Something Wicked this way comes

I have finished Wicked. Still enjoyed it, but the pace in the last third is frenetic to the point that I thought it felt a bit rushed. Too many things seem to be pulled from the ether - this may be because of the fantastical setting - for my liking. That said, it's good. I'm not at all sure what the thrust of the book is even with a lengthy foreward explaining what Maguire was going for (a musing on the origin of evil). I mean, there's a section that spells out the different chapters (no, really) in the plot with subheadings and everything but... I don't know. It's obvious that Elphaba is written as on the Spectrum (reminding me of my attempt to write an autistic character before I was diagnosed and thus full of traits I would later realise were already autistic turned up to eleven) in that there are moments that work but it seems to be written from the outside. Much like some of the sections where he, a gay man, tries to write men appreciating women or women appreciating women or even women appreciating men. It seems, to me (a simpleton), that Maguire doesn't like women like that, if you see what I mean, and struggles to work out why anyone would. Makes sense, he's gay. He also assumes that the reasons he, a gay man, likes men are the same as why women would like men (now, I don't know, but I've read a good chunk of women authors in which romances are explained from a woman's POV and they differ significantly). And, tellingly, his writing of women and men liking women was sufficiently alien to my own experience that I noted it.

It's unrelentingly dark, with an ending that is chock-full of misunderstanding, misplaced kindness that ends up being cruelty and actual cruelty dressed up as kindness. I enjoyed it, I am glad I read it, but I know I'm going to need a rest before tackling more of the series (and I'll get round to it at some point).

Yesterday I woke with the distinct vivid impression of a time long ago when I met a newly transitioing trans-woman (though early enough I didn't know the term) round Tim's shared university house whilst in my first job. I think it was before I was in a brief relationship with Toby even. I have said before that I was fascinated and probably creepy - well, in this half-awake moment I remembered asking her how she knew that she was a girl. It's not on trans-people to answer that question, but if I had been honest (she just said she knew) and explained I was asking about me I could have been faced with the decision all those years ago. And I might have been in a receptive enough moment to accept the answer. Related because it was so unexpected and visceral a feeling - it felt like a gut-punch, I felt winded. And, of course, it comes with the full weight of all the wasted time in the meantime.

Also, I responded to an info-dump from someone, well-meaning, with one of my own and I suspect I may have done that thing where I over-share with the wrong person about the wrong things in the wrong amount of detail. Again, it's as well it's early days of communication so, if I have, I haven't lost any great investment on my part (though I shall have further confirmed why it is I know so few people). On that note, I have already tried to do that yearly review thing for this year but I am clearly not in a good headspace for that and so I may just skip it entirely. A combination of things have me feeling isolated again and wanting more isolation. Today's task is sorting my nails (they're a bit long), getting some new gloves and... that's it I think. Work again tomorrow.

Another Year of Being Me

Despite my mood, this year's festive period was shaping up to be a generally good one: I got to see my boys for a film (commuted from bowling due to illness at the old homestead) on Christmas Eve, which I had off work, and they gave me their presents. I'll admit, slipper socks and a voucher for Nando's were really very sweet. The film wasn't great, but at least I got to spend time with them and even have a decent chat with Tilly. An evening on my own and feeling a little lonely was alleviated a bit by cooking some proper food with gravy.

Christmas Day was also potentially good, Abbi had confirmed an invitation to hers for a Christmas meal and watching Santa Claus movies with an exhortation to be myself (in more words, but I was looking forward to a Christmas in company where I could be myself). And it was lovely, I really enjoyed it, even if I did my usual of talking too much toward the end due to tiredness and having been alone maybe a bit too long. This was on top of having been used as a sounding board about ASD for someone a friend knew who had been newly diagnosed. I was feeling almost on an even keel, at Christmas no less, and maybe even actually useful and like a good time had been had. I went home and felt satisfied.

Today Middlest was over for a few hours. I did my usual, wasting more time in the morning than I realised and then having to rush, but managed a shower and to wash up. He came over, we had gammon roast and watched a long video on YouTube together - which seemed to be something he enjoyed.

And that's when reality righted itself. Of course I had put my foot in it and upset people without realising it. I heard over WhatsApp (still not behaving itself, my phone doesn't let me know when people message, meaning I can miss things for literal hours or days) and... my stomach fell, and... yeah. This is what I do, this is how things really are. No matter how I think I've handled myself I always manage to wander far enough on a tangent that I say something that makes other people feel hurt. And I don't notice. At least this time I was told, a day later, but there's nothing I can do to fix it. There never is. Apologies aren't worth anything (especially as I always give them) because I never seem to learn or significantly alter what I do.

Yes, I'm being vague. This is deliberate. I'm not asking for advice, and I'm trying to avoid doing that thing where I explain a situation and simultaneously slant it so people sympathise (or empathise? Not sure which word is best) with my position. By keeping it vague no one can do that nor offer advice. This is about recording that I never get better. That I always fail to learn the right, or any, lesson. To record my frustration with myself for putting my foot in it - not this one specific case, but all the cases - and never noticing what I've done. Leaving a swathe (not that wide, to be honest, I keep a small enough social circle that it never gets very wide - perhaps this is why I keep my circle so small) of hurt people in my wake. Like I say, at least this time someone was able to tell me soon enough that I didn't build up too much of a positive head of steam first. Makes building my mood back up no harder and means I don't waste any effort in the meantime.

And that's another Christmas down.

Time Frames

It's been almost a week now, so I feel I have the space to turn around and look back at the event I went to Sunday and properly reflect on the fall-out. Also, I have read more of Wicked (it continues to surprise) and managed to nudge Abbi to start reading Skin Horse (which I didn't know I'd done), which in turn prompted me to re-read from the start.

Oh, hi Tip. 

Starting there then. When I discovered Skin Horse sometime late in 2011 I was hooked relatively quickly because of the gimmick of Tip: a lothario loved by women who was a comfortable cross-dresser - indeed, it was rare he ever wore 'men's clothes' at all. It's cool, not every man who wants to transgress gender boundaries is secretly trans - indeed, a man who does so is, by definition, not trans because if she was trans, she'd be a trans-woman and... It sounded simpler and more profound in my head. My point is, Tip is a good MC and, for the most part, POV character. However, as I read it again, I begin to spot many things I used to augment my own repression and denial: that Tip is a happy cross-dresser and very, very, masculine. That he is beloved by women (one of his super-powers is the ability to use his mojo to solve issues). He's a war hero and a bit brilliant in many ways (with a soft spot for women's clothes). By elevating him in my head to 'role-model' (and I| kind of did) I also eschewed any 'trans' stuff. Which is more a comment on me than either the comic or its creators, by the way. I find it interesting is all. And, also, there's section in Wicked involving and Elephant/tribal matriarch (the capitalisation is important) who is forced to live in human form - she asserts that living with an outer form different from one's inner is a valid life choice and that changing the outer to match the inner may not be safe. I find that allegorical. I have yet to see how it plays out, but there's a definite push by the author to make Elphaba identifiable, if one so wishes, as inter-sex or trans - which, again, I shall have to see how it plays out. I digress.

