Mr Smith goes to London

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

....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

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

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

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 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

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 don’t 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

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

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.

1. 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!
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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.
6. 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
7. 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

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

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

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!)