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

Pottering About

There has been a Stoke-on-Trent version of Monopoly released in time for Christmas. It's about time too as Stoke is probably the only city where the Monopoly price for property actually reflects the housing market. Actually thinking about it, a credit crunch version of monopoly would be fun. Instead of collecting $200 when you pass go your property value halves.

Anyway if Stoke is worthy of a Monopoly game then its about time I posted a Potted History of The Potteries (see what I did there), so here are a few of the  lesser known and even lesser wanted facts about my home city.

 

 

• Stoke-on-Trent is actually made up of six towns not five as Arnold Bennett would have it
• Stoke is almost exactly halfway between Birmingham and Manchester.
• Stoke has been referred to as the Barcelona of the midlands. Well it has now anyway.
• Stoke-on-Trent is cockney rhyming slang for bent (apparently)
• Stokes national dish is the Oatcake. Oatcakes are delicious especially with cheese and bacon, cheese and sausage in fact anything with cheese.
• The Potteries were once the home of the Sagger Maker’s Bottom Knocker, who worked in the iconic bottle kilns and is the stupidest sounding job ever to appear on What’s My Line.
• Stoke City are the second oldest football league club. Damn that Notts County FC. ...Thinking ?...who would the oldest team have played when they first started ?
• Stoke had the nations first ever drive through Take Away, which was a fish and chip shop, although the chips were rubbish if I remember.
• Stoke had the first ever Vision Express (possibly the dullest fact ever)
• Stoke has its very own Tunnel, although the Meir tunnel is not quite  as impressive as the Channel or Mersey.
• Hanley Forrest Park is thought to be the site of the burial of King Arthur, though only by me.
• The only movie set in Stoke is The Card staring Alec Guiness, although I think Carry On At Your Convenience may well have been too.
• Adam Faith died in a hotel in Stoke

 

Famous Potters:

Sir Stanley Mathews

Robbie once of the 'That

Slash from Guns and Roses 

RF Mitchel who designed the Spitfire

Captain Edward Smith of the Titanic

Nick Hancock offa the telly

Phil "The Power" Taylor

Frank Bough mmmmm 

Anthea Turner offa the telly and papers and stuff

Bruno Brookes offa the radio and Top Of The Pops

er.........Harry ?

Between a Rock and a Wet Place

None More Black

Last Saturday night was unusual for us. Instead of the usual combination of take away Chinese and shouting at judges on talent shows we actually went out. The occasion was a charity bikers do at a local hotel, complete with a band called Chemical Metal. I'm not entirely sure what chemical metal is, but it sounds poisonous and heavy. The name implied that they played a curious mixture of The Chemical Brothers and Iron Maiden covers, but hey I'm all for cross over music!
With my rapidly fading hair colour giving way to greying (ie grey) roots it was time to hit the home hair dye. Against my natural cautiousness Vicky cajoled me into experimenting with black hair. So an hour's dying session later I now sport a colour that I have christened "smell the glove" as a Tribute to Spinal Tap in keeping with general rock theme for the night. After she had dyed my hair and managed to avoid my usual trick of dying everything but my hair, Vicky set about giving me a choppy style rock chick look for the night. In typical makeover style I wasn't allowed to view my hair until it was all finished. I wasn't really prepared for what I would see in the mirror. As I starred at the mirror I struggled to recognise the person looking back at me. The face in the frame did ring some bells. It had a curiously familiar, tired looking, wonky left eye. There was strange puncture wound scar to the right of the jaw. Perhaps it was the result from some long forgotten gun fight. (or it could have been just an abscess) These were only fleeting moments of familiarity though. The face I saw was round, almost moonfaced. The hair was short and jet black but most of all it was big. It had a funky messy style that framed the face. It was exactly the hair that a person would want for a glamish and rocky night out. I loved my look and for a moment fought back a tear so as not to ruin my painstakingly applied OTT eye makeup. It has been so rare that I have looked in a mirror and felt so gloriously womanly. Dolled up in sleeveless fitted top in deep turquoise under black lace that made a half decent stab at enhancing my all too inadequate bust. I added sparkly jeans to fit in with the rock theme. Make up was all eyeliner, mascaras, and deep red lippy the only concession to coordination was eye shadow that matched my top.
I was the designated driver for the night. Actually I'm the designated driver every night. This is mainly due to the fact I haven't drunk alcohol seriously and with conviction since university. My tolerance for alcohol is so poor these days that I have been known to complain of feeling drunk just sitting too close to an open bottle of nail varnish remover! The last time I recall being drunk, was a weekend in Blackpool a whole different gender ago. When, after just a few Biccardi Breezers I was to be found running across a windswept midnight beach, claiming I wanted to be at one with the sea! All in all it is best for this planet that I stuck to the driving not the drinking. As I picked the other girls up, my bubble of glee at my appearance, was pricked when I compared myself to Vicky and Debbie. Veterans of many a night out, they both looked fabulous.

