Lucy Melford

My Statutory Declaration

2012-01-30T21:17:00.003Z

It's done. Successfully.

I went to the Brighton Law Courts Building at 9.20am this morning. I'd been told that the magistrates would hear Declarations from 9.30am, before the other cases were heard. It looked like two Declarations today. Only one concerning gender, though: mine. I was second in line. In fact we had to wait until 10.00am, when the magistrates arrived. I was seen at 10.15am. It was all over by 10.30am. The place was Court 5, down in the basement.

I'd dressed soberly in black and grey. My long dark grey Windsmoor overcoat, taken off and carried on my arm. A grey and white striped top. A black knee-length skirt. Black tights. Black flats. My ordinary black handbag, not the Prada bag. My usual plain silver jewellery.

I did not want to seem flash or frivolous. My back was straight, and I held my head high, but I was also very polite and deferential.

I had with me a large document case containing three copies of the Statutory Declaration as downloaded from the GRC Panel website, and printed out. Also that page of the GRC Application Form which asked for details of the magistrate witnessing my Declaration. Plus all the supporting documents for my Application, just in case any were asked for. Such as my Decree Absolute.

But all they asked for was a form of ID. I had my passport ready. The one that had 'F' for my sex. I could see that a passport was the very best ID one could produce. It went down well with the three magistrates who saw me.

There were two men and one woman, all slightly older than middle-aged. Perhaps they took it in turns to hear people appearing before them. They sat high above the rest of the court. It was slightly intimidating. Only the man in the middle spoke to me. None of them gave away their thoughts or feelings by any expression that I could catch. They looked at me closely only when I actually made my Declaration. The man in the middle wished me a good morning when I left: that was all.

Assisting them was a nice woman who acted as usher, and an equally nice (but surprisingly young) woman who acted as clerk.

My ID examined, the clerk then asked me to read my Declaration. I did so in my best voice. It was high and clear, and I managed it without hesitations or mispronunciations. Christella Antoni would have been proud of me. This was what I declared:

I, Lucy Melford, do solemnly and sincerely declare that:

1. I am over 18 years of age.

2. I have lived as a female throughout the period of two years since I transitioned in November 2009.

3. I intend to live as a female until death.

4a. I hereby declare that I am not legally married in my original gender to someone of the opposite sex.

4b. I hereby declare that I am not in a civil partnership in my original gender to someone of the same sex.

4c. I hereby declare that my former marriage or civil partnership was dissolved on the 25th of June 1996.

5. I make this solemn declaration conscientiously believing the same to be true and by virtue of the provisions of the Statutory Declarations Act 1835.

I didn't have to swear on oath. Just to say the above words.

The magistrate signed all three copies of my Declaration. And completed the 'witness details' part of the Application Form. I had all I wanted. I retired gracefully. Job done. Ordeal over.

Then it was back home for a nice cup of tea.

What next? The Application Form itself. And then get it posted by some kind of special delivery. I decided I would refine my evidence of full-time living first. Then get it all off on Wednesday morning. So much to fit into a crowded week!

At the magistrate's court

2012-01-28T00:09:00.003Z

No, not arrested and brought before the beak to be fined for laughing merrily in a public place. I voluntarily went to Brighton Magistrates Court today (Friday), to enquire about making a Statutory Declaration on oath before a magistrate. This is one of the bits of paper needed for my Gender Recognition Certificate application. The very last item to gather in.

Facing me as I entered were two court security officers at a desk, who asked me to show me the contents of my bags and empty my pockets. The little Leica in my handbag was found, examined carefully, and retained until my departure. A black mark, clearly!

Then through the metal detector. Bleep, bleep, bleep!!! Oh dear, I'd forgotten the keys hung around my neck. Sorry, sorry! I felt instantly criminalised. Fortunately there were no further bleeps or buzzes as the brace of hand-held detectors were run across my body and down my limbs. Well of course, anyone could see that I might be intent on evil. The camera proved it.

Then I faced the office staff. I explained what I wanted, and showed my printout of a model Statutory Declaration taken from the GRC Panel website. I wondered what the reaction would be. Surely they must - in Brighton of all places - get a constant stream of trans people making the same enquiry? Dozens every week. They must be totally familiar with this request? But the girl who saw me seemed puzzled at first. Maybe I misread her; but I hoped that I wouldn't have to go into a long explanation of what this was about, not with the two security staff just feet away, and already suspicious.

She took the printout away, then returned. And from then on, she was very helpful. She said the magistrate dealt with these things in court from 9.30am. This was Friday: I could make my Declaration on Monday. That was fine by me. The fee was £25, much as expected. I need not pay in advance, but I did. I wrote out a cheque, got a receipt, was given my camera back, and I walked out a free woman. The people on the steps outside, obviously due to appear in the court shortly, made way for me with apologies: how very polite. Surely guilty people would scowl and be horrible?

So Monday it is. Bright and early. Ushered in, stood in the dock, and made to swear on the Bible. Or affirm.

Magistrate: 'I find you guilty as charged. Take her down.'

The black mariah. A bleak cell. No appeal. Years pass. I emerge old and broken.

Better not take the camera.

Deadly serious

2012-01-26T14:15:00.007Z

I've never been one to make plans and then do nothing, at least not if I'm in a position to forge ahead. A couple of posts back, I mentioned some goals for the next ten years. These included finishing my 'apprenticeship' as a woman. I want to get to the stage where I can function completely as an unquestioned woman in any company, in any situation. Not merely to 'pass': I mean to engage with other people in depth, in prolonged close-up conversation, and seem to them totally natural. If possible, also vivacious and fascinating - but that would be an extra!

I'm not talking about 'acting'. I don't want to be anyone else, or to be aping their mannersisms. I want my individuality to shine through. At the same time, I want to match up the wider world's perception of what would be typical and natural for a woman with my nationality, social background, education and age group. So that when Sherlock Holmes and Professor Henry Higgins start to discuss me at some dinner party, they will opine correctly that I'm an unattached independently-minded and slightly unconventional woman of adequate means; grammar-school educated, but not very clever or quick-witted; with a veneer of provincial (rather than metropolitan) culture. Higgins will place me successively in South Wales, Hampshire, London and Sussex. Holmes will deduce that I had my tonsils out when seven, employ a home help, like toasted teacakes, and watch BBC4 far more than any other TV channel.

But when I am ready for that particular dinner-party, both men will read me as a woman and nothing else.

So what does an apprentice need to do? Well, practice, practice, practice at their craft. I'm deadly serious. I see too many trans women who have paid little or no attention to eradicating their male conditioning, and are not learning female ways in a systematic and sustained manner. The right clothes amd makeup are just a foundation. Attention must also be given to such things as posture - no male slouching, head up - and all movements must be smooth, light, graceful, expressive, quick and deft. What you do with your head, especially the mouth and eyes, is crucial. Women's faces are never deadpan like a man's: they are mobile, they tilt. And when speaking, see how a woman will use her entire body to express what her meaning is, leaning forward, or twisting it, to get across not only the face value of the words themselves, but how she feels inside, where she stands on the subject under discussion. Using her arms and hands and upper body to soften the impact of her voice, or to reinforce it. And almost more importantly than the voice itself, using her eyes to signal the intensity of her interest in the discussion. So different from a man's delivery. And how difficult to master, if you have spent over five decades on another planet.

So I spend time all through my day practicing. Here, for instance, are some shots in which I'm recalling facial expressions that I've used during recent social events. I want to see how they might come across in a more demanding setting - a dinner-party hosted by the Director-General perhaps:

These pictures, supplemented by the odd movie, are study material. I use them to examine how I might appear to someone else. As you can see, some of them are not very flattering, or at any rate not at my 'best angle'. But those shots may easily be the most revealing. I am doing much the same thing as a professional sportsman or sportswoman. Such as a golfer who analyses a video of their swing, frame by frame. Or a boxer who studies their technique in the ring. All done to discover flaws, things to be corrected in order to win next time.

These shots also appear on my Flickr site, but for another reason. I want them in the public arena, as a record of progress. As mentioned before, there are those who have decided to shun me, but are still looking at my blog, or my Flickr site, to find out what I'm up to and what I look like. Let them see a proper selection of photos then. It's no great effort to upload pictures that show a gradual improvement in my appearance and social acceptability!

Brightening up my home

2012-01-25T11:31:00.003Z

The days of popping into galleries and buying a painting for £300 (or more) are over for the present, but I still have some empty wall space to fill, notably in my bedroom. I also have a completely unused collection of picture frames in my attic. And a collection of photographs, taken over the years, of posters that caught my eye. And a high-quality photo printer that can print up to A3+. Put all this together, and maybe I can fill some of that wall space after all!

I've been taking photos of posters for some time. Here are two amusing ones from 1975 and 1983:

And here's one from 1994, although I spotted it only last year inside a theatre:

2010 was a good year for poster-hunting:

I also shot many other things in shop windows and elsewhere that might now make a good picture for the home. Here's a selection from 1993 to mid-2008 (all pre-transition of course):

I think I'll stick to the comical posters, and some of the shop-window shots. but you can easily see how anyone with a photo collection can create interesting pictures for the walls of their home, at minimal cost. A springtime project then!

Three years living on my own

2012-01-24T12:07:00.007Z

A diary note tells me that three years ago today - on 24 January 2009 - I moved out of M---'s home and began to occupy the Cottage on a full-tme basis.

Three years already.

I'd better give some background. When I retired on 31 May 2005 I had already put my former home up for sale. I'd enjoyed a good salary, but, looking at my pension, it simply wasn't possible now to meet the ongoing mortgage repayments. I considered holding onto the house and letting it, but the income would have been swallowed up by those mortgage repayments, and I had no savings available to cover the inevitable costs. And I would still be without a home of my own. Apart from that, I didn't relish being a landlord, especially as I'd seen what problems could actually arise; although renting out a village property to a couple wasn't the same thing as renting a town flat to students. My likely tenants wouldn't necessarily trash the place. But I really didn't fancy it.

Selling would also put a lot of money in the bank. And at that time, in 2005, M--- and I wanted to travel. And we did: an orgy of caravanning, and eventually a two-month New Zealand holiday in 2007. We were still a close couple. There was an ongoing plan - which in M---'s case was a powerful dream - to buy a million-pound house together somewhere by the sea, or in the country. Selling my home put cash in the joint pot for that: a big first step.

The house sold. Now, where to live, pending the million-pound purchase? M--- welcomed me into her home. For special financial reasons (that I can't explain here) this had to be on a temporary basis only. So sooner or later I'd have to find somewhere else. I could only now afford a small place, and nothing appealing came up. And we seemed so rock-solid, so eager to share a future together, that neither of us was inclined to make a serious effort to get me fixed up in a little bungalow in the local area.

As we went into 2006, and then into 2007, the property market was still riding high. I began to worry about what my bank balance could now buy me, because the 'temporary' stay with M--- was getting to look dangerously long-term. But only a flat was now within reach.

Then we found the Cottage. It was hopelessly unaffordable for me. But it looked like a great property investment, and M--- came in. We pooled our resources, acted fast, shut out the other potential buyers, and bought it.

At first the Cottage was only going to be a place to enjoy on weekends. And not necessarily to sleep in, although some of my furniture went down there, and it was set up as a house to spend a night or two in. It was in fact a comfortable, modern, very nicely appointed family home. Way too large for one person; but I was installed as the legal owner, and that instantly solved the problem of my staying with M--- in her home for overlong.

But I didn't feel as if I owned the Cottage in any real sense. It was - to me - simply a joint investment, something we'd sell and get a profit from, and not my 'home'. M--- put a lot of personal effort into the place - painting, work in the garden - as if it were her own personal project. She took it over. I didn't mind; I had no special attachment to the Cottage, although it was a most attractive property in almost every way. But it soon became obvious that our 'investment' was going to be a mistake. The property market had faltered. The Cottage went onto the market again not a year after we bought it. Meanwhile I was still living with M---.

Then one day in July 2008, I recognised that I had a gender issue, and everything changed forever.

From that point, my departure from M---'s home became inevitable. We both tried to cope with the consequences, but it was no good. In the end, M--- could not bear to see me changing before her eyes, the old person beginning to fade away and someone new and distressingly unfamiliar coming in. I could not bear the strain, the atmosphere of desperate hostility, the lack of recognition and empathy, the mutual sorrow. As 2009 arrived, she asked me to go. I went. Three years ago.

So much has happened since!

And yet the Cottage itself is innocent. It was my home for only a few months until Dad died, and I inherited the house I now live in. It was finally sold last August. I am sure its new owners love it and have made it their own.

I look back on my time there with a curious detachment, because we did not bond. I used the Cottage as a refuge, a place of peace and safety, where I could take the first steps towards going full-time as Lucy. A sort of cradle. It was also the place where I heard of both my parents' deaths. It was also a financial albatross. But let the past be past.

Encounters in a tavern

2012-01-23T10:14:00.005Z

Last Saturday evening, I was in a Winchester pub with two friends - the St James Tavern on Romsey Road it was - and at one point I was at the bar ordering another round of post-shopping, pre-dinner drinks. There was a man there, and a conversation developed between us. He was older than me (72 it emerged) and he was nice, but he was also a widower. He had lost his wife from illness just a month before. Without thinking, I immediately expressed the utmost sympathy in my posture and voice, and it must have obvious in my face as well. I even touched him very lightly and briefly on his arm. For the death of a life partner must always command respect and concern. I could not help my gesture.

He was not full of sorrow, or self-pity, as might easily have been the case. He had clearly not let his standards slip. He had remained a pleasant older man. He had dignity. I found myself hoping that he would, after a while, find someone to fill the gap torn in his life. We did not speak longer than ten minutes. I did mention - to claim I suppose some basis for 'understanding' what great loss meant - that both my parents had died in 2009 in rapid succession. But I was quick to add that this wasn't the same as the death of his wife. And it really wasn't. Her death had come unnaturally early. Parents are not chosen, however dearly loved. The emotional investment in someone you find for yourself, and commit your life to, is of a quite different order.

The evening's birthday festivities at a nearby restaurant - the Tanoshii Fusion - pushed the encounter from my mind for a while, but I returned to it later, and pondered on what might be learned. Let's see:

# A man I'd never met before had noticed me. He thought I was a 'young woman' - I know this because he said so. I corrected him on this mistaken impression, but it made no difference. He also thought me worth talking to: someone likely to know what he was speaking about.

# Once again it was an older man at a bar, the only kind I seem to catch the eye of! That might mean that I have a particular appeal for older men with some living behind them, some experience. Perhaps I seemed 'safe'. I didn't for a moment feel that this man was physically attracted to me, only that he felt comfortable enough about me to disclose some of his life. Which might mean that I looked empathetic, and a good listener. People used to think this about me in my past life, at least when I was in my twenties and thirties.

# I didn't mind being thought a nice woman and a willing listener. It seemed to me rather a pleasant thing to be regarded in that way. It was a quiet, useful social role that I could manage. My Dad used to say that I'd make a very good hospital visitor - the sort of person who would speak to patients in hospital and cheer them up; complete strangers who needed some human concern and some human conversation.

# But supposing that I lived in Winchester and encountered this man, or someone very like him, again? And a friendship came into being, bit by bit? And at some stage he began to explore the possibility of something closer? After all, where empathy leads, intimacy can follow. Would I want that? It would not be part of my plans, not at all.

# What if it were a woman, and not a man, who opened up to me and drew me in? Surely this version of 'getting together' would begin differently and develop differently? Less sentiment, more practicality, more directness perhaps, once a bond was established? Maybe. Maybe not. The truth is, I don't know.

# None of the many much younger men in the Tavern looked at me. Perhaps I wasn't interesting to them. And yet, I was the person that a man on the next table approached. It was a foursome, two men, two women, all thirtyish, and it was the birthday of one of the women. Could I take a photo of them all? Of course I could. All was laughter and goodwill. The man was from Glasgow, but lived in Winchester, as did the birthday woman and the other man. The second woman was from Stevenage, north of London, and visiting. I said that one of the friends on our table, and myself, had also driven a fair distance to be here, and that that we were celebrating a birthday too. And 'our' birthday girl had a Stevenage connection - how was that? More amazed laughter and goodwill. Here they are, although Glasgow man (on the left) has been caught in between smiles!

Interesting, when you study the shot, to see what look the girls have thought good for themselves, for a birthday meal in a city tavern with two guys.

Next it was our turn: pictures of ourselves taken by the Stevenage girl on the right, with my own camera. It was all so spontaneous and natural. Nobody noticed we were trans. It didn't seem to occur to anyone, ourselves included. Just some ordinary girls, all ready for a night out.

What threads will hang on that evening? What lesson was learned that I haven't yet seen, but will turn out to be the most important one of all?

How do the accidental things in life fit into any deliberate scheme for living?

The next ten years

2012-01-22T12:44:00.002Z

My sixtieth year. Time to look ahead, far ahead, and consider how to shape my life over the next ten years.

I don’t feel that life is pre-ordained. I do have choices. Efforts made now will make a difference.

All right, everything I might attempt is heavily influenced by the society in which I live; and I also think that my own character is a limitation. And overriding everything is the accidental and unpredictable nature of outside events. I am, besides this, highly conscious that whatever plans and predictions I might make, it could all be upset or brought to nothing by a devastating illness or injury. But I’m convinced that it’s worth making my ship seaworthy, consulting the chart, and setting a definite course. Not only worth it, but frankly unavoidable.

It’s no good drifting. It achieves nothing. I don’t want to waste the years ahead.

Nor should I count on an early death saving me the bother of living. There is no reason to anticipate an early release, nothing that I presently know of. Nor will I be seeking it. I can’t believe that my best years are in the past, that life can never get better, and that there is nothing to look forward to. What nonsense! There is everything to play for.

You simply can’t ignore the future. Life goes on. Tomorrow will come. If I gave up, gave in, ceased to plan, and embarked on a heedless and self-destructive spree, I would surely survive it. I’d wake up intact, nursing a splitting headache, and ruefully wondering how I could ever think that life is so easily cheated. It goes on and on, it knocks on one’s door every morning. One might as well accept that the proper effort must be made, and brace oneself for another day. To look forward ten years, in fact, and then ten years more. And be cheerful about it.

So what are my chief aims for the next decade? Let’s look at them.

To take my transition to a much higher level
My apprenticeship as a woman must be completed, and I must be indistinguishable from an ordinary woman at age 70. This means unremitting attention to appearance, voice, behaviour, socialisation and background knowledge of what a woman’s life consists of. I can’t of course become perfect at any of this. But I do think that this aim is achievable for all practical purposes.

To establish myself in the heart of a new community
I haven’t abandoned the notion of moving to some village or small resort in the West Country, where I want to earn my place in the regard of local people. Perhaps some public role that is social and cultural - though not political. A position at the local arts centre would do. I don’t want to stay forever suburban and anonymous, unknown, overlooked, forgotten, without purpose. Moving away would involve upheaval. And whatever the urge to stay in touch, I’d have to abandon my life in Sussex. And I must have regard to the health facilities I’ll need. Nor can I move until the money is there for it: getting enough together for a house deposit, and to pay the stamp duty, will require saving on a prodigious scale. But I can’t see myself still here in Sussex in ten years’ time.

To travel
I will surely still be caravanning on the UK mainland, but here I have in mind seeing more of the wider world. That will depend on having the money, and I may well have to choose between moving and travelling. I don’t think I can fund both. It would be so nice to feel part of a community into which I was completely integrated. But equally it would be so nice to personally visit the remarkable places of the world. This is where I will most miss the money lost forever on the Cottage. I can’t now afford to travel much. Never mind, something will be possible. And many of the places I’d most like to go to will remain accessible to me, despite the creeping effects of old age. One very special travel ambition would be to revisit New Zealand, and see my step-daughter A---. Having been to New Zealand once before (in 2007) I know what is involved. Certainly, it’s the effort and expense of a trip to the Moon compared to most other holidays! But of all long-haul trips, this is the one I’d like to do.

I don’t think there is anything totally unrealistic about these three broad aims. Nor about some lesser aims that hardly need mentioning, such as maintaining fitness, keeping up a good social life, developing personal talents, and making the house and garden look nice.

I haven’t mentioned two things that most would make a top priority: having a sex life, and finding a new relationship. In theory, both are possibilities. But I don’t feel driven towards either. Although now equipped to enjoy sex in a way I’d feel comfortable with, the hunger for it isn’t there. That might change, but nobody should hold their breath. As for a relationship, I’m just not looking. Basically I love my independence, and I don’t want to compromise it. I’m also convinced by experience that I have the wrong temperament for a shared life. I most certainly don’t want to stir up other people’s emotions and cause them pain. So it’s yes to friends, but a firm no to lovers.

I recognise that there are arguments that might be raised against my position here. Some might say that in a relationship, love, kindness, loyalty and companionship are the key elements. Can’t I deliver those? Didn’t I do so in the past? What has changed? And if I could make a fair attempt at being loving, kind, loyal and companionable to some other person who needs those things, shouldn’t I offer them? Wouldn’t it be selfish not to?

This is difficult territory. All I can say, based on my own experience and self-knowledge, is that my past record is against success. I can’t rationally ignore it. It’s evidence of poor judgement, emotional incapacity, and lack of total commitment. It’s discouraging, and I am discouraged. I feel that I would damage anyone who wanted to get close to me. As I have damaged M---. This is like not having children, and doing one’s bit for world over-population: I’m going to make society happier overall if I abstain from love, keep out of other people’s hearts, and confine myself to pleasant conversation. At least it would be an uncomplicated life.

Getting ready for my GRC application

2012-01-18T17:51:00.007Z

2012 will be a year in which I sweep up and consolidate. All the main events of my transition are now history. There is just ongoing electrolysis...and my Gender Recognition Certificate, that legal document that affirms I am officially female for all purposes - and for the rest of my life.

In case you are not familiar with the GRC procedure or its pitfalls, here is what I have found out, and what I intend to do about the evidence required.

Applying for a GRC is an important step, leading to an irrevocable outcome: I will be fixed in the female gender. On the plus side, I will have all the legal protections and privileges of a natal woman. On the minus side, whatever legal duties and obligations and restrictions that still apply only to women. On the whole, I believe that applying for a GRC will give me a solid legal status otherwise denied. I may never have to wave my GRC in someone's face in everyday life, but it'll be nice to know it's safely in the bag, and can if necessary be wheeled into position as a big gun in my defence.

No doubt the secret services will know who and what I used to be, and may even keep a special register of applicants. But unless the UK turns into a malevolent police state, I don't think I should care.

So, in the first week of February, I will put in my application form and all the supporting documents. The process is document-based. The GRC Panel, a body of people who examine the application and assess its worth, usually do not interview anybody. They decide on the basis of papers seen. This evidence must comply with the statutary requirements in the Gender Recognition Act 2004. If it doesn't, the application gets rejected. For example, I must show that I have lived full-time as a woman for at least the two years prior to the date of application. If I can only show evidence for one year and 364 days, the thing will get bunged back with a curt note attached. As it will cost me £140 to apply, not a small fee by any means, it will pay to be careful with my evidence!

Satisfying the GRC Panel is not the same as satisfying the Charing Cross Hospital Gender Clinic, or some surgeon elsewhere. To be on the safe side, I phoned the GRC Panel administration office, and spoke to a very helpful man there. I might as well give you the words of my typed notes of that conversation:

2012 0116 Telephone conversation with an administrator at the Gender Recognition Panel

I phoned on 0300 123 4503 to clarify various points about the application, chiefly concerning the supporting evidence.

Just as well. I was told that the guidance notes were not clear that the Panel liked to see documentary evidence for each of the last two years, as well as evidence over two years old. That would be no problem at all, of course! But rather more than simply two documents from 2009.

Essentially each item of evidence had to show my name and a date. Things such as a Deed Poll (a legal copy would do), driving licence, passport, solicitor’s letters, Land Registry documents, and so on were all very good evidence.

As I had been married, I’d need to send the Decree Absolute.

I was a bit worried about being without ID and other important things for a while, but was told that they turn the application around inside three days, and return documents by registered post that could be traced. I should send them the same way.

We discussed the medical evidence. A letter from Dr Richard Curtis was going to be problem-free. What about the pro-forma by my GP last autumn? No problem - it was recent enough. She’d just changed practices: any problem there? I’d discovered that protocol demanded that any query on the pro-forma would have to be made via her old practice. Again, that wouldn’t be an issue, so long as a GMC-registered practitioner could confirm certain basic details about me. And yes, I should append the letter and forms completed by the surgeon.

As regards the statutory declaration on oath, any local solicitor who could witness my oath would do. I’d simply need to make enquiries first.

That seemed to be it. I thanked the chap I’d spoken to for his help.

LM

This now seems to be the position. I send:

# The completed application form.
# A cheque for £140.
# A Statutory Declaration about my age, time living as female, future intention, and current marital status.
# The Decree Absolute, showing that I am divorced.
# A specialist Medical Report from Dr Richard Curtis.
# That Medical Report from my GP.
# The letter and surgical notes given to me by the surgeon Mr Philip Thomas.
# Evidence of the length of time I've lived as a female.

Phew! Not much!

As for the last item, the evidence of female living, I think I've now got a much better 'feel' for what the Panel wish to see. They want documents that show I've been representing myself as Lucy Melford not just in private correspondence but out there in public. And not just on one or two isolated occasions, but continuously, and in significant ways. With that in mind, I've put together a list of evidence to send. I've made it as varied as possible. The obvious stuff, plus one or two less obvious items. This is it, in chronological order:

# July 2009. A photo print showing my long entry in the Visitors' Book of Kentisbeare Church in Devon, in memory of my father, signed as Lucy Melford and giving my email address for genealogical contact.

# September 2009. A photo print showing my completed Voter Registration Form, so that I could vote as Lucy Melford any time after October 2009.

# November 2009. A legal copy of the Deed Poll.

# November 2009. My NHS Medical Card in the name of Lucy Melford (let's contract this to 'LM' henceforth).

# December 2009. A letter from HM Revenue & Customs, addressed to me as LM.

# December 2009. A letter from Capita Hartshead, the payer of my Civil Service Pension, addressed to me as LM.

# December 2009. A letter from the NHS inviting me to have a Cervical Screening Test.

# December 2009. A bill from BT addressed to me as LM.

# January 2010. My passport in the name of LM, with of course the female indicator.

# January 2010. A letter from the National Trust, with a fresh Life Membership Card in the name of LM.

# January 2010. A letter from my father's solicitors to me as LM, enclosing a copy of the Land Registry document showing that my house was now registered in the name of LM.

# January 2010. My driving licence (with counterpart) in the name of LM, with of course the female indicator.

(All the above are for a period more than two years before my GRC application)

# May 2010. My Mid Sussex District Council Official Poll Card - I voted in the General Election as LM.

# May 2010. The vehicle sales invoice for the ordering of my new Volvo car (Fiona), addressed to me as LM.

# September 2010. A letter from the NHS to me, about a rearranged Breast Screening appointment.

# March 2011. A Council Tax Bill from Mid Sussex District Council, addressed to me as LM.

# June 2011. A partially handwritten letter to me from Lady Lennox, welcoming me as a new Friend of the Pallant House Gallery in Chichester.

# June 2011. A letter from Capita Hartshead, the payer of my Civil Service Pension, addressed to me as LM, and answering my queries about what would happen to my pension when I got my GRC.

# November 2011. A letter from HM Revenue & Customs, addressed to me as LM.

(I could also throw in numerous items relating to the marketing of the Cottage. And I'd really like to add something from a leisure centre: but the evidence for playing badminton as Lucy Melford isn't of the same calibre - just one till receipt with 'Lucy Melford' and my membership card number on it. I made most bookings online)

Well, that's a long list, and I may trim it, but I'm hoping that it's exactly what the Panel would like to see, bearing in mind that I'm retired and I can't provide an employer's letter or similar. Several of the items above do at least imply conspicuous public exposure in a female role - voting and breast screening for instance!

Getting the wind up

2012-01-16T13:18:00.007Z

A perfect opportunity arose yesterday - which was a cold, still, clear-sky afternoon, with a great sunset coming on - to have a really good, close-up look at one of those dreaded wind turbines that seem to stir up so much emotion in country areas.

It was freshly contructed, and they hadn't yet erected a perimeter fence to keep away saboteurs and the curious. It was a temporary window of easy access. There were merely little notices stuck into the surrounding gravel, saying 'Keep orf!'. But so unnoticeable that I walked straight by them, and actually climbed the steps up the side to reach the inspection doorway. The friend with me, a much more law-abiding person, did not copy me at all. Fortunately, the police did not turn up with sirens and flashing lights, to accompany me to the station.

It was like a huge metal flower. The tall stem remided me of a mighty sequoia tree. It hummed from within. You imagined raw power flashing down that stem, into the ground, and then up the road to join the National Grid. And there was I just inches away from all those megavolts!

There was a notice not to touch, as if the hull might still be hot from its landing on planet Earth.

What about the noise of the rotor blades? I can tell you that, turning briskly in the breeze, they made only a gentle swishing noise. It was a soothing sound, and I can't see how anyone could object to it. I mean, nobody objects if it's open day at the local restored windmill, and they let the sails go round. Whoosh, whoosh, rumble, rumble. And this tall, graceful thing has a much more vital role. And it's so nice to look at. In fact I can hardly think of a more beautiful piece of industrial kit. It really does call to mind a giant seagull. Here are some pix. Judge for yourself:

Isn't this pleasing to the eye? Perhaps in the way that a Spitfire or a sleek, water-cleaving submarine can both be seen as machines to admire? And all this one does is produce electricity, very cleanly.

