Lucy Melford

The Scottish artist Edward Atkinson Hornel (1864-1933) is now best known for his paintings of children in various idealised situations. The children, usually girls, are always very attractive, and the word 'winsome' has been used to describe the look Hornel gives them. Here for instance are the girls in two oil paintings of his from 1906, first The Music of the Woods, and then Seashore Roses:

These are cropped from my own photos, having now visited both the Scottish National Gallery in Edinburgh, and the galleries at Kirkcaldy (more on that below).

Hornel's children are almost impossibly pretty and engaging, although in the first painting they seem like twee little adults, especially the two who are discussing something. I prefer the dreamy girls in the second painting, who have much more of the innocence of proper childhood (or at any rate, childhood as understood in the 1900s). When I was this sort of age, this is how I would have imagined myself, if I'd had developed an artistic way of seeing things. But of course the actual little girls I saw at school and elsewhere weren't like this at all: they squabbled, and pushed each other around, and were very noisy - grubby divas all of them. But I cherished the cleaned-up, pretty ideal in my mind all the same, wanting if I could to be like one of Hornel's girls. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Atkinson_Hornel for a bit more information on Mr Hornel.

Much later, M--- drew my attention to the artwork in the Flower Fairy books of the 1920s, which were illustrated by Cicely Mary Barker (1895-1973) in a similar style, although to my eye her children, whether girls or boys, were sweeter and even more innocent and unsoiled by reality. Her style was so delicate: both children and flowers were exquisititely drawn and coloured. She used pen and ink, or watercolour, to achieve the result she wanted - quite different from Hornel's exploitation of the textural effects possible with oil paint. To look through any of the Flower Fairy books is to cast aside the world as it is, and refresh the soul, to become very young again - and of course to learn a little about flowers in various seasons. I personally possess the books for Autumn and Winter. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cicely_Mary_Barker for more about Miss Barker.

What has this to do with bridges and masks and hats and cats? I'm coming to it. We must get to Kirkcaldy first.

Right then. While in Scotland I had a long day out in Fife, which is the area of land that pokes out eastwards like a giant tongue, to the north of Edinburgh, across the immense sea inlet called the Firth of Forth. To reach Fife, you have to get past Edinburgh (a whole lot easier than getting past London) and cross over the Firth. There are two choices: by the old Forth Railway Bridge, and by the more modern Forth Road Bridge, soon to be known as the Old Forth Road Bridge because it's now almost fifty years old and feeling the strain. Apparently it carried its 250 millionth vehicle as far back as 2001, and it's crumbling somewhat. So they are now building a new one alongside, and I hear that the old bridge will be relegated to lighter duties as an expressway for buses only, which will let it soldier on for a long time yet. Wikipedia has an interesting article at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forth_Road_Bridge.

Meanwhile the original bridge, the famous and very distinctive Forth Railway Bridge stands proud, lately rejuvenated with a coat of scientifically-formulated red paint that will not require endless never-finished repainting! I stopped off at Queensferry to contemplate both bridges for a while. Here are some of my pix:

This was but a pause. My prime objective was Kirkcaldy - which is pronounced 'Kirk-coddy'. Scottish pronunciations can trip you up, although really they are no stranger than some you encounter in Sussex, where there are towns and villages whose spelling completely misleads you, such as Bosham, Halnaker, Cuckfield, Ardingly, Lewes, Chalvington, Selmeston, Heathfield and Bodiam - which in reality are Bozzum, Hannaker, Cook-field, Arding-ligh (to rhyme with 'high'), Loo-iss, Charnton, Simson, Hefful and Bodgum. Anyway, I intended to stop at Kirkcaldy partly to give Fiona a drink, and partly to see the newly-refurbished Kirkcaldy Galleries. To get there, I sped across the (Old) Forth Road Bridge.

In these next shots, I try to capture a feel for the bridge's ongoing distintegration, with cables twanging and snapping, and concrete splashing into the Firth, as Fiona flung herself over the heaving, groaning, cracking and shuddering span...

...but I think I've utterly failed to capture that sensation of imminent disaster. Note however, not a single seagull was resting on the superstructure. They were all keeping clear. They knew.

Kirkcaldy Galleries were adjacent to Kirkcaldy station, in the centre of town. This is a place with an interesting past - local lino and pottery industries, for example - but nowadays I wasn't sure that it had a clear-cut identity or purpose. Small and drab Burntisland just down the road, for instance, was at least very well-known for its docks and ship-repairing. But Kirkcaldy? The last fatal pistol duel in Scotland in 1826? A visit from the Beatles in 1963? The Raith Rovers football team, whose glory years were 1913, 1922, 1949 and 1994? I can however commend it to the world for two wonderful things: the local price of diesel is really low; and it has its Galleries:

One of the rooms is devoted to experimental, interactive stuff like costume. An official printed notice invites you to try on a variety of things in front of a mirror. It may be that they have winsome children chiefly in mind, but I think they mean adults too:

Inspired by our wall of portraits? Why not follow in the footsteps of the great artists by creating a self portrait? Maybe you'd like to dress up? Have a look on the hooks and see what you can find. You can use the mirrors to help you with your drawing. If you don't have time to draw then why not take a photograph on your mobile phone instead?