When we got to the venue we met up with a load of colleagues from Vicky's workplace. Although I'm now a woman of 4 years standing (actually mostly sitting), I can still be a bit nervous about going out for the night with the girls. My nerves are not really about managing to pass or that I may get some abuse from some drunk waste of testosterone. These are fears that had faded with experience. To be honest , and this blog has to be honest or it is nothing. I can still feel somewhat ill fitting in a large group a girls. It is my insecurities neuroses, and downright social awkwardness that are the problem, rather than anything others do or say. So there I am sitting with a great bunch of girls having a great night with this nagging devil of doubt upon my shoulder constantly whispering ''what do you look like'', ''what do you sound like '', '' why did you say that? That's not what other girls talk like ''. I try desperately to ignore this fiend but I find it difficult and I end up being a bit quiet. Then, the others urge me up to dance and the shoulder demon takes complete control, with its poison of fear surging through me. ''You dance like a bloke... You will look such a fool... Everyone will be whispering, that you are a man... Why draw extra attention by dancing... You will probably fall flat on your face those heels ''. Although I desperately want to get up and shake my thing with my friends, I just end up declining all the urging and sit back, sipping on my diet coke while I watch on, like the eternal understudy to the leading ladies. I have often whinged about other people accepting me as a woman, but In the end the problem is me. I just really don't help myself. Still it was a good night out. The band was really good and played my sort of music that everyone seemed to dig, except for a 12 minute cover of a Rush track that left the dancefloor empty and a little bewildered.The night was in aid of the Andy Taft Charitable Trust http://www.andytaft.org.uk/index.htm.

The Jury's in

As I write this bit, I am sitting at the desk in a well appointed hotel room. Thursday and Friday found me down the smoke overnight. As a newly elected regional convenor for my union, it was my first regional convenors seminar. We were staying in the rather grand, Jurys Inn just off Oxford street . It was designed by the famous architect sir Edward Lutyens, famous for (please insert some of his other famous buildings, or at least bluff some.).
At first, it was a chastening experience. From used to being the big cheese in a small pond (can't beat a mixed metophor), I found myself in a group, all of whom were much more experienced, far better informed and distinctly more articulate than I. So for once in my life I turned my pontificating down a notch or two (it used to go all the way to 11). As I looked round the table it was like being in a room of minor celebrities. Everyone of these people, I had seen at one time or another up, on the conference podia, plying their trade and speaking passionatly. I felt I almost knew some of them, just as when you meet a celebrity on the street you think you know and own a piece of them. Of course I didn't really know them but I was heartened that a few remembered me from my maiden conference speech this year (To think it was actually my maiden speech as a maiden!)
Anyway I soon settled into my company and surroundings. The room we using was called the library. Mainly because it contained a load of books! What with the erudite commentary on such lofty issues as European social directives and tacklinkg child poverty the whole affair had an academic ambience. Coupled with that because each of us was from a different region it was a bit like a low rent United Nations with different languages replaced by all the major dialects of the UK. The best part of the seminar was the dinner event. We had pre dinner drinks and an evangelical speaker on Child Povery at the dinner. Perversly the drinks were in The Chapel and The semon with the dinner was in the Library. I thoroughly enjoyed the whole event and came home enthused about my role in the Union and determined to get much more involved at a national level.

A Stroke Too Far

This morning I went swimming again for the first time in a week. Its not lack of motivation but opportunity that has got in the way. While struggling to find a clear path through the bobbing water treaders I started to think it was time for a new stroke to be invented. After all we've had Crawl, Back, Breast and the poor relation and far too difficult Butterfly for ages. I initially experimented by combining back and breast stroke which ended up with me colliding with everyone in my path. I also toyed with swimming on my side with similarly poor results. However I am not deterred yet and will try more next time, after all 2012 is but a few years away and we have the chance to include a couple of new sports.

Joke of the week : curtousy of Michael, Vicky's cousin who joined us for a curry last night (I had to make do with omelette, on my diet) : How do you turn a duck into a soul singer? Put it in a microwave till it's Bill Whithers

Capybara fact of the week : Capybara's Latin name is, Hydrochaeris hydrochaeris.

