~~~ I, Tranny ~~~

A theory has emerged from the bubbling depths of my subconcious as to just what's been happening to my inner mental landscape, as detailed in a rather confused earlier blog. What am I babbling about, you ask yourself. As well you may. It's a major milestone that I think most trannies pass, so deserves to be babbled about.

There were a couple of clues I should have picked up on, if I had been a small fat Belgian. Happiness, or at least not-botheredness about being clocked; up till now I'd been very paranoid about that. Rehearsing giving a talk on the whole Transvestite thing at work, and possibly doing a slide-show (of the less provocative photos, of course). Thinking about trannying far more than is actually healthy for you. Considering it as a holistic activity, rather than the more mundane "dressing". The sudden willingness - no, eagerness to get out and about in real life more.

The penny dropped - ker-ching! I'd emotionally come to see the world in three shades of gender identity: male, female and tranny. No longer was I stuck between male (unacceptably beige) or female (adverse to scalpels, and still able to read maps). Instead, a new wide-open vista of trannydom had opened up that I could happily wander about in, free of the constraints of either side. All the inner confusion was obviously the equivalent of having the removals men in, dropping priceless items and asking " 'ow about a cup of tea, luv?" as the mental furniture was relocated to the Vale of Tran.

I can sense the Gentle Reader may still be confused. See, a tranny in her early stages is still understanding the world in terms of Male and Female. Where exactly in that spectrum does she fit in? Either side you put her, it's wrong. It does lead, I think, to an obsession about passing in public: as she's not male, she must be female, and so must become so you can't tell the difference. Once she accepts that there is a third gender identity she can be, then a lot of confusion and anxiety fade away. There's no problem about not being masculine, because she's not male. She's not female, so she doesn't have to pass as one in public. "Transgender" is a pretty crap term as it implies moving away from gender. Tranny suits me fine, as it's a recognisable noun/verb thingie (dear reader, please correct my appalling understanding of grammer). I begin to see where Becky was coming from in one of her diatribes!

It's helping me understand the Tranny landscape more, too. I think Drag Queens are the truly visible extension of this realisation, because they sure aren't trying to pass. Oh, the viewer might think "that's a bloke in a skirt", but really, she isn't. Even the pronoun "she" is wrong - one T-girlfriend despises all trannies who refer to themselves as 'she', stating bluntly that she's a bloke in a dress. That's true but a bit harsh, I feel - the female pronoun is an integral part of trannying for me. This adds a possibly interesting perspective on the Transsexual viewpoint: they can't see themselves as either male or tranny. It may also cast light on Crossdressers: they can't see themselves as tranny. Or all of this could be hogwash, which is highly likely; look at previous blogs to see just how wrong I can be.

Whether it's right or wrong, it's useful. I can now go out in public and if someone says "Bloke in dress!", I can retort: "no, tranny in dress, and isn't it pretty?". It's very liberating, because I don't have to judge myself by the male rules anymore. If the viewer has a problem, it definitively is their problem, not mine. Though it may becone mine if they try to kick my head in - either time to practice those counselling skills, or dredge up the ancient karate (worthy of a blog: how many t-girls are involved with the martial, as opposed to the marital, arts?).

Anyway, that is the "Doh!" moment I think I've arrived at: I'm a tranny, behave like a tranny, and no need to feel embarrassed unless I choose a really badly fitting dress. Already I can feel myself wondering how I failed to see this on the other side of the Tranny Event Horizon, and want to capture the moment for posterity. There is a third way, and it doesn't involve Tony Blair. Hopefully. The Way of the Tranny is acceptance that one lives in-between the two normal states, that it's a valid gender identity, that you don't have to be perfectly passable, and to stick two fingers up at anyone who says the bloke-in-a-dress thing.

Je suis Tranny.

~~~ Reality is consensus opinion ~~~

It's not who you want to be: it's what other people think you are. That can be a very negative thing for a tranny, but some recent experiences have shown it's a two-edged sword.

A TS friend is suffering from the people surrounding her. Despite the fact that she is now a pretty girl, they persist in treating her as a boy. This, as you can imagine, is very harmful to her self esteem. You're shouting "get out of there" at her. Sometimes that isn't possible. So despite the fact that she's taken this as far as physically possible, the peer pressure is leaving her where she started.

