjoy the slide to oblivion together.....WWWWEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

His Girl Monday

2009-02-02T16:58:00.001Z

Today my one woman bid for world media domination continued. The esteemed organ that is the North Staffs Evening Sentinel had asked if I was prepared to do a short video interview to go with the feature that is in Tomorrows paper. Well, "in for a penny in for a pound" (or 322 pounds in my case), so braving the early morning mix of traffic and snow, I arrived promptly at the Stoke's own Wapping, their large HQ on Festival Park.

The videoer (clumsy word) soon arrived, a bustling young man called Martin, for now to be known as Martin "Spielburg". Equipment under arm, he escorted me to my fate in the Board Room. After a brief discussion, where I suggested my best angle was to be filmed from at least 200 yards, in the dark and behind a screen, he relaxed me down in a chair and trained his camera on me. He sat opposite and played the part of the interviewer. I tried to look at Martin "Parkinson" as I answered, but the camera kept drawing my gaze like a wannabe celeb to a paparazzi. I had been given an idea about what he was going to ask, and last night I had mentally prepared some hilarious anecdotes, pithy sound-bites, and searing insight. That all went straight out of the window and under pressure I bumbled and waffled at an unintelligibly fast speed. I do hope he has some good editing software.

After a few minutes the ordeal was over, or so I thought. Martin "Ford Coppola" wanted more, and asked to film me gazing out of the window, as if wistfully contemplating life. Apparently this was to paper over the edits, that were now obviously necessary. He then suggested we should do some establishing shots along the canal side, so we slip slided our way down to the tow path. Martin "Scorsese" (oooo that works !), directed me in an action packed stroll along a freezing Trent & Mersey canal. Well, I just about managed the task of putting one foot in front of the other without falling head over high heels, although his direction that I should naturally glance around me as I walk was met with me jerking my head around, like I was being buzzed by a bothersome bee. I did offer to do a sidesplitting slapstick fall into the canal, to earn us 250 quid on You've Been Framed, but he thankfully declined. I must add seriously, that Martin was lovely and made me feel really at ease, so thank you.

Finished up, I was disappointed at the lack of a wrap party for our opus, and was about to go when informed that The Sentinel's own Woodward of the NHS (or was it Bernstein), Dave, wanted a word and probably a quote from me about another "cheery" NHS story. So at that, I was led into the Heart of Darkness, the Belly of the Beast, the press room. It was a disappointingly calm and efficient place, more like you're everyday Insurance office. There was a distinct lack of editors ranting about deadlines, or sozzled hacks hunched over typewriters. Not even one measly shout of "Hold the Front Page". Before I departed I did disconcert everyone somewhat, by insisting on taking some pics for my blog, while pompously declaring that "we are all in the same business really".

I am genuinely dreading tomorrow's publication. Even if I could buy up every single copy of the paper it will be difficult stopping people seeing the video on their web site. What's done is done. Hmmm I wonder how much it will cost for a standby flight to Brazil

I have just realised that the image on the PC screen, is in fact the old me!!

Joanne Skywalker, but No Jen Kenobi

2009-01-31T17:46:00.001Z

Today I met my friend of five years Joanne for the first time. Joanne was a rare exception in a world where you can have 5000 Facebook "friends", in that our initial chat-room friendship became real.

Jo has just reached a pivotal time in her life. Over Christmas she came out as Transgendered to her wife, family and friends. Touch wood, it seems to have gone really well for her, and I am proud and impressed by how she has handled it. Well, today was our first chance to meet, so up with the earliest of larks I headed north into a Shepherd's Warning sky to the Meadowhall shopping centre in Sheffield.

I think we were both a bit nervous about meeting. Nervous because unlike meeting some blind internet date for the first time our friendship is actually important to me, and there is always the danger that my oft misjudged jollity and unavoidable dizziness can grate after, oooooh as long as 5 minutes.

We spent a lovely 3 hours wandering fairly aimlessly around the centre, nattering away, only interrupted by my sudden diversions to impulse buy the Secondary Phase of H2G2 on CD, and other such essentials .

As a veteran Jedi of Transition, I intended (probably arrogantly) to dispense occasional words of wisdom to my young Padawan. To be honest though, I was no Obi Wan to her Luke. Jo looked fabulous with flawless makeup a naturally female presence and a figure to envy, compared to my usual shambling appearance. She is a natural with little to learn from me. It was hard to believe that this was still one of her first daylight outings.

My waterloo came with a visit to the ladies loo (see what I did there!). I strode in with the nonchalance of familiarity, and Jo swiftly followed. When I was done, I waited by the sinks wrongly believing she would be a bit nervous. As I stood there I realised I had left a bag of shopping in my cubicle. The problem was that I couldn't recall exactly which cubicle I had used and they were by now all occupied. As Jo passed me on her way out I mouthed "I've left my stuff in a cubicle". Mind you it could just as easily been lip read as "I've lost my snuff on a barnacle", but I think she got the point. I managed to narrow down the possibilities to 4 loos. So for the next 5 minutes I had to linger outside each candidate until each occupier de-occupied, whence I would dive in to search for my precious Douglas Adams CDs. Of course, it had to be my very last choice that was successful. By the time I had recovered the bag my strange lurkings had garnered a small crowd of sniggering teenagers. Way to go Jen in a demonstration in how not to be read !!

Hugs and final photographic evidence over, we went our ways north and south, the force going with us.

"These are not the droids you are looking for"

Pressing the Press

2009-01-30T11:42:00.001Z

My assualt on the world of celebrity. First the Staffordshire Evening Sentinel, next the World ! (or perhaps The Cheadle & Tean Times!)

I was going to entitle this post "Papping the Papps", but I should avoid derogatory epithets. People in glass houses and all that!

I did my bit for the local newspaper on Wednesday.

First up was a charming and inquisitive young photographer called Alex. After going through my various photographic neurosies. He assured me that I would be fine, mainly that he would take so many pics that we would be sure to find some decent ones. Well, we shall see. Taking me outside he found a spot and had me trying all manner of poses, mainly leaning on one arm or leaning on the other arm. He even had me in action mode walking towards the camera. It is amazingly difficult to walk like a human being on instruction, and I ended up with an over wiggling pastiche of a woman's walk. He seemed happy though. He was less happy when I asked if I could photograph him for my blog citing his needing a hair cut. And I thought I was a diva!

The second wave of the assault was an affable hirsute journalist called Allan. I was arrogant in thinking that with my blogging media savvy, I would control the interview to put across my finely honed message. However, his relaxed style and kindly inquisitorial skills soon had me totally off guard and off message, but I'm sure on a more interesting story. I ended up so relaxed, that immediately after the interview I could not recall what I said. For all I knew I espoused the deportation of trans people back to Transylvania, or The Transvaal. So after a restless night's tossing and worrying, a follow up call to the journalist has reassured me that I didn't make a total Gerald Ratner style screw up!

I'm now looking forward...ish...ly to the Tuesday print day. I just hope that I had something different to say other than the usual cliché of boy wants to be girl, boy hides being a girl, boy meets girl, boy marries girl, girl divorces boy, boy becomes girl

An Audience with the Fourth Estate

2009-01-27T17:26:00.001Z

I've had a flattering but scary offer from the local rag, the Evening Sentinel, to have a feature on me in their woman's pages the wittily titled Sentinelle.

Against all my natural inclinations to decline such an offer I have accepted, and tomorrow afternoon I am going to meet with a feature writer called Alan and an as yet unnamed photographer I just hope it turns out to be (insert famous photographer that is not dead).

There are 3 things that are filling me with dread.

Firstly, I am really keen for this to be a positive article and not one of the usual victimised stories of a man trapped in a woman's body. It's a difficult balance to convey the fact that there are so many positives to being Transgendered and to Transitioning while stressing that this is an important issues worthy of NHS funding etcetera. I always worry that If I don't say I was suicidal at having to live as a man, then it is countered with the opinion that spending scarce NHS resources is not necessary. I can only tell my story, and as I've said before that if I couldn't have transitioned, then I would have survived as a man, albeit I would have been a much less rounded and settled human being (and probably a bit smellier!!). The point is, that I don't have to survive anymore, and now I can live. So I am trying to gather my thoughts about what I want to say, and I only hope I just don't end up gabbling and waffling incoherent psychobabble!!

Secondly, duh duh durrrrrh the photograph. Well I am terrified about this as I am about as photogenic as a very ugly thing, standing on landfill... in a bad hat. Of course, my biggest worry is my now oft posted about, wonky right eye. Anytime I look directly at a camera, my right eye decides to wander off towards my nose with utter disinterest in the camera. Hence my failed attempts yesterday, to hurriedly get an optician to fix the problem. So, I am now reliant on some creative genius from the photographer, or at least some expensive photoshoppery.

Thirdly, my outfit. If I am to be plastered across the centre pages of a middling local newspaper then my outfit has to be just right. I'm looking for something that portrays a professional image, with cheeky undertones. Something that is bang up with fashion but is timelessly classic. I want to look mature but youthful; playful but stable; sensual and sensitive; with just a hint of drop dead sexy..... think a black jumper and black trousers will do!!