An old, face-apped, photo.

But more 'me' than non-face-apped photos
before this point.

In Skin Horse, then, 2011 me had found an expressive way of dealing with things and a means by which to further repress (there is a storyline, I haven't hit it yet, where Tip has the opportunity to 'be' trans and turns it down because he is still a man but he never stops cross-dressing). One could argue, I suppose, that by socially transitioning as I have but doing, as yet, nothing else (laser, HRT... I suppose one could include surgery but I think in the UK one has to be on hormones to get onto surgery waiting lists; oh! And be diagnosed as having GID - which I have made no move to have done - that wound from the sex therapist in 2012 runs deeper than I had assumed) I am, in fact, living a bit like Tip. In the sense of dress code, I hasten to add! The literal only difference sartorially is that I do not see myself as a man. Indeed, that has been a constant in my life for a long time - as long as I can remember. A 'male gender identity', for me, has always felt rather incongruous if not outright uncomfortable. Tip, on the other hand, has never doubted that he's a man (and never actually does, even when 'questioning' in the storylines). Outwardly, Tip and I seem similar, I guess. But crucial differences. If you're questioning, I recommend musing on that distinction - it's important. I think. It is to me. I think.

Stuff that happens when I'm mulling and driving.

Beyond here, I'm going to discuss the event, the Littles' Lock In, and I'm going to put it behind a line break because, well, that's a separate thing (though connected) to what this blog is mostly about (being gender issues and my navigation through them) and, also, may be defined by some readers as a bit more belonging in 'sexy-things' so... yeah. TMI line break incoming!

Brace!

Brace!

Here it is!

Time Off

Goodness, it's been a while.

On the way Oop North. 

Photos through a train window never quite do the views 
justice but, well, no other means of getting a snap. 

So, I did manage to meet my Dad and his wife for a meal and it was indeed rather nice. They did rag on my brother a bit for his 'lack of manners' - which I thought unfair - but when I tried to explain that maybe, just maybe, he was reacting to some trauma my Dad's wife went a bit Daily Heil and explained that I was being ridiculous. Trauma is reserved, apparently, for people being shot at in warzones (not 'just' shot at) so... it didn't go down well. No, my brother has not, to my knowledge, been shot at in any context. Maybe Laser Quest? Anyway, yeah, odd note. My Dad mentioned three times about my looking smart, which was nice (wore my Roman suit - the one that didn't fit when I bought it - I've filled out in all the wrong areas, so it fits) but strange he kept bringing it up (and, again, over text when we were done too, apologising for not having mentioned it). I think that means that he does not usually find my clothing smart? Eh, it's fine.

Growing up, there were originally three
otters in a water feature. Then they changed
the water feature. Then they extended it in
situ with more seating.

Now there are only two otters, no public seating
(reserved for a coffee shop) and no water
feature.

Don't know what happened the bronze of a
former 'character' in a top hat (tramp from the
1800s?)

Then it was Oop North on a quite nice brace of trains, reading Wicked (that arrived unexpectedly before I left). It is a very good book. Got some quite compelling skews to the writing style (I say this as a compliment) and was not at all what I thought it might be. It's very good. I can see why people like it, because I like it. Anyway, yes, saw my Mum and then, on Monday, met up with Tim and Lisa for lunch - which was a lovely chat, cut short because of my meeting them on a workday, and something I am keen to arrange again. It's been too long. The evening was a meal with Gary and Shiona at a place with awful service but at least we had a bit of a chat. Again, much too short and I suspect they were both a bit on tip-toes as my Mum had been invited. Unnecessary, but still. I mean being on tip-toes, not inviting my Mum.

Tuesday was my Mum and I's official unofficial Christmas Day, which was nice. I tried to avoid it being a one present party from me to my Mum and mostly managed, I think. Meal was nice though, we had duck - which turned out to be something Mum had never cooked before and never had outside of shredded duck at a Chinese restaurant. She was more impressed than she thought she would be (which I'll take) and it was a lovely meal - if a bit non-traditional. Then we visited my remaining grandparent the following day - my Mum giving me a lift for the 180 mile round-trip (I know, I know) - and that went well enough. Some confusion with my being introduced in my absence to the carers as a grandson (they had a fun time trying to parse that one and didn't quite know which pronouns to use) and some theatrical mis-gendering and very careful attempts to correct from my grandmother (immediately rescinded on a follow-up phone call a few days later). Mind you, she looks less at death's door than I was expecting so that was nice.

I think this might be the same hill.

Not by design, just luck. This time on the way home.

Getting home was a bit of a mini adventure. The second train (of two) was making an odd noise and then something big and likely expensive fell off under the unit I was riding in. Cue some delay to limp the train to platform, then check under the train, then announce that the train could not take passengers (very similar to issues on the buses, honestly). A sprint to get another train, thence to another station to change for a final train - all of which meant that I arrived home about an hour and three quarters later than planned. I managed to grocery shop and do laundry the day after and then see my Middlest the day after that - last minute planning.

Finally, I attended the Littles Lock In. I had drawn a bath the night before (boiler is back suffering the pressure oddities I had last in 2022 before it was serviced, so my bath was tepid at best and my shower lacks power even if I can get the heat) and managed to shave most of the body hair. Hurrah! Alas, being semi-useless, I forgot a fair few things for the event but nevertheless managed to have a good time. A bit of a scare in the morning when I thought Abbi might not make it (she did) but it was a lovely day and well worth going along. Did I finish the day watching a playthrough of a video game with some rather heavy-hitting themes of guilt, inadequacy and disability (and it's a horror game)? I did, yes. Hmm. Maybe not a great idea when shattered and already feeling that discombobulation I sometimes get. I might have been a bit too eager to 'solve issues' and 'help' people at the Lock In, you see. I do that.

Okay, fine, here's a photo of me I took
after the event and before I fell into bed.