On the other side: my weekend up in Birmingham was surrounded by vanilla people who could only see me as Gemma. I want to make that distinction; with TG friends, it's not the same. See, if you're TG, you're much more accepting. So a TV is a bit hairy? She's still a sister, and you treat her as she would like to be treated. But the general public are a lot more discriminating, not to mention rude. It's not a question of "passing" - that's advanced trannying for me! But to go out and be flirted with, for people to laugh (can't avoid that!) but still be pleasantly amused, well - that's very reinforcing. It tells me I'm not a complete dogs-dinner. That the new foundation and shadow cover were actually doing their job. That I might actually be pleasant to look upon. And that, for a self-conscious and depreciating tranny on a huge post-Transpocalypse buzz, is about as good as it gets.

Or so I thought. Then someone got in touch with me. It wasn't your standard admirer - let's face it, a lot of guys will say anything to get a girl into bed, so you become very blase about it all. But this was different, and made me feel wanted for who I was. It pushed the point home even further: people were appreciating me - Gemma. It wasn't an act any more, it was as real as it could be.

That's powerful magic. I have to say that my employers today did not get value for money, because some very strange shifts were happening inside my head. I can't quite explain it, except suddenly everything had come into focus, and I was being forced to look at what I was doing and say "Yesterday I was playing. Today, it's for real". Here and now, I was Gemma, not some bloke in a dress. And that changes everything - every act, every item of clothing, every peice of makeup has to be considered in this new light. No wonder I couldn't concentrate.

We all like to think we are who we want to be. These past few days I've been far more moved by what other people think I am. It's addictive and I recommend it to anyone, whether it's just viting the local TG support group, Transmission, the Village or strutting your stuff through the shopping centre on a busy afternoon.

