Lucy Melford

Here is some news if you aren't registered with any of the chief blogging websites (Google Blogger, WordPress, LiveJournal, Blog.co.uk, or whatever) and would like to leave a comment on one of my posts. I've decided to relax my embargo on non-registered commentators.

That means that anyone can now freely comment, including anonymous persons.

I have beefed-up my health warning about comments though. I must make it quite clear that if someone's real-life existence is questionable, or their comment is irrelevant to the post, or is over-contentious or upsetting or downright abusive, or is advertising themselves in some way, then their contribution might get the bullet.

Free speech is a great principle, but not when it stirs up negative passions or is a mere platform for selling things. I will moderate sensibly, but always as a stern omnipotent divine being might. The excesses seen recently on Facebook and Twitter have no place here. Lucy Melford is not a war zone.

Let's see how we go. I do want to allow commentary without fierce restrictions. I do miss the wide range of comments I used to get up to the end of 2012, when I had to impose my embargo. Some were very supportive and empathetic, some were worthwhile and interesting, some were amusing, and some verged on rather cross argument but deserved to be left there for everyone else to judge. Provocative comments might now get a terser comeback from me than hitherto, but I don't really want to be draconian as a moderator. After all, if one throttles back too much on letting people speak their mind, one learns nothing new.

The new relaxation is in force as of now.

I have to admit, I've been long looking forward to writing a post with a title like that! But it has a pretty ordinary genesis.

Several days ago, I was sitting in a Brighton pub and discussing bust development with another trans woman. As one does constantly, of course, in a Brighton pub. I think the conversation drifted onto breasts from discussing the wider topic of fat deposits and midriff bulges - excess chubbiness being a frequent consequence of hormone therapy. Breasts are mostly adipose tissue, after all - that is, stored fat. And oestragen encourages its accumulation.

Anyway, we agreed that while a certain minimum breast size is very nice to have, too much flesh is a dismal curse, adding needless weight, making it very awkward to do anything remotely athletic, and possibly being a source of chronic backache. We agreed that having adequate bust definition is sufficient - that is, having shapely bumps that look natural when compared to one's body size. Nothing overblown, then, and certainly nothing so large that it would drive any natal woman towards breast-reduction surgery.

Many trans women will disagree about that, of course. Big boobs are most certainly the mark of a woman -and most certainly get away from any suggestion of a 'male' shape. Nobody can be blamed for yearning for 'statement mammaries', and the deep and definite cleavage that goes with them. We were simply acknowledging that small-breasted trans women need not feel inferior or hard done by. Small can be very beautiful, very practical, and lets you wear whatever you like.

But even among natal women there is this same worry over breast size. Shape is a big issue too. And not just the breast taken as a whole. Much fretting takes place over nipple size and shape, and the extent of the areola, that round patch of darker skin that surrounds the nipple.

At this point it might be best to provide a link with the Wikipedia article on female breasts - see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Breast - which, if consulted, might confirm that any woman is likely to have breasts that are compromised in some way, from asymmetry perhaps; and that older women face other compromises, including sagging, which of course tends to stop breasts sticking out horizontally, and makes nipples point downward somewhat. Altogether a salutory read, if one is at all starry-eyed and unrealistic about the subject of breasts and nipples.

In this light, the usual small but pert 'teen boobs' that trans women grow may seem a rather better deal than often recognised. At least the tissue is recently-developed and of above-average firmness. So much so that on oldies like me, the boobs of (say) a fifteen year old look a thought incongruous. I should have sad, drooping sacks with stretch marks on them, and not these cheekily upright things. They will of course sag convincingly in time, but for now, I'd say they look unnaturally perky. Not that I'm really complaining, you understand!

As for nipples, these can for a long time seem small and unfeminine, and then they might suddenly expand and look much better. Mine did, anyway.

But there is no absolute size or shape for breasts or nipples that guarantees an 'ideal' appearance or measurement. Any appearance that resembles what a natal woman might naturally possess will be fine. Natural is good.

Trans women as a class are very hard to convince on this! So are natal women, especially young natal women, who ruthlessly compare themselves to other girls and find themselves lacking, or in some way highly unusual. Reassurance is needed. So far as nipples are concerned, have a look at this webpage: http://www.007b.com/nipple_gallery.php. The middle link at the bottom of that webpage will then take you to photos of breasts of all types, sagging ones included. Somewhere there will be a shot of normal breasts, or normal nipples, exactly like your own.

Nobody who is insatiably determined to have a big bust with protruding nipples will stop dreaming. But if you have run out of surgery-money, and can't even afford to keep buying progesterone on the Internet, and want to be satisfied with what nature alone has grown for you, then these pictures should help.

Today Fiona went in to have that airbag fault properly investigated at the Volvo dealer at Portslade. I'd already been warned that the labour charge for the fiddly dismantling work, the physical testing of the suspected part, its replacement, and the reassembly and retesting could all come to £288. Not more, that was the top figure. And if my dealer could persuade Volvo HQ to chip in on the cost, a bit less. The dealer thought that not unlikely: my car was only just out of guarantee, and had not covered an especially high mileage (only 52,000 miles in just over three years).

I stressed another aspect. This was a part that made a basic safety device work properly - the usual concern of recalls - and that Volvo should most certainly cover the cost. I think I got that point in with some skill. I was very nice and friendly about the whole affair, but firm. I reassured the service person I was dealing with - Nick - that I regarded him as my ally in getting Volvo to do the right thing.

But above all I surely convinced him that I was prepared to make a fuss. And I would indeed do that, already in my mind imagining how I would handle an interview with the top manager or director there. This is where my former career as an Inland Revenue investigator would come to my aid - I'm not afraid of confrontation where it's needed, nor unfamiliar with negotiation where it's required. That said, I do hate having to assert my will against possible resistance, especially as it would be Miss Lucy Melford against an all-male dealership.

But neither did I want to tamely cave in and pay that £288 without demur. Really, it was a lot of money to find at short notice, merely to fix an unexpected fault on a quality car that shouldn't have such defects.

I asked Nick to show me what the suspected faulty part looked like. He unboxed a new one for me, and very willingly let me take some photos. This first shot is the view as I would see it in front of me, if I had X-ray eyes:

It fitted around the steering wheel shaft, like a sort of collar, and was basically two halves, the rear side fixed, and the front side (facing) rotating against it when one steered. That big yellow connector attached itself to the airbag release mechanism. This was what the rear of the suspected part looked like:

Top left and bottom right were the bits that wiring connectors fitted onto, one for the airbag, and one for the horn. The entire part was a lot more substantial than I'd imagined.

Well, I left them to it. Off I went on the train to Chichester for a couple of hours. It was still fine and bright, and I got talking to two grandparents who were taking their three-year old grand-daughter to Shanklin on the Isle of Wight for the day. I wished them a lovely time, and added that the fine weather should hold till late afternoon. I wish I hadn't said that - by 11.30am, when I was on my way back to Portslade, it was raining hard! But, fingers crossed, maybe not in Shanklin, surely one of the sunniest places on the South Coast.

12.15pm saw me walking into the dealers again. Nick looked non-committal. Oh dear. I braced myself for bad news, and some quick thinking.

I needn't have been apprehensive. They'd very quickly found that one of the wiring connectors had worked loose. Pushing it on firmly restored the connection, and dismissed the fault indication. This was successfully road tested. They really didn't have to dismantle much at all. I was so surprised that it had been so simply cured. And when Nick said there was no charge whatever, I felt sandbagged. No charge at all? No, honestly, Lucy. Not even for the dismantling and testing? No, really, none.

I felt like crying. I know it's daft, but I'd been so prepared for a fight with Volvo - or having to be silver-tongued with the big boss man there - that this left me quite emotional.

But what a stroke of luck. That's how I saw it: an example of straightforward good luck. I was suddenly £288 richer - or so it seemed. What a good thing the guys had been theatrical, and left the Good News until I was back with them at the dealers, so they could anounce it with a twinkle in their eye. If they'd slipped me the glad tidings while I was still in Chichester, I'd have bought something expensive to celebrate with! I said to Nick and Scott, 'Guys, if I had a bottle of champagne in my bag, I'd ask you to get out the glasses and join me in a toast!' They smiled. They knew I'd meant it.

Fiona was waiting in the rain. It was so good to get inside her and drive away. The airbag warning light stayed off.

You know, they do treat me well there, at the dealers. I'm sure that a small charge was strictly due, but they let me off. Now why?

I couldn't have wowed them with my sex-appeal. In fact, I'm pretty sure that they know I'm trans. They must do. They've seen me developing since early 2010, when I was only a year or so into my transition, and looking rough. Besides, I'd be amazed if they hadn't at some point searched for 'Lucy Melford' on the Internet - no doubt expecting to find me on Facebook, but instead discovering my blog, and my Flickr site. But nothing had ever been said or hinted at. Oh well, I'll just have to put it down to 'maintaining customer goodwill'.

