The new Flickr

They've just revamped Flickr in a major way (see http://connect.dpreview.com/post/1636474797/flickr-update-terabyte-android-app?news), so that one's Flickr Photostream pictures are now presented quite differently - still in upload sequence, but as a mosaic of shots without gaps between them, not all the same size, and without captions.

I think it's meant to enable many more pictures to be seen at one go, and to maximise the use of screen space.

You can of course still find out everything you need to know about a shot (including the caption) by clicking on it, but my first reaction is that hiding information about the picture is a great loss. Assuming a proper caption, how will you be able to tell at a glance, without moving the mouse pointer around, exactly who or what is in the picture? And what is the point of inventing a witty caption, if it won't be shown? But no doubt we will all get used to it.

Apparently the people behind Flickr were losing money, and decided that it needed a massive makeover. It's now much more phone- and tablet-friendly, which is fine if all you really want is a gallery of shots to scroll through.

But there are complaints already that by going in that direction, Flickr has moved away from a presentation that professionals would prefer. Well, two things here: (a) no pro would ever expect to sell anything from Flickr: they'd do that from their own website, and charge accordingly, and of course no marketable shots would ever be placed on Flickr itself; and (b) the new presentation is very reminiscent of the 'lightbox' used to view transparencies in the old days, when a selection of images was being made for possible publication - and so in that sense the new-style Flickr Photostream is not at all 'unprofessional'.

The money-making endeavour will now include thrusting advertisements at Flickr users if they have the bog-standard Free version, which all new Flickr users (or existing non-Pro users) will get by default. It does however come with a terabyte of space to fill, which represents an awful lot of photos.

If you don't want ads, then you must pay about £35 a year to have an Ad Free account, or, if you want two terabytes and no ads, then it's about £350 a year for a Doublr account. Existing Pro users (I'm one) can carry on indefinitely, paying about £17 a year for no ads and unlimited space, easily the best deal.

All users will get finer rendition than before, to show off their work to the best advantage. I have to agree that looking through my own pictures is now a better experience than ever. One wonders what investment in computing power must have been made to make things this good!

It just shows how photo-conscious the world has become. Is there anything, from the Oklahoma tornado damage, and the desperate parents, to today's London street shooting, that isn't instantly caught on camera by dozens of nearby people, all using their phones as cameras? It seems that Flickr management implied in their announcement of the new-style Flickr presentation that professional photography was dead. They got into trouble for that, and quickly modified their message, but I do think they had a point. There are certainly circumstances when a 'specialist photographer', who will be a professional, is needed - in scientific, medical and engineering contexts, for instance; and some will go on securing work from weddings, pop concerts, fashion, and shooting catalogues. But in everyday life? What is left for a professional to do? Everyone has access to either a decent phone with a built-in camera, or, if the bug has taken them, they possess a proper camera capable of amazingly good results.

Cameras have been good enough for all normal purposes for several years now. The camera I use (my Leica D-Lux 4) was bought in June 2009, and was first launched in October 2008. It has a 10 megapixel sensor and an f/2 zoom lens, and it's small and light and fits in my bag, so I always have it with me. It's taken over 38,000 shots so far, and I'm hoping it will last until 2015, when I can afford a replacement. It will no doubt have taken 50,000 shots by then. But if it's still going strong, and nothing special is on the market, I shall stay with it, and defer replacement until there is some technological breakthrough that genuinely warrants spending £600, or £700, or whatever it will cost.

It was all very different in the days of film photography. Very few people could afford to blast away with shot after shot, because film, and development and processing, was so expensive. Good cameras were the province of keen amateurs, who shaded off into frank professionals. The rest of us made do with shoddy plastic things with plastic lenses that relied on flashcubes in all but bright sunshine. Only professionals had the negative and print storage problem nailed.

It's a sobering thought that only a tiny proportion of the millions of pictures taken prior to the digital age will ever be 'published' so that the rest of the world can enjoy them. So different nowadays, when shots can be taken and posted to Flickr (or anywhere on the Internet) in an instant, for all to appreciate. Billions of them. And the cameras can ensure that they are at least technically good shots. 

What happens if Flickr ever folds, though?

Bulging bodices, bluebells and bombast

A couple of days ago I went off to Chiddingly (which you pronounce 'chidding-lye', and not 'chidding-lee'), a village set in a very rural area between Uckfield and Hailsham.

It was a warm and sunny afternoon, and my prime objective was the parish church. This has a very tall spire made of stone, which is unusual, because stone spires are very heavy and tend to fall. This one has however lasted six centuries, and indeed survived the effect of a V1 flying bomb that the Germans sent over in 1944, and which shook up a marble memorial inside the church.