Fat Watch latest: Down 2.5 lbs to 25 stone 3.5 pounds

Stock Market latest : Down 500 points to "We're all doomed !"

.....and finally.....

At least I got a kiss this week

Things I Never Learnt At School

Round at Vicky’s the other day, a minor but painful injury got me thinking how ill prepared I still am, for this life I've chosen.

Whilst playing with her half Crocodile, half Tasmanian devil, half Tigger, in dog form, Spartacus ( I guess that makes him a dog and a half!). This Hound of the Disaster-Villes managed to jump up and kick me in a very specific place. Now suffice to say that my cry explained it all. “Ouucchh my bloody bollocks!!” Now it is some years since I have had to refer to these particular unfortunate parts of my anatomy, but I don’t have any other term that would have done justice to the moment of anguish. Thankfully, only Vicky was present but if this had happened in public I imagine it would have been the quickest most sure fire way to out myself.

There is nothing in life that can prepare you for such an incident. I struggle to think of which lesson in schooling would deal with correct term to use for post transition canine inflicted testicular trauma. Mind you it would still be more use than leaning logarithms. I have also attended a few first aid and CPR training sessions with n'er a hint of dog/gonad related advice. The truth is, when you transition you are on your own. The NHS is there of course, but it's mainly concerned with the finer points of hormones and surgery. The practicalities of surviving transition are mainly down to trial and much error. There is no book of etiquette to avoid embarrassment, no Sat Nav for the journey ahead, no Haynes Manual to help with the repairs. There really must be a market out there for a Transitioning for Dummies book. Now of course this old world wide internet thingy is chock full of mainly conflicting advice and opinion. There is also the odd support group dotted around the nation (some odder than usual), but for many of us, transitioning is a complete leap into the dark. Ironically it’s often the light rather than the dark that is the problem, particularly when you are starting off with dodgy makeup. Oh for the joy of transition in an arctic winter of near permanent darkness. Well, I'm 4 years PT (Post Transition) right now and still trial-ing and error-ing and I think still learning

Lessons learnt since Transition

1. There is no appropriate female alternative "ouch my bloody bollocks".
2. Talking loudly to your friend in the next toilet cubicle is unadvisable when you have not practiced your speech therapy drills.
3. Speech therapists are geniuses but not miracle workers.
4. Never carry a tub of low fat cottage cheese in your handbag for obviousmessy reasons.
5. Likewise never carry a bottle of perfume with a loose stopper in your bag for nice smelling but ultimately expensive reasons.
6. Tights are rubbish!
7. Size 10 is a stupid size for a foot.
8. The sexiness of of a pair of heels is directly proportionate to their un-wear-ability.
9. Colour coordination is a triumph of luck over judgement.
10. Black is only really slimming if worn in the dark
11. The largest rodent in the world is the Capybara.
12. A NHS that puts you on a Cervical Screening target list while still deciding whether to fund Gender Reassignment Surgery is clearly mad.
13. The faster you want NHS treatment, the longer it takes.
14. The most terrifying term in the English language is Genital Electrolysis
15. You can excuse all manner of moody behaviour on hormone therapy.
16. For every hormone induced inch gained on the bust, 2 go south to the belly.
17. Becoming a woman does not cure an inherent un-domesticity.
18. The Capybara comes from South America
19. Hair styled perfectly in the morning lasts only as far as the front doorstep
20. The Capybara exhibits coprophagy (it eats it's own poo)
21. Becoming a woman does not cure an inherent geekiness.
22. Quick drying nail varnish is a lie.
23. Liquid Eyeliner is an evil conspiracy concocted by eye surgeons
24. And finally, there are other aspects to life than gender.

All that said and done, the main thing I've learnt since transition is that having that becoming a woman is liberating, satisfying, comforting, exhilerating and just downright fabulous.

....Fat Watch latest......

This weeks strict regime of dieting and swimming has produced an amazing loss of 1 lb, plummeting my weight to 26 stone 6 pounds. This is a loss of 0.27% of my total body weight. I could have done better by removing my nail varnish and shaving my legs!!

Something Snapped

Actually 2 things snapped today, but I needed a better (snappier, if you like) title.