Fiona has now covered 52,000 miles with four faults cropping up, one for each year. Two concerned the airbag systems. One was a squeaky drivebelt tensioner. And for a short while, the device that measured the outside air temperature seemed to go haywire. All of these have been easy-to-fix things. And so far, I've not had to pay a penny towards them. May my good luck on that score continue!

I've just bought a new shawl. This was at the shop at Wakehurst Place, jointly run by the Royal Botanical Gardens and the National Trust. Wakehurst is just outside Ardingly, in the heart of the High Weald. Wakehurst has the nation's Seed Bank, and is a centre of gardening excellence. It's also a lovely place to visit if you simply want to wander at leisure down its paths to meadows, lakes, and green valleys, and explore some sandstone outcrops. It has areas planted to themes, such as Himalayan or Japanese or South African. It has lawns. It has walled gardens. It has artistic forms made of wood and wickerwork. It has birdlife. It has laboratories. It has an old mansion house. It has a very good modern shop and café (with toilets to die for). And it has a restaurant for something more like a proper meal, or just a relaxing coffee and croissant if that's all you want, and you can sit inside or outside, in the sun or under shade.

It's very, very popular for a somewhat upmarket meetup with friends in well-tended country surroundings. It's open almost every day of the year. Parking is free. And if you are a National Trust member like me, Wakehurst costs absolutely nothing whatever to visit, apart from refreshments, and the purchase price of any goods you can't resist buying.

I had two reasons to be there yesterday morning. First, I wanted to buy a birthday card in the shop. Second, I hadn't eaten anything for twelve hours, and was desperate for a tasty snack and a cup of coffee. I'd had to fast for a visit to the surgery, to provide three blood samples for a battery of tests. I do this every six months, but this time, as well as the usual tests, there were the trans-specific tests for Dr Curtis in London to see. I was going to have one more regular visit to him, and then move onto an ongoing 'only as needed' basis. But to sign me off he'd need to see some up-to-date data on how my body had finally settled down under the post-op hormone regime, and discuss how I felt generally. There was for example a perennial thyroid issue to be considered. I was in any case highly curious to know what the test results would be.

But fasting for twelve hours, and drinking only water during that time, had placed a dire strain on the Melford metabolism; and since it was a gloriously sunny morning, I decided that not only did Fiona, newly-fixed and champing at her bit, deserve a little canter northwards to Wakehurst, I deserved it too.

I quickly bagged the birthday card, then scoffed a bacon sandwich with an Americano. Revived, I couldn't help noticing a stand with some lovely-looking shawls on it.

I have a weakness for shawls. I have a drawer full of them. It's a comforting idea, a lightweight but warm garment that you can drape over your shoulders, to fend off the breeze. And a shawl can be a very attractive fashion accessory - better than a scarf, in my estimation. In fact I'm not a scarf fan at all. I haven't worn one for a long time. I know they seem to be de rigueur with trans women, often because they hide adam's apples (or the scars, if throatal surgery has been performed). But I'd say that is part of the problem: scarves have become a 'trans badge', a sort of giveaway. Opinions will differ enormously on things like this, but to my own way of thinking, if a trans girl is lucky enough to have no discernable adam's apple, then she needs to flaunt that smooth throat out there in public, for all to see. It'll be another very good female indicator, way too good to cover up. At any rate, for me a loose-fitting shawl is a much better, easier-to-wear proposition that a scarf wound tightly around the neck.

In any case a shawl has multiple uses. It can be a stylish hood. It can be a shelter from the hot sun. Depending on how tied, it can be a top, a skirt, a sling. Something to sit on; something to drape over a car seat, so that it doesn't get too hot; an improvised curtain. It's light enought to carry all day, and folds up (or scrunches up) into a small bundle you can get in your bag. As a cabin is to a house, it's a minimum outer garment if you need some protection from cool weather, but having a coat or jacket along would be awkward.

The first shawl I ever had - in the Old Life, of course - was a square arab keffiyeh (or kufiya) in a red check pattern with white tassles all around the edge, in pure cotton. I've still got it, but it has faded, and the red dye has run, and it looks a bit scruffy now. M--- bought it for me in the mid-1990s. She was already using one as a big scarf for our South Downs walks together. Hers was in blue check. Mine made me look distinctly arabic (even though I too used it mainly as a loose and bohemian-looking scarf) and we called it my 'Yasser Arafat', because the Palestinian leader was never seen without one - although the political nuances for a Western wearer were tricky and potentially awkward. Eventually I bought a series of plainer or Indian-styled shawls as some of the very first girly items in my transition, and I've been buying them at odd intervals ever since.

This latest one is a big rectangle, a combination of polyester, wool and nylon. There's a fair bit of wool - the label said 40% - and it seems a bit warmer and more comfortable than some of my other shawls, less inclined to slip off. These shots will give you an idea of what it's like:

Plenty of material and embroidery for my money! It cost me £75. I love it. I tested its worth yesterday evening down in Brighton, popping it into my bag for later use. By 10.00pm It was just cool enough to need something extra over one's top half, and my new shawl was just right. It'll be even more useful when I go off to the West Country in September.

It has often struck me that we live in the most literate era there has ever been. The ability to read is a key skill in modern life. Inside the home one can get away with listening to words spoken on the radio and TV, but step outside and one is bombarded with notices, some of them important. You can't travel without needing to read. You can't spot the bargains in shops without the ability to read. It's hardly possible to use a mobile phone or any gadget without the ability to read. You can get only so far by knowing what traffic signs and symbols mean, and recognising the shapes of words like 'Police' and 'Ambulance' and 'London' and 'No entry'. There are not many modern jobs that an illiterate person can do.

The point I'm making is that the practical uses of reading are very many in the the modern world, and anyone who cannot read adequately in their native language will struggle to get by. Given that skill, reading something in a foreign language may be difficult, but you can still have a fair stab at it, at least so long as our familiar roman letters are used.

I for one, if standing in an airport in Poland, Albania, Vietnam or Indonesia, would with confidence be on the lookout for the local equivalents of 'Arrivals', 'Departures', 'Toilets' and so forth, even if deciphering the menu in the airport café were more of a challenge. A basic ability to read is handy with some non-roman scripts too, up to a point. I can cope with Greek and Russian letters. But Arabic writing would take time to analyse, and Chinese and Japanese characters would require a proper language course. Even so, if one can read at all, then nothing that can be written or printed is completely inaccessible, and, given the motivation, anyone can read anything. Which opens up a universe of knowledge and opinion and imagination.

Motivation is however very important. If there is no need to read anything, or indeed nothing to read, then no reading ability is required. The spoken word is enough. Which is what obtains in a basic peasant or hunter or nomad existence.

But I'm drifting away from the thrust of this post. I want to look at the fate of printed books.

My home is full of them, mostly hardbacks except for a fair amount of paperback fiction. the curious thing is that despite the occasional purge (when moving house, usually), the empty shelf space is gradually shrinking. I continue to buy books, and I do wonder why. Let's do a little analysis.

The types of book that I am still buying
Fiction
Reference books on skills that will never change (such as how to knit, how to speak Italian)
Reference books on natural things (plants, animals, geology, and so on)
Reference books on historical subjects (art, social conditions, engineering feats, war and political events, disasters, etc)
Classic books by a specific author (such as Alfred Wainwright's Lake District Fell guides)

The type of book I do not now buy
Books on anything that is constantly being superseded or updated (such as travel books, or how to use a certain gadget)

You get the picture. I avoid spending money on things that will get out of date and useless. But I still buy books that I can look things up in for years to come, and I still buy some fiction to read for enjoyment.

In my world (and possibly yours too) the Internet has replaced the need to purchase many books that I would once have bought again and again in annual editions, such as pub or restaurant guides. Specifically Wikipedia, a host of trusted websites on this or that, and a handful of apps that supply quick information.

I look things up in Wikipedia all the time, every day. It's up to date, it's in a standard format, it's mentally stimulating, and the information sticks. So I am educating myself. It's also a way of testing my memory, and enhancing that memory with all kinds of knowledge that I did not grasp at the time. Putting it another way, I would never stand firm on some personal recollection, such as 'how it was in the 1970s', as if my experience, from my very small corner, was the definitive last word on the matter.

Access to background information on the Internet that can be explored in depth is a wonderful thing. So is quick access to train times and weather and product reviews and price comparisons. And mobile access is the most wonderful thing of all: stuff downloaded to one's mobile phone or tablet, to read or consult anywhere, even if there is no signal. Or stuff streamed, if a signal is available.

So, given the convenience of phones and tablets, will all printed books die out?