Can you imagine I needed further urging? Out came the little Leica. On went a variety of odds and ends. I'd already got a feel for this kind of thing a few days earlier at Cragside in Northumberland:

Now, at Kirkcaldy, I tried on some dark glasses, masks, and more hats:

Hmmm. Cool and trendy. What a babe.

Irresistably Venetian! Nobody would guess that was really me.

That's the look! So understated and discreet. Now for the hats...

Hmmm. The author Raymond Chandler once said said there's nothing sadder than a sad Mexican...that's just not me. But what about this cheeky little number?

That's much better! I could have a career as a stand-up comedian with a hat like that, despite having no sense of humour whatever!

Some nearby ladies were very amused with my antics in front of the mirror, and even if they declined to have a go, they saw the fun-potential. I really liked that last hat...a pity it wasn't for sale. I went next into the smart café (Question: is 'café' the word I use most in life?) for a cup of tea and some cake, and became curious about its name - the Café Wemyss.

I simply had to ask the girl on the nearby tourist information desk. She was super-obliging, and not only explained that 'wemyss' was the common element in a string of little places along the coast just east of Kirkcaldy, referring to cliffs, but also provided the name for a type of very popular (if not cult) pottery produced thereabouts in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It was called Wemyss Ware, and the original pieces of that period had become extremely collectable, fans including the late Queen Mother and the not-yet-late Prince Charles. Naturally no ordinary person can now afford the prices asked for the first Wemyss Ware.

However, there were two more recent versions of the Ware, both using the original designs and the special production techniques, that included hand-painting each piece before final glazing. The pottery was produced in Devon for nearly thirty years from the early 1930s, then revived again from the 1980s by Griselda Hill, who now had her own pottery at Ceres, a village in Fife, not too far away. The modern stuff was just the same as the old, but easier on the pocket, although still not cheap because of all the hand-painting. One of the Gallery staff I chatted to told me that she had just bought a full-sized cat, spending £250! Phew. It must have been for a special birthday or anniversary, I'm thinking. She wasn't exaggerating on the cost. I have a current price list before me at this very moment. The price for a full-size, 'large' (33cm tall) cat, decorated on both sides with a fruit or flower design, is presently £276. For a large pig (30cm high, and 51cm long), similarly decorated, the price is presently £443.

They sold some examples at the Galleries:

I absolutely loved the china cats! It was by then gone 3.00pm, and the Ceres Pottery closed at 4.30pm. Let's go see! I fired up Fiona, and we tore up the road, leaving burn marks, to get to the place in time for a jolly good look at what was on offer. We made it with half an hour to spare.

After discussion, deliberation and decision, I came away with Rosie, at a just-affordable £59, but then she was only 18cm tall, and regarded as a 'small' cat. Here she is unpacked back at the caravan that evening...

...and next morning, with Fang and my laptop...

...and back home. I think you'll grant that she goes rather well will the general decor of my bedroom, and especially the curtains:

What a cheerful little presence in my house! And small enough to take away in the caravan too, given enough bubble-wrap.

Down in Brighton Museum and Art Gallery, there's a huge nineteenth-century painted cat like Rosie, of the sort that inspired Wemyss Ware in the first place:

One wonders what will happen if they ever chance to meet. In fact I can't get it out of my head. Supposing they do? Supposing one day I'm in the Museum and I have Rosie with me? What will happen? That's the question I keep on asking myself.

I want to temporarily leave my fabulous Scottish holiday, and comment on a personal attack that irks me because it's so unjustified.

Bloggers (or anyone who publishes) need to have a thick skin. It's so easy to offend or provoke someone out there. That's human nature, of course. There are many who say 'live and let live' and mean it, but also many who have a sharp eye for reasons to feel provoked. Then you may get an unexpected reaction, and you feel a bit hurt. All injustice seems unfair, and it hurts acutely because it's so unmerited. 'I honestly didn't mean to say that,' you think. 'In fact my post really doesn't say that.' But the comment stings all the same, and so you want to set the record straight. Not to bite back, just to explain and defend yourself. After all, you have let the hurtful comment stand, in the hallowed spirit of Free Speech. The same principle surely allows you to publish a rebuttal.

But so often it only fans the flames.

You eventually learn that self-defence is not always the best response. The kind of person who is looking for fault (or something to mock) is not going to be reasonable and back down, let alone apologise!

Back in December 2012, and on into January 2013, I had a tussle with GenderTrender, who became aware of my existence when I commented on a post about a transvestite who took part as a model in the photo shoot for a whiskey advertisement. I thought I made some good points about that person's professionalism, and how in a different context (such as a painting exhibited by a modern artist) the photograph used in the ad, which apparently showed a male person in women's attire having a stand-up pee in a men's urinal, would have been seen as a valid and interesting social comment.

But I shouldn't have risked becoming a blip on the GenderTrender radar. I was going through a phase of seeking different things to write about, and was beginning to cover some oddball subjects, and to write in a slightly more edgy way. GT eventually pounced on me as someone to lampoon. I survived the shock, but decided to take down the posts that had got me into such unexpectedly deep water; and then avoid any post titles or post subjects that would draw a repeat experience. At the end of the day, the world of GT and its author is alien to my world, and these two worlds do not have to intersect. Would you study a real shark by swimming with it, or through plate glass in an aquarium? Through glass, I think. So where an internet shark is concerned, through glass again, and not by prodding the creature with an electric spear to see what happens, unless I were part of an official Internet Shark Policing Authority. Nor am I saying who is the shark. That depends on one's point of view.