Fourthly, and most of all, I am really going to have to bite the bullet and pluck my eyebrows.

A Deeper Shade of the Blues

2009-01-25T19:15:00.001Z

One of the 5 points to this blog is to coaless my thoughts, with a view to a better level of self awareness (or disappearing up my own backside, you decide!). There is one thing that still plays on my mind, and at times gets me down, even 4 years post transition, and that is whether I will ever truly, really, deeply perceived and understood to be a woman. Of course, everybody tries to say the right thing, and most of the time they succeed, but the very fact they have to try shows that they struggle with the concept of a changed gender. When this is coupled with visual and audible cues that give those telltale indications that I was once male, then it is understandable.

I remember an episode with one of my psychiatrists (and I've have had a few in this process). Now he is a wonderful man, really supportive and with a deep knowledge of Gender Disphoria. Well, I had seen him a couple of times and in one session I related a story of being in my GPs waiting room when they flashed my old name up when my turn had come, and this had upset me. Now, I had met my psychiatrist well before my change, through the odd work meeting. From that momentary reminder of my old name, he has twice used it by mistake in consultations. He was very, very, apologetic when I pointed it out, but it just shows how once the synapses in your mind have made a connection that someone is a particular gender then it is really hard to shift those connections. Even I have struggled to call my cat she once I realised I'd been calling her, he by mistake (or is it; he, her by mistake? see it's tricky!). This ability to override the mind's gender perception is no measure of intelligence, nor is it possible to predict who will cope best. It's just one of those things.

It's not just use of language that friends, colleagues and acquaintances have to overcome. Body language and social niceties are small hurdles to. For instance long standing male colleagues always pause before holding a door open and then accompany it with a nervous half laughed remark. I too have struggle to ignore 30+ years of male conditioning. If another woman and myself enter a building, I still have an inner urge to defer to my companion, and hold the door open for her. Now, of course this is only me being polite, but it is also due to those synapses that have been trained that I should hold a door for a woman. Admitting this may leave me open to the criticism, that I do not truly feel a woman inside, but I counter that I have undergone half a lifetime of masculine brainwashing. I do still want to hold doors open for people, but as an equal not through an innate outdated gender orthodoxy ( my gawd, that sounds pretentious even by the standards of this blog!! but I hope you know what I'm getting at).

Another social nicety that becomes a hurdle in my mind is the affectionate kiss goodbye or hello from a male colleague. I know that some male colleagues who knew me before I modernised my gender, struggle with this aspect, although they may not admit it. They will quite happily peck goodbye on the cheek to the other women in any social situation, but you can see the hesitation (almost fear) in their eyes when it comes to me. After all, for some heterosexual males, the conflict that my appearance gives, against their historical knowledge of me is challenging. I stress some, because I by no means wish to over generalise. It has got to the stage that sometimes when leaving such situations, I will manoeuvre myself nearer the door to leave first, so not as to put anyone in the situation where after kissing goodbye to other women, they are faced with the decision to either treat me differently or do something they feel uncomfortable with.

So what level of improved self awareness am I left with. Well not much really, but reading back, it could be levelled at me, that some of these issues are more in my mind than in other people's. That the whole thing is almost self fulfilling, and that my own social awkwardness is the real obstacle.

Or... Do I just have to find an inner peace in the acceptance that although I may never be as fully and deeply perceived and understood as I wish, I am still lucky to have had the opportunity to become a woman, to be a woman and in all important matters, to be treated as a woman. If I had been born at another time, or in another place, this is a gift, I may never have had.

On that note, in the words of the barely missed Steps : "Into each life some rain must fall, I didn't know I would catch it all".... or something.

POST SCRIPT

Just to demonstrate how difficult it is for some people to turn around the supertanker that is their mind.

I've just been trying to arrange an appointment with an optician to fix my wonky eye. I ended up talking to a call centre. Naturally, hearing my voice he referred to me as mister. I gave him my name, and corrected him that it was actually Miss. He initially then called me Miss, then in the next breath Sir and by the end of the conversation to my exasperated laugher on the other end of the line, said "Thank you Mr Harvey".

pic thanks to

Mr Smith goes to London

2009-01-25T17:16:00.001Z

A bit of free time in London last week left me wandering aimlishly ( = not quite aimless, as I was going in the general direction of my hotel) north. Its quite liberating strolling though the city not intending to hit any tourist attractions. I started in Piccadilly Circus and as I passed through Leicester Square, with the appropriate goodbye and hello, I overheard someone saying Will Smith was coming to town. Can't think what gave them that idea. For you Hitchikers Guide geeks this must be the antidote to the Total Perspective Vortex

Getting it wrong '09

2009-01-22T20:55:00.001Z

....Or, Pride Comes Before a Fall.

....Or, Skirting the Issue,

What's black and white and read all over?

Answer: Jenny in a bad choice of outfit (except my top was rust coloured and not white but you know what I'm getting at.)

Now that I've lost a bit of weight, I can squeeze into clothes that were previously deemed undonable. So Monday, feeling rather good about myself, I opted to wear a particular skirt that had been previously out of reach. I think it used to be one of my ex wife's, else I bought it as an impulse some time ago, because for a couple of years it resided in a pile marked one day maybe. Well today was the one day. So with a self satisfied spring in my boot step, I left for work.
It didn't last. A colleague while genuinely trying to be helpful, commentated that the skirt didn't help portray the right female image. I decided not to inform him strongly, that I wasn't trying to portray a female image, because I am female. I just wasn't up for an argument. My point would have been that he wouldn't have been said this to any other woman. I know I should challenge misguided comments but sometimes I'm just too weary, and he is a friend as well as a colleague. I must be in a sensitive mode because this played on my mind all day.
Well putting that aside, on my way home I stopped off at Tesco's for some emergency rations (cheese) and some . Striding out of the store I spied a phalanx of teenage girls. My old Spidey Senses tingled, that I was about to be read. I hadn't had to call on this peculiar sixth sense for some time now, as I generally walk the planet as a work-a-day woman with little thought to my past gender, and despite my physical disadvantages don't seem to turn heads. However the old nerves came back and... Lo, it came to pass, that I came to not pass. I strolled past the girls to a chorus of sniggers, with the muttered low notes of "It's a man", while I totally failed to look nonchalant and unaffected.

As I said, it's a good while since I really had a problem with the being read/passing thing. I point my finger of blame squarely at the skirt. Actually it's not the skirt's fault. Sometimes a piece of clothing and me just doesn't gel. I got carried away and forgot the fourth rule of post transition living. Just because something feels good it doesn't mean it looks good. The whole trick to not being outed when you are 6 foot 2 and 20+ stone, is not to draw the second glance, and on that damp, dank, cold January evening I just got it wrong, and as a post transition woman getting it wrong is not an option.

The thought for today is : Complacency is the mother of humiliation.

He was not a number, he was a free man

2009-01-16T17:00:00.001Z

Sad to hear of the passing of Patrick McGoohan, of The Prisoner fame the other day.

Back in the day I got obsessed in reruns of this slice of 60's spy surrealism. You can see the legacy of The Prisoner even now in shows such as LOST, which revel in confusing the viewer. Even The Simpsons have paid homage.

The bit everyone remembers was the strange security method that kept the prisoner, well a prisoner. It basically consisted of a huge pink weather balloon that bobbed after any escapee to strains of a weird sixties sound effect. However odd, it was always effective in rendering its victim unconscious. I'm surprised it never caught on as a measure. It's probably cheaper than CCT and requires less tending than a guard dog.

I particularly loved the opening titles and the theme tune has pride of place on my iPod

Where am I?
In the Village.
What do you want?
We want information.
Whose side are you on?
That would be telling. We want information... information... information.
You won't get it.
By hook or by crook, we will.
Who are you?
The new Number 2.
Who is Number 1?
You are Number 6.
I am not a number, I am a free man

Hotel Hobbit

2009-01-13T21:44:00.001Z

Hotel hobbies padding dawns hollow corridors
Bell boys checking out the hookers in the bar
Slug-like fingers trace the star-spangled clouds of cocaine on the mirror
The short straw took its bow

The tell tale tocking of the last cigarette
Marking time in the packet as the whisky sweat
Lies like discarded armour on an unmade bed
And a familiar craving is crawling in his head

And the only sign of life is the ticking of the pen
Introducing characters to memories like old friends
Frantic as a cardiograph scratching out the lines
A fever of confession a catalogue of crime in happy hour
Do you cry in happy hour, do you hide in happy hour,
The pilgrimage to happy hour

New shadows tugging at the corner of his eye
Jostling for attention as the sunlight flares
Through a curtains tear, shuffling it's beams
As if in nervous anticipation of another day

Hotel Hobbies by Derek W Dick (Fish)

I'm not quite the tortured writer Torch, of Marillions Clutching At Straws, but I am sitting in a soulless, chain hotel in London trying to find some blogging inspiration. Instead of cocaine I have scotch eggs and my whisky sweat is more likely caused by chocolate milk, but hey we all have our own drugs. Speaking of my particular chosen drugs, I haven't been able to kick my unnecessary gadget buying habit. Yesterday I totally convinced myself I needed a new more whizzy digital camera. So I popped over to my dealer, and queued up with all the other junkies, crumpled Argos order form in one hand, a roll of cash in the other. I've pretty much exhausted this catalogue now, so I will be glad when they "Re-Up" in a few days time.

