… lavender.

Last night we finally got round to watching one of our Christmas presents – a DVD of the film Ladies in Lavender, staring Judi Dench and Maggie Smith.  It’s set in Cornwall and is the story of a couple of elderly ladies who live in a breathtakingly beautiful house on the coast and one day discover a castaway on the beach.  We instantly recognized Portloe and coastline between there and West Portholland.  As the scene moved to the pub we sang along to Goin’ up Camborne  Hill and I Love the White Rose and felt very much at home in this 1930′s portrayal of our homeland.  

The film ended as it began, with Janet and Ursula Widdington ( Judi Dench and Maggie Smith), dressed in lavender, frolicking on the beach.  

“Do you think that one day that could be us?” I asked Sue. 

“Yes,” she replied, “I believe it could.”

What a delightful prospect!

The seaward end of Bude Canal. There are several old canals in Cornwall, including one that ran near my old home in Newquay but to the best of my knowledge this is the only bit of 'working' canal left.

Regular readers of these ramblings can be forgiven for wondering whether the long silence since my last post is proof that home cooking was too much for me, and I poisoned myself.  Fear not, dear readers – I’m still here, but all the better now that my Sue has returned.

I mentioned last time that an adventure or two were in prospect. Perhaps ‘adventure’ was too strong a word, but here goes…

Monday saw me travelling up to North Cornwall for a quick visit to our cottage.  It’s unoccupied now, awaiting our retirement, and I was anxious to turn off the water supply and drain down the header tank. Mission accomplished, I went for a wander around one of my favourite bits of Bude – the canal basin with its impressive sea lock, and the beautiful canal-side walk up the valley towards Marhamchurch.  Apart from the seaward basin, the old canal is long abandoned and a haven for wildlife.  It also turned out to be a popular place with dog walkers and couples arm-in-arm, enjoying the warmth of a watery winter sun, and I quickly found

The narrow streets of Port Isaac

myself engaged in conversation about the wet summer and warm winter. How true it is that the favourite topic of the English (and the Cornish) is the weather!  

By the time I returned to the car thoughts were turning to lunch, so I set course for a coastal town that, in all my long years living in Cornwall, I had never visited.  Port Isaac is one of those ‘picture postcard’ villages – quaint harbour and narrow streets. Unsurprisingly, most of the shops, and even the pub, were closed for the winter, and I began to feel that I might have to settle for a picnic lunch from the Co-op shop, but thankfully The Slipway Hotel was open for business.  A small glass of white wine cost me more than a couple of bottles of decent plonk from that Co-op, but the tuna-filled baked potato was pleasant enough.  It will be nice to return one day when the village is a little more alive.

I had to work on Tuesday, but freedom returned on Wednesday when I drove over to Helston to meet up with a couple of new friends, Rachel and Emily.  They’ve recently started a much-needed support group for transsexual people here in the far South West, and it was lovely to get to know them better.  Emily even treated me to a tasty meal at a little cafe, clearly realizing that the way to this girl’s heart is through her stomach!

My wife has left me… but only for a week.  When Aunt Sarah returned to Newcastle after our New Year celebrations, Sue went with her.  Between them they have plans for a serious de-cluttering of Sarah’s home and I can’t honestly think of anyone better suited to the task than my Sue.  She simply abhors junk!

So I’m getting my first taste of living alone.  Yes, after 40+ years of marriage, this really is the first time for more than a day or so that I’ve had to fend for myself, since I swapped a mum for a wife. Call me naive, but I’m honestly surprised at how much of the day is taken up with preparing food and cleaning up afterwards, washing and ironing clothes, and cleaning the house.  In addition, I’ve set myself the task of emptying the spare room of so-called junk and decorating it.  Oh, and I still have to fit in my regular paid work.

I’ve been quite adventurous with my cooking – salmon steak on Thursday, lemon sole on Friday and chicken breast stuffed with cheese this evening.  But it really ain’t the same eating alone and I’m beginning to feel lonely.  To counter this, I have an adventure or two planned for the next few days, so watch this space.

Now that I’m the ‘wrong’ side of 60, thoughts inevitably turn to what life might be like, were I to be left alone.  I reckon I’d cope quite well with the practical tasks but, having never really been alone, it’s the companionship I’d miss. You see a beautiful sunset, watch a calf being born or hear a good story… who are you going to tell?