I even thought it added something to the view. I remember, when in Scotland in 2010, seeing a cluster of wind turbines on a high hill off the A96 in Aberdeenshire: what a majestic sight. I can see that a hundred of these things, massed together, might be intimidating. But surely still much more attractive than a dirty, sinister coal-fired, or nuclear, power station. And it's even better than hydro power: you don't have to flood lush valleys forever, and drown villages. Plus, of course, you can always dismantle a wind turbine if it becomes unnecessary or unwanted. You can't do that so easily with your average old-school power generation plant, or a dam.

What about one in my back yard, then? well, if it were no closer than three hundred yards away, so that you could hardly hear it, then fine.

And where was the turbine in my pictures? On the hill just above Glyndebourne, where they do the opera.

Tinnitus

2012-01-14T09:58:00.005Z

For two or three weeks I've had a constant noise in both ears. This condition is called tinnitus, and it causes the ears to 'hear' all kinds of self-generated noise: clicks, drumming, high-pitched tones, whistles, and so on; but the sound in my own ears resembles the faint whooshing noise water makes when it's being pumped through your central-heating pipes at home. A sort of hiss. And indeed, you think of hot blood hissing as it's pumped through your head!

It's always audible at home because I live on a quiet road in a quiet village, and complete double-glazing ensures that sounds from outside the house are much subdued. Inside all is quite hushed, so that you can easily hear every little noise that a house can make. The ticking of clocks, the combustion of gas in the oven and boiler, the groaning of ice in the freezer, as well as sundry creaks at night as the house cools down. Sometimes, in the darkness of night, these ticks and creaks can seem quite creepy! But mostly I like to hear them. These little sounds remind me that my home is a dynamic mechanism, and they make it seem alive. Quite different from the desolate silence of a ruin.

The point I'm making is that I enjoy a quiet home environment, and that I'm not deaf, because I can hear a pin drop.

Nor do I like to assault my ears. I don't have a radio or TV on just for company. I don't play music much, and never loudly. I like peace and quiet. And although Fiona has a diesel engine, she also has good sound insulation, and is another hushed environment. By far the loudest sound I ever normally hear is from a smoke alarm, if I ever trigger it with burnt toast. So here's another point: I haven't been damaging my ears with excessive exposure to noise.

I decided it would be wise to get a doctor's opinion, and so two days ago I rang the surgery and got an appointment that afternoon with one of the doctors. The doctor examined my ears, but found nothing visibly wrong, and we established that there was nothing in my lifestyle or medication that would induce tinnitus. He told me it shouldn't get worse, but in the absence of an obvious cause there was nothing he could prescribe to alleviate my condition. He did suggest that I contrive some background sound to mask this faint hiss in my ears. It was a trick that sometimes helped. No good at night, of course, when you want to sleep!

I'm hoping that my tinnitus is temporary and will just fade away. Meanwhile, I'll be very careful about exposure to loud noises. So please don't sing or shout in my ears. No banana-boat songs. It's too piercing.

Surgery scars and other skin marks

2012-01-13T10:40:00.014Z

I'm now over ten months post-op.

Originally my surgery scars and other marks were very obvious. There were in particular two long bright red north-south scars either side of each labia majora. These began to fade to purple some time ago, and now they are almost entirely gone. You can see where they were only if you have a jolly good examination.

There were also some other little scars. Some of these remain and are still plain to see. There is for instance a criss-cross of short white scars just below the vagina; and a clearly-defined east-west scar on the inner surface of each labia majora. These all look healthy, and give me no trouble at all, and presumably they too will fade with time. But meanwhile they could catch the eye, and if I ever do find myself being caressed intimately by a tender rock star lover, then the following exchange might easily take place:

TENDER ROCK STAR LOVER: 'Ere, wot's this, then? All them scars!'
SELF: 'Why, Tarquin! (or possibly, Why Jocasta!) I had to have some reconstructive surgery a while back. Didn't I mention it to you?'
TENDER LOVER: 'You bloody didn't.'
SELF: 'I'm so sorry, my sweet.'
TENDER LOVER: 'Wot surgery anyways? You 'aven't been straight wiv me, 'ave yer?'
SELF: 'Oh, just a little tweak here and there. Don't worry about it. It's nothing much. Trust me.'
TENDER LOVER: 'Nah, this bovvers me. Let's get it sorted right now! What 'ave you 'ad done?'

Sorry about my rock star lover's rather pseudo accent. Fame has gone to his/her head. But oh dear...I can see it would be highly imprudent to engage in intimacies of any sort until these little scars have become less prominent!

Then there are the holes in the surrounding skin where tubes went in. For a long time you could see the purple marks where they were. But not any more.

However, what are still highly visible are the two large patches of skin discoloration on the lower half of each labia. When I was so swollen post-op, these were like large bright red bulges. In the last ten months they have shrunk to nothing, and have faded to a dull red; but as they are fringed by those little bright white scars just mentioned, the remaining redness seems enhanced. Very difficult to laugh off, if a tender lover got curious! So another reason to avoid intimacy for the present. Although, as some natal women do have cosmetic vaginoplasties to make things look 'better' down there, I suppose I could say that I had had one too, and that this was the lingering aftermath.

I dare say that one year from now all obvious blemishes will be gone, but nevertheless it's quite surprising how long the traces of surgery need to disappear.

Mind you, there is nothing to be seen if I'm standing up normally. I would be perfectly happy to walk around in the nude in any company, confident that nobody would see my scars and skin discolorations. (Not that I would inflict my fat body on an unsuspecting and innocent public!)

Bigger boobs

2012-01-12T15:25:00.001Z

Some of my friends are using a non-prescibed progesterone cream on their breasts, to give them a fuller appearance and a darker nipple area. Well, that's the intention. I've been urged to do the same. But being cautious where such things are concerned, I've read Dr Richard Curtis's essay on progesterone (there's an easy link to it on the Gires website). I've also read a rebuttal of his views. Both sides draw attention to the lack of clinical evidence where trans women are concerned, and the rebuttal discounts the natural experience of natal women.

What does one conclude?

Much seems to depend on how badly you want larger breasts, what side-effects you will tolerate, and how ready you are to scorn specialist advice and go your own way. Any of these might affect your attitude and beliefs on progesterone use.

In my own case, I have inherited medical conditions that make adding yet another drug to the mix something I'd rather not do without a proper medical opinion and a proper prescription. I simply won't court danger for some extra boob bulk - assuming that I actually would get any!

I'm in any case not flat-chested. There is enough of a bust to fill out the sort of clothes I like to wear. But not enough to be eye-catching. This isn't a problem. I can be adequately female with only the suggestion of a cleavage, and although I'd be delighted if I had bigger breasts, it won't ruin my life if there is no further growth in that department. There are many other things I can use to express my femininity: my eyes, my mouth, my voice, my hair, my arms and hips and legs, my clothes. How I move. My personality. All at no additional cost. And with no medical risk.

The question of risk also makes me recoil from breast implants. Plus the consideration that this does not involve natural tissue growth, but an artificial, manufactured bag of gel which has a limited lifespan. And I can't be sure that ten years hence I'll be able to afford replacements. If I can't, what then?

Well, that's how it is for me. I'm not saying anything about what someome else should do. So far as I can see, an awful lot of people think progesterone and/or boob implants are a Good Thing, and in real life perfectly safe and sensible. Like wine and chocolate! Just don't beat me up for being very careful.

Facial progress

2012-01-10T09:51:00.003Z

Murder! Pillage! It's Lucy the Redhanded, the most feared Viking raider of them all!

Or is it Squadron Leader Melford, that illustrious RAF air ace? Come on, chaps, let's have tea and a bun, then see off the hun! Wizard show!

Actually, I'm bleaching the few remaining dark hairs on my upper lip.

An important stage in my facial hair removal has been reached. My electrolysist Roz has urged me to stop shaving my upper lip, and let the hairs grow naturally, subject only to snipping with little scissors if any get too long or prominent.

She says that if not shaved, the hairs on my upper will stop growing so fast, lose their blunt ends, and become fine and soft. This will look entirely natural, because all women have fine, soft, natural hair on their upper lip. It's normally so fine that you never see it.

I need to get to that state. The bleaching ensures that all my upper lip hairs are the same blonde colour. Roz will remove the rogue ones that still grow coarsely with electrolysis. 'Trust me', she says. Right, I will.

But it is a leap of faith at this stage. I'm used to shaving daily, and feeling super-smooth all over my face. Leaving a spot where my fingertips can feel some roughness - because although now bleached, there are some wiry, bristly hairs still there - is disconcerting, and I really hope that a general softness develops fast! But I have to admit that what my fingers feel is not detectable to the eye. And Roz says that if I were attending some event where super-smoothness really mattered, then a one-off shave would be OK. Just not as a regular thing.

I hope I have the nerve to keep this up! I'd really like to feel that an important section of facial hair is now under control. Then other areas can receive Roz's full attention.

Macavity

2012-01-09T12:07:00.009Z

Seven years ago today, on 9 January 2005, my beloved cat Macavity died. Here he is, in some shots from 2001, when he was aged 12 and looked in the prime of life:

By 2003, when 14, he was still active and in good condition:

But by late 2004 old age had got to him. He was getting thin, and his energy had departed. Here he is, looking out of the front door of the house I was then living in. He wasn't too happy - unwell, not eating nearly so much, and feeling the cold breeze like never before. Poor thing:

And then he died in the first days of 2005, when nearly 16. I sat up with him. It was a bonding experience I've never forgotten. I wrote about it in a post about someone else's cat (see Ashley Lynch's cat has died, posted on 6 August 2009), including a poem of my own which went as follows:

DEATH OF A CAT

In the abyss of your eyes
I read no pain,
Only the knowledge of a deep sleep to come,
A secret cave of dreams.

My head next to yours,
My fingertip in your paw,
The claws gentle,
The pressure speaking of a kind of love,
A meeting of souls,
A farewell,
But not of fear.

Oh Macavity, so thin now,
Too weak to stand,
But still resplendent in your soft striped fur.
A gaunt giant of a cat,
My cat, my own.

I named you, I loved you,
Did you know that?
And now I grieve for you,
My lovely, lovely cat.
I love you now,
I don't want you to die.

Still we hold each other's eyes.
What are you thinking?
Do you remember when you were a kitten,
Arriving in a box,
A tiny bundle in a corner.
And we lifted you out,
And you filled a shirt pocket.
You were so small.
And later you looked for me
As I lay sorrowing on my bed,
Pondering my broken marriage.
You comforted me,
And we made a pact,
And I let you be the warm hat on my head.

And now you lie here dying.
Still the bond is strong,
We cannot break it.
If my voice, my tears,
And the touch of my hand
Mean anything
Then you will know that I love you,
And that my life is changed.

[Macavity talking now]

Oh, don't worry about me,
I've got nine lives, you know.
I'm glad you took care of me,
And fed me,
And let me roam.
Thank you for a long life,
And for giving me a home.
I hope you enjoyed the mice and birds I caught:
I gave you the best,
And you can't blame me if I ate the rest.
I hunted to my heart's content
In the long tall grass;
And when the sun was hot
I was glad you were no gardener,
You left bushes and brambles,
And I had many a favourite spot.
I know you cared when you took me to the vet.
I hated it, but I went for you, because you cared.
And I know you are caring now.

I saw sixteen summers
And never a moment of fear or pain.
I will be lucky in my next life
To have it all over again.

And now I must dream.

Lucy Melford
2009 0127

And I added this footnote:

I don't care that it's a bad poem. It says what I want about a wonderful cat.

My eyes fill with tears whenever I read my own words. I loved him, and I can't help it.

Macavity died overnight, in the small hours, dreaming hunting dreams. In the morning, I found that although lying on his side on his soft cushion, he had assumed the position of a cat leaping, a little tiger. I put him out in the back garden while I prepared his grave and his funeral service:

The grave would be in the far corner of the garden, the corner by the fence that you can see in the photo. I dug it deep, crying as I did so. I gently placed his cushion in it, with sprigs of white heather, and his favourite plastic lizards to play with:

Then, wrapped in a blanket to keep him comfortable to the last, I placed Macavity in, and with tears streaming down my face, and a broken heart, slowly hid him from view under the good brown earth. Over the top I placed a large heavy paving slab:

Ideally I would have engraved on it:

HERE LIES MACAVITY 1989-2005 He was the best of cats

That wasn't feasible. But I did place some more heather and some flowers on his grave that M--- had made into a bunch:

By the way, all through this M--- had helped me and supported me, and was just as upset. She had often held Macavity tenderly in his final days.

Macavity's death heralded six years of huge change. Two months later, in March 2005, and quite out of the blue, a chance to retire early came up. I applied without much hope, but was successful - though not without reservations at this stroke of amazing good luck (see The Pension, posted on 24 February 2010). I retired in May 2005. Later in 2005 I sold my house, because my pension wasn't large enough to pay the mortgage with. I moved in with M---. I felt sad leaving Macavity behind, but the new owners erected a garden shed over his grave, guaranteeing that it wouldn't be disturbed for a very long time to come.

Looking back, I'm sure that retiring so early was a tragic mistake in several ways. Just look at what disappeared from my life from the beginning of 2005:

# My cat Macavity.
# My job, and with it dozens of colleagues, an entire daytime social life.
# Most of the structure in my day.
# My own home.

And then as transition arrived and progressed:

# My parents.
# M--- herself.
# All of M--'s family and friends
# My best friend.
# Nearly all my retirement capital (£200,000 gone forever).

I would of course say that the gains - chiefly my own successful transition, and the freedom I now have to use my remaining life as I best choose - are an enormous compensation. But the changes and losses ushered in my Macavity's departure have also been enormous. Truly my life has been turned upside down! But not ruined. And I don't blame Macavity. He was innocent.

And he taught me something about how to care, how to be kind, how to love unselfishly, how to touch, and how to cry.

My debut dress...three years on!

2012-01-05T23:53:00.005Z

I bought my first dress - a little black velvet number - in December 2008, just in time for an evening gathering at a private house in Brighton on 16 December 2008. This was the very first occasion that I'd stepped out in public in full female garb. I was very, very nervous at the time; but still proud of my effort. I'd bought the dress and shoes and accessories all on my own, without help or advice. I knew exactly what I wanted. But the process was nerve-racking, and I had expected to be torn to pieces in Marks & Spencer by a howling mob outraged by my presumption. Or if not there, then later by the villagers of Piddinghoe, where I was living. But in fact no wicker cage awaited me, no burning ritual took place, and I survived.

And here I am, trying to look good in some pre-gathering photos taken in 2008 - interspersed with shots taken just two evenings ago. All of them in that dress. I do apologise for the dodgy quality of these pictures, but they were all taken in subdued light. Can you spot any substantial differences in the three years that have passed?

It seems fair to say that longer hair and an obvious gain in self-confidence make a big difference! Everything else is down to the very subtle effects of feminising hormones and facial hair-removal.

It's been a very long three years, but thus far I'm reasonably satisfied with my transition into Lucy. Of course, had I started this in my twenties, rather than my fifties, the changes would have been more profound in that time. Sigh.

As for the dress, it still fits nicely despite plumping out in various ways since 2008 - maybe it fits better because of that! It shouldn't go out of fashion. A black dress like this is a classic standby for all posh occasions. It's also one of the very few items of female clothing bought in 2008 and still in my wardrobe. I don't expect I'll ever part with it: it's my debut dress, as important in its way as a wedding dress, and you don't discard those!

Time for a new superphone?

2012-01-05T12:58:00.007Z

They're not being called 'smartphones' any longer - they're now 'superphones'. Alluring and slickly-designed hand-held gadgets, with stunning screens and amazing capability to make playtime or practical communication fast and easy.

In the last couple of months some of my friends have replaced their old phones with new devices. One had to, when she went freelance; one could afford to upgrade, and did; one felt she should join the modern world, and has discovered the benefits - and the fun - of owning a hi-tech phone.

Whether it's the latest from Apple or HTC or Samsung, they are all accomplishing impressive - and sometimes very practical - feats on their new devices. They are all waggling their fingers over the gesture-sensitive screen like conjurors, or prodding it. And then things happen, such as a music video flashes up on the TV; or a video call is made to a friend in Australia who just happens to be standing standing by some natural wonder, and can show it as the call is made; or the time and cost of the last train is looked up in seconds; or all the local job offers are called up for someone like me to consider. And constantly Facebook, Facebook, Facebook.

My SIM-free Nokia E71, a Symbian device, is now nearly three years old and seems rather dated compared to these modern marvels. And the battery is showing signs of fatigue.

But in the Nokia's defence, it's small and elegant - all white plastic and shiny stainless steel - and still unblemished in appearance. I can use it one-handed. And while the Vodafone SIM card deal - £25 a month for 600 free calltime minutes, unlimited texts, unlimited internet access and fixed-price world roaming - is hardly inexpensive, it's rather cheaper than what I might have to pay if I committed myself to a monthly plan with one of the latest gadgets.

Common sense suggests that I should stay with the Nokia unless the battery fails or it breaks. After all, as a communication device it does the job: voice calls, texting, emails, blogging - all handled either acceptably or quite well. And it's good at the only other thing I use it for, as a music player.

All the rest - personal data (encrypted of course), my diary of events and things to do, and the practical apps I use, even the version of solitaire I prefer playing - is on my other pocket device, a Hewlett-Packard iPAQ 214. It's not connected to the internet in any way, and can't be attacked from there, which I feel is an advantage in terms of security. It's nearly four years old itself, and won't last forever. But it's a proper pocket computer, running Windows Mobile 6, and it works seamlessly with my PC. It's a quality bit of hardware that is looking good and still going strong, with a recently-purchased extra-large battery to make it even more suitable for extended use. It might easily go on working faultlessly until I eventually need to replace my PC, which may be some years away.

Of course I presently have to carry two devices in my handbag, instead of just one. It would be much nicer to combine the Nokia and the iPAQ, save weight, gain space, and have something more capable than either.

Which new device, though? As ever, the choice seems confusingly wide, but is actually confined to just a few models, none of which are perfect for my needs.

An iPhone would be my only Apple device, which raises compatability issues with the rest of my equipment; and it hasn't got the high functionality the iPAQ has for word-processing, spreadsheets and organising one's life. Nokia has now moved away from Symbian, and embraced Windows Mobile 7, a reinvented new platform that may or may not succeed...and I don't want to risk backing a dead duck.

That really leaves only Android. Samsung and HTC are the major players there. Last year's Gingerbread and this year's Ice Cream Sandwich versions of Android look very capable, and full of attractive features. But the office functions are still handled by QuickOffice. Hmmm. Long ago, when I used Palm devices, I ditched QuickOffice because it was clumsy and glitchy. It isn't good on the Nokia. At extra cost I can have the Pro version, but that may still be inferior to Windows Office. I must, whatever happens, have my many Word documents and Excel spreadsheets, to sync to the PC and back again without formatting problems. Can Android deliver that?

And do I consider a normal-sized Android device such as the Samsung Galaxy S II, or Galaxy Nexus, or something with a bigger screen that my old eyes can see clearly, and my clumsy fingers can prod more accurately? Such as the oversized Samsung Galaxy Note? Or simply wait for whatever 2012 brings forth?

But should I spend the equivalent of five months' savings (or half of this year's holiday money!) just to have something that will lighten the load and look a bit more trendy? Indeed, is it prudent to spend money on anything not essential? Just now, as matters stand, not unless I gain something very important. And I don't think these dazzling playthings, and what they can deliver, are really 'very important'.

Grey benefits

2012-01-04T10:45:00.004Z

One of the more positive aspects of reaching 60 in July will be the financial entitlements I'll get at that point, or progressively thereafter.

The ones that will chiefly affect me are:

# Free NHS prescriptions. Which in my case means that Instead of buying an annual Prepayment Certificate for £104, I pay nothing. This doesn't sound a lot, but it pays for ten nights' site charges if away in the caravan, at an average cost of £10 per night. Or two weeks' diesel for Fiona, if simply pottering around Sussex. That's well worth having.

# I can apply for an annual Senior Railcard, which costs £28. This is is valid nationwide, and gives me one third off rail fares on most trains except early-morning commuter trains in south-east England. The snag here is that I live in south-east England, and so lower-cost access to the only likely destination - London - is denied, unless I accept a late-morning arrival there, which restricts what I might wish to do on a day visit. Another thing: I always buy a Day Travelcard, and one third off that would be about £7. So I'd need to make four trips to London in twelve months just to break even. Looking ahead, only two essential trips are on the horizon. And while I enjoy cultural events and exhibitions, I find London tiring and expensive, and so I'm rarely tempted to visit the place if I don't have to. Anywhere else, I vastly prefer to drive. As was the case when I visited Cambridge for the day early last year. So buying a Senior railcard not only wouldn't make me any better off compared to now: it might actually turn out to be a waste of money.

# When my State Pension begins in November 2014 - wheeeee, it's now less than three years ahead! - I can apply for a free bus pass, and travel on local buses anywhere in England for nothing. But then, I hardly ever use buses, partly because I have to walk over a mile to take an hourly express bus into Brighton, and the only other hourly bus easily available trundles between places that I can reach in the car in a fraction of the time. So there's no day-to-day saving here. Buses are no good if you have a heavy shopping basket or two, or want to get somewhere and back again during the evening. They're all right for city dwellers, but we country folk need our own wheels. But I will apply for a bus pass, just for the odd occasion, such as popping into central Brighton when Fiona has her annual service at Portslade. Or if bussing out to some place that I'm walking back from, for the sake of exercise.

# When I'm aged 65 in July 2017 - still a long way off - there's an Income Tax advantage: my tax-free personal allowance increases by about £3,000, meaning that I will pay £600 less tax a year. £12 a week. All my annual caravanning site costs covered, and a bit in hand! Not bad at all.

All said, though, I won't be getting many useful perks!

The State Pension, when I get it, won't be any kind of freebee. It was paid for. A few years back, when I retired, I worked out that from 1970 to 2005 I'd paid about £170,000 in Income Tax and National Insurance Contributions - which is worth something like £250,000 if each year's involuntary donation is adjusted to 2012 values. Plus interest, if the government invested this wisely. A nice little pot from which to dole out a few medicines on the NHS, because that's all I ever took in those 35 working years. OK, I'd also helped to support the entire cost of a civilised society, and stumped up for a few wars, and funded bungled computer schemes, and handouts to businesses who took the money and ran. So I suppose there might not be be all that much of my £250,000 left. But you take my point: this is no free gift from the government. And it's 34 months away. Hmmm...best forgotten about for the present.

Then there's another thing entirely. Do I really want to admit that I've got a Senior Railcard when some forty-something person comes up to me and is plainly attracted?

God. Two dilemmas now. One: admitting that I'm trans, or not. Two: admitting that I'm old enough to be his or her mother, or not.

Damn.

The tipping point

2012-01-03T12:10:00.003Z

The Sixty is the name for the general compulsory killing ordered for humans living on planet Earth in the far future, as described in Isaac Asimov's 1950 novel Pebble in the Sky. Earth then is a planet that can't support a big population, certainly not a retired one, and so everybody has to submit to a draconian appraisal process at age sixty. Almost without exception, they are put down. The 'hero' in the book is sixty two, and obviously in danger!

I read the book in my early teens, and it greatly added to my insecurities. I felt it could easily come true, and that if I survived to age 60 I too would be killed off. This would happen in 2012. It was very discouraging.

Remember, the threat of a neuclear holocaust or some Day of the Triffids type disaster was a perfectly reasonable fear in the 1960s. I used to imagine all kinds of scenarios in which most people on the planet would be killed, but I would survive, stay alive, not go under, and find a way of living successfully in a changed and hostile world. It had a kind of appeal. I was already living a life full of secrets, feeling very alone, and I was prepared to do anything it took to succeeed in a different world. I almost wanted it to happen! At least I would take charge of my life, and stand or fall on what I did or thought best.

This 'waiting for the collapse of society' attitude continued for many years. As soon as I could drive, I identified where the gun shops were, so that I could instantly arm myself. I was fully prepared to kill or be killed, and be a defiant and cunning warrior. It had to be faced: in a world in which all the old constraints had been swept away, personal survival was everything.

This apocalyptic mood passed. The near-certainty that mankind would blow itself up, or unleash some virus against which few would be immune, became less insistant. Eventually it seemed more likely that we would all succomb instead to general starvation or a meteor hit.

And now 2012 has actually arrived. The world is certainly not perfect, nor a completely safe place, but there has been no fall from the tightrope. Apart from a little sabre-rattling here and there, the emphasis is on facing the challenges of reducing resources, and climate change, and coping with an unprecedented series of natural disasters. No country is escaping the worldwide effects of worsening weather. No country will preserve its old ways intact. A total wipe-out seems unlikely, but we must all adapt. The forces of nature override everything and everyone. Competitiveness does not pay. But cooperation might. And I think there are many signs that old-style nationalistic and cultural ambitions are being abandoned. We have also suddenly realised that too much is in the hands of the money men. Time for something better than that.

I rather look forward to the unfolding events of 2012. I think it will be a tipping point, and that it will be remembered as the year in which the world went in a new and better direction.

At least I'm confident that I won't be given a lethal pill or injection when I reach 60 in July!

Oh, you pretty things!

2012-01-02T08:55:00.005Z

Examining my Christmas and New Year photos - quite a lot of them, all showing convivial scenes of the people I see most of - I can't help noticing how good we trans women look nowadays. Something seems to have happened to us in the last year or so. We have got much more female-shaped: we've got prettier; our skin is smoother; the hair is longer and more nicely styled; we've plumped out and rounded off; boney and muscular arms and legs look slender and girly; the voices could be better, but are adequate; posture is better; movements are light and graceful; and behaviour is mostly natural and womanly.

Maybe if any of us especially caught the attention of a natal girl, we'd be read as trans, but clearly we are not attracting especial attention, even if sitting in a group; even if we have a natal woman sitting with us, to provide instant comparison.

How does this come to be? We all have more girly faces: we are all well advanced down the road of facial hair removal, and one or two of us have had surgical tweaks to our noses and lips and chins and brows. We all, however contrived, have a bust. Two of us are naturally slim and willowy, which disguises the effect of height. The rest have heftier builds, but in the way of all women who are perennially fighting a weight problem, and not in the way of male all-in wrestlers or rugby-playing mesomorphs. Yes, the look helps. But also we are all living the female life either full-time or mostly. There is nothing like being a woman every day to turn you into one. It gets to be a habit, and once you don't have to watch every word and gesture, the stiltedness and awkwardness vanish.

Of course, I'm sure we all have private reservations about how good we really are. I do. And yet, while the camera may exaggerate and distort, there's no denying that my own general appearance is changed from what it was a year ago, and in particular two years ago - and all in the direction of femininity, as if I've been pushed along a spectrum somewhat. That's partly down to what I've learned, a gradual accustomising to new circumstances, a conditioning to the female way of doing things, and the place of a female in society. But mostly it's the result of hormones on my brain and my body.

Despite realising this, and despite constant evidence - every day - that I pass unnoticed and unremarked, and can be natural in any situation met so far, I am insecure. But then perhaps every woman is, for one reason or another, but especially as youth fades. I ought to take comfort in the fact that unlike most natal women, trans women have lifelong HRT, which in late middle age, when all natal women are post-menopausal, is an advantage. Women on effective HRT treatment escape the ravages of time for longer. And looking years younger than you really are is quite something.

But are we pretty? Specifically, are we attractive enough to engage and win a special companion? Well, one or two of my younger friends are, most certainly, very pretty things. Both facially and bodily. Combine that with serene (perhaps even sweet) testosterone-free natures, and it wouldn't take much more physical development for them to become indistinguishable from the sort of ordinary girl that people typically find the most attractive. With all that implies.

If you share the view that trans women are simply girls who were born with masculinised bodies, and have every right to change their outward appearance to match how they are inside, then an alluring appearance is a Good Thing, perfectly appropriate. A natural and worthy aim for anybody trapped in that situation. And what is the difference between a woman who was born beautiful, and one who has made herself so?

New Year's Day

2012-01-01T13:23:00.005Z

Much against the concerns of my friends, I drove home in Fiona at 2.30am. I was tired, had had enough for one night, and was longing for home. I had great offers of a bed but I wanted my own. I'd mostly drunk water for hours past, and with luck I would avoid any police checks and get home in one piece. Actually it was pretty quiet as I walked quickly along the seafront to my car, just one or two men about, and it was raining steadily. Happy New Year.

Reaching Fiona, I locked myself in, did what I could with my wet hair, then drove the long way home via Lewes, encountering only fog and lots of water in the road. But Fiona, my clever and capable travelling capsule, shrugged all that off and I got back safely at 3.00am, oddly awake again. I thought of watching a bit more of the two DVD films I'd started - one of them Avatar, and maybe a post on that soon - but common sense prevailed and I went to bed, and with only one break slept through to 11.00am. It was still spitting with rain.

The six of us had a fun time last night, but I wasn't quite attuned to the celebrations. I kept on retreating into a detached state, a quiet shell, and gradually I felt that I needed to be on my own. Of course, if it was noticed, I denied it, because naturally I didn't want to spoil the event in any way. I think mine must be a very strange reaction to all the lively New Year celebrations: most people living on their own would surely yearn for love and the company of someone very special. Oh well. I do know - harking back to the subject of the last post - that I wasn't in the mood for receiving personal attention, and would have politely repelled anything coming my way. Fortunately nothing did.

For certain, I'm no party animal - and no good time girl either! But what am I, because I'm definitely no pillar of rectitude. I'm inclined to ignore the rules if it suits me. At all times, I like to do my own thing and go my own way, but that's not necessarily what many would regard as the proper or correct thing to do. Perhaps I'll slowly discover more things about my true nature during the coming year, and learn to accommodate others better. Maybe even make a few compromises. (No, I can't really see that happening either! But who knows)

Meanwhile, a Happy New Year to everyone. May your plans succeeed, and your dearest wishes come true!

