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!

Wednesday, 27 September 2017

I'm useless, but not for long

Meanwhile, in stock photo land, this care home nurse has had
time to apply her make-up flawlessly and perfectly style her
hair before starting the 12 hour shift. She will, of course,
display no stress once it is over because her charges of sweet
old people will merely shake a little and talk to her of
memories. No one will need shit to be cleaned up and the
food will, of course, be prepared by someone else.
Sometimes things move quicker than one expects. My grandfather went to visit a place up where my mother lives this Monday gone and they liked him and he liked the place. He moved in today. And, more to the point, is a lot less confused. He is managing logical sentences and even jokes, looks like he was even more scared of the loud sweary guy in the hospital than we thought. The place seem pleased to have him in, my grandfather is the sort of helpful guy that people warm to, he always was - one of the reasons watching what happened to him with my grandmother all the more distressing (especially factoring in his loyalty). Anyway, yes, that is some good news. Still sobering when considering that I am watching at least two stages of my future, but good news all the same. I've said it before and I shall say it again, Him Upstairs knows what He's about.

Thank you, Laina, the original Overly-Attached-Girlfriend for
providing this almost stock photo of the popular conception
of what is meant by psychopath but actually totally isn't
what psychopaths are.

I like the photo though.
I had an interaction with a psychopathic student today, which was fascinating, and it went as one would expect from such an interaction. Not being able to link consequences with their own actions makes for a difficult conversation to have trying to get students to behave in a manner more appropriate to the situation. I also learned the difference twixt psychopathy and sociopathy - one is genetic and the latter is environmental (and can thus be 'cured' or ameliorated). At the same time Tilly had a run in with a young psychopath who was much more dangerous (he managed to menace our two and was behaving strangely around them whilst the mother divulged to Tilly about the time her child tried to smother her, just to see what would happen). This comes on top of a series of experiences in which other children with issues have been mean, violent or just rude to our two and our two have struggled to cope over the last week and a bit. I got the texts about this all at once this afternoon with another one, which is relevant in a moment.

Narcissus!
Coming home and talking about it... Tilly wanted to talk it out, like that time with the bus accident, and so 7pm - 9.30pm was 'talking about psychopaths' time with a break to get her some food (the worry meant that she hadn't eaten since lunch). Yay, such fun. Glad I didn't bring work home. (I got in at 6.45pm, for reference). I've been reading about ASD, ASPD and social relationships and wondering about my own stuff. Self-obsession again. Might I be a narcissist? Hmm.

Anyway, the other text that arrived in a lump at the end of the day was from this morning and I initially was bemused... no, confused. I did my usual in responding to it, which is to essentially lie by omission and assume it wasn't meant for me. I'm being circumspect, but it is an innocuous text, I just found it interesting how much I initially hide things. When asked to share and be a tad more open about things, with an offer of a conversation about chastity (an honest one), I dissemble and avoid. When offered actual space to chat I move instantly to jokes and ignoring issues. Fascinating.

In work news, my head is above water. So far. I am, however, struggling to get out bed in a morning. I wake up with my alarm, or a bit before, just fine. But then struggle to get the motivation to leave bed before 6am. Today was 6.10am, which meant another day without a bath. I am managing to get the pots washed and dried though, so that's good, I guess. I did skip breakfast though. Ah, boredom induced, time to get going.


Sunday, 24 September 2017

My Future

You get the idea. Stock photo.
Went to support my mother on Saturday. Originally we were meeting up to sort out my grandfather's house. See, since my grandmother died he has been going steadily downhill: Parkinson's; Alzheimer's; potentially a touch of Dementia. He was taken into hospital a while back and had an order placed on him essentially confining him there until his house could be made safe. His house can't be made safe enough. He needs round the clock care. My mother is too far away to provide this and is attempting to sort out a place for him. But it's taking longer than we thought and so we can't sort the house yet. Anyway, yes, I drove over to support her and visit my grandfather.


This is French but still...
He was a decent sort of chap, you know, and apart from one or two rough edges was a tolerably nice guy. Seeing him was... sobering. It took him three hours to get across the idea that a ward mate was making him scared in the night because they shouted swear words and threats. I get the impression they got personal. It was hard to talk to the nurses about this - what can they do? Space is limited, they can't move either of the people involved and my grandfather can't have a private room in case he injures himself. He'd packed all his stuff when we arrived, as he does every morning, and was waiting in the corridor - like he does every day - because he is desperate to go home. Not that he can communicate any of this any more, his speech is hopelessly mixed up now. Words appear almost at random with just enough internal logic to allow for some understanding on the part of the listeners.