So if you see a rather tall tranny striding out proudly down your high street, then it could well be me getting my next fix of reality. See you out there!

~~~ A Tranny Collective ~~~

Just what do you call a group of 3 or more trannies? A critique of trannies? A bitch? A hysteria? Definitely a have-a-good-time-and-don't-give-a-damn, that's for sure. I don't normally blog about events, mostly because other people do it all too well (never play a game you won't win, that's my attitude). But as Transpocalypse was a gathering of blogging Trannies and Significant Others, it has to be done. Just once. I promise I'll go back to the abstract airy-fairy and stop bothering y'all afterwards.

Birmingham is suprisingly convenient for Farnborough - 2.5 hours away. Or so the RAC claim, but what do they know? Roadworks at Oxford, the M40/M42/a tranny's inability to go the right way, and Birmingham Saturday Traffic conspired to make that 4 hours. Well, really. Just enough time to buy an epilator to pull out hairs that had been loosened by the IPL. Or so I thought; I tested it on an arm (nice one, Gemma - not at all visible) and stomach, then decided that the pain and time wasn't suitable for the evening. Nobody commented on the horrific arm rash; perhaps they all thought I had a communicable disease and were trying not to breathe too near me.

"What to wear" took considerable mental energy: most of the Friday, plus Saturday morning. I really wanted a pink tweed coat - nicely girly, but warm, given how our weather has decided to do impressions of Siberia. Could I find one? No I could not. Well, that's a lie, I did find one, but at £450 I had to stagger off and have a sit-down. Eventually it came down to mature (knee-length skirt, fashionable but warm jumper thingy) or clubby. Clubby naturally won out, being short, distinctive and suitable for bouncing about getting hot and sweaty. For the fashionistas: white tweed mini, victorian lace blouse-thing, small-hole fishnets, black boots, lace shawl used as belt, and a high-waist denim jacket, pink stripey scarf and matching gloves for warmth. Rrrroowwww, very nice!

Because I wasn't sure up till the last moment, I packed for two outfits. One night: one small suitcase, I thought. How charmingly, innocently, pathetically naieve. Oh, I crushed it all in, but I think in the future I should upgrade to one of those box trunks. Plus a porter or three. Continuing the naieve theme, I thought I was very organised in the hotel bedroom rather than looking like the normal cosmetics factory explosion a.k.a. tranny getting ready. However, T-minus-60 saw all discipline disspaear and every flat surface pressed into action. T-plus-30 the nail varnish was drying and I managed to get out of the room without tripping over anything and only one false start, then sashayed out into the wider world with no clear idea of where I was heading.

At this point, I'm going to have to dissapoint you. I can't say anything about Siobhan's interesting attitude to building foreign relations, especially when it comes to members of the Arabic nations. I promised not to; she won't remember that promise, but what's a tranny if she doesn't keep her word. So, it's important to state that this is the type of noble, self-sacrificing person I am. Damn, because it's such a good piece of gossip. Sigh ...

Update: now the cat's out of the bag, you should know, gentle reader, that the above is complete misdirection. Not a pack of lies, because there isn't a single untruth in there. See, Jo (enthusiastically abetted by Becky) suggested making up an outrageous story about Siobhan, because Siobhan was 99.374% likely to get so outrageously drunk she wouldn't remember anything, and so we could feed her a very disquieting story: "Siobhan and the Arab". As it turns out, Siobhan's actual behaviour on the night was far more interesting, so the plug was pulled. It's amazing how much we infer from negatives and inferred links: I have no idea what Siobhan feels about Arabic people; I promised Jo, not Siobhan; etc. Anyway: on with the story.

Fortunately, the bar was right next door to the hotel, and I managed to spot the few trannies hiding in plain view. Very few: Clarissa, Gillian, Becky and Jane. Where were the 20-odd t-girls? Late, of course ("naieve" is the theme of this trip, it seems). Gradually the bar filled up with cheery trannies waving at the gawking passers-by (Gillian getting especial pleasure from tormenting the poor beasties), and eventually we headed over the road to the Chinese restaurant, only 30 minutes late which is pretty darn good for a collection of trannies ("herding cats" sums it up)

Crossing that road was fun. It was chokka with traffic, and how nice to sashay across the street in full tranny swing and catch sight of the dropping jaws. The restaurant punters were desperately oh-this-is-nothing-unusual; good for them, but they very much enjoyed the spectacle of a flock of trannies in full socialise mode. I am humbled: each girl was different to how I imagined her. And a waiter in the restaurant got a special mental hug for calling us "ladies" when he didn't need to. I spent the meal chatting to Vanessa, Rachel, Becca, April and Angela. Great people, I thoroughly enjoyed it. But - so little time, and so much to talk about. In the end I talked at length to the girls around me and didn't mingle, because I wanted to get to know these people well, and not be a social butterfly. Depth rather than width, as the Actress said to the Bishop. There'll be other times when I get to talk to them, other Transpocalypes. And, rather than recount what was said, here's a roll-call and links to the appropriate blog (if I can find it - gonna post this and come back to the links later on). No special order, just as my memory dredges them up (and Becky kindly filled me in where either alcohol or lack of contact left me blank)

• Gillian Stuart
  
• Clarissa Darling
  
• Jane
  
• Becky Enverite
  
• Rachel
  
• Vanessa
  
• Becca
  
• April Angell
  
• Angela
  
• Ian & Kim
  
• Miss K
  
• Siobhan
  
• Jessica
  
• Jo Nicholls
  
• Steph & Tracy
  
• Sophie & Shannon
  

Anyway, once the tranny locust plague had passed, leaving behind a stripped tablecloth, off we went down some cold and initially deserted streets (the cold?) to what was listed as a gay nightclub but seemed to be 50/50 hetero/gay. At least, if the really cute Brummie lassies I was talking to was anything to go by. Three floors; good-ish dance music on the top; not really much cop downstairs; the bottom floor near the bar had a couple of couches which impressively got swooped on by our crowd so some serious chatting could be done. Well done, girls!

At around 2am I faded; my feet were killing me. I blame the gel insoles I was trying, because normally I can last longer while dancing more. Wandered back to the hotel with Becca, Sophie and Sophie's partner, then bid them adieu and went to bed, to sleep the good sleep of the tired, well-fed and happy tranny.

And now it's nearly 1am, it's a work day, and my bed is covered in the debris of a serious weekend's trannying. Good memories, hopefully stored on Flickr.

~~~ In Vino Veritas ~~~

I'm sure it wasn't Chardonnay; standard pub dry white (a.k.a. horse pee) while I listened to a friend do a U2 cover gig. I don't like U2, so this was true friendship. But it was nice being able to switch off, let the alcohol take its course, and start solving the problems of the world.

The first insight was how we all play by rules. There are an infinite number of ways of playing the human game, and it IS a game, ask any anthropologist or psychiatrist ("Games People Play", Eric Bearne 1970ish). More specifically, there are male and female rules of the game. Trannies break those rules (from the male/female perspective), arousing much ire and indignation. But look at the bigger picture. For once, one small section of humanity is able to put aside one set of rules and take up another. I don't think it's possible to abandon all rules, that leads to chaos and the inability to make judgements, which is a biological imperative. Sing "Ho!" for trannies, for we're supra-rule based. Sisters, I love you all (I'm such a nice drunk).

