Words of warning and welcome:

This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. Obviously it started out as a blog about my cross-dressing but it has developed a great deal since then. It is a place where I can be anonymous and honest, and I appreciate that.

It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the New Readers' Page above this and the tag down there on the right. Although there's nothing too bad in here there will be adult language, so be careful. If you think this needs a greater control, please let me know. Thank you!

Thursday, 29 October 2015

But He just laughs at my plans


At the time, I worked in a Christian
warehouse. I packed thousands of these
things. It was inevitable that I'd end up
reading it.
In 1997, ish, I ended up reading the Left Behind books. Now, I now know what was lurking in there, but back then I viewed them as sub-part (but vaguely diverting) thrillers with a Christian under-pinning. I shall say now that I did not notice the anti-semitism (now it's been pointed out I confess to wondering how in the world I missed it), the misogyny (well, partly, I skipped the parts where it was most obvious or got a wee bit irritated and moved on) and the faulty theology. Sort of. I mean, I willingly suspended judgement on the awfulness of prose and message to focus on the fact that there was something in the idea of it - post apocalyptica was and is my thing after all. I'm happy to say that, by book four, I'd given up and stopped reading (the audio-book that I listened to in 2001 was what did it - it was dire). My reasoning was that the books missed some wonderful opportunities and ideas contained in the Bible-Prophecy genre. I did not realise that the authors actually believed and took literally what they were writing. I honestly saw them as poor thriller hacks with a ham-fisted Christian message - to be encouraged as it would encourage other, better authors to write better thrillers with a better Christian method. I should also point out that, back then, I had no clue about US Christian fundamentalism.



Mine had less of a head. At 9% ABV it was a tad strong, but
not as powerful (or as insane) as the Molotov Cocktail I had
at a Brewdog pub. (13% ABV). I can recommend this one
to any ale drinkers, it was smooth and gentle, with the kind
of velvet texture one expects of other ales. Less chocolate and
nuts, more licorice and honey.
This week has been an exercise in avoidance. I have, so far, done no work and written no ale reviews. Though I did enjoy a vintage 2014 A over T from Hog's Back Brewery - lovely - to celebrate the fact that Tilly has submitted her book. She has already begun planning the next. She plans to take a month or two off the writing, which is nice, and had told me back in July, ish, that she wanted to use it to spend some quality time with me. However, much like the idea to do so over summer, that appears no longer to be the case. I'm not going to wax lyrical about how I feel on this one, it's a tune that even I am finding bloody irritating and perilously close to being my worst trait. She will use this time to write with her actual narcissistic writing buddy (no, really, we sorted this out over summer and the buddy really is) - starting next week. In the meantime I am spending tomorrow at work (and in the evening) and this afternoon and evening Tilly is working on contacts. All very important (no sarcasm) as it will help her writing. And I am fully supportive of this.


Yes, we charged the car and had lunch.
The week has been helped by having Tilly's mother over. Tilly and her have been all around the houses for various things and the children adore her - so there's that. However, far from having Tilly's mother play baby-sitter so we could watch a film (as planned) I have played baby-sitter for Tilly and her mother to chat. This is absolutely fine, by the way, just not what we had planned. Mind you, I sort of saw this coming so I shouldn't pretend that I am surprised or anything. Example, we went to IKEA today to charge the car and have lunch (see image) and it was a good lunch. I was itching to get around the place because, well, it's a nice place (and I tried, qp, to make it my happy place and maybe it yet could be, but it didn't work today) and I ended up baby-sitting whilst Tilly and her mother went clothes shopping. I'm not complaining, IKEA is a nice place and getting even better at offering things for children. The children both enjoyed being there and, in the event, all I had to do was sit nearby whilst they made lanterns and shiz in a craft fair part of the store. Anyway, that's not the point, it's not hard, just not what we planned.


I don't know if I mentioned, but the Girlie is out of her cast, which is good, and we are back sharing a bed. However, we do not touch in bed. Or out of bed. And, frankly, I'm back to that bloody tune. The upshot is, of course, that I really ought to use tomorrow wisely (apart from being a taxi service again) and get some bloody work done.


Monday, 26 October 2015

Wall of Text Revisited

In which I complain about a bad Adam Sandler film that my children like and ruminate on the fact that the Depression has won, in a sense, in that there is no Anxiety at present and little joy.