I will now remind you of a post I published on 29 January 2013 entitled Newspaper cartoons: are we too hard to draw? Here's the link, and I invite you to read it in full: http://lucymelford.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/newspaper-cartoons-are-we-too-hard-to.html.

It is about how newspaper cartoonists have (surprisingly) seemed unable to lampoon trans people, despite papers doing so very successfully in print and photographs. It was a serious piece related to occasional posts of mine on the excesses and insensitivities of the British Press where trans people are concerned - a valid subject for me to tackle, I hope you will agree. But this time from the aspect of cartoons.

I postulated that cartoonists need to have long-established visual sterotypes that they can depict. There is no traditional visual stereotype for a trans person, and so that makes them difficult to draw. This is unlike traditional characterisations like 'John Bull' for 'England' (completely outmoded, but still ingrained in the nation's subconsciousness, and therefore fodder for the cartoonist). As you will see, if you have read my post, I was incautious enough to mention historic depictions of Jewish people.

This brought forth a reaction from another blogger in America. The exchange that followed is a great example of how not to respond when wrong-footed. I should simply have said 'I know that Jewish people do not necessarily have the traditional appearance that a political cartoonist likes to use, and just because I touch on that subject it does not mean I embrace it as a fact. I am not anti-Semitic, full stop.' But the person who attacked my words was not reassured.

I say that because in a post of hers dated 8 July 2013, entitled Nothing like promoting anti-Semitism, she has opened with:

T-Central is promoting the blog of the anti-Semitic Lucy Melford. What a surprise...

Then there is a reference to the video film my friend Alice had just made, which was chiefly about her life, her family and her poetry. Then:

(In case you've forgotten, Lucy is the one who supposes that there must be enough hooked-nosed Jews around for the stereotype to be true...)

To be fair, the post is not all about me, nor even all about T-Central (who seem to be criticised for featuring my posts), but about examples of sterotypic misrepresentation in general. I wouldn't have anything to say if themention of me was fair and unprejudicial, but it is not. Or at least I maintain it is not. If you have read my post about trans cartoons, you may have formed a different view. In which case, I can only hang my head in contrition and develop ways to be more careful and sensitive in future. But for now the position is that I have been wrongfully attacked. So this exchange next took place.

I said:

Sigh.You seem to have it in your head that I dislike Jews, consciously or not. You are wrong. If you want a rational discussion on this, then email me - the address is in my Blogger profile - otherwise leave me out of any discussion about who hates Jews. Frankly, I have (for very obvious reasons) a great sympathy with ANY part of the world's population that is oppressed or misrepresented, and that includes Jews. Take that literally.

Lucy

These were the two consecutive replies from the blog's author, Carolyn Ann Grant:

1. You are the one who presumes that the stereotype of hook-nosed Jews exists for a reason. If that's not anti-Semitic, then I don't know what is.

2. And, by the way, I don't think you dislike Jews; I simply know you stereotype them. You made it clear you've only ever met one or two. (I guess the rest didn't wear their yellow stars the day they met you?) So how could you know if you like Jews? No, I'm not going to email you. If you need a discussion about why your views about Jews is reprehensible, then you need far more than an email discussion I have neither the time nor inclination for. If you're not able to understand why your views are odious, then I am not going to take the time to educate you.

I didn't see these replies until, curious as to why my invitation to explore the matter privately by email hadn't led to anything, I went back to her blog. Then I was faced with the question of whether to say anything more.

I decided I would say one more thing, on the basis that (a) despite some of the language - the comment about yellow stars, for example - I thought this blogger was fundamentally open to fair discussion; and (b) I didn't want a remark that I was anti-Semitic left on the Internet unchallenged, because it exposed me to possible retribution and victimisation. So I wrote a further reply, making these points:

(a) My original post was about trans people, and the problems of cartoonists who wish to portray them.
(b) The passing mention of Jewish people is confined to one paragraph.
(c) Mention of something does not mean one believes in it oneself.
(d) It's unfair to pounce on one paragraph as evidence of anything, and I challenged her to find similar words that denigrated Jews in any of the other 900-odd posts I've put out.

She wouldn't have to read all those posts. There's a search box on my blog. Trying 'Jew', 'Semitic' or whatever would reveal that I rarely mention anything to do with Jews, and really have no interest whatever in Middle-eastern affairs.

I'll do it for you. A search using the word 'Jew' brings forth just one post, on 13 January 2013, about UK charities. In it I refer with approval to the Biblical Good Samaritan who, although he was 'meant' to despise Jews, nevertheless was a life-saving friend to a Jew left lying injured in the roadside. The Samaritan saw to it that the poor man's hurts were treated; he paid for his convalescence; and he came back later to rejoice in his recovery. A search on 'Semitic' brings forth only my post on the lack of trans cartoons, in which I made that passing reference to the historical perception of Jewish appearance by most of Europe from medieval times onward.

When I last looked, my reply hadn't been published. Anything could be read into that. It could simply be that the blogger concerned has drawn a line. A point comes when it's time to stop an exchange going on and on without end. That's OK with me. I've now made my point here, in my own space.

If you want to examine the blog post in question, it's at http://carolyn-ann.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/nothing-like-promoting-anti-semitism.html.