Or I'm a dick, we'll see.
And it struck me, in my selfish way, that both my mother and my grandfather represent my future. If I am ASD and if that is from my mother and, in turn, from her mother, then I at least have Dementia on the way. My mother has many of my grandfather's traits and so do I. Which means I probably have Parkinson's and Alzheimer's too. And, before that, I'll have to deal with my mother hitting those points because it's unlikely that my brother will. With my mother's husband dying of cancer there won't be anyone to look after her other than me. Tilly won't have her in the house, of course, and I can totally understand that.

The point? This was sobering. Scary even.

Thursday, 21 September 2017

I am a Stegosaurus

Not pictured: me

In the office, I am the one sweating like a pig under the brown suit, stifled by the atmosphere, babbling about something only tangentially related to the question asked. The interviewer, busy and over-worked, scribbles down notes, attempting to appear innocuous but mired in judgements, numerically noted on the paper as inscrutable as it can be done. Of course, I catch the parade of zeros and twos, occasionally a one, and can see the words going down but, for once, I am unable to read the writing upside down. Either the handwriting is carefully created to be unreadable or it is an accident of happenstance, no matter, my usual trick of keeping tabs and responding accordingly is lost.


Me as a child
The discussion covers childhood through to adolescence, taking in sojourns to my adult life, always searching and probing for specifics that, as usual, desert me. Whole words, phrases and ideas flit away like mist when I grasp at them, though there is no pressure but the fact that the window won't open and the cold autumnal weather has cleared for a moment to allow the summer temperatures in beneath a leaden grey sky. Now and again, in the six hours, there are bursts of sunshine beyond the small window behind the interviewer's head. We cover the creepy behaviour of that cold child in school, the one that pretty much stalked the objects of their affection through classes and between home and school, the one that never received that which was sought simply because, like Neiman in Camp Weedonwantcha, it made them look wrong, out of place, and just plain weird. Questions were asked about development and academia, it was noted that there had never really been a struggle, how no learning difficulties were really present. It was noted that arrogance was a constant companion, unwarranted but still there, and how reactions to some of the less academically rigorous tests (like the fucking eyes one) were somewhat extreme.

Me in my head. But brunette.
He was a not nice boy, I said of the strange youth at Scouts that would physically assault others because they bullied or broke rules in games, no mention of the titanic rage or the fact that this boy just didn't fit in with the masculinity on offer. The affectation of being blase about it all. As an opening gambit - what would I wish for if there could be a swish of a magic wand - was itself an attempt at shock and awe, the arrogance of youth still there in all its tarnished turd: to die. What should have been said was to be deleted from History.

Had this cold child not been born then maybe the sister would have survived, being a first child she would have been closer to the parents, not in a crib outside the bedroom as had been learned with the noisy bastard who preceded her. Had she lived then the stresses that followed that death, made worse by the ever-accusing glare of that strangely quiet little bastard with the stare and the insistence in the grunting that would eventually become speech, would have been avoided. A marriage may have been saved by the affairs that never happened and, with that, the move that would never have become necessary to attempt a new start. The brother would not have been as extremely 'favourited' and so, if divorce did come later, would not have had so bruising a fall and so nasty a punishment from both of the parents as they strove to come to terms with the realisation that they had a favourite and it was the same child. Without that little shit there would have been no up-ending of friendships in the primary school on the hill, no brooding jealousy from a young boy with largely uneducated parents bombarding for so many years with the horrendous phrase, insidious and evil: "why can't you be more like him?"

So much easier.
No one to threaten people by being so different and strange, by being not of this world, by being a little less than human. No whiny little runt sapping the will of the Form Tutor to deal with their charges in a humane and supportive manner and thus no turn into derision and sarcasm as the go-to when faced by those who were upset. No victim to feed the bullies. No one to hit that girl with a chair in an after school club that had strangely no repercussions. No one to send those post-cards years apart to some poor sod who had no idea, but a sick inkling, who sent them nor how they got her address. No one to corrupt the girl at University looking for her first romance with 'dry runs' and pressure to conform to what amounted to sexual assault but for the poorly given consent from someone who didn't know better. No one to foment the divisions in a social group at University, to feed the petty squabbles out of a desire to interact because they did not understand human interaction.

