Oxford Reds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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)

Threaded & Breathless

I blame H & M.

I am sitting in the Britannia pub overlooking EUSTON station concourse. I have been on my now tri monthly visit to the Charing Cross gender identity clinic and I'm waiting for another hour until the trains are cheaper. I booked an advance ticket but not advanced enough so I have to wait until 7 pm. As usual with me a straightforward day has been writ through with my bumbling. It all started at 11 am this morning.

 
I knew that with my cheap off peak train ticket would come much hanging about. My appointment was at 3 pm and would be lucky to stretch much beyond 20 mins so I needed to be fully armed with distractions. Now my handbag is chock full at the best of times. Like some twisted Parkinson's law the amount of stuff I feel the need to carry, increases to fill the void created as my  handbags become bigger. I shall call this Harvey's law. So, in addition to  my makeup, umbrella, oversized mirror, huge purse, perfume and other detritus, I now squeezed in my camera, my mobile, my blackberry and finally a copy of Andrew Marr's ''A History of Modern Britain'' oh and my slimming world record sheet (for reasons later). Well in the words of Scotty ''She canna take any more captain'' and as my bag passed warp factor 8 the straps have way. It completely served me right for buying a cheap sweet shop handbag from H&M (lawyers note, we substituted sweet for sweat). So I hurriedly searched for a replacement. One emergency bag-ectamy later I had transferred all my contents to my casual purple bag, almost completely  successfully.

Wind forward to 1.45 pm and as we pull into Hammersmith tube station, I start to feel a bit wheezy. This was no big deal as I've been asthmatic since boyhood (sounds weird using boyhood, but it is correct I suppose). I rummaged around in my bag for my ventolin inhaler. It produced a result, the result being I had left it at home in my now ruined old bag. I didn't panic. I hadn't really suffered badly from asthma recently so I thought I would be ok if I took it easy. It was only a fifteen minute walk to the clinic and I had some time to spare. I took my mind off things as I wandered around the shops outside the tube station.  While perusing a concession stand for a new bag to replace my damaged work handbag, a friendly middle aged Asian lady handed me a leaflet. It was for an eyebrow shaping service. Well my eyebrows were a mess. Initially, I had been very diligent with my plucking, but laziness and a sin hiding full fringe had left me relying on the occasional strategic use of a razor (I know that's so wrong). So for £7.50 I thought I would give it a whirl. The technique this lady used was Threading. This involved very skilful use of cotton to rip out several hairs at once. Even with my tough bristly eyebrows from razoring, the process was relatively painless, and in just a few minutes I was done. The lady was an artist and genius. My eyebrows have never looked so feminine and sculptured. I may now consider a thinner fringe in the future.

Thus pruned I set off on my short walk. However my asthma got worse with each step. By the time I was outside the clinic I was a shambling wheezing wreck, so I sat in a bus shelter for a couple of minutes to regain some composure. This was a total failure. So spying a Boots chemist across the road I headed for some salvation. My pal Vicky has told me in the past, that when desperate she has had an emergency. Prescription over the counter at a chemist, so I thought I would try my luck. My request went thus ''Wheeze, can you help me, wheeze, I have left my inhaler, at home, wheeze, could you, wheeze, give me, wheeze, an, wheeze, emergency, wheeze, inhaler wheeze, please?'' The reply was more succinct and distinctly less wheezy ''Sorry , you need a doctor's prescription. Try an A&E department''. I had no more time to argue, so I left and crossed the road to the clinic situated above the Sainsburry,s opposite.

Buzzed in, I took the lift up to reception, thinking I couldn't waste what breath I had left on stairs. Sitting in reception I calmed myself a bit, and exchanged smiling eye contact with my fellow receptionees. We were a mixed bunch. There was a stunning young T girl with flawless dark skin and stunning breasts shown off to good effect. There was a younger T girl, in boy mode with lovely long brown hair, sitting with her mum. How I wished I had been brave enough to tackle my gender at an earlier age and have my mum's support. There was another woman about my age reading a year old Heat magazine, and there were a couple of Trans men chatting away. Most bizarrely there was one girl who had brought a large black builder's bucket with her. I just hoped it didn't contain a sample of some sort. My time came and Dr X summoned me in  with a cheery smile. (I have changed his name to X after I had  web site libel training, and because Dr X sounds more exciting than Dr A).