I'm down here for a two day unison seminar on pay strategy. Must admit the my first thoughts were that discussing pay claims in this recession is akin to discussing umbrella sales figures in the Sahara, but we have to look at the long game. There is a worry that whichever flavour of government comes next may hammer public sector pay as a blunt tool to curry favour with the Daily Mail et al.

Jenny and the angry inch

Mind you I may struggle to concentrate on the issue as I am currently suffering from PTHD, Post Traumatic Hairdo Disorder. I visited my hairdresser on Saturday and with an inches worth of foolish bravado I told her to take a bit more off than usual. Well I now remember why I have always favoured such a long and thick fringe, both avec and sans wig, and that is to hide my neo Neanderthal forehead. In particular the two lumpy protrusions either side which are like a poor version of Hell Boys horn stumps! To add to the horror I have died my hair black again so my shortened bob style is helmety (this should be a word) and uncannily like Edna from the Incredibles. Well apparently my hair will grow back to normal eventually. Now where did I chuck that old wig!!

Why Hotel Hobbit ? Well I've be trailing round most of Camden with my suitcase and when I got in the bath my feet had a certain Hobbity quality. That, and I adore a bit arbitrary alliteration !

Clearing The Decks

2009-01-10T11:28:00.001Z

After 2 weeks seasonal festivities it has been good to get back to the routine of work., and lets face it in the current climate a job is a precious thing indeed.

My holiday period consisted of the following, in chronological order :

Papal bigotry, Miserable flu, Surprise Prezzies, Sibling Bonding, Diet busting excess, Woolies Pillaging, Disappointing Sales, Car Re-glazing, Failed Resolutions and finally too many Lazy lie ins.

All in all I end up starting the new year in about as good a mood as an City Banker, who invested in Woolworths and bet on a white Christmas who's trying to sell his house to pay his debts.

I think in consideration the conflagration of Christmas and New Year prolongs the agony. I think separating these two days would have distinct advantages. As New Year is pretty well set then it should be Christmas that shifts. Now can we really be sure that Christ was born on 25th December. After all Easter seems to veer about randomly each year, and lets face it how reliable were Bethlehem's Registrars at record keeping. So how about moving Christmas day to mid July, we could even go for 25th. This would mean that New Year would be distinct with its own identity, instead of a Christmas afterthought. We would then have a nice summer Christmas to look forward to. No longer would we have the disappointment from the expectation of a white Christmas. Carol Singer would serenade with calypso songs. The last minute, late night present shopping would take place in a pleasant midsummer evening instead of a freezing dark winter's night. Kid's would be able to play outside with their new bikes, skateboards,,, knives, or whatever it is they get now.

Just think of the day. Early morning sunrise, followed by a continental breakfast, opening presents on the patio to the strains of Summer Nights on the stereo. Instead of a bloated overcomplicated dinner, we could have quiche, salad, jelly and Pimms. The Queen's speech could be delivered from Buck House gardens with her crown replaced by floppy sun hat and shades. After lunch, Instead of Julie in The Sound of Music, we could watch Cliff's Summer Holiday...(OK I think that's enough now!!)

Anyway I needed a bit of a kick start to '09, so I joined Vix in a spot of Spartacus walking along a frosty trail from Oakamoor along the Churnet valley towards Alton (of Alton Towers fame.)

As I strode (ambled) along, I snapped away and the thought that I needed a better whizzier camera started to infiltrate my brain. I know when this happens I end up obsessing until I've spent ill affordable cash on a new gadget. This got me thinking. I decided that there was no real point in my making any New Years Resolutions as I am about as likely to stick to them as Dougal could give up sugar-lumps (although in the seminal Dougal And The Blue Cat he did manage to resist a room stuffed full of sugar), but what I do need is to find a new drug of choice. I am a woman of few vices, almost a Goody Two Shoes. W As Adam Ant put it " You don't drink, don't Smoke. What do you do?" Well I do have my own personal drugs of choice in shopping and food. When I'm down, or even when I'm up, I know these two things will give me the brief high of instant gratification. Now I'm committed to dieting that just leave buying stuff. Now this could be clothes, DVD box sets or my current fix, gadgets. I evidence my totally gratuitous purchase of an iPod Touch when I was supposed to be buying Christmas presents. Both these drugs come with consequences either on my waistline of dwindling bank balance. Therefore I have decided to seek out a new drug of choice. One that is cheap, slimming, legal and works instantly with a slow gradual come down. Any suggestions would be appreciated.

Footnote : For how long are we expected to wish everyone Happy New Year ? There should be an official cut off. I suggest 21st January...even better the 1st January !

2009....not as good as 2008

2009-01-02T18:07:00.001Z

2009 has got off to a poor start.

I awoke to a knocking at the door. Now as a rule I avoid answering the door if I'm not expecting anyone. From experience it will be

A. Could be a debt collector trying to squeeze money from an age old marital debt.

B. A purveyor of windows/gas/electric/Tupperware.

C. Pedlar of some sort of religious dogma

D. Neo-fascist BNP councillor masquerading as respectable local politician.

and it is unlikely to be

E. a Pools/Lottery/win

F. Free cake

G. Hugh Jackman

H. Hugh Jackman with free cake

Anyway I figure on balance there is usually nothing to be gained from unsolicited knockers. This time however the knock had a particular persistency, so against my better judgement and wrapping myself tightly in my dressing gown, I opened the door a cracks worth and peeked out. It was a couple of neighbours with the news that persons unknown had smashed my car's rear window. Joy of joys, what a start to '09. The perpetuators did not appear to have stolen anything from inside, although I can't imagine they would have been interested in Unison literature or my dodgy taste in CDs. As my neighbours peered in I remarked "look they have made a mess and there have left empty take away cartons and Pepsi Max cans in the footwell. I'm not sure they were fooled as my car usually appears like a skip on wheels.

Through a combination of the internet, frustrated phone calls and stifled shouting, I managed to secure a spot at the local Autoglass who would be able to fit a new window by Saturday afternoon. They said if I dropped my car off they would lock it up till then. I set about covering the gaping hole for the trip to the garage. I managed to use about a dozen bin liners and a roll of neighbour donated gaffer tape and by the end it looked ok for the journey. This lasted exactly 250 yards before the whole mess was flapping away like a huge torn mainsail. I made the rest of the way at a crawling 20 mph for fear of blinding any motorists with a mix of black plastic, shattered window and Unison application forms. I got some puzzled looks from the windscreen man, as through my usual inability to sort these things out, my car insurance is still in my old male name (yes I know I am hopeless!!), so I found myself making the Trans explanation that I haven't had to do for 3 years.

So 2009 has not got off to a good start

Crime is up

Temperature is down.

Waistline is expanding due to comfort eating

Car is significantly more airy.

Main household expenditure is now bin bags, glass and comfort cake

Still, on the plus side:

Car air conditioning now unnecessary.

Now have parking space in front of house.

Oh, and Stoke City are unbeaten this year (valid until Sat 3rd January)

A Blogging New Year

2008-12-31T12:42:00.001Z

Happy New Year, one and all.

Well, 2008 is nearly over. Apparently though, the year is not as nearly over as it was this time last year. Some scientist bods have decided we need an extra second this year. Oh,why do they want to prolong the agony?

This has been my first year as a blogger. I'm always just behind the zeitgeist and paddling desperately to catch up. In syncro with my anniversary in the blogosphere I have just noticed my hit counter tripping over to 10,000. It sounds impressive, but I expect 4,000 are my own hits, 4,000 are from my brother and the rest only landed from a misspelt Google search.

What should a blogger do at the turning of a year? I suppose, indulge in the same kind of mawkish introspection that usually accompanies Big Ben's bongs. So how am I placed a year on, surely the point of life is to progress, to experience, to learn and to improve. Well I'm not sure the rudderless pedalo that is my life, has made much progress into the blue. For December 31st 2008 see December 31st 2009. OK I am a little lighter, a tiny bit better off (ie I owe a bit less) but in all important aspects I feel the same. I am still single and see no other pedalos on the horizon. I still have about the same sometimes grudging acceptance from the world towards my new gender direction. I still get called "he" and "him" at times, and I still let it get to me. I still get those occasional pangs of panic that my radical, life swerve has been an act of ill thought folly. In my career I still have a lack of drive confidence, waiting for the required quantum of encouragement and reassurance before I take any step forward.

This is all quite pathetic and self serving and hopefully now out of my system, well at least till next new year. My blessings are many, and my life as a woman is a precious commodity to be cherished..... so enough already.

I've actually had a good Christmas, and spent some quality time with the force of nature that is my brother Billy. I saw my ex wife Caroline and was heartened to see how well, she is doing. If ever there were two people that loved each other, but needed to be apart it was the two of us. I've had some fab prezzies, in particular from Vicky, who has bought us tickets to see Anton and Erin (offa Strictly) up close. Not only that but the day after, we are to attend a dance workshop with them. I really need to step up my diet for two reasons. 1 to wear a fabulous dress for the evening and 2 to minimise any permanent damage from a misplaced high heel. I can see the headline "TV Dancer's career ended by waltzing elephant!"

