Quiet pleasures.

  In her recent post Better than the Past  Lynn mentioned the enjoyment of quiet time to get on with household chores while spending time not stuck in bloke mode. (Not that either of us, I think, would consider ourselves at all 'blokey'.)  It also coincided with the first extended free time I've had to let out my Susie side since the end of last August, so Saturday was a blitz of washing and drying umpteen pairs of tights and smalls after an early morning bottle bank run and to drop a repeat prescription into the box at the health centre. Then some quiet me time pottering about and watch the darts on TV (and idly checking off the drag fancy dress in the audience). Sunday evening I felt like dressing up a bit after a weekend slopping around in a jeans, sweater and flats jeans and decided I should release my inner Nigella before settling down with a bottle of wine. 

As I mentioned to Lynn, I wonder sometimes who I'm dressing up when I slip into something more constricting and raid the jewellery box: me, or an imagined beau? (And what would happen if one turned up, ideally bearing flowers and chocolates.)

Early Monday morning, after  a quick browse of the sales racks in Sainbury's, I popped across intending a quick walk through the nature reserve, to be confronted by a sea of mud on the approach path and decided I'd need something more sturdy than low-heeled ankle boots until it dried out a bit. So back home for coffee and then a trip to the library to return a couple of books and a quick trawl of the local charity shops. While I've long got over any embarrassment at buying woman's items in charity shops in boy-mode (most assistants either don't care or notice, and a sale is a sale) there's something a bit freer about doing it as Susie, where you pull things off the rack and hold them against yourself in front of a mirror to check the length.

How many, if any, of the shop assistants have made the connection between Susie and the bloke who browses the same racks most weekends is another matter. The sweet trader on the market, who I greeted twice on the same morning, first as Susie and then an hour and a half later as bloke-me didn't seem to notice anything or at least didn't comment. The real test, I suspect, would be if I encountered anyone from the local church group while out as Susie. So far I've dodged that one. *

*Postscript Tuesday: Well, that didn't take long to find out, when I got off the bus this morning an found myself directly behind one of the lady volunteers at the local church and who has served me Saturday morning coffee every week for five or six years. No hint of recognition, although she may have been absorbed in her own shopping trip. 

Out and about again. Annie's and Woodstock

 So what's a girl to do when she's left unsupervised and on her own for a few days? One answer is she starts checking her bucket list of Things To Do, dons a pair of (suitably padded) Big Girl Pants and goes into Dora the Explorer mode. (The other is that she leaves the bedroom in a state of complete chaos by pulling everything out of the wardrobe at once.)

One of those items was to have tea (or coffee) in a nice tea room. There's Costa's in the High Street, but it's hardly a scenic view staring at the Co-op across the road. And then there's Annie's Tea Rooms, by the canal lock and mooring in Thrupp, a mile or so up the canal. (Although by the time I got there, in this heat, it felt a lot longer.)

Which is possibly where I may have been read for the second (and possibly not the last) time that day, having already come face to face with a neighbour from across the road just moments after leaving the house. (And me in a nice new frock.)

After giving my order (and blanching a bit at the price list - four quid for a coffee?) I went to sit outside in the garden, and after a few minutes the lady who took my order came straight to my table saying "It's OK, I recognised you straight away"). Or maybe it was just that I was the only person wearing a dress - every other woman seemed to have opted for more sensible shorts or cut-offs and t-shirts in the summer heat. 

canal side library, with an 'honesty  box' in the middle between the shelves.

After which I decided I might walk back down the footpath along the Cherwell towards home. It was at this point Dora the Explorer took over when I saw a side path I hadn't ever been down and decided to follow it and see where it went. Which turned out to be not very far before I lost the trail (although when I emerged into a field I could see the spire of St Mary's in the distance.) There was also this curious little structure off to one side of the path. I've no idea what it was. It looks too solidly build for a birder's hide, and a bit out the way as a lone defence against the Germans invading Thrupp by sailing up the Oxford canal.