New Year's Eve

2011-12-31T13:15:00.001Z

In December 1980, when living in London, I had a girlfriend who was a sweet little thing, but apt to get carried away by male attention. She was just coming out of her teens and exploring her womanhood. I was half a dozen years older, and because the age gap meant a lot when so young, I tended to watch it all happen from a mental and emotional distance: sometimes it felt like half a generation.

I wasn't sure how to react. Convention told me to do things that would reassert my Number One position in her world. But although I was very fond of her - we had become engaged (with parental approval on both sides) in May 1980 - my heart wasn't doing what convention demanded. She was like a bird ready for flight, and I didn't want to cage her. She needed to be free.

Matters came to head in Trafalgar Square on New Year's Eve. I believe the crowds of revellers are nowadays tightly controlled, but in 1980 it was still possible to roam about, mildly misbehave, be in any state of merriment, perch atop marble lions, splash around in fountains, and generally let off steam, responding to emotional impulses to your heart's content. The police, a lot of them, were of course on hand; but Rent-a-mob was not there, and the atmosphere was thoroughly good natured. They had nothing to do but stand around, simply a moderating influence. And they were smiling all the time. It became something of a sport for young girls to go up to the male officers and give them a big kiss.

My girlfriend, when she realised this was allowed, plunged in and spread her kisses around. It was actually quite decorously done, as if the sergeants back at the station had given strict instructions to the men about the correct way to receive kisses from hormone-driven young girls. So there was no improper hanky-panky; just grins on the mens' faces, and hoards of blushing young ladies in their prim hats and coats and scarves and gloves dashing around to see who could kiss the most men. For some it must have been a Rite of Passage into the next stage of their sexual development. It was curiously engaging to watch. The policewomen present turned the other way, with strange expressions on their faces: rueful smiles that might have been interpreted as good-luck-to-you tolerance, or might not. Nobody was kissing them of course. And it really didn't matter that the male officers' minds were diverted from their essential job: there was no trouble.

It felt odd to see all this and not respond in a conventional way. I badly wanted to talk about this strange inertia, with a policewoman I suppose. What was my role here? What was the right thing to do? Why didn't I do it? Why didn't I mind that my girlfriend was enjoying herself in this way? I told myself that it was harmless, that she was simply being high-spirited, and that she was having fun. I felt a pang of abandonment, but that seemed to be all. For not the first time, I questioned my 'male' role - or was it a parental role? Why I wasn't being seriously annoyed by her behaviour, and why I was temporarily forgotten? The questions hung in the air, then thinned out and disappeared. Until the next time. I had no appetite or urgent wish to analyse my own responses. They could be ignored. And the kissing had stopped; here she was back at my side. I could put on a rueful smile and carry on.

Fast forward to 2011, and behold Lucy Melford, the nearly-60 Lucy Melford. But a woman now confronting her childhood. She realises that her emotional development stopped in puberty. She is determined to unblock her teenage hangups and move forward.

How do you 'unblock' anything? And how vulnerable will you be until the job is done, and you feel adequately sorted?

Let's put this into a specific situation. It's New year's Eve. You're in a pub with convivial friends, and you're relaxed and looking good. Everyone else there is getting mildly tipsy, or at least excited. Everybody has shining eyes and is talking loudly, and laughing, and making extravagant gestures of goodwill. Then some of the men start kissing every female they see. Do you dash for the loo, or make up your mind to respond? What will I do?

Put it another way, do I take the initiative?

And what if a man makes an approach, isn't somehow put off, starts a conversation, gets interested or at least intrigued?

I'll let you know. If it happens. Next year.

Scanning old prints - confronting the old life

2011-12-30T13:54:00.010Z

Since the end of September I've been engaged in a photo project that involves scanning a large number of old prints, burning them onto a series of CDs, and mailing them to my former partner M---.

I could take them personally over to her house, because she lives in the same village - that's only 2 minutes drive, or 12 minutes if walking. But she can't cope with seeing me, and would feel embarrassed if I came to her her door uninvited. And to be honest, I couldn't cope too well if, knowing that she still felt like this, she came to my door uninvited. So we keep off each other's turf, and communicate by means other than face to face. At least we do communicate, and must, so long as this current photo project goes on.

Although our old relationship has come to a painful end, and although M--- feels very resentful about my 'opting out' of a settled life, and taking away our future together - just as if I committed some terrible act of betrayal - she still wants to have those old pre-digital photos that show us as a couple, or show members of her family, or either of us with former friends. This means going through all my prints for the years 1992 to 2000 and selectively scanning them. It's a slow business. Even without any normal editing, the scanning and captioning process can only be done at the rate of 20 shots per hour. So the 388 shots sent to her so far have taken me, on and off, over 19 hours. And I expect to eventually send her over 500 scans. Maybe as many as 1,000.

Why do I do it? We owe each other nothing. All ties have been broken. The last tie, the biggest of all, the debt owing on the Cottage, went last August. We need not now be in touch at all. She already has my digital shots from 2000 to 2010. I certainly feel under no great obligation to supply all these older photographs from the 1990s.

But there are two things. First, I want to do it. I feel that she ought to have these pictures, both to fill gaps in her family history, and to remember occasions that she may have forgotten. And second, I want to remember them too, and place them in my archive. Then I can revisit them very easily.

I feel perfectly cool about seeing the old me. I can recognise the continuity between that person and the present self. Indeed, I'm glad that I took so many photos: I have a marvellous record of how life used to be. Is that an odd thing to say? But not if you are serious about recalling the exact detail of how things really were, insofar as photographs can reveal that. I want a balanced view, not a skewed recollection. I want to appreciate that I was part of some fun events; that we did have jolly and loving moments; but also that there were occasions when the mood was less than perfect, when we put on a front. And times when odd little things were said or done that could not be forgotten. Some of them were said or done by me, and for no reason that was clear at the time. Fits of temper or irritation that came out of the blue. Strange reluctances to do quite ordinary things. I want pictures to prompt remembrance, whatever my present emotional response. I want to recover as much of the truth as possible, in a form that nobody can argue with. Photos are far better than written diaries for this, because they can't be selective. They include everything that was visible. And that has to be an honest thing, a good basis for facing up to how things were, good or bad. Much better than a personal impression backed up by nothing. And it's no good having these visual facts hidden away in dozens of print boxes, gathering dust in one's attic. They need to be highly accessible, just a few clicks away on the PC.

So this project, ostensibly at M---'s request, is partly for me too.

But M--- must feel pain whenever she sees these pictures. I wonder that she can stand it. I have no idea why she wants me to continue.

And when all the scans have been done, and there is nothing else to send, what then? Just silence?

Well, that went quite well

2011-12-27T09:49:00.004Z

I recently watched the 2000 Pixar film Toy Story 2 again.

In one scene, the toys, intent on rescuing Woody the cowboy from the clutches of a greedy toy store owner and collector (who wants Woody to complete a set of toys to sell to a Japanese toy museum for megabucks), have to cross a very busy road, practically a racetrack full of cars and trucks, all trying to beat the traffic lights. Of course, the best way to do it is protected by a red road works cone! So each toy gets underneath one, and they move out into the road in a formation.

It's a very wide six-lane urban highway really, a long way for little toys to go, and they have to cross it in stages. But they can't see, and have to guess when it's best to move forwards and when it's best to plonk down in a line and wait for the next red traffic light, which will stop the traffic and give them a chance to press forward without getting hit. Except that they somewhat misjudge the lulls in the traffic, and end up moving across the path of all these terrifyingly huge vehicles. And all the time they can't see what's bearing down on them.

It's amazing to see the chaos they cause, because all the cars and trucks do their utmost to swerve and avoid these cones, and although the toys come within a whisker of being squashed by tyres, somehow they survive. It all ends up in a horrible mess, traffic facing in all directions and completely blocking the road. But nobody is actually hurt. And the toys themselves have seen nothing of the near-disaster they have unwittingly caused.

As they gain the other side of the road, and still 'wearing' their cones - a kind of blindfold when you think about it - one of the toys says 'Well, that went quite well!'. You just have to laugh, because you've probably (like me) curled yourself up into a tense knot in your armchair, hardly daring to look, and you need to relax!

It all now strikes me as a metaphor for many a real-life situation where one plunges in with an urgent thing to get done, no matter what it takes, but you can't foresee the consequences for everything and everybody around you. We're not so different from those toys. The last three years have been just like a long blind walk across a busy road full of traffic. I thought I was doing it underneath a protective cone of laid-down official procedure and standard medication and a network of support groups. But in reality I was exposed to haphazard and unpredictable danger which could have been the death of me. And look at the chaos in my wake!

But I survived, and so have others. On the whole, despite everything, it has all gone quite well!

There was another moment in Toy Story 2 that got to me well and truly. This was when the cowgirl Jessie, one of that set of toys coveted by the greedy collector, tells Woody how she used to be the favourite playtime companion of a little girl called Emily.

They were inseparable. Jessie felt loved and wanted and was so happy. But Emily grew up, became interested in make-up and boyfriends, and one day Jessie fell under the bed and was forgotten. Then a long time later, Emily discovered her again, and picked her up. Jessie's heart leapt with joy with the hope of being loved and played with once more. But it was a hope that was dashed. She was popped into a box, and left at a roadside charity box pickup point. And eventually she came into the hands of the greedy collector, who kept her languishing in a dark storeroom for years and years until Woody came along, when there was at last a hope of being loved as a toy again, even if it had to be behind glass in a Tokyo museum.

This has resonanances from many a real-life relationship, I'd say!

But the moment that made me cry my heart out was the point at which Emily (who was just being a girl growing up, and not really cruel and heartless) let Jessie drop under the bed and into the dust, a toy discarded. I couldn't bear it. I had to hug Ted for a long time until the grief passed away from me, and I could face the rest of the film.

Funny how some of the things you can watch reach into you and rip you apart.

Oooh - beware of tight jeggings!

2011-12-24T00:28:00.006Z

I'm currently a bit uncomfortable downstairs. I'm not in pain, and there's no damage to see, and dilation is fine; but it feels as if something has been punishing my external parts. They seem a bit swollen, as if reacting to some physical ill-treatment.

The only culprit I can think of is my latest pair of tight-fitting jeggings. Unlike ordinary leggings, they stretch less, and have a substantial and non-stretch central seam. I reckon they have squashed and pinched (and maybe bruised) my clitoris and the labia majora. I have of course given them a rest for a few days, and gone back to ordinary leggings. And if the problem persists, I will wear nothing but skirts and dresses for a while.

I'm not a fan of ordinary jeans, which I've never found comfortable to wear, and for a long time I was suspicious of jeggings as well. Then, a month ago, I discovered that Sainsbury's at Hove were selling them under their TU label for £12.50 a pair. They were well-made and nicely shaped, and I do have a bottom worthy of proper coverage! It seemed too good to miss. I tried a pair on in the store - size 14 was a very good fit - and bought two. I was lucky to get them. Two days later they had sold out. Those two pairs proved to be a success, though, and usefully extended my legwear options, especially if I wanted to wear boots. I quite liked wearing them, and thought I had conquered a personal prejudice.

But of course after a few wearings they began to stretch a little too much for a perfectly skinny look. My hair stylist M--- wondered whether I should have bought a size 12 instead, in order to preserve that creaseless 'painted on' appearance for longer. I thought about it. And then a few days later, I saw that Sainsbury's had some more jeggings in, so I tried on a size 12. But it was no good - they were too skinny to get on! But I bought two more size 14s, and after trying them on quickly at home, popped them in the washing machine to shrink them a bit. Two days ago I wore a pair of them all day.

They certainly looked fine, but definitely felt on the snug side. I now think they were rather too snug! I think this latest batch of size 14s is closer-fitting than the previous batch. Hmmm - I should have expected inconsistency between batches. Anyway, my bits have suffered, and I'll just have to wait for the damage to fade.

Let this be a warning then. Tight clothing can look great, but beware!

Explaining myself

2011-12-21T17:22:00.005Z

An old friend of my Mum's, who I don't remember seeing since leaving Barry in South Wales in 1963 at the age of eleven, has sent a Christmas card addressed to Dad, myself (as Julian, the old me) and family. She did the same thing last year, and I meant to write. I now have. A difficult letter to a widowed lady of nearly 90. How do I break the news that Dad died in 2009? And how do I explain my own situation?

This (with some things blanked out, to conceal personal details, and omitting the first and last paragraphs) is what I said in my letter:

I’m afraid I have bad news. Both Mum and Dad died in the first half of 2009. Both were in their late 80s. I think you must know about Mum’s death from cancer on 3 February 2009. Dad followed her on 25 May 2009.

He was missing Mum, and I might almost say pining away for her (because they had been very close), but he didn’t actually die of grief. It was a sudden and unexpected cardiac arrest. It was late in the evening, and he had had a good meal, his usual hot shower, his usual whisky and tonic, and he was reading a cowboy novel before going off to bed.

All this was obvious when I saw the scene (minus Dad, of course) next morning. I knew his routines. I was living elsewhere, but I visited him two or three times a week, and we went out together for pub lunches, and then back to play cards, which he greatly enjoyed. We had a good rapport. On the fateful night, I think he had got to his feet to go to bed, but the effort placed a strain on his heart, and he slumped to the floor. He had time to press the button on the device around his neck, which summoned the emergency people, but when they arrived he was already dead. It must have been a very quick end for him. Later that night, I had two glum policemen knocking on the door of my house at one o’clock in the morning, and, with a heavy heart, I took it from there.

I inherited the house at [my address in the village], where I still live. Mum and Dad’s ashes were scattered at the bottom of the garden. After Dad’s funeral, I was urged to stay on and not sell the house, and I have listened. I dare say that sometime in the next ten years, if I can afford to, I will make one last move to somewhere in the West Country, maybe Devon. But meanwhile I have all I need here at [the village], including fantastic friends and neighbours.

There is one other piece of news - about myself - that may surprise you.

I was diagnosed with gender dysphoria in 2008, meaning that all along I had been looking like a man and living the life of one - quite successfully too - but in fact had always been female. So at the age of 56 my life turned upside-down. In several ways it could not have happened at a worse time, although thankfully I had already retired, so the complications of presenting a new face at work did not arise. Three years on, I’ve settled very nicely into my new role, or rather the role I should always have had. And looking and sounding pretty good, I assure you. To save my parents embarrassment in the early days, I completely changed my name. So it’s now Miss Lucy Melford, and not Mr [my old name] - that’s official, on my passport and driving licence, and everything.

I hope this isn’t too much of a shock. It was a huge shock for a whole lot of people at the beginning, and they distanced themselves from me very quickly, and most have stayed away. I suppose they didn’t know what to say or do. But three years after the initial announcement, one or two are beginning to make contact again, which shows that you must give these things time. But of course the old Julian has disappeared. It would be a brave person who knew the old me and attempted to form a fresh friendship with Lucy - although new friends, who never knew Julian, find me rather good company! It all depends on your point of view.

I didn't want to sentimentalise the sad news about Dad, nor launch into a complicated discussion of what being transsexual has meant. I remembered Mum's old friend as a pleasant, youngish woman in 1963 (Mum was only 42 then) and it was very hard to visualise what she could be like now, or what her views might be. But I wasn't going to shirk telling her.

I wonder how she will react?

How do you sleep?

2011-12-19T23:28:00.002Z

No, not a reference to John Lennon's rather critical song about Paul McCartney. This post is about a subject that I've not seen anyone blog about.

I'm talking about bedtime. It's the time of day that you can go to your very own imaginary world. If you can do no more, at least you can drift off to sleep thinking of how things would be in a different world, whatever the daytime reality. But first you have to get into bed and switch out the light. This is how I get to that point.

First the basics. I live alone, but I sleep in a good-sized bedroom on a big roomy king-size heavy pine bed that gives me all the space I want. And I don't keep to just one side of the bed. I sleep in the dead centre, with two really nice pillows to rest my head on. I have a firm mattress slung over pine slats, so that there is some 'give' and it's not like sleeping on a stone slab. I can feel comfortable whether I lie on my back or on my side. I stretch out luxuriously on a white fitted brushed cotton sheet; over me there is currently a 10.5 tog duvet inside a plain cream cotton cover; and my head is on matching cream cotton pillow cases.

I live in a quiet area, away from the village centre and any traffic noise, and I have nothing much to worry about, so I fall asleep easily and sleep well. I have a tendency to wake automatically after three hours, so I go to the loo, have a sip of water, and then go back off to sleep for another three or four hours. This routine, which must be habitual, hardly ever varies. Oddly enough it's just the same even when I'm away in the caravan and lying on a narrower bed. I still have those nice pillows and cream cotton bedding. And usually it's even more peaceful, although you do hear the weather much more. But somehow, when you're snug, and ready for sleep, the pitter-patter of rain on the caravan roof is good to hear and quickly brings slumber.

But sleeping in a strange bed unsettles the routine, and so, because a good night's rest is so important to me, I try to avoid sleeping out of my own bed. I'm most definitely not the person to accept offers of couches or spare beds when visiting a friend, and I will face a two-hour drive at midnight or later in order to get home and sleep in my own house. And to tell the truth, it's usually a lot more convenient to wake up in the right place. There's always a surprising amount to do, and I want to get on with it. I never lie in. It helps that I'm retired: I don't have to drag myself out of bed at the crack of dawn, with the house unheated and cold, simply to catch a train. The central heating fires up just after seven, and the gentle ticking of the radiator in my bedroom is my 'alarm clock'. I'm nearly always up and having breakfast by seven-thirty.

To get myself in the mood for bed, I tend to stay up late, generally beyond eleven-thirty, and my going-to-bed ritual consists of a glass of cold milk and a small bowl of cereal (I know, not good for my waistline, but you can't sleep well if you're hungry, can you? And I've been doing this for decades). Then I undress, visit the toilet and bathroom, and get into bed. I may read, but most often I play three straight games of solitaire, and then lights out. No T'ai Chi. No hanky-panky with vibrators. I just want to get to sleep.

And to wear? Well, always some panties. For modesty if nothing else. I mean, what if I had to get out of the house fast? I don't mind the neighbours seeing my boobs, but I'd be embarrassed if they saw my more intimate bits. Of course, if I were sharing my bed with a guest, no doubt I'd dispense with the panties in order to be friendly; but that has not occurred so far, and I don't expect it to occur. I'm a realist: no man or woman is likely to fancy me enough to ask me for sex; and if they did, I'd be so terrified about the possibilities that they'd never even get a glimpse of the house, let alone the bedroom. Besides, I don't want to wake up with some other face next to mine, no matter how good-looking or caring or sweet they might be. I want a simple, uncluttered, no-problem start to my day. I want my pure space, not a sagging bed littered with bodies that smell of the night before. I have friends who long for that. Maybe the whole human race does. But not me.

And when I mentioned 'panties' I meant plain black Marks and Spencer cotton panties, and not silky white or scarlet directoire knickers with lace and ribbons. I don't do fancy dress in bed. But if you do, then that's fine!

What are they all for, anyway, alluring garments like see-through negligees? They seem to be props in a ritual. Surely the most seductive, most exciting underwear is none at all. I mean, if you wanted to grip a man's interest, make his imagination work overtime, ensure that he throws all caution and reticence to the winds, and get him into bed with you, wouldn't it be a great idea if, sometime during the evening, you dropped a hint that you had nothing on beneath your outer clothing? Just a thought.

One less record, a few minutes more time gained

2011-12-16T13:11:00.004Z

This morning I discovered that the vast 2011 Transition Costs spreadsheet on my PDA had become corrupted. This was a Windows Mobile document, and I was a little surprised because WM has, on the whole, proved very stable. But it seemed no problem to deal with, because I had a very recent backup. Unfortunately that too was corrupted. And would you believe it, until only yesterday I had regular half-weekly backups going back over the entire past month - any one of which might have been uncorrupted and usable - but a routine diary prompt had made me delete all save that last one! Damn.

The only other backup left was the general half-yearly one I made of everything on my PDA, PC and laptop on 30 September. So I got that out, and copied the 2011 costs spreadsheet onto my PC. But the last entry on it was dated 26 September.

So, would I now recreate everything from 1 October to the present? Or just let the 2011 spreadsheet finish at the end of September?

All my record-keeping instincts said 'Recreate! You can do it easily!'. But actually I decided to simply file the thing away and just keep it for occasional reference only. After all, the genital op - the essential culmination of all my transition costs - was as long ago as last March, and despite what I said in Costs, costs, costs on 25 November, perhaps the time really had come to shed this particular financial analysis and move on without it. One less thing to maintain.

The way I saw it, something had intervened. Presumably a gremlin, but it might have been a divine hand for all I knew, and it was telling me to use my time more profitably. So be it.

Food glorious food

2011-12-15T23:01:00.003Z

What a very good climax to weeks of viewing. The Masterchef final was tonight, and now it's over. There's a winner. This is the annual BBC2 competition to discover a supremely good new chef of potential Michelin two-star standard. Forget Wembley and Wimbledon and the Olympic Games. This is the kind of contest I like to watch. Unusually there were three finalists - Ash Mair (age 34), Steve Barringer (25) and Claire Hutchings (22) - all of them so outstanding that they all went through. They were astonishingly accomplished. And all three were hungry (if not ravenous) for the title. But I was pleased to see how pleasant they were to each other. Nothing bitter about the keen rivalry, at least not on-screen.

I was intrigued how each put their personalities into a series of very daring, complex and clever dishes. How I wish that I too could be there with judges Michel Roux Junior and Gregg Wallace, sampling these delightful offerings. Alas, television can't give you flavours and aromas and textures!

You'd think, wouldn't you, that if I get this much of a kick out of food, that I must be a really good cook myself. I'm afraid not. OK, I can turn out a properly-prepared lunch or evening meal for just myself. And on occasions, I've cooked something tasty for two. But I baulk at cooking for six. I've never thrown a dinner-party for ordinary mortals, let alone anybody discerning. And yet I'd really like to cook as well as these three finalists; and it's a skill that I could develop in the years ahead, although I'm not at the age to embark on any kind of professional cooking. To achieve excellence in that you clearly need to be young. And driven.

It was hard not to identify with Ash, Steve and Claire. If not with their actual personalities, then with their approach. Although I was not surprised that Ash won, I was totally astonished with the innovation, flair and skills shown by the other two, and amazed that such finished dishes - delivered under pressure, remember - could be created by such young chefs. Even though they didn't win, surely Steve and Claire will now be launched on brilliant careers. I just hope that I can, very occasionally, treat myself to the kind of meals that they can create.

In case you thought I was putting myself down, here's a photographic selection of lunches and evening meals that I have prepared for myself during 2011. I'm not completely lazy when it comes to cooking. I like to avoid 'meals out of a packet' and I nearly always use fresh raw ingredients cooked from scratch. But I'm happy to open a tin of baked beans for just a midday snack. I like strong colour, and strong flavours. So if I add a blob of bright red tomato ketchup, or bright yellow mustard, it's mostly to add something colourful to the presentation - although why I bother is a mystery, because there's only me to care! I could so easily just dump the cooked food in one big pile onto the plate, with no attempt at arrangement. But I always make at least a minimum effort for my own satisfaction. Most of my evening meals take no more than 35 minutes to prepare, which is fast enough.

Breakfasts are lean and frugal. And I don't usually have a proper dessert - just an apple. Even so, you can see why I've put on weight over the months.

Fences down

2011-12-15T00:12:00.010Z

I'd rather hoped that once the Cottage was sold last August the financial pressure would be off; but there's been one unexpected expense after another since then, and my remaining pot of money has continued to shrink. I hope things are different in 2012!

The latest unplanned mishap that will cost a lot of dosh to fix was waiting for me yesterday morning. We'd had exceptionally strong winds overnight and they blew down a section of my fencing. Here's the damage:

Some of the fence panels and posts (those adjacent to the greenhouse) had been damaged beyond redemption and would certainly have to be replaced. Closer to the house, the fences and posts were still standing but had clearly been shaken about, and would probably go down if we had another wild night this winter. If I decided to have a proper job done, with concrete posts and upgraded panels, I would be looking to replace 18 metres (say 60 feet) of fencing. You can imagine the cost of that. Ouch.

However, first the wooden debris had to be broken up and mostly burned. With the help of my next door neighbour, who had a chain saw, this was accomplished by midday today. Then I set to, clearing the garden edge next to what was left of the fence panels still standing. I put in two hours steady work unaided, and managed to clear several metres:

Although the gardeners among you will pooh-pooh this as a feeble start, believe me, I was impressed with myself. No gardening whatever had been possible for three months after my op in March, as I felt so weak, and I only gradually regained some physical strength and the ability to bend. I'm afraid the garden edges, somewhat neglected since 2009, got overgrown and unruly. In a way, this fence damage has done me a favour: I will at last have to see to all the accumulated lopping and pruning and digging that I've been putting off. And not just on this side of the garden - the other sides as well. And repair the greenhouse. And scrape the moss off my patio. And it must all be finished before the snow arrives.

But all this effort is going to make me fit and burn off some calories! Now that's better news.

And I'm very glad to say that two hours of unaccustomed excercise this afternoon did not leave me with an aching back. It was a surprise, but I survived and I feel greatly encouraged to carry on.

Here I am, late in the afternoon, feeling rather cheerful about how well my lopping and pruning and shovelling were going:

If I lived in a flat (or a houseboat) I wouldn't have a garden and wouldn't have to maintain it. But I think I'd be missing a lot. I aim to get it back to its former glory, which is perfectly possible.

But until the job is fully done, the little squirrel who likes to visit my garden is going to be upset, and I expect to be scolded for messing about in his territory!

Heels and flip-flops

2011-12-12T15:07:00.001Z

Thank God it's winter, because I can wear boots of one sort or another most of the time. And that means much, much less pressure on my ordinary shoes. I'm now down to only three pairs of flats that I can wear out of the house. One of the black ones is for really dressy occasions. The other black pair is for smart casual, and has become my default pair of evening shoes. And the third pair, champagne-coloured, is OK for daytime shopping, but is getting somewhat tatty, and by next summer will be fit only for the beach.

I don't normally wear heels. I assure you it's true. I actually have no high heels whatever, and only three pairs of medium-heeled shoes, which I hardly ever put on. Whatever the gain in better leg and bottom shape, they make me look taller, something to avoid at all costs. But the main reason for my not wearing heels is that they put undue weight on the ball of each foot, and make my toes feel crowded and uncomfortable. There is no way that I will sacrifice comfort for fashion, or do it for the sake of a girlier appearance. If it is really girly, that is: I don't see very many natal girls or women sporting heels away from situations where they are more-or-less obligatory - as part of a job dress code perhaps, or to look conventionally alluring when tottering from nightclub to nightclub. They must be hell to wear all day.

So no heels in my life! Strike one against my being a girly role model then.

It must already be apparent that I haven't got a vast collection of shoes, and you'd be quite right. And yet I am perfectly aware of the massive impression a really big shoe collection can make. I recall one girl at the office some years back who confessed to having nearly two hundred pairs of shoes. That may not be so terribly unusual - many of the women that I've discussed this topic with over the years wished they could afford just as many. It's not merely to have something suitable for absolutely any outfit or any occasion. It's just as much to possess enviable objects of beauty and style, as many as possible, each pair a reassurance that the owner is worth it. Shoes represent happiness. The more shoes, the more happiness. They also represent female power. Each fresh addition, needed or not, adds to the prestige and self-confidence of the woman who has made the purchase. Expensive shoes with high heels are even better than super-posh bags: bags do not go click-click-click as you walk along, and do not turn heads in anything like the same way, to announce your arrival. Even the storage problem at home is a positive thing, that says 'this lady puts shoes before most other things in her home'; and a spare room entirely devoted to shoe racks is a status symbol that will crush and silence most other women. As Imelda Marcos knew.

Well, I'm no Imelda Marcos. Strike two against me.

What about the other end of the feminine footwear spectrum? Where's my crocs and my flip-flops? Oh dear, none in the cupboard. I have worn thin-soled ballet pumps, but again my head tells me that these are not good for my feet, and they are impossible to wear on pebble beaches and rocky pathways and any kind of hard ground. I didn't get them out last summer, and they may never get worn again.

Strike three; and I'm out, my feminine credentials in tatters, with very little to throw in that might redeem me. Because I have no illusions about the Dubarry boots: they're nice, and they look quality, but let's face it, most women either haven't heard of them, or associate them with a huntin', shootin' and fishin' country lifestyle as far removed from suburban life as it's possible to get. The epitome of 'county'. Footwear for snobs. And not footwear for glamorous girly girls. I also have pale blue wellies with hens on them, which are cute, but like the Dooberries they have no heel, and no pizzazz, and Jessica Rabbit wouldn't be seen dead in them.

Where does this leave me? Lacking in femininity? Less of a woman? It depends on what you think maketh one. I'm not going to worry.

Boots on: let's get some fresh air.

Amazing links

2011-12-10T09:16:00.002Z

Well, this is very pleasant. Only two months ago I met a new friend - a trans woman from the north west of England, quite casually, when she was visiting another local friend at the Nuffield Hospital in Brighton. I got on very well with this new friend, and found we had a mutual interest in photography. Definitely another person then to add to my network of people that I know.

But there has been a remarkable development in the last few days. This new northern friend (J---) went out for an evening meal with Shirley Anne (whose blog is Minkyweasel World - see my Blog List to the right) and the subject of hormones came up (that's an unusual topic, to be sure!). Shirley Anne suggested that J--- read my last post, and then they realised that they were talking about someone they both already knew - me. Isn't that amazing, because if I hadn't become a blogger I wouldn't have known Shirley Anne, and if I hadn't got to know the friend who was in hospital, I wouldn't have encountered J---! Tenuous connections indeed.