As for blogging, well its been the most positive thing I've done all year. I feel I've made blogging friends, deeper that any passing Facebook buddy. I've gained access to some of the most witty, well informed and moving writing on the net. I've discovered a love of writing, however ham fisted, and there is barely an event goes by, that I dont think "how can I post about that?". My laptop is now filled with unpublished drafts in varying states of abandonment, mostly unreadable drivel (ok so most of the published are like that too). I also now have a pictures folder stuffed with snaps of the banal and pointless, that at some time I thought I would attach to a post. However just like being T* is in my blood, I am now firmly a blogger and can't imagine I will ever stop, even when the only readers are internet viruses.

So anyway, as the sands of time dribble through and my 10,001 hit bounces straight off my blog, what am I going to do with this extra second ?

See you next year.

Papal Hatred

2008-12-23T06:57:00.001Z

I am so angry I am going to use a bigger font. I would actually like a font, big enough to dunk the pope in!

Save yourselves. Apparently I am more of a threat to mankind than global warming.

I awoke full of pre Christmas cheer, to be greeted by Radio Five Live, announcing that this Pope feels that humanity needs saving from homosexual or transsexual behaviour (BBC website phrase). I've an idea what homosexual behaviour is, I have read the pamphlets. To be honest though, I'm not exactly sure what transsexual behaviour is, maybe its excessive blogging!

As a radical agnostic / fundamental atheist, the Pope has at least given me another reason that organised religion is something to be generally ignored (not really following my own advice by writing this post at 6am!). Saying that I am listed somewhere as CoE and I do like a good church wedding or carol concert. It always seems to me that the Church of England aren't actually that fussed if you believe in god or not.

Anyway back to this odious, offensive, detestable, execrable (that's all my pocket thesaurus contained) statement.

How is this not to be seen as inciting hatred against a persons sexuality or gender identity. It's fine by me for the catholic or any other church to exclude me from their gang, but this goes so far beyond that.

Hatred is Hatred is Hatred.

Think I will spend the morning watching Father Ted DVDs, while keeping an eye out for albino monk assassins

By the way, is there a prize for the first trans blogger to post about this? I expect there will be a flourish

Cake or Death....or Salad

2008-12-19T01:08:00.001Z

I passed a milestone in my battle to shift enough weight to have that certain particular operation, without flirting with premature death.

The milestone passed, is the six stone mark so I am now over 80lbs less fat than when I began a year and a bit ago, and its just about my half way mark. I would have made a good deal more had I stuck with my diet club after last Christmas instead of arrogantly thinking I could go it alone, armed only with a vague plan to cut out Carbs and a moderately priced et of bathroom scales.

The sum result of solo dieting was that in 8 months of going solo I managed to put on 4 lbs. Well now I’m back on my slimming club wagon and I’m now losing steadily. I'm not sure what it is that works for me, but I guess its the discipline of being weighed in front of a bunch of strangers.

The club I attend is Slimming World, and our session is run by a lovely, enthusiastic and supportive lady, about as far from Marorie Dawes as you could get. It has a diet based on choosing a Red Day or Green Day. On Red Days eat proteins and minimise carbohydrates. The Green Day is about eating loads of pasta, rice and beans, while listening to a sub punk American rock band. As a good solid Trade Unionist, "This week I shall be mostly eating Red Days."

My Seven Step Guide to diet clubbing.

Pre joining routine. Bulk up before your first visit. These extra gained pounds are effectively free and just mean you can lose more on your second visit. Good foods for this are cake, cheese, cheesecake and cakecheese!
First weigh in. Maximise your initial start weight (see above). Heavy jeans, layered knitted tops and heavy chunky bling jewellery is a must. Vital extra mass can be gained by filling your pockets with change and perhaps standing out in a rainstorm for that heavy wet clothes bonus.
Second week weigh in. You obviously want to get off to the best start possible so you are looking to reverse step one. Good food for first week weight loss is Toothpaste, and celery (not together)> Apparently celery uses up more calories in chewing than is gained from consuming.
Following weeks. After your hopefully initial good start you are bound to suffer the odd difficult, cake filled week. Therefore it is important to do the opposite of stage 2. Light clothing is a must so even in the depths of winter, flimsy short skirts and strappy tops work well. Under no circumstances bother with tights. Depending how liberal your community is consider partial nudity. Removing nail varnish also loses vital micrograms.
Getting tougher. If you find stage 4 unfruitful move on to Defcon 5. Consider every aspect of your body for excess baggage. A good short hair cut, full body wax, clean under nails and remove all belly button fluff or earwax. Teeth removal may be a little excessive but it will help curb that appetite.
Desperation. Stage 6 is very complicated, largely impossible and involves a learning a form of levitation and manipulating Newton's 2nd law of motion while weighing yourself in a moving elevator
Doomed If you are still not losing weight I have heard of people who claim to live on sunlight. It does need noting, that these people are usually completely mad or completely dead.

Fatter Friends & Shiny Things

2008-12-14T13:29:00.001Z

Stoke and the North Staffs area is officially and academically the friendliest place in the UK. According to the University of Sheffield research, just 22.4 per cent of the city's 240,000 population feel uninvolved in their community – compared with 33.1 per cent in Edinburgh, the loneliest place. The study, called Changing Britain, also took into account the number of non-married adults in an area and the of one-person households. This is despite the invidious and divisive presence of the BNP

BBC video clip Local newspaper article

Hey, its glad that we have come top in something. The last time Stoked topped was not something we would put on the posters.

BBC Article

Being the fattest and friendliest city, must make Stoke the best place to have girl pals. Every girl knows its good to have a friend fatter than yourself to boost your own relative image and to stand next to in photographs. As Stoke's officially chunkiest Transwoman (though I'm shrinking by the week) I am struggling to find someone to fill this role. All my friends are irritatingly more svelte than myself. Failing my plan A of actually losing the weight myself, I plan to secretly fatten them up by spiking their food with lard, and by leaving strategically place cakes around their homes.

Finally finished my Christmas shopping yesterday. I went into Hanley, which confusingly is the city centre of Stoke. The pic on the left is of the spikey mascot that is above what was once Lewis's Department Store. It was surprising how quiet the shops were just two Saturdays before Christmas, and it was noticeable how many shops had closed down.

Earlier in the week I payed a visit to the doomed Woolworth's, closing down sale, . People were queuing for bargains but it felt more like asset stripping. There was a melancholic air and no joy was to be had, as I think everyone realised the significance of such a high street stalwart's possible demise. This said, I had stopped any serious shopping in Woolies some time ago and some of our local branches appear not to have been refurbished since the mid 70s. It will be smaller towns that are most affected if it does close down. Whenever I'm in some small backwater rural town, there will be a branch on the high street where other national chains are absent. Even in our cities, where else will we be able to impulse buy Pick-and-Mix, fabric dye or kitchen gadgetry, among all the shiny, glossy, branded, designer boutiques that dominate our shopping centres.

I managed to complete my Christmas shopping despite myself. My first assault a couple of weeks ago resulted in the only item bought being an ipod Touch for my self. Like a childlike magpie I am so easily distracted by shiny things. Once I had started obsessing about buying one the compulsion was all encompassing and the only relief would be to dig deep and buy one. In some ways this compulsive behaviour mimics my dressing habits of a closeted youth. The instant gratification of shopping works really well. Perhaps it would be cheaper if I developed a Crack habit instead. I have totally fallen in love with my sleek glistening new toy, and most evening find me trawling iTunes to feed it. Actually its more like nesting than feeding. I am filling it with all manner of different music, video and applications. In addition to the normal ipod collection of far more music than I will ever listen to, I have a couple of Wallace and Grommet videos and a number of albums of stand up from lefty socialist Comedians and an unnecessarily large number of downloaded applications. amongst the eclectic collection I have amassed so far are : The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Simulated Koi Carp pond, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, a Dictionary, Drum Kit and Piano emulators, a simulated pint of lager! (I don't even drink) and a strange Brian Eno designed musak/graphic effect thingy. Oh and of course a few variations on a Tetris theme.

During my last iTunes browsing session, my eye was taken (the left eye for accuracy) by a Star Trek Tricorder emulater (I really am that tragically geeky). The disclaimer on the web site finally proves Darwin to be wrong, in that as a species we are clearly de evolving at some rate.

DISCLAIMER

TR- 580 is a software that mimics a fictional device.

There is no real functionality behind this software.

Do not attempt to operate the software while driving or operating heavy machinery.

Do not attempt to use your iphone or itouch as a medical device.

...and I had really hoped to use it as an emergency defibrilator! There may come a time that we will need to be told to breathe in and breathe out.... I decided not to buy the App

Happenstancing

2008-12-08T16:37:00.001Z

This week has been noticeable for 2 coincidences.