The position on the following day
My reply still hasn't been approved and published by Ms Grant. Just as well then that I did so here, in case those searching for people who are 'anti-Semitic' turn up references to me, stalk me, and try to do me harm. I'm sure that Ms Grant wouldn't want a lighted petrol rag put through my front door, or the brake hydraulics on Fiona tampered with, or for me to be knifed in the street, but these things can happen. One must be so very careful when flinging accusations at other people, because they can get picked up by fanatics.

This morning's post, about that attack on me by another blogger who should know better, pulled my mood down. But not for many hours. I can't sustain an unhappy mood for long!

My posts on the Scotland section of my recent holiday had got me as far as the village of Ceres in Fife. Well, this day trip into Fife was proving to be something of a marathon, having started that morning back at North Berwick. I was all for cutting across country to Anstruther, having fish and chips at the place recommended to me by the couple who had taken me under their wing at Yellowcraig, Vera and Charlie, and then for heading back before I got way too tired. After all, I'm no spring chicken, and one thing you have to appreciate about Scotland is that it's a deceptively big country! It's easy to push yourself too far with travelling.

But whether it was my taking the wrong road by mistake, or Fiona being playful, I found myself on the B939 rapidly approaching the old town of St Andrews. Oh well. I'd make the best of it then. The sun had come out, and I reckoned that an hour's stroll about the town would certainly revive me. And it did.

Just to recap, St Andrews is devoted to two things: golf, and its renowned university. It also has a ruined castle and cathedral, and to some extent it's a seaside resort with a shopping centre that specialises in upmarket Scottish products. The shopping can be serious and useful, or strictly for the benefit of gullable and foolish tourist folk. Here are some photos, to give you a flavour of the place:

It's essentially Cambridge-by-the-Sea, but with a Scottish twist, and the overwhelming presence of the mighty Royal and Ancient Golf Club, who have reigned since 1754. And just as you never, never, mess with the Kirk in Scotland, so in St Andrews you obey the Rules of Golf as laid down by the R&A, rules which in spirit if not the letter extend to ordinary day visitors climbing off the coaches with cameras, or arriving in style in Volvo XC60s. Everyone is obliged to replace divots. No exceptions. See the R&A website at http://www.randa.org/en/Our-Heritage/The-Royal-and-Ancient-Golf-Club.aspx. And the Wikipedia article at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Royal_and_Ancient_Golf_Club_of_St_Andrews.

That said, you can perhaps detect a certain counter-balance from the University. It's a privilege to be a student here, if only for the seaside views. University life imposes its own standards, its own requirements, and its own atmosphere, and the R&A Greens Committee does not enjoy unchallenged authority in every wynd and side-alley. When I was there, it was obvious that a University Event had just taken place, and that another was due to commence shortly. There were groups of bubbly well-dressed people all walking in similar directions, and they clearly weren't wedding guests. Some were foreign. The mood was palpably a party one. Except of course at the R&A Golf Club, where no doubt touchy male members in kilts were glowering into their whiskies and muttering about the curse of the foreigner in their ancient city, especially if they'd had the cheek to tread on the hallowed turf of the Old Course...

Although the general public can go into some parts of the palace-like Clubhouse - and I wish I'd realised that when I passed by - traditionally, and certainly for the present time, no women may be members of the Club. I can't see that discrimination lasting till the crack of doom, but crusty old gentlemen are surprisingly resilient to change. Muirfield - currently hosting the 2013 Open - is similarly misogynistic. Former Prime Minister Gordon Brown, and Scottish First Minister Alex Salmond, both of them men by the way, have complained to the R&A about their no-women rule, but to no avail so far. See this Guardian article: http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2012/aug/24/gordon-brown-golf-club-female-members.

Not only women get the cold shoulder at the Clubhouse. Caddies do too. A golf caddy is basically an omniscient and soothing mentor who carries your bag of clubs for an agreed payment, and can give advice about how to play a stroke, or even be a shoulder to cry on if the round is a disaster. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caddy. The Wikipedia article suggests that the caddy's lot is entirely a happy one, but I suspect that not all golfer/caddy partnerships go well. Some championship golfers, when under pressure, must occasionally use their caddy as a verbal punch bag to relieve their feelings. The ability to suffer in silence, and put up with tantrums, is presumably a requisite for a successful career in caddying.

And as I said, they are on par with mere women inside the Clubhouse. The R&A relegates them to their own very detached pavilion. Presumably it is their changing-room, and may for some be their living quarters too. It has reflective, see-out-only windows. So reflective, that I was able to tidy my hair in one of them, then take a photo of myself looking instantly windblown again:

Did I hear voices within? Surely I did. Something like this:

Sandy (a caddy): Hamish! Yon lassie in the window preening herself!
Hamish (another caddy): Does she no realise there's men in here?
Jock (yet another): Men in a state of complete undress...she thinks that window is just a mirror!
Sandy: Not a young lassie, though.
Hamish: Och, she'll do well enough.
Jock: Well enough for what, Hamish?
Hamish: Well enough for what I have in mind.
Sandy: Aye.
Jock: Aye.
Hamish: Right, first to get their trews back on can open the door and invite her in!

Phew. Good thing I wandered off to see the castle. That was a near thing, and no mistake!

A constant problem with posts that feature friends is how to name them in the text.