Auntie Sarah waits in vain for the sky lantern to develop enough lift to battle the wind

Plans for seeing out the old year and welcoming the new had been meticulously planned.  A fondue meal of rib-eye steak, baked potatoes and more than enough salad to make us feel virtuously healthy, all washed down with a bottle of bubbly, was consumed with much merriment. No risk then, that Mission Contol’s premier launch crew – Sue, Angie and Aunt Sarah – would suffer hunger, thirst or alcohol deficiency as midnight approached.

A sky lantern was prepared for launching, along with 5 rockets left over from November 5th.  Chief Stewardess Angie opened a second bottle of champagne and topped up the glasses.  On BBC1 the countdown approached its climax….  3… 2… 1…

Champagne glasses chinked.  ”Happy New Year!”  The first rocket shot skyward and the sky lantern was prepared for launch…. and there is stayed, held down by a stiff breeze.  Another rocket whizzed into the Cornish air, but the sky lantern simply gave up the struggle, descended into the fish pond and gave up with a fizz and a puff of steam.

The news from Mission Control is that inclement weather will persist for several days, so Sky Lantern 2012′s replacement is destined to stay earthbound for a while yet.  An inauspicious start to the New Year, perhaps, but one that failed to dampen spirits.

Happy New Year, everyone!

There’s been an interesting topic in the blogs of a couple of my friends recently, concerning honesty. If they form friendships with people who accept them 100% as women, should they admit that all is not as it appears to be?

By the time we get to the stage of living the female life ‘out in the real world’, rather than solely at transgender gatherings or in the security of our own homes, most of us have expended enormous effort, and probably spent a small fortune too, concealing or eradicating our masculinity. And I know that I’m far from being alone in thrilling when I’m addressed as ‘madam’, when men hold doors open for me, and when I chat with people who are blissfully unaware of my male origins. So, for me, the answer would be “Deny the past, keep quiet and enjoy it.” But, of course, I’m not looking to develop an intimate companionship. That really would be a more knotty dilemma.

The question of honesty does bug me, though, but for the opposite reason. Total transition is still an objective, not a reality. I live a double life in which my family, and most of my friends, know nothing of Angie. Over the next couple of weeks the subterfuge will reach its height as we welcome my brothers, my son and his wife, and my grandchildren to our home. I’m a good liar and will fulfil my role with love, skill and devotion, but all the time hurting because I look and feel ‘wrong’. There’ll be no perfume for me to unwrap on Christmas Day.

Whom to tell, and when, is not an easy decision. As my friend Jan reminds me, once told, such things cannot be un-told. But I’m beginning to realize that one person to whom I’m really being dishonest is me.

Outside the Theatre Royal in 2010. I have to keep telling myself that I really am making progress. Lost a bit of weight since then, though.

I think I know how the pheasant feels.  Now that my electrolysis sessions are weekly, I’m either recovering from one hair plucking session or bracing myself for the next one.   The sensation of having facial hairs individually cooked and extracted is hardly pleasant, and not to be preferred to eating tapas or reading a Fay Weldon novel, but in the main isn’t too painful either.  Well, it wasn’t until last Monday when the lovely Gaynor turned her attention to my jaw line.  Ye ouch! Having teeth drilled is mild by comparison, I told myself, though as I haven’t had a filling for 7 years, my memory could be fading.  What sensible person would put themselves through this if not driven by an irresistible need to be feminine?

One consequence of this intense treatment is that some part of my face has that ‘plucked pheasant’ look for most of the week, so it’s hard to look my best.  And looking my best is very important indeed when ‘Angie’ goes out with her wife.  To put it simply, the better I look, the more relaxed and confident she becomes. Consequently, even I had to admit that my appearance fell short of the mark as we prepared to travel up to the Theatre Royal in Plymouth yesterday to see J.B. Priestley’s An Inspector Calls.  So I went as ‘Mike.  

The play was excellent (and so, incidentally, was the pre-theatre tapas) but sitting in the Theatre Royal for the first time as ‘Mike’ felt distinctly odd.  With any luck it won’t happen again.

The combination of a fine autumn Saturday and the time to enjoy it are a rare combination, and one not to be missed. So today we loaded a rucksack with hot pasties (wrapped in tinfoil to keep them that way), chocolate cake and bottles of Oasis fruit juice, and headed out of county to a beauty spot on the foothills of Dartmoor.

We parked up in delightful village of Drewsteignton and followed the Two Moors Way down to a wooded valley, then up a fearsomely steep track, emerging high above the Teign Gorge, with the river glinting in the watery sunlight hundreds of feet below us.  A woodland path took us down to the valley floor and picturesque Fingle Bridge, with its put and surprisingly busy car park.  From thence we slowly ambled upstream, chatting with fellow walkers and a group of canoeists.  