First, the film. Hotel Transylvania 2. My children saw the posters and wished to see it, which they did with Tilly, and then took me to see it. Don't get wrong, I see the attraction of the slapstick in it and the joy in some of the voice acting. I see the fact that flashy sequences and the outrageous colour will attract and interest my two children. I even get why they both like the Blob character who exists, it seems, solely to take cartoon punishment and do very little. All of this is fine. But the roles and the not-so-subtle swipes at motherhood, parenthood, relationships, gender-roles, tolerance, women, non-violence... Ugh, it left a bad taste in the mouth. Women are feisty and interesting until children, when they lose all interest in their partner, all awareness of the world and become, in essence, boring. Children are just 'wimps' to be bullied until toxic masculinity allows pure, unadulterated, rage to pour out righteously and smite those who threaten them. It's every Adam Sandler movie ever made and it makes me want to erase him from existence. Luckily my responses to this are ready and may not need to be deployed, we shall see, the children were more interested in the Blob and the fact he rode an incredibly slow scooter.

The other, more boring, news is that it would appear I just have regular ol' depression. So I just can't seem to muster the enthusiasm to do anything at the moment. It means that I have not taken the opportunity offered by Tilly being away for a night to dress. I didn't even bother trying. It just seemed... not relevant. I've had a couple of ales, they were nice, but I have not reviewed them because that would be work. Hell, I've barely updated here properly for ages.

And that's about it. I had a scary moment with the car, managing to recharge after a parents' evening with 11% charge remaining and the charger is open at the nearby IKEA now, allowing free coffee on weekdays 'til 9pm and that's good. Also, it's closer. I shouldn't have another panic like Thursday again.

Tilly and I did discuss the discussion I have requested. I remain at a loss about things, and I find it hard to transmit that to her. Mind you, that's because I am a tad rubbish. Tilly has reinvented the past again, now my written admission of cross-dressing was noted but was confusing and too vague (the wording was something like "I want my partner to understand that sometimes I enjoy wearing women's clothes"). In short, there was no way that she could possibly have known that I was actively cross-dressing or that I liked cross-dressing or that it was a thing. No way. Yes. In that discussion she also suggested that I need to choose between accepting my cross-dressing and fore-swearing it as much as possible, like giving up smoking or drinking; or just find a way to therapy it away. Hmm.

Therapy was the main topic of discussion. And yes, I accept I need it. However, I also know that I shall undermine it as much as possible because, well, that's what I do. Also, it will cost and I can't justify spending what it would cost. By not feeling happy for such a long time I suppose I have once again got to the point where I could quite happily not do so for some time longer.

Today Tilly has worked on her book for most of the day and had a bath. Now she's gone to bed. Last night she was in bed early too. I am failing to have early nights. Or to spend time with her.

Plus ca change as I have said many times in the past, equally sarcastically.

Wednesday, 21 October 2015

Swarms and Myriads

It was darker, colder and less futurist looking, but that's about
the size of it. Plus an hour, in this case, to get some work done.
Interesting attack of the heebie jeebies this last twenty-four hours or so. Last night I charged our electric car and did some marking, which was good by and bye, and I returned home to do the pots and get myself ready for the following day. This was on the back of being on a trip that day (I really don't like trips) and missing doing the pots in the morning because I got up late (rapidly becoming the new normal). I woke at 3am, went back to sleep and next stirred at 6.37 - I was due in to work at 7.30 and it's a half hour drive in a morning.

Anyway, Tilly retired to bed whilst I washing the pots, I had barely seen her, and took the Boy in with her. Girlie is still sharing a bed with Tilly after breaking her wrist and I've been in the top bunk (as previously explained). This was done without saying goodnight. Come the morning, today, and I was up late again (so, the new normal) and managed to finish the pots from last night. I hadn't finished my marking and so I prepared a lunch-less day (I am putting on the pounds, I'm now 11st 7oz and counting) in which to actually work. This went fine until period 2, when I failed to work much, and then I had lunch anyway.

Yeah, that about sums it up.
The point is, I was down to the point I was at pretty constantly back when I started this blog. I was reminded at the start of the day that a colleague's thirtieth is coming up. Instantly we decided that the entire Faculty would head out on the Friday night (it's in May) and have a 'proper' do, families invited. My thirtieth was the day I learned that Tilly's depression was so bad I had to take a month off work (which I did) and ferry her back and forth to therapy for about six months or so (which I did gladly) and which ended with the argument in July a year later that started the events that led to this blog. I'm better now. I think Tilly is better now. But I am a poor human being and still, apparently, feel bitter that my own thirtieth was never celebrated (and nor has any birthday since - mostly at my instigation, granted, but still).

