Mousies ate my boobs.

The mice have been at my tits. Luckily I wasn't wearing them at the time (I haven't had an opportunity to express my Susie side for months) or else it might have been even messier, or involved a lot more screaming. At least, I assume it was mice from the scattered filling on the floor and chewed bag.

Without the benefit of shapewear and padding, Susie has all the contours and curvature of a broom handle, with not even enough natural - or easily fakeable - décolletage to fill even a modest 34A bra. If I want a bit of projection out front (and who doesn't?) some artifice is therefore required.

While I was only dressing at home, early experiments with water filled balloons provided a gratifying weight and bounce, although two or three soggy accidents suggested this was not a good look if I wanted to take things outdoors. Pop socks filled with birdseed (or in my case pearl barley) was the next solution and while less bouncy they work reasonably well, especially inside a slightly padded bra. 

I had noticed a small amount of - er- leakage the last time I wore them, but put it down to the wear and tear of being stuffed into a push up T-shirt bra time and again.

I also knew we had a mouse in the study. I'd seen something small and dark scuttle across the floor one morning. We caught it in a humane trap and released it back into the wild at the bottom of the road. I never thought to check the spare room where Susie's stuff is stored away until this morning when I found my boobs, and the bag I store them in, had been chewed though and the contents all over the carpet. Luckily I still had the remainder of the packet to effect a hasty reconstruction.

The trap has been duly moved into the spare room in case the culprit (if it wasn't the same one) is still there and nesting in Susie's unmentionables. It's probably time to have a good clear out there as well while I am at it.

S

Two in the morning

 

I reach over over and switch on the lamp.

“It’s nearly two in the morning for Christ’s sake. Two questions: who are you, how did you get in and what are you doing here?”

OK, three questions. Perhaps I shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine.

But once I am able to focus properly I already know the answer to the first one. The other two are going to take a bit more working out.

I look over the girl standing by the door as she tugs nervously at the hem of the too-short dress and fiddles with her hair. She looks both scared and elated at the same time and probably just as bewildered as me. I recognise her of course. She’s younger than I remember and wearing far too much makeup. When did I stop using blusher? The wig – a cheap and overly shiny Halloween blond bob – is a giveaway. And the too-thick eyebrows. She hasn’t quite found herself yet. She will. My heart goes out a bit.

“Are you ...me?” She looks a bit shocked. Understandable I suppose. It’s not every day you meet your older self. Then again it’s not every day that you take your first brave and tentative steps outside the house dressed to the nines late at night, hoping that no one will notice you or, worse, call you out as anything other than just a woman out walking, but also wanting to be noticed and seen as a woman. I need to point out the paradox of that to her, but to be truthful I’m still half caught up in that mindset all these years later. I decide to take the initiative. “I think we need coffee, don’t you?” She nods. Can imaginary visitations from the past even drink coffee? I suppose we’ll find out. She may well be wondering just the same about me. To be sure, I’m not sure which of us is dreaming who. If indeed one or both of us are dreaming this. I pop into the bathroom on the way to the kitchen and check myself in the mirror. When did my eyes start to get baggy and my jaw drop? It’s hard to tell under under the amount of makeup the younger me is wearing. Has she even found out about contouring yet?

I place a cup of coffee in front of her. At least I know how she likes it. I wonder how much I should tell her about what’s to come. Will it make a difference or change anything, and if it does what would mean for me? Will I still be the same ‘me’? Or will she (or even I) remember any of this afterwards, or experience a Men In Black memory wipe once she leaves? This is what a lifetime of reading science fiction does to you. Not that I’m tempted to go around stamping on butterflies. Especially the one sitting across from me, barely out of her chrysalis.

I wait for her to speak first. After all, I already know and share most of her story.

“How long?” she asks.

“From you to me?” It's August 2024, so just a couple of weeks over 9 years”.

“You look older obviously, but more confident and sure of yourself.”

“Compared to you, or how I remember being you, yes, I’m in a fairly good place at the moment. It’s not perfect and it’s not always been an easy road, but we’ve got through it. Finding friends we could talk to and confide in was a first step, even if only online, and a set of labels (trans, bi-gender, gender fluid) that finally fitted how we felt. And starting to learn not to worry – or indeed give a f**k – about what other people might think when they see you, and accept that if they have a problem then that’s theirs, not ours. That was really liberating.”

“So do I go out more?”

“Oh yes. Not properly for a while yet. There’s a bit of a rough patch to go though first, and then the world will get and feel very strange for a couple of years, but once you’re out the other side of that things will start to look up, especially as you get more confident about yourself and your ability to blend in. One of the keys to that is to pay attention to what other women are wearing and try not to draw the wrong sort of attention. That short dress and those heels for instance - especially when out unaccompanied after dark. I know,” I hold up a hand to forestall her. “You’re worried you won’t pass unless it’s dark. Don’t be. You don’t. I don’t. We’re tall, my posture and walk is wrong and I probably give myself away the moment I speak. We’re still working on that. But you know what? No one really gives a toss. And if they read you and peg you as trans, so what? There are some definite advantages to being older. You become socially invisible. Most people don’t give you a second glance or seem happy to treat you as you present. You won’t get many wolf whistles as a 50 plus woman, but a cheery ‘love’ can give you a buzz for the rest of the day.”

“Although,” I add, jealously, “you do have better legs. They won’t look quite that good again”.