Tilly would have stayed with Scrabble Boy, empowered when she dumped him and had children with someone who would not have introduced the genetic coding for ASD, thus preventing at least two more autistic children from entering the world. A boss who would have kept his choice for a job, created that person rather than having that resentment at having been wrong but being unable to place why eat away at his soul. No constant reminder to slowly drive him over the edge and into the abuse of trust in a relationship with students nor bullying of his staff. From that, no departmental issue for an incoming Head of Department. No quisling who went to another school only to return. Toby would have calmed earlier, found a secure relationship quicker and perhaps enjoyed herself more, maybe even stayed friends with those with whom she shared a house rather than employing a little entitled shit as a means to sow discord.

That was the real answer.

It was a six-hour appointment. I didn't realise how gruelling until I tried to function today and found my ability sapped. Until I realised just how much I couldn't give a shit and how little enthusiasm remained. Will it end with a diagnosis? Probably. Maybe not. It's another three months until I shall know. Were I deleted from history my interviewer would have had a better Wednesday, that much I am certain of, or at the very least helped someone who might actually benefit from the interaction rather than the piece of shit they got who will most likely undermine or subvert whatever comes from it.


Thursday, 14 September 2017

Corsetry

Still a lovely image of a corset.
Not long after the relationship with Toby foundered I was, for some reason, in a house with people preparing for a Princesses and Pirates fancy dress thing. Lord knows why. I recall asking one of the ladies there present, for whom Princesses were anathema (it was mainly a Pirates fancy dress), why she wore a corset (all the women were wearing corsets). She offered to explain by dint of getting me one. I turned her down. Later, I went home alone.

I think I was meeting with some friends of mine for some reason. I cannot really remember too much about, the break up with Toby was still a little raw and I recall that I wasn't eating properly, if at all, at the time. It is a fairly common stress-response, I now know, but I probably called it fasting because I am a pretentious little shit.

But what if I had said yes? That is the subject of tonight's fantasy used as misdirection.

The obligatory line-break follows, click onward at your peril.

Rant rant rant

As I said the last time I used this image,
I rather think that it is.

But how?

At the moment I got few ideas.
I was hoping to find the time to set some records straight on this here place where I strive to be honest: changing my references to Toby to, uh, well, Toby rather than my 'Mad-Ex'. Part of the exercise in retelling events on here has shown that, despite appearances, it was I who was her Mad-Ex rather than she mine. I'm not saying she was entirely balanced, but I am saying that her characteristics are precisely why I ended up having a relationship with her and that I didn't exactly treat her well. In short, blaming her for my responses to her is a tad disingenuous.

I also wanted to come on here and update on my search for a diagnosis. By now the Boy has been diagnosed officially with ASD (and would have gained an Asperger's diagnosis were such a thing still available, so sayeth the professionals making the diagnosis). We have begun the process to gain a diagnosis for the Girlie, despite Tilly's initial reluctance to pursue it on the grounds that it would make parenting her more difficult, apparently, and she would blame her bouts of PDA (Pathological Demand Avoidance) on that rather than... uh... just being PDA or something. And, now, my own 30 month wait for a diagnosis session is at an end. Next Wednesday is my date with the doctors (or whoever) for a chance to be tested.


Yes, this face. The 'ah fuck, this again' face.

The worst bit is, the move of job and the consistency of the
feeling rather suggest that it is not just in my head and it is
not 'Imposter Syndrome'. I'm just actually as shit as I think
that I am.

No, I'm wrong. I'm shitter than I think I am.
Also, this is the time of year where I usually come on here and bleat about being stressed at work and how difficult it all is. This is all still true but at least my results aren't as bad as last year. I had it confirmed that I was being 'gunned for' last year and believe my immediate boss has actually, as he stated, shielded me from most of it. I know he is a 'Smiling Assassin' but his method of telling me, off-hand and in the middle of something else, suggested it was truth rather than a mind-game. This is worrisome but not unexpected and I was aware that something was up. We'll see if my results actually make any difference in this regard this year, but I know that my ultimate boss, the Head, is not terribly hot with facts once he has formed an opinion. In other words, better results may not provide much armour against an already formed opinion that I am a drag on results. I mean, in that, I don't think the Head is all that wrong.

No, instead all of my thoughts on such matters are truncated snippets.