Second: it was lovely being in bloke mode, seeing the blokes standing around being really blokish, seeing the girls being very ... girly, and knowing I could flip between either viewpoint as I chose. Dammit, trannying can be so liberating at times! And I enjoyed the music more, because I could let go more easily. Important lesson, Gemma!

Third: how nice to have a secret that nobody else knows! Gillian has recently been telling people about herself. I'm not sure I actually want to; I derive a lot of pleasure from having a seperate me. But more power to Gillian for doing so.

Fourth: I think I'm becoming addicted to mulled wine. I know it's cold, but I definitely had enough to drink at the pub. And I certainly don't need the mushrooms on toast I'm planning to cook for myself. Talk about a severe attack of the munchies.

Fifth: what the heck am I going to wear at Transpocalypse? It's too cold for everything I like; I want to appear at my best; I don't want to risk anything new. I'm stuffed; I can't satisfy all of these criteria. More shopping tomorrow morning! Plus a backup plan. The 'A' team always had a backup plan. But no trannies. Though I always had my doubts about Mr. T. ... No, Gemma, don't go there. (shudders).

Sixth: I really want to try on that sexy lingerie. But what sort of person does that make me, trying on sexy lingerie when Under The Influence? ... Human, I guess. What the heck! If a girl can't try on clothes she's just bought, the world is a sorry place.

So, I leave you, gentle reader, to return to your wonderful life of diversity and interest while I go and put on something that is labelled "Brazilian" underwear and eat mushrooms on toast. I hope your evening turns out to be as good as mine is shaping up to be :D

~~~ A Life Worth Living ~~~

Despite the previous depressing post, I really do feel that being a t-girl's a positive thing, and felt I needed to put the Pollyanna perspective on it all.

I can remember B.G. (Before Gemma). It was dull. I might even say "a life wasted". It was like vanilla ice-cream, but without the taste. Remember the Vultures from the "Jungle Book" cartoon? "Bored!" "So, waddya want to do?". Or Vik, from the Young Ones - "Bored Bored Bored!".

Ever since I found this other side, I've been places that I would never have gone normally (the ladies' lavatory), seen things (ditto), done things. Wild, crazy things! Danced the night away. Met people with stories so interesting, so full of joi de vrie, that it's taken my breath away. Met sadness too, it's true. I think it's the price we have to pay to get access to this different way of existance. Maybe some girls just see the price, and never realise just what an incredible thing they've purchased for it. I can remember thinking B.G. "damn! I'll never get to experience being a woman, to see things from her perspective". How wrong I was.

So - we're not victims of a cruel and uninterested Mother Nature (ever wondered why they call her a Mother?). We're not sad creatures, curiously suspended between both sexes. We're certainly not perverts.

Then what are we?

We are wondrous, joyous creatures. Especially after the second glass of Chardonnay. We are social, active, daring. We challenge the rules that society constrains itself in. We are perfectionist, we push things further than many real girls push them (just take a look at Miss Gay UK). We see things from the outside, and so can see them clearly. It isn't us that has the problem - it is the rest of the world. One day it will change, and we are the harbingers of that change. We lead lives that are full of strangeness and charm. We are t-girl.

~~~ Alice through the looking-glass ~~~

Chatting with Emma Sculley this week (who does ace IPL; she's TS, very understanding, has a very private clinic, and she really works hard to zap every last follicle. God bless her!). We got onto the TV / TS thing, as you do. We agreed that there really IS a divide, with no shades of grey: either you know you're going to go for the Transformation, or you're not. TVs and TSs approach the world differently. That's politically unacceptable in the glorious Rainbow Coalition that we live under, which is a daft approach - "vive le difference", as our car-burning cousins say. We're stronger for our diversity.

Something suprised us both, though: each side is afraid of the other. This, by the way, is me reading the generic into Emma's specific comments. Have a chat with her if you want to find out her actual views; she's a really nice person and gives out a lot of advice too on the TV-chix website.

For a TV, a TS is scarily serious. There's no way we can approach that degree of commitment. In comparison, our own efforts look very shallow, superficial. Unconciously, TS's can reinforce that: "you part-time girls" was one innocent comment made by a TS friend. From her perspective, it's spot on. From mine, it implies lack of dedication - how many times have I joshed colleagues at work for being a 'part-timer'? And so TV's will push away TS's as being uncomfortable to be around - nobody likes being made to feel superficial, after all.