The first thing that went ping was my tenuous grip on my status within the workplace. Stick with me because its all a bit complicated and in no small measure   quite dull. Now our staff side, Trade Union arrangements are a little unusual. My Union branch covers 3 NHS trusts and I work for one of them. I am full time released, and my employer pays my salary to do Union work. We have an agreement that means I also represent the staff in the other 2 trusts. As a quid pro quo arrangement other reps from other unions who work for these other trusts are allowed to represent within my employer...Still with me ?... Anyway costs aside this arrangement has always worked well. Now since my employer engaged a consultant to look into HR matters, there is now a proposal to end this agreement. This means that I personally would not be able to represent my members from the other 2 Trusts and there are about 1200 of them. Now this has caused me a huge headache, because within these other 2 Trusts we have only a handful of reps whereas within my employer we have a good number of experienced reps.....I know this is hard work, but think of me writing this dirge....So, I have had to consider moving my employment to one of the other NHS Trusts.

So I come to today. Well, it was Open Trust Board Meeting today, which as it suggests is the premier meeting with all the Trust's directors, open to the public and as the Staff side lead, I have a seat at this meeting. So when the meeting was over and the public (well 2 people) had left, I asked rather pompously if I could address the board. This is where my grip on appropriate behaviour finally gave out. I then launched into a grandiose diatribe as to how I was being forced to consider leaving my employer of 20 years. This was complete with a quivering lip as I espoused how I love the Trust in which I had been able to complete my transition, and how I worried for the future of it's industrial relations. To some mildly stunned faces I then turned on my heels and exited stage left. Looking back now I have no real idea why I behaved like such self indulgent melodramatic diva. Its little wonder I didn't start with "I have a dream" and end with "All we have to fear is fear itself". For the love of all things holy, this is after all just a middle size NHS Trust and I'm just an over size Trade Unionist. Anyway sitting here tapping away I now feel such complete twit. Still done is done.

The second snap was an altogether more practical matter. To try and get some perspective back and to have a go at shifting a couple more ounces I went swimming. By now I am pretty relaxed about this swimming lark and by and large I think I have passed ok with little fuss. This evening the pool was very full, but I found a narrow clear patch in which to plough up and down. As I splashed away I noticed that I was getting a few strange looks, but  soon dismissed it as my neuroses. The next thing I noticed was that the left strap on my costume kept sliding off my shoulder, but again dismissed it from my mind. Good Grief sometimes I am slow on the uptake. What had happened was that the strap on my costume has snapped at the back and was flapping about and thereby exposing more that any girl wants to in a public pool! I guess the constant struggle my costume has with the laws of physics exerted by my body, finally took its toll and the inevitable happened. The sudden realisation stopped me in my tracks (or wake more like). I held station treading water, clasping my cossie across my left breast, looking across the crowded pool thinking how on earth could I make my way out with a shred respectability left intact. I considered just treading water for the next 2 hours until everyone had left. However I found a solution. I managed to tie the loose strap round the back of my neck to the last remaining fully functioning strap. This left my costume in a sort of half Halter neck asymmetrical design. Its sounds odd, but it worked. In fact it worked so well that not only did it cover what needed covering but I was a actually able to resume swimming for a bit. I am now left with the dilemma. Do I attempts my usual ham fisted sewing and reattach the strap or do I cut the other strap and then tie around the back of my neck in full Halter glory.

Passing Pebbles, Dropping Stones

This week I bought a dress. Not the most earth shattering scoop of the year, but for me it was quite an achievement. Somehow dresses and me have never quite seen eye to eye. Its all a matter of shape and my shape is completely at odds with the requirements of  wearing a frock. Its not that I don't like dresses, I am after all a T girl of some 30 years standing, but now my dressing habits are mostly driven by necessity and practicality I wont buy anything that I can't be seen out in. Back in the day as a closeted T-something (not really sure what I was) I would buy any old rubbish that looked girly and fitted. The worst was a blue sequined long affair that even Margo from the Good Life (sorry Alan and the rest of the US, for the peculiarly British cultural references) would have turned down!

Anyway, where was I. Well what with all the dieting and swimming stuff, I have lost a bit of weight under my bust that means I now have a more dress compatible shape, and last Sunday, shopping in Telford, I found a long black and white dress that actually fitted me, looked ok, and could even be appropriate for work. So, there you are, I am now looking and waiting for the right occasion to go out befrocked. Somehow this, like the swimming has become another mile-pebble (not quite big enough to be a mile stone!). This pic left is the dress in question (Durrrh!). It needs to be noted that my hair is fresh from the Chlorine flavoured swimming pool, and if you look closely I have the telltale nose bridge redness from my goggles.