The entire book industry must be wondering about that. Just now they are fostering a nostalgic resistence to the death of books. The beauty of books as lovely objects in themselves is stressed. Well, I'd say there will always be a place for the modern equivalent of sumptuous medieval illuminated manuscripts, and other superior types of book, for civic or ceremonial use. And certain kinds of book do present information in a practical way impossible on a small screen - world atlases, for example; or books that illustrate something in large beautiful plates, full of detail, such as books on plants or animals. The same for books on paintings and art generally. Surely those won't die out.

But as for guide books, cookery books, fashion books, most magazines, and the entire gamut of popular fiction, I think the funeral bell is ringing. For better or worse, I think all of those will go electronic during the next few years, and High Street booksellers will largely disappear. Second-hand booksellers will inherit the earth. They will stock the very books that people like me will still want to buy and pop onto their bookshelves at home. But the rest will have to become websites.

Most electronic books will best be read on some kind of tablet held in the hand. There is something to be said for the feel of a paper book, compared to holding a tablet. Personally I agree that a traditional book is a nicer reading experience, but it has some drawbacks: it's bulky, it gets dogeared and disintegrates, it always needs two hands, and you can't magnify the print. But the screen has drawbacks too: it can get tiring to hold, daylight and reflections can make the words difficult to read, and the consequences of dropping the device from sleepy fingers might be expensive!

Even so, electronic devices of one kind or another will surely take over. It is true that you can carry hundreds of books with you on a tablet. The clincher is that the same device can do so much more. It's also your notebook, your sketchbook, your photo gallery, your music player, your game player, your TV programme catch-up player, your road atlas, your email composer and reader, and your carry-anywhere encyclopedia. And many other things besides. The whole world is already geared up to supplying information and services to you via this flat screen. Thus it will win over the paper book, with its fixed contents, and its pages that flap about and tear in the wind.

A pity? Well, the historical problem with books is that they were for so long the preserve of a small well-off minority at the top. You could easily argue that no significant social progress was ever possible until inexpensive books became available to the ordinary person. Once that happened, new ideas could circulate and be acted upon. So I'd say that anything that keeps readable information and ideas in circulation is a Good Thing, and tablets can do that better than printed books. And they also preserve the need to have very good reading skills.

In a nutshell: content is always more important than format. But the better format will push out the content to the widest readership.

Ask.fm is in the news at present, for bad reasons connected with bullying of teenage participants and their subsequent suicide. The Wikipedia article has the background - see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ask.fm. Ask.fm show up on a Google web search with this description: Ask and answer. Find out what people want to know about you. Hmmm. It sounds like a place to ask some very personal questions. That could amount to relentless badgering.

I felt this needed investigating, so I set myself up on this social networking site. My username, if you want to find me there, is 'LucyMelf'. This is the link: http://ask.fm/LucyMelf.

It was easy to get set up. I had to provide my real name (Lucy Melford), my date of birth (6 July 1952), and provide a password of my own choosing. It was optional to give a location (but I said 'UK'), a description of myself (but I said 'Single lady'), a personal website address (but I gave the address of this blog), and a picture of myself (but I did, as below).

So, I was not pretending to be someone I wasn't. Anyone checking me out should think 'Not young, not so easy to needle or push around'. (I hope!) There was a passing reference to Ask.fm's Terms and Conditions. I submitted my details. I got an email acknowledgement straight away, with a link to get me back to my home page and ready to begin.

The Home page was simply a big option box that invited you to connect Ask.fm with four other social networking websites: Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr and VKontakte. I didn't want to do that, and clicked instead on my Profile again, and then on Settings. I noticed there was a 'Disable Account' button: that might be handy if my little foray into the murky world of networking turned nasty.

In Settings you could choose whether to allow anonymous questions from other people or not. I decided to allow them, for now. But I unticked every one of the email notification options - I didn't want to be pestered. Interestingly, there was a 'Blacklist'. Mine was blank, but it looked as if you could list people you wanted to block in that section. It wasn't obvious how that might be done, though.

I kicked off by looking at seven questions that were offered to me, randomly generated by Ask.fm I suppose. Here they are, with my answers. Remember this is all an experiment, to see how the site works, and where the danger might lie. I am not at all interested in getting sucked into whatever kind of networking this question-and-answer business may lead to. However, I gave serious replies.

Q: Do you prefer gold or silver jewellery?
A: Silver.

Q: What is your favorite mobile app?
A: Gmail. [Actually I couldn't give a tinker's what my favourite app is]

Q: What day would you love to live again?
A: [I couldn't think of an answer, so I passed]

Q: When you imagine yourself as really, really relaxed and happy, what are you doing?
A: Driving. [This question was potentially dodgy, I think]

Q: If you have friends coming over, what would you cook?
A: Lamb and vegetables. [Whatever...it isn't a sensible question]

Q: If you were to write a movie script - what would it be about?
A: The correction of a gross injustice.

Q: What is the most important thing your country has given the world?
A: The English language.

After this, my Profile showed:

6 Answers [supplied by me]
0 Likes
0 Gifts

Presumably the Likes come from Facebook, if a connection has been set up. The Gifts are a feature of Ask.fm, although I don't yet know how they come into play. There is a give-a gift button to click. Whether this leads to a place where you can buy and send real gifts of some value, I don't yet know. If this is the case, then I can see the scope for pestering victims to send a gift.

There was a box for asking a question. To whom was unspecified, but I nevertheless typed in: Would you ever want to be a politician? It was also possible to generate a random question. I unticked the 'ask anonymously' box, for this first occasion anyway.

As I write, there is an email message! It's from Ask.fm. They tell me that 'Lucy Melford @LucyMelf asked you a question on Ask.fm'. So presumably, all 65 million users, including myself, have received this message, and some of them might well wish to reply. Ask.fm give a link for any response.

Well, I'll have to see how this develops! I'll check later on tonight.

I'm interested in languages, although just now I give no time to learning any. Nor am I very successful when I try - although that might depend on motivation and the teaching method. I dare say that if suddenly plunged into a very different society I'd quickly master the verbal essentials. And if obliged to spend the rest of my days in a new place, possibly because I'd been forced to become a refugee, I'd make it my business to learn the language as thoroughly as possible. I'd want to blend in, of course; but I'd also want to learn the language properly, out of respect for my new friends and neighbours and their culture.

I regard all languages as equal. All are perfectly suited to the everyday needs of their speakers. Some languages are of course dominant in the modern world, English among them, and it would be foolish not to understand one of those. But a language redolent of hearth and home, of kinship and close friendship, that doesn't have to embrace science and technology and international preoccupations, is as valid as any other.

When young, and quite in ignorance of the invented languages of (for instance) J R R Tolkien, I used to concoct languages of my own. As with most of my childhood endeavours, this was a secret passtime, and I was mortified when Mum found my notes and told me she'd seen some 'gibberish' in my cupboard. This effectively stopped me doing anything more in that direction. But I could still get immersed in other people's efforts. You can imagine that I was utterly enthralled by Tolkien's linguistic world.

And I could still draw detailled maps of imaginary places, places where English was not necessarily the local vernacular. It was an exercise in juvenile draughtsmanship - but influenced by examples of real-life town and country planning that I'd lately become aware of. None of this cartography survives, but I remember that I liked to map beautiful islands, full of lakes and mountains and lovely bays. There would always be one big city, with expressways and a rail-based rapid transit system. No sign of industry, nor any way at all for the inhabitants of this island to earn a living. It was purely residential, although the motorways and rail routes implied a sophisticated, restless population always on the move from beach to beach. Perhaps reminiscent of the urbanised island of Oahu in Hawaii. It was certainly nothing like the rustic Shire in Lord of the Rings.

Mention of Hawaii brings me back to languages and my lifelong interest in them. Hawaiian is a Polynesian language very different from English, and related to Maori. Before me are two of the books that I bought in New Zealand when holidaying there in 2007. One is called Pronounce Maori with Confidence by Hoani Niwa, with a CD, and the other is about part of Maori culture, entitled Te Marae - A Guide to Customs & Protocol by Hiwi and Pat Tauroa. The Marae is a dignified meeting of all villagers in a special building, in accordance with set customs. If an outsider is invited to participate, it would be vital to know how to behave and what to do. In real life, all the Maori persons that M--- and I spoke to were very pleasant and welcoming to us; and in a spot called Tiki Tiki on the remote east coast of North Island we very nearly had the chance to join the congregation of a church in an after-service meet in the Marae. We were not dressed appropriately for the occasion, and anyway had to press on with our travelling for the day, and so we politely declined; but it's something I now wish I'd witnessed, especially as I may never now return to New Zealand. But at least I have these books.

Some of the traditional Maori world: wood carvings of tattooed warriors; houses for worship; the language; a painting to convey the meaning of the Iwi, the people of a tribe; and a mysterious cave entrance, connected with some coming-of-age ritual I'd say. I'd want to get into the Maori mind somehow, and the language would be one of the keys.

