Cacophony

    It's a cold day here in southern England. Of course, that's a relative term. A Canadian would laugh at our -2 Celcius, while a Jamaican might see it as a *very* cold day. Not the best time to be fixing a boat engine, but at least it isn't raining.
    I feel at the crest of a huge wave that's about to break. Not one of crystal-clear blue water but of murky brown sludge, all my travails of the last year and a bit. Losing a parent, being comprehensively sidelined at work, losing my wife, and doing my RLE for an extended period without HRT due to fertility treatment. I don't think anyone could come through all that without effect, and though I've probably managed better than some people would I'm starting to feel the strain. This week I had to make an urgent trip to the doctor for a carbamazapine prescription, my atypical facial pain flared up. Peculiarly intense, that.
    So more hearings, phone calls with union lawyers, and honestly rather depressing stuff. I have to make as much fuss as possible though, for the sake of those who come after me. Even if it does little to make me Employee of the Month, and especially even if it means I'm out of work at the end of it. As a debt-free dotcommer with no dependants that holds no fear for me, my only question would be which startup idea to pursue first.
    One way to close the door on the past is to move out of my flat. Probably go back to my dad's place, a 40-something living with her parent. But the flat while great for two is a bit much for one, I'm much better off out of it.
    Which kinda brings me to my boat engine and its leaky fuel pipe. I lived on this boat, once. I wouldn't go back to those days, not least because I'm not in a residential mooring, but it is something I will now have more time and money to devote to. This river has been the backdrop to a lot of my life since I was a teenager, and in a time of trouble it's a fitting place to return.
    Next month the river will be in spate, a boiling mass of angry brown water with the boat lashed to its mooring to avoid it being washed away. By May though all that will be a distant memory; the water lillies will be coming through and the fish will be hanging lazily in the oxygenated stream from the weir.
    I'll still be here.

Week

    So, it's been a week now. Since going full-time female, that is.

    How's it gone? Very well. Beautifully normal.

    If you're full-time, you have no alternative but to just seize the role and go with it. All those worries and uncertainties have to be faced up to and overcome, for the alternative is that the boundaries of your world shrink to almost nothing and you can't get anything done. Hardly the point of Real Life Experience, is it.
    So that's what I did. Just got on with it. Four days in the office, one in London going to the GIC, and two days back at my parents place doing farm stuff.
    I like my office. My colleagues wear everything from the catwalk look to the dishevelled academic look so as long as what I wear is appropriate for someone of my age and height I can wear the widest variety of outfits without looking out of place. I wore the dress in the picture on Monday because I could for the first time in my working life, but I could get away with everything from comfy jeans to million-dollar-meeting power dressing. Somehow I suspect the former will become my norm though.
    London was fun. A lot of firsts: trains, the Tube, London shopping, walking through Hyde Park. Which all seemed as natural as anything  as of course it should, as all those things were hardly new to the old me. It was too hot though. I didn't get my outfit half as wrong as the other GIC patient in her black suit and heavy makeup, but despite my summery top I wished I'd worn some lightweight trousers instead of jeans. Still, at least half of London's natal women were in the same position.
    To be honest, the surprise was my invisibility. I can't believe nobody saw me or that nobody clocked me, but despite my lingering worries nobody took any notice of me. Except for one group, the few women of similar height to me I passed in the street. Without exception they noticed me, checked me out and made eye contact.
    Women do not make eye contact with unknown men in the street, so this was entirely new to me. I have it seems effortlessly joined the Very Tall Women's Club.
    The GIC appointment was routine. See the doc, hand over the paperwork, ask for a voice and fertility clinic referral, get appointment for February.
    So that's me set then. I never thought this would happen.