Now I have passed another pebble this week (I have just realised how painful that sounds! I really must give up eating stones) I actually had my hair done in a proper hair salon. Yes I know I have been sans wig for a couple of years now, but I have always had my hair done round at my friend Debbie's. I must admit going to the hairdressers felt a bit like cheating on Debs, but I was on the spur of the moment during a free afternoon (sounds like an excuse every cheating husband would use). I have ended up with my hair in a layered bob. On the subject of Bob I have just realised where the phrase Bob Mode comes from. Now those you you who frequent the Transgender forums will have come across this term for dressing and appearing in male mode. It was watching Blackadder Goes Forth   and there was the episode where a girl poses as a man to join the British Army (also in Blackadder II) and she goes under the name "Bob". Anyway back to the hairdressers. I felt completely out of my depth and every question posed by the hairdresser was met with a "whatever you think best". I really after this time should have a better idea about my Barnett. I fact I was so compliant and subservient that I ended up buying very expensive salon endorsed shampoo and conditioner to sort out my apparently greasy roots but dry ends (even my follicles have identity confusion!). To be honest I would have probably bought or signed up to anything at that moment, so its a good job they don't do replacement windows or timeshare.

I have recently posted some pretty dreadful photos on here recently what with swimsuits, multiple chins and wonky eyes. So to balance thing up a bit here is a pic of my new hair do taken from that most flattering of angles, above my head and with skin blemish disguising flash . As you can see, the camera most definitely does lie. I have also decided I am going to post my weigh in results from my Slimming Club in the hope that exposure to the World Wide Wottsit will give me every incentive to carry on and also another excuse for a table . My target for the Gender Thingy Surgery is around 16 stone, so I have a way to go, but considering when I weighed in the same time last year at an eye-watering 29 stone 10 pounds (I was almost disappointed not to make the big 30!), I know I can do it hopefully this decade!

DATE	WEIGHT stones - lbs	CHANGE llbs
17/9/08 ( proper way round USA)	26 - 7.5 lbs	-----
24/9/08	26 - 1	-6.5
03/10/08	25 - 11.5	-3.5

Of Cats And Men

Well another week over and another week less to live. I am normally a cup half full type person, but right now that cup is half full , but of sour milk!

The first souring agent is work. I've had one of those weeks. The other day I managed to lumber myself with representing members at 2 separate disciplinary hearings on the same day, separated by 1/2 hour and 12 miles, both with the possibility of dismissal. The final score was, Jenny 1-1 Management, which I guess was about right. Still, my head was spinning by the end. I am now sitting looking at the paperwork for another hearing I'm in the middle of which consists of 500 pages of documentation! Gord knows how I am going to get through it. I am notorious for being cack handed with paperwork and it's guaranteed that by the end of the hearing the hole of the lower East side of Stoke-on-Trent will be liberally papered with incomprehensible management casework.

The rest of the week was hardly much better as I went head to head (or Manno-a-Tranno) with my latest nemesis. He is an example of a new phenomenon of in the NHS, a "Turnaround" management consultant. He seems hell bent in making my working life less workable and wrecking all our hard work, forging good industrial relations. Well I held my own (well no one else was going to offer), and I left the battle of wits (witless in my case, more like), battered but not bowed.

The second souring factor is my almost totally futile assault on the dating world. The initial surge of email contacts (well about 20) has dries to a trickle but to be honest none of the offers and proposals were all that tempting. I am now composing my Posts on Windows Live Writer software, which means I can do crazy things like insert a table! So here goes with a statistical analysis of my dating prospects so far

INITIAL CONTACT or OFFER	FREQUENCY	CHANCES OF MY RESPONSE
"Do You Do Cyber ? "(apparently people do still use the word Cyber!)	10%	100/1
"I Like Your Profile / Smile / Cat"	22%	7/1 oooh close
"Can I be your slave"	4%	33/1 well might get some housework done
"My Wife Encourages Me To Meet T-Girls"	4%%	1000/1 Does she really?
My mobile is 077..... blah blah blah	9%	50/1
Do you have a cam ?(presumed to be web cam and not a cam belt)	7%	100/1 if its a web cam 10/1 for cam belt (I do like a petrol head)
Hi, I'm a bald, 50 y/o, bus driver. Can accommodate when mother is out	14%	33/1 well least he is mobile
unfunny_usename69 has sent you a quick flirt (followed by a clip art rose or some such)	30%	50/1 Put some effort in boys!
Hi, I'm Hugh Jackman / Laurie / Grant (delete as applicable)	0%	Done it already!