As you must have gathered by now, I like history, and the best places outside museums to see very old things are the churches scattered around the countryside. They are usually open, and there is no charge to go inside, although I do sometimes make a donation, or pay for a candle if I want to sit a while and think of my parents; or just be still and think.

Apart from their historical interest, each country church has a subtly different character, and each has a hushed atmosphere of peace, very suitable for contemplation. I avoid times when a service might be going on, but I don't mind encountering any of the people who look after the church, such as a voluntary cleaner or flower-arranger. But best of all I like to have these places to myself. Or at least myself plus whatever other Invisible Presence there might be.

Sometimes I do feel like an intruder, even a trespasser. But most country churches seem very welcoming, very much the gentle, mellow sanctuary. And in return I treat them with huge respect, walking about them carefully with soft footsteps, and trying very hard not to break the spell. Very few churches are in any way forbidding or threatening, with a tense and watchful atmosphere and little unsettling noises that could make you feel uncomfortable. But they do exist. I don't revisit them.

Chiddingly was actually a bit of a find. It's a strung-out kind of place, with its 'modern' focus at Muddles Green, and the older, original centre a bit up the road, where the Six Bells pub, the church, and a now-closed-down drapers and grocers form a traditional nucleus. It's very leafy, and from the churchyard, between the trees, you can see a wide open space where cricket is played. In fact, a game was in progress during my visit, the white-clad bowler throwing perfect balls, and the batsman making perfect clunking sounds with his bat. I didn't see any runs made, but perhaps nobody cared. It was entirely in keeping with the slow-paced, sunny afternoon full of pollen and bees and butterflies.

Inside the church, the chief interest is a large marble and alabaster memorial to members of the Jefferay family, although this is only the most prominent of a number of monuments and floor slabs and plaques that are scattered around inside the church. It was erected in 1612, four hundred years ago:

In the middle, lying down, are (top) Sir John Jefferay, who had high office under Queen Elizabeth I and died in 1578, and (underneath him) his wife Alice, who died in 1576. Standing to the right is their daughter, Elizabeth, who died in 1611; and standing to the left, her husband Sir Edward Montagu, who died in 1644. The little figure right at the bottom, possibly kneeling on a stone cushion, is in fact a child: Edward and Elizabeth's daughter, also named Elizabeth. She died in 1654. Her mother, the older Elizabeth (standing, right) prevailed upon husband Edward to have this memorial created 'in memory of her discent and ofspring' as the plaque at the very top explains.

As I have remarked before, these stone figures are very strange. Are they meant to show the person in a pious pose? Well, they don't here. Sir Edward looks pretty self-important, and not at all humble and penitent, with his fine robes and haughty mien:

And his wife, Elizabeth, is herself rather smug and self-satisfied, and dressed in the height of early-1600s fashion:

The stone carvers have attempted to give her a big starched wing collar, a fan-shaped hairdo with ribbons in it, a super-tight bodice - so tight that her bulging boobs are fit to burst out at any moment - and a peplum at her waist that has become a horizontal platform, from which a pleated skirt hangs straight down, like the Victorians would drape a round table to hide the legs from view. Presumably the real-life skirt was supported by a hoop of some kind. A very odd fashion to modern eyes! Even odder, the little daughter is dressed exactly the same. At least the daughter is kneeling and praying. Her plump-faced mum certainly isn't.

You''ll notice the missing hands. All the parts of this monument that are within easy reach have suffered deliberate damage at some past point. The two most popular theories as to whodunnit have pointed the finger at (a) the Puritans in the Civil War, or, much later, at (b) simple country folk mistakenly thinking that the Jefferays were related to the hated and feared Judge Jeffries of Bloody Assizes infamy. But it may be that hands and other bits were knocked off in the Captain Swing riots of 1830. Here's a description of them from a website on the local history:

In 1830 there was a wave of agricultural unrest known as the 'Captain Swing Riots', which swept across Sussex from East to West in a matter of weeks. They took the form of machine-breaking, rick-burning, riotous assemblies and a great deal of damage was done to the property of parson and squire. Riots took place at Hellingly and Ringmer, the latter in the churchyard. The interior of Horsham Parish Church was badly damaged and it is not impossible that there was such an incident at Chiddingly, in the course of which damage was done to the monuments. The riots, which went on for two years in the South of England and East Anglia, provoked savage sentences from the courts. Over four hundred people were transported and nineteen hanged.

To my mind, Elizabeth's arms seem too large for her head and torso, and there is a theory that in order to get the monument finished quickly, an entire team of carvers were unleashed upon it, so there was bound to be a little inconsistency in style and skill here and there!