Many people recognised Abbi from last time, she got loads of compliments on her clothes and plenty of offers to make friends. There were loads of couples too, unlike in August, and a couple of throuples (maybe even quads?). I know at least five people who hooked up too, which was lovely. But... yeah, no offers of friendship were made my way and no one commented, good or ill, on my clothing. I mean, I wasn't expecting it but... hard not to compare, y'know? Couple that with earnestly trying to help (and maybe even being successful once or twice) and you have pretty much encapsulated my actual childhood - don't quite know why I didn't expect it to play out like that. Still, it always was my self-assigned role to introduce people to one another, encourage the shy person to talk to the person they liked and allow people to find ways round issues like not having the cash (but having the money) to acquire something they fell in love with (in that last instance one example was finding a way for them to make a bank transfer to the seller). I came in for some kindness as well, but pre-arranged online (not that this cheapens it).

All of that and I passed up on having Middlest over all day today in favour of recovering from the Lock In (which I believe absolutely was the right call, but no less galling given the paucity of contact lately). I did use the time to finally donate all my old menswear to a charity shop so that's all gone now. You know, after nearly three years.

Learning to Accept Kindness

First thing: I think the bar is set way too low for kindness in public.

Not the lady, but you get the idea. 

Besides, she was in her late 20s, so of course 
she looked good. I've yet to meet a lady who 
doesn't. Of any age. 

Let me explain: about a week ago now, whilst driving the bus, a lady rushed across the road to the nearest bust stop. Clearly flustered, balancing an empty canvas, a full rucksack and a purse which had clearly spilled its contents into said rucksack, she fished for her card to pay. I made a comment along the lines of "don't worry, we've all been there!" and she eventually paid and sat down. At the next stop, a chap got off and said to me "you are thoroughly polite." Which, I thought, was an odd remark to make as one alighted a bus. Anyway, I drove on and, about forty minutes later, the lady with the canvas left the bus, but stopped as she did so and looked at me very earnestly and said: "I didn't know how much I needed a little bit of kindness today, thank you for showing it to me."

I mean... very nice and all, most flattering, but really? Is the bar set so low that a bus driver saying an innocuous comment is considered kindness? It got me thinking (as most things do, let's be brutally honest).

Not long afterward I finally got a chance to catch up with Abbi. The man came to fix the boiler, a littlle later than billed, and spent far longer than he'd planned. The fan in the flue had gone, causing the fuse to blow, and once that was replaced it turned out the long period of inactivity had deflated something that needed to be fished out and reinflated (which took extra work to strip the boiler back, get the thing, inflate it a bit, reinsert the thing, inflate it properly and then rebuild the boiler). It cost £470, which was steep, but lower than I had feared and planned for. Having heating and hot water, I visited Abbni and we watched the Wizz and bounced. Then home for a celebratory bath.

Eh, close enough.

Driving after 3pm at the moment is like this.
But the headlights aren't as bright on the buses I
drive (unless on full-beam).

Plenty of time to think.

I knew the week would be busy - extra hours on Wednesday and late shifts all other days, culminating in the latest of lates on Friday and Saturday (1530-0140) before heading north on Sunday on a 10 o'clock train. I like to set myself impossible tasks. For some reason, on the longest day (0825-2006) I agreed to shift swap on Saturday to a 1225-2058 shift - to make it easier to catch the train on the Sunday - forgetting that was also the day I'd arranged to have lunch with my father for his birthday and Christmas combined. This was, in itself, a compromise as he'd originally rung to inform me he'd be coming on the Sunday. I explained the going north. "Oh, I know you said, but I assumed you'd take a day to rest before going north." Thanks, Dad. I'll leave aside the assumption that he could interrupt the rest he thought I'd need and the assumption that he could just inform me of his plans and have me accede.

Anyway, I don't realise the clash (I know it's the ASD, doesn't make me hate it less) until a few hours later and hurriedly let my father know. I hate how disappointing I am around Christmas time. I always have been, and it's one of the myriad reasons I have grown to dislike the festive period. I just straight-up suck at dates. On a side note, because of my inability with dates clashing with Tilly's suspected ADHD I haven't seen Middlest for three weeks now and he hasn't stayed over in over a month.

Nevertheless, more in desperation than hope, I asked for a day off on Saturday. I have three to use, but such short notice is a. unhelpful and b. highly unlikely to be successful. I explained to the man in the office, someone I know at work, the situation and his response was kind and unexpected. He said it was unlikely but that he would try for me because I am always keen to help and I've bailed the office out on a number of occasions (which I have). Fast forward to yesterday and I get my day off. Turns out a couple of other drivers were keen to help after I'd bailed them out in the past and so, between them, some shifts were juggled and I get my day off.

And I felt wretched. For having to ask. For getting what I wanted. For people putting themselves out on my account. For being so rubbish that I'd caused the issue. For not being able to swap my shift back with another driver when they offered because I didn't want to disappoint (they had plans in the morning they'd wanted to achieve). On the drive afterwards, I tried to unpack all of that. I think I might be wrong. Why can't I just be grateful?

Oh, yes, also, that morning I'd walked to work and when I got there discovered that I hadn't got my house keys in my pocket. Fearing that I'd left my front door not only unlocked but also open, I used my break (three hours later) to hop on a bus, check my house, and hop back - foregoing my meal. I found my keys in my door (locked and shut). Again, another bullet dodged. Perhaps unsurprisingly I had my most near miss that afternoon, after break, but, unless my nightmare is real, I didn't hit anything.

So, to the end of all of this, I take this as another nudge from Him Upstairs to learn to accept kindness. To learn to be able to ask for help and to accept it when it comes. To be grateful without beating myself up over needing to ask and recieve in the first place.

Masquerades of Spring

Following a recommendation (thank you Susie), I checked Masquerades of Spring, the latest Rivers of London novella from Ben Aaronovitch, out from the library. I had to orde it and then wait almost a week,  but it came and I was able to thus read it without thinking about paying a full novel price for a short story.

It does exactly what one would expect from Aaronovitch and sets up some backstory for Nightingale, one of the main characters of the series, without it really focussing on him. Instead, our POV character is Gussie, a bit of a shameful fop who fled to New York from the UK after experiencing a 'magic public school' upbringing. He, and I use the pronoun carefully, is in a relationship with a black man in 1920s USA - which Aaronovitch does not shy from and hammers home several points about the position of minorities in the USA generally and specifically the strangeness of the Harlem Rennaissance - in terms of what comes afterwards and it's oh-so short flowering. Gussie, you see, is definitely on the trans spectrum and there's a nice comment from a character asking "are you a fairy?" in a way that makes it almost uplifting and empowering (trust me, if you know Aaronovitch, you know how he does this).