But even if travel and language-learning has become problematical, and I am never now likely to travel to where they speak Navajo or Hopi,it doesn't matter. Given the Internet, and cultural exhibits in museums, the world behind these and other languages can be glimpsed. And the possibilities of one's own native language, English in my case, seem inexhaustible and forever open to exploitation.

So what is Toki Puna? It's an invented language with a social purpose. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toki_Pona, and http://en.tokipona.org/wiki/What_is_Toki_Pona%3F, and http://bknight0.myweb.uga.edu/toki/lesson/lesson0.html, to get the idea. Basically it's designed to express thoughts and feelings in a very, very simple way, without the baggage of ordinary languages. The sort of language two strangers full of friendly intensions, and in touch with a natural existence, might use to reach out to each other. It has enormous appeal. If only it were universally known and used!

Just a quick post - I want to go to bed - built around a photo I took on the way home from the North at the start of July. It shows a lineup of huge container lorries at Toddington Services (Southbound) on the MI motorway. Rather pathetically sandwiched between them is Fiona and my little caravan:

How small and vulnerable my ensemble looks! And yet I whizzed past plenty of these giants on my way up North and back again. It makes you wonder what would have happened if, in a moment's inattention, we had touched.

In case you're wondering why I was mixing it with the professional drivers of the road haulage business, I should explain that Toddington Services (Northbound) is a different animal from Toddington Services (Southbound). Northbound, the owners of the services have provided special parking for caravans, away from the lorries, although one still has to contend with coaches. Southbound, there is no special provision, and you have to try your luck in the lorry parking area, and risk feeling intimidated. Pretty poor, I say.

Lorries are coming and going all the time: I had only seconds to grab this shot before I would have been run over.

I will say the drivers behaved very well. There were no wolf whistles or appraising stares or hello-darlings (or whatever it would be in French or Polish or Czech). Given the size of the cabs, it's easy to see how a driver might enjoy a fair bit of living space onboard, but it's not a life that has many attractions, given that your choice of route and speed and place to stop for rest must be very restricted, to optimise the use of fuel, and keep other costs to a minimum. Plus the ever-present danger of theft or hijack if you leave the vehicle, unless of course you can find collective safety in a convoy.

Which reminds me of a certain 1970s pop song - no, not the original Convoy (1975), but the spoof British version called Convoy GB (1976) starring CB delinquents Plastic Chicken and Superscouse, in which much is made of 'changing gear' and losing a few people down exit sliproads when the line of lorries - 'the biggest truckin' convoy outside the USA' if I remember rightly - gets to Spaghetti Junction. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Convoy_%28song%29 for references to both songs. Ah, they don't make pop songs like that any more...

They say in the TV and film professions, 'never work with animals', mainly because you can never be quite sure what they will do. I endorse that.

However, I quite like most creatures great and small. I'm not sentimental about them, and there's no way that I'd ever leap into white water or a frozen lake to rescue someone's pet, but I do agree that well-disposed, well-behaved animals are pleasant to be with. And I completely see that with some animals you can develop a very good rapport.

They all know who is their enemy and who is their friend. It's no good trying to put them off if basically you know, and they know too, that in the end you will be nice to them.

Thus I will declare firmly that I'm not the sort of person who gets soppy over dogs. But this doesn't deter them. They ignore all the negative vibes, and roll their eyes appealingly at me, whining for my touch. God knows why they want to revel in my company. No sensible humans do. Couldn't they check out how men and women behave, and take their cue from that? Not a chance. I'd positively never want to own a dog, but you can't avoid their company, and actually I get along fine with nearly all of them. Cue some excellent dogs I've known:

I was a cat owner (or at least lived with cats) for twenty three years in my Old Life, but similarly I am not besotted with them and want no more in my daily life. But they always seem to know that if they are presentable I will have them up on my lap, and tickle their chin, and gently tug their ears, and stroke them just so. And find myself anchored to the sofa for hours. Sigh.

Thank goodness you can't be quite so intimate with horses. My riding experience with horses (covered in my post South of England Show 2 - The Silence of the Lambs on 10 June 2013) has not been good. Noble animals to be sure, but wilful, and too large and heavy for my liking. Horses represent potential injury so far as I am concerned. That said, horses have an intelligence and sensitivity that seems supernatural, and there's no denying that the right horse will be a friend indeed. Anyway, the other evening I had the opportunity to be in a big field with a lovely South Downs view, and I made friends with a diminuitive Shetland pony called Larry. Here we are, in a photo taken by my friend R---, who was looking after Larry and the three other horses:

Isn't he sweet? Also featured is my new shawl, seen better in this close-up:

It was close to sunset, and there was a slight nip in the air. That shawl was just the thing to keep nice and warm, especially as I'd forgotten to put on a bra! I'm anticipating that it will get worn to death next month in the West Country, when I'm walking on beaches or pubbing in the evening.

Back to horses. They all seem to be very individual. You can sense their character in their faces, can't you, as in these past shots of mine:

I think that part of the appeal of horses is that they have those big eyes, and can give you a deep gaze. It doesn't happen with insects; and no matter how interesting their actions, they always seem unaware of you as anything other than a possible building-sized threat. This bee, for instance, at Sissinghurst yesterday - way too preoccupied sticking its head into flowers to notice how close my lens was:

Oblivious of me. But I was still careful not to get in its way. There were an awful lot of bees at Sissinghurst, the most I've seen so far this year. They were all very busy indeed.

Last night I shut down my Ask.fm account. Well, to be more accurate, I disabled it: it still exists, and can in theory be revived. But it won't be.

Nothing much had happened over the three days of this experiment. Nobody had got in touch with a question to harrass me with. Ask.fm itself had shot two 'Questions of the Day' at me. One was: Which is brainier - cats or dogs? and the other was What insects are you afraid of? I ignored both. I could have clicked on the 'Get a random question' button, but I couldn't be bothered.

Of course I'd not played this correctly. I should have had Facebook and Twitter account on the go already, and then linked those to the Ask.fm account, so that all my friends and contacts on Facebook and Twitter could see my questions and answers, and have an hilarious time following my progress. I can imagine how it would be, if some anonymous person had kept pushing me with questions about my favourite things, on my attitudes to teen sex and music, and whether Xbox or PlayStation was best for gaming. What a spectacle, as I tied myself up in knots with my answers, and dug an ever-deeper hole for myself!

But I'd given the game away with frankness about my adult status, and my oldie photo. The troublemakers who bully kids into suicide wouldn't be willing to take me on. I should have posed as a youngster; but then I've never used that kind of deceit, and never will.

So, end of experiment.

The verdict? I can't see the point, let alone the fascination, of sites like this. If I ever needed to pass the time, or keep boredom at bay, I can think of several far better ways, including playing cards, and writing posts for my own blog if staying indoors is unavoidable.

I don't think that Ask.fm is harmless. It clearly exposes participants to intrusive and abusive questioning from unnamed people. That can't be fun, even if you're grown up, and have some ability to bite back. If you're teenage, and not used to being treated like trash, it could be devastating to your fragile self-esteem.

I'm not surprised that Ask.fm is a long way behind the social networking front runners in popularity. My brief forays into Facebook showed me that FB is (or can be) a much richer experience. Twitter less so. But both let you throw out silly or flippant questions and comments, and both expose you to nasty and hurtful remarks in return. Well, at least those should come only from your nearest and dearest, and trusted contacts. With Ask.fm, you usually don't know who is asking.

And that's so dangerous. It's like responding to a knock on your door on a dark and creepy night, long after midnight, and expecting the caller to be a lovely gentle stranger full of good intent. Whereas common sense should tell you that opening that door will be the beginning of a nightmare you may not survive.

I now have the results of various recent blood tests - a whole battery of stuff. For me, the two headline results are these:

Oestradiol
On 14 April 2011 (soon after surgery): 427 pmol/L
On 29 September 2011: 461 pmol/L
On 12 March 2012: 306 pmol/L
On 6 August 2013 (now): 146 pmol/L

Post-op, I have consistently used 100 mcg oestradiol patches twice-weekly. These results show that after a post-surgery surge, my oestragen level has dropped back to the level that a pre-menopausal natal woman would have in the first week of menstruation, before she ovulates. (See the helpful Wikipedia diagram: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Estradiol_during_menstrual_cycle.png)

Well, that seems fine; but whether 146 pmol/L is actually sufficient to maintain (and carry on enhancing) my female characteristics is something that I'll have to discuss with Dr Richard Curtis when I see him shortly.

Testosterone
On 3 September 2010 (six months before surgery): 2.4 nmol/L
On 29 September 2011: 0.9 nmol/L
On 12 March 2012: 0.4 nmol/L
On 6 August 2013 (now): 0.4 nmol/L

That's entirely expected. Post-op there should have been only the normal female slow drip of testosterone from the adrenal gland, and that's what I've got. It is probably too low for an energetic sex life, but in my situation, that's no bad thing. I've got over any embarrassment about 'having a testosterone test', now that I know women have testosterone floating about inside them too!