Despite my tone I am pretty sanguine about it. Why? I ascended my work-based swarm today and had about thirthy minutes of amusement getting as far as Neuroprophets in record time. I am easily pleased.

Friday, 16 October 2015

Cami-flaged

I think I must be the only person who is consistently surprised by stuff I do and think. Tilly often points out that I am permanently surprised by stuff that I've already mentioned, each time discovering it as if for the first time. So it always is. On the genderqueer possibility - I found a previous post with a test I took here. Did you see the result?

Worn the camisole for a second day. Daughter complained of being ill and now Tilly has retired to bed. I may even risk wearing my last remaining nightdress to sleep.

I have nothing else for the evening.

Thursday, 15 October 2015

Camisole-ful

Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a positive and
non-demeaning depiction of 'househusband' in image form?

Pictured: a househusband who may actually exist (though,
seriously, baby wearing on the front whilst dishwashing? This
is likely staged).

Not pictured: me.
Musings yesterday were followed, as one would imagine, with further thoughts and soul-searching in the evening and a late-ish bedtime. This morning was slow, languid, and not at all enjoyable - I heard my alarms go off in the morning and then simply watched the clock, all the while cursing my laziness, until I got out of bed. I rushed getting ready, had a bath and did the pots, and then left the house late, about 7.50am. At this point the house was asleep so, as is usual, I left in silence. I can't complain, after all, I tend to get sniffy and annoyed if the children wake up before I go and I have to be fetching breakfasts as I rush to get out of the door - I am not being sarcastic when I say I am pretty rubbish partner in the household and fulfil rather 'male' roles and opinions. In essence, I suck at being different and educated and informed.

Do meetings like this actually exist? Just who is she giving eye
contact to in this instance? Is she framing her breasts?

Pictured: successful presenter at a meeting sharing high
performance figures.

Not pictured: me.
Tired when I reached work I made the mistake of having a coffee and spent much of the day flying and buzzing, with my nose particularly twitchy and my prose garbled and quick - though I did manage to rein it in enough to actually have a stab at educating students. There's the member of staff that is still potentially a problem and my ultimate boss is keeping tabs on them, meaning that they are keeping tabs on the whole Department so as not to appear to be victimising a single member of staff. This does rather make me nervous given that numbers are far below what we'd like on pretty much all metrics and a meeting about this yesterday was honest and frank on what this means. I have plans, plans within plans, but they only count if we see some of them work. I've said it before and I shall say it again: I can inspire but I can't deliver the necessary numbers and letters in the right place and I likely never shall.

Pictured: woman in sensible coat with largely
sensible hair charges an EV.

Not pictured: me.
There was also having to get a cob on about various things. Anger, in measured but brilliant (as in bright light, not as in excellent) displays, was called for on a number of occasions. In short, my patrician style and traditional male input was required and dispensed. Lessons were had about domestic violence, patriarchy and the power of autocracy in Russia - essentially a cavalcade of patriarchy in action and under the spotlight. And I was traditionally patriarchal in my dispensing of the analysis, however much it may have been guided by feminism. As I write this, well, now as I wrote this: I was charging the EV up at the local services with their rapid charger (from 18% to 96% in 55 minutes - it does 20% to 80% in around 35 minutes - and so I can't complain). I read a bit of Private Eye and I wore a military surplus coat with trainers and trousers - because my clothing is important, see?

In short, it was a typically masculine day. As in 'typically masculine' rather than a day that was typical to me. I have tended to the car rather than childcare (itself an extension of gadgets and logic: I lowered the brightness of the display and was rewarded with even more efficiency, to quite a considerable margin too) and I have worked as the primary wage-earner rather than done home things. I had my food prepared for me so that I could eat on my return (including ingredients that Tilly does not like and a meal that Tilly did not share). Tilly even prevented the girlie from 'bothering' me as I ate because I'd "just got in from work" - this was, in my defence, over my protestations that I did not need 'protecting' from being 'bothered'. I am nothing if not a big, fat, walking stereotype of male-ness in a stereotype of a nuclear family situation. Parsons would love me and Oakley would illustrate treatise with my slovenly male behaviour.