Another thing that caught my eye in the church was a brass plate set into the floor of the main aisle, commemorating the first John Jefferay who died in 1513 (that's my feet in the upper shot):

 

It reads:

Of yor charite pray for the soules of John Jefferay and Agnes his wife the which John decessed the xxviii day of Juyn the yer of Or lord M V xiii on whose soules Jhu haue mcy

It beats me how anyone ever thought that blackletter was easy to read! And presumably, to compound illegibility, each engraver formed his letters as he felt inclined, and spelled as he saw fit. At least it was in English. Jolly good-quality brass, though, considering that people have been treading on it since 1513!

Full descriptions of Chiddingly church and its monuments can be found at http://www.coopersfarm.co.uk/church/churchguide1.htm and http://www.coopersfarm.co.uk/church/nadfas2.htm.

Having checked out the church, I set off across a field, at first following the Wealdway footpath as the first leg of a clockwise jaunt to Muddles Green, and then back to where I had left Fiona near the church. It was so peaceful and pleasant. I came across woods with bluebells in them. Bluebells surely typify the English Springtime, and I am certain that those Brits who decide to live abroad in their retirement years must think of dewy bluebells with an aching regret for what they have left behind. You don't get 'em in sunny Spain or Tuscany or Greece, now do you? And I remember how M--- and I felt at that moment in our two-month holiday in New Zealand when, despite all the wonderful sights, we suddenly yearned for the shady woods of Sussex and a carpet of bluebells.

Here I am, with said bluebells in the background:

Gosh, I look a bit better (and happier) than I did a day or two previously, after an ill-conceived experiment with eye makeup that made my eyes water:

On the way back to Fiona, opposite the school at Muddles Green, I noticed a recreation field with an entrance between two brick columns. On one column was a shield with a somewhat forbidding message for the little local schoolchildren:

I've played around with the rendition of the shield, to make the words clearer. They say:

FEAR GOD
HONOUR THE KING
PLAY THE GAME
This entrance gate was presented to the children of this parish by Alan Richardson Esq of Bosham, and opened on the King's Jubilee May 6th 1935

I bet all the kids tugged their forelocks or curtsied, and said thank you to Mr Richardson - or else! Personally I think this is an outrageously intimidating bit of nonsense. A little child shouldn't be frightened to death by thoughts of an avenging deity, or an irascable monarch (it was George V), or a ridiculous public-school ethos that had been brutally discredited in the muddy, bloody trenches of Flanders twenty years previously.

It was easy to track down details of Mr Richardson and his family on the Internet - see  http://www.thekeffs.freeserve.co.uk/richardson.html. Despite the mention of Bosham (a village at the far western extemity of Sussex), Mr Richardson had strong links with Chiddingly. His father was a wealthy banker and stockbroker who considered himself the Chiddingly village squire during the late nineteenth century.

Alan Richardson himself was a Colonel in the army, a title he used till he died, so the schoolkids would have heard him referred to as 'Colonel Richardson', and they would have been suitably overawed. He must have been treated much like elderly Marshal Pétain was treated in France at the time - another old soldier with an unassailable reputation. Colonel Richardson lived from 1854 to 1942, so was aged 81 when he gave the village children these entrance gates.

I suppose I shouldn't blame him for holding God, King and Cricket so dear. His was a generation that venerated the myths and illusions of an Imperial Britain, and he clearly had a military mind to boot. Was he very much different in personal outlook from the Jefferays commemorated on their monuments inside the church?

Only a few miles away from Chiddingly is Hamilton Palace, the unfinished mausoleum of Nicholas van Hoogstraten, who made his millions as a ruthless landlord during the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s, before concentrating on his foreign interests. If it is ever completed - construction has stalled just now - this vast building will house Mr van Hoogstraten's art collection in a perpetual trust. It will outdo any memorial that other upcoming families of Sussex have ever devised in the past. But naturally Mr van Hoogstraten will have to pop his clogs before his mausoleum scheme will work.

I wonder if he has thought of a way around that. He's a very clever man if he has.

You know, it's the same old snag. No pockets in a shroud.

The joys of dilation

The title of this post may conjure up a memory of a book that was particularly popular in the 1970s and 1980s called The Joy of Sex, which attempted to demystify sex between hetero couples, and make it seem exciting and fun, instead of being filled with anxiety, and even fear. Well, I'm not going to embark on a comprehensive set of instructions - How To Dilate Successfully And Win Friends, or something like that. But there are some aspects to it that I do want to talk about.

Dilation isn't much discussed. I'm going to talk about that.

People who realise that they are transsexual, and may need to undergo surgery, soon hear about dilation, but then put it out of mind, unless someone reminds them of the horror to come. I remember being told more than once, 'Oh, you know, don't you, that you'll have to dilate forevermore once you've had the operation?' As if it were a vile thing, or at least a dreadful, soul-destroying chore that I would bitterly regret letting myself in for. A kind of lifelong penance for defiling my bodily integrity.