As I sat down, he asked me how I was, and I explained that I was great except for the lack of ability to breathe properly. Out of kindness or the fact that I might collapse and mess up his schedule, he scrawled out a prescription on a sheet of A4 paper and said to pop to boots across the road after we had finished. Buoyed by the hope of my ultimate salvation, I settled down for the consultation. After four appointments, Dr X and me had developed an understanding, so we went through our usual roster of subjects; my weight, the NHS, politics (this time with a emphasis on the much maligned John Prescott and Peter Mandelson) my voice therapy, more politics and finally his bête noir, my wonky eye. He persuaded me to visit an optician back home, and get contact lenses for my deficient eye. When I said it would be nice to have stereoscopic vision at last, he informed me, to my chagrin that I would probably only gain binocular vision because my short sighted eye was not corrected in childhood. So it seems I will never see the world as all you lucky stereoscopic-ians do, and I will never be able to use those 3 D glasses or see those once popular Magic Eye pictures. I guess as disabilities go its a pretty trivial one. Appointment over, we decided to resume our verbal sparing  in another 3 months. I should feel irritated that a long expensive trip, feels like a box ticking exercise. But I have grown to like Dr X, and I guess the lack of him probing into my transitioned life means he feels I am psychologically ok. In addition I am always up for debating politics. Dr X is very eloquent and knowledgeable on all sorts of stuff, and is not someone who is familiar with doubt.

The consultation was soon over, so with prescription in hand I bounced over the road back to the Boots chemists. I wish I had layed off the bouncing because I was soon wheezing to the Max. Still I knew, once I had that lovely full blue inhaler in my hands, I would be fine. After 5 mins waiting the pharmacist came back to me. ''Your prescription is ok madam, we have one ready in stock for you. Just one problem, we need a stamp on the prescription with the address of where Dr X practices''. I pointed to a window on the first floor across the road. He is there, look you can see him right now, look that's the back of his head'', I pleaded but to no avail. ''I'm sorry, we do need the details for the computer''. So, I made my way back over to the clinic with absolutely no bounce. I eventually got the stamp I needed after the receptionist had to interrupt Dr X's next consultation. So for the third time that day I was back in Boots and  after waiting another 15 mins, I eventually got my hands on that little blue plastic piece of gold. By now though, I was hunched over on a chair, savouring every drop of air I could squeeze past my constructed tubes. Puff, hold breath, puff, hold breath, puff once more for luck and I was done. If you are not asthmatic its hard to imagine the instantaneous restorative effect of Salbutamol.

Fully recovered, I headed off back to Hammersmith for some shopping, as it was a full 3 hours till my train home. I resumed my bag hunt. Unfruitful after an hour, my last stop was TK Max. As I rummaged through a pile of bags under a clearance sign, suddenly one bag caught my eye like a fleck of gold in a prospector's pan. It was just, so right. Large enough for work documents and handles long enough to be shoulder comfy. To my untrained eye it looked classy. Closer inspection proved it was even more perfect. The leather was soft as could be and inside it had just the right compartments. I had to have it. Then I looked at the price  tag, 50 quid, double what I have ever paid for a handbag before. I figured fate had brought me and the bag together at this particular time and place. So I took the plunge, and she was mine. After any impulse purchase I need to find a rationalisation and this time it was ''what the f****!''.

 

So that is my day so far, save for an event free tube ride to Euston.
I'm now on the train back home to Stoke. While I was standing waiting for my train to be announced, I perused the departures board and briefly toyed with the idea of heading off to some of the exotic sounding places, such as Tring, Llandudno, Bletchley or Eldorado (ok I made one up. There is no such place as Tring) when our platform was announced it seemed somehow fitting that it was number 13. As I joined the rush to the train for the free seats, the doors at the end of the ramp to the platform closed. We all concertinaed together and then a sign flashed up saying this was due to the train being reset. Now I have no idea what this meant but I just hope no one was in the train cab holding Control, Alt, Delete to get the thing restarted. Finally the doors opened and we spilled out onto the platform, the more sprightly of us surging to the front. I got swallowed up mid pack, but still  managed to bag a good seat. So now I'm done with this post, I'm going to resume my day long phone based scrabble game. I've been determined all day to use the word WHELKS and I've  finally found a spot where it will go.

 
Oh, I did mention I would explain the slimming club record sheet. Well I was informed from the start by Dr X that I couldn't get on the surgery waiting list until I was down to a safe weight. When asked at previous appointments I may have played down my actual weight (ie lied) saying I was down to 22 stone. I think I was worried that Dr X would not believe I would lose enough. So this time, I was going to come clean, but demonstrate with my chart, that I was now losing steadily. In the end I was not asked what my current weight was so I never had to use it.

A Weak Ending

Another week goes by so fleetingly. Time is defiantly relative. My weeks seem to go twice as fast at 40, as they did when I was 10. At this rate if I make 80, a week will seem like a sleepover. Gosh that's a sobering thought, that whichever way I look at it I'm probably past half way now so I guess by now I'm slowly dying a week at a time. I just wish the weeks seemed longer.