Pictured: how I feel I must appear to my family,
my colleagues and readers of this post.

Not pictured: mainstream understanding and
depiction of patriarchal terror.
Lacking the imagination, education and courage to eschew gender binary trappings and all that they entail, this has led me to conclude that I am feeling masculine again. But here's the strange little kicker: all of this was done whilst wearing one of my camisoles and, oh, how I have missed wearing one. It was the aubergine (eggplant) one, or one of them, and I wore a dark shirt over the top. It felt reassuring, comfortable, snug. Of course, I am a coward, and so I took it off and hid it again on the off chance I would have a hug with Tilly (given the above on the family I can rather see why that's not going to happen; add in some inadvertent passive aggression on a card from me to her and you have all the ingredients of a typical marriage ploy of affection denial that just plays to the expectations of masculine and feminine roles).

I was feeling rather clever until I read the comment on the last post and realised that I am so much not clever that, sometimes, it's painful to observe. Basically I am, as I have always been, an agent of the status quo and the sort of boorish pillock that perpetuates both gender binaries and the genderisation of virtually everything from body spray to cup-holders. Even wearing a camisole, I'm just a male stereotype colonising the female experience playing at being a unique snowflake.

Pictured: me as a fork. The broken one.

Wednesday, 14 October 2015

Changing Titles?

Holy shit, yes, that's how I felt. I even
decided against watching Delta and
the Bannermen
 from Dr Who because
it was just too bad.

Or I was just too much in this exact
mood.
Yesterday I forgot my laptop, I left it at work, and so I was unable to go online. What an odd experience. Tilly was out celebrating her birthday and my own ineptitude meant that the car needed to be charged. As a result we haven't really spoken to one another since Sunday. Monday evening was spent with Tilly finishing her book, Tuesday with me charging the car and then her having fun (oh, how terrible: not) and tonight she's writing with her writing buddy.

But it was interesting. Yesterday a colleague and I were discussing the problematic teaching of gender and socialisation with our students. Our students are mainly true Blue and very middle-class. They see themselves as liberals but they really aren't - they don't like challenge to gender (even suggesting that all gender is predicated on genitalia to the point where they actually supported the idea of checking one another's to prove they were what they said they were - I mean, wow). So we were talking about maybe facing the students with someone who is actually trans* and having a Q & A session so that we could put to bed some of their wackier claims about trans* people directly (and also have them realise how rude they were being by asking and questioning some of the things they were questioning). And I thought: Wait, what about me? That is, why not come out?

I didn't have the laptop so I couldn't ask for advice. I had arranged a meeting with a senior member of staff that I could trust and intended to see if I ought to at least let them know. But, without a laptop and no advice, I bottled it and did nothing of the sort.

Is that good? Is that bad?

Yes, pensive, I guess that covers it nicely.
Then I got to watching some interesting shorts on Channel 4 today, having been told of a documentary by the member of senior staff I went to talk to about widening the horizons of our students. In that conversation, and this person is an awesome forward-thinking Trans* ally, they did problematically insist on referring to the people in the show without surgery as 'girls' and 'women' (correcting three times when lapsing into referring to the people in the show as men and boys), and that should have tipped me off. I've since read this article about it. Nevertheless, this evening, I watched some shorts entitled My Trans Story. Each of these is about 3 minutes in length and thus perfect for sprinkling into a class if the question of gender rears its head again (and the students, to their credit, are continually grappling with it). One of the shorts deals with genderqueer, so of course I watched it. Now, I realise that people are people (thank you Depeche Mode) and that any definition of genderqueer will suffer because it is rarely universal but this was so far beyond my own feelings and understanding that it has me worried. Have I, perhaps (as usual) been a bit quick to have a 'revelation'? I've updated the Visitor's Guide, for example, and also considered going semi-public with it. But what if I'm not? What if I'm wrong and I don't fit the genderqueer label - who needs labels - and I'm just leaping on a bandwagon.

Whoever this person is I both envy them and respect them
more every time I see the picture.