And even I, who had not shirked to find out all I could about What Happened After The Op, had no true notion what it would actually be like. How could one know? Dilation had no personal reality whatever before the operation. One could only read about it second-hand, on other peoples' blogs. Their posts suggested there were - especially at first - pitfalls aplenty: pain, mess, infection, technical problems, psychological problems, certainly issues with taking time out and ensuring privacy.

Looking ahead as well as one could, it seemed that dilation would hurt, and it was indeed a chore, a chore that could easily become a bore.

I encountered one person who had given up on dilation because it had eventually seemed too much trouble. Consequently, her vagina had closed up. What? All that work done for nothing? All that personal time and effort and emotion gone to waste? She told me that her dreams of finding someone special, a close and trusted sexual partner, had all come to nothing. So she had gradually departed from her dilating regime, and then abandoned it entirely. She was an older transioner, as I was. It wasn't encouraging.

At the time - this was four years ago - I didn't press her for more details. It seemed kinder not to. But in hindsight I ought to have quizzed her, so that I'd find out precisely why she did not keep on dilating, and - since she regretted losing a functioning vagina - what high hurdle of difficulty had stood in her way, and what she now felt she could have done to jump over it. Forewarned is forearmed, after all. But reticence to talk about it kept me ignorant. A great mistake. The experience of people who have gone before you is always valuable, even if your own hopes and temperament are different, and you know that you will surely manage matters in another way - and hopefully be more successful.

I had failed to question her because I felt it would be intrusive, and too personal, and too probing of confidential matters, even though she had volunteered the story of her vagina without my asking. It wasn't that I was too prudish to discuss it.

But the classic prudish Anglo-Saxon attitude to genitalia is alive and kicking, and makes it difficult for some people to speak about dilation. I find this unbelievable, not only because this is 2013 and not 1913, but also because you would think that by the time anyone had been through The Process they would have lost all inhibitions about discussing their bodies, and what you can do with them. But apparently not! Dilation (in essence, pushing a penis-shaped rod up one's vagina, to stretch and shape it) is simply a regular and necessary medical procedure: but for many persons it remains a very embarrassing subject indeed, something to shy away from - like how best to wipe one's bottom. Not fit for a normal conversation, however serious. It's just not PC, and some people will get huffy and annoyed if you want to talk about the sordid facts of dilation.

Another attitude that makes dilation difficult to discuss is its link with the Old Life. That is, that dilation would not be needed if one had been born a natal woman with a natural, self-maintaining vagina. So dilation becomes a symbol of Male Origin, something a lot of trans women would rather forget completely - and so discussing it is painful to them. I'm not pooh-poohing that kind of view, even though I most certainly don't share it. I can completely see how acknowledging that dilation exists, and must be done, and why, could drag somebody back to a period of their life that was hard to bear. At the same time, that's letting a word keep you prisoner of the past. And not all women who dilate are transsexual. Natal women who have had vaginoplasties for various other reasons may need to dilate too.

I prefer to regard dilation as a symbol of a wonderful future, as evidence that the old body is permanently gone, and remodelled into something new and right. The need to dilate is proof that I now have a vagina as good as anyone else's, a vagina that's ready for business. Dilation is merely one of the several things I do to it to keep it in fine fettle, such as washing it. Every time I dilate, I am assured that my female identity is a real-world thing: the surgery made it so, and dilation keeps on reminding me. No men dilate. Only women.

And what about the link that dilation might have with sex? The quick-and-dirty defintion above of what dilation is includes the words 'push' and 'penis' and, my goodness, doesn't that suggest something akin to sexual activity? Well, there's no denying that if you're feeling randy, a spot of dilation is better than nothing. But a dilator is not a sex toy.

Transitioners emerging from the Charing Cross Hospital in London after their op, or the Nuffield Hospital in Brighton, have a pair of colourless perspex dilators that resemble little glass missiles. They look like modern sculpures in clear plastic. There is nothing remotely sexy about them. You can call them Dilator number one, and Dilator number two, as if they were tools or machines. They are too functional to get excited over. I introduced a note of humour with mine, by giving them names: Little Joe and Big Jim. Strangely - and this reveals yet another odd attitude where dilating is concerned - I have had more than one rebuke for being so frivolous. One person told me that the name Big Jim reminded them of someone they knew, someone gross, and they disapproved of my choice of names. In fact I got a right telling-off for personalising my dilators. I was told it was in bad taste and highly inappropriate. They were not lovers, only things for 'maintenance'.