Question Of Solace

What sort of blogger would I be if I didn't rip off the latest James bond film.
Its actually quite apt as I sit on another crowded Tuesday train to London, tapping this bit out on my blackberry whilst listening to bond themes. At the moment its "You only live twice" (once is enough for me). Spookily when I tapped out the word apt on this strange predictive Blackberry qwerty keyboard the word apt comes up as initially as spy. Dull point of note is that the qwerty predictive unput method doesn't like the word qwerty!
I have now written few dozen words and all I've gone on about is the words. If I am not careful I will disappear up my own backside in puff of blogging smoke.

In the latest bond film which I haven't yet seen, bond is looking for a Quantum of Solace after the death of his love Vespa in the previous film, or something. When the title was first released I among many, thought what a stupid title, but by now the title makes some sense. I guess everyone, whatever their situation in life at some time seeks enough solace just to keep going. Saying that, for some of the people of the world, their degree of suffering make finding their Quantity of Consolation must be well nigh impossible. Some of us born to relative prosperity are often heard to utter "well, at least there are some worse off than us" as we moan and whine about our negative equity, the price of petrol or some such irk of life. After all, isn't that what blogging was invented for. However, to gain Solace and comfort from others suffering is just plain wrong. I know that's not what people think of when compare ourselves to others, but a little musing behind the words does no harm  A healthy measure of guilt at our advantages should always rest somewhere in the recesses of our mind's, while we sit back and let the callous inequalities of the world stand unchallenged. The quantum of solace that we look for, should be that we have done everything in our power to change the world for the better. Only when we have exhausted every ounce of energy to make a difference should we gain solace for our privilege. I'm acutely aware of my hubris, as I sit here typing away on my expensive and ultimately unnecessary gizmo. I will probably spend as much of the day moaning that my comfortable train is 10 minutes late or that the quality of the lunch provided us not up to scratch, but let's hope that this moment's pondering does make me strive harder. As trade unionists, we do try and take a global view, particularly in Unison, but, do we really do enough? The absurd contradiction of last week, as we sat in a posh hotel,  in our posh frocks, eating our posh dinner while we debated child poverty, was, I hope not lost on any of us.

As for my own quantum of solace. Well I do seem to  have an underlying sadness in my life that I struggle to shake, and that is my lack of an immediate family. I have accepted that my life path is almost certainly one of ultimate loneliness. I will never have children, and I accept, I am unlikely to find a partner. People mean well with their kind words that I will find someone, but I am a realist. The chances of a 40 year plus trans woman will find the man of her dreams is about as likely as Stoke winning the Champions League, not impossible but highly unlikely. So what is my Quantum of Solace for this sadness. Well it is that whatever happens in my next 40 years or so, it will happen to me as a woman, and for that I am very lucky and should remain grateful.

Stoke 2 North London 0 
I said above about how unlikely it was that Stoke would ever win the Champions League, but these odds have improved just an iota this week. The mighty potters have soared up the league with 3 wins out of 4. We have now beaten both Arsenal and Spurs, so now London quakes at our name. Mind you, I'm not sure what we play bears as much relation to football, as it does basketball, after nearly all our goals have come from freakishly long throw ins.
The rest of my week seems to have revolved around looking for stuff. I love lists right now so here is a list of my lost in descending order of irritation

• Make Up - On a daily basis I lose a different item of makeup. This is done on a rota with eye makeup at the start of the week moving down to lip stuff by the end.
• Mobile Phones - There seems some strange law of physics that my 2 mobiles cannot exist in close proximity. They are almost like the identical poles of magnets in that they repel each other. Hence most of my phone calls are from one phone calling the other to find out where I left it.
• The matching top to my bottom - I don't mean my own halves which my top half is now 2 sizes below my bottom! I get up in the morning with a particular outfit in mind that would be perfect if I couple only find where I had chucked that precise coloured top, and I always end up with a imperfect compromise.
• The matching bottom to my top - See above.
• The matching shoes for my matching top and bottom - See above and above
• The one shoe - All my favourite pairs of shoes are now only singles.
• The last DVD in series Three of The Wire - I have now been looking for this on and off for the last 6 weeks. Ironically I have never lost a disc from Lost.
• My Passport - Although as this is now in a defunct old identity I'm not sure I want to find it.
• My Collie Cross Dog, Saffy - This was 5 years ago, but I still think every scruffy black and white dog I see is her.
• The Plot - Self evident really.
  

Weak Joke of the Week : What time does Andy Murray go to bed ?. . . . . . Tennish

Blubber Index : Down 4 llbs to 24 Stone 13.5 llbs

Capybara fact of the week : In captivity they may live to 12, but in the wild only typically have a life span around 4 years as they are eaten by Anacondas, Jaguars, Pumas, Ocelots, and Eagles

Up Next.....I'm off to Charing Cross Gender Clinic again tomorrow