This was where things started to get strange. I had just backtracked to where I diverted off the path when a bloke with a dog asked if I was lost. I explained I had been but wasn't now since I knew where I was. And then he started asking me more questions, about who I was, where I'd come from where I lived and where I was going. This was starting to get a bit weird and uncomfortable, when two more women came along the path from Annie's, followed by another man and a dog. The first bloke then told me he was a policeman (as was other bloke who'd just arrived) and they'd had reports of a man exposing himself to people somewhere along the footpath. In the end I agreed it might be safer it I went back the way I came rather than carry on down the path, so I went back towards Annie's and the canal and rather than face the long walk back I hopped a bus home. I didn't wait to see what the other two women decided but as far as I could tell they didn't seem to come in for the same load of questions I did. So again, maybe it was just that I was coming from an odd direction off the main path. But you can get a little paranoid when you're standing there in a new frock being subjected to Twenty Questions by a bloke you never seen before.

No such problems the next day (Wednesday) when I decided on a whim to take a bus into Woodstock and explore the town and the grounds of Blenheim Palace. I knew there was a 'free gate' into the grounds just opposite the Black Prince. Despite the fact that the bus to work takes me though Woodstock every morning, I think I've only been there twice before, the last time when we went for a curry with friends. And this would be the first time as Susie.

 

Blenheim Place, showing all the modesty you might expect from someone who has erected a giant phallic symbol where he can gaze at it from his breakfast table.

After a couple of hours of wandering around it was starting to get a bit too hot, so I went back out to explore a bit of the town.

Opposite the free gate is Woodstock Water Meadows (more than slightly overgrown). And of course, she almost immediately finds another bridge to pose against.

Then a steep climb back into Woodstock proper, and a look around a couple of charity shops, a nice dress shop with a sale, and the Oxford Museum where I coveted a lovely Victorian dress (sadly behind glass) and had a far more reasonably priced coffee in the cafe garden.

And home again on the bus (although I do wish the lady I was chatting to at the bus stop had discreetly pointed out my eyeliner had run giving me a pair of noticeable panda eyes. I need to pack a small mirror next time.)

Quick fashion update. I saw these leggings (actually jogging bottoms) a couple of weeks back and couldn't resist.

Book sales, Bucket Lists, Bunnies and unicorns

 It's been another year so it's probably time for the obligatory 'girl on a bridge' shot. I took the first of these pictures on the same bridge back in 2021 (A Bridge Too Far - 4 July 2021)  and have kept it up on a semi-regular basis ever since, although the bridges sometimes change almost as often as the hairstyle.

(Also, who am I kidding with the 'girl' bit. I never got to experience being a girl, except in the confines of my own head, as Susie arrived - after a lot of missteps, denials, recriminations, purges and inevitable relapses - in 2015, when I was already in my late 50s. (Susie, of course, has shaved a few years off this, though it hasn't stopped her taking advantage of my bus pass.)

Another weekend to myself at the end of June while my partner is away, which means Susie can come out to play (this side of me is not something we can discuss, let alone share). 

Unfortunately, I had already committed to helping out at behind the book sale table at the village church sale on Saturday morning, so that put paid to spending time as Susie. While the local church is LGBT friendly, they don't know about Susie, and it might have come as a bit of an eye opener. (Being able to do one of these events as Susie is still on my bucket-list of wishes, though if it ever happens it'll need some delicate prep  and sounding out in advance, along the same lines as arranging to take part in this year's Witney Pride parade with my workplace colleagues as Susie.)

However I did get a couple of hours to get ready and go out for an early walk before I had to return home  and change back into male drab to help with the sale, although I offset the drab somewhat by wearing a Pride t-shirt. (A couple of customers had Pride pins or stickers on their coats or bags, so that was nice to see.)