Oh, to be that useful and effective.
Today I got a text, an angry one, from Tilly. I hadn't dried the pots this morning. I also didn't dry them on my first proper day back at work last week (Wednesday). This constitutes consistent inability to get things done. She warned me that the failure to have the pots dried was "messing it all up" as it was hard enough to keep going with the "meals thing" (we have a whiteboard now on which Tilly writes what meals are on what days). She was "not being stroppy" and "not moaning" but both were followed by inevitable 'but's. Of course they were. She was at pains to say that it was "it" messing things up, not me. But as the "it" in question was me not drying the pots I am uncertain as to what difference that apparent clarification makes. I suspect none at all.

I didn't, and don't, know how to respond to that. Last night, as Tilly snapped at me tonight, she had asked me to get the pots done. But I ended up marking some papers (as I said I was going to) having got back from work around 7pm, looked after our youngest and made my own tea, starting work at 9.30pm and retiring to bed around 11pm. I did not find the time to wash the pots last night. This morning I really needed a bath, I haven't been able to clean myself since Sunday evening (itself something of a compromise that was reluctantly made by Tilly). I also had to make the lunches and sort out the chinchilla. I did wash the pots. I got up at 6am (my own fault, I intended to get up at 5.15am) and had completed the lunches and had a bath by 7am. I washed the pots until 7.25am. I had to get into work early-ish today to finish up some resources for colleagues. I did not manage this but I did get in early enough to get some reports done for the Governors and some urgent reviews of other things done (I'd forgotten they needed to be done, deadline is tomorrow). After that I managed to get planned for the day and then it was teaching. I digress.

Well, yes.
But Tilly told me that the pots needed to be done last night, for cooking lunch and tea and both children needed more input and she can't do that and dry the pots whilst looking after our youngest. So why weren't they done when she had specifically stipulated that they needed to be done? It's the difference between the Girlie doing maths and drying the pots and it was a consistent problem. Frankly, she told me, it would only have taken 15 minutes last night for me to dry the pots and I could have washed them this morning (the feat of drying pots that were not washed was not an issue apparently) as I did and all would have been fine. So, you see, she wasn't being stroppy or moaning but she was snapping and being angry as it is a consistent problem. My pointing out that she didn't have to make lunch and tea was another source of irritation, yes she did, not necessarily on the same day, of course she used the "shitting lunches" that I made but it could be lunch or tea, so that was clearly both. And she needed the stuff I'd washed and why couldn't I just dry it? I keep asking how to help, well, she said, this is how to fucking help.

So, Aspergic twat that I am (or just a twat, we'll see on the first bit) I come on here to plead my case. And what a fucking case, eh?

See, burying head in the sand is a valid tactic if, like
me, you are, essentially, a lazy cunt.
Once again, Tilly started ranting about not having the place tidy (but she can no longer blame my work stuff as I stopped bringing it home) and heavily hinted it was my fault (it really isn't and can't be any more, and I do have to tidy downstairs in order to sleep each night, so it's not like I don't do anything there). She also repeated the claim, as I recall from 2010-13, that washing up only takes 5 minutes as well as drying not taking longer than 15 minutes. For reference, it takes 15 minutes to fill the sink at the moment because the hot tap is knackered in the kitchen, but who's counting? She didn't want to end up snapping at me, but I was goading her into it by not having things done and, in fairness, I did raise it this evening.

Oh, I'm sorry, is it obvious I'M FUCKING FURIOUS!?
I want to say "I told you so" but there's nothing to be gained by that. There was a fucking reason I didn't want us to have a third child. Tilly has a book to write, we have to support two ASD children who are fucking difficult to properly support and a fucking drain emotionally and in all other ways. We love them but by fucking God they can be hard work. And we have gone down a route of home schooling. I knew all of this. So did Tilly. I fucking knew she couldn't fucking cope with another child any more than I could be fucking arsed to offer any more fucking support. I am a fucking failure of a supportive spouse, I am very fucking aware of it, and I fucking said NO TO A FUCKING THIRD CHILD YOU STUPID BINT!

But here we are. We have a third child. And no, Tilly cannot cope. And she is snapping at me and I can't do enough. As I predicted and as I remonstrated. For all the fucking good that did.