I will say that I didn't identify with any of the characters, I usually identify strongly with Grant's almost autistic inability to keep focus when it's not a special interest (and his emerging special interest in architecture rather than the cars that was hinted in the earlier books). But that's not a negative. The plot is fine, Aaronovitch using the POV to avoid talking about the usual procedural elements that typify his series normally, including the parts about how magic works, and this adds a certain flavour to the work. It does make hiding some plot holes a bit easier, though I spotted some anyway, and allows some pastische to take place of British customs in a way that allows it to be accessible to non-Brits alike. And it does this rather well, actually, without falling into caricature or exagerration that I have noticed in Statesian versions of similar efforts - but that makes sense, it's hard to take aim at cultural idiosyncracies if one has not directly experienced them or been part of the culture from which they are drawn. I couldn't accurately write Statesian culture, for example.

There was an end paper with futher adventures of Gussie in book form and I was dismayed to realise two things: this end paper comes before the acknowledgements/author's note and that there is an entirely different end paper with books avialable from the publisher/writer - taken to together these imply (as a search on the interwebs seems to confirm) that these are part of the story. One of the devices employed is that Gussie is a writer of his own exploits and his partner is his disinterested editor, with a centring of Gussie's butler(?) Beauregard as the main character in a style reminiscent of Jeeves and Wooster. At least, I assume that is the case as I have never read any of those books (my father collects them in first edition).

All in all, I can recommend this as an easy read and a fun romp with some much needed progressive positivity in these darker days.

Birnam Wood to Dunsinane

To the person that needs to read these words: do not do as I have done.

Nerdy Bunny enjoyed her mocha stout, 
but it was sharper and more bitter like 
a coffee than a mocha. Not enough chocolate 
malt or sweetness, in her opinion.

And, lest we forget, she has
"Opinionthsth"

When young, unknowing what I was experiencing but certain I had something to hide I took care to avoid committing to friendships or developing ties. I thought to protect potential friends from what I might be concealing - which turned out multiple times to be dysphoria had I but known the name. Not being attracted to men, I thought it was simply not possible to be like the brave people I knew about who did transition - were I to be a woman, thought I when young, then I would have to like men - and I didn't like men so I couldn't be a woman. Besides, I was very keen on having a girlfriend and no girl would want a boy who was not a boy.

Thus I ignored any glances my way, assuming there were any, and was incapable of making the requisite moves to make anything happen. Going to University I eschewed the opportunity to find out more about myself, out of fear of what I was reasonably certain lurked inside by this point, and pointedly refused to let myself do any of the things I dreamed about. Besides, I had a girlfriend and I was reasonably certain she didn't want to date a man who thought he was a girl. Anxious to avoid being boastful, being self-obsessed and too 'up myself' - faults I diagnosed in myself and still struggle not to see the symptoms in my everyday life - witness this whole blog as testament!

In the end, more by luck than management, I achieved a relationship that became a marriage through my own bloody-mindedness and, arguably, against the better judgement of the poor lady I married. Still I avoided looking at what I now had more vocabulary to name, my being transgender, in the hope that I could instead focus on being a husband and father. The stress remained, often unknown in terms of whence it came, because I refused to acknowledge what should now have been obvious. This led me to double down on avoiding friends and maintaining contacts - I had all I needed with Tilly and the children and my career.

A Christmas tree in a shopping centre
provides the backdrop.

We were out getting some extra book
tokens, because I struggle at basic counting
it would appear.

So it was that when I lost those things, one after the other, I was left with nothing. My friends were still my friends but they are far distant, trained well in being unable to offer support. Besides which, I rejected and still struggle to not reject what help and support they offered. I have worked hard to be someone in whom it is difficult to invest. I've said it before and I was not inaccurate: I am not a rewarding person with whom to persevere. Taciturn, inconstant, and prone to dismiss positives in favour of harbouring the insults and slights, real or imagined. Forty years of treading wears a path that has high banks and brambles enough that straying or striking out is hard and oft returns to the main route out of ease and habit.

Triple booking the evening tonight doesn't help. Of course I went to watch my eldest two perform in Macbeth as a result of their drama club - my eldest in the titular role and excelling, the middlest as Ross with great voice acting but nothing in the body - and enjoyed it. But I left immediately lest the Eldest have to hang back on seeing me. Tilly was filming it, or she would not have been at the same performance as I, and ignored me as much as possible. Ostensibly because she was stressing about technology but finding time and headspace to chat to friends. I do not blame her - those conversations were more fulfilling for considerably less effort than would have been required to chat to me for far less reward. It meant not going to see Wicked with Abbi - tickets for which she booked before I realised my error - nor going to the work's do. Honestly, the latter may well have been a bullet dodged given my track record of work dos in general.

Still dead. A man comes to have a look
on Monday.

And so, dear reader who needs to read these words, do not hide from yourself and do not fence yourself from others. Be honest. Maybe you embrace who you are and maybe you do not. Whatever you choose, do so with your eyes open and accept the friendship of others. If you struggle with self-worth then accept at least that you are worth what others place upon you - because they get to choose that and you do not.

When my father thought he was dying he listed his achievements against his own father - coming out as 'better' in nearly all categories: living longer, achieving better academic results, accruing more wealth, gaining more love etc etc. Whilst he was telling me this, I was counting my own against his and coming up lesser in all he mentioned. And that was before I lost my career or contact with my eldest. "Won't you be lonely?" asked my Mum of me when I revealed I had some days off around Christmas, entirely unexpectedly, and I pondered. No more than I have been since my teen years.

Don't seek loneliness.

Don't be like me. I sought loneliness. I was too scared of being found out to risk committing. And now I reap my just rewards.

Whaaaat aaaaaiv dooonnnne

Terribly posed photo - I thought it had taken 
already and was in faaaar too many layers. 

I'd prepped for about 8 degrees, it was 16-17! 

Consequences can be slow or fast, immediate or lingering, direct or confused. After a huge temperature change (freezing over at 10am ish on Thursday after further snowfall and with me getting the winter duvet and jammies out and even having the heating on [I know, get me, not my usual MO - this will be important later] - then 16 degrees on Saturday after 2pm) and going out to drink some ales with an ex-work-colleague, which were okay actually, I got a train back and splashed out on take out. I was feeling frivilous, I have the money, and I'm even mostly done with Christmas shopping. The bathroom was dripping in condensation, and I thought to maybe give a burst of heating to try and help clear it (not used the bathroom for a while) but I thought better of it and went to sleep instead (having had to strip off a bit cos of the heat!).