First up was Wednesday afternoon. I received a text from Caz saying that the divorce papers were ready to be signed. A bitter sweet piece of news. It would be good to finally get it sorted as its been hanging around for nearly a year, but it triggered off the old feelings of sadness and regret. While musing over my impending divorcee status I had a call from Vicky. The Meakins Cricket Club quiz was off tonight due to some illness or something to this weeks setter. Vicky then came up with an alternative, "Should we go to the Master Potter quiz instead". I was unsure, due to lethargy and my divorce influenced mood. However the more I thought about it, the more it felt just right. We haven't been to the Potter quiz for 13 years or so, and the suggestion had been out of the blue. The point being was that this was the place and time that I was first connected with Caz. All those years ago Vicky had set me up with Caz, after they had both been to the quiz, and she thought we would get on well, which we obviously did. So through the Potter quiz I met my future wife and on the same day as my return to the scene my divorce finally felt complete. If you like I will call it The Circle Of Wife.

I have never really talked much about my married years on her. All I can say is that they were some of the happiest days of my life (the weeks were miserable though. Boom boom). These were times I felt like I had a purpose, a place in the scheme of things. I never relished being a man, but I loved being a married man, if that makes sense. Although I now realise that I would feel more complete in a relationship with the right man, I cherished the companionship I had with Caz. I was completely signed up to my vows with her and the responsibilities that went along with them. It is these aspects that made me so melancholic last Wednesday afternoon, at the thought of my impending decree absolute.

If it wasn't for this quiz then my life would have taken who knows what path? It set of chain of my last decade or so that has ended up here, perched on my bed, blogging about being Jen. Difficult as it is to admit, if I hadn't met and married Caz I would probably not now be living as Jen. It was only when the marriage was disintegrating that I started to find solace in my inner woman. It was her that outed me to my parents by accident, where I may never have found the courage. It was Caz that gave me the confidence to step out in the daylight and accompanied me on my first tentative steps, when I was scared beyond belief. Without her I am fairly sure that I would have kept my real persona buried deep. I am and always will be grateful to her.

Now for the other second chance event. On Thurs we had a meeting at Port Vale FC with one of our local MPs, Joan Walley. Joan is a solid Labour MP and a good supporter of the Trades Unions. She arranged this meeting of local Trade Unionists so she could listen to our various concerns. Apart from Joan and her aide there were ten of us seated in a circle as if in some Socialists Anonymous support group. Apart from the branch sec of the Stoke Unison branch I didn't know anyone else, or so I thought. One man seated 2 down from us announced himself as from a teaching union. The name rang a school bell. The face then seemed familiar. I dawned on me that this was my uncle who I hadn't seen for probably 15 or 20 years. For the rest of my meeting I kept glancing at him for signs that he knew who I was, but got no clues. The meeting over I had to say something to him. I wish there was some appropriate etiquette for introducing yourself to a long lost relative who has not met you since you changed gender. All I could think to say was "Good to meet you again, I guess I've changed a bit since last time". My opening was met with blank bemusement. I followed up by asking after my auntie by her first name. If ever the phrase "The Penny Dropped" needs demonstrating, then this was perfect example. We exchanged a few minutes worth of awkward pleasantries before making our separate ways. My abiding memory of my uncle is, once round at their house, he gave my dad a bottle of CND wine which subsequently and with great irony exploded.

Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action" - Auric Goldfinger. I had better watch out. I prefer "Once, Twice, Three times a lady"

My Top five family based Coincidences

5 Titling my blog Crossing the Floor without recalling that my Dad's cousin was deputy speaker of the House of Commons

4 My childhood best friend Andrew turning out to be my 2nd cousin once removed

3 Learning recently that one of my cousins is also transgendered.

2 Every single sitcom containing the word family turning out to be rubbish

1 "Luke, I am your father"

post Oxford Blues

2008-12-04T01:52:00.001Z

Home from my weekend leadership training course at Ruskin College

If I gained nothing I can now claim with absolute conviction that I have studied at Oxford. Well I need to pad my C V which consists of a couple of poor A levels, my cycling proficiency certificate, oh and I do have a Bsc (bronze swimming certificate).
Joking aside (about time too) I thoroughly enjoyed my course, and met some outstanding and passionate people, students and tutors. I guess the Trade Union movement has a bright future with such people fighting the cause. I found the subject of leadership fascinating. I had never thought of myself as a leader before, but I guess I am at times. I also identified my shortcomings, and perhaps how to diminish them. The only thing missing from the weekend was more time to explore Oxford, as it seemed to be such an idiosyncratic city. The weather was consistently dank all weekend. There was a hanging mist that felt like you were in the constant spray from a big wet shaking dog. This meant that bloggography (relatively dull photography for the sole purpose of blogging) was unfruitful.

After a long middle study Saturday we had a Sunday morning session before setting off home. . I thought the falcon guesthouse was charming, the only slight quibble was the shower. A rough guess was that it measured about 2 foot by 2 , the problem is that I am pretty much 2 foot wide by 1 foot 10 inches deep (oh and 6 foot 2 tall, but for once height wasn't an issue) on top of this the entrance to the cubicle was even narrower. The result was that even once I had squeezed in, the resulting small expansion in my body through a thorough drenching meant that I filled the cubicle as if it was a mould I had been poured into. Still I was at least a clean sardine.

Follow The Leaders

We had all decided to drive to the college from the guesthouse to enable a quick getaway. I had not google-mapped the route and our previous walking through the heavily pedestrianised city centre had been no training so I followed a fellow student Kath who had a sat nav. Kath was also troubled with an intermittent stalling engine so I thought my following would help if she broke down. The combination of the above factors resulted in the third most frightening experience of my life. Oxford is clearly a sat nav's nemesis. And Kath had to drive with the abandon of a getaway driver in order not to let an idling engine stall. On top of this Kath took the wrong turn and soon we were hurtling though narrow Oxford back streets in the hands of some South Asian computer coder, who probably only knew Oxford from badly dubbed episodes of Morse. Despite technology we did manage to make it to our destination unscathed.

I was a bit sad once the half day was over. I clearly get a bit of a high during events like this, and the thought of returning to an cold empty house saddened me a little. We took a few pictures of the group for those Bloggers among us, and after some mutual farewells, with pledges to email each other, we made our separate ways. Its amazing how quickly a group of disparate strangers can bond so quickly and strongly. We will meet again as this was the first event of a year long programme, and I for one hopes this happens soon.

I Can See Bleary Now

So I made my way though Oxford to the motorways north 42, 40, 6 and home. On the way I called Vicky and we got into a conversation about cats, or kittens to be more precise. Vicky is still pestering me to take one of her last 4 kittens as company for Gammo Speng. I was weakening, and said that my worry was that I would need another girl cat. I was then entertained to a live kitten sexing session over the phone which passed by a few motorway junctions.
The journey home was going fine until the M6 toll road. Half way along you come to the grandly titled toll plaza. Its a slightly unsettling experience. You are whizzing along at 80 mph, sorry 70, and suddenly the carriageway fans out into an expansive apron of tarmac, with the 8 toll booths ahead, to choose from. Its really off funding you have no lanes to keep to and judging your braking is a little tricky as I found myself slowing to a crawl with the booth some way off. I wound down my window and chucked my £4.50 into the chute and the barrier went up. Like greyhounds out of traps we all jumped on the gas as 8 abreast we manoeuvred to get position as the apron funnelled back into a 3 lane motorway. It is really quite liberating, accelerating as hard as you like in so much open space. It was just as the M6 toll became the plain old M6 that I hit trouble. When I had opened my window at the toll I had let a huge chunk of cold and damp air into the car. As we sped along and this air warmed up it deposited a slap of thick condensation on every window. In just a moment I could see nothing but a grey opaque windscreen, and my blower was not up to the task. I found myself doing 70 along a by now busy road with almost no vision out of the car. This was now my third most terrifying experience rudely pushing that mornings Oxford dash down to no. 4 (see bottom). I managed to find a glove and, used it to temporarily smear a small clear patch on my screen, as I tried to reduce my speed without careering into those other fortunately fully sighted drivers. It wasn't possible to slow much as I had joined the M^ in the middle lane and was surrounded by the intimidating momentum of a phalanx of lorries. Through luck more than judgement I managed to keep the balancing act of navigating by my mirrors, while frantically glove rubbing with one hand the other gripping my steering wheel for my life's worth (this has been calculated to approximately £630). I managed to keep in a straight line for just long enough for my inadequate blowers to have effect, and I regained the gift of vision. The rest of the journey was thankfully uneventful and dull.

By the time I got home it was pitch black, and I entered my cold, cold house with a heavy heart. I was warmed up just a bit by Gammo, who had obviously missed me and was on her finest nuzzling form. I didn't feel so much like a leader that evening.

Top 5 scariest episodes so far

5 First time walking downstairs in heels with boobs obscuring my feet.

4 Recreating Ronin through the early morning streets of Oxford.

3 Blind faith motorway driving.

2 First Time out as Jenny in the daylight.

1 Tooms (for X files fans!)

Oxford Reds

2008-11-29T01:30:00.001Z

On my travels again. I have a weekend in Oxford at Ruskin College on a pilot TUC leadership course. I wonder if pilots ever have pilot courses on pilotry. (actually I don't.)