For those keeping track, it's been over a year now. I add this simply to be an arse and somehow garner sympathy for my cause and ranting. It's a cheap shot. When it's been two years maybe, maybe, I shall have a reason to feel aggrieved. Mind you, as I've said, frankly: I can't see us having sex ever again. I don't get anything from it and I can't provide what Tilly wants in terms of the emotional connection so... Poor privileged white boy over here bemoaning first world issues. What was it Bill Wurz said? "Some people don't have enough friends, some people don't have enough food." I think that about sums it up.

Yeah, done now.


Tuesday, 5 September 2017

With Us Until You're Dead

The first in a series of outfits. I returned the
shirt and jeggings. I ruined the tights with
urine play though.
Three days and nights without the family again, but this time it was at the end of the holiday period, giving me a full Friday and weekend with a Monday back at work. This was the last weekend that I had and it ought to have allowed me to get back on top of my beer blog postings and maybe even post here with some of the thoughts that have been chasing round in my brain, but of course that didn't happen. I have discovered, if that is the right word, the site WriteForMe - I mean, I've known about it for a while, but over the last week I got a bit hooked on doing typing lines as a task. Don't ask me why. I want to say it is a sexual response thing, I'm odd enough, but I'm not sure that's the whole thing.

Okay, this is not unusual. I know that most people who do 'line-writing' do it for the sole purpose of entering 'sub-space' and gaining the sexual high from being ordered to do something for pointless reasons. A reading of a smattering of the tasks on there will reveal that there is a core of 'safe' humiliation, of the sort that people call humiliation but isn't really, being grounded as it is in such stereotypical notions of what gender roles are for that it is so far removed from actual reality to be anything other than a created, pernicious space. An assumption that to be humiliated is, itself, a feminine notion when that just doesn't tally with the research I have read. It is a notion peculiar to males that humiliation involves 'feminization' - and the inverted commas are deliberate - and that speaks volumes about privilege and the constant spectre of toxic masculinity.

Friday night's outfit. Only the bra and collar
were new.
And that was the evenings, until very late (sometimes 1am) in the week leading up to Tilly taking the children to see her parents. Her father hasn't met the Third Child yet and so that was something that needed to happen. I arranged, via GetDare, a programme of events involving dressing and whatnot. On the Friday, after work, I went out and got some supplies involving adult nappies (I've mentioned urination as a thing I have wanted to try since around the age of 13 before, it wasn't until I was about 24 I even realised that it was a relatively common, if niche, sexual fetish), new feminine pyjamas and a welter of clothes from a supermarket. I spent maybe £100 on clothing (shirt, jeggings, hooded top, jogging bottoms, bra [in my actual size, 38B in case you wondered], knickers [matching and lace], the aforementioned pyjamas), padlocks, sandpaper (for sitting on), new collar and leash (from a pet shop), adult nappies and incontinence pads. I even wore a nappy until I peed in it too. Then I dressed and did some tasks from GetDare before retiring to bed in the new pyjamas and bra. It was lovely.

The PJs I kept. No idea why the photo is
upside down. A snip at £7.
In the cold light of dawn I realised that I couldn't really justify blowing £100 on such things and took £50 of clothing back for a refund. But I did end up spending much of Saturday afternoon into the evening and on into the night dressed and doing random tasks. The one that should have been the best was to dress in that dress from way back (my first crossdressed pictures on here) and doing cleaning jobs before changing into a more formal dress to do some dancing. I even found a way to attach the wig that I rescued long ago properly and brush it. The build up was exquisite and I was really looking forward to it. Imagine my confusion when I got to the dancing and rapidly found myself unable to dance or hold a beat. I just couldn't get into the music properly and ended up feeling like I used to when I went clubbing - empty, vulnerable, stupid and worthless. I damn near cried in the toilet and just tried to bull through with some other tasks whilst feeling awful for ruining what should have been a brilliant moment. It was like being back at University again, in a party or at the club or just surrounded by other people. This was real humiliation and I was entirely alone.

Still one of my favourite shots of me. These are
mostly the clothes I cleaned in.

I struggled to get a picture of the dress and me.
I could have just stood in front of the mirror.
But I didn't. As an interesting aside, the tight
dress and bra, stuffed a bit, made it look like
I actually had small breasts in this shot.
I was actually trying to get the hair out of my
face so I could see the phone screen clearly.
The interesting detached thing is that I kept the dress, bra, knickers, wig and bracelets on but took off the necklace and collar. I even kept the shoes and tights on. And I felt comfortable, but only kneeling, it didn't feel 'right' to sit down in that finery and I couldn't so very well operate the computer when on my feet, so kneeling it was. Not in a sexual or submissive manner, just kneeling. Regardless, the upshot was that nothing much of anything productive was done on the Saturday. Before bed I ended up packing the remaining clothing away with the rest of my cross-dressing wardrobe and putting it all away. I didn't even sleep in my new pyjamas. On the Sunday I ended up getting some odd jobs done and generally getting a bit bored.