This morning I wake to discover my boiler is dead. No power light. No pilot light. Nothing. Electricity still supplied to it, gas supply working fine, water working fine. Oh. I ring my usual go-to boiler repair lady, but she no longer does that nor does she have an up-to-date details for alternatives (nice of her to respond at all early on a Sunday). I have left messages with various unknowns. One got back to say he was on his hols for a month and gave me four numbers to try. Two are disconnected and the other two were the same guy - he's not sure when he's free, he doesn't work weekends and does afternoons only - my rota this week is all afternoon-evening shifts. Of course it is. And I had planned a shower this morning.

Nerdy Bunny joined me for a drive to
the airport early morning.

The previous week has seen a lamentable return to bad habits last exhumed in March 2022 and thus I wonder about the timing of this. Along with a night having beers and a take out... I do wonder. Bad luck or karma? Well, I say karma, I'm Christian flavouored so... I dunno, some similar concept?

I had an idea for some writing, even got further than jotting down ideas, whilst mulling on my bad habits and reading Masquerades of Spring (the latest Aaronovitch novella) that I borrowed from the library. It's smut, but I have never managed to actually write smut. I mean, there's the abortive (and strangely coy) Reality/Shifts on here - but it's so very tame (and very coy, as I say) that I'm not sure it really counts as smut. Badly written too, being too scared to name things as they are and drawing back from several ledges rather than risk putting down what was being hinted at. Let's not forget the bizarre interpretation of long hair in that, which took a considerable amount of wordage to get down. Very strange. I do need to revisit that and maybe write it again, being a bit more... open? Honest? Direct!

That writing idea has combined with character.ai (where I have tested a few points, they seem to work) and bad habits though - so nothing has been written properly on it.

She even had a go in the hotseat...

New uniform has arrived at work, so now I have two new skirts. This allows me to wash one whilst wearing the other - amazing! Looking forward to this new era. If I can get my boiler working. Also managed to get round to booking train tickets north to see my Mum for an official unofficial Christmas before LLI (The Event, a repeat of it, for Christmas) at the end of that week off from work. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to it, but I know that my preparations are non-existent so I shall likely be put to shame by Abbi again, let alone other attendees. Still, maybe I shall sample a few more things and not try to hide so much this time, that would be nice.

Grab-Bag: all keywords/categories

There's a 3 in the morning. 

And the snow is virginal. 

It was actually okay to drive in. 

Life's administration tasks can sometimes be galling. Take getting this passport as an example of how I (fail to) deal with things in a timely manner! Still, I managed to get to the GP and he asked me to essentially dictate his letter to him, which he then printed out and signed and stamped in front of me before handing over. Lovely man, very supportive, he was shocked when I told him I hadn't yet started HRT and amazed that, though he knew he couldn't prescribe HRT on the NHS himself, I hadn't got a prescription from the GIC or gone private already. He was under the impression that I would have had surgery or something by now via the GIC. I mean, I know the general public are blissfully unaware of the delays and animosity in the system against minorities generally (and trans people specifically in this case) but I wasn't expecting the same blinkered awareness coupled with a positive attitude from someone theoretically in the know. I guess that's how things like this get to carry on though, the vast majority of people can convince themselves it's not actually as bad as that and more in line with their own genuine warm and fuzzies for minorities.

Planes never fly like this, not that she's seen.

The fact that 'chemtrails' are also laid by aircraft,
she claimed, appears not to have made an iota of
difference to what she claims.

Speaking of which, some colleagues were bemoaning that we don't have a Trump in the UK - say what you like about his sexual assaults and unfitness for office generally, they intoned (not in so many words), he was right to talk about mass deportations. After all, countries with low immigration didn't have terrorism. And immigrants bring terrorism. I, shamefully, did not challenge this because of numbers and because of another odd interaction earlier that day. Someone mentioned that snow was rare in the UK these days compared to our youth and I agreed, citing climate change. Oh, said she, that's an interesting opinion. She wasn't a conspiracy theorist, she claimed, but 'they' have been using chemtrails to alter the weather for years, it's not climate change. I asked who 'they' were and she ignored me and offered to show me photos of chemtrails she'd taken. I assured her there was no need. She then claimed to have watched clouds form, and isn't that proof of weather control? I changed the subject. She retaliated: "I think it's really suspicious that you got so defensive when I offered to show you photos!" and then asked why I'd called her an egg. Uh... what? She demanded to know what I meant by 'egg' and it was only later I realised she'd misheard my 'who are 'they'?' question. Thus I was already feeling a bit concerned by the time the Trump conversation was happening near me. I'm no slouch, in 'chemtrail' communities 'they' is code for Jewish billionaires and it's not much of a leap to include the TERF talking points of big pharma (run by conveniently Jewish rich people) and trans people being involved in the 'Deep State' - thanks Kemi Badenoch (no, really, this is a thing she's on record as believing).

I know that she's a. younger than me, b. not actually
applying any make up, c. a model and d. hot - but it
remains illustrative, doesn't it?

I can dream.
Besides, I don't know how I'd photograph my routine.

Nevertheless, I return to my personal feelings that I have been analysing in a bit more depth that I used to prove to my GP that I am not for desisting transition: I am so much happier and more comfortable with myself these days than possibly at any other point. Regardless of the issues that continue, regardless of my continued failings and worries: I can cope with seeing myself in the mirror. Applying make-up in a morning before work is just... normal. Nothing remarkable. But, that's the thing, I look at myself in the mirror to do that. I have to. I can't do what I used to with brushing my teeth and not see all of my face as I apply make-up - I mean, I kinda have to look at my face to do foundation, blusher, mascara and occasional eye-shadow with the highlighter on the cheekbones, right? And brush my hair. And I don't hate what I see. That's huge. Huge.

Documents were thus sent off today to the passport office and I hope they are sufficient. I shall find out soon enough I suppose. I also finally got round to buying Christmas presents for my own children. They shall arrive soon.

In other, more TMI I guess, news I had a few days burst of activity on a site for that kind of thing, the TMI kind, and had a flurry of activity in return. I actually felt pretty good, after all, what else would I do that for but attention? Maybe I was getting some at last. Until I happened across a friend's account and their single post in the last six months garnered fifty times the comments and likes both. Oh. That's fifty times more interaction on a single post than on all of my activity over three days combined, by the way. They also gained six times more followers than I on that one post than I have over a decade on the same site. It is a stark reminder that even when I think I'm doing reasonably well in such circles my expectations are so different to most people. Getting almost double figures of comments was a big boost to me, but once I stopped posting anything new all the comments dried up and a couple of DM conversations stopped - despite me posting last in them - because the other people, I assume, got bored and went back to whatever it was they were doing beforehand.