“Maybe”, I muse, “I should visit you instead so I can have your body and my confidence.” She has the grace to look alarmed. “No, we’ve both seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers. And not without a good dose of jealousy, although neither us ever understood quite how the heroine ended up swanning around the desert in that in that gorgeous evening dress after being taken over. Perhaps even aliens have an inner drag queen.”

“On the other hand I have gained a bit more flab over the last few years, so with a bit of help I can almost fake small tits and a bit of cleavage. We’ve always wanted to have breasts, through experimenting with those pills wasn’t such a good idea.” She smiles, nods.

“But please, for our sake, don’t make a habit of going out dressed on your own late at night. It’s not really safe.” Perhaps I should warn her of the scary feeling of being followed late at night, feeling someone still behind you whichever way you turned, but she’ll learn soon enough and it’ll put a stop to many more night time jaunts,

“And at home…?” The question hangs unspoken.

“No, that hasn’t changed. But we’ve learned how to compromise, and give each other time and space to do our own things, even if this is one thing we still can’t share. I still wish, of course, though not without much real hope. It would be nice (big understatement) to be accepted rather than merely acknowledged and tolerated. Birthdays and Christmas can still be tough. Outside the house, though, I can be a bit more open, less guarded.”

“Do other people know about you/Susie/us?”

“A few. It means not always having to pretend or cover up any longer any, which is a relief.”

“How many? Who?”

“Sis initially, then big brother. Not mum though.” I don’t say what provoked that first drunken coming out. It’ll be too much to cope with. I’m not sure I can reply on the MIB memory wipe thing, and there are some thing you shouldn’t know in advance, especially family bereavements.

“Two or three people in fandom who we’ve known for years. I think you can guess who. Then three people on the new Pride Committee at work when I first joined. Rather more now since I attended the last Witney Pride March as Susie. The family don’t know about that one yet, though.”

“You did what?!”

“I thought it was time I lived up to the slogan on the company’s Pride t-shirt -“Bring Your True Self to Work’. OK it wasn’t work exactly, but we had a banner and a place in the march as one the sponsors, and a stall at the event. Although nothing’s been said about it since.”

She’s starting to fade a bit and go transparent. I can see part of the wall behind her. Her coffee remains untouched.

I’m aware I’m talking to much. But there's so much to tell her. To reassure her.

“Listen”, I say. “It’ll be alright. I’m -you’ll be – happy. Or if not happy, content. Just stay away from TERFs and right wing politics and media. Not that I need to tell you that. There’s an anti-trans backlash coming. It won’t be pretty. But real people will have a lot more important things to worry about than whether the unusually tall woman walking along the canal path or in a park, shopping or waiting at a bus stop is trans or not. You’ll do all of those in time, and more. Though you still need to be wary of teenage girls in groups. On their own there’s no problem, they’re usually too busy looking at their phone to even notice you, but in groups of three or four they seem to develop a collective t-dar that can result in odd looks or giggles that can be a bit unsettling. Older women, though, are quite happy to chat to you at a bus stop or in a queue without giving any indication of anything amiss.”

“T-dar?”

“Sorry. Trans radar. It’s a term I picked up from a friend. You’ll develop one of your own because we are constantly watching people around us for clues as to how to try and fit in. You can’t help it.”

“You’ll have good days. Euphoric ones even. Ones you’ll look back on and remember fondly. You’ll have a bucket list of things you want to do as Susie and see a lot of those ticked off. Days out in the park, visits to art exhibitions, museums and church sales, tea rooms, shopping.”

I open the phone and scroll through folders of photos of Susie out at different times and places.

“Wow. That’s quite a lot. I see what you mean about dressing down when out. That little red number would attract all sorts of unwanted attention.”

“Outside of our private fantasies, yes.” We haven’t changed that much it seems, though it now requires a longer stretch of imagination from my perspective than it would from hers. In 2015 she could still get away with something that short without her internal critic muttering something about mutton and lamb.

“And as someone pointed out recently, as a group we are notoriously prone to self documenting. But then so is almost everybody else now on social media. Posting photos is a mix of holding on to and preserving the good times as well as looking for a bit of validation or reassurance. Plus, it has to be said, an element of narcissism.”

I point the phone at her and take a quick snap.

“That’s strange.” She’s not there. Not in the photo anyway, although I can still see her sitting across from me even if I can see most of the wall behind her now. I’ve heard of camera shy (try getting non-Susie me in a group photo) but this is taking it to an extreme. Struck by a sudden thought, I turn the camera around a take a quick selfie. No, I’m still there. I wince a bit and delete it. Not that this really proves anything. Dreams have their own peculiar logic. If this is a dream. I can never remember my dreams anyway, except as short disconnected fragments. And aren’t ghosts supposed to be scary and bring dire warnings rather than appearing as nervous figures from the past looking for reassurance? Or is it me that’s looking for reassurance, that while not perfect, things have actually turned out to be OK after all, or at least something I am reasonably comfortable with? It’s nearly three am now and my brain really isn’t up to this.

She’s almost disappeared now. I wonder what will happen when she’s finally gone. Which of us will wake up and remember any of this?

I can still just about see her. I’m tempted to give her a hug before she goes but I don’t know what would happen or whether it would freak her out. And then it’s too late.

“It’s nearly two in the morning for Christ’s sake”, I hear someone say before the room floods with light.

*****

This was partly inspired by an article written by a friend of mine about an imaginary conversation with her younger self in a dream. Then though my Tumblr page is long deleted my account seems to be still active and sent me an email to remind me that Susie turned 9 on the 18 July, around the same time I started this blog, and the two came together and set me thinking about what had happened in the time between then and now.

xx

S

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.