I was at my hotel, parked, checked in and case contents emptied over my bed for 2pm. I must admit I felt more at home in the Blackpool style, Falcon guest house, than the expensive glass modern Novotel I stayed in during the week. The chippy socialist in me doesn't sit too well with the sheen and servility of London business hotels. My room is small, functional and chintzy, dominated by an unnecessarily large mirror. I checked off all the requirements of a guest house room. Loo - large enough and a good flush; bed - springy but solid enough; TV - requisite 5 terrestrial channels each corresponding to the wrong number; Bedside drawers complete with bible and assorted local leaflets; kettle - with assorted tea/coffee sachets for taking home.

The course didn't start till 4pm so I set off to explore the centre of Oxford. Oxford is exactly like Stoke in no aspect at all. I would like to have taken in the splendid architecture of the famous Oxford colleges like Christ Church, but I spent most of my time dodging bicycles, that seemed to whistle past from each and every direction. Cars are killing the planet but at least you can hear them before they mow you down. A car will mug you and give you a good kicking like a drunken thug, but the whispering death that is the speeding cyclist is like a samurai assassin swift deadly and silent. After a while I developed a seventh sense (I'm saving my sixth) for the oncoming threat and indulged in some shopping and snapping.

Ruskin College felt just like being back at Liverpool Poly, the ambience a mix of academia and political agitation all wrapped up in a quaintly crumbling exterior. For a few moments I felt 18 again. I was there an hour early so I sat in the refectory waiting for my fellow victims pretending to earnestly read my copy of Independent newspaper while trying to regain my student mindset of 20 years ago. I looked at the course agenda. The second session was to be about reflecting on the pre course reading we had been sent. I had looked at this last night. It consisted of 2 research study papers that were in a form of English reserved for recidivist academics. Once I had googled the words I didn't understand from the first sentence I would be away.

Hegemony: The processes by which dominant culture maintains its dominant position

Gramscian: theories proposed by Italian political leader Gramsci and theorist who helped establish the Italian Communist party in 1921

Those out of the way I ploughed on. I must admit sentences like "These involve practices of exclusion and demarcation, modes of inclusion and consequences of aspects of inclusion, especially usurpation and displacement, and strategies of transformation and coalition" tested my ever dwindling grey matter.

The first evening session was actually really stimulating with some strong debate and discourse on union democracy and leadership. The group is an interesting and diverse mix Trade Union lay activists and staff. I got a laugh when I claimed that I had only changed my gender to better reflect that our union is over 70% female (well you had to be there I guess!). The evening session finished at 8pm and we made our way back through a bustling noisy Friday nighttime Christmas throng. It was surprising and disappointing to see so many homeless people on such a cold night. I never imagined Oxford to have a big homeless problem. The other thing that struck my eye was a gathering crowd. Pushing my way through there was some sort of avant garde, modern dance, art instillation type thingy! It seemed to consist of white faced dancers staring upwards. All very good but give me Strictly Come Dancing anyday!

Anyway back ensconced in my room and tired of balancing my laptop on my knee I had better get some sleep. I just hope I don't dream of cycling dancers discussing Grascian Hegemony.

The Chunkiest Hobo

2008-11-26T18:36:00.001Z

Back Northwestwards on the 15.35 from Euston, my favourite of the .35s.

Started the day by eating far too much hotel breakfast buffet for anyone supposed to be on a diet (anyone not dieting too). Did a bit more hotel based photography from the top floor and had a whizz round the British Library Plaza

Had a good conveners meeting today and I actually opened my gob this time. Not sure anything that came out was coherent or even intelligible but at least I contributed which is some progress. Must admit the other conveners from the nine corners of the UK are all really welcoming. They all seem to have been in their roles for years, but in no way make me feel like an complete newbie. It was good to see that we were bucking any unfair national stereotypes. The North East convener was clearly feeling the unnecessary chilly room temperature and not at all like the, depths of winter yet still bare-chested Newcastle FC supporters you see on the telly. The south east delegates did not appear spoilt, pampered and privaleged. The South Westerners were oooo aaaarrr and pastie less, the Scottish and Welsh were distinctly unpartisan. Only the West Midlands delegate (me) let the side down by being just a bit dull.

I'm sitting here trying to plan my the rest of my day. It goes as follows: Train, Car, Slimming Club, Home, Eat (only if slimming club reveals weight loss), Feed Gammo, Change & Bath (think its better other way round),Vicky's in time for the Top Gear repeat, Meakins Cricket Club quiz, Late night on line chat to Jo....and sleep. Well its the plan anyhow.

For the remainder of the train trip I am going to immerse myself in a playlist on my laptop's iTunes , which go under the heading "What was I thinking"

The Gambler, by Kenny Rogers (for Vicky)

Maybe Tomorrow (theme from The Littlest Hobo), by Dave Gurning (who he?, oddly makes me miss Gammo).

England, We'll Fly The Flag, by England World Cup Squad '82. (This was the bizarre B side to Going Home based on the tune from a British Airways ad)

You Can't Stop The Beat, from Hairspray the Musical

Galloping Home, the Black Beauty theme (and featured in I'm Alan Partridge

Rule The World, by the 'That (the strings at the start my me cry for no reason)

Joe 90 theme (nothing to bracket about)

The Prisoner theme, (I am not a number I'm a free woman)

I really must cure my TV theme obsession

and to finish in stark contrast, Serious and Organised, a really good stand up show from Mark Thomas. I could insert "un" and "dis" into the title to describe my life.

That should be timed just to reach Stoke. I really do share too much on this blog. It's one thing to come out as Transgendered, but to admit to a knowledge of world cup songs, maybe just a bit too much!! It would be good to say that the rest of my music collection was much cooler and relevant but I fear that it would not stand up to any muso's scrutiny.

Talking for Granted

2008-11-25T20:46:00.001Z

I'm in the big smoke again. Two meetings on consecutive days meant that a hotel room was booked for me so here I am alone with my laptop and telly for company, not wanting to mess up the huge pristine bed that begs for 2 lovers to share, but is stuck with a restless singleton. So what do I do with my night in the big city. Take in a show, sample the night life? No I am, therefore I blog.

7 am this crisp bright morning, stood on the platform at Stoke, I had a moment of stark realisation. A moment of clarity and perspective. A slap round the face.
I was standing on the a train platform dressed in a knee length brown skirt, black boots and a long dogtooth winter coat (yes I had other stuff, but didn't want to ruin the flow (durrrr these endless parenthesis do that anyway). I was standing dressed as,, no! not just dressed, I actually am a woman, in full morning public glare, yet no one gave me a moments notice. I was accepted by my fellow travellers as just another commuting woman, even a bit dull and workaday. I was being the me I always wanted, but I was hardly noticing. My inner voice mouthed, "OMG (Oh My God), look at me. I have done it. I am doing it. I have made it and its brilliant!!!"

I have spent the largest chunk of my 40 years yearning to live like this, without ever thinking it could realistically happen. All those years of deception, obfuscation, lies and subterfuge, of burying my persona so not to let the anyone get too close to my secret. Years of constant compromise. Wasted years that can never be recovered. So finally I am living the dream. I, me, myself, the Geoff of old and Jenny of now, a 1 in 10 000 chance. Trans gendered, transwoman, t-girl, transsexual, tranny

or whatever, but most of all... WOMAN. I have crossed the great divide. I have looked at life from both sides now. I have crossed the floor of the gender partisan, social parliament. And what do I do with this gift. I take it totally for granted, and moan and whinge at every perceived slight or mis-spoken pronoun. Instead of seizing this opportunity of a wonderful second half life, I seem to spend so many wasted moments wallowing in self pity and regret for years lost.

One of catalysts for this reappraisal is that I have just re made contact with a couple of wonderful Internet friends in Joanne and Samantha. 2 girls, 6 years ago, who were there for me in those darkest early hours, sitting huddled over my PC, trying to make sense of things. Coping with a marriage crumbling around my ears, I hoped that someone from this newly discovered Trans community would talk to me, and it was Sam and then Jo. We would talk to the first crackling of dawn, tired beyond belief but not wanting to let go of our escape from male humdrum. Sam and Jo have much different lives than me, complete with their own responsibilities and accompanying stresses. Jo in particular is in a happy marriage blessed with 2 young children. Although I wish I had children, it is her who envies me more. I know that she longs to lead a full and fulfilling female life, and I sometimes think that when she talks to me it just reinforces her sadness. So I owe it to Jo and Sam to make the absolute most of my given opportunity. The other catalyst is that I had a good session talking things over with Vix the other night and she gave me a good dose of tough love realism. Friends are definitely worth their weight, and the friends you have as a woman are double that.

Sooooo what am I going to do about it. I guess all I can do is try harder to see the positives and ignore petty irritants. Easy to say, but difficult to keep up especially with my personality being a cross between Victor Meldrew, Marvin the Paranoid Android and err... Eyeore. That coupled with this blogging lark which is tailor made for moaning at the world on a daily basis. Well I am going to try anyway, even if the great philosopher Homer (Simpson that is, not the Greek bloke) said "Trying is the first step to failure".