Oh dear. Presumably my latest and biggest dilator, Mungo, is beyond the pale. The 'problem' with Mungo is that he is 38mm in diameter, which is full penis size, and lately I have discovered that by attaching the screw-in ball to him, I can (with supreme confidence) push him in very nearly five inches. For me that's good. The ball makes a great difference: I seem to have gained an inch of depth by fixing it on. Here he is. Top picture, the full 'Mungo' kit, as supplied by online manufacturer/retailer Femistent in September 2011; middle picture, the current line-up of Mungo-plus-ball, KY gel, and the optional little extender; bottom picture, ready to go, with a super grip:

 

 

I think you'll agree that although not colourless, Mungo isn't an exciting shade of pink or purple or red, and we are still in the realm of serious medical equipment.

That said, I really can't see the difference between Mungo and a big fat dildo. Or putting this another way, what would be the big advantage in buying a purpose-made dildo, however fancy, when I have Mungo? I haven't tried a vibrator yet, so I can't say whether I'd be tempted to invest £40 or so in one of them. But so far as having a proper-sized thing to push inside me goes, I believe that I have it cracked with Mungo. And he'll see me out: Femistent are expensive, but they make dilators that will survive nuking, and I'm confident that centuries from now he'll be dug up by an archaeologist and end up in a display of Ritual Objects in some Museum.

I have one or two friends who are happy to talk playfully and lightheartedly about dilation, and their own experiences, but they are exceptional. Most keep silent. Considering that this is a major feature of post-op life, I find that very odd, and very frustrating.

Of course, if one has a vibrant sex life, maybe dilation might be unnecessary. The eternal problem there is, can one get penetrative sex often enough, and to the full depth? If the answer is no, or not always, then proper dilation is still needed.

If you are like me, and don't have any sex at all - or at least not yet - then dilation is part of your regular weekly routine. Nowadays I need to dilate only once a week, optionally twice. I make it twice, because it's a great chance to take a jolly good look at my bits and check that they continue to look pink and healthy. That's a sound medical reason in itself. Does it bother me that I'll need to dilate every week forever? Not a bit. Does it bother me that Mungo may be the only thing that will ever see the inside of my vagina? Nope. After all, Mungo behaves impeccably, is totally under my control, there is no mess, no bristle burn, no beer breath, no emotional fallout, and he lets me live my life as I wish between meetups. Who needs the 'real thing'?

A very special Italian bag

Four years ago, on 28 April 2009, I bought a shoulder bag in a shop in Florence, while on that cruise with Dad. It was intended as a gift for M---, who had been left behind in the UK. She was already distancing herself from me, and, being a person of principle, felt unable to accept a fairly expensive present when our relationship was, in her view, falling apart. I'd also bought her some amber jewellery, and she felt the same about that too.

So she returned the bag to me, and ever since then it has been lying unused in one of my bedroom drawers, inside its protective cotton bag.

It was impossible to part with it: it had been a gift for someone very special to me, and was completely associated with her. I absolutely couldn't pass it on to anyone else, nor donate it for resale. It didn't occur to me to use it myself - that seemed equally taboo.

And then, yesterday, I changed my mind. I was having a good sort-out of my wardrobes and cupboards and drawers, and was bundling things up to take to a local charity shop. I was determined to jettison anything that I never wore, or never used. But when it came to this bag, I still hesitated. M--- would never now ask me for it, but, as always, I could not part with it. All right then, why not start using it myself? So I have been. Or at least I will give it a week's intense trial, and then, if it works well, I'll adopt it as my main everyday bag (the black Prada bag being kept as always for posher occasions).

Here it is:

It really is bright orange, which makes it distinctive and eye-catching, and definitely not boring. The leather of the bag is quite thick, but pliable, although still stiff enough to let the bag stand up on its own, and not flop around. The brown leather strap is wide and substantial, with nice brasswork. The bag can be zipped shut, to keep out sneaky thieving Florentine fingers. Inside, there are two main compartments, both deep, separated by a zippable divider that sundry small odds and ends could go into. Two open pockets, and one stout zippable pocket. Purse, phone, camera and cosmetic bag presently go into one main compartment, along with with tissues and a spare camera battery in the open pockets; the other main compartment is available for such things as an umbrella, or a cardigan, and it also swallows my tablet with ease. It's a practical, well-designed bag that works equally well on either shoulder. 

The gimmick with this bag is that it is vegetable-tanned - presumably they used a carrot (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leather for a run-down on the different ways leather can be processed) - and it has a guarantee certificate that reads as follows:

This guarantee certifies that the leather used in this product has been processed with complete respect of both man and environment. The secrets of the vegetable extracts used in the tanning produces a slow and natural process which maintains the original properties of the leather unaltered, enhancing its quality and fragrance. The unique characteristics of the softness, warmth and resistance are assured over the course of time. In the antique heart of Tuscany, between Pisa and Florence, the tanners, loyal to this centuries old tradition, combine artisan craft with technological innovation. Always in harmony with nature for a better quality of life. Principals that the genuine Italian Vegetable-Tanned Leather Consortium defends and promotes.