Or is it really so amazing?

I now have distinct sets of friends scattered across the country, all of whom I've got to know since I began my transition. None date from before the winter of 2008/2009. Not many are bloggers, although I can claim that I've personally met no less than nine other bloggers, which seems to me impressive. But making friends at places like the Clare Project in Brighton, or through encounters at voice therapy sessions with Christella Antoni, or by going to the opera, or simply through existing friends, has let me expand my social base more than I would have ever thought possible in the bleak days of autumn 2008, when I felt very alone and very subdued by anti-transition pressure. Now I feel part of a wide network of people who are all in the same basic position. We are not all close friends of course, and the chemistry between people is not always strong, but the link is there. And I'd bet that if all these people were asked who else do they know, we'd all find that there are even more links than we thought. The network of links might easily be dense, like neural connections in the brain. Even now, if I attempted to draw a diagram to show who knows who, it would quickly look like a confusing mess of connecting lines. So it's not altogether surprising that J-- and Shirley Anne might know me - or that someone else they know, whom I don't yet know, quite independently knows me!

But sadly it doesn't follow that every trans person automatically gets linked to a network. It depends on making contact. Putting yourself out there, and getting to know some people. And that can be very hard.

It's difficult enough to overcome fear and embarrassment and potential ridicule and a host of other practical problems when you are confident and in a good place to do something about your life. Those living in parts of the country where there is no local culture tolerant of boundary-pushing, or who cannot get the understanding and support of their family, face a solitary and dispiriting existence. I can perfectly see that unless somehow told that distance-bridging contacts can be made on the internet, these poor souls can remain alone and friendless, unable to find companionship, and excluded from any network.

And this is one justification for blogging. It's naturally pleasant to find that people respect and like what you write about, and that you have a personal following; but the real value of blogging is to become a trusted internet resource for those who need to read what others like them think about their condition, and what they do with their lives. So it really helps if one's Blog List (of the people you follow) is long and comprehensive and balanced. One should be a safe stepping stone for those crossing the raging torrent.

Three years of transition - only subtle facial changes

2011-12-07T08:44:00.007Z

Three years ago - on 9 December 2008 - Lucy Melford made her first public appearance. An awful lot has happened to me since then, nearly all of it irreversable. So when contemplating a post to mark this three-year stage in my personal development, I expected to find plenty of photos in the archives that would show how much I've changed. I'm talking about face shots of course, the bit of me that would most clearly show the before-and-after effect of feminisation.

But in fact I didn't find many shots suitable for comparison. For one thing, until well into 2008, close up shots of my head were few. Besides that, the expressions on my face then were mostly unlike the expressions you'll see now. However, here are four quite well-matched pictures from October 2008 and December 2011, with a fifth from September 2005:

By October 2008 I'd been on a serious diet for four months, and my face was much thinner than it had been during most of the 2000s. The shot from 2005 is more typical of how I looked before transition began.

In the 2011 shots I'm wearing no makeup except mascara and lipstick. The lighting is natural daylight in all five pictures, although the 2005 and 2008 shots were not by a garden window but out on sea shores. Obviously you have to ignore the different hair and different clothes.

You know, I don't see any startling changes! There's been a general softening of the skin, the eyes are open wider, and the mouth has slightly changed shape (it's all that speaking and smiling practice!). The cheeks and neck have altered in a feminine direction, the beard shadow has gone, and the eyebrows have been thinned out to the point of non-existence. Generally the face has become more rounded compared to 2008, but is much the same as it was in 2005.

And that's about it.

I think that you'd definitely say that my feminisation has come a long way in the past three years, and that the male look is much subdued, but surely I must still be highly recognisable to anyone who knew me before transition began. It's a salutory illustration that you mustn't expect a quick and fundamental transformation when going onto hormone treatment!

Of course, the years ahead will see an ongoing development in skin texture, and more shifting of flesh about the face. But the smoothing-out and reshaping process will have to contend with the drooping and sagging effects of gravity on aging tissue. Oh well. At least that will look natural.

Houseboats

2011-12-04T20:16:00.009Z

Yesterday afternoon I went down to Shoreham Beach for a walk, and found a row of houseboats. There was only one that looked anything like a seagoing proposition:

This was a redundant German minesweeper, and it looked as if it was ready go out on patrol on the very next high tide. But as a home? I accept that it might have some tiny cabins inside to sleep in, and a little galley to cook in, and a cramped mess to eat in, and a basic toilet. But where were the big windows to let in the sunshine and the view? Not exactly wunderbar, and, if ever I were thinking of giving up my comfortable bungalow with its charming garden for something with more 'character', not on my list of possible buys.

But some of the other houseboats had more obvious appeal as homes - although they had been extensively altered and added to in order to achieve that, and would never sail the seven seas again. For instance:

Hmmm...was that a real coach incorporated into the superstructure? And were the bombs and torpedoes resting in the mud defused and safe? I could see that those zany south-facing windows might let in a lot of light, but they were a bit too way out for my taste, and besides, they clearly weren't double-glazed! And possibly not even leakproof, if it rained, as it does sometimes even in sunny Sussex. But there were remedies for that - some of the other houseboats had clever canvas coverings to keep out the elements:

Problem sorted. And if looking for a real bargain, one could seek out boats with a permanent list to starboard:

If you're thinking that I'm being a bit sniffy about living offshore, then you're right. I have seen some very attractive floating homes here and there, but none have shivered my timbers. I do see that a houseboat is different and not boring, and could be cool and trendy. I do see that houseboats lend themselves to a certain free style of living. And I do see that if not tied up in a marina, or a proper harbour, or on the Thames, or in the centre of London, the mooring fees might be affordable. And I also appreciate that one need not fall overboard and drown, if tipsy one dark night. And surely it wouldn't matter that one's wooden home was an uninsurable firetrap, awkward, gloomy, leaky, damp, cold in winter, stifling in summer, and surrounded by acres of smelly mud?

Let's talk money. A quick glance on the internet suggests that purchasing a houseboat wouldn't cost the earth. I see that instead of buying Fiona, I could easily - with the same amount of cash - have bought some hulk instead. A missed opportunity indeed. Why waste it on a luxury car, when I could have had a weatherbeaten old tub? You know, even as things now stand, I could sell my nice warm cosy well-appointed bungalow, buy a houseboat, and pop the difference in the bank.

Why on earth don't I do it?

Strange opportunities

2011-12-03T11:58:00.004Z

After writing my last post, one thing that struck me was just how early in my transition the 'evening meal' dream had popped into my imagination.

At the end of 2008 most people in my life still did not know that I considered myself female. My parents and my partner knew, and that was about it. I was still hoping that, despite very negative first reactions, the full horror of losing everyone from my life could be averted. That somehow my parents and M--- would embrace this new version of me, and find the rediscovery rewarding. If asked then what I most wanted, I would have said, 'To keep the people I love'.

I shouldn't have been imagining anything different, certainly not a future without them, a future in which I was a fully-formed woman with friends who had accepted me. And yet my subconscious mind had ignored my conscious desires, and had forged ahead; it had set up this mature and highly realistic vision of a new life in a new setting, in which I knew people of substance, and was apparently unassailable.

Looking back, I think the 'evening meal' dream had a hugely supportive effect. I must have hugged it to me. It got me through a bleak winter in which I had to stand alone, whirled naked by events, beseiged by questions and all the guilt and pressure that was being loaded onto me. It offered a warm, candlelit future in which I was not only materially secure - certainly independent enough to gently push away an even more affluent life with the Derek in the dream - but emotionally secure, and obviously in good health, with at least one close and trusted friend. It may be a dream about keeping my independence intact, but I also think it's about being wanted and sought after, and not rejected.

There were other elements of this dream, or perhaps they were separate dreams about the same future.

In one, I am walking through the churchyard in my imaginary village, and encounter a teenage girl silently crying. Without a second's thought, I stop, sit beside her, and ask what is wrong - something I could not possibly do in real life at that time, because she'd have seen me as a slightly odd middle-aged bloke. But in the dream it's woman to woman. It all comes out. I succeed in comforting her, and I walk her home past my house, and I tell her that she can drop in for a chat any time. And she does; and we become firm friends; I get to know her parents and family; and it turns out that she had been unhappy for years past, and that I have turned her life round. And this wins me the respect of the other young people in the village, who feel they have found an understanding ally. And not just the young people: everyone gets to know about my good deed, and sees me as a person they can confide in.

What's all this about? I'd guess that it's a reaction to being distrusted and put at arm's length. Perhaps I wanted to comfort M--- in much the same way, and mend our fracturing relationship. Perhaps I wanted to be well-regarded, and not someone from whom people had withdrawn in confusion, bewilderment or disgust.

The third dream is about my 'daytime job'. It seems that somehow I have become attached to the main newspaper in Barnstaple. (I haven't a clue how that would happen, or how one would really work for a newspaper) I cover community events for all of north Cornwall and north Devon, including civic and military occasions. And occasionally other types of story, where especial tact and diplomacy are needed. I drive around in a distinctive car (this dream was pre-Fiona, but Fiona is the car in recent versions!), and I'm well-known. The dream has had me charming the whiskers off angry farmers, and scaring myself to death taking part in helicopter rides offshore, but usually it's about a big summer event in sunny Bude, where a festival is being held. In the dream, I'm not only reporting it; I'm involved in the running of this festival, which includes live performances in a packed seafront arena (I hasten to say that this arena doesn't exist in real life!); and I have to be centre-stage from time to time to make announcements, and introduce the next big act. And at the climax of the dream, I am persuaded by an anxious management to stand in for a famous singer who can't come. And of course I sing my heart out, staggering everyone with the power of my voice.

This seems easier to analyse. Like any teenager, I fancied myself as a performing megastar, and this is the eventual and long-delayed chance for fame and success. Sheer showing-off.

But I also think there are deeper things here. I really do have an ambition to sing well, in operatic roles, and to do it in a strong and authentic female voice. That is not an absurd impossibility. I'm sure that with training I could be a credible contralto, even if I am far too old to embark on any kind of career. This is on the back-burner in real life. As for the acclaim, well, I'm not at all hungry for it, even if being well-known for some definite talent might be very pleasant in some respects. A moment of delighted applause for a one-off, unrehearsed performance is one thing; commitment to the rigours of an ongoing career is quite another. So how come I have a dream devoted to finding unexpected singing success?

In her comment, Shirley Anne speculated about whether the 'evening meal' dream might be an indicator of my current approach to relationships. I don't think so, because it pre-dated eveything; although it's still a relevant dream that may yet become true. It involves a potentially awkward situation, a challenge, that has to be faced up to. So does the 'singing star' dream. Except that instead of refusing to stand in, I have leapt onto the stage and delivered the performance of a lifetime.

I think this is all a metaphor for my future life. I think I should be getting ready for some big moment of opportunity. Clearly my subconscious is already prepared and waiting.

Dreams that might come true

2011-12-02T00:46:00.009Z

Right at the beginning of my transition, I began to have a dream. It was about a future existence, in which I had fully completed my transtition. It seemed very real, very clear, and it became even more full of convincing detail with each repetition.

I am not an habitual dreamer, meaning of course (because we all dream every night) that I don't usually remember my dreams, or even that I have been dreaming. But I had this particular dream as often as every week back in late 2008 and early 2009. And it still occasionally recurs.

It's a pleasant enough dream. It's always set in a village that I have moved to. The village is like Marhamchurch, near Bude in north Cornwall, with elements of some other villages too, such as Week St Mary not far away, and Bradworthy over in the next county, Devon. It could certainly be the actual Marhamchurch; and my home in the dream is one of the bungalows near the top of Pinch Hill in the real village. Rather like my present home, but more stylish inside. The dream-Marhamchurch has a pub that forms the hub of village life, but with a different interior from the real one, that lends itself to dining in semi-privacy.

My dream involves enjoying an evening meal in the pub, as part of a foursome. I am fully-developed as Lucy, as feminised as I am ever going to get. I am not perfect. I still have, for instance, my big nose. In the dream I'm fully conscious that really close scrutiny might give me away. But I pass extremely well, and look pretty damn good for my age, and my voice and manner are even better than now. And that's the trouble, as you will see.

It's always an evening meal, always with the same three companions. One is a pretty, dark-haired natal woman who is my best friend in the village. Her name is Sue, and she's about fourty-five, slightly buxom, and a lively and vivacious person in every way, with a zest for life. She has a merry sense of humour, but also a serious, confidential side; and she knows that I am trans. I told her. It's our secret. Nobody else knows.

Sitting opposite us in the cosy village pub are two men named Ralph and Derek. I am quite certain of their names. They are not men of high culture, but both are well-off: businessmen with many interests, and considerable local clout. Ralph inherited his father's agricultural machinery and feed business, but has diversified into sports and adventure holidays. He owns a boat and a plane. Derek is basically a builder, but has property and leisure ventures all over the south-west. Both have done well, staying ahead of the game and making no mistakes. Both have money and some leisure. They not only play golf; to some extent they enjoy all the traditional pursuits of the well-heeled country gentleman. Money can buy almost anything.

Ralph is in his late forties, separated, nearly divorced, and I first met him through his twenty-something daughter, who lives with him. Her car broke down in a lonely country lane, and then I came along. I drove her home so that Ralph could take charge of the problem. Ralph insisted on my staying for a rather liquid lunch. It was indeed a very good lunch, but I felt his amiable curiosity rather too much, and I half-feel that Ralph has guessed, though I don't know for sure. He hasn't chased me: he has other fish to fry in that regard, Sue among them.

Derek is a bit older, and is long divorced with no family. I fancy he finds it hard to make full use of his time, now that his businesses run themselves. He has a thing about me, not quite a blind passion, but it has something of that flavour. At any rate, he's in hot pursuit. There's nothing actually wrong with Derek, but I really don't fancy him, and I feel I need to keep one step ahead of him - because if I don't, he will corner me with some invitation that I will find extremely difficult to refuse. Or bury me in presents that I don't want. Derek is persistent and clever and absolutely charming; and impossible to snub - doubly so if politeness is built into your soul, as it is with me. He knows that. He senses that he's got me on the run. My task in the dream is to put him off, and get him under control, with of course Sue's connivance.

The meal is a very good one, absolutely delicious. Ralph is in fine form, telling story after story, all of them with a light touch. He is remarkably urbane. Sue is in fits of laughter. Derek's forte is conversation, slower stuff, but the kind of talk that spins out the evening so that drink follows drink, and resistance becomes weaker.

Sue and I take time out.

'Derek's got an eye for you tonight, Lucy! I think he's going to put a proposition to you. Such as marriage.'

'Over my dead body! We must put him off somehow. Sue, I'm going to tell him the truth about me.'

'Do you think he'll care? I think he knows already. We need a better plan than that.'

'Let's pretend I'm a raving lesbian then.'

'Right. Back to the table!'

And so we go back, but despite a graphic description of my supposed lesbian misbehaviour with half the village, including Sue herself, Derek says it's all right by him, and produces a ring. Oh my God. And there the dream ends, and I have no idea what I say next. It's so frustrating.

The curious thing is that the dream has so far been so lifelike that I sort of believe it could come true. So that one day, when seeking a pub meal in a north Cornwall village, I will actually encounter a real-life Sue and Ralph and Derek, and somehow get drawn into sharing a table with them. With a result that will follow my dream word for word and act for act. A classic piece of deja-vu: I have been here before.

But surely there will be differences? For instance, the real-life Derek can't form an intention to pop the question on only a couple of hours acquaintance. There has to be a different outcome. The question is, what? And will it be pleasant? Or something dreadful?

What about the others? Are there in fact three other people who have quite separately been having a dream just like mine, and like me, are also wondering whether it could happen in real life? If so, will we all be watching in fearful fascination as the evening unfolds, unable to speak about what is happening, unable to get up and go, unable to escape whatever real ending the dream has?

When much, much younger I saw a film called Dead of Night, in which an architect arrives at a house that he has dreamed about, and encounters a set of people staying there for the weekend, all of whom appear in his dream. At first they pooh-pooh his fantasies, until he begins to correctly predict things that they do, and what happens next. Things that inexorably lead him into a horrible nightmare.

Maybe I should avoid Cornwall!

MTS: lasting impressions

2011-11-30T22:08:00.000Z

Well, the show's over. What will the public take away from part four of My Transsexual Summer? I'm sure the question is worth asking.

It was in many ways a watershed programme: the first major TV excursion into trans territory for half a decade, at least in the UK; the first to show so much upbeat celebration of transness; the first to show a proper selection of trans people of both types (MTF and FTM), and yet suggest that trans people are not all alike, but have different personal takes on their condition; the first to throw away the silly stereotypes of 'ex-men' who can't leave train-spotting and car mechanics alone, or flamboyant pageant queens.

We were treated to a big slice of inspirational bonding, as if the main message was that all trans people are caring and nice and unselfish, and get on well together, and are terrific company for each other. And that - in most cases - their families are loving and reasonable and supportive, and will go that extra mile. We were not presented with terminally screwed-up pathetic saddos from dysfunctional home backgrounds. We saw high-energy people with ambitions and plenty to say about themselves, and each in their own way worthy of respect. It was very theatrical, but all very positive.

And the darker aspects of trans existence were not quite edited out. There were little glimpses of bleak despair; personal losses that could not be put right as if by magic. Karen did not rediscover her daughter. Drew and Sarah both found that prejudice and misunderstanding and myth can deny you a job, or a place to stay.

On the whole, MTS successfully repackaged British trans people and made them seem extraordinary for some good reasons. If that impression lingers, then the programme makers and Channel 4 will have done the community a service. I don't personally mind if one or two of the participants find a way of exploiting their celebrity. Nor do I mind if they seek peace and quiet and an ordinary life, and never become trans activists or advocates.

There's just one thing...none of the participants resembled me. And some of the friends I know in Brighton are saying the same. If the British public now think this is how 'trannies' typically look and speak and behave, then that's certainly an improvement in general perception, but it won't quite be the truth. There is a danger that the public will not see our problems, and that the issues that beset us will never be fixed.

Perhaps we - my friends and I - may now cease to be recognised as 'trannies' at all, simply because we don't fit the new TV image. Is that a good thing? Will we mind being treated as just slightly eccentric women? And not the 'real thing'?

Rejected

2011-11-30T00:30:00.003Z

Just over a week ago I saw an old friend while driving through the little town he lives in. This friend had withdrawn with sadness when I came out to him early in 2009, and we had not seen each other since. The encounter was sudden and unexpected, and it upset me. I couldn't stop. But I wrote to him next day, proposing an experimental meeting, simply doing the ordinary things we'd always done on our former monthly meetups. I knew that he looked at my blog at least occasionally, so he'd know what I looked like, and something about my current thinking and attitudes.

Actually, I didn't think I had changed all that much. I had some hopes that he would have reappraised me, found merit, and now felt ready for some kind of reunion.

I had a letter from him ths morning: it was brief and disappointing. He used kind words, but he did not want to make the experiment. He wished to retain his fond memories of me as I used to be, as he knew me for twenty-four years until I changed.

It was gently expressed. But not seeing me to protect a fond memory was really no different from not seeing me for any other reason, including the one that I had become persona non grata. I'm sure it wasn't the intention of my friend, but I felt rejected, and it hurt enough to bring me close to tears. He wanted to avoid me, to not see me, and to keep me away.

I won't harbour resentment. I'm not made that way. But it seems to me that if this is how my friend still feels after almost three years to ponder on my situation, then there will never be any change, and I must accustom myself to that. In my past life I did not have many personal friends, and my impulse to show friendship had been very much concentrated into this particular friend of very long standing. His loss in 2009 was therefore severe. And this fresh reaffirmation of that loss is equally hard to take.

I am lucky, of course. Some of us have multiple losses like this, so many that the accumulating rejection affects basic self-confidence, even health. It is very, very damaging. But all you can do is be strong, forget the hurt, and carry on. There is no other way.

My silver necklace and its meaning

2011-11-28T11:48:00.003Z

You'll have noticed that I don't wear gold, and never vary my jewellery much, the standard items being a plain silver ring on my left little finger, a curly-looking silver ring on my right ring finger, a stainless-steel Tag Heuer lady's watch on my left wrist, a chunky silver bangle on my right wrist, and discreet titanium studs in my ears. The only thing that ever gets changed is the neckware, and even here it's almost always just one of three items nowadays: my pearls, a Labradorite pendant with a silver chain, and a thick silver necklace that looks a bit like a slow-worm. This post is about the last item.

You'll have often seen my slow-worm in pictures of myself. Here it is in close-up with the Labradorite pendant:

And here it is around my neck in a Winchester pub yesterday evening:

Yesterday was an anniversary. Exactly three years ago, on 27 November 2008, M--- bought that slow-worm for me as a gift when we were in Bournemouth for the day. It came from a shop just off the town centre called Enigma. My coming-out to her was still recent; she was still struggling to cope; we'd had a blazing row that afternoon; but, meeting up later, the anger and frustration felt by both sides had died down, and we earnestly wanted to be good to each other. I'd seen this necklace in Enigma. I'd wanted one like it for years past. I'd bought M--- a slightly more slender version twelve years previously. Now I wanted to have one myself, to match hers. In a way, a strong gesture of togetherness when so much was starting to fall apart. I had hesitated over the cost. She didn't hesitate. The purchase was made. Once mine, I wore it proudly, straight away. Of course it was a very girly possession: my first openly-wearable major item of proper ladies jewellery. But it was still androgynous enough for her to feel comfortable with it.

It was the last present from her that was given in anything like the circumstances, with anything like the feeling, of all the other gifts we'd given each other through the years.

We didn't stop buying more things for each other in the months ahead. For instance, when I finally had to move out, I bought her a laptop and other stuff to go with it, so that - with my PC gone - she could still process her own photos and be on the Internet. She bought me things like a Chinese tea set, exquisite and attractive and loaded with significance. But all these following things were given with sadness and regret for what was passing, and were inevitably either practical gifts, or tinged with symbolism for what had been, and was now tragically fading, and might in time be forgotten.

But the slow-worm was different. I loved it, and it gave me pleasure and hope, if not for us, then for a meaningful future I couldn't yet see, but felt sure would come. And it has, but M--- is not in it, and it isn't the future she wanted but the future she feared. And that is a sad thing that is sometimes very hard to bear; but at least I have this reminder that, despite everything, I was once loved with an all-consuming fire, and without despair.

Costs, costs, costs

2011-11-25T12:16:00.003Z

2011 is drawing to a close, and about this time each year I consider setting up speadsheets and databases for the following year. I have quite a number of financial ones going, some documenting my plans and the outcomes, some merely recording expenditure under various heads as it accumulates.

One set of spreadsheets records my transition costs as they occur. I've maintained them - using a consistent format - for each of the years 2008, 2009, 2010 and 2011. Some months ago (see Counting the transition costs on 17 June 2011) I disclosed what I'd spent on my transition up to that point. It was probably typical for a transitioner with a bit of cash, and the will to record everything relevant. I thought then that the spending would tail off, and it has. And until very recently I wasn't going to bother with a spreadsheet for 2012. But I've changed my mind.

There's more than one motive. First, I actually like recording things. Somehow all the records, all the photos, all the letters written and copies kept, fix me in time and space and show that I have a history, and that real development is going on. It's not just an impression, or in my imagination. This is psychologically reassuring.

Second, I like to fulfill plans, record progress, reach targets, finish the job properly and measurably. That's the kind of person I am.

Third, I want to prove to myself, and if necessary to others, that although mistakes were made aplenty, I did not indulge in heedless and gratuitous waste. Money is a finite resource, like a tank of fuel; you have to eke it out, and use it well. Just how you do that is your own business, but once it's gone, it's gone, and the show stops until you can refill that tank.

All along I've been acutely conscious of dwindling resources. Transition is an expensive business, and I've done it all out of my own pocket. I'm not claiming kudos for that, at least not within the trans community: I simply have a personal principle that if you can pay, you should, so that money is freed up for those who can't afford the expense themselves. It does place me on high ground, with those inclined to take a certain holier-than-thou moral attitude. If I'm ever challenged by an indignant non-trans person who feels strongly about 'wasting NHS resources', or taxpayers' money generally, and accuses me of being a leech on society, then I will absolutely flame them. Because by their standards, I'll have a clean pair of financial hands - and I'll insist that they acknowledge that. But otherwise my sheer ability to pay should not get me through the Pearly Gates. It's the least I could have done.

And, let it be said, I got what I paid for. I got hair removal, voice tuition, genital surgery. I got clothes, shoes, bags, accessories and everything required to boost my confidence and self-worth when these things were vital to have. I avoided hassle. And I shortened 'the process' into a timescale that made sense for a late transitioner with no time to waste.

And bear in mind that once I've got my Gender Recognition Certificate, I'll eventually recover some of those costs, by having my State Pension paid a little bit earlier. I have no shame about that. And once the pension is being paid - it'll start three years from now - I can save up for anything else that I may need to complete the process: a nose or boob job, say. Unless I decide that at 62 it no longer matters.

There is also another, fourth motive: I really don't think that my transition is over. I still need to record at least its fourth year. It'll be a year that will contrast strangely with the three that came before. A year in which my spending changes character, becomes more like that of any woman, and drops to a level that I can sustain without raiding my savings account. A year in which I stabilise; a year of carefully managed thrift. I want to see my savings account balance actually start rising again, as much as I want my waist measurement to shrink.

Well, there's two New Year resolutions!

Newspapers

2011-11-24T10:04:00.000Z

The current enquiry into UK press practice is taking evidence that reveals disgusting and callous approaches to news-gathering and publishing. All to boost circulation. It's a scandalous, salacious news story in itself.

I have always since my teens been quite certain that newspapers exist solely to make money or political influence for their owners. And not at all to be a reliably impartial source of truth and knowledge. They have other functions too: as a mirror of contemporary society, as a marker of social status, and as a vehicle for mass advertising.

I don't know if the question is still asked, but back in 1970, at my two first and only job interviews, a key question was 'Which newspaper do you read?' and much depended on the answer. Back then 'The Times' or 'The Daily Telegraph' were safe replies. 'The Guardian' would suggest intelligence but also a degree of political awareness inappropriate to a minion in the vast and conservative Civil Service, and it was therefore a risky answer. There was of course no way of sitting on the fence by saying 'The Independent', which didn't then exist. These were all broadsheet newspapers. Tabloid-sized papers were all of much lower status, and not deemed to be the reading matter of potential high-fliers. You were career-dead if you claimed to read any of those. They were thought trivial and working-class. They defined your level in a world still ruled by a snobbish elite, and even if you landed a job, you would be regarded henceforth and forever as a mere worker ant. Such was the position of newspapers in British culture at the time.

Forty years on, and the crown has slipped. Is there a paper - or any well-known publication of national circulation - that still has an untarnished reputation? Any at all that you'd happily admit to reading regularly? They all seem like vassal states in a cruel and despotic empire, tainted not simply by who owns them, or who sets the tone, but by the sleazy basic practices of the news industry. What now distinguishes a news reporter or news photographer working for the popular press from a private detective?

But face another fact. If these papers could not be sold, if nobody bought them, the industry would not be as it is now. The paper-buying public fed the machine that hounded Princess Diana and so many others to destruction. You cannot point a finger at (for instance) the Murdoch family without admitting that people bought their products daily by the million, and that if their standards are wrong, then so are the standards of most of us. And that goes for the news-makers too: the reporters and writers of all kinds who gave the public what they wanted to read about. It may have been a cynical exercise in spoon-feeding, but the salacious diet was eagerly swallowed.

Apart from buying and reading 'The Listener' before its demise, I have not bought a daily or weekly newspaper for nearly thirty years. I wouldn't waste my money, and I certainly don't want to encourage the press as it has now become.

The three traditional uses for yesterday's newspaper were to wrap your fish and chips in it, to clean flies and other muck off your car windscreen with it, and (in poor or makeshift circumstances) wipe your bottom with it. There are better substitutes for all three nowadays. I suggest there are better substitutes for the newpapers that are presently being savaged but will no doubt survive. A brief radio news summary, or a news headline feed on your phone, might be much better for your information, understanding and peace of mind than a thousand weasel words on a printed page.

And this is quite apart from the issue of Saving the Planet. There are better uses for paper and chemicals. Ask yourself: if cast ashore on a desert island in a post-apocalyptic world, who would you like for companionship? A survival expert? An inventive genius with knowledge of agriculture? A doctor? A banker? A reporter?

Success stories

2011-11-23T13:16:00.009Z

Last Sunday I was once again - it was my third consecutive annual attendance - at the Dorset Gardens Methodist Church in Brighton, who were hosting the Transgender Day of Remembrance Ceremony for the city. It was very well attended indeed. A sea of people arranged in concentric circles around a large candle. Present were two of the TV participants in My Transsexual Summer, Sarah and Fox, and the mother of Andrea Waddell, a trans girl who was murdered in Brighton in October 2009 - one of two such murders in the UK that dark month. I spoke with all three. Not present were representatives from any of the political parties, not even the Green Party, which is strong and influential in Brighton. But the police were there; and, would you credit it, the Rainbow Flag was flying from their building.

The format of the Ceremony was changed this year. Hitherto, a book had been passed from person to person containing details of all the known trans-related deaths around the world in the previous twelve months, including the name of the victims, where they died, and how they died. 2009/2010 was an especially bad year for hate crime, and it took a long time to complete this part of the Ceremony. And the cruelty of the deaths - which might involve torture, mutilation while alive, stabbing, strangling, even burning - was harrowing in the extreme. Some had found it impossible to read from the book when their turn came.