By the time the sale had finished and we'd packed everything up and cleared it away, followed by a quick weekend shop, it was well into mid afternoon and getting a bit late to get ready and go out again, so I spent the rest of the day indoors or pottering round in the back garden as Susie. 

Another morning walk next day, back though the nature reserve at the bottom of the village and back up along the canal, in the course of which I encountered a couple of lost and bedraggled animals.

      

The poor sad-looking bunny looked like it had been fished out of the canal and sat there to dry off in the hope it might be reclaimed, though if it had fallen off a boat it might be some time before they come back. 

I have no idea what the fluffy moomin unicorn is supposed to be but I hope it gets reunited with whoever lost it.

I had hoped to put another dent in Susie's bucket list by visiting Annie's Tea Room at the top of the canal in the afternoon, but after the warm sunshine of the day before, Sunday afternoon's weather turned out to be more typical of a British summer in that it was dull, overcast and chilly. And then the neighbours across the road decided to spend the afternoon doing up their garage door, which made leaving the house en-femme a bit problematic, so I had to put off that idea for another time when the prospect of sitting outside with a book, coffee and cake might be more attractive. 

 

x

S

Witney Pride (slight return)

 One of the few photos posted on Witney Pride (Witneyhaspride) from last month's parade that doesn't make me cringe.

I am rather jealous of the propeller hat that the kid in front of me is wearing. And the Pride leggings of the kid behind me for that matter. I did see some in a charity shop a few days before the parade but they were size 6 or 8. Shame.

 

(Photos from GRH Vision, posted on  Witney Pride's Facebook page)

Happy Pride Month to everyone.💓💛💚💙💜

Susie does Witney (Pride)

 

If you clicked in hoping for a version of 'Debbie does Dallas' then sorry but you're probably better off looking elsewhere. Besides, I'm far too old for that sort of thing.

Last year I went to my first Witney Pride. This year my workplace decided to help sponsor the event and also have a stall there.

Since I'm approaching retirement, this year might well be my last opportunity to take place in the parade under the company banner, and so about a month back I put out a tentative feeler to a couple of people on the workplace Pride Network about the possibility of attending as my other self. And having got an answer that they were happy for me to come as whoever I wanted to be, that threw the ball back firmly into my court. That just left the logistics of how I'd manage it on the day, given I had to keep my plans secret from my partner, who would definitely not be on board, plus the strong possibility that I would chicken out at the last moment.

Come the day, I leave the house in morning with a suspiciously bulging backpack. Why does Susie need so much stuff to get ready? Other women can throw on a simple top, long skirt and sandals and leave the house looking fabulous. We part time girls need a small armoury of shaping, padding and squeezing, not to mention half a Boots counter of cover up and contour. And, given I'm about to meet my colleagues for the first time as Susie, a pair of Big Girl Pants.  Eventually Susie emerges, nervous as hell, and I make my way down to the Leys to where a handful of volunteers are setting up our booth before the march. Somewhat disconcertingly  Sarah recognises me instantly.

We spend an hour setting up and chatting with people in the neighbouring booths, helping assemble giveaway pride flags (red at the top) and then it's time to walk back though town to the meeting place for (after what seems an inordinately long wait) the start of the Pride march through Witney high street back down to the Leys. 

First Pride as Susie, and the first time I've outed myself like this to anyone in the workplace. Nobody batted an eye. Although the next week or two might prove interesting when I'm back on site.  Shame about the company t-shirts this year. Grey is so not a pride colour. I should have brought some face paint. And in keeping with tradition I managed to lose an earring somewhere along the march. 

Party time. The band onstage are the KokRoachez who did a rather fine set of pop/indie covers including a nice version of Garbage's 'Stupid Girl'. 

