Counting my blessings

We had a lovely Christmas. The house was filled with the sort of laughter and chaos that two boisterous grandchildren inevitably bring.

On my Facebook wall I bemoaned the fact that Angie would have to go into hiding for a few days, though I did 'push the boundaries' a bit. Daughter-in-law jokingly remarked that she was getting a bit worried about me, since I insisted on wearing girlie-coloured tops and cardigans. We agreed in the end that being androgynous wasn't such a bad thing.

They've gone home now and S and I are on our own once more, but not for long. Later today my favourite aunt Sarah arrives for a week's holiday with her niece and on New Year's Day we will have Christmas all over again - except that this time my presents will be labelled 'Angie' instead of the other fellow.

I do get frustrated that I can't spend more time in Angie Mode, but then I remind myself that I am a lucky girl in so many ways. Earlier today I was reading the blog of someone whose gender dysphoria has alienated her from her wife and made access to the children all but impossible. Others write of hostility from wives and rejection from friends and neighbours. As if the pain of coping with being a woman 'in the wrong body' wasn't bad enough! My heart goes out to them all and leaves me frustratingly stuck for words of comfort that I could add to their blogs.

So I've a lot to be thankful for. I'm learning to count my blessings.

Christmas Card

To all my friends here in Blog Land,
wishing you a very happy and blessed Christmas.
I've loved sharing my life with you,
as you have shared yours with me.

Special thanks to:
Auntie Sarah for all your love and care
Avalon for staying with me when others disappeared
Tina for carrying our friendship into another chapter
Lucy for always having the right words and knowing how I feel
Helen for being close to me in many ways
Dianna for reminding me of what's really important

Last Pint

Yesterday evening I spent an interesting couple of hours in a local pub with a friend who knows all about 'Angie'. Since I was in bloke mode I ordered my usual pint of Betty Stogs and joined my friend at a table where we chatted, drank and ate our way through a couple of bags of crisps... as you do!

Seated at the bar, just in front of me, were two ladies, accompanied by their gentlemen friends. One lady, of about my age, had a cardigan over her shoulders and was sipping white wine. Suddenly I was overcome with a near abhorrence of what I was doing. I did not want to be a bloke downing pints; I wanted to be that woman. I wanted to sit at the bar, drink wine, feel pretty, smile and giggle.

I downed the rest of my pint, and for the first time ever it tasted horrible.

Only once in my girlie existence have I been that girl at the bar and yesterday evening, in my mind, I was back there again - at a trans-friendly a pub in Newcastle, in 2007. I used the photo for the first entry on this blog ('Getting to the Starting Post') but I think it's taken this long to realize just how really happy I was.

Ok, I know that real ladies drink beer and I'm not saying that I'll never drink Real Ale again - especially if it's a small glass of Theakston's OP - but it won't be by the pint with mates in a pub. And if they think I've 'lost it' by drinking wine and fruit juice instead, then that's their problem.

Confidence battering

On Monday my wife and I drove up to Plymouth for a spot of Christmas shopping, a meal and an evening's entertainment at the Theatre Royal. This is the second time that Angie and S have done this together and I'd been looking forward to the repeat performance for weeks. A successful foray of the Early Learning Centre convinced me that I was doing rather well, and I even found myself chatting with the sales lady about granddaughters and dolls houses. I left the shop, quietly congratulating myself. This girl's expertise does not end with knitting!

We crossed to Royal Parade, battling the wind and showers. Every time I put up the hood of my coat, the rain stopped; every time I took it down, the rain started again. Perhaps I was looking a bit disheveled as we walked past a row of street traders' stalls. A voice boomed out: "That's a bloke in a skirt!" That hurt a lot - the first time I've knowingly been read in more than two years.