So this year, people were invited to take one or more cards from a table by the big candle, and stick them up on a large blank wall. We did this not one by one, but all together. Each card showed the name of a victim in 2010/2011 and their country, but thankfully not the mode of death; although if you wished to know, the details were available. This proved to be a better idea. It also allowed each man and woman there at the Ceremony to make their own personal act of remembrance, and not just briefly read something from a book, stumbling sometimes over the pronunciation of strange foreign names. This was more contemplative. Inevitably you paused at the Wall after sticking up a card. Just you and the Wall; and those cards with the names of those poor people on them. The cumulative effect as the Wall slowly filled up was impressive and moving. Meanwhile a choir sang.

There were an awful lot of cards, even though the death rate worldwide had fallen. Maybe the worst of the hate was done with, maybe not. But in some way I thought that the Ceremony was much more a celebration than a sorrowful tribute to the dead. It had been a more 'successful' year for trans people, in the sense that a few more than usual had survived. But the threat of sudden, casual death still hung over us all, even in Brighton. We were still in the hands of twisted people full of mockery and hate. And - despite being voters - still not taken seriously by most politicians.

Two days later, it was part three of My Transsexual Summer. This time it was all about achieving goals. That's more like it, I thought. Let the public see trannies being successful. Doing the things they do themselves, and getting praise and acknowledgement and recognition for it. The focus was on Lewis (desperate to raise cash for his breast-removal surgery) and Drew (equally desperate to get a proper job). Lewis set up a musical event in St Helens, drawing in an impressive number of friends and supporters - and also his dad, who hadn't fully accepted him but now clustered round, with a spot of bonding taking place. A double success then. Drew nervously survived a two-day trial at a town centre coffee shop, coping with the discerning ordinary townspeople of Wakefield. And she did very well, dropping the odd cake knife, but proving to be a champion waitress. She got the job, wow. Which meant not so much more money of her own, but the satisfaction of being an essential member of staff, making friends, and getting accepted by the town at large.

I have to say, I greatly admired them both. Singing on a stage in front of a crowd would be a frightening experience that I'd do much to avoid. Likewise, the pressure of a busy town centre coffee shop - taking orders correctly from customers, and serving them in a skilful and unflappable way - would be a challenge that I'd baulk at. What, you may cry! An ex Tax Inspector afraid of the public? But remember, I had the myth of the old sinister Inland Revenue behind me, the KGB in all but name, and people took the view that it was useless to resist, however annoyed and resentful they felt about being 'looked into', and however much they might try to delay the inevitable. And I was paid well to be persistent, and assertive for the truth. So it wasn't all that hard to acquire a confident approach, to be Christian in Pilgrim's Progress, and put up with the sneers and crossness that sometimes came one's way.

But survival on a stage, or in a waitress's uniform! Fear and terror! Nothing like the comforts of a safe office with colleagues on hand. No comparison. Couldn't do it.

At the beginning of the programme it was mentioned that 'two-thirds of trans people have suffered hate crimes'. Two thirds: as much as that? I didn't mind a startling statistic like this put in front of the general viewing public, but I hope it was accurate! Cut to Simon Powell giving the participants tips and lessons on self-defence. I'm pretty sure this is the same Simon who (back in November 2009) showed a keen group of us at the Clare Project in Brighton how to 'Walk Tall' and physically disable attackers if running like hell, or boldly facing up to threatening people, were not viable options. It was useful knowledge if sensible, confident personal behaviour, and good, unobtrusive presentation didn't keep you out of trouble. We were all inept Kung Fu Pandas at first, but we got much better very quickly. I'd therefore recommend a quick course in self-defence if you haven't already done one.

The final part of MTS is next week. I want to see Karen reconciled with her daughter.

Meeting local women at a keep-fit class

2011-11-18T22:26:00.001Z

I need to take some exercise, but I also want to meet many more natal women. One obvious answer is a keep-fit class. But I've drawn a blank looking in the local papers.

When I invited my neighbour J--- in for a coffee this afternoon, I asked her how she would go about finding a local keep-fit class. Her suggestions were the internet, or simply looking at the stuff pinned up in the Village Hall, which is just across the park from me, and within easy walking distance. Job done then - nearly! I'll trot over to the Village Hall tomorrow, and find out what might be going on there. And I can do the same thing at other village halls within a few miles, although it'll be nice if I can find what I want on my doorstep.

There are also bound to be classes at the two leisure centres that I belong to, but the cost per session may be greater. I can check that out on the internet.

There is of course a problem in all this. Will I be accepted? It's one thing to walk confidently down any street in the country. Quite another to join a local class and fit in, especially if my face may already be known.

We discussed this. In June 2009 (when I moved back to the village after the death of my father) I went full-time, and was suddenly seen around the village in full female clothing. I was shopping for food, going to the doctor and dentist, doing things at the Post Office, and keeping the charity shops well-stocked as I cleared my parents' wardrobes. My presentation was OK, but far from perfect: there was little hormonal effect so far; hair removal had only just begun; I had no female voice. I never noticed any tongues wagging as walked by, but surely I must have been seen and discussed by dozens of local people. But, J--- pointed out, I would have been just a nine day wonder. People soon move on to other things to talk about.

And nowadays I would not be any kind of news at all. Indeed I'd be very surprised if anyone, apart from immediate neighbours, could recall what I used to look like. I'd expect to be taken as a middle-aged women in all circumstances, and treated accordingly.

But a credible appearance and voice is one thing. What about my lack of lifelong 'female background'? In between whatever aerobic gyrations we are put through, will I be asked about my marriage status, family, former job, the school I attended, current interests, and medical history? I'm thinking I might well be. I'm a chatty sort, not one to stay silent and say nothing; I intend to make friends; and once rapport is established, and we're swapping personal stuff, I'm going to be vulnerable to a lot of natural probing. So a decision has to be taken now: how much do I disclose about myself? I'm inclined to be completely frank, and if anyone has a problem with me, face that with honesty, and not be affronted or embarrassed or in any way negative. I'm sure that there will be fair-minded people in the class who will support me, if I stand my ground in a reasonable way. And if the situation is clearly not winnable, then I will try in a neighbouring village or town where I can be a little more anonymous.

Bottom line: I need exercise. I will find somewhere to go!

J--- thought, if I wanted women's society but not necessarily any exercise, that I should also try groups such as the Women's Institute. But I can't make jam, I said. She said go: it wasn't how I thought.

Perhaps I'll end up as a Calendar Girl.

MTS 2: more questions than answers

2011-11-17T11:04:00.009Z

I was a little disappointed with part two of My Transsexual Summer. It didn't seem to add much to the first part last week. The presumed purpose of the programme - to present a group of people whose interactions and personal revelations will 'explain' transsexuality to the general public - wasn't much taken forward. Four incidents stand out: A fuller account of Drew's attempt to find a local job; the displaying of successful FTM surgery by a visitor; the Saturday night in the local pub; and Sarah's coming-out to her mum.

Drew's experience when she approached a bridal shop who were looking for an assistant is perceptively described on Jane Fae's blog (her 'Internalised Oppression' post). I won't add to it, except to mention that as I watched, I felt like saying to Drew 'Why on earth didn't you try your luck at a proper beauty salon, or a hairdresser? Plenty of those around. Or even better, get a till job at a supermarket, put some money together, attend college, and get some qualifications to show'. It seemed desperately unrealistic to rely solely on a nice manner and makeup skills. If she is meant to represent the plight of unemployed transsexual girls, and the sort of self-improvement notions they have, then she did them no favours.

Next, the FTM surgery. This was the first time in years that I'd seen a 'created' penis on TV. It was rather impressive. Perhaps a bit too big, in fact. It didn't look anything like the penis I used to have, which in no way resembled the proverbial elephant's trunk when relaxed, wasn't overlong or overthick even when erect, and shrank into a pathetic crinkled little appendage in cold weather. This one looked permanently half-inflated and half-erect in its normal state, and had a circumcised look. Despite the mention of how many operations were needed, and the high cost, and the fiddly stiffening procedure, as a surgical accomplishment it was remarkably well-crafted, and must have come as a surprise to the general viewing public. The six in the house were pretty awed.

I considered my own reactions carefully. Would I, as a trans woman, find it exciting if a trans man revealed his penis to me? It was hard to give more than a tentative answer. I wouldn't be in the position of even seeing it unless I was contemplating sex with him, or living with him on an intimate day-to-day basis. That would only happen if we had already got very close; and if so, I would be accepting of him as a whole person, and not just one or two of his parts. I would be disposed to understand and forgive any anatomical imperfections in his physique as much I would want him to forgive any in myself. The more challenging issue was whether a natal woman would be content with a post-op trans man for a lover, if he had a penis like that, and the scars where the skin grafts had been taken, and scars where breasts had once been. And not being a natal woman, I couldn't possibly say.

The night out at the local pub was driven mainly by the young, pretty, up-for-anything Donna. And it raised a few question-marks about her. She had been saying that she 'liked being a tranny' and didn't want genital surgery, and her out-and-proud actions at the pub, in which she successfully won over most of the men, seemed awfully like a stage performance. She wasn't a drag act; but it seemed to me that if she wanted to make a career in that general area then she had the right temperament and personality. Which begged the question, was she really transsexual in the same sense that I was? Why didn't she want surgery to remove the male organ that Karen and Sarah so disliked to see on themselves? It will be interesting to see whether the next two episodes clarify this.

She made the men think. Donna really is very pretty and convincing as a girl, very vivacious, and was igniting pilot lights in the men's loins. She was pressing all the right buttons. One or two men found it disturbing. It made me wonder whether the wrong kind of man would find it so threatening that he'd want to retaliate in self-defence, as it he were being seduced against his will into what he might regard as 'gay sex'. Is that in fact the 'thing' men have against trannies, that they are sirens luring them onto the rocks? That their own suppressed gayness will be exposed to the unbearable scorn and ridicule of other men?

Drew had also been saying that she didn't see the need to have genital surgery, but in her case I'm inclined to think that she presently finds the thought of a drastic and irrevocable operation too enormous to cope with. As she emerges from her social isolation and gets more clued up on what can be done, maybe her fears will not hold her back so much. Again, something to watch for.

Sarah's coming out was rather a non-event, at least in the limited way that we saw it. There was a big build-up. Sarah was clearly very nervous (my goodness, I would have been). She later described her mum as 'red-faced' (and spluttering?) as she explained matters to her. But all we saw was a low-key private tete-a-tete in Sarah's car, in which her mum basically said little more than 'are you sure?' and 'all right then'. I felt we were sold short on that. Much more must have been said, and her mum must have been perfectly aware of the purpose of this meeting. I mean, there was for instance a camera crew in the back seat. It was all made to look far too quick, simple, and easy. That said, if it really was so easy, then all the better for Sarah.

And was the general public educated by any of this? I think not. I can't help feeling that its mental image of trans people has been confused further, and that there is much work to be done in the final two parts of the programme.

Where is the basic underlying reality that a transsexual is a driven person, unable to do anything else but find psychological relief in a different body and a different life? That all normal living is on hold until transition can be completed? That it isn't primarily about the clothes and makeup? That basically we are all desperate and leaping in to the dark? That we have faced black moments of despair and endured many hopeless and frustrating weeks and months (and maybe years) of delay? And that we may have been scarred by the prejudiced opposition of family, friends and neighbours? That some trans people have been routinely insulted and hurt and even murdered? Not just in far-away places but here in the UK? This bleak side of it hasn't yet come into the picture.

Will the viewers come away with the impression that trans people are uncomplicated, sweet and lovely, with a family safety net? People who can easily get help, and meanwhile can have a jolly good time?

And will they believe that their dreams of 'money for surgery' will be met with cash for appearing on MTS?

Actually, it would be interesting to know how this particular group of trans people came to be chosen for the programme. Will that be touched upon? What was the process? Were people like Drew really as closeted and hermit-like as they have been portrayed, and what was their precise motivation in putting themselves forward for the nation to examine?

Would you or I be seen as suitable candidates? And would we agree to participate if approached and shortlisted? I'm not sure I would.

Where does this place us? The first episode of MTS appraised

2011-11-15T11:07:00.004Z

I was delighted to discover last night that Channel 4 were rescreening the first part of My Transsexual Summer at 11.05pm. I'd missed the regular slot last week because of my Somerset holiday, and this was a chance to look at the programme and decide what I thought about it. Part two of this documentary is on tonight at 10.00pm. I've asked my female cousin R--- (a retired headmistress, and one of the people who gave me active and unwavering support in my transition) to watch too, because I'd like to know what she (as a member of the ordinary public) thinks of it.

This first part of the documentary had to do several things for the programme makers and Channel 4.

First, it had to grab the attention of the public and make them watch it at least once, and if possible get hooked sufficiently to see the whole documentary as it unfolded.

Second, it needed to suggest that that the programme makers and Channel 4 were serious, unbiased, open-minded, progressive and sympathetic in their approach to a very difficult subject. Professional reputations are important, and tacky, voyeuristic, salacious 'tabloid treatment' would have been a mistake in an area where public opinion is beginning to undergo its own transition.

Third, it couldn't dwell on frightening medical details or dry-as-dust psychological explanations that might turn viewers off.

Fourth, to get the widest audience, there had to be a range of individual types, so that at least one person there would remind a viewer of someone they knew of in their own lives, perhaps themselves.

Fifth, there had to be a reason for watching week after week. So every one of the participants would have an individual story to bring out and develop, with if possible a looming crisis to face. It had to be something like a soap, leaving the audience with a cliffhanger at the end of each episode, and some kind of resolution at the very end.

Clearly these considerations could apply to a very wide range of possible subjects. Just now is a good time to put the spotlight onto transsexual people. Tomorrow it may be some other group.

So I felt before watching that in this first part of this documentary there would be a big effort to stimulate my senses and hook me in. There might be some shock tactics as well as more subtle methods of arousing and then sustaining my interest. I was therefore prepared to see a preponderance of frothy in-your-face stuff, and not too much of what was quietly thoughtful and reflective.

As for the line-up it was, as expected, weighted towards the young end of the scale. There was only one person anywhere near my own age: 52 year old Karen, who disappeared off for her genital surgery. Perhaps it was a rational production decision to whittle the contenders down to six, all of them much younger, but it meant that the army of older transitioners (of which I am one) won't have a representative to identify with.

I took it for granted that whatever their individual problems, all seven had to be basically lively, extrovert, outgoing, and full of life - just the sort who would be willing to appear on TV in this kind of showcase. Nobody was lethargic, depressed and so lacking in self-confidence - or fearful of being attacked - that their lives were crippled. And yet I know of trans people who are stuck in that place. I do see that the portrayal of transsexuals with a personal situation so dire that they can't function would be at odds with the upbeat and celebratory nature of this documentary. But there are a lot of them around, and leaving them out of the picture is to ignore a defect in the care of trans persons in this country.

I thought the idea of bringing everyone together for a series of weekends in a country retreat - a rather nice large peaceful lakeside house with bright modern furnishings - was a good one. It provided a pleasant, problem-free setting against which to assess the seven individuals. It was a 'safe haven', a place in which everyone could relax and let go. There were few glimpses of the real backgrounds that they all had to go back to. We saw most of Drew's (she was the young slim blonde one), who lived with her very supportive mum, and seemed happy pushing the pram and hanging the washing up in the back garden, but clearly wanted much more from life. I felt rather sorry for her, when, enquiring after a job in a salon, it was pointed out that her adam's apple might be a giveaway to customers. I wondered if the public at large could appreciate that general acceptance, and getting a foot in the world of work, can depend on little things like this. And that it isn't 'mere cosmetic surgery' to want male features banished and female features created. There was something quite poignant about one of the other girls (Sarah I think) showing how to 'put on' a pair of artificial breasts, and the way they were obvious underneath her bra. Or how much 'less Sarah' she was without her wig. Or Fox explaining how he was desperate to squash his breats into flatness with a binder.

Deeper personal problems were beginning to emerge towards the end of this first part. I especially felt for Karen, admitting to not seeing her daughter for years, and fearing to lose her entirely. She burst into tears about it, and it was nice to see Drew comforting her. I hope the documentary reveals more of this sort of thing: that transition usually means devastating personal losses. The general public is still stuck with the idea that it's simply a 'lifestyle choice', and all about pink and fluffy things. MTS needs to correct that.

The 'big night out' in London was the worst bit. Off they went in a stretch limo, the girls in typical tranny getups, all happy and bubbly, and inevitably having a confrontation in a bar with a young drunk male person who wanted to mouth off at them on camera. I hurrahed when convincing FTM Max intervened to deflect the foul-mouthed idiot's abuse. It was nicely done, and completely defused the situation. The lout couldn't cope with another man offering him 'female sex'. For, of course, in the ignorant world of cultureless and badmannered chavs, FTMs don't exist. MTFs are the target they think they understand; but FTMs are confusing and disturbing, and they can't handle them. Hurrah again!

Anyone watching might have judged that the seven trans persons on their night out asked for trouble by going around in an obviously tranny group, by the clothes and wigs and shoes they wore, and by their lack of authentic behaviour. But hey, this was a celebration of a weekend together in which they had bonded, and besides, next day Karen was off to Charing Cross for her fateful appointment with Mr Bellringer the surgeon.

So there was plenty of excuse for over-the-top behaviour on the night. But at the same time, I'm sure that the ordinary viewer would have it confirmed in their mind that when trannies go out they look like that, sound like that, and are really just messing around. My parents seriously thought that when I went into Brighton, I tottered around in red high heels and the sort of dress and makeup that would get me arrested. They had no idea; it was ridiculous; but it was one reason why I changed my surname, as well as my first name, just so that arrest wouldn't besmurch the family name and embarrass my parents and their friends. As if a retired, 56 year old ex-Inspector of Taxes was really going to be cheeky and provocative to members of the Brighton & Hove Constabulary, or tout for business in a pub, or provide frontpage copy for a Brighton Argus reporter. But my shocked parents had their lurid notions of what a 'tranny' was and did, and that was that.

It'll be interesting to see whether tonight's part two will be more of the same, or move on into more thought-provoking territory.

Lucy wears her new snood at Tyntesfield and Clevedon

2011-11-14T14:34:00.004Z

I'm back home again, half glad (for wintur be around the cornur, m'dears, and 'tis time to chop the wood and light the fire) but half regretful, because I don't intend to embark on another caravan outing again until the spring. Last year I went off to Cornwall in December; this year it's Christmas at home, and family and local friends will be getting my attention, which I hope will be nice. But I'm sure to get restless!

Now that the Cottage is history, and that dreadful and unpredictable drain on my resources has finally gone, I am following a carefully worked out spending and saving regime. This is simple to do while at home, but holidays are another matter. I have to admit that I found it hard to keep to plan. But I didn't do too badly. I cut down a bit on day trips and had no evening meals out. I also applied iron restraint when visiting shopping centres. In fact, I bought just one item of clothing while away, and that was a snood.

Now a snood can be several things for the neck or head, but as presently offered in the shops it's a wide loop of fabric, something like a large scarf joined at the ends. You can probably form a hood with it, but it's most easily worn as a scarf, just slipped over the head and left to hang down your front. If you give it a half-twist and loop it over your head again, it makes for a very cosy chest-warmer. These pictures of me will give you the general idea:

I bought my snood from Debenhams in Taunton, and I think it's just the thing for a chilly afternoon by the seaside - Clevedon in the two lower shots above - although it's so snug and warm that out of the breeze you soon overheat! The top shot was at Tyntesfield, a National Trust property between Clevedon and Bristol, and I can tell you that as I went around the place I had to take off the snood, and then my coat also, and generally loosen my clothing. I would have stripped off down to my bra and panties if it had been possible. It was so warm inside!

I suppose they have to keep the indoor temperature quite high in order to dry the place out after its long decline. It came into Trust ownership only few years ago, and most rooms are still undergoing conservation work of some kind - which adds to the interest of course. There was an NT volunteer in every room, and I found myself chatting to them all. I must have spoken to twenty-odd people at some length, both male and female. All good voice practice, of course, plus I learned a lot about the house and its history.

But later on that afternoon, at Clevedon, it was distinctly cooler, especially as the sun began to set. I'd been there for shots of the famous pier three years before, but I was looking forward to a reprise. The pier is a very popular place to go, and this time it was seething with people. No wonder: the sunset was well up to standard, and very well worth waiting for:

Over on her blog Upside Down In Cloud, Dru Marland shows Clevedon Pier threatened by Godzilla, but there was no sign of that monster when I was there, and 'tis my belief that she made that picture up using Photoshop. But maybe I was just lucky, and would have been eaten on another day.

The potato walk

2011-11-11T23:23:00.001Z

The Dubarry boots have proved to be a great success.

They're comfortable, sure-footed, keep chill breezes off my legs, look posh and distinctive, and I've seen nobody else wearing them, so they feel deliciously rare and unusual.

I've worn them every day on my holiday, and they have seemed right for all kinds of occasion, whether it's exploring Georgian Bath, tramping around fish and chippy Weston-super-Mare, or clambering onto rocks in rugged Cheddar Gorge. I can drive in them, walk along seaside promenades, wade through heather on moorland, or pop nonchalantly into smart shops. Having a stout rubber sole with plenty of grip makes them great on wet grass and all kinds of rough ground. And having no heel allows them to score over ordinary high-heeled fashion boots, which, I notice, are a wobbly ankle-twisting liability on cobbled surfaces. I suppose that's when a man's arm comes in handy: something steady to hang onto.

Boots are definitely a big part of the winter scene for women. Indeed for all the cooler days of the year. British men normally don't wear boots unless they are toffs riding with the Quorn and Pytchley, or attending a Country & Western show, when cowboy boots are just part of their yee-hah getup. Wearing boots is almost exclusively a feminine thing, and there isn't much else that says 'woman' with such a big shout.

Every woman is impressed by a pair of nice boots. There are all kinds. The cheapest seem to be those clumpy formless faux-suede fleece-lined objects that will look tatty after just a few weeks. Then there are cheeky and trendy ankle boots in proper suede or leather. And short perky boots that the girl playing Peter Pan might wear. But the smartest, the most desirable boots are the ones that enclose the calf and are knee-high. And the most expensive of those are always in soft, yielding leather.

I will admit that - given really good legs - a soft-leather brown or black knee-high boot that closely hugs the calf and reveals its shape, with an elegant heel, takes some beating. But if you haven't got Hollywood legs, then boots like my Dubarries hide all sorts of shape problems, and disguise the Awful Fact that the feet are Rather Big. Like wearing pirate boots, me hearties.

Have you noticed how women walk in their boots? The gait varies, but is not the same as with ordinary flats or heels. It's occasionally a strutting, no-nonsense march, like a Communist soldier in Tiananmen Square. Sometimes something more fluid, quick, and bouncy. But most often it's a slower, more deliberate waddle, with plenty of hip movement. And really wide or heavy girls seem to make a big deal of every step.

These nuances need study and close attention. I'm sure that every natal girl has watched her pregnant mum walk in boots and has aped her down to the last detail. Maybe such things as a wide pelvis and a low centre of gravity come into it somewhat. But I feel convinced that the accepted best way for a girl in boots to walk is like a potato with legs. And so this is how I walk in my boots. I'm certain that waddling as if I'm carrying an overdue baby gives me a completely authentic look, and wins unconscious nods of approval from women young and old. And after all, no man would (or could) walk like that.

So my boots - correctly worn - are a powerfully feminising accessory. Worth every penny then.

Rebranding

2011-11-10T09:35:00.002Z

Over on Angie's Aspirations is a post about Nicola and Meg, who recently featured in a sympathetic Daily Mirror article about how they successfully managed their changed relationship when the hitherto 'male' partner (Nicki) needed to become her true self. Now they have appeared on breakfast TV, reinforcing the message that some couples do make it, and remain happy together, despite the wife definitely not being lesbian.

I have met Nicola, but not Meg, so I can't say anything first-hand about their life together, but I do applaud their public endeavours. They are not a dysfunctional pair of warring individuals, but a united and articulate partnership, and keen to place the Trans Issue right in front of the country on prime time TV. This can only help to familiarise people with the basic ordinariness and normality and reasonableness of day to day living when a trans person has loyal and meaningful support from her partner. It's not a shocking tale at all, but an inspirational one. And it should make many, many people think.

It's tempting to add 'Too late for me', but that would be negative and detract from the upbeat effect of what Nicola and Meg and others like them are doing. It's becoming less unusual to find trans persons on serious programmes. There was for instance a youngish-sounding FTM person on Radio 4 last night (on Four Thought) who had the additional issue of being Jewish and wanting to become prominent in Jewish religious services. He seemed fearsomely intelligent and clear-thinking, yet had realism and humour. And the My Transsexual Summer series is apparently opening eyes in a good way.

Dare we hope that the media is at last ready to rebrand trans people as notable heroes and heroines in a life story that everybody has a role in?

Bad timing

2011-11-09T11:34:00.001Z

My Somerset holiday is turning out to be rather a subdued affair, mainly because of the weather, which, perhaps not surprisingly, has been dull for the last three days. It's relaxing, but some more sunshine would make a huge difference.
Well, I'm off to Bath today with sightseeing in mind, of course, but one particular and essential purchase to make. I want to buy a kitchen timer. My old one - it was actually Mum and Dad's, and I inherited it - was a good one, but it has died. I've been looking around the towns for a replacement - my chief reason, apart from general curiosity, for going to Taunton and Bridgwater the other day. (They're not worth a second visit, trust me)

Why is a timer so important? Well, I have no sense at all of how much time has passed, or how much is left, and I'm easily distracted. These are lifelong traits. For me, all sorts of things get out of control and turn out badly if I can't time them. Cooking most of all, but making a nice cup of tea is a close second, and gluing things together is another one. I'm definitely not of the 'intuitive' school of cooking, often expounded to me, in which you 'just know' when the right time to do something has arrived. Never mind: I can do it with the help of a timer, and I don't think that I'm 'less of a cook' or indeed 'less of a woman' if I use electronic assistance.

And surely I'm not alone. But where are the timers in the shops? Most departmental stores have a cookshop, but none of the ones I've visited have had anything worth buying. Old-fashioned mechanical timers are out, because it's difficult to set short times such as one minute - it must definitely be an electronic timer. And I don't want silly features like a magnetic back, or a clip, or a stainless steel finish - just a freestanding, steady, unpretentious device in white plastic with big buttons and a large display. But the 'march of progress' means that my Ideal Timer seems to be no longer available. How annoying. Perhaps everyone uses the timer app on their iPhone?

Ah, I can actually see a crack in the clouds, with blue sky beyond. Time to set off. Maybe Bath will be Timer Shop City, with a vibrant cooking culture, a Mecca for all temporally-challenged persons. The Roman Baths, Pulteney Bridge, Royal Crescent, and all the rest, including global economics and passing meteors, will have to take a back seat till my quest is satisfied!

Wonderful time in Wells, but cheesed off in Cheddar

2011-11-05T17:27:00.003Z

It was my first full day in Somerset, so I went first to Wells, the famous cathedral city. I wore the Dubarry boots. They got noticed, I can tell you. But that wasn't the thing that gladdened my heart.

Having inspected St Cuthbert's Parish Church, and a shop or two, I went to the Cathedral Cafe, had a nice lunch, and then toured the Cathedral itself. I had to buy a photography permit for £3, but I simply regarded that as my donation.

I've visited cathedrals all over the country, but I'd not been inside this one before. I'd only viewed the very elaborate West Front. Well, the interior was very impressive indeed.

Eventually I found the Chapter House, which is reached up some ancient and very worn stone steps. God knows how the more infirm Chapter members climb them. But they look highly picturesque, extremely photogenic, and once aloft the fancy fan-vaulting in the round Chapter House was well worth the effort. I had the place to myself, but as I tackled the descent, a guided party caught up with me, led by a learned cathedral bod, who urged his charges to take great care when climbing the steps. As he said this, he saw me coming down with a slow, careful tread, and he added 'just like that delightful lady there'. Well! I descended like a blushing princess, apologising for holding them up, but glowing with pleasure.

The rest of the afternoon maintained that glow until - rather on impulse - I decided to visit Gough's Cave in Cheddar Gorge. The girl at the ticket office recommended a £10 deal that included a free drink and cake at the adjacent Costa Coffee. I took it. Then discovered that I'd paid for a 'Senior Citizen Special'. Oh no! She'd assumed I was already 60! That brought me down to earth somewhat.

Still, I suppose that I'd paid less than the ordinary adult rate; and there was that Costa bit to look forward to. So I put my best boot forward, and advanced into the well-lit and flat-floored cave complex.

Actually, the cave and its passages were worth seeing, and I enjoyed the stalagmites and stalagtites. But I didn't much like the handset I was given. This was my audio guide to the cave features. It was easy to use, but the male person supplying most of the information was putting on a rich but pseudo 'west country' voice as if he were Jethro doing a comedy turn at the pier playhouse. There was another voice too, meant to be that of the stone-age skeleton lying in a side passage, but it was ridiculously posh. These things took the edge off the visit.

And the Costa deal didn't mean a strong Americano plus a yummy cake. It meant a weak pot of tea and a scone, the sort of thing you'd give an old biddy off a coach. It was OK, but frankly I'd have done better to skip it and enjoy a brew-up back at the caravan.

Tonight, however, I'll raise my spirits at Weston-super-Mare, watching the big firework display on the seafront. Should be good!

My Transsexual Summer

2011-11-04T21:01:00.000Z

Hmmmm. I see in next week's Radio Times that on Tuesday 8 November a new four-part mini-series begins on Channel 4 at 10:00pm, entitled 'My Transsexual Summer'. The programme summary says 'Seven transsexual men and women gather at a series of weekend retreats where they share support and explore what it is like to change gender in Britain in 2011'. The retreat in Part One is a country house. Apparently the programme has been 'sensitively made' but there are some 'eye-opening moments'.