Although I know that I'm overweight, I'm in two minds about doing anything very serious about it. My weight is stable, the same as it was this time last year, my size 16 clothes still fit, and it gives me lower-body bulk to counterbalance the upper-body broadness. Better to be a blob top and bottom, than a top-heavy blob, I say!

I also know that I'm not fit, in the sense that going up a long flight of steps puffs me out and can make my leg muscles protest. I ought to address that, and will when I go on holiday again next month. I'm always a lot more active when caravanning, compared to when lounging around at home.

In all other respects, I feel fine. There are no health issues to report to Dr Curtis, and I'd say that physically I've settled down wonderfully since the Op on 1 March 2011.

My mental and emotional states must have been modified since then, but if so the changes have been so gradual that I haven't been able to detect them. I don't think I've become significantly more scatter-brained, or careless, or tempestuous. I know some people do.

However, I had a moment today when I was stumped over a simple task that went wrong, and got a bit wound up. I had to appeal helplessly for assistance, instead of applying cool-headed male-type method to solve the difficulty. It was in the village library, where I wanted to photocopy my blood test printouts, so that Dr Curtis could have copies too.

First, I couldn't get the photocopying machine to fire up. I nearly gave up, but I'd put 60p in the coin slot which was not to be lightly abandoned!

Then the machine sprang into life, why I did not know. I managed to copy four of the six A4 sheets. But then it displayed an odd no-paper-in-the-tray message. One of the staff put in some more paper for me. But it still wouldn't copy the last two sheets. The girl who had only just helped me with the paper was busy with all the young children using the library for the first time, with grandparents in attendance, and I didn't lke to pester her again. I saw a man browsing the shelves, and appealed to him, simply because, as a man, he ought to be practical. But he bumbled and didn't know anything, and was no use, even though I egged him on with encouraging flattery and sundry you-can-do-it noises.

Just as we jointly admitted defeat, the machine suddenly reset itself of its own accord, burst into ready-to-copy mode, and so I could proceed - although by that time, I was thoroughly exasperated. I felt so pathetically useless.

She, who could be a techno queen with a PC or a tablet or a mobile phone or a camera, was powerless in front of this wayward photocopier! It was so infuriating not to have any notion how to make the thing behave. I was reduced to trying buttons at random. In my office days, I'd have been much more adroit and resourceful. Logical. Unflustered. Assured of finding a way. Clearly my mind had lost some ability to puzzle things out, at least when put on a spot. And tears of frustration had been getting close. Dear me!

Well, I offer this up as at least some evidence that the legendary Melford cool can be knocked sideway by very little indeed. And that hormones are not to be trifled with, because they have very strong effects.

I will take issue with anyone who suggests that I'm just getting old. What a snide insinuation.

I've just switched to Google Chrome. I saw it in active use on my cousin R---'s laptop the other evening, and thought, wow, that's quick! And legible too. So this morning, when a not-infrequent update battle took place between Windows, F-Secure and Firefox, with nobody winning, I decided to simplify my life and say goodbye to Firefox.

This was no light decision: I still basically liked Firefox, and had used it as my PC browser since 2005 without much to complain about, except that as it matured it added more and more features that I didn't want. All these add-ons and plug-ins and other things made updates ever more tedious, because they ceased to be instant, and I sometimes had to endure delays while Firefox brushed me aside, took over, and updated itself.

A particular annoyance was its own security features, which competed with the comprehensive ones already provided by Windows and F-Secure. F-Secure was needed for the PC, tablet and phone, and I could buy a well-priced package that protected all three, even though that involved two versions (Windows and Android) of the same product. Incidentally, with F-Secure installed on the PC, I did not need the extra level of security provided by Windows, but there was no harm in having an alternative at hand, just in case. I didn't need two alternatives, however.

Chrome is a leaner web browser, with a cleaner-looking interface. It is of course designed to complement Google Mail and other Google products, and by using it for all my Internet-linked devices I can get the bookmarks on them all perfectly synchronised. It's also nice to have a common house style for the browser.

No doubt I will discover a couple of drawbacks. Chrome cannot be lightweight without a few compromises. Its inability to hide remembered passwords was in the news a few days back, but that's not in fact news, since Chrome has from its start in 2008 deliberately kept security very basic, defending this decision by pointing out that there are plenty of third-party security packages available that will do password protection and parental controls, and so forth. Personally, I never ask a browser to store a password where absolute secrecy matters.

I'm noticing a welcome change just typing this post out on Blogger - the default font is larger, and I'm not getting irritating warnings all the time that the text 'hasn't been saved'. These are little improvements, but welcome, and if Chrome works like a proper PC browser on the tablet and phone as well, instead of in the somewhat limited way previous browsers have, then I shall be smiling broadly. Anything that simplifies and speeds up blogging while I'm away in the caravan is going to add pleasure to my life!

Sequel
Well, I've discovered one nice surprise already. Immediately after posting the above, I tackled my next item for the day, which was making a backup of all my blog posts for the first half of August. This involved selecting the text (and any pictures) straight off the web page, and pasting it into a Word document, in this case two documents called '2013 08 postings 1' and '2013 08 postings 2'. To my amazement, the pasted text was exactly as it appeared in the web page, light orange background and all, and not some messed-around version in a different font. Even more amazing, the footprint was so small, despite the usual liberal use of photos in my posts.

That made the backup much faster to do. It suggests that only four documents will be needed for the whole of August. Not much work there, then! For comparison, I needed ten Word documents to accommodate the backup for the whole of July, when I was copying off the web pages provided by Firefox. Clearly Chrome somehow presents web pages with a lot less underlying formatting.

On my Android tablet and phone there is an app called Days Since, on which you set up events you wish to remember (future ones, as well as past ones) and then it will tell you how many days have passed since this or that happened, or how many must be lived through before something will come to be.

And today, there are two round numbers.

3,000 days since I retired on 31 May 2005. And 900 days since my surgery on 1 March 2011. That's strange, that these two most important events should go 'round-number' on the same day.

Take the first figure, 3,000 days since retirement. It's really getting to feel a long, long time since I last worked, and even though I do frequently talk about the benefits of getting some kind of job - I was discussing it with my cousin R--- just a few evenings ago - it doesn't have much reality. Can I really see myself getting up early, donning a shop uniform, and standing behind a counter for hours on end? Or can I really see myself thumping a keyboard in front of a screen in some back office? And, in either case, being at some manager's beck and call? Just for a bit of cash?

Of course, there would be the social side: staff friendships, favourite customers. But then, I've got a social life now, and I can expand it at will if I want to. I'm not lonely or bored, nor constantly at a loss for things to do.

Above all, do I want to give up control of my leisure time? Do I want in fact to enter into a commitment that might quite often stop me from doing the spur-of-the-moment things that give me so much pleasure? A sudden wish, for instance, to drive off to a café and have a mid-morning or mid-afternoon cup of tea, and a stroll through lovely grounds, or along a beach, camera in hand?

My cousin thought I'd romp through any job interview, citing my confidence, presence, ability to communicate, people skills, and heavyweight career background. I hardly recognised myself! But even if she was correct, even if my target employer, Waitrose (i.e. John Lewis) were genuinely into Diversity and wouldn't turn a hair at employing a trans woman, I doubted whether I'd be a suitable candidate for whatever positions were going. I'm simply nothungryenough for the money, the responsibility, and the chance to be a success in the workplace. I need to be those things. Otherwise, there will be no compelling incentive to stick at it, or to do that bit extra. And it would be immoral in my view to take a job on a hobby basis, when many others, perhaps less dazzling at interviews, would genuinely need the work, and would give better service in the long run than I could.

But it's an issue that keeps nagging at me. Days Since tells me I still have to wait another 446 days before my State Pension begins. Right then - a part-time job to last for just one year. But R--- did the same at my age, she took a part-time job in the garden department of B&Q after retirement as a headmistress. And seven years on, she is still working there. So, if the job is right, once you are in, you stay in. It clearly becomes part of your life.

And that other figure, 900 days since surgery. That seems a long way in the past too. Every day, morning and evening, I see myself unclothed. It's not an hourglass figure, but, considering my age, it looks very satisfactory. I look like a typical late middle-age woman - too much fat, too many unwanted bulges, but comfortable in her skin. There are millions of women just like me, and it's worth putting the flab and tired skin on display, because it's a fabulous way to blend in.

But, in some respects, I do seem freakishly young - where are the bingo wings? The crinkled and veiny hands and arms? The parchment skin on my face and chest? Thank goodness nobody can see the teen boobs. Only my legs, mottled with red and blue veins here and there, are suitably old-looking. Perhaps my throat now has the scrawniness that a woman of my age should possess. And although there's nothing beautiful in my face, it's got that sagging heaviness you see in older women who were never pretty. I'm sure the 'Miss' in front of my name raises no eyebrows. Of course I do think about facial surgery, and what it might achieve; but there would be no point in having any, because I'd end up looking unnatural.