Out and about in Art Week

 

An unexpectedly long walk this morning, mainly because I forgot to check when the Oxfordshire Art week exhibition at St Mary's was due to open and arrived  around 10.30 rather than 12:00, which gave me another hour and a half to kill. Rather than go home, I went back down to the High Street and browsed in the charity shops. I think this was probably only the second time in five or six years that I've done local the charity shops as Susie. One slightly quizzical look from an old lady - although I might have been imaging it- but otherwise no one paid any attention. And the same back at the art show when it finally opened. (Some nice watercolors on display, and I was particularly taken with couple of the morning light on a Norfolk beach.)

Going out for an extended period the middle of the day, rather than very early in the morning (so I can be back in before the neighbours are up and about, which might otherwise lead to awkward questions), leads to a couple of questions: 

 Do I pass? - probably not at 6' plus heels, and I'm not confident about adapting the way I walk (even without finding I'd broken a heel when I got home). And:

 Does anyone in the real world (outside the TERF mafia) really take much notice or care? To which the answer seems to be no. Or maybe I just live in a nice accepting corner of the world. Then again, I'm not trying to challenge or push anybody's boundaries. If the most I get is a nod and 'Good Morning' from someone as I pass, I'm happy with that.

The Two Saint Mary's.

 

This morning's wet and somewhat muddy walk, although at least this time the fields weren't completely flooded, like the last time I tried this this walk. 

St Mary's in the morning mist, and the other St Mary's one the other side of the Cherwell (and across several very muddy fields)

Who knew Hampton Poyle in rural Oxfordshire was twinned the the Florida Everglades?

A friend I met on the way (who seemed very interested in what I might have in my bag. Sadly, no sugar lumps), and St Mary's again back across the bridge and on the way home. This time sans mist.

Canal dreams, passing and (apparently) passing.

The now obligatory annual shot of Susie looking out from a canal bridge. 

This time though, a different bridge and different hair. 

Perhaps I should think about renaming this blog 'Girl on a Bridge'. It does seems to be a recurrent theme.

One thing I've noticed is that even if I think I have overdone the makeup for someone just going out for a early morning walk, it almost never shows up on camera. I really can't decide whether that's a good or bad thing in the balance between the 'less is more' advice after a certain age, and being able to see my male self coming through a bit too obviously. Or maybe that's just me being hypercritical. Later on the same day when I went out again I walked right past one of the church ladies I often chat with. and sometimes walk part of the way home with. while she was waiting outside for a bus, and there was not a flicker of recognition as I passed her. Either that or she was being very, very discreet. Maybe we shall find out next week. Indeed I've often thought how lovely it would be to be accepted as Susie at the weekly coffee mornings.

xx

Fairy doors and other encounters

A long time ago, long enough that I've forgotten where I wrote about it, when I first started going out and exploring the outside world as Susie back around 2016/17, one of my walks led me down a side path off the canal towards one of the neighbouring villages. Almost the first thing I noticed when not keeping a wary eye for other people on the path was that a number of the trees along the path were adorned with tiny wooden doors and houses. There was even a sign hanging in one showing "This Way to Fairyland ->".

(I've grown a lot more confident about meeting other people when I'm out and now it's something I look forward to, otherwise walks can feel a bit lonely. This morning I lost count after exchanging about a dozen 'good mornings' and stopping to fuss several friendly dogs. I wonder if it's the walks I now I look forward to more, or the small social interactions as Susie, as a sort of validation/reassurance that I'm not seen as the terrible ogre the Tory right wing would like you to believe.)

The Fairyland sign is no longer there as far as I could tell when, on a whim, I decided to explore that path again this morning. But the little fairy doors and houses are still in the trees. In fact there seem to be more than I remember. Some of the additions, like the little wooden boat floating in the creek, were even more surreal.

Wiki has an entry for Fairy Door, and it seems to be something that started around 2015/2015 both in the US and in part of the UK (though it also warns of the harm that can be done nailing or gluing things on trees).  But it's an odd little form of rural art, or whimsy, a bit like the trend for decorating street furniture in towns (knitted hats on post-boxes, or scarves for lampposts). It's also rather charming.