Damn' them and their hair!
Take last night. No internet, no chance of an early return of Tilly and sleeping children. Did I dress? Did I embrace my freedom? No. No I did not. I got out my box, laid it down, and proceeded to ignore it (watching The Watchmen) until half way through the film. I paused the film (some interruptions for people ringing to wish Tilly a happy birthday don't count) and carried the box back upstairs, had an ale and then went to bed. These are not the actions of someone experiencing genderqueer-ness. At least, I don't think so. Was I just feeling masculine? Was I worrying about the potential of 'coming out' the following day? (Yes) Should I 'come out'? To whom? About what? Do I change my title to Mx? (I think I'd like that) Do I want that haircut on the left? (Hell yes) Would I suit it? (Probably not, no) I any further action likely to fall under being 'rash'? (Knowing my usual pattern of behaviour, almost definitely, and I know from experience that rash behaviour rarely works out positively for me or those I care about)

On the plus side: Tilly had a lovely night out; the Boy decided, having wet his bed, to sleep in with me; the film was good and my ale, the dark one, has reached the point where it is actually rather nice to drink.


Sunday, 11 October 2015

It was the best of times...

Well, dang. I wish I looked as comfortable either way. And
that is a fantastic hairstyle. The more I see of this sort of
thing the more I wish I had the hair to do that.

Props to this person for being, well, so comfortable (though
they do look happier on the left).
If I'm honest, I'm uncertain how much my recent revelation is, in fact, an actual revelation. Part of me is cock-a-hoop that I have a definition that fits and part of me is just sitting here thinking, rather reasonably I might add, that it changes nothing and, well, I should have been able to work that one out far quicker than I did. Mind you, perceptions can have a huge effect on things, as I learned today in conversation with Tilly regarding my own issues and hers. Okay, that was vague.

Tilly had a mini-melt-down regarding things that needed doing. We'd been out to IKEA in the electric car (still cool, still causing me totally unnecessary worry) and had a good time (because we're that rock and roll as a family - we get to go to a furniture store, eat wholesome food, drop the children off at a play area and then wander the place as a couple and take notes - dang we're dangerous). On return the children and I popped into town to sort out birthday things for Tilly but the shop we wanted to go to was shut. Our eldest was in that mood where she was pushing to find something to complain about and I'd caved and got her a Kinder Egg, which may not have been my greatest parenting decision, so that we arrived home with a shouting Girlie and loud Boy. To my surprise, Tilly had been having a nap rather than working, so our arrival was not really welcome. After shouting down that she was having a nap both children, for different reasons, began shouting back up at her. I tried to quieten them but also realised the precarious nature of the situation. I began to move things in the kitchen to take them out into the garden.


Flappy little bastards.
I never made it. Tilly came downstairs in a grump to deal with the children, and she did, whilst I emptied the kitchen of stuff for the compost pile. I then sorted the Boy and then went and did some minor chores. Eventually, Tilly started getting out the vacuum cleaner, complaining that she was glad other people got to do what they wanted whilst she had to vacuum. Luckily I talked her down (by doing the vacuuming) and we had a chat. It turns out that Tilly believes I have not been my usual self in a depression and that I have, in fact, been much better than normal in this funk. Now, I'll be honest, apart from spotting this one a little earlier than normal I don't think I have been all that different. Tilly begs to differ and pointed out that I have made her feel less on edge and shitty. As a consequence she has found it easier to look after herself (the subtle, or blatant, blaming of her feelings on me is not missed however). Whatever, the point is that perceptions can have a big effect.

Ah, another wistful sigh for the things that I totally can't have.

Mind you, when would I have had the chance to wear them?
The shoes are no longer there. I cannot buy them, despite having the money. I have been to my local pub again, I got rather tipsy last night, and so goes the weekend. I'd say "not tipsy in a bad way" but people in the States may well disagree. I don't know. It's pub culture so your mileage may vary. Long and the short? I want to wear a nightie to bed again or a dress at some point. Most of the week has had this as a backdrop. Not enough that it's like the pink fog but enough that it's there at the back of my mind when I wake and at clear points in a day or of an evening. I even can. Since the Girlie broke her wrist she's been in with Tilly, meaning that I have been out and sleeping in the top bunk of the Boy's bed again. It's been about two weeks now. I totally could be wearing a night-dress and no one would know. But I won't, on the off-chance of being discovered and buggering up what appears to be a rather positive time at the moment.

Wednesday, 7 October 2015

Waaaait...

I just read the post again, this one, and then re-read what I just posted tonight (see previous post).

Am I...?