Next Tuesday evening this programme will be chiefly up against the BBC News (BBC1), Later live...with Jools Holland (BBC2), ITV News at Ten (ITV1), Big Brother (Channel 5), and EastEnders (BBC3), and so I'd say it has a strong chance of being watched by a lot of people tired of the same old stuff and seeking fresh meat. I just hope My Transsexual Summer isn't perceived simply as weird, alternative late-evening entertainment, a freako take on The Only Way Is Essex. For some reason that I've never been able to fathom, Essex is seen as a county full of flash, oversexed, cultureless posers who think they live in the World's Best Place. What nonsense. But Only Way perpetuates the Essex myth admirably. Maybe Transsexual Summer will perpetuate the tranny myth admirably too.

I will watch it, and make up my own mind. But not next Tuesday, because I am now pitched at the Caravan Club site at Cheddar in Somerset, and there is no TV in the caravan!

Too much personal information?

2011-11-03T10:43:00.005Z

The essence of a blog - a 'weblog' - is that it posts up stuff about the blogger's world, as a kind of diary. Not a diary that faithfully records all daily incidents big and small, although it may do that; but a diary of selected items and incidents that caught the writer's attention, and led to a post. Many posts are surely a distillation of impressions that were pondered over, and then offered as a concentrated experience to the readership - a bottle labelled 'read me' - for them to ponder in turn, and perhaps be informed, enlightened, inspired, or even changed.

It may be like penning an article each week for some magazine. Your readership expect regular posts. You want to write creatively and well. You have plenty of ideas that need expression, and some writers - like myself perhaps - have a lot to get off their chests. But unlike working for a magazine, there is no overarching editorial control to restrict what you can write about, no gatekeeper to censor your words and prescribe what is allowed in the way of style and content. In a blog you can be free. And as personal as you please.

The last point is very important. Although there are blogs about fishing and cycling and mathematics and parliamentary life - non-personal 'hobby' blogs you might call many of them - this kind of blog, based on the transition from one gender state to another, quite possibly the most demanding episode of one's lifetime, is a different animal entirely. It's likely to be shot through with extremely personal stuff. For me, and clearly for many others, 'the blog' is our chosen vehicle for expression, a vital outlet, a way of touching the scattered trans population around the world. In many ways our kind of blogging can be regarded as 'group therapy', in which you explain how you feel, and hope for feedback and support. All right, we know of blogs that exist only to upset, mock, and destroy confidence. But I'd say that the rump of trans blogs have a common intention, which includes the sharing of information and experience.

But then that raises a serious issue: just how much information and experience should be shared?

There are various constraints that might apply. Although blogging is one of the least inhibited ways to get ideas across on the Internet, it's surely prudent to have regard to personal safety and the laws of the country you live in. Beyond that, anything goes, but I would personally apply some further restraints, such as adherence to good English, properly spelled and punctuated and organised effectively into paragraphs and sentences, to make it easier to digest. A reasonable, non-strident tone: there may occasionally be a case for SHOUTING AT THE READER, but it puts me off and makes me want to click away, just as I might want to walk away from someone shouting at me in the street, whatever their message. I don't mind emotional language if from the heart - for goodness sake, the writer might be in extremis and on the verge of complete emotional collapse from the strain of living a lie. However painful to read, that person needs attention, and some immediate supportive feedback.

What about 'good taste'? Well, what is good taste? It varies from time to time, and from place to place. My parents' generation were sniffy about many things that I thought were rather sensible. And in turn, I must seem rather uncool to some younger people. It's not just a generation thing, of course. Convention - what 'people' think - or just what 'most people' find comfortable - is important to an awful lot of folk. But again, conventions are not absolute, and slither around, so that over a decade many things become acceptable that were once considered 'bad taste'. Prudery and snobbery and artificial behaviour of all kinds will always be with us, but I would like to think that trans bloggers, who have faced their demons and are battling with prejudice and mockery, have no use for such attitudes. It really achieves nothing to appease other people's sensibilities. It just prolongs the agony for both sides.

What about content? Are there 'forbidden subjects'? Just how much can you pour out your heart? How far can you go in describing some experience? Is discussion of genitalia OK? The details of surgery? What about dating? Do you describe not only the meeting and what was said, but also the bedroom scene? And what your orgasm was like? Or, if you were unlucky, how it all went wrong? Or worse, how you picked up an infection, and what you did to seek a cure? Very personal stuff. Setting aside all questions concerned with 'good taste', should you write a post about these topics?

Assuming that you aren't simply seeking an excuse to be pornographic, then I would say yes, absolutely yes, if it needs to be celebrated. It's your blog. If your readers desert you, you'll find out that you went too far. But a very important personal experience needs expression. The loss of post-op virginity, for example, is surely something to write about, not to be bottled up in the name of 'good taste' or because it may be 'too much information' - all the circumstances, all the apprehension, all the relief if it went well. Why not share it, if this was one of the most memorable things that has ever happened to you?

After I published my piece on that dream a few posts back, even though it was written as a medically-significant event, and couched in plain language, I had some feedback about the risk I took. It was a point very well made, and to be taken seriously. The risk was that a pervert looking for masturbatory material would find my post salacious, and that I could be inviting emails and worse from those likely to stalk me.

Well, I'm not brushing that warning aside. Those who have met me will surely agree that I'm as sexless as a lump of cheddar cheese, and so is the atmosphere of my blog. But I accept that a pervert won't make fine distinctions, and will get off on any mention of vaginas or sticky love juices.

Do I shut up? Should you?

On the whole I think not. I always say that posts on such subjects can be very helpful to anyone who has led a sexually ignorant life until now. I don't mean someone who knows nothing at all, but someone, perhaps of my generation, whose former sex life was scant and unsatisfactory, and certainly safe and unadventurous. For people like that, it may be valuable to read straightforward accounts of what actually happens, what to expect, and not be left to speculate. Not everyone is confident enough to ask a friend. Not every trans person has anyone to ask. So this kind of post, an essay on an experience, is offered as educational information.

If anyone finds that it is all too much, then they can always click away from the blog. But surely too much is better than too little, or not at all.

Must try harder

2011-11-02T09:34:00.006Z

I think some aspects of my presentation are starting to slip! It happens. You get complacent. In particular, my voice is not what it was.

Never having heard it, most of you won't be able to comment usefully on my vocal abilities, but believe me, this was something that I had spent a lot of time and money and practice on, and I think it showed.

So my pitch was well within the female range. It had smoothness and warmth. My words were clear and properly articulated - no slurring, no mumbling; each consonant properly and crisply enunciated. And I'd slowed my rate of speech down, to give the vowels a full, rounded sound.

I'd stopped being over-emphatic, or too loud, or too definite in my delivery. I'd eliminated croak and monotony, and a tendency to drop the pitch at the end of sentences.

I'd studied how women speak in a group, and how they do it with just one other woman; and how it is different again in male company. How women give each other a generous space of time to say what they wish, the lack of interruption and overtalking when they speak. I'd tried hard to emulate how they lean forward when speaking, or angle their heads and bodies; and I'd noticed the differences in posture between sitting and standing; and little ways in which the entire body says as much as the words themselves. I'd watched the facial expressions women use; the way they employ hands and eyes to assist the flow of words, and to punctuate the speech with gestures and significant pauses.

Well, you get the picture: I hadn't fooled around, I'd set myself a high standard, and I believed that I was doing rather well, and had achieved something important. Because this wasn't merely a social accomplishment, like learning to dance, or cook for dinner parties. This was a vital personal skill that I had to succeed with if I wanted to blend in with all other women, and enjoy a full life as one.

But in the last few days I've become less sure of my progress.

I'll give you two very recent examples. On Monday I went up to London by train, and on the way there it got stuck at Gatwick Airport station. A problem with the brakes. We were all first advised that it was minor and that we should best stay seated, and not switch trains. At that point, I fell into conversation with a 25 year old Brazilian girl. I didn't start it; we just caught each other's eye, and spoke, as you often do when caught up in a travel problem. Ten minutes later, it was 'all out and cross to another platform', and so, still speaking, we did as we were told, hung around a bit, and eventually joined another train. It was pretty full. There was a seat for me, but not for her. Without much thinking about it, I stayed standing with her, and we chatted all the way to London Victoria. She was easy and pleasant to talk to, and seemed to find me much the same.

Now while talking to her, I definitely noticed one or two glances in my direction, and I wondered why. I eventually narrowed it down to the voice. The background train noise made it hard to speak in a normal way, and, standing up, you had to hang on, so that a distinctly female body posture wasn't easy to maintain. There was nothing but my general appearance to counteract the overloud way I was forced to speak. To put it another way, if I had simply been standing there, swaying with the train movement, but otherwise silent, I don't think I would have attracted attention. As it was, this was one occasion when I didn't pass too well. Not that my companion showed the slightest sign of clocking me. But then she was a polite and intelligent young women from an obviously good family background, and perhaps there was no way that she was going to behave badly to me, or embarrass me. And, despite Brazil being a black spot for anti-trans hate crime, the social mix there must be very diverse, and I'd be prepared to believe that she didn't find me an especially odd person to share a casual conversation with. We parted in a very friendly fashion. To the last, she was warm and polite.

But I made a mental note to sharpen up my voice!

Then yesterday evening, I was in a Brighton coffee shop with a friend, and she said that while my facial and body movements when speaking were very natural, I tended to let my vocal pitch drop in prolonged conversation. We made videos of each other. Yes, it was true. Oh dear, back to school!

This morning I felt resolved to get on top of this slippage, and try even harder. I'd been so proud of acquiring a convincing voice. But it has now clearly deteriorated and must be repaired.

Men who are fixated

2011-10-30T10:56:00.009Z

The very recent conclusion of the Vincent Tabak trial, the man who murdered Joanna Yeates in Bristol ten months ago, has left me with a heightened sense of vulnerability. And I'm sure I share this feeling with very many women.

Mr Tabak was fixated on Miss Yeates, but she didn't know it. So his invasion of her home was a complete shock. She had caught his attention, and he had fantasised about her. A glimpse of her through a window that fateful evening last December was enough to propel him into her flat with sex in mind. And when she screamed at his advances, he reacted with violence, and dealt out death.

This was an intelligent, confident young woman. She was pleasant and vivacious, but not provocative. She had not drunk too much at the pub. She was in command of herself, and had done some shopping before arriving home. She was not dressed to seduce, only to heat up some mince pies. But none of this low-key ordinariness was a protection. A man she hardly knew suddenly invaded her home and killed her.

And this says that any of us could fall victim in the same way to a man who might be living next door, or just down the street, whom we have never noticed. But they have seen us. Their eyes are on us, every time we walk by. They may even be stalking us, always there somewhere in the background, keeping out of our line of sight so that we never know they are there.

A little while back, I heard a story on the radio called The Octopus Nest, published in 2008 as one of a collection of short stories by a writer named Sophie Hannah. So far as I could grasp the story - because nothing was quite spelled out, and the conclusion was ambiguous - it was about the chance discovery that an unknown woman had been appearing in the family photographs for a long time. She faced the camera, sometimes in the foreground, but on the edge of the shot; sometimes very much in the background, but recognisable once you looked for her. Whether it was on holiday, or at sundry family events, there she was, always there somewhere in the shot, an uninvited stranger that the wife in the story had never noticed before. And she appeared in the family photos for many years past. She had haunted the growing family. And nobody had spotted her. But somehow she got included in the pictures, every time, as if she was meant to be in them. Who was she? And why was she in the photos? It spooked the wife. And then her world was washed away in a deluge of sinister implications when she found that her husband had a vast obsessive secret collection of this woman's stuff hidden away. The story ends at the moment of this terrifying discovery, just as the husband walks in. I was absolutely certain that the poor wife did not survive that confrontation, even though the police were already on their way. He would have killed her, as surely as grasping a high-voltage cable freezes your grip on it. A strangler's grip.

I will confess here that I have a morbid fear of being strangled. So nobody goes near my neck. I will put on my own necklaces and scarves, thank you.

What goes on in men's minds? Why do they have this frightening capacity for obsessive behaviour? And why does it so frequently lead to tragedy? Who is at risk?

Although it seems that no woman is immune from male domination and abuse, murder victims commonly seem to be especially nice carefree persons with plenty of friends. And they are usually young, active, out and about, and under thirty - and therefore at their most physically attractive. Perhaps it isn't so surprising then that they get noticed by men with inadequate or frustrated lives, and a talent for manipulation and control. It's the capture and taming of a free spirit. The theft and possession of something beautiful. The power of being able to destroy it. The ego of thinking that it's all right, that anything is permitted, like invading someone's life and toying with it, maybe even taking it. I've little doubt that Mr Tabak did not understand or want Miss Yeates as a real person, any more than he understood or wanted his own girlfriend. But he had overwhelming strength, and could do as he pleased, and he used that strength to kill when the real Miss Yeates screamed at him and shattered his dream.

How many men like this are out there? Should one be afraid? These are the thoughts that are running through my mind. Because although I am not young, I do have a friendly manner and I behave in some ways that might catch the attention of obsessive men. Should I be careful about smiling and talking and being animated, and enjoying nice meals out in good company? Should I ensure that I'm walked everywhere? Should we all make sure that we're escorted to our cars, or to our front doors, and should we all be totally paranoid about personal security, so that once safely home, nobody can walk in on us? Should we just stop going out?

For the present I'm inclined to accept a 'normal' level of risk, still go out, but be on high alert. However, I'm wondering how wise it might be to get up early, when it's still dark, and walk a brisk mile before breakfast, by way of exercise. Is that really a good idea, even if there are rail commuters about doing the same thing? Should I do it at midday, or in the evening instead? Or not at all?

I've some knowledge of self-defence, but I haven't got eyes in the back of my head, and I can be surprised and done away with just like anyone else. I don't want to become a timid rabbit. I want to live a proper life.

Damn all obsessive men who can't treat woman as human beings.

Convention will get us all

2011-10-28T11:23:00.009+01:00

Health warning: what follows is is my personal view, and will read as 'me, me, me'. Please don't think I'm talking about you, unless you think you're exactly like me!

One of the most powerful coercive forces in existence is what other people do and think, and how they might judge your own actions and way of life. Because rightly or wrongly, you will be judged. 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do' is on the whole pretty sound advice if you want to blend in, avoid difficulties, and make the locals feel comfortable with you. It's anathema to diehard individualists of course, but for everyone else it generally pays to have regard to what is expected of you by the people in your society.

But social convention is the enemy of personal freedom. That may be good, if it constrains bad behaviour. But in other ways it can smother and defeat, and steer people into situations that they wholly dislike.

What do I have especially in mind? Well, in my own case, just two broad areas: work and relationships.

Work first. I've retired. I'm a lady of leisure. I'm out of the workplace, permanently. Out from under the control of managers. The days are all over when I had to watch my step, bite my tongue, and pretend to be ambitious. I now live a life without fear, without the threat of job loss or blocked promotion through spite, character assassination, discrimination, or a complaint made. I'm not bound to follow crazy procedures, or promote an interest, nor do anything against my better judgement. I'm not selling my soul for a salary, and I'm not compromising on notions of justice and fairness, and what constitutes humanity. And because of all that, I live an honest life. I can be independent. I'm free. Surely all that is a wonderful gain. The pension is enough to live on, and I pay my bills, owe nothing, drop no litter and make no noise. I'm a good citizen. I'm even cheerful with it.

If I were bored or lonely, I could take a job, but I think it would be immoral to take one simply to add some interest to my life, or to find company. Not when so many people are losing their jobs and can't get another. There's unpaid work available. I haven't overlooked the possibilities in that field, but I'm keeping voluntary activity up my sleeve, and won't put myself forward until life gets unfulfilling and I really need to get out there and be useful. It's my choice, up to me entirely. After all, what's the use of an unready volunteer? There's plenty of people who are ready and willing, and if I get in before them, they will be sidelined and disappointed, and the voluntary agency will be denied their better talent.

And yet there is most definitely pressure on those who have retired to get into work again. To do something useful, as if it's a crime to experience leisure. As if one should be stepping forward, and getting immersed in charity work and hospital services and things like that, anything to avoid idleness. But why shouldn't someone have idle hours to throw at things that enrich their outlook, and make them better-qualified as a human being? And some of those things involve spending that helps to keep other people in work.

This social convention that one must not be idle is hard to counter. The implication is that you are drifting, merely existing, not contributing anything, a drone, a drag on society. And I get annoyed about it, not merely because it's a lie, but because of the moral censure, the wagging finger. And as government money runs out, and pressure to be an unpaid volunteer mounts, that finger will wag all the more.

Now, relationships. I'm a divorced woman. I live comfortably, and enjoy an interesting life. I've plenty of inner resources, and don't have to be spoonfed entertainment or manufactured sensations. Nor do I lack for friends. I always say of myself that I don't know what loneliness is, and feel nothing of the kind, even though in a sense I've been solitary all my life. I need a lot of personal space and personal control, much more than most people. And now that I have it in spades, I intend to hang onto it. That means repelling all boarders. I'm not going to let anyone walk into my life and take it over. Anyone who tries is out. And I think that I'm justified in having it that way. Why should I be compelled to share and compromise? Sharing and compromising are ideal notions that may not work in practice. I haven't been able to make them work. I'm afraid I've lost all belief in them. I've also stopped believing that there is Someone out there who is perfect for me. Or I for them, because the attraction and suitability must be equal. I don't see that as a disaster, or a personal failing. Just a recognition of what is true for me, based on experience.

Behind these feelings is also the instinct of self-preservation, and a wish to live my closing years with all possible choices open to me. I don't want to get stuck in a relationship where I'm frustrated and unable to do as I please. Unable to go where I'd like to. Unable to mention certain things. Unable to learn, or pursue new interests. And probably ending up as a nurse to my companion, cut off from a wider life. A sort of prison sentence without parole.

I admit that's a scarily negative view of how it could be. And I do know couples who seem to prove me wrong. But consider: who exactly am I now able to attract, if I were seriously looking for a partner to live with or marry? The choice is very small, and likely to be as frail and grouchy as myself in not too many years. After sixty, you have to work hard at being fit and active, socially engaged, and smiling all the time. The temptation is strong to ignore the world, stay in the warm, and put your feet up. Well, it may be companionable for a couple to doze their days away like that, but it isn't going to suit me.

And yet I feel pressure from society to get a partner in my life. To make the best use of living space, and free up accommodation for families desperate for proper housing. To team up with someone else. To team up with someone 'appropriate'. Who might that be? A man, of course. If you're accepted as a woman, it's expected that you'll want a man. If you would actually prefer a woman, then it's not the usual thing, and eyebrows will be raised. That's still the way of the world, at least here in sunny Sussex. Raised eyebrows won't necessarily make me do anything I'd rather not do, but they will make me feel uncomfortable. And that means there is a subtle, insidious curb on my freedom. And a constant nudging to give in.

Breasts and bras

2011-10-27T10:06:00.003+01:00

Yesterday, for the first time, there was a distinct and unmistakable six-inch difference between my bust as measured over the nipples, and the under-bust measurement. That is, 113cm versus 97cm, which converts to 6.3ins. That difference had been hovering around 5.9ins for a while, 'roughly six inches' to be sure, but not quite there, although of course well within the margin of error you can expect when using a tape, and doing it yourself.

But now the difference in measurements has taken a decisive step in the right direction. I thought that my breasts were getting a bit more noticeable.

Although still diminuitive, these breasts are entirely natural and self-grown. They are the right shape, have a certain weight to them, and they wobble about in an independent way. A purist would criticise them for looking too young and fresh on an old chest: by rights they should by now be dragged down by a lifetime fighting gravity, with stretch marks, perhaps a bit flat and empty, more like half-deflated party balloons than pert, thrusting upstarts. But I'm not going to listen to purists.

They're an achievement, and I'm proud of them. I am able to report that they feel tender on waking in the morning, and of course that's one sign that they are still likely to grow further. I've no idea what my mother's breast size was in her prime, and no sisters to confer with, so the ultimate measurements are a mystery. Not much larger, though, I suspect!

Mind you, with a 97cm (38.2in) chest to rest on, they will look odd if they grow too much.

That chest size is large for an ordinary woman, and leads to problems finding a bra to fit. I had been using an AA cup, and although an A is better nowadays, it's not easy sourcing 38A or 40A bras, because mature women with big chests usually have big boobs to match. It's a problem I share with obese teenage girls, who must be in despair over the lack of bras in shops to fit them - no wonder they resort to comfort eating! Marks & Spencer do carry a range of teen bras in these unusual sizes, but you'll not often see them in any of their stores. You have to go online, and then it's a bit hit or miss with the fit. However, that's how I've gradually amassed my collection of wearable bras.

It would be nice to develop a small chest and narrow shoulders, but legacy skeletal features that the hormones can't do much about, like ribs, stop the show. And if I lose a lot of weight, get a flat toned stomach, and slim those hips down, it might all look worse. To have an unmistakably female build, you've got to have more bulk below the navel than above it. And, ideally, a waist for arms to go round, and breasts that catch the eye at a thousand paces.

Body hair

2011-10-26T10:30:00.003+01:00

The time to have another body shave is approaching. I do it in two halves: hands and arms in one half; legs in the other. Both every three weeks or so. In between I'll routinely clear sections of my upper pubic hair to provide space for the hormone patches, and I'll shave under my arms as often as every other day, depending on what tops or dresses I'm going to wear.

There's still a couple of hairs on my chest that have the temerity to sprout, even though most of their brethren have long given up trying; I check them every day, and if they're peeping out, they get the shaver. Ker-pow!

So far as I can tell, there's now no visible hair anywhere else on my body. I never was especially hirsute, and the hormones have completely subdued hair growth on my back and other places.

I use an ordinary men's wet shaver by Gillette, with Mach 3 blades, and gel by the same manufacturer. Just as I did pre-transition. I expect to keep on shaving my face for a while yet, although the end of daily shaving is now in sight, and I may be able to stop shaving my face and neck entirely sometime in 2013. Next year I may have to upgrade to Gillette's latest wet shaver, but what I use just now is more than adequate.

I don't use any fancy shavers intended for ladies. What's the point? The men's version is heavy-duty, designed to clear all types of hair - including tough bristly facial hair - as efficiently as possible, and yet still leave the skin smooth and undamaged. That's what I want. I have no hang-ups about needing to use only girly stuff. I don't have qualms about what people might think if I buy men's razor refills or gel. I could be buying it for my husband or live-in boyfriend. The two women I lived with in my life both used cheap throw-away wet razors, bought in packets, for their under-arms and legs. One packet lasted a very long time. I never noticed them hestating to buy whatever they needed. It's a fact of life with most women: they need to shave bits of their body now and then. So there's no need for any trans woman to feel the slightest embarrassment about getting rid of her own body hair.

I have to admit that the body shaving is rather a mission. A big task that will take over an hour if I do both halves and do it meticulously. But I love the result. Feeling smooth is wonderful. I still get a kick out of it. When I started in December 2008 I had to do it every week. The time between shaves has gradually lengthened, and presently stands (as mentioned above) at a much more reasonable three weeks. And even at three weeks, there is little to see, as my body hair is very light-coloured and has acquired a fine texture. It's there if you look for it, but really it hardly shows, and nowadays I could let it go for a month and still not seem under-groomed. But I wouldn't do that, because it means a lot to me to keep my body hair under control.

I'm sure every one of us felt horrified when, in puberty, hair began to pour relentlessly from follicles. I certainly felt deadful. I absolutely loathed the 'young man' look. It was no feather in my cap to be showing these signs of manhood. It was just as upsetting to see it in other teenagers. And although I hated school, and longed to get out into the real world, I really didn't want to do it with a craggy face and a blue chin. Ugh. And once launched into a career, I took every opportunity to find ways of keeping masculinity within manageable bounds. My younger brother felt different. He grew a moustache, and took to smoking a pipe - a deliberately old-fashioned affectation even then, in the mid 1970s - and generally adopted all kinds of very male mannerisms. I did not. And I continued to fret over many aspects of my appearance, body hair chief among them.

And I never stopped fretting in the following thirty years. A succession of girlfriends, my wife W---, and my later partner M--- must all have noticed it. It was perhaps the only consistent sign that I was not happy with my body. If it was put to me that I'd look really good in a beard, just like a viking, or (later on) that I'd look great with sexy 'designer stubble', or if it was suggested that should let my chest hair grow (I started shaving it off early on), they all got a panicky vehement NO!! from me that must have seemed very odd. In fact I do wonder why my apparent fetish with shaving, giving it unusual priority even in circumstances when I could be excused the chore, didn't trigger searching questions and an early discovery that I had a gender problem. That and my occasional experiments with girly glasses, unisex clothes and ambiguous hairstyles - whatever I might get away with. But then I didn't 'get it' myself. I simply thought I was different.

I've got an electrolysis session today, my 49th. Next time I'll present Roz with a bottle of wine to mark the 50th occasion. Yesterday, although I hadn't shaved for about 30 hours, you couldn't see any of the stubble in that 'Mexican moustache' area of my face that we've been working on. It's almost defeated. But I could feel it. So I still feel a bit wobbly about public appearances in the run-up to an electrolysis session. But one day soon there'll just be fine hair, and no stubble, and when we get to that it'll be champagne!

Please don't be shy!

2011-10-24T19:48:00.001+01:00

One thing that intrigues me about the blogging world, and indeed about internet forums of all kinds, is why not everyone makes a proper personal profile available. In particular, why do some fail to show a contemporary photo of themselves when posting or commenting? You may see a photo of something else - a fluffy object perhaps, or an avatar - but not their actual likeness. Sometimes, there's nothing at all. I'm not suggesting that there's anything sinister going on, but it does make it harder to relate to them, and harder to evaluate what they have to say. Anonymity makes it easy to misunderstand, because there's no 'feel' for what the other person is like.

Now I'll admit at once that when I comment on blogs using Wordpress, you'll see no picture of myself. I simply haven't yet worked out how to set one up on Wordpress. And that could be the straightforward answer in many cases for Blogger users (although the Blogger procedure does seem easy to my photo-orientated mind). On the other hand, that can't be the simple explanation in all cases.

A very obvious reason for using (say) an avatar, or no image at all, and giving out only sparse personal information, is that the poster or commentator isn't fully 'out' and absolutely needs to be discreet. That's completely understandable. I follow some bloggers who are exactly in that position, as are one or two commentators whose remarks I appreciate.

But then there are a few who - judging from what they say, and the force with which they say it - have gone through the whole transition process from start to finish, and have lived a complete female life for years, but still use an avatar rather than a proper photo of themselves. And they supply only scanty personal information, so that it's quite hard to decide what they are like as people. I do wonder why there is this reticence. If they are totally integrated into normal life and have no need for discretion, and have important points to make, then why hide behind a kind of mask and risk undermining their credibility?

Is it just me? Am I abnormally free with publishing boatloads of detail about my personal life, including many, many photos. Indeed a huge number of shots, if you've ever clicked on one of the three Flickr links, and taken a good long look at what's on offer. I don't think the Police would be in any difficulty finding a recent picture of me if I ever became a missing person! In fact I think you could reconstruct most of the important facts about my life and current lifestyle from a study of the published material, the Flickr items forming a kind of visual diary on their own; never mind the stuff in the Blogger posts. You won't find my bank account details, passport number, national insurance number and similar things that need to be kept secret; but otherwise all the world can know me inside out. The only important thing missing is how I sound - but one day soon I'm going to attempt a vlog post. It'll be dire, but at least you'll hear my voice!

Contrast all this with the scant details some bloggers provide. Why is their personal appearance and life so invisible?

No doubt the diversity of human nature is at the heart of this. Some are naturally up front and in your face, others prefer a cloak of privacy. As simple as that.

But I would love to know some bloggers better, by seeing their picture, and knowing something about their real lives, even if distance means that we will never meet. Anonymity isn't a good thing.

Getting younger - and shorter!

2011-10-23T12:00:00.009+01:00

All my older trans friends have remarked on the rejuvenating effect of feminising hormones. We are all ready to say that, yes, we look ten years younger than anyone would expect.

Tired, sagging burnt-out fifty-somethings have morphed into energetic, interesting, forty-somethings with a facial glow, and fit-looking bodies from which the more obvious blemishes have vanished. And those still the right side of forty can get away with a sweet, fresh twenties look - and behaviour to match!

Tsk. I don't know how that last picture got in. And I wanted to keep this serious.

It's not surprising. We are all on permanent HRT prescribed by specialists in the field, specially tailored to our individual needs. It's unremarkable that the good effects are optimised. I'd go so far to say that we react to our treatment better than most natal women receiving HRT from their local GP. There's also something else. We are starting a new life - and want to look good. There's a big incentive for trans women to take geat care of themselves, with careful diets, an eye to exercise, careful drinking habits, less smoking (or none at all), attention to hair and skincare and all-round personal grooming, and to wear the kind of clothes that suggest an alert and active lifestyle. And it all makes us seem younger.

I regularly get pop-eyes and disbelief from people I encounter if my real age comes into the conversation. This is gratifying and, yes, something to be enjoyed; but in the future I may not be quite so keen to disclose my senior status. There are potential difficulties. If a younger person presses to know exactly how old I am, and what sort of lifestyle I enjoy, then a frank response may well be disappointing to them. Perhaps offputting; even alienating.

A typical question that crops up is 'what do you do for a living?' - in which case, I have to admit that I'm retired, and have been for some years, and live on a pension. And that immediately makes for awkwardness if I'm speaking with a young person who has no regular job, or if in work, has no chance of retiring (let alone on a pension) for another forty years or so. Or with an older, mid-career person with heavy family responsibilities, caught up in the commuting rat-race and strapped for leisure time, who'd love to get out and relax. Even with people who, like me, have already retired, there is a problem in bringing it up because we are not all on adequate pensions.