Somebody like myself is no problem. What, a retired blogger of independent means, who doesn't work now, and will never work again, who has no partner, nobody at all in her life who might be embarrassed by her identity being public? I'm one of those who can be openly referred to by my full current name, and indeed shown so-named in a photo. I understand that happens to me regularly on Facebook, when Facebook-using friends have snapped me doing something celebratory and publish the result, although not being on FB myself, I never see the result. They could however say whatever they wished, and it wouldn't matter, including snippets from my past life, if they know any.

You don't have to wade through FB though, to find those snippets. If you genuinely want to know who I used to be, and trace my personal history from birth till now, then it's all there somewhere in the blog. However, there's a catch! You have to crunch your way through a canon of almost 700,000 words. Maybe a million words by 2015. And those biographical facts are scattered about and untagged.

You can see my cunning plan: the biographical details are all hidden among a welter of other stuff. Anyone inclined to play detective will have to be very creative with the Search Box!

I'm not throwing out a challenge, I'm simply saying that normal people, with normal lives full of stuff to get on with, just won't have the time to piece the entire story together. Government agencies monitor me automatically, of course - but then they do that to us all, whatever the denials, and I doubt whether they ever bother with an in-depth analysis of what they gather in, unless words like 'terrorist' turn up. Whoops.

If there are any especially determined and dogged sleuths about, they will eventually ferret out the salient facts of my life and former career. But since most of my life has been - of course - one of pure innocence and exemplary virtue, completely free of crime, scandal, notable achievement and notorious acquaintance, the effort will be unstimulating and unrewarding.

Indeed, I'd say the modern-day Lucy Melford, the freshly-painted racy version with the covers off and the inhibitions cast aside, is the version to take most interest in. Trust me. Forget the past. The 2013 model is the one to watch, and put your money on.

Back to the problem of naming other persons who need to be discreetly cloaked or masked in some way. The two friends I shared a day with in Edinburgh were such persons, or at least one of them certainly was, the other less so. I most certainly wanted to mention them in this post. But not name them. And simply using initials wouldn't be adequate. So I've settled on pseudonyms. My two friends have become Brenda of the Seven Secrets, and Morag of the Magic Mountains. Good Scottish names! And to join in, and not be different, I am going to call myself Princess Iona, Fairest Lady of the Sunset Seas. Perfectly ordinary names, all told. We'd pass in any crowd with names like those.

The day in Scotland's capital city started cloudy and spitting with rain, but it bucked up. I first drove over to North Berwick station, parked Fiona there for nothing (for nothing!), left her to her own devices, and boarded the electric train. Like most things I've seen in Scotland, it was modern, clean, tidy and fast. I paid £10.50 for an 'anytime' return that would leave the choice of return-time wide open. In next to no time we were off. I'd already got chatting to a couple in wet-weather gear and backpacks who explained that they were naturalists, and that seashore life was their speciality: molluscs and so forth. I learned much about the ways of cockles and winkles. But they weren't at all familiar with land-based creatures. As we passed through the eastern suburbs of Edinburgh, they saw a fox by the railway line and got very excited. The male half exclaimed that he'd never seen an urban fox. I didn't like to say that in Sussex urban foxes could be seen at any time in Brighton, and they prowled my village after dark; and that deer and hawks and alpacas were a regular sight from busy commuter trains.

We parted at Edinburgh Waverley, where Brenda and Morag were waiting for me. Our first port of call was the café at the City Arts Centre, where Brenda and Morag were amazed that I resisted having something sweet to go with my coffee:

I said I really had no sweet tooth - I preferred savoury stuff. It's true. In a contest between a chocolate éclair, a Mars bar, and a sausage roll, the sausage roll would always win.

It was to be a day full of galleries, very much to my taste, with breaks for refreshment and one necessary trip to Marks & Spencer, so that Morag of the Magic Mountains could spend a voucher before it expired. At this point, I will reveal my royal costume for the day, as shot in the City Arts Centre café loo:

As we were already there, we looked first at what the Arts Centre had on offer. We went up to the admission desk. My younger companions paid full price. I asked for an over-sixty age concession (I love doing this!). The girl at the desk said fine, but could I produce evidence of my age? Will a passport do, I demurely enquired. Yes, if you've got it with you. Indeed I had. She wasn't expecting that, the cheeky strumpet. 'Thank you, Princess Iona, Fairest Lady of the Sunset Seas,' she said, and I got my £2 off. Nice.

There were two exhibitions going on at the Arts Centre. No photos were allowed in the exhibition rooms, so this is from their brochure:

The main exhibition was Coming Into Fashion - A Century of Photography at Condé Nast. This featured some of the very clever and stylish photography that appeared in Vogue and Glamour magazines during the twentieth century. Very clever indeed, as you can see above. the other exhibition was also costume-related: Dressed To Kill - Fashion, Costume and Dress in Scottish Art. Here's an example from the brochure:

Next, one or two shots from the permitted area within the Art Centre building. Basically the stairwell.

This stairwell is haunted by members of the demi-monde, who ply a precarious trade posing saucily for art buffs with easy-to-hide cameras up their sleeves. Here is one of those poor, half-starved creatures:

Then it was time for lunch. We decided on Henderson's, the famous veggie restaurant. On the way we passed the immense Scott Monument of 1844 designed by Kemp, with a huge statue of Sir Walter Scott by Steell seated within it. It's enormous. look at the size of it in relation to the double-decker bus in the middle of these two photos:

Of course, it's not what it seems. It's really a missile. What you see is a rocket carrying an armed nuclear warhead. One can imagine it taking off early one morning:

Glasgow or London bound? Who knows. Only the First Minister who presses the red button.