Am I, in fact, genderqueer? Is that me? I mean...

There's a word...

I said in the last post that, well, I'm not ready to be that. But... reading the post... Maybe I am. Yay?

Fuck.

Well, more likely, bugger. Now people will think I want to be some unique and individual snowflake when, actually, I'm much happier being anonymous. I'm much happier with no ego and Self to worry about, thank you very much. Shit. Also, I've read El Goonish Shive - a webcomic that other webcomics openly mocked back in 2001 when I first heard of it. A webcomic I promised myself I would never read on the basis of... some ill-defined reasons. Arse. I have become the sort of teenage twat I missed out on being when I was teenaged.

The Boxer

That seems to be the clarion call for all those in my circle at
the moment. And, interestingly, most of them seem to feel that
they are alone in this. I mean, not in the sense that they are
the only one to suffer, but in the sense that they feel that they
are the only one that they know who is suffering.

Or, you know, that they and theirs are alone.

What I mean to say is that they need not feel without support.
It looks like most of the people I know in the Real World are experiencing Depression (with a capital), Anxiety and assorted mental issues at present. There's a colleague at work unexpectedly going through a divorce that is getting messy regarding custody that is manifesting in severe and chronic depression. Another colleague, who is already divorced, has realised that this is the case (if that makes sense) and is struggling to cope with the onset of anxiety and depression that the realisation has brought about. Still another is struggling with the stress of having so much work on and being a parent to the point where they are physically ill. One friend of mine has been signed off work with severe Anxiety, with plenty of trigger causes, and another has been signed off with a combination of this and other issues (I don't know specifics, but I'm sure I can guess). Another is stressed over work-related incidents and, though not signed off (being self-employed), is struggling to balance this and parenting. Still another is undergoing a bout of severe depression connected to the status of a loved one (who may also be undergoing severe depression). At the same time many of my friends and colleagues seem to know someone in desperate need of support.


Patterns? Or just the mess of life and the chaos
of chance?

Are all humans autistic? I believe so.
Across the internet, it seems, plenty of people are struggling with huge issues, genuine illness and terrible responses to some pretty terrible situations. As ever this brings in the compare and despair response. These people are genuinely suffering - they are struggling as best they can through some pretty awful terrain and getting by. Just. And that tide is huge. I have long known that depression and most of these issues are magnified and more common in developed nations, that I have been blessed in knowing so few people who have struggled through this regularly (and, indeed, my friends have long been blessed by not having to deal with it) but it seems as though, all of a sudden, pretty much everyone I know is suffering at the same time. That it coincides with my own feelings is interesting to me in that it suggests that there may be some pattern in the confluence. Of course, that's just being human - autism is a facet of being human and that is attempting to find and create routine and pattern where there is none - in the world. And so it could simply be that I'm reading too much into it.

As ever, I find myself wanting. That is, others have cast-iron reasons for their issues and anxieties and concerns. They are struggling and suffering. In the meantime I'm pissing and moaning about nothing and finding things difficult because I'm lazy and for no other genuine reason.

Is no one else terrified by this?
In preparing for a new course I have been reading about emotion work and I happened across an interesting document shared on G+ about how it has become gendered, how it is gendered and how it can be seen and interpreted by people of both genders. It talks of socialisation and how males, in particular, are excluded from the burden of emotion work both to the detriment of themselves, being infantilised, and their often female partners. This is not unexpected but it was chilling in that I recognised myself in much of the behaviour being cited from males. I recognised myself as a male.

And, given what I've previously said about me and masculinity, I found that unsettling and challenging. I do not like that image of myself.

Well, who knew that there were fricking info-graphics?

Can we all agree that I suck at doing stuff to clear up my own
internal confusions?
Tonight I was directed by a friend, one who suffers clinical depression, to an article about masculinity. You can read it here. Now, I'm no nerd, and I'm rather unclear (despite appearances) about what genderqueer may mean. Let me briefly explain this confusion and lack clarity: all the definitions I have read have resonated to some degree or other but they have been rare and unique - that is, I consider the people to have plumbed those depths to be trailblazers and clever. It's a bit like me now having an electric car - up until now I have looked up to people who drive and use electric cars as they are saving the planet (a bit, more than me in my diesel at any rate). I have seen them as examples to live up to, sages to be listened to. Well, that hasn't changed, but now I have an electric car. And I am no sage. I'm not very good at being an example. I get worried when people drive up behind me and I'm aiming for a smooth acceleration so I slow them down. I am an example. It's the same reason I don't shout my Christianity from the rooftops: I am afraid I would tarnish Christianity. In much the same way, I am unclear about what it is to be genderqueer.