'Are you married?' or similar enquiries generally lead to an admission that I have been married and divorced, all long ago, and have a forty-one year old stepdaughter with a husband and kiddies of her own. More goggle eyes. And maybe, if you were being chatted up, the chat ends forthwith.

After all, who makes a 'pensioner' or 'grandmother' their first choice for an exciting date?

So looking 'ten years younger' can actually turn life into a minefield. The truth does not match the appearance, and the truth will out. Never mind. When not actually being quizzed about our lives, we older trans women can move through the world with confidence that we are still visible, still stylish, and do not yet have to wear the grey shroud of old age.

But there is another issue. You shrink! Now everyone loses some height as they get older. It's something to do with the contraction of the skeleton, and may of course be accelerated by various conditions. But taking feminising hormones seems to enhance the shrinkage.

When I went to the Princess Royal Hospital eleven days ago the nurse routinely took a height measurement. It was 174cm - roughly five foot eight and a half. I said that can't be right, I'm taller than that! Can we do it again? We did, but same measurement. This was wearing no shoes, and the bit that touched the top of my head resting on the scalp. And proper posture.

This was hard to believe. Back in July 2008, at the commencement of a serious weight-reduction regime, with electronic scales to set up, I'd got M--- to measure my height very carefully, and it was then 176cm - about one inch taller. I can't vouch for my posture then: it wouldn't have been as upright as now, so the discrepency might have been even larger.

How to react? In some ways, this is good news - excessive height is a liability if you're trying to live the female life. So from that point of view, I won't be sorry if the shrinkage continues in the coming years. On the other hand, being a shorty isn't convenient if things are out of reach and you have to get up on steps and ladders, which I hate doing. And it's easier to be condescending to a small person: I don't want to be talked down to, or treated like a naughty child, just because I'm a dwarf.

On the other hand, instead of the wise words of Yoda, the wise words of Lucy it could be!

You use what you have

2011-10-21T00:34:00.000+01:00

After publishing the post about last night's sexy dream, and reading the first comment made, a terrible thought eventually struck me. Was my sexual response really that of a man, and not that of a woman? After all, I had leaked seminal fluid, the stuff that would flow for any man in bed with the mysterious and very willing woman in my dream. (And it was a woman, not some man)

That was a disturbing notion.

But then I thought about it. My body was simply using what it had. Given the stimulus of the situation in the dream, some reaction was going to occur, and, thus triggered, the body could only throw in what was available. I wasn't a natal female, and so I didn't have the means to secrete vaginal mucus in copious amounts; but I still possessed internal male bits that, if stimulated, would produce something suitable for the occasion - and that something was this seminal fluid. It didn't prove that I was acting as a man, or was enjoying sex in a male frame of mind. It simply meant that I was excited, and I was demonstrating it with the only fluid allowed by my anatomy.

In the early days of my transition, it was pointed out to me again and again that I'd sometimes had successful sex in the past. Not often, but there had been some good sessions, and I didn't deny it. These successes were however supposed to prove that I wasn't female-minded in any respect, because I'd done it the male way and got something out of it.

My answer to this was that everyone had sexual urges now and then, and if the internal pressure (or encouragement) to relieve them was too much, then you just went with the flow and enjoyed the moment in any way open to you. Lacking a woman's body, I had used the body I was born with. I made the best of it, and sometimes things went poorly, somethimes pretty well. Any orgasms, any feelings of euphoria, simply meant that the natural hunger for a good sensation with a woman I had profound feelings for had overcome my inhibitions and reticence.

But the only thing it actually 'proved' was that I was capable of experiencing great pleasure - and not that I was specifically one gender or another.

I don't know whether I'm right or wrong with this kind of thinking. I feel I'm right, but that could be self-deception. Now if it were possible to relive the dream under controlled conditions, and somehow record my brain activity in objective detail...

It seems the only practical way to put my frame of mind to the test would be a real-life trial. I don't think I'm quite ready for that!

Glandular overflow

2011-10-20T10:21:00.002+01:00

I had an experience last night which I'd like to discuss.

It happened just after four in the morning. I was dreaming. In this very realistic dream I was in bed with a natal blonde woman of my age who I didn't know in real life, but in the dream was clearly someone I knew well. We had drifted into a playful, cosy and comfortable lovemaking position in the bed - my front to her back, and I was getting a very moist (if not actually gushing) response from stroking her genital area with my fingers. And then I began to feel wet as well. At that point I woke up breathing very heavily and with a taught lower abdomen, as if all my muscles down there were clenched. I had to allow a little time for the breathing to ease and the muscles to relax. On the panties that I wore in bed was a round wet patch of clear fluid. It had no smell that I could detect, but then my sense of smell isn't especially acute.

I doffed the panties, and went to the bathroom to clean up in the shower. But before I did, I felt inside the vaginal cleft and discovered that it was well lubricated with a colourless but sticky fluid of some kind. I couldn't tell what the source might be, but it wasn't at all like urine; it was more like KY gel, but runnier.

Back to bed, in fresh panties. The only other effects to note were a sensitive back - it felt a bit itchy - and a feeling of hunger that almost drove me into the kitchen, but it passed. I pondered what might have brought the dream on, where the fluid could have come from if it wasn't pee, and whether I'd just had my first truly orgasmic sensation. Then I drifted off to sleep again, none the wiser.

So what actually happened?

In the morning the round wet patch on those panties had dried to a round, stiff but still colourless patch. There was still no smell. Not urine, then.

Given that I'd undoubtedly simulated a sexual experience in my mind, I considered the possible sources of the clear fluid, and how it had been delivered. Obviously it couldn't possibly be sperm-laden semen ejaculated in the male manner. And I hadn't been aware of any muscular contractions to pump the stuff along my urethra - although this impression wasn't conclusive, because I'd been asleep at the critical moment! But it might be sperm-free seminal fluid leaking from the prostate (it's still there of course), fed by the seminal vesicles (also still there) - see Wikipedia at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prostate, and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seminal_vesicle. That said, the fluid was colourless, not milky. So maybe it originated from the bulbourethral gland (Cowper's gland), which also secretes into the urethra - see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulbourethral_gland. Obviously I can speculate no further without advice from a specialist, but my best guess is that the source of the mysterious fluid was one of these organs.

I can't say that I'm entirely happy about the prostate being involved in any orgasm I might achieve from now on. I thought that, post-op, it would go into a peaceful retirement and stay there!

And although it may be a kind of bonus to know that a lubricatory fluid can gush when sexually stimulated, this isn't the mucus that natal females secrete inside the vagina - it's more akin to the fluid they produce from an active Skene's gland (aka the female prostate: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skene%27s_gland) and/or from Bartholin's gland (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bartholin%27s_gland). Oh well, better than nothing!

And what does all this say about my capacity for a proper sex life? I'd say I was making progress.

Male interests

2011-10-19T12:07:00.001+01:00

Angela of Angie's Aspirations related the other day how she employed a clever bit of subterfuge to buy an item of model railway signalling from a specialist shop that wouldn't normally be patronised by a woman. It worked brilliantly. Her post was significant enough to feature on T-Central. Quite an honour.

This entire subject area seems under-discussed, so here's my own contribution.

Hobbies and interests that developed in the 'old era' are to be not lightly thrown aside once the female life is adopted. If you honestly have a deep interest in such things as classic muscle cars, diesel engine maintenance, boat-building, creative welding, speedway racing, boxing, shark fishing, stamp collecting, and, yes, railway modelling, then why on earth should you give it up? At least, why should you give it up just because it's generally considered 'ungirly' or 'unwomanly'?

You might with good reason have to stop because it's physically beyond you, but then some hands-on hobbies and interests can still be watched as a spectator, even if you aren't actually an active participator.

All this said, you don't want to send out the wrong messages. It's all very well to point at, say, Vicki Butler-Henderson (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vicki_Butler-Henderson) on Channel Five's Fifth Gear and say, there's a lovely girl who likes to drive insanely fast in insanely powerful supercars, and yet she looks fabulous in a miniskirt. If you have the same skills, background, personality, physique and allure, well go ahead by all means; but if you're a dumpy middle-aged mumsy type, I'd be cautious. When your femininity is a trifle wobbly, not 100% established, it might be wise not to attract attention, raise eyebrows, and invite close scrutiny. Unless of course you don't give a damn, in which case, all power to you.

I don't consider that I have any especially eyebrow-raising hobbies and interests. But looking around my study/library/computer room (it's technically my second bedroom) I have to admit that it's stuffed full of books and other things that aren't especially girly.

Some items are of course. The paintings hung up in here depict wildlife subjects - birds and animals - that a woman might go for. And Mum's sewing machine catches the eye. Then there are books on cooking, clothes, gardening, home hints, medical matters, personal safety and knitting. And there are books on calligraphy, shorthand, archaeology, ancient history, architecture, astronomy and several dictionaries and other reference works that a woman of education might possess. And in my lounge is a small library of books on art.

Ah, but what about all those books on railways, clocks and watches, technical aspects of photography, war, espionage, codes and cyphers, crime, business ventures, tales of the sea, ships, cars, caravans, cameras and computers? And while women may like travel books, and books on foreign cultures and languages, my bookshelves are groaning rather too heavily with them. And, most incongruous of all, is my vast collection of maps. I've specialised in collecting Ordnance Survey maps of Great Britain since a child, and have by now amassed a most impressive number, in various scales, of most parts of the country, going back into the 1800s. Naturally there are also Irish maps and maps from Europe and elsewhere in the world. It all screams 'male hobby', but there is no way I'm going to hide it all up in the attic, or throw it all away, just to prove that I'm a girl.

One hobby, the main one, is not to be seen at all. All my photos are on the PC, or my laptop, or on various portable hard drives. They are not up on my walls. Even the cameras are out of sight. There's a fancy photo printer and a fancy photo scanner, but you'd not necessarily guess from these that I take 1,000 shots a month and devote a big chunk of my time to shooting, editing, processing, publishing and viewing all those pictures.

Photography is one of those borderline interests for women. Plenty carry a good camera and like to get great shots. But not many women can or want to spend as much time as I do on the results. And while there are women at local photo clubs, and women who have turned professional as (say) wedding photographers, they are heavily outnumbered by men. When a fine sunset looms on the Sussex coast, you'll always see a few girls turn out, but the heavy metal SLRs and the tripods and the equipment-rich backbacks are all toted by a herd of men, who doubtless secure absolutely fine shots, technically brilliant, but not necessarily any better in real-life terms than the pictures snapped by the girls. At least girls can be there, and use their cameras, and not feel out of place.

Mind you, I find that (to my own amusement) I really do like to play up to the general male mega-seriousness at such photo events, as if I'm a rank amateur who can barely do more than press the shutter button. The smallness of my camera helps. They see me take it out of my handbag ('Typical woman!'). I make sure to keep a finger over the red 'Leica' badge, so they don't see that ('Huh! It's just a little point-and-shoot camera, not a proper one'). I get a few shots in with a nonchalant casualness ('She hasn't a clue about composition and careful exposure'). Then I touch up my lipstick, and wander down to the shoreline, behaving in a frivolous, let's-play-with-the-seaweed-and-nice-bits-of-driftwood sort of way that must cause disdainful smiles to writhe on their manly lips. I just take care not to be in their field of view, so that their shots aren't spoiled by an unwanted lay figure.

Oh, I like being a woman so much!

Golda Meir and vulnerability

2011-10-18T00:30:00.001+01:00

A couple of years ago I was listening to the radio, and heard an anecdote about the Israeli Prime Minister during the early 1970s, Golda Meir. I remembered her. She was a tough and forthright old lady. This showed on her face, which was an easy target for cartoonists:

The anecdote concerned an occasion when journalists were present, and one of them in particular, a strident young man, gave her a very hard time, treating her to the full force of his barbed, almost insulting voice, not merely as if she were the most despicable of politicians caught out in a big lie, but as if she were nothing but a vile old hag.

She took it. But afterwards, she managed to have a word with the man, who in fact was a familiar adversary. They already had a kind of wary respect for each other. But on this occasion he had gone a bit too far. She said to him (and I'll have to give you the gist, because I can't remember the exact words): 'Young man, your questions were to the point, and fair, but you nearly destroyed me with your manner. You forgot that I am a woman.' She wasn't asking for special treatment, only for a recognition that despite her own formidable manner and appearance, she was a woman and therefore vulnerable to personal attacks in a way that a man would not be. The journalist apologised, and took the comment to heart. Because it was he who was relating the anecdote on that radio programme all those years later.

So a seasoned and hardened politician who certainly wasn't pretty, and must have known that, was stung by the words of a young man on the make. What can be drawn from this?

I thought it was remarkable that she sought him out afterwards and confessed that she had been hurt. Remarkable too that she impressed him so much by this frankness that he never again abused his position, and became an admirer.

It made me wonder how I would react to a devastating personal verbal attack. And whether I would be left speechless with mortification, or have the guts to confront my attacker. You need some courage, both to admit vulnerability, and to face the strong possibilty that instead of an apology, you will get a further blast of soul-destroying sneers. Apologies are so hard to get. The attacker has to climb down, admit fault. In the real world, it doesn't often happen.

It's worth thinking hard on how to make it happen, every time.

Country girl: the new Dubarry boots have arrived!

2011-10-15T11:05:00.006+01:00

Eat your heart out, townies!

I was driving south-eastwards yesterday, intending to go walking in the brilliantly bright sunshine high up on the South Downs near Alfriston, when Jane from Aston Bourne in Brighton phoned me to say that my new Dubarry boots had arrived. Well, what would you do? I completely changed my plans. I turned Fiona around, and sped off in the opposite direction, well south-westwards anyway. She was just as excited as I was, and her blazing headlights cleaved a path throught the afternoon traffic as we thundered into Brighton, other drivers saluting us as we passed. Well, they honked their horns! The police must have fixed the traffic lights specially: it was a green wave. Within half an hour I was smiling inanely at Jane, and we opened the box, as if it were a delicious shared conspiracy.

The size 42.5/8.5 boots fitted perfectly. I didn't wear them straight away. I took them back to my favourite underground car park in The Lanes, hid them in the boot, and went shopping for a cream short-sleeved cardigan, to expand my collection of items that would look good with these new boots. I found exactly what I wanted at Jane Norman (who seem to have come through their rocky phase earlier in the year - full of really nice autumn stock now). Then it was Debenhams. I thought it worth looking for a brown or dark tan long jacket or short coat that would also go with the boots. And Betty Jackson had just what I wanted. I hesitated over the price - I was stretching my new monthly budgeting arrangements a bit here - then made up my mind and bought it. So now I'm all set to step out into the autumn sunshine - or rain - properly attired!

And nicely in time for my Somerset holiday in early November. I've booked it. I'm pitching my caravan at the Caravan Club site at Cheddar. That's perfect for the coast (sunsets at Burnham-on-Sea, Weston-super-Mare and Clevedon), the levels (more sunsets) , the Mendip Hills and Cheddar Gorge (some nice walking, and maybe a spot of tourist caving), Bristol, Bath, Wells, and the American Museum at Claverton, to name some places I intend to visit. And my aunt in Newport is just an hour away.

Now for some pix. Here are the boots, just after unpacking at home, so the labels are still on. The sunset light in my lounge has intensified the colour of the leather very well:

I think they're gorgeous. I've been wearing them around the house, of course - and have them on at this very moment - but I can't wait to wear them out and about for the first time. You'll see at once that these are not 'fashion boots', even though they are very fashionable. They are not made of thin leather that hugs the shape of your calf. There's no heel. Nor will you require long shoehorns or discreet zips to get them on and off. Nor will they be a problem if your feet swell, or if you are prone to corns. They are supple and roomy with a decent rubber grip pattern on the sole, and their underlying purpose is to keep you stylishly dryshod (and sure-footed) in muddy farmyards, on moorland paths, and when watching Highland Games or hurling in the rain. If kept pristine, I'd expect to wear them around any town, even on Oxford Street, in any store, in any restaurant, in any kind of gallery. I wouldn't wear them to the opera. And if walking craggy hills I would wear my proper Alt-Berg walking boots instead. But for half the year, if I want a degree of style, then these boots will be my outdoor footwear of choice, and I expect them to age well.

They are lined with Gore-Tex, the water-resistant but breathable material, and I understand that I can wade across streams in them, as if they were posh wellies. I'll take that with a pinch of salt! But they should shrug off the effects of long wet grass. Their roominess means that in icy weather I can wear snug and warm socks in them.

One of the labels said 'Yard manure and waste liquids can be very corrosive to leather. To prolong performance and protection for your Dubarrys, always scrub them with fresh tap water after exposure'. Oh damn. That means I can't stomp through cowpats, slurry and chicken shit and then simply step into Fiona, fire her up, and arrive triumphantly at the Hunt Ball. I'll first have to find a mountain stream or cold water tap and wash 'em off. What a palaver! All for the best, I suppose.

Are you well named?

2011-10-14T11:09:00.005+01:00

One's first name or names are terribly personal, and tend to define how people see you. If you like your name, and everybody else likes it too, you tend to 'grow' into it so that it seems to fit your personality exactly, and you could not be called anything else.

I've written about my own name before - see for instance Will you take some tea, Miss Melford? on 19 July 2009. In this post I'm concentrating on the forename (in my case Lucy). As the July 2009 post says (rather succinctly for me!), I chose Lucy because I'd always liked it, and its main vowel sound (the 'oo') was also prominent in my former name, which was Julian. I could say the same of the consonant 'l' and the vowel 'i' - 'uli' became 'lui'. Both Julian and Lucy are liquid names that involve a bit of tongue work to articulate.

I don't think they are all that far apart, although the shadowy connection of Lucy with Julian isn't at all obvious; and having any connection at all wasn't uppermost in my mind when naming myself. It was more important to have a name that would suit me, and elicit the right sort of response in the people I would encounter in my new life as Lucy. I felt it was a sweet kind of name that would produce a gentle reaction and give me a breathing space. It wasn't a harsh or abrupt or puzzling kind of name that would confuse or wrong-foot or offend. It wasn't foreign or exotic to English ears. It was short and easy to spell. It existed when I was born, so it wasn't an anachronism, and it well suited a certain type of lively middle-aged educated woman from a middle-class background with a leaning (or pretentions, if you prefer) towards art and style - the name of a lady of leisure and independent means certainly. There was no Lucy in the family tree that I knew of, and no family member would be put out if I adopted that name.

The entire name - Lucy Melford - seemed to flow easily off the tongue, full of soft-sounding letters, and I thought it was somewhat evocative of the old English countryside. That was a deliberate intention, a nod to my Dad's origins in Devon, although the only common 'Mel-' elements in West Country placenames seem to occur in Dorset (e.g. Melbury Abbas, Melbury Bubb, Melcombe Bingham, Melplash). Long Melford and Melford Hall are in Suffolk. My neice told me that 'Lucy Melford' could have been a character in one of Jane Austen's novels. That pleased me very much.

I confess that I was also influenced by the down-to-earth and comprehensive advice on choosing a suitable name in Andrea James' Transsexual RoadMap (http://www.tsroadmap.com/reality/nameindex.html). Required reading, I'd have thought! I also paid attention to how easily the name 'Lucy Melford' could be written in my own fair hand (see http://www.tsroadmap.com/physical/handwriting/index.html). After all, even if everything is typed nowadays, you still have to sign your name sometimes in face-to-face situations, there are still cheques to write and sign, and all paper forms require a signature. Your handwritten name needs to flow quickly and easily from the pen, with no hestitation and no difficult or unnatural pen movements.

So much for myself. What do other people call themselves? Here's list of MTF trans people that I've come across in UK social situations, mostly the ones who made it into my address book:

Alexandra
Alice
Amanda
Amy
Andie
Angela
Angelica
April
Ashley
Beth Anne
Caroline
Celia
Charlotte
Chantelle
Cheryl
Chrissie
Chrissy
Christy
Debbie
Dee (2)
Della
Drusilla
Emily
Emma (2)
Faye
Gemma
Helen
Jane (2)
Jenna
Jenny (2)
Jessica
Jo (2)
Julie
Juliet
Karen
Kia
Kim
Kimberley
Linda
Louisa
Lucy (me)
Martine
May
Mel (2)
Meta
Michaela
Michelle (2)
Mischa
Nancy
Natasha (2)
Nicki
Nicky (2)
Paula (2)
Persia
Philippa
Polly
Purdi
Rachel
Rebecca (2)
Rheya
Rhianna
Sarah (4)
Sarah Jayne
Sky
Sophie (2)
Stef
Steph (2)
Stella
Sue
Suzanna
Teresa
Toni
Vicky (2)
Victoria
Viola
Yolanda
Zoey

That's nearly three years worth of accumulated names! Things that strike me are:

# Most names seem to come from the first half of the alphabet, A to M (55/94 = 58%); but the commonest in my collection is Sarah.
# Some are exotic or unusual, but not all that many.
# Only a few are oddly or unexpectedly spelt.
# Nearly all are single names, and not a double-barrelled combination.
# Absent are some everyday female names like Katie, Carol, Betty, Tracey, Jackie, Alison, Anne, Frances, Ruth, Joanna, Maggie, Wendy, Marilyn and Mary.
# Also absent are some 'posh' female names like Olivia, Jocasta, and of course Fiona.

I get the feeling that 'ordinary' female names have been avoided, perhaps in the quest for some individuality, or an intention to stand out from the crowd just a little. (But not too much!)

It's a good point to make that - in British culture, and excluding stage people and that sort of person - only transsexuals get the chance to adopt and use in real life another name that they have chosen for themselves. It's a fantastic privilege.

Examined by an NHS consultant

2011-10-12T17:59:00.000+01:00

A real 'medical' day! This morning I saw my GP about some 'abnormal' blood test results, particularly the one for thyroid. The test result suggested that it was under-active, but the other test results contradicted that, and besides, I felt in good, robust health with plenty of energy (in short bursts anyway, because I still tire rather quickly; but then I'm not exactly as fit as an athlete). She thought it might just be one of my personal characteristics, but recommended that I highlight the low thyroid result to Dr Curtis when I see him on 31 October. I most certainly will.

In the afternoon I went up to The Princess Royal Hospital at Haywards Heath for a consultation with Mr Farrands, whose speciality is digestive diseases and their surgical treatment. I could not have been 'processed' with more promptness and consideration. It was 'Lucy' this and 'Lucy' that, all very sweet, as if everyone enjoyed saying my name! Waiting around was minimal. Soon Mr Farrands' clinical nurse Elaine O'Malley took charge of me. She was very reassuring and cheerful, and set me at ease about the examination. Then I met Mr Farrands himself, who seemed such a kind and gentle man.

Next I had to get up on the bed, at first on my back, so that he could examine my tummy. I had to pull my bottom-half garments right down to expose the entire lower abdomen, although not as low as the vulva itself. So he didn't quite see the last faint signs of my surgery. But nevertheless I was pretty well-revealed! It crossed my mind to tell him that I'd had reassignment surgery, but I decided not to mention it unless he asked. And I hoped that Elaine saw nothing to make her wonder.

He did not ask, and she did not wonder. He ran his fingers down the sides of my tummy, and pressed firmly here and there, with nary a word of query or puzzlement. Clearly he found nothing unusual. Presumably he was feeling for such things as swellings or blockages or an enlarged appendix. I felt no discomfort from this gentle probing, which was actually reassuring - my internals must be in good order!

One thing he wouldn't have felt, of course, were little kicks inside.

Satisfied, he then asked me to turn over onto my side while he conducted further probing, but I won't go into that!

I could then pull my clothes up and hear the verdict, which was that I was basically fine, and should simply maintain the many good features of my diet. He'd noticed one or two things about my digestive tract, but it was nothing of any concern. He explained all this potentially worrying stuff with great gentleness. I was then discharged. Elaine completed the process, with advice on what to do if I ever felt that another appointment might be needed. She too was so kind to me.

So I've passed yet another demanding test in my apprenticeship as a woman. A physical examination, no less, by a senior NHS doctor who did not know that I was trans - because local NHS hospital records do not say so. It makes me speculate that a physical encounter with an ordinary mortal might go rather well, and that I should have nothing to fear.

Light lunches, but I'm still way too cuddly!

2011-10-11T10:03:00.003+01:00

Sigh. I really try to keep my weight under control. I'm not obsessed with it, but I religiously leap on my sophisticated electronic scales every Wednesday morning and learn the latest (not too good) news about my weight, body fat, body water, muscle mass, BMI and basal metabolic rate. It never seems to get radically better. Then I get the tape measure out and see what bits have expanded or shrunk. Bust, waist, hips. There is a glacial but definite change here: millimetre by millimetre my bust and hips seem to be getting a bit larger, but what has happened to my waist? Let's not enquire too closely. If it matters that much to me, I know exactly what to do. I put together a very effective calorie-counting regime last January when pre-op and under surgeon's orders to lose 10kg - and I can do it again.

Breakfast for me is usually two Weetabix with milk, dried apricots and two cups of tea. Lunches can be as slender as two Ryvita crackers, some olives, a small hunk of cheese, an apple and another cup of tea. Sometimes, if I'll be active in the afternoon or will be eating late in the evening, I have a bit more. Look, here are a couple of recent 'big' lunches:

Ah, that was the last of the North Devon free-range eggs. They were flavoursome, and no mistake!

And this was simply tinned mackerel with the usual ration of olives, plus the usual apple.

My evening meals are something I look forward to, and I like them tasty and cooked. At home I'll enjoy almost anything in the meat and fish line, always with plenty of vegetables, but cooked without rich sauces, and I try to keep the portions smaller nowadays. And no booze and no dessert, just another apple with a coffee to follow. It's not usual for me to cook a shop-bought pizza or curry or thai or chinese, but I'll eat these things maybe once or twice a fortnight, just to add some extra variety. I'm no saint. But then I'm no greedy hog either.

My trouble is that I really don't burn my calories off. I'm not active enough. But that can be changed in an instant.

And am I fretful and tearful about eating out in restaurants or at friends' houses? Here's two shots of me from last weekend. Judge for yourself!

The dress was from Monsoon.

It'll soon be time for my midday gruel. Can't wait.

Actually it's a slice or two of ox tongue, with sun-dried tomatoes and an apple. I'm out this afternoon, and don't want to faint from lack of nourishment.

Female behaviour - wired in from birth, or mostly learned?

2011-10-09T22:59:00.014+01:00

In this post I'm attempting to explore how natal females come by their distinctive modes of behaviour, and whether it might be mostly a matter of learning it gradually while growing up. Because if that is true, then women with a trans history stand a realistic chance of picking it all up too, and practicing female behavioural patterns until they become perfect and automatic.

In the past, whether it was in male mode, or in the early days of transition when I faced fierce opposition to what I had embarked upon, it was drummed into me that women are 'wired up' in a certain way at birth - equipped with pre-determined female brain-connections if you will - that were quite unlike those of male babies, and that consequently the two sexes were always going to 'think differently' and 'behave differently' in certain characteristic ways. And examples were given to me of how a woman ends up with one type of approach, while a man has quite another. Or she feels or reacts like this, whereas he will feel or react like that - with the female of the species always having the more sensitive or perceptive edge. Similarly for interests: the woman's are people-centred and concerned with what will beautify her home and make her family happy; a man's are focussed on himself, and often involve a selfish use of time and money. And he can never break out of that, never be like her.

I'm bound to say that I used to feel there was a bit of propaganda and myth being thrust at me in this connection, having its roots in childhood assertions such as girls are 'sugar and spice and all things nice', and boys are 'slugs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails'. Which basically means that girls are nice, and they're clean; but boys are not nice, and they're dirty.

No wonder that some boys end up fitting their stereotype very well. And attitudes such as 'boys will be boys' and a general tolerance of anti-social male behaviour tend to reinforce the notion that even if a bad boy deserves punishment, his deeds reveal spirit and toughness and bravery and various competitive qualities that will stand him in good stead when he grows up and has to make his way in the world.

Boys are subject to this type of conditioning from an early age, and so it isn't surprising that many do admire muscular super-heroes, and want to be powerful and dominant, and see nothing wrong with fighting and cheating and putting weaker people down with a cruel and unthinking laugh. Not all boys, of course; but even the more 'civilised' male children find it hard to resist 'acting like a proper boy'. And if it's not in them to misbehave, they are still aware of the standard cultural expectations, and might feel inadequate or an outsider as a result; or get bullied by peers or parents if they don't conform. There must be a lot of fathers who are proud of a brutalised but respected son, and ashamed or scornful of one who seems weak. Certainly male criminality has been largely condoned, and in some quarters glorified.

My point is that a boy's outlook and behaviour is largely learned, a product of his environment and parenting. The biological impulses that (for instance) make him want sex, or protect his own, do not affect his conduct in the same fine detail as what he picks up as he grows up.

And if this applies to boys, then why not to girls also?

It has been put to me that the very different upbringing of girls adds little to an innate gentleness and motherliness, so that they are inevitably submissive, unassertive and child-centric.

It has also been put to me that natural selection ensures that competitive and dynamic women who are uninterested in having babies, or who fail to take opportunities to have any, do not replicate themselves. Consequently their qualities and talents remain unusual and untypical for females in general. And therefore only those female scientists and artists and political leaders who produce children to carry their personal characteristics forward can leave a mark on the great mass of womanhood. If that is true, it might explain why 'women come from Venus, and men from Mars', and why that never seems to change.