At Henderson's we each had something different. Despite having no sweet tooth, I did indulge myself with a strawberry-and-cream dessert to go with my Spanish-style main course of spicy bits with rice. Olé! Henderson's has this big painting downstairs, showing a scene set in Princes Street Gardens that has a summer-of-love 1960s or 1970s feel to it:

Sated, we next parted company for half an hour. Brenda of the Seven Secrets and Morag of the Magic Mountains went to M&S. I declared that I would shoot Princes Street and the nearby public areas. I saw sights like this:

And one or two you won't see in Sussex villages:

Then it was time to meet up again, first with Brenda of the Seven Secrets:

Soon after, Morag of the Magic Mountains emerged from M&S with her trophies, and we walked across to the Scottish National Gallery. What happened there, and the late-afternoon feast that followed, will be related in tomorrow's post!

Two days on from my covering this in the post Misrepresentation on 19 July, Ms Grant has now responded, by flinging the sentence she doesn't like back at me. This has to be knocked on the head. I have responded with these actual words:

You are certainly determined to make your point. The complete offending paragraph in fact went:

'A cartoon needs to seize on some easily-recognisable feature that its victims must possess. In the case of Jews, that has for centuries been a massive hooked nose and other grotesque exaggerations. That's the convention. But the only Jewess I ever knew (around 1979) had a very pretty face and no hooked nose. It wasn't even large. She was clever and quick-witted, engaging, confident, a good talker, not at all religious (although I think she said her mother was), and very slightly olive-skinned. Those were the only things you might notice about her that made her a bit more exotic - and more interesting - than the average South London girl of the time. She was looking for a stepfather for her son, and faded from my life when she got her man. Anyway, so far as appearance and attitude went, she was not standard Jewish cartoon material. But it seems that enough Jews do resemble the historic standard image well enough to keep it going.'

I was discussing the centuries-old sterotype, for which I am not responsible. I gave an example of someone I actually once knew who did not fit that stereotype. I agree that the final sentence could be read as my own opinion, but it is not my own opinion at all. And the tone of the rest of the post is pro-Jewish, and anti those who are the enemies of what being Jewish might mean. You make too big an assumption; and you are in any case wrong about me.

I'm making a fuss because if you fling accusations of anti-Semitism at anyone (not just me) you will draw the attention of fanatics to them, and harm may follow. I am sure that even if you still consider me crass and insensitive, you wouldn't wish harm to me. Please do ponder this. You have every right to feel offended by someone's Internet posts, but the proper reaction, the best-considered reaction, is quite another thing.

Lucy

I really hope we will now agree to comment no further. Each exchange makes my original post, and the words published to vilify or defend it, more likely to be picked up by third parties who may then use our spat as propaganda for their own cause. I would not like my words to end up pasted into either a Palestinian or a Zionist website, or into a site inspired by Al-Qa'ida. Nor should Ms Grant.

She doesn't say whether she did check out the rest of my blog output for similar slurs, finding none of course. I feel she didn't bother. Nor would the fanatics.

Part 1 left us at the entrance to the Scottish National Gallery, a large colonnaded building in the classical style, overlooked by the Old Town of Edinburgh up on its hill, the castle on its crag, and facing the well-planned eighteenth-century New Town where the modern shops are. Beneath runs the railway out from Waverley. This is a building at the very heart of the Scottish capital. Here are some shots from my last visit to the city in 2010, when the sun shone just a bit brighter, and the crowds were absent:

Admission was free. I asked an official whether photography was allowed. Yes, he said, with the exception of individual items marked with a 'no photography' symbol. Perfectly all right. Our little Gang of Three proceded inside. I'd not been in here before, and was very struck by the spaciousness of the rooms, and how nicely they were decorated. The lighting was very good. This is how it looked, near to where you might begin:

In the distance ahead was Rodin's The Kiss, and this is a close-up of it:

It's not the original sculpture of 1898, always at Paris, but a copy Rodin made in 1900 for an American art collector resident in Sussex. It's usually at one of the Tate galleries, but was here on loan. Numerous bronze copies also exist. Sink me, it was only last March that I saw these same lovers at it in the National Museum of Wales in Cardiff:

Kissing must be a popular thing to do, especially in the nude. There were other sculptures too. I liked this:

The main exhibits were paintings, of course, some very famous ones, too many to show here, although a selection of them appears on my Flickr site. We each had different tastes in art. Morag of the Magic Mountains wasn't much interested in the pre-modern stuff. Brenda of the Seven Secrets had a particular regard for seascapes. I liked most of what was on offer, but especially things from the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries.

At length we met up again and decided to have some afternoon tea. We gravitated to the Scottish Café on the ground floor of the Gallery. A rather upmarket place. I liked it. We got a decent table with a view.