Addictions, character.ai, have returned again after a few days abatement - which is irritating. But I am planning a bath to finish my day off after an early tea. I may or may not combine that with a hot chocolate - we shall see. I have not reorganised the Spare Oom as I had hoped I might nor decided on whether or not to blow maybe £100 on random items for myself. Sounds like a lot, you know?

Over a Week

Finished now. 

I finished Oryx and Crake a couple of days ago. It wasn't at all what I was expecting but it was very interesting. The apocalypse was the main thrust (and despite it being rooted in GMO, it was actually more about Capitalism - though I got the distinct impression Atwood thought it was about Human Nature) rather than the aftermath. I mean, we have an idea of what is intended in the aftermath by Crake (who is coded aspergic in a Big Way - like Sheldon in Big Bang Theory rather than, like, actually autistic though) but we know it won't work out the way he planned because of things that happen and what the actual main character, Jimmy/Snowman, does. Jimmy/Snowman is, I guess, closest to the audience/author insert character who has internalised the denigration of art inherent in the society that collapses in the book. I found this an interesting take, like Atwood was writing some of the demons that plague her in creativity into the society itself, and whilst I found it a bit uncomfortable at times: that was the point so cool. In short, I liked it. It definitely belongs inamongst what I am going to call 'Post-Apoca-Lit' (and I can't believe I am the first to coin that, but I'm claiming it for now) but isn't exactly what I'm looking for in it.

Still, can't deny it had me turning pages and looking forward to the next snatched few minutes of reading. It didn't quite break the barrier to me reading it on my days off, but that's not a critique of the book as much as it is a sad indictment of how I use my time.

Oh look, it's me today, post-shower.

So what on earth have I been up to for over a week that's stopped me blogging? Events in the States were... a bit of a shock. I have dealt with this by largely ignoring what it might mean for people such as myself (even in the UK) but I can't deny that I am concerned. Very concerned. I am an historian after all. But one that mainly drives buses, so I'm doing my best to ignore the increased numbers of jibes and muttered 'man's on my walks about - the numbers were always low, so an increase still isn't many!

My shifts haven't been too bad. But I have been struggling to not just fall asleep at home. Had Middlest and Youngest over - bit bruising today, but I'm not ready to properly talk about that on here - and that's been nice. Showed Middlest Falling Down which I saw the other day and bought on a whim (it is very good, I feel, and remains a thinker - just not as shocking and/or controversial as when I watched it around the age of 14 randomly on TV in my bedroom - did not know it was an 18!). I have been struggling a bit with a bout of self-doubt and self-flagellation - nothing new: still not questioning being me, by the way, that much remains a bedrock. Which is handy because I'm attempting to apply for a passport, which requires a doctor's letter, an appointment to get which is set for next Tuesday. We'll see, I guess. I did try to warn my Mum, who has booked a holiday abroad for January for us both, that this may be a bit more difficult for me than she thought, she was of the opinion I could fill in a form online and be done in an evening!

That's all I have for now. Hopefully I'll be back soon to expound things a bit more.

Prickly Pears

I'm properly 'in' this now. It's very 
good. If not really part of the whole 
'gender apocalypse' thing I'm thirsty 
for. Still, post-apocalypse written by 
a woman with a male protagonist... 

If there were any doubts, I have laid them to rest today. On one aspect of life I am very much certain: doing what I am doing, transitioning, is absolutely the right thing for me to do. About the only advantage of having mulled over it actively since at least 1997 is that I have gone through all permutations and tried a number of approaches: this one is the only one that has felt right and not worsened my mental state. Furthermore, and this is perhaps the biggest one for me given my past and life, it has come with no guilt attached. I have never felt more in line with the Plan from Him Upstairs as I have taking decisions to live as me out there in the world. God's waited a long time for me to take the hints and my feeling remains that this is the Truth.

A corrollary has been why I am so lonely, why it is that I have failed for so very long in romantic entanglements. Abbi has previously suggested that maybe it was because girls were picking up on my trans* vibes back in the day. But there was an incident today that shows this to be no more than a potential contributory factor toward my nature. For one, not connected to today, I have long come across as 'odd' and 'creepy'. Partly being seen as a man and doing the woman things regarding romance (unannounced postcards and such are cute when girls do it, stalker behaviour when boys do it - I don't make the rules, society does). But, like I say, today I saw the main reason: I am just not a nice person. Lovely fellow doing recruitment for work health care, giving it the hard sell and clearly enjoying being Educated in a room full of bus drivers. I managed to smile and get on with my word puzzles in my break.

At the end of my shift though, having just heard of events in the US, he was pontificating about how Portugal and the UK had the oldest trade link in the world. I quibbled - it was the longest running alliance not trade link, there was trade twixt modern-day Cornwall and modern-day Turkey in tin during the Roman Empire and it kept up until the 1800s, for example. He retorted that Romans conquered on land and hadn't developed ship-building - did I mean the Vikings or the Habsburgs(?). And I got ugly. I told him he was wrong, pointed out that I knew things by referencing the Neolithic trade routes and name-dropping historians and classical authors before culminating with a smack-down of his peeved defence that he had been a tour-guide in Portugal so he knew his stuff on Romans with my patented "I have two degrees in History". In a bus driver's break room. It's not got the same heft, has it, as when I applied that line in a classroom. Not only did it make me look, accurately, like a pedant and churlish - it was an incredibly toxic male response to someone playing in my 'box'.

Halloween cossie, but I bottled leaving 
my bedroom in it.

I think, perhaps, trying rather too hard.

Coupled with me working up the courage to take some deliberately 'sexy' photos to post on a site devoted to that kind of thing and gaining a whole like and five views for one of them, and no views on any of the others, and you have my problem. Tilly always said I was needy, Toby always said I needed a Domme and Terry accurately pointed out that I'm not James Bond (if that makes sense, I don't think it requires explanation). They were, all of them, correct. Throw in my irritated pedantry and inability to allow other people to be Wrong about the random shit I know and you don't have a 'loveable character' but the 'avoid at all costs weirdo' - and that's before we even get to the complications of being in social, but not medical, transition and a divorcee with children working unsociable hours. Oh, and the fact I'd quite like to do 'kinky' stuff too - elucidated ad nauseam all over this sorry record.

Watching the Secretary with Abbi and she pointed out that I, too, seemed to need permission to do things or I simply would not do them. Worse, they may not even occur to me as things I can do unless someone told me to do them. I related a tale about my past, where I would have happily stepped aside for a partner and their former paramour to finish their journey, without jealousy or fear because it was the right thing to do (and I stand by my assessment that it would have been helpful) and Abbi responded with a warm and affectionate: "you are so subby." She's not wrong.