While something may have been lost in translation, I still feel good that traditional artisans have defended their principals - or should that be principles?- when making the leather for my bag. I hope it will be a bag that lasts a long time, even though Wikipedia suggests that vegetable-tanned leather may not take kindly to the wet British climate. I don't want to trek back to the shop with a complaint. It was, by the way, a shop called Simone in the Via Dè Guicciardini, Florence, near the Ponte Vecchio. Google Maps and Google Street View can show you exactly where to find it:

I remember they were very civil to me in the shop, even more so after I'd handed over 115 Euros (at the time about £100). I'm sure they'd be just as civil to you too. In fact, to every tourist. Charming people, Florentines.

A bra strap extender, by my own fair hand

My neighbour J--- has from earliest times been a big fan of myself as Lucy, and has taught me several feminine skills. Recently she lent me a mail-order catalogue full of summer clothes. She thought I wasn't dressing to suit my fuller figure, which is similar to her own; and in the nicest possible way, was trying to nudge me in the direction of dresses and clothing combos that would disguise the flab, and yet look fantastic.

These clothes were generally a lot more feminine than I usually wore. I said to her that I'd been fighting shy of wearing anything too girly, on the basis that I couldn't get away with it. But, she said, 'Lucy, you're a proper girl nowadays, and you will look great wearing clothes like these - just like the ones I'm wearing'. Judging by what she actually had on, she proved her point amply.

I couldn't actually afford to buy anything in the catalogue, at least not in the run-up to my Northern Tour in June, but I had a jolly good look, absorbed the lesson, and said to J--- that as the year progressed my wardrobe would certainly get girlier. Meanwhile, I did already have some nice items that I hardly ever wore, which would give me the right look if I now dug them out and wore them with fresh confidence.

So henceforth there will be less emphasis on jeggings and plain body-clinging tops, and more in the way of patterned dresses and skirts and wide-legged trousers, and soft, elegant, flowing garments generally.

I did not neglect to see what the catalogue had on underwear, and noticed this page about finding the right bra size:

Now bras have always been a problem for me. In the beginning, there were only two peanuts fighting for survival, and no need for a bra at all. Then, under the influence of powerful hormones,  my breasts burgeoned to an AA cup. This was followed by catastrophic shrinkage, when I came off hormones for the Op in early 2011. But, since then, there has been extraordinary expansion, so that I now have a bosom that any thirteen year old girl would be proud of - a genuine A cup. But accompanied unfortunately by a general fattening-up of my top half (well, a fattening-up all over, if truth be told). Size 16 is here to stay. Top and bottom. Sigh.

You can see what I'm saying. A fairly substantial torso, but small breasts. Nightmare! Because not Marks & Sparks, nor Debenhams, nor any High Street retailer, ever stocks 40A or 42A bras. It's possible to buy teen bras that have an A cup, but not larger than a 36A. If you buy from, say M&S online, you can get a 38A, at least when I last looked. But even that is like having a tightly-bound chest. Trans guys, I think I know how you must feel.

I own one rather expensive unwired bra by Triumph, in a superior white satiny material, size 40A, bought online long ago. It was redundant until recently, when I discovered that, finally, I had grown sufficiently in the bust department to fill it. But now its strap feels slightly tight around my chest.

So I decided to make myself a bra strap extender.

You can buy these quite cheaply, of course, but I thought I could easily make one for myself by cannibalising one of two teen bras I no longer wore and had put away. Here's the one I didn't cannibalise:

Right then. Having taken one bra, home in on the fastenings, and snip them off neatly:

Then, sew the two bits together, taking care to get the hooks on the correct side of the joined-up extender:

Voilà, one bra strap extender! I make no pretence at being an expert seamstress, but this wasn't a bad sewing job at all, and I can see a career looming in attaching severed fingers and hands, and maybe even in vaginoplasty. Well, the extender did the trick with all my bras, taking the pressure off, and making them all a little more comfortable to wear.

One day, when I'm a little better-off, when the State Pension has begun, I'll treat myself to some expensive bras up in London that all fit properly. Till then, it's fun to make something out of what has been cast aside and is gathering dust in a cupboard.

Now what can you use old bra cups for?

No knickers will be worn to the ball

Last Friday, a fascinating programme appeared on BBC2, called Pride and Prejudice - Having a Ball. I watched enthralled. Radio Times said this about the programme:

A team of experts led by social historian Amanda Vickery re-create a Regency ball at Chawton House, Hampshire, where Jane Austen lived for eight years, in honour of the 200th anniversary of the classic novel. Amanda is joined by writer Alastair Sooke, a food historian, a costume expert, music history academics and a choreographer. Inspired by Austen's Netherfield ball from Pride and Prejudice, an event that plays a key role in the romance between Elizabeth Bennett and Mr Darcy, this documentary brings together the little that is known about such a social occasion.