Don't get me wrong, I masturbated like crazy (for me), because you needed to know that. But I didn't dress. I felt like I didn't deserve it. I went back to work on Monday, yesterday, and got some work done. It was almost a productive day and everything. Then I picked up the family from the train station and we went home and had take out. Tilly does care about me and does try to be loving. She had arranged to visit a micro-brewery before heading down, went, and brought back a selection of ales after discussing my tastes with the brewer there (previously arranging this online). It was very thoughtful and I am very happy with the beer she has returned with - even the children were very excited to give me the ale as a present and felt that they had been fully engaged in the choosing of the bottles. It was a lovely gesture. It may be Aspergic or just being a dick but I don't get much of a feeling from it for myself. I pick up on what the whole thing meant for Tilly and the children, and that is good to know I suppose, but I don't feel much from it myself.

An older, better, photo of the formal dress.

The hooded top and jogging bottoms (leggings?)
that I tried on but then returned because I could
not justify spending so much on them.
They were £7 each, for reference.
Tilly and I chatted over takeout. We have watched Game of Thrones together over the holidays on the same sofa, taking holding Third Child in turns as we do, but we have been no closer than normal in this time. Eating and talking last night was similar in this regard. I think Tilly is finally getting something from our conversations, or she has grown used to getting nothing, hard to tell for certain and I'm not the right person to ask. But there's been no real change in terms of what I get from them, Tilly is as much an enigma to me now as she was back when I started this blog.

At work yesterday I was playing with handwriting and words, as is my wont in staff meetings when I am bored, and it occurred to me that the name I actually use on this blog is odd. It is derived, carefully, from personal choices with a flick toward a taken name (like when women change their surname when married). I used to write under the moniker of Joanna Atkins and so the change to Joanna Cale was a symbolic semi-submissive gesture intended to mimic being married as a woman. But I gave myself those names. Toby related a dream once, early in our relationship, which I have related here before. She had dreamed that she was a man named 'Toby' and that she was introducing me as her girlfriend to people she knew and called me 'Rebecca' or 'Bex' for short. It is why my posting profile on Rachel's Haven (when I go there, which is not often these days) is signed off as 'Bex'. And that reared up loud and proud. Because Bex (or Rebecca) is not a name that I gave myself, it was a name that was given and, briefly, even used in place of my own name by Toby. It never occurred to me at the time to do anything other than answer to it and certainly not to return the favour. I should have returned the favour. Just to see and try it out. It is why she gets called Toby here, a sort of debt paid if you like in a forum she will never see it, which is a shame.

Another attempt to capture that dress on
Saturday night.
As an aside and digression, a friend of mine is doing something similar with an excellent piece of ongoing fiction called 'Stupid' and that is what had started me on that particular road of rumination. Nonetheless, the reflection resulted in a new name that could be used - which I shan't reveal here in case I want to use it for a side project - and I found myself writing it out to see what I could do with it. It would take a significant deviation from my normal acquired handwriting style (not my usual, it was designed as a 'neat' hand that was not my own, to disguise my hand when writing things, it is largely successful unless you know me because one thing it does not hide is the pressure of my writing and the heaviness of my hand) to render the name well and that, in and of itself, is something I found very interesting. Which, obliquely, brings me back to WriteForMe and the notion that the name could be set as lines to get used to using it and typing it. Like in old books when the female character would practice their name with the surname of the object of their oddly desexualised lust because women don't feel sexual attraction, they brood for the children they would have. Or something.

I am totally aware that all of this is escapism. I have avoided the news in the car for the whole holidays and dipped in to world events only through the occasional lens of John Oliver, Stephen Colbert and the Daily Show over the last seven weeks. I can't quite deal with it, as related in previous posts, it's all a little too much at the moment.

Why post all of this? I don't know, but here it is regardless.

An older shot of me attempting to curtsey. Tilly has
now worn and used the dress and it was thrown out.
By Tilly, not me. I was unable to rescue it.