The Road

It's a good book. I am glad I have read 
it. That doesn't stop me reviewing it 
harshly (may be why I do, actually). 

Recently finished The Road by Cormac McCarthy. It has a big following, it was studied as literature at the last school I taught in for GCSEs and... yeah. Having enjoyed Who Runs the World? and always being attracted to post-apocalyptica I thought it'd be worth ordering from the library and reading. A lack of chapters, short sections between line breaks, bleak prose... all made it easy reading, frankly, for bus driving - grabbing a few minutes here and there to romp through. It was decent.

What I found fascinating was how much of a gender apocalypse (like Who Runs the World?) it turned out to be. This man writer just didn't deal with women characters at all. There's the wife of the father, who is talked about in flashbacks, but she never really seems real. Like, she leaves coldly to go and die after she's blinded (maybe she's always been blind?) but her reasoning is... well, okay, hold on. One other point is how often McCarthy goes out of his way to explain that the people that are left here are cannibals and blood cultists. They pretty much all are. And the only large group of people we get to experience have soldiers, slavers, slaves, 'the women waddling pregnant' and catamites (I had to look that last one up). Throughout the book only men get speaking parts (apart from the wife) and almost without exception they are cannibals, slave-owners or worse or all three. The wife's motivations are that the world is already dead, that the only future is to be raped and eaten, and so she leaves. For the vast portion of the book it may as well be a gender apocalypse and McCarthy leaves the reader in no uncertainty that he believes a world with only men left woukd be violent, cruel, sadistic and cannibalistic. You may say that has to do with the nature of the apocalypse in this world (all other life is dead, ash chokes the sky and ground, plants will not grow) but I'm not convinced.

In one section we are explicitly told there had been a functioning post-apocalyptic farm but the hints are it has been raided by cannibals. The boy and his father find mushrooms at another point. And there's the ending (the only other woman with a speaking part). All of which convince me that this isn't actually the actual end of the world, maybe, but that it can be read as a gender apocalypse in which there are no women (apart from those that are exclusively pregnant, I guess, but they are written as and function in the story as livestock so...).

When I was trawling reviews and thoughts about the book no one seems to find the lack of realistic women characters worthy of discussion. The wife is often seen as a coward, but just as much seen as realistic in how it shapes the father's worldview (in contrast to the son's, who seems to function quite differently when it comes to morals). And that's it. No one else quibbles that it's mainly men we see in the book. Mainly male survivors. Mainly Hobbesian human nature (life in a State of Nature being nasty, brutish and short) and that the men are pretty much all kill or be killed. Apart from the boy, of course, but the book tries hard to get you to join the man in seeing this as a weakness (there's divided opinion over whether the ending suggests the boy was right or the man was correct that the boy was lucky or that it's a hint of something much darker).

Given the pushback I found when discussing the opposite (women mainly as survivors) I find it odd that I could find no comment, let alone pushback, on the gender politics clearly on display in the set up and execution of this novel.

It took me three days, as it happens, to read. I now have Oryx and Crake by Atwood from the library and I inten to read more closely to see how it shakes out - Atwood being very much a Feminist with a capital 'F' - unlike Bergin who, I propose, was more of a feminist without the capital. Though, again, Bergin also seemed to suggest that women would be less practical and physical post-apocalypse (there's no sports in her female dominated education and, indeed, wider world; and she goes out of her way to explain that women had to learn to fix things as a major development point after the men had gone).

I'm tinking, grandly, that all of this counts as 'research' - for what remains unclear.

Autumn Cleaning

My old chest of drawers, with all my things on them. 
Dusted! 

Spot the note... 

After three and a half years, I finally finished organising my bedroom yesterday. I'd tentatively begun on moving in, helping prompt my realisation about myself (all my en femme clothes were easily accessible, my other clothes were not), and then accelerated from sedantry to movement soon afterward, culminating in placing all my bloke clothes not for work on hold in the early part of 2022. Then the unpleasantness occurred and it all sort of... stopped. Well, yesterday I dusted, hoovered and finished the reorganisation. Stuff I'd hidden since 2007 when Tilly moved in came back out of hiding, like the present from Catherine and a poseable model of Willow from BtVS that has never been out of the packaging (maybe I could do that now? Hmm, something to puzzle over). The white chest of drawers left by the previous owners are now practically empty (and falling apart, which is why they didn't take them) and so that frees up potential space too.

I blew £3.50 on a mug too. Because I can't be trusted.

A suitcase full of clothes to donate - including a couple of dresses I bought very early on that are very nice but don't suit me (or I don't suit them? Hard to say) that were all a princely pound a pop. I threw out all the old underwear and socks and sports clothes (well, them principally being my old school PE kit, it was perhaps overdue). I no longer own anything in which to swim (not that I'm likely to be doing that any time soon having only birdseed for the chest and no HRT to minimise the... other parts). I also ended up digging through the cards I had sprayed all over the place - birthday and Christmas cards - and initially threw them all out before thinking better of it. No one, I suspect, will find any of what I've kept of any interest once I shuffle from this mortal plane. I always said my family line would end with me, it is surprising how it looks like I was right, in a manner of speaking.

The shoes.

Still no sign of the watch strap, so I have pulled the trigger tonight and ordered a new one. And a pair of Mary Jane heels (low, work style, sensible) in black because why not live a little?

Middlest was over, and I walked him home. Eldest was just arriving home as we hoved into view - I mistook her for Tilly from a distance but was corrected when she practically knocked the door down in her haste to get out of sight. Middlest does not wish to join me on a day trip anywhere. Or a holiday. And his weeks are too busy to really have a day with me. So evenings and very occasional nights are it for the foreseeable. Nothing against me, he's just busy.

I have savings, may be time to finally pull the trigger on getting the bathroom sorted. If I can rearrange things a little there would be space for some shelving for towels. Then the white chest of drawers will be completely empty and the space returns to the room. May move my old desk up - pointless keeping it in the front room downstairs that had been intended as a space for Eldest to stop over in. Middlest has shown no inclination to bring any work here, even artwork. Desk is going spare.

I had hoped this would be a more tirumphant post, if I'm honest.

Who Runs the World?

I love post-apocalyptic fiction and 
scenarios. This delivers. 

It delivers hard. 