What the last sentence means is that Jane Austen did not say much about what went on at the typical ball at a country house, taking it for granted that her readers would know. So a lot of research was needed to put together an authentic mix of candle lighting, costumes, dance steps, food, tableware, manners and social conventions that might have been observed if dropping in on a Hertfordshire ball held in the year 1813.

The author of the write-up has made a mistake with the name: it's Bennet, not Bennett. And I would say that that Alastair Sooke is actually an art historian and broadcaster, not just a writer. But never mind.

If, inconceivably, you have never read or even heard of Pride and Prejudice, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pride_and_Prejudice.

I really like this kind of TV programme, which deals in detail with what houses, clothes and food were really like in a given historical period. The historian Lucy Worsley has already presented several very engaging programes for the BBC in this general area, and has very much whetted my personal appetite for this way of bringing history alive. She particularly likes to delve into the period between 1660 and 1860 - from the Restoration to the middle years of Victoria's reign. So I was in fact surprised not to see a contribution from her!

It was however pleasing to see others present their own knowledge, such as how girls' dresses were sewn together. I'd seen Alastair Sooke's own art programmes, and had greatly enjoyed them, but I associated him chiefly with classical Rome, and was a bit puzzled as to why he was getting mixed up with a Jane Austen ball. That said, he definitely looked like the sort of tall, thin, youngish gentleman who might have attended such a ball, and although his attempts at the strenuous and complex dancing were a bit dodgy, he looked decidedly credible in his Regency togs.

The programme explained the costumes quite fully. I was naturally very interested in what the female ballgoers wore, bearing in mind that the ball was an all-important chance to for an unmarried daughter to impress one or more potential suitors, especially suitors of four thousand a year, or, in Mr Darcy's case, ten thousand. (In those days, of course, a fantastic income) So a girl had to look right. The high-waisted dress was in, the dress that pushed up the bosom and hung straight down to the ankles. Even if made of the finest material, and beribboned, it was really quite plain. It exposed only the chest and neck and lower arms, the upper arms being encased in a puff sleeve. Long gloves hid the hands and elbows. The very light dancing pumps worn on the feet were visible, but nothing of the legs could be seen.

A girl was well covered-up by a dress like that! A great aid to a becoming modesty and demureness. So it was a surprise to learn that although stockings might be worn on each leg, they were not like modern tights or leggings, and did not cover the genital area. Nothing did. These Regency girls wore no knickers! And in fact it was usual for a girl or a woman not to wear any kind of undergarment resembling our modern panties or knickers until well into the late 1800s. Really.

Which poses some instant questions. One can grant that in an era of long skirts (and possibly, in earlier or later times, layer upon layer of petticoats) there was no danger of one's bottom getting cold. One can also grant that a dress down to the ankles exposed nothing to view, and shielded the lady's private parts from all lewd glances, unless she fell over, or were tipped onto her back, or she was herself inclined to assume that position. But what about the sundry leakages and exudations and seepages and drippings that might naturally occur? After all, younger ladies have periods, and all have to pee, and they couldn't have wiped themselves fastidiously with a wodge of soft paper tissues, like one does nowadays. Are we saying that, sans cotton undies, the knickerless Bennet daughters had to bound about the dance floor, and do their best to flirt with the young men on display, with trickles of sweat and urine running down their legs? Surely not.

Understandably the programme didn't dwell too much on this, but it was a point not to flinch from. I have not flinched. Today I decided to find out what happens when you put on a skirt that comes down to your ankles, but leave off the knickers.

Although coming up sixty-one, my plumbing is still in good shape, and I haven't yet become incontinent. Not even when I cough or sneeze. But I have to say, I was deeply sceptical about this experiment. I have never before in my life gone knickerless, unless of course wearing a swimming costume, always feeling that knickers are a good insurance against 'little accidents'.

After the first pee this afternoon, I said to myself, you will put them back on, no matter how meticulously you have dabbed and wiped.

Well, it didn't work out like that. I've now been six hours without anything covering my naughty bits except a long skirt, and strangely I haven't leaked. Bone dry. And no smells, either.

Well that definitely answers a question that has been nagging at me ever since a former sister-in-law (who habitually wore long, flowing skirts) mentioned that she wore no knickers around her home. I wondered how she could possibly feel completely clean and comfortable, but now I see. I'm guessing it's about the two sides of the vulva closing up to make a kind of seal. Women have a short and fairly straight tube between their bladder and the outside, and can get rid of their current supply of urine in one intense jet, with no drops left over - quite unlike men, who have convoluted plumbing and who, after relieving themselves dribble-fashion, may still have some golden liquid lurking in a U-bend. Of course, I've never given birth, and have jolly good muscles and valves down there. That would help.