So it seems that I'm in fact happy with how things are! Why then these speculations on a different occupation and appearance for myself?

I think it's because, in this life, one is never left in peace. You feel under constant pressure to meddle with a winning personal formula. People expect you to progress, to look for challenges, to achieve, to move forward, to simply do something. To keep changing for the better. And not just to stand still because you are content. Some would say that I've wasted the past 900 days on navel-gazing, when I should have been making my mark.

I say pish, bosh and humbug.

I continue to maintain that my taste in music is questionable, and might best be described as 'populist'. Certainly, more than the odd sneer has been levelled at the 1,400-odd mp3 tracks on the micro-SD card in my mobile phone, a collection that ranges in time and style from vintage Frank Sinatra to the Sugababes. The sneers do not matter. This is the soundtrack of my life, and I'm not perturbed if entire genres are missing, or that much of the collection is basically 'top of the pops'.

I'm still adding to it. My prime source nowadays is the Amazon MP3 Store on the Internet, but even they do not always have what I want. Recording artists and bands have sometimes got into disputes with their labels, or with each other, and that may delay or prevent the listing of many mp3 tracks that one might now badly want. For instance, most of the Dave Clark Five's output in the 1960s is not up for purchase on Amazon. I do have Glad All Over, but I'd dearly love to bag Bits and Pieces, and several others. Or it may be that just one or two individual songs are inexplicably not available, such as You Don't Have To Go, by The Chi-Lites in 1976, even though all the rest are easily purchased.

Sometimes I can't buy because I can't remember the name of the artist nor the correct title of the song, even though I may recall odd little details about it.

Here's an example. Some months back I added James Blunt's amazing 2005 song You're Beautiful to my collection, which is about his catching the momentary gaze of a girl with the face of an angel on a tube train. I won't swear that I ever saw a video for it, but I think I must have. Anyway, real or imaginary, it had confused my memory of another tube train video, an older one, which showed a naked girl singing directly to the camera while the other passengers completely failed to notice her nudity. Her song is one that I've long wanted, and I believed she was singing about love or beauty. One other thing: she had an unusual name. But I couldn't remember what it was. You can see that Mr Blunt's song and video had got in the way. But then there was yet another song, very popular, about being beautiful, and I wanted that too. I had no idea who sang that one, but I knew she was so well-known that I'd kick myself when I eventually found out, and it might be the same girl who was singing her heart out in the tube train.

And then today, when idly searching in the Amazon MP3 store, I came across Christina Aguilera, and a few clicks on from that, her 2002 anthem Beautiful, which was one of the songs I couldn't remember. Duuuuh.Kick! And then the mists cleared. The nude girl on the tube train had been singing about being thankful, not about being beautiful. A few more clicks, and I finally had the song: Thank U by Alanis Morissette in 1998.

Ah, what pleasure it was to finally have these two missing songs at last! It had taken over a decade.

But now I can sing along with the two girls in my bathroom, or when doing the ironing, and kid myself that my own voice is very much like theirs. Well, a bit like theirs.

With some misgivings, but being determined not to deviate from the position as I saw it, I did not send a birthday card (nor the usual small present) to my step-daughter in New Zealand.

I should perhaps more properly call her my my 'ex step-daughter', as her mother and myself were divorced way back in 1996. And now it may well be 'my lost step-daughter'. Yet another casualty of transition.

Not doing the regular annual birthday thing seemed awful, and the decision really hurt me inside. I felt it might hurt her too. But then her own decision not to send me a card had made me feel that the end had finally come, after so many years; and the best thing now was to draw a line under our very tenuous relationship. At least she would not be embarrassed any more.

I very nearly sent her a long letter to explain all this to her. I typed it out, signed it, enveloped it, then thought better of posting it. A letter was so physical, something both of you would have touched with fingers, not like spoken words, not like an email. You could hold it in your hand, and if you didn't rip it up, you might keep it forever, to be read again at any time, with renewed emotional effect. That indeed was the power of letters. That was why people often kept love-letters for years and years, as tangible evidence of what was, or what might have been.

But a letter could also be a monument, a tombstone. No resurrection, no call back from the grave, would be possible if I actually sent a letter right across the world with frank words in it that I could never retract. Not horrible words, mind you. They were nice words; but regretful and honest, and they might well put the seal on a definitive farewell. I wasn't sure that I really wanted to shut the door so firmly. So I settled on silently doing the same thing as A--- had, and then await any comeback. None so far.

More than a relationship hangs on this. Could I ever revisit New Zealand if I knew that there was somebody there who no longer wanted to see me, her family also? I thought no, I wouldn't want to go back there knowing that.

But then things can change. The two months in New Zealand in 2007, seeing the place with M--- in a campervan, constituted a pretty comprehensive tour. But because we were constantly pressing on nearly every day, there were many places that needed a closer look on a return trip.

I often look wistfully at the 4.000-odd edited photos that I've got of our 2007 trip - I did it earlier this morning. But this time I found myself rebelling against all inhibitions. Why should the place be out of bounds? I told myself that nothing should ever stand in my way if I wanted to see it again. Not the fond relationship gone, not the rigours of travel there and back, not the cost. Well, that's new. I must be in the mood for breaking chains!

They say that 'he travels fastest who travels alone'. Make that 'she' also. And indeed, I might actually see more and experience more by travelling around on my own, to my own loose and easily-modified schedule. I like maximum flexibility where holidays are concerned. I can be happier seeing just two or three places really well, in any order, than attempting to fit in a dozen places in a rushed and timetabled way. Besides, I want opportunities to chat to local people, and who knows, share something of their lives.

My NZ photos are on my PC, arranged in easily-accessed folders, and it's a doddle to see whatever takes my fancy. And what lovely pictures they are.

I can just imagine myself cruising around in a hired 4x4, and staying in guest houses and cabins as the mood takes me. A car can take me to many places that are off-limits to a campervan. Campervans are awkward in towns, clumsy on busy roads, hard to park, and an obvious target for thieves - and therefore not my preferred choice. Admittedly, M--- and I pitched overnight in many very scenic spots that only campervans would use. But I want comfort and convenience, and personal security too, and would only consider a campervan if the costs of car hire, accommodation and eating out were too much to be sensible.

So I now intend to return to NZ under my own steam. I had already been thinking of a five-year Holiday Savings Plan. This definite destination, not the only one either, will keep me to that plan even more assiduously.

And by 2018, I should be more finished as Lucy Melford, in ways that I wish M--- and A--- could see and appreciate. M--- saw me in my first raw state and recoiled. A--- saw me last year in a half-completed state and clearly wasn't impressed. I really wanted her not to see me until I felt ready. I wanted her first glimpse of me to be my arrival at Auckland airport years from now, looking chic, perfectly poised, and attractive. She saw me too soon. That's a shame, but that's how life is.

This is the title of a song on Pulp's Different Class album of 1995. You must surely know what it's about - a student girl with a rich father asks Jarvis Cocker (vocals) to show her how the 'common people' live, including how they make love. Cocker obliges, while at the same time despising her for her naïve romanticisation of ordinary people's lives. Thinking of her as a 'tourist', able to escape from the whole depressing world of the 'common people' simply by phoning her wealthy dad, who can immediately whisk her out of it. She doesn't have to put up with chip-shop grease in her hair, and cockroaches in the bedroom - a phone call to her dad will 'stop it all'. Unlike how it is for the rest of us.

The song has many good lines, and the music is exciting to listen to, inducing a sensation that nothing matters, and that all responsibility is pointless. So much so, that this is a dangerous track to listen to when in a car on a fast road. You tend to drive faster and faster as the song progresses, as recklessness takes over. But then, that's the song's basic message: that the 'common people' - the submerged millions of people who are stuck at the bottom, and have shallow lives 'with no meaning or control', and for pleasure can only 'dance, and drink, and screw, because there's nothing else to do' - are powerless. Nobody cares about them, and they have stopped caring about themselves. Also that anyone who treats them as interesting specimens, or tries to understand them, or apes their ways for fun, is despicable.

I don't think the 'common people' in the song are necessarily 'working class' in the British sense, because the lyrics suggest a downtrodden, cynical and somewhat desperate subculture that I can't equate with my own perception of long-standing British working class aspirations - such as getting a good education and/or first-class vocational training - siezing a chance to get on - and becoming a force in such diverse arenas as politics or the performing arts. Surely, even in 1995, the notion of an Orwellian proletariat without any hope of betterment was quite dead. And, it must be said, squalid deaths among the rich and famous and privileged have never been a rarity, with 'living a pointless existence' a chief reason to drink or drug oneself into oblivion. So I think that the 'common people' in the song are an overdrawn fantasy, conjured up to highlight just how crass it is for rich girls to indulge their curiosity.