The other thing I tend to moan about at times is my job. Well again I really don't appreciate how lucky I am. As a paid Trade Unionist, I have a job which is all about helping people. I always take the moral high ground, in that I'm speaking up for those worker's who may be suffering for low pay or bullying or any manner of workplace ills. Its a privilege and luxury to be paid to do this, and yet again there is still a tendency to get complacent and blasé. I don't have to try and flog some crappy double glazing or peddle some unnecessarily complicated financial "product". I don't have to think about the bottom line or the overheads. I don't have to break my back to earn a crust or sign the P45 that breaks a heart. I need to take the responsibilities of my role seriously, while never losing sight of the privilege I've been given by those who elected me.

A good example of this privilege is this very swish hotel I'm sitting in right now. I could never afford to stay here and I definitely can't afford to eat here. I took the wise and prudent measure to stock up for an evening munch at the M&S on Euston station. I got a couple of tasty looking ham and egg salads. The only problem was that I didn't get any plastic cutlery. So, how to eat my salad? I considered a raiding party to the restaurant to swipe a knife and fork. I perused the room service menu for the cheapest dish that would come with utensils. I the end I have decided to have a go with a pair of ice tongs that could double as knife and fork. I am not sure how this will pan out. The mixture of my clumsiness, the salad dressing and inadequate tool could result in a hideous mess. I may have to lay out a few towels!

The best thing about this room is the view I have of the British Library on Euston Road. Anyway messy salad here I come, and the second episode of Survivors beckons.

Non Conformist

2008-11-22T17:19:00.001Z

I spotted this tree, which against all the odds, and significant peer pressure has pursued its own path in life.

Tortuous metaphor aside, Vicky and me went for a cold (bloody freezing) walk with Spartacus to the Park Hall Country park, which despite its name has no hall and is pretty much in the middle of Stoke-on-Trent. Its a brilliant, often overlooked, and on our doorstep. Its a bit like scale version of Canock Case, but with less Brummie day trippers. Not sure who got the most exercise, the dog or us.

A phone call

2008-11-20T00:41:00.001Z

Bbbbbrrrring, BBbbbbrrrrring, click

Call Centre Lady : "Good afternoon, Portman Travel, can I help you? "

Me : "Could I book a train ticket"

Call Centre Lady : "Where to Sir"

Me: "err, It's madam, not Sir"

Call Centre Lady : "Sorry, Sir"

.... a few minutes later .....

CCL : "What, is the name of the person travelling?"

Me: "It's for me, my name's Jenny Harvey"

CCL: "Sorry, was that Jerry?"

Me : "No, my name is Jenny, J.E.N.N.Y"

CCL : "Jenny Harvey, Thank you Sir"

Sometimes, you just have to bang your head on the desk and concede defeat.

LGBT over and Out

2008-11-18T00:22:00.001Z

Well conference over, and I'm back safe but unsound.

I really enjoyed my first LGBT conference despite my unfounded reservations about not fitting in. I should have learnt by now that not fitting in is my destiny so I'd better get on with it.

The second day was into the meat of the conference sandwich, with motions to debate and discussion groups to contribute to. I decided to speak on Motion 3 : Gender Reassignment and workplace stress, which just like the movie Snakes on a Plane is self pretty self explanatory.

Lucy moved the motion with a moving and thought provoking speech. My contribution was hastily scribbled in my notebook while waiting for the motion to come up. As I stood at the podium waiting for the microphones to rise a looked over and saw my face in close up on the huge projection screen. Right then all I could think was "That lipstick really doesn't suit me". When I looked back at my notebook all my scribblings now appeared to now be in some long dead language almost totally unlike English. Luckily as I started to speak sort sort of translation emerged.

The text of my contribution went as so

"Morning Conference, Jenny Harvey, North Staffs Community Health branch.

It's my first time with you all and I have to say I'm loving it <applause, they always do this if you are a first time speaker>. Don't clap the only reason I haven't attended before is down to my laziness. The hormone therapy is great stuff but it doesn't fix everything

The motion mentions the Good Practice Guide produced by the Scottish region. It is important to distribute this as widely as possible.

Just as our employers struggle to understand the needs of Transgendered employees, our Union at times struggles to fully understand Transgendered members needs.

It is in my Union that I love, that even 4 years since I last used that worn out old gender I still got referred to as him at Headquarters and when I stood for a woman's seat on a national committee a senior member of staff told me "Its ok, I've checked it out". I'm not sure other women members had to be checked out.

These are minor niggles compared to what Transitioning employees can have to put up with in the workplace. Coupled to that is the huge amount of stress that an individual has to endure just to get though this period.

Everyone's job in an often under resourced public sector has a degree of stress. when you first transition this stress can go off any scale. To have to concentrate on every aspect of your being. To concentrate on your appearance,,, your poise,,, your walk,,, your talk, for every minute, every second of your working day is utterly exhausting.

This stress is only prolonged by delays in getting treatment. Even if you can convince your GP, your Psychiatrist, in my case he informed me he was a fundamental Christian so I guess he thought me a sinner, your Primary Care Trust and finally the Gender Identity Clinic that treatment is appropriate, you have a lengthy wait for an appointment and an expensive and long trek to the opposite end of the country, for a 25 min appointment.

This motion will not end workplace stress, but it will help build on progress to date and I hope continue the fight to push our NHS to give us the timely and respectful treatment we need.

Please support the motion."

Hardly, "I hav e a dream" but it went down ok. Later in the afternoon I attended a discussion group on Transphobia in schools. The government has refused to legislate against discrimination towards transgendered children in education stating that it was so rare and that children under 16 were excluded from gender reassignment surgery. This totally misses the point. As transgendered people we were all children once (I'm still pretty childish at times) and struggled with our gender identity during school years. I like many buried these feelings. I was bullied for many reasons; my wonky eye (I was called Clarence after the lion), my weight, even my green jeans! I figured wearing a skirt and declaring myself to be a girl may not help the situation and would possible hasten an early demise so I kept Shtumn. Anyway the point is that the hostile environment in schools to anyone of difference is a complete barrier to anyone coming out. It would have made such a difference to my life if support and information had been available I may not have spent so many years thinking I was just a bit mad. It was interesting to note that the group was almost totally made up of male social workers and youth workers.

That night there was a social do with a band who were a cross of Roxy Music, Human League, Queen and Russel Brand. It was a good night and noticeably the only ones who seemed to make an effort over our appearance were our small band of Trans members. Hey, what's point to tereotypes if we don't make an effort to live up to them.

Sunday was poetic justice day. I decided to miss the last hour of conference to make an earlier train home. Being a Sunday in Britain the railway companies decide to give timetables the day off to attend to everlasting track repairs. Instead of a simple 2 hour no change journey we had to travel to Gloucester to catch a bus to Birmingham to wait an hour for a train to Stoke that was so overcrowded we had to stand shoulder to shoulder between carriages. The train announcer with no hint of irony announced "sit back in comfort for a pleasant journey. The whole shebang took over 4 1/2 hours. Serves me for skipping that last hour.

After managing to pack away my by now trashed room, I took a few more snaps of the bit of Bristol around our hotel. Wish I'd had more time to explore.

Rudolph The Well Guarded Reindeer

2008-11-15T00:36:00.001Z

Unison LGBT day 2 10.30 am. Lobby of the Marriott Hotel.
Last night was good fun. I met up with Lucy from Southend who I have been cyber chatting to for a year. We had a real good natter and realised we are both Geeky T's. So most of the night was spent swapping transition tales mixed with a sprinkling of telly tattle.

This morning has been made up of a disappointing breakfast (continental, what's that all about.) and a nice mile long (and it did seem a long mile) stroll along Harbourside to this huge hotel where the conference is based. I must admit even on a dull morning, Bristol is a really pleasant city though surprisingly quiet.
The conference proper don't Starrt for a goodly few 'ourrrs yet (look I'm picking up the lingo already (actually that sounded more piratey than west country) so I'm toying with a trip to the shops. I've just noticed someone coming out of the lift that looked just like a guy Chris Bisson once of Coronation Street, but who knows I'm not going to ask him. ...... Laters...

12.45 coffee bar, Marriott Hotel
Got back from my shopping jaunt. It turned out to be more of an adventure than I expected. My main targets in descending order were , Evans natch, Hmv or similar, Claires and Waterstones. (for anyone overseas these may just be random words!) anyway a right turn found me in Cabots Circus shopping mall. This was a brand new looking, flashy, glassy arcade. Not seeing any of my targets, my eyes were drawn too the Christmas decorations (and for once both eyes were drawn in the same direction!) there were some huge wire Reindeers dotted with lights. Liking big things, I drew my camera and snapped away. Just as I was holstering my camera back in my bag, out of somewhere a large black overcoated man appeared. (large and black refer to the overcoat and not the man) with a telltale curly wire trailing from an earpiece and disappearing into his overcoat. "Do you work for House of Fraser" he asked. "Errm no I don't think so'', I replied unhelpfully. "You need permission to take photographs''. ''Do I ??'', as I pulled out my camera and brought up the pictures I had taken. "Look, I just wanted a pic of your stags''. Unimpressed, he said "you can't take photographs here'', and indicated away from the arcade. ''Oh sorry, perhaps a sign would be helpful and maybe some duller Christmas decorations'', and with that Cabots Circus, the security man and me parted ways. I did wonder what they were so worried about. My best guesses in no order are that I may have been an international terrorist, a rival flashy glassy arcade developer, or that everyone in Bristol is terminally camera shy.