Many TV's will react really strongly to me saying this; don't they bend over backwards to be inclusive with TS's? Which doubly proves the point. You don't react strongly to something with no emotional truth, and you don't need to bend over backwards if there's no difference. Me, I say stop fighting it. TS's are different, and that makes them hugely interesting to be around: walk a mile in another girl's stilettoes, and all that. Once you start recognising differences, you can accomodate them with their different views and needs. In fact - there is no accomodation: you just are. (and while there is no spoon, is there soup? And how will we drink it without a spoon?).

Emma was suprised almost to incredularity to hear me say this. After all, being around TVs intimidated her, which stunned me until I heard her out. For a TS, the prime goal is body reshaping to turn male into female. Once that female body has been achieved, the TS can get on with living her life according to how she feels inside, 24 hours a day. And that means dressing and behaving normally - jeans, tee and trainers. So put her in a room full of TVs who are made up to the hilt, and she starts feeling a bit dowdy, a bit plain. It's intimidating. She feels different. I suspect that a TS will in general do less of the makeup too, as she doesn't have to, which adds to the seperation. And the morning after, the TS is still herself, whereas everyone else has ... changed. I suspect that being a TS is quite a vulnerable position, so the instinct will be to either draw in on oneself, or bond strongly with a nearby TS. Which a lot of TVs see, and react negatively against; it's a vicious circle.

So there we all are: staring at our reflections in the mirror, pretending like mad that they're the same thing when there are all sorts of differences in the reflection and the red king is sliding down the poker. And when Emma commented that I behaved like a lot of TS's, suddenly I was on the other side of the mirror. Up to that point I hadn't even considered I could be a sort of proto-TS; and here was this rabbit hole opening up in front of me. Sometimes, you just have to follow the White Rabbit to see where it leads. Good thing I attached a rope to the fireplace before I went through, huh?

~~~ The Dark Side of Trannydom ~~~

We've looked at despair; let's now stare into the bony eye-sockets of Death. This follows on from "Big Girls Don't Cry", because I reached a conclusion but wasn't done. Anyway, this one needs a post of its own, sealed off from the others in a hazmat drum.

Billy Joe jumped off the Talahatchie bridge. Maybe he was pushed, but I don't believe it. Wipe off a tranny's foundation and you'll find Death staring you back in the face. Some statistics I read a while back: 30% of pre-op TS's end up committing suicide. Also, 30% of post-op TS's too. While cause/effect gets a bit tangled, one thing stands out: gender reassignment surgery is not the end of the story. If you've grown up in a binary society (M/F) and you're actually analogue, you're in trouble. Your brain will be imprinted with binary values, attitudes and habits, even though it wants to explore all those delicious ranges in between. Internal conflict will be your constant friend. That's not going to go away just because you've had some bits of flesh resculpted. Which is of course why the Transition has so many psychologists involved. Even for TVs, dressing is already a deeply embarrasing and guilty thing (according to society's mores), so t-girls tend not to talk about what and why. And so, so many of us go through life building up that internal pain, unable to resolve the conflicts until that day when it gets too much and all we want is peace.

For some reason I keep finding myself on the Talahatchie bridge. I had a sibling when growing up; she jumped off and I wasn't looking. Feeling guilty? You bet. Some internet aquaintances have left me letters saying "going for a quick swim; may be some time". I've still not heard from them. And of course being in the TG world, I find that there are quite a lot of people here too who tell me that a really good solution to their hurt and anguish is one quick drop away. Me, I occasionally look over the edge but the water is very far away and looks dark, cold and uninviting, so I loose all inclination to take a dip. I think there's something in me that finds comfort in being on the edge (don't jostle me, now!), but to be honest I don't trust my subconcious one inch. Especially not one inch away from a big drop.

Sooner or later the realisation has to hit even the densest trannie: we're here for a reason, and it's usually bleedin' obvious. Me, I think maybe I can do some ropework, fasten some safety lines and reach a hand out to anyone with those toes hanging over free air. Maybe not; it's a long downhill road to get to the bridge, and turning around is not going to be easy. But there should be at least one of us there, surely? Someone to meet the girls as they arrive, to ask them what they think of the view. A "last chance saloon" of the soul. And if the dark waters of oblivion are too tempting, someone to give them a last hug and shed a tear for them as they go angrily into that long night. No doubt there are a number of us already waiting patiently by the bridge. One more can only help.

So, if you're passing by on your way to the bridge, let me know. I'll like to walk with you a way, keep you company for a while. You've walked an interesting and hard road, and I'd like to hear about your travels. I'll show you my favourite view, and there's a small shelter I've put up away from the edge where we can have a quiet hot drink out of the weather. After all, the bridge has been there a long time; it's not going anywhere and can wait while you collect your thoughts.

So, you know where to find me. I'll be the one at the Talahatchie bridge, looking out over the sunset and waiting for you to drop by.