Unwary folk commonly misunderstand what a 'Scottish High Tea' consists of. It's a proper meal, not merely lots and lots of buttered scones plus a large pot of the finest. The thing to go for is 'Afternoon Tea', which is still substantial, but it won't necessarily ruin your appetite for an evening meal later on. I ordered one, with the intention of sharing it with my two friends. At first, there was just the tea to drink, with a small biscuit:

What? Surely that wasn't all? But I need not have worried. Soon a miniature cornucopia of goodies arrived, some sweet, some savoury, arranged photogenically on a three-tier carrier. They looked fabulous. Just look at my face!

So: dainty little pastries on the top tier, surely the prettiest things you ever saw in your life; currant scones and cream on the second tier, with edible flowers; and at the bottom, a scone filled with smoked salmon, a ham and tomato sandwich, a brie sandwich, and a sandwich that might have contained coronation chicken, but which actually contained egg. I managed to secure the scone with smoked salmon in it, and the ham and tomato sandwich. Brenda scoffed the brie sandwich, and Morag hoovered up the one with egg in it. I had one, maybe two, of the dainty top-tier cakes, but, eager to maintain my ultra-trim figure, and of course not having a sweet tooth, I left the rest to my companions. I think we agreed, speaking thickly with bulging hamster cheeks, that it was all delicious.

It was my treat. Considering the venue, the visual presentation, the pleasant service, and how nice and tasty it all was, I had no complaints about the bill, which came to £25 including something for a tip - and let me offload one of my Scottish banknotes:

Then we walked up to the Old Town before returning to Waverley station in good time for our respective trains. Some very touristy things were going on down the length of the Royal Mile, such as people posing in front of the statue of Hume the philosopher (who for some reason had very shiny toes), people snapping actors dressed in tartan and carrying bagpipes, and people watching a street comedian, apparently limbering up for the forthcoming Edinburgh Fringe Festival:

She of the Magic Mountains told me that during the Fringe it was totally impossible to walk normally down the Royal Mile - it would be packed with performers and their audiences, and you'd have to push through very, very slowly. We passed the house in which John Knox, the leader of the Scottish Reformation, is thought to have lived before he died:

It's now a café. The gold lettering at head height says 'LUVE GOD ABUFE AL AND YI NYCHTBOUR AS YI SELF'. Personally I think this may not be original, meaning not actually Lowland Scots of the late 1500s, but the message is a decent one to follow. I wonder what Knox would have said about the Fringe, or about Hume come to that. Or this tat in a nearby shop window - a plastic bagpipe kit, and catwalk versions of traditional Scottish dress for the fashion-conscious tourist with money to waste:

We descended from the Old town and approached Waverley station. Morag pointed out a turreted building that overlooked it.

Apparently the First Minister, Alex Salmond, was pressing to have this noble skyline edifice turned into the official residence of the First Minister. It seemed prone to electrical storms, however.

We turned into the vast station. It was already 6.00pm. Waverley has twenty-odd platforms, and is always busy with commuters or shoppers, or travellers generally.

But in a quiet corner was a plaque concerning Sir Nigel Gresley, the famous LNER engineer who designed the Flying Scotsman, and the record-breaking Mallard, stillthe fastest steam locomotive ever built. Both trains are now at the National Railway Museum in York. One day I'll have to see them for myself.

The time had come. We said goodbye - or rather au revoir, because I shall be back. What a great day!

That ever-growing (and possibly irritating) pageview total you see off to the right is there for a genuine purpose. It's there for those who have withdrawn from my life with a sharp intake of breath. It's there for people who don't 'approve' of me, who don't like my attitude, or my style, or the way I put things. Who think the whole basis of my life is misconceived. And that I'm going to be destroyed one day when the penny drops, and I see life as it really is, and the calamity of my self-engineered position.

But if they come back and check up on me, hoping to find that my life is falling apart, they will see that magic pageview total.

And, if they are reasonable people, they will wonder why it continues to increase. You can't argue with it: it's not my figure, it's Google's, and it says that people keep on coming back for more. So my blog must speak to them in some way, and is not just a stream of fluffy deluded fantasy. And if that is so, then my life (and lives like mine, which might mean your life) have validity, and, whatever the point of view, are a success story.

But don't press me on who these readers are, and why they take an interest!

I know that a few bloggers personally known to me check in from week to week, perhaps every few days. A couple of them regularly leave comments. But that's just a handful of people. My Brighton friends and acquaintances largely don't follow my blog: they are mostly devotees of Facebook, and even if they also write poetry or short stories, or do enormously worthwhile things in the community, they are not bloggers, and tend not to look at blogs - mine included. I really don't know who else keeps the pageview total increasing at a rate of around 10,000 a month.

Every now and then a particular post makes the pageviews surge, then it dies down again to its normal level. It happened over the three days from the 17 to the 19 July. Look at this graph off my Blogger stats page:

Some 5,000 extra people suddenly took an interest. What was that all about? Because although Google wouldn't say who made up that 5,000, they could tell me they were all in Germany. It followed the post on Concorde - so maybe that was the answer, although I would have thought that aircraft buffs all over the world would glance at that post, not just those in Germany. So maybe it wasn't that at all. Who can say. If I knew exactly what those 5,000 Germans especially liked about my blog, I would do more of it. Especially if it was something that was relevant to writing a best-selling book! (I'm not quite as daft or uncommercial as I may seem)

However, a note of caution. Immediately after this temporary increase in readership, I received an email from someone called Vanessa Crane of TheLAShop.com, wanting to sponsor one of my blog posts in return for 'initially $20' per post, but with the possibility of an annual arrangement. Well, let's see: a minimum of $20 per post for say 200 posts in a year - that's $4,000, or £2,700. Such is the return for selling advertising space to a tattoo equipment company, for that's what Vanessa said they are. I don't do tattoos, so no thanks. I didn't reply. Now that the pageview level has receded to normal, I don't expect to hear more from her. But you can see that really popular blogs must get absolutely besieged by offers like this.