We returned to our car, where I tidied my hair and freshened my makeup for the short drive to the Barbican. We headed for our hitherto favourite Italian restaurant, which had become distinctly un-Italian, blighted by Christmas music that abysmally failed to remain 'background'. Slade have a lot to answer for! As we studied the menu, S remarked "The waitresses are staring at us!" My confidence crashed to zero. I dropped the menu and put my head in my hands. Never, ever before have I felt 'trapped' in fem mode - it was horrible. Something in me wanted to abandon the meal (and Slade) and run. Fortunately, S was made of sterner stuff and said that she didn't care what they thought. I recovered my composure and we went on to enjoy a reasonably nice meal, eventually leaving to the strain of Have yourself a merry little Christmas.... Italian? Huh!


Thankfully, all went well at the Theatre Royal and we both enjoyed the two-man comic presentation of The Hound of the Baskervilles, even though the ending was a bit silly. So, all-in-all, a good evening but with some acute disappointments. I struggle to know why I was apparently so easily read this time. My Aunt Sarah remarked on how hard it is for a husband & wife who love each other not to betray themselves by their body language. Also, I think I may have cut down too much on concealer around my mouth, where there are still some dark shadows resisting the laser treatment.

All this is in sharp contrast to the recent visit to St Michael's Mount, where I shared two boat trips with visitors and even chatted with National Trust staff, without the slightest flicker of recognition.

Auntie is visiting for the New Year. She'll boost my confidence again - she always does.

Knitty Nora

Few aspects of the feminine life impress me as much as knitting. Oh, I realize that the ability to transform balls of wool into something as functional, yet beautiful, as a fluffy cardigan or a baby's bonnet is not given to every woman. Moreover, in an exception that surely proves the rule, our younger son once leaned to knit and for all I know may still be able to, though I suspect his skills at gardening and decorating are more to the fore these days.

Now the time has come for Angie to have a go! My brave tutor is my wife, who already deserves a medal for her patience. The first lesson was Casting On and I'm amazed that she didn't cast me off long before I managed one whole stitch unaided. From there we proceeded rapidly to plain knitting, and thus I acquired the skills I needed for my first project - a scarf.

On average I manage about two rows between major disasters. S takes my work, sighs and expertly back-stitches to the offending spot, while I look on in genuine admiration. The plan is to have it complete by Christmas, but I'm making no firm predictions as to which Christmas that might be!

Putting myself in the picture

Yesterday I wandered into a church. There was a meeting going on in the hall, and in connexion with this they had laid out a labyrinth in the nave. A couple of other people were following the track, pausing from time to time at the thought-provoking 'stations' on this spiritual journey.

I joined them. At one point there was laid out a table upon which was bread and wine, symbolizing the Last Supper. There was a large invitation to Take your place at the table and pieces of folded card on which to write ones name. I wrote my male name on a card and sat down. By now I was quite alone.

At the top of the table stood a tapestry based on Da Vinci's famous (infamous?) painting of the Last Supper. An awful lot of ink has been spilt over the depiction of Mary Magdalene, seated on Jesus' right. However, my eyes were drawn to the character 3rd to the left of Jesus. In the original, this is clearly a male figure, but in the tapestry version it could be a man or woman. The creator of this particular tapestry must have been in no doubt as the figure had been given rosy red lips.

I couldn't take my eyes off this female character, who shouldn't really have been there. I glanced again at the invitation - Take your place at the table... Take your place at the table! I counted 3 places to the left of centre, took my place, ripped up my card, then took a new one and wrote Angie.

I'm not ashamed to say that there were tears in my eyes, together with a wonderfully warm feeling of acceptance. Perhaps, like the figure in the picture, Angie shouldn't have been there either. But there was no denying it - she was!

I didn't complete the rest of the labyrinth, content to slip out of church and make my way home.

Out goes she

This evening on BBC2 University College London lost their 2nd round match of University Challenge. UCL led most of the way, but were overtaken in the closing few minutes as Emmanuel College Cambridge romped to a convincing win. And so my UC heroin, Olivia Woolley, fades from our screens. I shall miss you, Olivia.

However, all is not lost. Thanks to a nice comment, left on this blog last I mentioned University Challenge, I still have one team to support - Manchester. They already know the result; I must wait till December 21st but you can bet that I'll be cheering for Rach and her colleagues.

I haven't enjoyed University Challenge so much in years.