As you can see a tempting array of offers. Anyway enough about the men

So What about the Cats.

Save The Mildred Five Campaign Update - Despite my pleas for clemency the 5 kittens are still due to be parted. To be fair to Vicky she does have a big enough menagerie and so far I have resisted her urges to take one as a pal for Gammo. This means there are still 3 up for grabs to a good home

As you can see here, the 3 as yet homeless kitties hold the down the one who ruined their previous attempts at recreating Bohemian Rhapsody (see previous). Either that or the middle kitty is really long and twisty.

I think it will be easier to find homes if they had names rather than just "kitties", so any suggestions would be welcome.

No Running, No Splashing, No Bombing, No Petting

Well I did it. Today I went swimming.

Its been a strange brew of the rekindled feelings. There was a mix of the nerves and excitement that came with my first steps out in public as Jenny, a pinch of self satisfaction from clearing my hurdle, a soupcon of embarrassment for making such a fuss, and a good dollop of school days nostalgia.

The nerves and excitement are obvious from my previous post and thankfully the nerves didn't last long. The municipal baths were at the grandly named Fenton Manor Leisure Centre. (Fenton is the one town of Stoke that Arnold Bennet missed out in his Annie of Five Towns. I cant ever recall it having a manor though). It had definitely been tarted up from the last time I visited, about 8 years ago. The main difference is that it now has a new shared sex changing room with dozens of private cubicles, each with a token operated locker. This was very different from my time at Cheadle Swiming Baths when I was at school, where we all sat on wooden slatted benches and as a chubby awkward boy I found the whole naked except for speedos changing room experience a real ordeal. Especially being such a gender confused boy. In those days, clothes and effects used to be stowed in small plastic baskets and handed over to an attendant behind the desk. Each basket had a number and I always forgot mine and had  to wait back till everyone else had reclaimed their belongings thereby extending the ordeal.

Well back in the now, I changed in my roomy,warm cubicle and stuffed all my clothes into the locker. Once out, I took one last look in the changing room mirror, tummy sucked in and boobs thrust out I strode straight into the pool area. This changing room led straight out to poolside, without that shallow sheep dip of cold, disinfected water that was a feature of my boyhood swimming pool.

The pool was relatively busy, mainly with the kids. The tricky bit was always going to be poolside, but I remembered that confidence is the biggest disguise so I strode with a purpose. I gingerly made my way down the pool ladder to the sanctuary of the water. Once I had found a lane devoid of child obstacles, after a brief bout of water treading I struck out to do some meaningful swimming.

As I slowly crawled through the water my mind wandered. All the trimmings aside, this was just like that pool of old. There was the same diving platform with a permanent "Temporarily Out Of Use" sign. The same stern lifeguards with their whistles and frowns of authority. That same stinging chlorine flavoured water (man has come along way in the 30+  years since my first swim, what with the internet, mobile phones et al, but we have never found an odourless, stingingless, tasteless substitute for Chlorine) and of course that same sign listing the most serious of swimming pool crimes. Sadly, "No Petting" seems to have vanished from the Do Nots. I guess that's the permissive society for you.

After a hour I was flagging so it was time to get out. That signaled  reemergence of my nerves. How had my makeup fared from the experience? Would I emerge from the pool with that telltale and unflattering stubble shadow. There was absolutely no way to know so I just had to braced myself. I clambered inelegantly out of the water and scurried back to the changing room and stood in front of the full range mirror. I was delighted to see that my cover stick and foundation cover had pretty much survived (Boots No7  Quick Cover in dark and Maybelene Superstay foundation in Cameo). The only problem was that I hadn't used waterproof mascara so standing there, wet through, hair  bedraggled and blackened eyes, I looked like a cross between an Elephant Seal, Meatloaf and a Panda. However most important of all I still looked relatively womanly (I hope).

As I sat drying off in my cubicle, the self satisfaction I mentioned kicked in. I know it sounds smug, but I was really pleased with myself. Although, swimming is a relatively mundane everyday activity, it was the one thing I had avoided since transitioning. Now I've done it, there is no area of my life that I compromise through being transgendered. This was the very last, small missing jigsaw piece of my public Transitioning. So if I ever get round to finishing the Becoming Jen post thread this could be the full stop.

Swimming Against The Tide

Well I suppose the title could be a good metaphor for most of my life, but this post is about more prosaic matters.