So what now? Do I carry on knickerless through the entire summer? Well, possibly around the house, if wearing a suitably long skirt, as I have today. It feels nicely unconfined, and would obviously lighten the load at washtime. But no way would I go knickerless if wearing anything knee-length or shorter, not unless I want to give myself (or the neighbours) a cheap thrill. And no way if out and about, unless someone can absolutely guarantee there will be no wind or breezes or updraughts whatever - doing a Marilyn Munroe (as in The Seven Year Itch) would be altogether too embarrassing. Although the no-knicker look is potentially cool and trendy, if Gwyneth Paltrow's lead is followed.

Champagne and sonatas at Glyndebourne

Last Sunday I went to Glyndebourne, the famous opera venue not far from Lewes, but to hear a piano recital, not to see an opera. The annual Brighton Festival had just kicked off, and I had a ticket to see Paul Lewis play Schubert's last three piano sonatas (numbers 19, 20 and 21).

Paul Lewis is a Big Name and has made rather a speciality of Beethoven and Schubert - see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Lewis_%28pianist%29.

Schubert was a prolific composer who died in 1828, aged only 32 - see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schubert. The three sonatas were all composed in September 1828, and must represent his very last work - see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_solo_piano_compositions_by_Franz_Schubert.

I went with two friends, V--- and K---, and at least part of the attraction was the chance to enjoy a champagne picnic in a bucolic setting, for Glyndebourne is situated in rolling East Sussex downland, and there were sheep and lambs in fields very close by. Here are a few scenes of the lawns we picnicked on, and our own setup on the grass. For once I'll have to break my usual rule of not showing shots of my companions:

As you can see, we had lovely sunny weather! V--- and K--- supplied the food and champagne (two bottles). I supplied the groundsheet and blankets to spread over them, and transport in Fiona. The grounds opened at 1.00pm, and the performance began at 3.00pm, so we had ample time to eat and drink, and then find our seats in the auditorium.

Glyndebourne has been a venue for opera since 1934, but the present large modern building dates from the 1990s. It is basically a round layer cake in red brick, with a dome where the auditorium is, and a vaguely cloister-like gound floor, mostly open to the breeze:

Some of the architecture seems questionable to me, and I hate the monstrous grey cube that sits on the roof over the stage, and presumably houses all the paraphernalia for raising and lowering curtains and stage sets:

Inside however all is well. The auditorium is large and well-appointed, the acoustics are excellent, there is ample legroom, and the loos are handy and very nice. Here are a couple of shots:

The auditorium was packed - very nearly a complete sellout. Fortunately V---, K--- and I all had good seats in row C, though not together. They'd booked a few days in front of me, and so I was off to the left, and they were off to the right, with twenty or so people in between. They could see Paul Lewis' face, but not his hands. I could see exactly how he played, but not his facial expressions. This was in fact what I saw of him from my seat - a pretty good view:

The three sonatas each seemed to be experiments in emotional expression, full of variations on a theme, and although each sonata was a little more tuneful than the last, there was no continuous melody in any of them. It all sounded complex and meaningful, and Schubert had obviously been exploring something important, especially as he was ill and probably thinking that he might die shortly (as indeed he did).

As you can see, Paul Lewis had no score in front of him, and had to play hundreds of thousands of notes entirely from memory, an amazing feat. I found myself paying more attention to how he played than to the music itself. I could see that he attacked the keys in such a way that, even in a melting sequence of rapidly-played notes, each note was distinctly and crisply heard. Schubert's scoring apparently demanded that certain phrases had to be played with immense vigour, so Paul Lewis hammered at the Steinway piano with a ferocious determination. Occasionally he would jerk his arms back from the keys as if electrocuted. It all looked terribly passionate, and V--- and K--- told me that they saw an incredibly intense look on his face. I could well believe it. The piano actually needed a slight retune during the interval, such had been its punishment. The man doing the retuning played some very short test pieces of course, and, unbelievably, I raised a laugh among the crowd shuffling towards the exit by remarking that 'he wasn't quite as good as the main man'. It's the way I say them.

We had only twenty minutes, hardly enough time to grab a coffee and get back to our seats, but V--- insisted on this shot of K--- and myself:

Although the sun was still shining, it was beginning  to get a bit cooler, and a cardigan was in order.

After the last sonata, which I thought ended a trifle abruptly (as if unfinished, like Schubert's symphony), Paul Lewis took a very well-earned round of applause, followed by two more. A pity he  wouldn't stay still for a good shot:

 
Thus ended my first visit to Glyndebourne for years.