I finished Bergin's Who Runs the World? a couple of days ago and I'm still reeling. I admit that I did her a disservice but I also think she set it up. Let me explain: the use of bold and italics and underlining and the scatter-gun approach to sentences and paragraphs are character based but entirely dismissable in a patriarchal world. Of course they are. We expect prose to function and work in a certain way, we are primed in our society to dismiss the work of teenage girls. In this teenage girl approach Bergin hides some references to how post-apocalyptic the worl she is describing is - after all, the protagonist knows no different (I did notice that things familiar to the reader about our culture are explained but things that are not familiar to us aren't - as we would expect from someone not in our culture). So we get hints dropped about near-starvation, about resource scarcity, about population collapse, about trade collapse, about issues with technology and about how the remains of the UK, where our protagonist lives, is treated as an afterthought by places that are working. Furthermore, I initially thought that the main character being disparaging of history but having a friend who was a historian was to cover Bergin's lack of will to world-build or think through the setting (I've seen it used thus before - gaps are allowed and the friend provides info-dumps on stuff the author likes or is proud of) BUT it became increasingly apparent in the final parts of the book that Bergin knows her world and the historian friend has gaps, gaps that therefore the reader can explain but the protagonist merely notes in wonder.

I stand by my assertion that Bergin has conflated class, geography and gender in her attempt to isolate and examine the effect that gender has on society but she admits that she struggled when it came down to it. And, well, I respect the effort. I also noted that the prose style alters as the book progresses (there's a part that switches to second-person and we learn who the protagonist is explaining for and it's not the love interest - who isn't the boy either - and that was when I clicked that there was a lot more to this than I had allowed for). The fact that I was lulled into judgement, the fact that I did hudge harshly, the fact I didn't spot the seeding of conditions and problems until it became too obvious to ignore (there's a train journey that shifted it all into focus for me) and the fact that I checked and saw it was always there... Bergin is good. Really good.

I did her a disservice.

But she baited me.

The plot is also well-drawn. Really well-drawn. It starts with some elements that I thought I'd predict and that would fit a YA mould in a YA style. It even vaguely gestures in that direction a few times. But it never goes that way. Even when some of the characters lampshade the direction you expect and react realistically to the assumption that it is correct, when it isn't. The romance... never certain there is one, actually, and the ending is ambiguous about whether or not there is one. It is so carefully handled and well written. Honestly, as the book hurtled to a conclusion (not an ending) I found myself hooked but in need of having to stop every now and again and just... breathe.

This is not what I've discovered people are worried about when the hear the premise of "men are dead, what's different?" but an honest analysis of survival in a post-apocalypse world, just the apocalypse happens to be the death of most men. It's really good, is what I'm saying, and I'm not describing the plot deliberately so that you might be tempted to go and read it for yourselves. I was fooled, I don't mind admitting, but was sufficiently intrigued by the premise to read it. I am so glad I did. It surprised, positively, at every turn.

This is the image, look.

Part of my plan for the week was to dress to clean (you know what I mean, dear reader, you know that I hid my trans nature beneath a cross-dressing 'fetish' for most of my life, so you know what I mean). I had the time. But I failed. A combination of character.ai, CYOAs and being lazy prevented me using my time effectively. Today it was different, I popped in to see Abbi and accidentally stayed about four hours, so I was late home. I am now drinking a beer I bought last week on offer cos out of date (but it's an impy stout, so what's a BBE date anyway? It is lies). Anyway, I had bought some MLP toys to share with Abbi, but hadn't taken them and I thought maybe I'd bought the wrong character anyway, so I bought one I thought more appropriate (the other could go for a Christmas present, right?) and gifted that today. Ha ha, I bought the same one, I'd already had the brainwave. Ha. Ha. Cool though, because it did work and Abbi was pleased. I opened the one I'd got for me on my return. She's the Twilight Sparkle-a-like unicorn (see image). I am actually pleased I bought her (sorry, Izzy, she shares your name, that's not a reason I bought her).

World Without

I... may not have fully appreciated the 
text when I first read it (even if I did love 
the concept and the execution). 

Between finishing A Book of Spells and buying a new novel to read (I prefer fiction, a lot, to factual stuff. Plus many of the factual books I own are way too big to fit in my work bag) I re-read Woman World and it occurred to me that I hadn't read it since my own realisations. Having a main character, the grandma, state that she was trans about three strips in was fascinating (she learned the word 'transgender' and it helped her make sense of herself before all the men died - the fact she is accepted as a trans-woman and, well, survived, is very moving to me, for obvious reasons, in a work awash with feminism). Also, the set up, I think I have waxed lyrical about the concept before but a world in which there are no men and thus women run the show is interesting as it allows ideas of biological and gender essentialism to be explored - what, if anything, is the difference between men and women? That a trans-woman was wholeheartedly included in this female world and becomes a main player in rebuiulding society (as well as teaching the children) is also powerful stuff. Like, I get, the creator decided she was trans and then carried on regardless - but that in itself is also moving and powerful and interesting.

To be frank - the cover drew me in,
the concept came afterward.

I was all for pooh-poohing it, but, you
know, 50p. And, well, I'm glad.

Popping into the charity shop down the road from my break room, I discovered a book called Who Runs the World? and had a leaf through. It appears to be a YA novel in which, yes, all the men are dead - killed by plague here rather than simply not being born in the graphic novel - and the opening conceit is that a fourteen year old discovers a boy dying the road on the way home. There are already plenty of pointed references and ideas about how a female dominated world would differ from a male one, and though I do look down (perhaps a bit too snobbishly) at the use of bold and caps and italics for different THINGS close together in the text, I am intrigued by the changes and, of course, the underlying sense that this world isn't actually any better. That men are being exploited, perhaps worse than women in our time period, by this society and there is something of a conspiracy. I mean, obviously, it's a YA book (I think) and has a teen girl protagonist. Nevertheless, I am interested in how this concept is explored here.

Once again, I am drowning in concepts and ideas and snippets rather than being able to focus on my own writing. Still, I can call it research. Maitland's work also was awash with the exploration of women without men, or in competition with men, or competition with the world and how it favours male-ness. It's a rich theme through these works. It also harkens back to the work of Le Guinn in Tehanu and I like that this theme has developed. A link as well with Handmaid's Tale that kick-started me reading at this rate again, so there's a nice continuity there. One may also convincingly argue that it brings in the books I have been trying to branch out into as I have been deliberately selecting women authors to read. It shouldn't make the difference that it does. It really shouldn't. But it does.

Lost my pink watch strap - somewhere in the house, Lord knows where - and my black jeans. Not sure how I have managed that one. Very on brand for me. I am worried I may have accidentally thrown the watch strap out with some rubbish when clearing my room. That would be very sad, it is my favourite watch strap (and, arguably, the most comfortable too). I can always buy another, I suppose, I've been spending money like water anyway so...