For all that, I think Common People makes its point rather well, and is still cutting-edge. There are millions of people who don't earn enough to escape a hand-to-mouth existence, who have no security of living accommodation, and who can't escape the social problems of a tatty neighbourhood. People who may use Food Banks.

And this is where I revealed myself to be an ignorant, middle-class tourist just a couple of days ago. I was entering Waitrose (which as you know is an upmarket foodstore, part of the prestigious John Lewis empire), and I was accosted by an earnest woman who was part of a team asking incoming Waitrose customers to donate to the local Food Bank. My first reaction was to fish for coins in my purse. Lady Bountiful. No, she didn't want money! She wanted food in tins and packets, the sort of stuff that would keep, and could be given to deserving local families. Could I consider buying some extra items while shopping in Waitrose, and giving them to the Food Bank people waiting with boxes at the exits? She gave me a leaflet on what the Food Bank was all about, and exactly what they were looking for.

I was determined to oblige, but at the same time it was a novel thing to be doing. Giving money was one thing. That was easy, and required no thinking. Selecting nutritious and appealing food in tins was quite another. I had to use my imagination. It wasn't quite as bad as 'wondering what the Common People eat', but I did have to put myself in the place of some single parent who wanted to heat up something tasty for the evening. A tin or two of corned beef wasn't going to do it. Tinned curry? Sardines? The kids might not like the taste. I settled on two tinned steak pies, which I would certainly eat if so minded. Job done. I got a nice 'thank you' on the way out.

But of course I really ought now to make this a habit. 'Ought'? Why? Shouldn't the government see to it that families do not go hungry? But the stark fact is that they know caring people will step in, and get comfortably-off Waitrose customers like me to cough up.

And not just Waitrose customers. I dare say that there are Food Bank people outside ASDA as well (ASDA being a downmarket foodstore, part of the less prestigious but mighty Wal-Mart empire).

'I dare say'. There, I've given it away: I never shop at ASDA. Why ever not? Their prices are famously cheap, car fuel too. But I don't. And I will be frank about the reason. I think the staff are very helpful, but the customers make me feel uncomfortable. I feel like an intruder into their space. Some of them are most certainly the sort to give you a hostile stare. I feel I shouldn't be there, and whereas I love having a lively chat in Waitrose, I would be careful about opening my mouth in ASDA. The place makes me wary, even afraid. I feel that I might, at any moment, get badmouthed by some sneering lout with a beer belly, or given a killing look by some impatient mum with lank hair and kids out of control, who resents my affluence, my freedom from grinding family responsibility.

'Birds of a feather flock together'. It's so true. I go to Waitrose because I won't be mobbed and pecked there. I feel tolerated in other places too, Sainsbury's and Marks & Spencer for instance, but I have a definite no-go list in my head, and ASDA is on it.

By the way, I'm talking about ordinary social tolerance here. I'm not talking about tolerance of the fact that I am trans. That would be something else again. If ever the cry goes up in a crowded foodstore, that a trans person is shopping there, I know exactly where the ensuing nightmare of being publicly embarrassed and pushed around by surly lads will happen. Sorry, ASDA. It's the people who appreciate your very low prices. A bit like the situation in another Pulp track from Different Class, the one titled Mis-Shapes:

We'd like to go to town, but we can't risk it
They just want to keep us out
You could end up with a smack in the mouth
Just for standing out, now really

I often think how apt that is for people like me. Whether I see myself as being trans, or merely a half-posh tourist, I could be taking a big risk. Maybe you too.

Let me assure you at once that I do understand that there is no connection, culturally or otherwise, between the South Korean swanky-suburban dance fad from 2012 and the ongoing violence-ridden way of life adopted by certain young city dwellers who have affinities (real or imagined) with an underprivileged ghetto background. But I will confess that until a day or two ago I had mixed them up in my mind. It was the 'gang' element, which made me automatically shy away from learning more.

So I thought that Gangnam Style was a populist and acceptable take on a black urban subculture! Similar perhaps to admiring the sometimes-stylish American gangsters of the 1920s onwards - although I'm referring to questionable figures like Bonnie and Clyde, rather than the cosy and lovable portrayals of gangster life, or rather criminal life generally, that have been a constant theme of the British and American TV and films for decades. What was fare such as Minder on TV, but a distinctively Cockney take on London criminality? And wasn't humorous stuff like Only Fools and Horses underpinned by a reality that there are seedy people whose way of life is built around dishonesty and sharp practice, avoiding not only the Police but the local gangs of truly professional criminals? And there are many other contemporary examples of bad behaviour being dramatised because the characters, and what they do, look interesting. I dare say the book sales of crime novelist Elmore Leonard, who died yesterday, will now enjoy a surge. Not from this quarter, though: I had never heard of him before he died, and his death will not make his adventures of petty crooks any more appealing, nor more urgent to know about.

Something made me look up Gangnam Style on Wikipedia, and light dawned. What an idiot I'd been. No wonder certain political leaders had thought it OK to ape the dance routines in the pop video. I studied it carefully on YouTube. My reaction: this would be great as an exercise workout, in the privacy of my own home of course. I liked the girls' outfits very much, and the movements were so simple that I felt I could copy them faithfully, even with my dubious co-ordinational powers. 'Dress classy, dance cheesey' - yep, that's me!

I felt even more silly, because I could have have consulted Urban Dictionary long ago. After all, I bookmarked it three years back. These are the Dictionary's definitions of Gangnam Style and Gangsta:

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Gangnam%20Style

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=gangsta

Urban Dictionary is a very good place to tap into what clued-up people take a view on. Recommended. Yo.

I was once very, very keen on cycling. This was when I was thirty or so and living in London. That was in 1982 and 1983, thirty-odd years ago. It was an interest I embraced suddenly, and then discarded just as suddenly - for good reasons.

I should explain that I never owned a bike in childhood, and did not learn to ride one until I was thirty. That's why I was so smitten. It was much more than just a novelty, it was a revelation, something I'd missed out on, and like any convert I was fanatical. I instantly fell totally in love with the whole notion of cycling. It was a city thing, but it could take you out into the countryside, and it had connotations of freedom and rebellion. It was obviously good for physical exercise. Pedal power seemed in every way wholesome and virtuous. It did not pollute the roads with exhaust fumes. It seemed also to have a philosophical element to it, or at least you had to change your mindset in a good way.

I bought inspiring books about cycling. I bought glossy cycling magazines. I added accessories, becoming a saddle fetishist, a pannier fetishist, a lighting fetishist, a tyre fetishist, a bike lock fetishist. I bought reflective belts and ankle straps, to ward off the city traffic. I had mirrors, so that I could see what was coming up behind. I was going to ride hard and fast, and cut through the London buses and taxis with confidence. For I was now a Road Warrior.

I learned to repair punctures, to replace cables and to use special brake blocks. I tried various styles of handlebar. I even experimented with different gear ratios. I found bicycle shops that catered for the cycling enthusiast - not the old fuddy-duddy enthusiast, but the younger kind that were fired up by the latest technology. The term 'mountain bike' was still new, and the notion of a tough, go-anywhere machine had a magical appeal. I couldn't afford one of those: but I went through two more ordinary bikes in quick succession.

I deferred renewing my Underground season ticket. I would save money by cycling from Wimbledon to Victoria and back every day. An hour's journey. I started when it was late summer, in sunshine. It seemed ideal. I noticed the extra cash in my pocket. But the days got shorter. As soon as the light level fell, I realised how vulnerable I was, how invisible. I had a couple of very close shaves. And then a spate of punctures. The potholes and bumps were a nightmare in near-darkness. I gave up. This was stupidity. I was going to get knocked off and hurt. And as it grew colder, so the trains seemed more and more sensible. The bike was put away, never more to be ridden. I sold it a few months later.

I was disillusioned, and I have remained disillusioned. And from being avidly pro-bike, I have become firmly a champion of four-wheeled transport. The advantages of having a wheel at each corner of a covered platform with seats on it seem overwhelming. You are large enough to be seen; you are protected from weather and impacts; you can't fall over; you can carry passengers; you can carry a useful load; and given the right kind of engine and fuel, you can travel a long way very quickly. Pedal bikes can't do any of that. Even if it had to be a car that looked like a weird Mars rover, it would still be more versatile, and safer, than a bike.

Bikes scare me. Every time I see a bike rider, I am scared that I will witness a dreadful accident as frustrated car drivers ahead of me take risks to get past. I am afraid that one day, when I am passing, a cyclist will swerve to avoid a pothole, or a crack in the road, or a dead squirrel, or wobble as cramp strikes in a leg muscle, and we may connect with ghastly results.

Cyclists face a hazard overload. Really, I can't see how it's possible to enjoy doing what they do. In fact I think that cycling is a type of suicide, certainly an activity that will inevitably put you in hospital sooner or later. Nothing would induce me to get on a bike again.