Anyway I now found myself heading leftwards and lo I stumbled upon another oversized decoration in the form of a huge pyramid of baubles. So I was torn, I should really just walk away but the devil made this my quest. So I scoured the scene for possible securitas. There was one possible candidate the far side of a square, so unsuccessfully secreting myself behind a lamppost I waited for him to turn away and snapped my prey and quickly stowed away the incriminating camera.

The conference starts with a stutter rather than a bang. I'm used to the motion fests of the national conferences, but this is much more civilised with the first day taken up with meetings and caucuses, interspersed with networking and mingling. The meat and heat of debate starts tomorrow. I killed a few minutes bantering with some of the service provider stands selling insurance, breakdown cover, financial advice and credit cards. I asked how many of them had merged or been nationalised since the credit crumpet had landed, but from their expressions I guess that was really only funny in my head. Anyway, I have 3 meetings ahead of me, the Trans Caucus, West Midlands regional meeting and the Healthcare group meeting, so I was kept out of any further shopping expeditions

10pm All done and dusted and back in my Hotel cabin

The meetings went well. In the Trans caucus I was banging on about still getting called by my old pronoun. I even related the story of Gammo my cat to illustrate how hard it is to change the way peoples brains work. When I had Gammo off Vicky she told me it was a boy cat, so it naturally became he. On closer inspection, when one morning I awoke and found him sitting on my face, I noticed that he was in fact a she. The thing is, even with my trans super powers I struggle to call her she. If I can't get the bloody cat's gender right how can I moan when people get mine wrong. I guess the problem its it hurts me, much more than Gammo. I was less annoying at the other meetings and mainly kept quiet. The conference day was finished with a reception at the civic centre with speeches by the mayor, the council leader and minister for state Dawn Primarolo who brought the house down.

Sitting tapping away I have realised that I haven't eaten since my disappointing breakfast. I've taken my slap off so I'm not going to venture out. I will just have to stick it out till morning as the only things I can find to eat are 2 sachets of hot chocolate powder.

In S**t Shape for Bristol Fashion

2008-11-13T17:45:00.001Z

My LGBT Conference diary

I've arrived via a soggy Stoke Station in Bristol ahead of Unison's LGBT conference starting tomorrow. My hotel is very new, and titled the "Ibis Waterside", although it is more like "Ibis Multi Storey Carparkside". Curiously there is a giant boule just outside the hotel, although as there are no other boules around it must have been a very poor throw.All said the hotel is very nice but just a touch nouveaux for a Northern lass like myself.

My hotel betwee 2 cranes (not picured, any water!)

My room is like a cabin on the USS Enterprise NCC-10701-D (certainly not the NCC-1071-A of the woeful The Final Frontier! *geek alert*). It is a triangular shape with a a curved podule at one apex containing the shower room. Disappointingly the curved door to said room failed to open automatically with a shhhhhhhtt.

I've not really explored outside much mainly due to the miserable drenched and dank weather. I have made a quick sortie to the Marx & Sparks for some supplies(wouldn't a Marxist and Spencer shop be fab. The clothes may be drab but I'm sure the prices would be resanable). I am going to have a diet battle for the next few days, so I stocked up on salad and pineapple. I also bought some tights. Since a drab Summer turned to a cold Autumn, I have been on a Holy Grail quest for a well fitting pair of tights. I seem to be a shape that is almost completely incompatible with hosiery of any kind. Either they are too tight on the top of my thunderthighs that they tear, too short to the gusset to sit on my waist or just too short in the legs ending with a gusset around my mid thigh and leaving me with an ungainly waddle. So I am test driving a pair of Barely Black M&S (S&M tights are another matter altogether) firm support tights.

I hope later on to meet up with an internet pal Lucy, who is on down for the conference (or is it up, I'm never quite sure) so I going to see if I can cobble together a decent outfit from the unnecessarily large pile of clothes I stuffed into my case. I've just been distracted by my old Physics teacher. No, hes not in my room, that would be plain weird , but he is on the telly. His name is David Edwards and is famous for wining both Mastermind and £million on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and even more impressively he was on a pub quiz team that beat mine a few years ago at the Master Potter pub in Cheadle. He is appearing on Eggheads but sadly not winning, perhaps competing against me finally wore out his brain.

.....more tomorrow

Doctorin' The House

2008-11-12T19:30:00.001Z

Down London again. I've been going to the capital so often I'm starting to slang rhyme. ''Cor blimey ! Its time to Mickey on my Kermit'' (work it out for no prizes at all)

Today is Tuesday so it must be the unison annual leadership seminar. As everything this year I have no idea what,s to come so I travel with hope and expectation.
I go through my usual routine of rushing and subsequently delaying my departure. If ever a homily was more apt to a person than ''more haste less speed'' is to me. So my carefully planned 2 hours turned into a mad dash to make the train after the one I wanted.

The seminar was in the extremely grand home of the British Medical Association, called the BMA house. However bad the credit crumpet is, its comforting that the doctor's seem to be managing ok. Must admit as I registered my eye was taken with another event entitle Anthrax Seminar. It could either be the deadly sheep disease or the 90s thrash metal group, either way it sounded slightly more exciting than a union leadership seminar, but duty and coffee called so I headed for our meeting.

The seminar had 2 keynote speaker's , our very own and brilliant leader David Prentis, and the political editor of the mirror and frequent news 24 pundit Kevin McGuire. The main theme was around our Unions agenda in the light of the current political and economic environment and the upcoming general election. It is clear politics in UK is reaching a watershed. After years of the stampede for the middle ground and the votes of those wretched Daily Mail readers (although I do like their Sunday Supplements and free DVDs, even my political principles take a back seat when faced with a free Time Bandits DVD!) we have finally reached the stage where the country is crying out for a progressive radical agenda. This can be supported by the election of a new US president with possibly more left wing policies than our own government. Well we can all hope, I suppose but the danger is that Public Sector spending could be squeezed out by tax cuts.

After it was over we were all due to have dinner (or lunch as we are down south), but I am determined to stick to my bloody diet so I opted out, and not wanting to sit at a table with no food sat in the corridor outside watching everyone eat heartily and network thoroughly. I made a couple of phone calls and after I got an attack of my shyness and social awkwardness and found myself feeling like a bit of an outsider so I didn't join a table for a coffee and get to know you all chat. Its completely stupid on my part as everyone I meet at these events is so welcoming. I really have to get to grips with myself someday. Anyway I made my way back to Euston and managed to hold back the creeping tears of self pity and self frustration. A Marks and Sparks salad filled the hole in both my tummy and my mood.

I am now packing as tomorrow I'm off for 4 days to Bristol for Unison's LGBT conference which is not a Lettuce, Garlic, Bacon & Tomato sandwich (though that would be nice) but Unison's Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender conference. I've never attended this before but I feel as one of the few visible T people in our Union I have a duty to get involved.

Fat Index latest. Like the stock market I plummeted and bounced. Last week I was down 5 llb to 24 stone 8 1/2 llbs but this week bounced up 1 1/2 lbs to 24 stone 10lbs. I hope in stock market terms its a Dead Cat Bounce (sorry Gammo)

Capybara fact of the week (or last 2 weeks): They are allergic to Stilton

Gammo Speng & The Senator From Illinois

2008-11-06T22:55:00.002Z

Its 11.300pm the day after the night before. I am sill suffering post election fatigue. ie I'm knackered. Like any good political geek, I stayed up all night watching the US election results. I was joined in my vigil by Gammo Speng, who seemed particularly taken with the BBC's coverage. We weren't glued to the set because there was ever any realistic doubt about the winner but these historical moments in time are rare and fleeting and it was worth a day's weariness to bear witness even if from afar.

The only downside for Gammo was Obama's announcement that he would be getting a puppy for his children. Gammo feels this is just pandering to the canine lobby

Over here, the US takes a fair bit of condescending stick about their political system, and to be honest they don't help themselves by electing the likes of Bush, and the utter fraudulent farce of his first victory. We have also found the whole big corporate, vested interest, bankrolling of candidates somewhat distasteful, even though we are not immune to this in Britain. However in spite of all this Barack Obama, has become president. America, the land of the KKK, fundamental religious biggotry and a past of segregation, has chosen to move beyond its history. In these days of the rising far right in parts of Europe, the fact that an African American is the most powerful man on the planet is a cause to rejoice. He may well turn out too be the most useless president in history, although Bush has set the bar to a record height on that one. However well he does to steer the way through the credit crunchie or to manage foreign policy without alienating the rest of the planet matters less than what he represents. I am not ashamed too say that I was watching his acceptance speech through blurry tired and tear stung eyes. It was not just about what he said but the fact he was able to say it.

I am left with a maybe naïve hope that Tuesday night was possibly the beginning of the end of the thick headed, anachronistic evil that is racism.

Are you watching BNP ?

Even my mobile phone got in on the act.

(You cant imagine how difficult and indeed pointless it is, trying to make phrases on a mobile scrabble game)