I think that if women were brought up differently, and not in conformity to a sterotype, their attitudes and expectations in later life would be very different too. Perhaps most would still go for a family, but the balance of power within that family unit, and the place of women in that society, would both be enhanced. And I think that history tends to illustrate this. Greatly expanded opportunities - and encouragements - for girls to receive a higher and more technical education in recent decades has transformed them as a force in the world and released a deluge of hitherto untapped talent. The days of a woman's normal place 'being in the home' as a compliant and subverted domestic slave are long gone. Would John Lennon and Yoko Ono feel justified in penning that song entitled Woman is the Nigger of the World (see Wikipedia at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Woman_Is_the_Nigger_of_the_World and YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Asf4InKVo8k ) in 2011? (John Lennon was murdered in New York in 1980, you may recall; by a man with an attitude problem, needless to say)

I believe that any person, male or female, learns their social role and its associated behaviour from what they are exposed to in their early years. And that it that isn't simply a question of neural connections that can't be altered. Further, I believe that if my transness had been recognised and medically treated from birth, and I'd been raised as a girl, and exposed to all the experiences girls have, and if my Mum had loved me and cared for me as a girl, I'd have grown up with exactly the same attitudes, emotions, predispositions, expectations and skills as the other girls. You wouldn't have been able to discern any difference.

And if it could all have been learned when young, then surely some of it can still be learned now?

What do natal females think about this? Is it tosh, or am I shedding some light on an under-discussed subject that many take for granted?

Meeting the wife

2011-10-07T21:54:00.002+01:00

By now I know - or know of - at least half a dozen couples who are made up of a trans female husband plus a natal female wife. Mostly I haven't met the wife, but the possibility exists for anytime in the future, whether by design or accident. I could be faced with 'here she is now, let me introduce you' at very short notice. And it's a daunting prospect, much more challenging than meeting a potential partner or lover on a date, which seems a casual and inconsequential thing by comparison.

I try to put myself in the wife's place. I imagine her thinking like this.

Wife: 'My husband is fading, or at least changing, and with that our relationship and our whole future. Why is this happening? Because of a condition that has flared up and taken my husband over, and seems to be the most important thing in his universe, despite protestations and reassurances that it isn't so. And now this. I'm being asked to meet someone just like my husband. OK, she's not an embarrassing parody of a woman; in fact she's pleasant, sensible, engaging, has a nice voice, nice hair, has made herself look almost pretty, and is dressed quietly and tastefully. She's very natural, and I'd be happy to meet her in the street, just by myself. But not here in my home. Not with my husband present. She's living proof that he can be so transformed that the old person is totally lost. I like her, but I fear her too, and she's definitely not the sort of person I want my husband to see, because she'll just give him hope.'

I've no idea whether any wife actually has these thoughts, but what if I'm guessing correctly? You can see why meeting the other half fills me with some anxiety. Don't get me wrong: I'm in no danger myself. All might very well be smiles and laughter and good manners. But only on the surface. At a deeper level, an introduction to me could simply make matters worse. I'd be an agent of destruction.

I really do want to find that I'm completely wrong here, because I'd absolutely love to meet the wife and listen to her side of things.

Post-op test results for Oestragen and Testosterone; and those boots

2011-10-06T12:32:00.000+01:00

I had a battery of tests carried out last week, and they've now come through. Some, like my thyroid and glucose levels, aren't too good, and I've made a follow-up appointment with my doctor to discuss them. But the ones I was avid to know seem just right. Here they are. Remember that I'm just over seven months post-op at this point, and my dosage, using patches, is 100mcg of Oestradiol twice a week:

Oestragen: 461 pmol/L (the normal female range per the NHS is 46.0 to 607.0)
Testosterone: 0.9 nmol/L (the normal female range per the NHS is 0.101 to 1.42)

I'm sure Dr Curtis will be pleased. I shall now book an appointment with him, and also get him to write the letter I need from him in support of my GRC application.

And another little announcement that gives me joy. I've ordered those Dubarry boots after all. That's the knee-length tan 'Galway' version with the brown upper and brown horizontal bands, the absolutely classic Dubarry boot. I went in the end to Aston Bourne in Brighton and spent forty minutes with Jane, who handles the boot purchases. The main issue was the size. I'm a general size 8, but in the more precise continental fittings I've been looking in the past at either size 41 or 42. I've found from experience that a 41 is just too small. 42 is often correct - it depends on the make. But 42 wasn't quite right for Dubarry. In the end we refined it to a size 42.5, which gave me the roominess I like, essential if its so cold that I'm going to wear socks rather than tights.

I duly placed the order. They could take up to two weeks to arrive. Then I'll go all county.

What to eat? Meat or veg or both? Or a green wafer called Soylent Green?

2011-10-05T23:10:00.006+01:00

While idly checking out aspects of dieting, I strayed onto the website of the Vegan Society.

I gave it a little time, but the idea of living exclusively on vegetable matter, including wearing only vegetable-based clothing and footwear, seemed unappealing. I did note the positive effects of being a strict vegetarian, but it still didn't hook me in.

Many of the real-life vegetarians that I've encountered (whether vegans, or rather less strict than that) have had a thin, under-nourished look to me, as if they have taken the whole thing a bit too far. Of course, that may have been exactly how they should have looked, and they had in fact achieved the difficult and highly laudable goal of having the correct BMI for their age and height. If so, there is nothing I can say against their eating regime.

But I still wouldn't join them.

Some reasons come to mind. First and foremost, I like food in all its forms. I like its different textures and flavours and colours. All of them. Well, maybe not slimy things like oysters! But it would be a nightmare if I had to exist wholly on pills or bland reconstituted pap, however nutritious. (Does that eliminate me from the eventual manned mission to Mars and back? Oh dear) On a less extreme plane, I'd hate to live on a monotonous diet of baked beans on toast every day, or fish and chips every single night, or nothing but burgers, whether prepared at the Savoy Grill or at the Burger King on the corner.

I want variety. I like nearly everything. Vegetables are delicious, and I eat them in quantity, but I want meat and fish as well, to give me the full menu. After all, when I last checked, homo sapiens was regarded as an omnivorous animal, not just a plant grazing one.

But then, what about the suffering and death of animals, fish and birds caught up in the human food machine? The Vegan Society made the very good point that even if a food animal is reared in highly pleasant conditions, it still faces separation from its companions and a sudden, frightening death when its time for the slaughterhouse arrives, quite apart from not living its full lifespan. Who is to say that a given pig, or cow, or chicken, or turkey, or salmon, or trout doesn't experience a horrible moment of terror or despair when killed, however obscurely felt? Is this however a good reason to give up eating flesh?

Perhaps naively, when young - you ponder death often then - I always used to wonder what wheat or grass or potato plants or lettuces or apples felt when cut down or picked. Surely they felt something. Why didn't anyone complain about their treatment? Yes, I knew they had no brains, but they were still life forms, and not minerals. I felt there was a shortfall of logic here, but I didn't have the mental equipment to take the matter further.

And then there's the economic angle. Plants are cheap to grow, and you can easily increase harvests if you apply enough money, and do scientific research, and use factory methods. It's clearly the answer if world starvation looms. Animals on the other hand are expensive to rear, use up land, and people frown on genetic meddling and intensive factory methods, never mind the gassy anal emissions. Poor folk might be able to afford seed for their crops, or market produce if town-dwellers, but meat has always been a luxury and, throughout history, beyond the financial reach of most on this planet. Is it right to continue with farm animals when you could grow crops instead on the same land?

Big questions.

The resolution of them will of course be taken out of our hands by world events. If world population explodes much further, or climate change makes the amount of viable agricultural land shrink to a critically low level, we will all have to adapt to a veggie diet, whatever we feel about it. I just hope not in the circumstances depicted in the 1973 film Soylent Green (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soylent_Green). It's set in 2022, just eleven years ahead. And there's an ingredient in that green wafer you'd definitely not want to know about.

Autumn leaves, The Thing, and Bodyline bowling

2011-10-04T10:00:00.009+01:00

And now for something completely different.

As yesterday was supposed to be the last really fine day before wetter and colder weather set in for a while, I made a point of visiting one of the nearby National Trust properties close to me. Being a Life Member, I can go to any of them on a whim, just for tea and cake perhaps, but I like Sheffield Park because it has lakes and plenty of nice colourful plants and trees. However, as you can see from the shot above, the real autumn colours had not yet started to show in any great quantity. My goodness, what then does a keen photographer do?

Well, the trick in these circumstances is to concentrate on individual leaves that have a bit of colour. You get in close:

Another trick is to use water to enhance what colour there is:

However, next to water you will always find some strange plants, and one that gives me the creeps is the big variety of gunera. This is the one used as an umbrella-like ornamental plant. But really it's a maneating prehistoric monster, that looks alien from the moment it starts to sprout:

It rapidly grows into a clump of sinister stems topped with huge, deeply veined leaves. It beckons you in. You are unwilling, but the fatal fascination is hard to resist. And once trapped under that canopy, once you have brushed against any of those thick, fleshy, prickly stems, or the deadly little brown seed clusters, you are doomed. You'll be absorbed and become one of them. Or at least that's the feeling these intimidating plants inspire in me! Very much on the lines of The Quatermass Experiment, in particular the 1955 film version which must lie at the root of my nightmarish aversion to these plants (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Quatermass_Xperiment). And not dissimilar to the 1982 film The Thing (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Thing_%281982_film%29). They do have one redeeming point: they are photographically impressive, and can be given a number of treatments:

In a woodland clearing on higher ground above the lakes was a cricket pitch. This had been created in the nineteenth century - and presumably used when W G Grace (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._G._Grace) was at the height of his fame - but had fallen into disuse during the Second World War. However, in recent years, the Trust had restored it, providing a new pavilion. I was the only visitor. I stood behind the railings on the front of the pavilion and pondered over the tranquil scene, imagining a game in progress:

I have in my time watched some village cricket. I can perfectly see the attraction of that. Local players; wives and girlfriends watching in the sun on deckchairs; a general mellowness, spiced with a little drama now and then as a ball goes to the boundary uncaught, or it seems that someone is starting to pile up runs, and the concentration and cunning gets intense so as to get him out by one of the various means available: bowled, LBW, caught, or run out. They say cricket is a game of psychological pressure as much as physical skill. Certainly it seems that a demoralised side always loses. But that's true in any sphere of activity.

I'm not a 'cricket fan' and I don't really understand the game, but it is so very English, and seems best to me when played in the English countryside on sunny afternoons, with tea and lemonade and sandwiches to enjoy during intervals, and after the last click of bat on ball has sounded in the setting sun. I very much enjoyed the 1984 TV series Bodyline (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bodyline_%28miniseries%29), even though it was of course full of dramatic licence. Wikipedia has however an equally enthralling description of the notorious 1932/33 Australian Tour in which the Bodyline style of bowling featured, and of the dark passions it aroused (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bodyline). I'm assuming that Wikipedia's account is more accurate!

For a while after the TV series was screened I took more notice of cricket, but it has long slid way down on the list of things I can give time to. And I still don't understand the scoring system. But it gets my vote as a Good Thing.

Issues that won't go away

2011-10-03T10:04:00.003+01:00

My post on perfect presentation and its problems certainly caused a stir that I didn't anticipate.

You know, I wouldn't have minded if I'd got just one response on the lines of 'Yes, I see what you mean, and I agree that as a practical policy you just have to live with any problems, make the best of it, and not agonise too much'. Which is exactly what I do. Look at my pictures. You can see it's true, right there on my face.

Instead that post generated over twenty comments, and went into self-belief territory that wasn't at all in my mind when I composed the post.

To set the record straight, please take the following as exactly how things are for me:

1. I believe that I was born with a female mind.
2. But I was also born with a masculinised body, and accordingly designated 'male' from birth.
3. Everyone duly treated me as a little boy, and I myself grew up with that notion in my mind.
4. The notion was reinforced by every aspect of my young life, and I couldn't avoid thorough male conditioning. That meant I couldn't learn to be as girls were. That's why some have said that I don't 'think like a girl'.
5. Certainly I felt 'different' from pre-school times, and that feeling persisted, but I couldn't analyse it nor put a name to it. I was child; I accepted everything I was told; and the concept of gender dysphoria didn't exist in the UK at the time.
6. So I simply ignored any oddness or variance or discontent that I felt within my mind. Of course this created tensions within. But my temperament was at root easy and accepting and cheerful, and mostly it didn't show. I was awkward during my teens, but all that was put down to 'just being a teenager' - a phase I'd grow out of. I believed it too.
7. Essentially nothing changed for over five decades. Interior tension; exterior calmness. I got on with my life in ignorance of the smouldering volcano inside. Many people thought me the very model of a nice man who cared very much for others, and was happy with himself. I was moderately or highly successful in many things that I did in male mode. I finished my working life as a valued if not especially talented colleague. I was thought a bit too individual to be a team player, and not ruthless or clever enough to be a real force, but otherwise an effective and conscientious senior worker who fostered harmony and creativity and got the job done well. There was actually some doubt whether I'd be allowed to go when the chance to retire early came.
8. In July 2008, at age 56, and three years into retirement, I suddenly recognised my gender dysphoria, and after a short pause to ponder the dreadful practical implications, came out and faced the music.
9. The rest is mostly chronicled in the blog, all 263,000 words of it.

The main parts of my transition are over, but the elements that will take time - unlearning male conditioning, learning the finer points about being female - will take years to accomplish. But that hasn't stopped me making a life for myself, and I think it's a pretty fulfilling one. And there's plenty of room for improvements and fresh experiences too, which will come. I'm optimistic and content, even if I wish that there had been a lot less pain on the way here.

I'm not hung up on deep questions, and I'm sure that the general public doesn't give a monkey's about my exact self-view, and any reasons for it.

They are much more interested in how I come across to them, and whether they are drawn to me on account of a pleasant personality, or some act of kindness that I have showed to them. You have to earn regard and respect by how you inter-relate with other people; you don't earn it by bombarding them with arguments and assertions that may be true, but fail to make their day nicer or easier.

So I'm not stridently out there insisting on my true womanhood. Not to the general public, not to the trans community. I hope my innate femaleness is reasonably obvious from the blog and my photos, and from the impression I have made when meeting people (including by now several other bloggers). But if anyone wants to dismiss me as simply a hybrid or a deluded saddo, well, so be it. I'll think about why they take that view, but essentially I'll just move on and live my life, as indeed we all have to regardless of what is fair or right or just.

And as for having everything thoroughly worked out before surgery, you can't. The ramifications of transition are too extensive. All you can do is consider the obvious issues, and leave the rest for much later. You cannot know how your views will change after the event. So there will always be many unresolved issues that ideally you'd have sorted out before surgery, but did not. Hopefully they are all in the realm of philosophy, and have no direct bearing on day-to-day living.

If anyone doubts whether I sufficiently weighed the important issues before I had my surgery, then they should consult the monumental series of posts I put together in September 2010, five and a half months before going into hospital, collectively entitled The Twelve Accusations. I think those posts will amply demonstrate that I thought hard about many aspects surrounding transition. If you are interested, and haven't read them yet, then I think you ought to now. But bear in mind they were written pre-op, and that in little ways my thinking has developed over the last year, and will continue to as fresh situations come to my attention. One learns constantly from real life.

Enough said. I've more trans stuff to air, but I'd rather post up lighter topics for the next few days!

In her own words

2011-10-02T10:35:00.004+01:00

Just out of curiosity, I ran a word count on each of the Word documents into which I've been archiving my blog posts since I commenced blogging in February 2009. I entered the raw figures onto an Excel spreadsheet, and after number-crunching it gave me this information, which I found rather surprising:

2009: Average 5,220 words per month
2010: Average 8,053 words per month
2011 so far: Average 12,709 words per month

All-time word count since February 2009: 263,216

Google was able to tell me that since May 2009 my blog has had 53,313 pageviews. The pageview total per month first exceeded 3,000 in February 2011 and was 4,255 last month (September 2011).

And for the related Flickr site:
Photos uploaded, put into categories and published since February 2009: 5,729. Viewings: 68,269.

What can one make of all this?

Well, I do churn out a lot of words. What, over 263,000! Really, there's absolutely no excuse for not knowing me very well indeed, if you delve into that lot. In fact it's a fair assumption that anyone who flings comments at me that simply don't fit me as I really am hasn't bothered to study my blog. The material to hang me or beatify me is all there. There's no excuse for not reading a fair sample of it before sounding off at me. Just put in a key word in the search box - 'dilation' maybe - or 'love' - and see what I have to say. Then judge, if you really need to judge at all.

And I publish a lot of photos too, although bear in mind that the total number of digital photos I've taken since May 2000 has now exceeded 101,000, so I haven't in fact stuck everything up on Flickr!

The personal output may be large, but that shouldn't in itself generate any particular recognition, and indeed neither posts nor photos usually attract much in the way of comment. On the other hand, since my blog is much read, and since the readership seems to be increasing, I must be putting out stuff that chimes with what a lot of people want to read. Putting it another way, if I published bland, boring, unstimulating, depressing material that was way too 'me, me, me' all the time, I don't think I would command so much of a readership. People will only stay with you if what you say is sufficiently interesting and well-written to be worth a look. But (this must be human nature) not many are actually going to commit themselves to a comment unless they wish to especially endorse or decry what you say.

I'm very pleased that I'm not writing into the void with no readers. But I'm not a journalist doing my bit to increase the circulation of some newspaper or magazine. Popularity, like fame, is a slippery and capricious thing. I'm simply glad that these figures show that a large number of people, albeit mostly silent and unknown, appreciate what I have to say, and what I find worth taking a photo of.

By the way, I've no means of knowing whether the readership is predominantly trans, or much more general. I suspect that the trans element is gradually diminishing as I get absorbed into the post-op mainstream, and the blog begins to cover subjects that anyone might relate to. Such as life as a pensioner, and, when I can get back to it, travel. Well, we'll see.

Perfect presentation - is it possible? And if so, is it ethical?

2011-09-30T23:18:00.003+01:00

Perfect presentation: I dare say this is the goal of most trans persons who aspire to live a normal female life at some future point. The ability to look and sound and behave exactly like a natal woman, and to be apprehended as one by everyone - adults, children, eagle-eyed border guards, lovers, perhaps even pets. Presentation so good that nobody in the whole wide world would ever for a moment think there was anything unnatural about oneself. Total acceptance for what one seems to be. Not the slightest suspicion aroused. The ability to carry off a tour de force of deception that is way beyond mere 'passing', because one would be living it totally, and not acting or attempting a big bluff.

I think there are individuals - and they need not be post-op - who indeed have such good presentation that they are as accepted in public as natal women at all times, and without question.

But just above I used the word 'deception', and this gives a hint of a possible moral or ethical concern. Is it completely right to have a presentation so flawless that there is no discernable difference between oneself and a natal woman?

This will only be a talking point if you are uncomfortable about fooling people bigtime. I see can that many will not mind being undetectable, and will feel the utmost satisfaction if they can pull the wool over the eyes of bigots and anti-trans busybodies and fussy jobsworths who want to be obstructive. I can personally share such delight - up to a point. But I also hate downright lying to people I like. And the thought of conducting a long-term masquerade, however successful, is not attractive. I did that, unconsciously, for decades before I transitioned, and I don't want to deliberately repeat the performance. It seems so dishonest, and undermines some of the joy of being one's real self at last.

But neither am I an idealist or perfectionist. I supect that the kind of deception I'm talking about is something that must be lived with. So that once anyone has committed themselves to a certain winning presentation, then the best practical plan is to carry on with it with gusto and determination, constantly fine-tuning and improving it, especially if it leads to rewards and high regard.

Sigh. Any better notions? Can the circle be squared on this one?

Consumer review: my new 38mm Femistent dilator

2011-09-29T14:32:00.007+01:00

I've been able to post this up sooner than I originally thought possible. I'd assumed that I would need to spend quite a while getting accustomed to a full 38mm. But not so. Mungo has replaced Big Jim overnight!

Why Femistent? Well, they make dilators for natal women who have vaginal issues, as well as for post-op trans women. When I studied it, their product range seemed entirely serious and well-conceived. In particular, the products seemed very well made. This would be a dilator that I'd hope to use for a long time to come, and perhaps never need to replace. It was a purchase rather on the lines of my car Fiona: an investment in a quality product that would be very durable and suit me for years ahead. In that context, a high price wasn't such a turnoff. And believe me, this was an expensive purchase.

It's the same old story. Products for a limited, captive market with a medical aspect to them always command sky-high prices. It's much like the stuff manufactured for elderly people with mobility and other old-age problems. It's terribly expensive. You just have to take a view. Do I buy this, when (a) I really do need one, and (b) I want something well-made that will last? There were cheaper alternatives to what Femistent offered on their website (http://www.femistent.com/) but they looked less attractive, less likely to last a long time, and, I might add, they seemed less credible - meaning that they didn't inspire me with great confidence. I wanted to be sure that what I bought had the proper medical requirements in mind.

This is what I got for a total outlay of £257.70 paid online by debit card. Bear in mind that I'd embarked on a new spending and saving regime, and was not now willing to lash out on 'luxury' items unless I saw genuine and tangible benefits from doing so:

'Pandora' dilator and handle, 38mm (1.5 inches) diameter, in 'Rosegold': cost £155.00
Thigh grip, in 'Platinum': cost £89.75, with a discount of £45.00, net £44.75
Vaginal gel lubrication inserter (complimentary)
Travel bag (complimentary)
Usage advice booklet (complimentary)
Packing and postage: £15.00
VAT: £42.95

The packing and postage costs were unexpected. I'd got the impression that if I bought the grip, those would be free. Hmmm!

Unpacked on arrival, this is what it all looked like:

As you can see, the essential items consist of a dilator 6.5 inches long; a 'handle' that screws into the end of it, which effectively lengthens the dilator seamlessly to 8.5 inches; and a ball-like 'grip' that you clench your thighs on, which screws into the dilator (whether lengthened or not). The grip is supposed to allow you to keep the dilator fully inserted while you read a book, or do anything that requires two free hands. Without the grip, you simply hold the dilator in place with your fingertips in the ordinary way.

It's all made of medical-grade plastic, very smooth and well-finished indeed, and the individual bits each have some weight to them - I don't mean they're 'heavy' - they just have a satisfying heft, and are clearly not hollow. The plastic is something called 'Tecason P MT' (polyphenylenesulphone) and according to the usage advice leaflet this can be routinely subjected to boiling-water temperatures for proper cleaning and sterilisation. I duly popped the dilator, handle and grip into a pan and gave them the recommended half-an-hour's boil-up before trying them out. They were obviously up to it.

Here's another shot of the tout ensemble, on a silver salver that my man Withers has left out:

Ha! The dilator has caught the attention of the china hen. You can trust a hen to know a good cock when she sees one. A valuable endorsement.

Back to the review. One feature I haven't mentioned yet is that the dilator and its extending handle are marked by grooves at half-inch intervals, beginning with one for '3.5 inches'. So, once inserted, you can tell accurately by feel how deep it's in. You use a fingernail to match the groove that lines up with whatever you personally regard as your vaginal entrance - in my case, a position just inside the labia majora.

Now, what's this new dilator like in actual use? Having got myself all ready for the first go, I smeared the new dilator (sans handle) very liberally with KY gel and eased it in.

First surprise: there was no problem whatever with sliding Mungo inside me to the maximum depth achievable. No sense of stretching or straining the vagina; I just felt well-filled and quite comfortable. I could lightly and without fatigue hold Mungo in place with either hand, or both hands simultaneously, using my fingertips. There was a tendency for him to be ejected unless some gentle restraining pressure was kept up. But that wasn't hard.

Second surprise: the depth-measuring grooves told me that I'd got 3.5 inches only. If I pressed Mungo in a bit, then it was slightly closer to 4 inches, but that wasn't really sustainable. However, I could waggle Mungo sideways a bit. Clearly I had possibilities of lateral expansion, and could probably take an even fatter, wider dilator; but depthwise I was shallow, and that wasn't going to change.

I gave Mungo an initial quarter of an hour. I twirled him around in case the gel began to stick, but it didn't. I moved him in and out, but again no sticking. He didn't feel at all uncomfortable. I attached the handle. No difference, except that putting my fingertips on the end was now rather a stretch, just as it was with Little Joe and Big Jim, who were both about 9 inches long. There was clearly no point in lengthening Mungo, so I removed the handle.

Next, I attached the grip. But this didn't work as advertised. No doubt it was down to my strange anatomy, but the heft of the dilator-plus-grip, left unsupported, pulled down the outward end of the ensemble, making the inward end point up inside me - uncomfortable! Then it all fell out. I couldn't seem to get my thighs around the ball part of the grip if I had my legs flat on the bed. Maybe, if I'd had my knees up, I could have clenched the ball and stopped everything from falling out; but then, would I still have had the inward tip at the correct angle? Anyway, I detached the grip, and reverted to fingers on the basic 6.5 inches, which seemed perfectly fine.

I ended up giving Mungo a full half hour and more, with no after effects at all. All parts cleaned off easily. Verdict at this point: I wasted cash on the thigh grip, but otherwise top marks for comfort, quality, appearance, ease of depth-measurement, and easy aftercare. I was happy.

Subsequent dilation sessions (with Silky Lube from Boots) have highlighted a couple of other positive things, and found another use for the grip. Do read on.

There's no doubt that having an opaque dilator with a bit of colour to it, even if merely cream, is psychologically much better than the superclinical transparent look that Little Joe and Big Jim had. They were clearly made of medical-grade plastic too, but they were pre-eminently items intended for a Medical Procedure. They couldn't possibly be imagined as sex toys, let alone real penises. And quite rightly. In the early post-op weeks, you need to stay focussed on doing dilation correctly, exactly as taught in the hospital, and no nonsense about appearance, or comparisons with real-life lovemaking. But later on, it definitely helps to introduce a less robotic element.

Then there's the girth and thickness of the thing. 38mm is generally reckoned to be the diameter of the average erect adult penis. And yes, it does seem to have the right dimensions. It isn't of course authentically penis-shaped, but its 'realistic' size adds a lot to daily dilation, lifting it from the level of a routine procedure onto the level of rife imagination and speculation. Regardless of whether you actually want physical intercourse, you do wonder what the real thing could possibly be like as an experience. Nor have I ever sucked a man's penis in my life, but I popped Mungo in to find out how it felt. I was surprised how easy it was to do; and by the way Mungo filled my mouth up, as if both had been made for the job.

I don't think any of these tentative experiments are unhealthy. In fact I can see that, for many people, using this size of dilator, or a phallus-shaped vibrator, would be a manageable way to enjoy a kind of sex without personal or emotional risk. Since one has to dilate all life long, it does seem immaterial whether it's achieved by dilator, sex toy or real-life penis. Just so long as the medical requirements are safely and hygienically adhered to.

Now, that alternative use for the grip. Oh dear, I can see that Disgusted of Cheltenham, Revolted of High Wycombe, Aghast of Harrogate, and Appalled of Tunbridge Wells are all going to give me the lash of their tongue. But here goes. As you'll have noticed, the grip is almost a perfect sphere. And spheres can roll. I attached it to the basic 6.5 inches of dilator, and, kneeling, I carefully lowered myself onto the dilator. Just as if I was on top of a male partner and impaling myself on his penis. Carefully paying attention to how much pressure I put onto the dilator tip, I was able to pivot on the spherical grip. So I could for instance lean forward and practice no-hands shallow in-and-out penetration. Or I could sit back somewhat for a deeper penetrative experience, again hands-free. All without the assistance of a hairy unshaven grunting thing with smelly armpits! Much nicer.

Finally, am I worried by my lack of depth? 3.5 inches isn't a lot. The basic answer is that it's totally pointless to worry: I'm stuck with it. It's a natural consequence of not being especially well-endowed in my former life. But I'm assured that what I have is enough for any ordinary purpose, and I have been cheered by articles such as this one from Dr Anne Lawrence (http://www.annelawrence.com/genitaldimensions.html). Personally, from a practical point of view, a shortish vagina is easier to clean, easier for a doctor to inspect if there is ever any trouble, and it will almost certainly be fully and properly expanded by real-life penetration - whereas a very deep vagina might not, with unwelcome consequences. Not all men have an elephant's trunk between their legs, and if their member is short, then the bottom of the vagina won't get stretched and may contract unless you do regular dilation as well. So while not exactly smug, I'm far from perturbed. The trade-off in my own case seems fine.

Now, what do I do with my two redundant dilators? They're souvenirs of my eight days at the Nuffield Hospital last March, so I'm reluctant to get rid of them. And in any case, you couldn't sell them on eBay, now could you? Perhaps they could be the first exhibits in the Lucy Melford Museum of Dilation?

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth

2011-09-28T09:19:00.001+01:00

The title of course of a song from way back, the sort that seemed to be played a lot when I was a child listening to the music request show on radio on Saturday mornings in the early 1960s. A different world. Not just a child's world, but a whole different social culture. Tommy Steele singing about the Little White Bull. Someone else singing Three Wheels on my Wagon. Happy days? Hmmm...that's so very hard to answer! Let's not dwell on it.

Today's post is all about my two front teeth!

For my generation, which typically guzzled sweets when young, I think I've done rather well to keep my natural teeth. Most of the molars have been filled, and some crowned, but they are all still there. White, unstained, not crooked, not broken, nor even much chipped.

But one of the front teeth had got rather thin, and had lost a corner. It could only get worse, and not only was a really noticeable gap beginning to develop between it and the other big front tooth, it might soon suffer a much more serious break when (say) biting into an apple (which I do a lot). So I've now taken up my dentist's suggestion of remedial cosmetic work.

She has strengthened the tooth with layer upon layer of some carefully colour-matched resin or whatever, then smoothed it off and polished it up. The missing corner has been magically restored. She kept to the general look of my teeth, which is ever so slightly uneven, so that the work isn't glaringly obvious. And now I can give the world a really lovely smile as I speak. It's not the dentition of a film star, but I'm pleased with it. The cost was £65, and I'd certainly consider further work at that price if it becomes necessary.

Here's some shots. Can you decide which tooth it was?