I can't see why little children are allowed onto any road where traffic might go. They may wear helmets, and they may be shadowed by a parent, but in reality they are horribly exposed to death or serious injury. I shudder to think what would happen if they wobbled and fell as a car passed. Whereas if these children (and their parents) were all in four-wheeled buggies or carts, they would have a much better chance of survival.

But I really want to propose that cyclists should be banned from all roads that cars can use. Lives are at stake. Cars and bikes simply do not mix. Nor, for that matter, do cars and horses, or cars and pedestrians. Each needs their own roads and paths and ways that none of the others can use. Of course it won't happen.

My next door neighbour T--- died months ago, in early April. His little bungalow had been his pride and joy. Originally bought with his mum (he never married, nor had a family of his own), T--- had been living there alone in retirement for a very long time. He had good friends in the village, and some he'd used to work with up in London. He was well-liked, and his planting out of bedding plants, to achieve a glorious display of colour, was an annual event that he kept up into his early 80s.

He knew me as I used to be, when Mum and Dad were his neighbours and not myself, when I was just a twice-weekly visitor. We always got on very well, even when I moved in as the new owner of my house after Dad's death, and it was instantly clear to anyone not completely blind that I had embarked on my transition. T--- proved to be broadminded about that, and, bless him, made strenuous efforts to call me 'Lucy'. We generally had a good half-hour chat about all kinds of things when we saw each other in our front gardens. I sometimes wondered if he was lonely, or at least short of company, because those who don't see many people from day to day often are very chatty. But I usually liked a jolly good chinwag. It was also, let's face it, good for the neighbours to see us talking, because it meant T--- thought me OK as Lucy. His acceptance and respect meant they could treat me the same way, if they were at all wondering how to react.

On two occasions I asked him about what he was doing for a Christmas Dinner, and whether he'd like to join me. But he was very independent, and assured me he was fine, it was all in the oven. And really, there was no reason ever to doubt what he said. I didn't press him, not wanting to intrude, just as I didn't want intrusions into my private living space either.

I specially invited him to my 60th Birthday Family Gathering last year. He stayed to the very end, and he told the neighbours across from him that he'd had a very good time. Indeed I thought so too. He got on well with most people, and although he dressed like someone out of the 1950s, I believe he was nevertheless a closet party animal.

But he died this year, and was suddenly gone, his house bereft of life. And gradually nature undid his neat and tidy gardening. Thank goodness the solicitors, who had taken over all his affairs - no family to do it - authorised my mower man to keep his lawns looking decent. A neighbour trimmed the foliage around the front windows.

We all wondered when something definite would happen about the house. The last rumour heard was that it would be auctioned. But today, late in the morning, a man came to erect a For Sale sign. So: it was going to be sold normally. I looked at the estate agent's website, and got up the details. There it was, with pictures of the garden and the interior accommodation, most of which I'd never seen, having never been beyond the hall and kitchen.

Oh dear, it was, as I had guessed, full of old-fashioned furniture, and anything but swish and modern. But it was clearly clean and tidy. And actually, for any buyer wanting a blank canvas to work with, this would be an ideal property. It could quickly and easily be stripped back to a shell, and a smart new interior put in. T---'s house was a mirror-image of mine: a perfect house for an older couple without children, or indeed any single person who didn't mind a garden to look after. Future-proof, if one had any mobility issues and couldn't cope with stairs.

I am now going to be very curious about who buys it - and for what. The asking price is a bit over £300,000, more than I would have thought it was worth in its present state. But presumably the estate agents know their business, and have carefully pitched the price to get a sale without delay, so that the estate can be wound up. I expect that offers will be somewhat lower, maybe around £280,000. When I know the figure, it will be a good guide as to what my own house must be worth.

The photos taken by the estate agent were poignant: it still looked lived-in, a house as it would be if the owner had just popped out for a while and was coming back shortly. And not as houses look when they are artificially dressed up for sale. Buyers will understand at a glance that the previous owner has died, and that the house is being sold without fuss by the administrator of the estate.

I do hope that whoever becomes my new neighbour will be friendly and nice to know. T--- would want that.

The estate agent's property description had a Street View to click on. Oh, how strange: Google must have visited the village in 2009. There was T---'s house, and Dad's house (now mine), and the house across the road that belonged to a lady called S---. And there were their cars. T--'s dark green one, Dad's gold one, and S---'s orange one. All now gone, like their deceased owners, but still there to be seen on Google Street View. What a strange feeling to contemplate that.

Did you catch the news item earlier this month, about the gigantic fifteen-ton 'fatberg' that had blocked the drains under Kingston-upon-Thames in south-west London? Here's a link to the BBC News report on it: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-23584833. It was more awesome than disgusting.

Well, I had my very own 'soapberg' to cope with. This was congealed washing machine soap that had blocked the drain for my kitchen sink, the outflow from the washing machine running into the same drain. It was unsuspected, because I use Persil non-bio liquid detergent capsules in the machine, or liquid Stergene when handwashing, and never powder. You'd think that liquid detergent wouldn't lead to any problems, but it clearly did. My next door neighbour K---, who is a plumber, said to me that although using a 40 degree Celsius wash cycle is mostly a Good Thing, it will accelerate the build-up of soap deposits in pipes and drains. Once a month, I should have a high-temperature wash to help blast the build-up with scalding hot water.

Will do! My cotton whites will now get the full treatment.

But I'm leaping ahead. Four days ago I noticed that after washing up the dishes (with Fairy liquid), the water was taking a long time to drain away. This had happened before, last March. Curious, I'd discovered that the kitchen drain was hidden under the conservatory floor, beneath a removable section, as in this photo that I took at the time:

It looked all right. I decided that there was really no need for action. And indeed it soon seemed to correct itself, although on odd occasions I heard strange gurglings as water drained away. But I shrugged my shoulders in a devil-may-care fashion, tossed my hair, and snapped my fingers.

But as I said, four days back the suds would not drain away at all. So I had another look:

Hello, hello! The chipboard floor looked a bit damp. I unscrewed the section of floor over the drain:

Oh dear. Full to the brim, and likely to overflow if any more water were added. I could see congealed soap. I didn't flinch. I stuck my arm in and dredged with my bare hand. I hauled out a bowlful of unwholesome-looking gunge:

Some would say that I am just not the type to get my hands mucky and smelly like this - let alone my entire arm. Some would say, in fact, that I am far too much of an overfastidious wimpy girly to do anything that involves dirt and mess. Well, they are wrong. I will do whatever it takes, even if I have to become a foul-smelling mudball. Naturally, I'd have worn protective gloves if I'd had a cut that might get infected. And equally naturally, I'd have backed off if tentacles with suckers on them had groped for me while delving into that slimy hole. But it was in fact a straightforward clearance job.

It didn't do the trick though. Somewhere beyond the reach of my fingers was a soapberg solid enough to dam the water and stop the drain working. Time for an expert. K--- was on holiday in Devon with his wife J---, but was returning shortly, and could tackle the job today. He had a complete set of drain rods and other items. So this morning, having located where the external drain cover was, I managed to prize it up with a spade, ready for K--- to work his magic:

First, K--- used a heavy-duty plunger, which quickly dislodged the soapberg. Water flowed out freely. Wonderful! Then he connected his rods, and fed them down the drainpipe, to make quite sure that there was nothing that might still cause trouble:

It's so nice to have K--- and J--- as neighbours! Afterwards, I thanked K--- profusely, and gave him a fiver, as the price of a pint, by way of a very sincere and relieved 'thank you'.

Incidentally, the drain we fed the rods down wasn't in my garden. It was in T---'s next door. All the drains for my house are on T---'s property, a potentially awkward arrangement. But for now we had access, and we got on with it before any prospective buyers for T---'s home turned up. There would have been raised eyebrows from the estate agent and those potential buyers if we had been caught red-handed doing our drain-clearing stuff! Maybe a stiff rebuke from the solicitors too. So in a way fate has been kind to me, making the soapberg go critical just before viewings commenced. And decently ahead of my going away on holiday too.

Here I am, about to seal up the drain cover again:

The next household problem is the gas main. The gas people are going to modernise all connections to the gas supply. Everyone in the village. Two chappies came round this afternoon. I had a discussion with them. I must be able to get away with my caravan in September. They think they will have fixed my section of road before I need to depart. I hope so: it will be very inconvenient if I can't tow my caravan off my property because there is a girt great hole in the road outside!

I'm allowing everyone to comment again

Breasts and nipples

You just have to make the right connection

My new shawl

The fate of books

Ask.fm

Toki Pona

Hacking it with the Big Boys

My four legged friends

Ask.fm verdict: dangerous, and a waste of my time

Hormone balance

Google Chrome

Number games and life games

Three songs all mixed up - but I'm ready for my singsong now!

Never say never: going back to New Zealand

Common People

Gangnam Style and Gangsta

Bikes versus cars

Next door is finally up for sale

Fatbergs and soapbergs