Fingle Bridge

The return route took us near the National Trust’s Castle Drogo, but we turned down the chance to explore it and pressed on, across the quaintly named Piddledown Common;  appropriately named too, for there we eventually found a suitably secluded spot to do what blokes do with a lot more ease… if you follow my meaning.

Incidentally, you are permitted to conclude that this girl is completely balmy, wearing a skirt for a walk like this.  We met several groups of walkers on our hike, but none afflicted with a similar brain disorder.

My wife and I have made and important, life-changing decision.  I will resign my job next Summer, in July or August, and we will take early retirement.  Economically, this is not the brightest thing we could do, but emotionally the strain of dividing my life between male and female roles is taking its toll, and all the indications are that it’s going to get harder.   Moreover, the house we live in comes with the job, and whilst it is a very fine dwelling with a lovely garden, the pressure of ‘living on the job’ is affecting Sue.  Both of us are therefore ready to move on to the next phase of our lives.

Now that the decision has been made, there is much to do.  The pace of life noticeably quickens as we race towards what is both a finish and a start line.  I’ve doubled up my electrolysis sessions, so I’m being singed and plucked by the beautiful Gaynor every week.  The tenant who occupied our little cottage in North Cornwall has left and it lies empty, awaiting the arrival of someone to love it.  We shall start moving furniture up there in the Spring.  And last, but by no means least, my sessions at The Laurels gender clinic are now moving to the important subject of hormone therapy, with its own life-changing implications.

I confess to being inspired in no small way by the TV series My Transsexual Summer.  Sue has always said that she would seek work of some kind for a few years as she doesn’t yet feel ready to retire completely.  I’d resolved myself to a life of leisure but Drew has made me think again.  The holiday resort of Bude will be close by, and surely there must be jobs there as chambermaids or kitchen staff for a lady like me.  I grew up in a hotel (on the outskirts of Newquay) and have lots of experience of the holiday trade, so why not?  Ok, all this may be little more than ridiculous fantasising, but right now it’s inspiring me to press on.

What a lovely birthday!  The day began with messages on Facebook and my phone from friends, and cards from my nearest and dearest. During the day more cards and presies arrived, including scrumptious chocolates from mum (what girl doesn’t like chocolate?), a nice love story DVD (someone else clearly understands this girl!), a decorative mug and a wonderful bottle of plonk.

This evening my lovely wife cooked me chicken stuffed with pesto and wrapped in bacon, and I can tell you that top-quality restaurant food doesn’t come better than that.  But can you spot the present my wife bought me?  No, not the necklace or the earrings, or even the piano in the background.  

O crumbs, it’s true… Angie has changed her hair AGAIN!  This particular creation was acquired in Exeter last week, relegating the previous adorable mop (see  A Room at the Top, August 26th) to 2nd spot and a place in the ‘spares’ draw.  I know I’m nutz, but you’ll just have to accept it.  Amazingly, this one actually feels as if it’s growing there, and at the price we paid it darned well ought to!

So do I feel any older?  In truth, I feel younger, even though the bare statistics and the lines on my face declare otherwise, though for the latter I’m blaming shadows from the candlelight.  A new life is just beyond the horizon, the dawn is breaking and I have lots to live for… not least a wife who is ‘one in a million’.

‘Well done!’ Meg and Nicola.  They appeared today on ITV’s This Morning programme to talk about living as a wife and husband who, as Phillip Schofield put it, have gone from being ‘Mr & Mrs’ to ‘Mrs & Mrs’.

Meg was very honest about her initial feelings, when she had accused Nicola of ‘killing off my husband’.  But they stuck at their relationship, so much so that Meg now says the experience has actually made their marriage stronger.  That was certainly borne out by what we saw as they held hands and snuggled close to each other, whilst Nicola’s smiling face was a joy to behold.

One of my wife Sue’s greatest fears is that, when we too live together as Mrs & Mrs, she will be thought of as a lesbian.   Please don’t misunderstand that sentiment; she has asolutely no prejudice towards lesbians, she just isn’t one, so one of Meg’s remarks certainly struck a chord – “I’m not a lesbian,” she said.  ”I’m a straight women who’s trying to do the best, living with this person whoever she is.”

As we contemplate a similar future it’s lovely to have it confirmed that indeed we are not unique, and I can only hope that we find the happiness that they have.  The only disappointment was that, at the end of the interview we were invited to go to the programme’s website to learn more, but there’s nothing there.

Meg and Nicola, I wish you many, many happy years together. Thank you for bravely facing the TV cameras this morning.