I have crumbled in the face of much urging and rejoined a local Slimming World Club (its not a typo slimming as in diet club). I first joined the club the same time last year for about 3 months and did pretty well. However my arrogance kicked in and I thought I could do without the club and save myself five quid a week, but I have just spent this year deluding myself that I was on a diet plan and pretty much failing. So now I am back on the diet club wagon. Me and an old friend Heather went along last Wednesday. Now before I used to just do the weigh in and then go, but Heather rightly wanted to stay for the meeting that followed. The meeting was taken by a tiredly chirpy lady called Vicky and involved her reading out the results of each member to either applause if they had lost, and brief sympathetic silence if they had put weight on, before they were probed softly about this week on the diet and how they were going to continue or improve the next. Each comment passed was complemented by knowing nods and mummers of agreement from around the room. Anyway whatever was said worked because I left the room enthused at the challenge ahead. I do have another motivating factor in that I will need to get down to a target weight of around 16 stone before I can have that crucial rewiring surgery, I need

I started to think that if I was going to make real progress towards my target then I need to add some meaningful exercise to my diet. The one form of exercise that I has worked for me in the past is swimming. Now going to the swimming baths is almost the Holy Grail of post transition passing. For 99.87% (always a stickler for accuracy) of my life now I don't really pay any thought to my gender identity or even worry if I pass or not (I have worked out that I now pass totally at a minimum distance of 7 m), but passing in public in a swimming costume!! well that will need some thought planning and a smidgen of courage. However once I had started to think about it I would have been disappointed to bottle out. So....yesterday I went out and bought my first ever swimming cossie. It was a struggle to find one as there are few shops that stock my size and most of the swim wear has been put back in the stock room to make room for Christmas party frocks. My new Costume is black (always a plus) fairly low cut with black and white print straps that go across the neckline. I have, after much deliberation included the pic right. Now my real worries on wearing a swimming costume in public are 7 fold:

1. Clingy swimsuit material is never going to make me look anything but lumpy.
2. Have my hormones given me some sort of passable shape
3. Without a bra pushing my boobs up will they just disappear compared to my tummy.
4. Any unwanted unsightly overlooked hairiness
5. Can I find any makeup cover that can survive the dipping
6. Duh duh duhhhh...Can what's left of my, shall we say, frontal furniture, be at all noticeable.
7. I think 7 fold has a better ring than 6

Well I decided I needed some advice so yesterday afternoon I went around my closest friends and made them view a brief Miss World style Swimwear Round. Thankfully the general response is that I looked okish. In fact I looked kinda like a normal overweight woman, which although is not flattering in itself, is the look I was going for. Although from the pic on the right this swimsuit make me look miserable! The important thing is, that it was felt I be able to pass. To be honest I was surprised at the results. I have never really looked at my shape post hormones but my figure definitely has a degree of femininity about it. My fat deposits have tended to go south, and I would definitely be described as pear shaped (Actually more like a bag of pears shaped), but it is defiantly more female than male. The biggest concern was that the costume flattened my boobs, so I am debating whether I can secrete some form of bra support underneath. All that taken in I have committed myself to visiting the pool this week, and am genuinely excited at the prospect.

Goodbye Blackberry Day

* A short reply sent from a handheld blackberry thingy *----- Original Message -----From: Harvey, JennyTo: 'jenny.2000@hotmail.co.uk' Sent: Wed Sep 17 00:49:17 2008Subject: Goodbye blackberry day

I now have a new toy in my collection. In their wisdom unison have provided be with a blackberry smartphone thingy, so today I am practicing my mobile emailing skills or "Blogging on The Go"

7.30 am. Sitting on the car park of the north staffs hotel killing 20 minutes before my train. Even after 3 years of full time womanhood I still can't accurately gauge how long it will take me to get ready in the morning. 3 still swing between being annoyingly early and very annoyingly late for morning appointments.

7.53 am sitting in my reserved seat in the last carriage of the train. On the plus side there is nobody shoehorned next to me. Its not that I don't relish company but I always feel sorry for the poor sod who is stuck on with my left shoulder an inch from their nose for 200 miles. Mind you its not as bad as when I walk down a plane to the frightened stares of 'I hope she's not next to me' . Second plus is that I am travelling backwards which I always feel is safer in the event of a head on crash! On the downside this carriage has the resigned despondent air of a Lehman Brothers (or insert latest banking giant to go bust) staff party . 2 hours so its headphones on for an episode of the genius ''down the line '' and remember I am from a military background

9.45 am walking from euston I have discovered that walking and emailing at the same time is both diffiklut and <screech of brakes> dangerous.