Well, that about sums it up, yes.

If only I had the bravery.
Back to the article. I have created my own Box, some of the edges and the sides of which I am aware and some I am not. the contents of my Box are often hidden, lurking in dark corners, and I tend to use it as the gutter I'm in when I'm looking at the stars (with apologies for Oscar Wilde) so I rarely look around at what is in there with me. Obviously I read the article in light of the document on emotional labour and the conjugal roles I have been looking at to teach about. In short, I may not be a Man but I may well be a man. And both of those definitions are anathema to me.

And that's all I have for now.


Sunday, 4 October 2015

She's Electric

It really is this easy.

Also: great scarf, cardigan, wrist thingy combo.
We have taken delivery of an electric car. And I shall confess to range anxiety. Not because the car is inefficient, or because it doesn't do what I predicted, but because it is new and terrifying. Also, black butterflies.

The drive is lovely. It is silent, almost, but for the science fiction whine of induction coils spinning something in them and the slight whistle of extra power being given when accelerating or the noise of it all working in reverse as I slow down for the lights, for roundabouts or just for turns. It is, to all intents and purposes, a lovely piece of kit. Since buying it the nearest rapid charger has been out of action, but there's another nearby and that has been working just fine. We've driven 158 miles since Thursday (this is waaaaaay more than usual) and it's been mostly plain sailing.

Apparently reactions in the States are more positive.

Also, loving that blouse.
What I wasn't prepared for was the barrage of anger and hatred. At work, I had checked I could charge infrequently for no longer than an hour a pop during the holidays. I was given a non-committal yes. So, I tried it. I was angrily told on Friday morning, by the Head and the guy who originally said yes, that I should not do that - and I should never do it again. Later, the Head spoke to someone else I know about the subject of having a charge point and said "maybe we could earn the school some extra money" - which is... well, a bit terrifying. Fine going for cost, but for any appreciable profit you'd have to charge solely for making money (at about 20p per hour cost, and maybe less than that, they'd have to slap a ridiculous £1 on top for any actual profit from the enterprise). It threw me out, did that, and the response of other people who complained that my having an electric car was threatening to them. Wait, what?

Several people have said they hope I run out of range somewhere, others have said that I shall change back soon, and still more have suggested they would vandalise cars being charged on the pavement as they represent a hazard to other motorists. Staff have said that electric cars are more likely to cause collisions with pedestrians, more likely to cause accidents and are more likely to kill because they're silent. To say I am shocked is an understatement. I was prepared for some gentle ribbing and misunderstanding and confusion but not quite this level of... whatever it is.

A busy weekend has made me lazier.

I was out on Friday night at a quiz night that I'd been strong-armed into attending. I was in a team with no one else I knew. Spurned by people I did know (maximum of eight to a team) by dint of turning up at the same time as someone else. I... did not have fun. It was like being at a parents' evening but with two parents for two hours. I got home late. I also travelled over two days' worth of normal mileage in the process - a fact that would have been bad enough with my old car but, coupled with the lack of charging that morning (and the telling off), just made me paranoid. I charged on Saturday, but was up later than expected. A trip out to shop, then to a local sight of interest (where I learned my right foot is buggered by fungus, I scratched it and it bled profusely) and two aborted charges were fraying my nerves.

Did I mention how good I was, and apparently still am, at Megazone?

I am, apparently, very good. I was never that good at University, but it turns
out most people did not play this at University nor develop my fiendish tactic
of never standing still for any length of time whilst playing.

It was brilliant.
I had a night out that Saturday, it went better than Friday - it was at a Megazone. I had fun. I charged on the way home (18 mins, 48% charge, £1 bag of onion rings) and had a late night as a consequence. Today we had company. I bought an extension cable, I charged (1hr, 10% charge, £20 for the cable) and then shopped for lunch before picking up chips. Take the company for a drive (positive) and then home. Feed children, eat own tea, now ready for bed.

Yes, I suck at work. I still haven't done any of the things I should do. Bastard flappy butterflies. It shall be a busy return tomorrow. But an early night can't hurt, right?