~~~ Big Girls Don't Cry ~~~

This blog is going to get drawn towards a nasty, dank place today. Look away if you're in a fluffy kittens mood, because we're going to get heavy. ... Turns out I've had to split it into two for aesthetic reasons; this one is followed by the Dark Side.

It all started with the Talahatchie Bridge. Billy Joe McAllister jumped off it; though the exact reason is never spelt out. It held me frozen this morning when it came on the radio - it's a song, "Ode to Billy Joe", by Bobbie Gentry, if you didn't know, very atmospheric and very powerful because everything is hinted at rather than described.

But it was when she sang that "There was a virus going 'round, papa caught it and he died last Spring / And now mama doesn't seem to wanna do much of anything" that really hit me. Dammit, I can't even look at this without wanting to burst into tears; so much sadness and despair, and I feel for mama. See, that's where this came from. Without going into why that moves me so much (maybe later), this has been the first time that Gemma has experienced something that's bought her to tears.

And it wasn't any better than in the past, and it should have been. Now, I'm going to get "me me me" for a while which is selfish, because that is one fine song: Bobbie captures her past perfectly, and there are three or four different threads running through the song that just beg to be discussed. She's another one who can't find her place in the world; studied philosophy, built a career, tried to shape the world to be what she wanted, but eventually gave up and dropped back into privacy. Good luck to her.

Anyway: I was overwhelmed by the sadness and despair in that line. Tears should have followed. But there's this part of me that will not let go, and it hurts, really physically hurts: the irresistable tide of sadness and the immovable "boys don't cry" met and clashed, and it feels like the battleground is my throat which is raw. And it struck me that in one way trannying is very shallow emotionally, for me at least. I'm a caring person, and as Gemma that is easier to express. But just that: "easier", so I'm not really going anywhere new or challenging or changing myself. There's no doorway that's been opened up into my soul to give the feelings an express elevator to the surface, or added new feelings, or let others go away. There are still a lot of unsavoury doormen checking everything in and out, so when it comes to something like crying that's imprinted so deep it is NOT going to change quietly. So while there's a lot changing on the surface, deep down where it's important not much is happening. (Glumly) And you know what that means? I'm running away and looking for an escape route. I hate it when I can see what my subconcious us up to.

Really at this point I should make some observations on trannydom in general, and how in some very important respects most of us still are blokes in dresses. I'm sorry, I just can't today, this has left me very unsettled. But you're a smart reader, so could you draw some observations and conclusions yourself and post them back? One of us has to pick up the slack around here.

Anyway, it's a bit of a slap to be honest: putting on a dress is a lot of effort and I expected more of a result. At the end of the day, it seems that I'm still me, and another day I'll be thankful for that. But right now I'm churned up with all these emotions that have no way of draining away. I should have known better: we are who we are, always, and there ain't no silver bullet. I prescribe a course of weepy movies; practice makes perfect after all, and if that doesn't work I can always take up a career as Blues Singer with a wonderfully deep and husky voice.

~~~ There's something in the air ... ~~~

There is a tide that moves the fates of trannies. It ebbs and flows, and right now we seem to be looking at a lot of exposed mud, though let's hope: no crabs.

It's very quiet in the tranny world. Trannyflickr has almost fizzled out after a very enthusiastic few months. AngelFlickr didn't really go anywhere. Two t-girl bloggers have gone off-line (Jessica & Miss T. - I hope they're well. Despite having never met, when you read someone's blogs, you start to care).

On the personal front, too, it's gone grave-like. The number of people writing is at a low (probably a good thing; I spend FAR too much time writing enthusiastically to people). It's even quieter on the boyfriend front (if that were possible). And as for my own personal inclination to dress up and be outrageously Gemma-ish: oh dear. Too much hard work has left me awash with testosterone, so the impulse has died away. No doubt it will be back, but right now I feel about as girly as a night down the pub.

However, it IS transmission weekend. 24 hours to get into the spirit of things. And if you were wondering what was in the air: it's the smell of gunpowder.