10 am Sitting in meeting room just found out that the meeting is not until 11 am. Clearly the secret of my success is not attention to detail!I am debating whether it is rude and bad form for me to have half an hours power nap (snooze)1 pm meeting done and dusted. Sadly snooze never happened due to others arrival. I have rescheduled snooze for the train journey home

1.35 pm the train has just left (thankfully with me on it )I have just scoffed an oversize cheeseburger and managed an incredible feat of self justification and downright delusion that it is in fact fits in with my diet.

2.17 rooting through my handbag I have just realised I am carrying 3 separate camera devices. My own mobile (5 mega pixels) by blackberry (2 mp) and my camera (10 mp). Modern living is clearly mad! I have a ridiculous 17 mp at my disposal, but the sadly photographic skill of a blind chimp with an inner ear balance problem.

2.45 pm I am now feeling very dizzy. This is because I set myself the pointless challenge of photographing myself through a camera, a camera phone, a Blackberry and a mirror. This proved more difficult than first envisaged due to an insufficient number of hands and a train that wouldn't keep still. As you can see (when I upload pic) the fruits of my endeavour are very poor to say the least, but there is a blurry bit of me showing.

4.30 pm On vickys sofa. Taking a hours break before returning to the office. Dizzy head has now been replaced by a stress headache caused by the night to come. Indulged in some dog fighting (literal not aviatory) with the part canine part Graboid from the film Tremors that is Spartacus, Vicky's dog.

6 pm back in office 'preparing' for monthly branch meeting. This is my ritual battering on behalf of our members. As usual my preparations involve frantic last minute photocopying. Just realised my carefully applied makeup of 12 hours ago was now looking tired (absolutely knackered more like) so some last minute plastering takes place.

10pm home on sofa trying to eat a diet kebab while gammo vainly tries to nick the 'meat '. All that lies between me and a degree of sanity is 500 pages of documents for a hearing that I am representing at tomorrow. I should probably get a good nights sleep but my head is still spinning from my meeting so I am going to indulge in some Wentworth Miller therapy, and watch the last 2 episodes of Prison Break.

* A short reply sent from a handheld blackberry thingy *

The Silence Of The Kittens

A survey of the subject of my posts that have elicited the most comments on average, has produced the following.

SUBJECT	AVERAGE No COMMENTS
My Transgender Struggle	10 (sadly also my shoe size)
Cute Cats and Kittens	92
Dating Disasters	68
Trade Union Stuff	1 (and that was me)
Fun With Physics	6.626 x 10(-34) or h
Blogging on Blogging	3
Moaning about Rail Travel	20 (minutes late)
The Mighty Stoke City FC	3-2 (vs The Villa)
vck43e6t2t26tttttttttttttttt	3332www (kitten on laptop)

On this basis I should now concentrate solely on dating and cats (please note the important and). However, since my dating and cat owning history still stand at 1 apiece this may amount to a very short and dull blog (obvious self joke to be inserted at readers discretion). Well today's post will be cat based anyway

Well this weekend I am menagerie sitting for Victoria, who has so wisely chosen to go camping in North Devon during the rainiest late August since records began (don't know if its true but you get the point).

Well I have just completed the morning roll call.

Duncan Rabbit & Dave Guinea pig, check; Spartacus the huge and stupid puppy, check; Mildred and indeterminate no of kittens (5 is best guess), check. As yet unnamed bathroom based spider, check.

So far so good. However there is one downside to sharing a house with such a menagerie and that is the incessant noise. I have just spent all night sleeping in the same room with the whole feline contingent of the household who have all insisted on mewing constantly or in the case of Mildred purring loudly. Some of the kittens are also getting more confident so when I awoke I had the 3 bravest perched on various parts of my body. They also seem to be multiplying. There are supposed to be 5 but I swear at one stage there were double that. I am begining to think that Mildred has actually mated with a Tribble. All said, the kittens are still annoyingly, achingly cute it's hard to stay mad at them for long. They are each developing different characteristics the 2 biggest and darkest are the leaders and will venture as far as the front door at the bottom of the stairs. The next 2 in size and courage generally take station half way up the stairs. I think these may be cleverest of the bunch and the smallest and timidest will usually stay at the top of the stairs with mother Mildred. My biggest fear this weekend is avoiding any squashage either underfoot or rolling in bed. So far I have thankfully avoided this....so far.

A failed attempt by the kitten clan to recreate the Bohemian Rhapsody video

Join My Campaign

Save The Mildred Five. Don't let the kittens be parted!