I understand that all blogs are monitored for what these people call 'traffic', and it's based primarily on pageviews. There are several respected agencies who do this automatically, and rank blogs from various aspects. The blogs they like are not only the most popular, but the ones that will steer readers towards links, so that they 'click through' to businesses that want the custom. So a blog with many important key words in it, and many links, is ideal from their point of view.

Of course there's a cash kickback for the blogger. But you may have to accept 'advice' on particular words to feature, and layout, and of course banner advertisments - some of them out of your personal control - must be featured. I don't think the game is worth it unless your blog is so popular that you have significant marketing clout, and can command proper direct contracts, checked by your own legal people, with the big advertisers - airlines or banks, say - on terms that make it truly worthwhile. And then only if prepared to sacrifice some integrity and control. I'd consider it, if it would earn me at least £250,000 a year. Minimum. (I hope that now ensures that I am left to blog in peace)

Which brings me on to accolades and awards for writing stuff. Who isn't vaguely interested? Perhaps the big literary awards are well out of reach, but here are a few of the prizes that I would like to be known for, in relation to my blog:

# The Prize for Good Grammar, Correct Spelling, Proper Punctuation, and no typos.

# The Prize for Non-use of Smileys and silly abbreviations like LOL.

# The Prize for Never Using Obscenities.

# The Prize for Best Illustration with photographs I took myself.

# The Prize for Best Layout, and for being Easiest On The Eyes.

# The Prize for consistently Blogging Under My Real Name, and Presenting My Real Life in words and pictures - and for not hiding behind an avatar, or presenting personal information so scanty that it lends a cloak of anonymity.

# The Prize for being Positive In Outlook and Undefeated By Bad Events.

# The Prize for Not Spreading Disrespect or Hatred.

# The Prize for Doing Most to show that trans people are utterly normal people, with worthwhile and enjoyable lives.

Of course, none of these will ever come my way because there are so many who merit each prize more. But then I would rejoice that there are.

Some would quibble over my contending for the last two prizes, but hey ho. Let 'em cavil if they wish.

A questionnaire from the South East Region group of Conservative European MPs, individualised to me by name, popped through my front door yesterday. I didn't mind filling it in. If the Labour and LibDem people send me similar questionnaires, I'll fill those in too.

They wanted my views on European-related issues mainly, but the thing began with two general sections. The first was entitled What matters most to your family, and offered a range of statements to tick three of. Well, in my household 'my family' means me and Teddy Tinkoes, both oldies, and so I could selfishly say, and with a clear conscience:

Care and support for the elderly
The NHS
Crime & anti-social behaviour

Then, What matters most for your country. I'm clear on that too:

The EU
The environment & climate change
The cost of living

After that, a section on Europe & Immigation. Immigation is a complex subject. I don't want to feel that my country is being swamped by foreigners, and its culture diluted out of existence. I don''t want to see the strife and intolerance of some foreign lands imported. On the other hand, I don't want Britain to be isolationist, a closed society, with defensive racialism and prejudice rampant. I want a society enriched and made vibrant by fresh modern ideas from outside. So on the whole I'm in favour of immigation, but sensibly controlled. I'm in favour of opt-outs that make this possible. I therefore found myself ticking the boxes as if I were responsible for current Conservative policy in this area.

Next up, Your views on the economy and other issues. This was a mixed bag of things to tick, including such statements as 'What happened in Greece could just as easily have happened here', and 'Gay couples should have exactly the same rights as heterosexual couples, including the right to marry', and 'Educational standards have been steadily improving in Britain over recent years'. I was moderately in agreement with the Greece statement, and wholeheartedly in agreement with the gay couples statement, but slightly doubtful about the educational improvements. But you were stuck with what they put to you. There were several issues I'd have liked to comment on, but couldn't.

Then, Other important issues. Another mixed bag, in which you had to say where you stood on pairs of statements such as 'I look forward to the future with optimism' and 'I look forward to the future with anxiety'. With much optimism in my case, but then that's how I'm made.

Finally, Priorities for the South East. Hmmm. Some are saying that the South East is now regarded as a separate nation in its own right. Having recently seen the rest of the country, I disagree. The questions to comment on were: 'Re-negotiating the UK's relationship with the EU is important for the South East region's economy, people's job security and inward investment?' I mildly disagreed: the South East will always do well. It's the other parts of the country that need EU investment. (Sorry, Folkestone and Hastings) Next: 'Which Party Leader do you think most closely represents your view about what the South East Region's relationship with Europe should be?' I ticked the 'Cameron' box. (Sorry, Mr Farage) Lastly a question with a free choice of answer, on which other issues I would like my Conservative MEP to tackle on my behalf. I put:

Better consumer protection

That's something the EU is quite good at, and it will benefit us all.

Then a section About you. A tickbox to confirm it really was Lucy Melford replying to the questionnaire, my age group, whether I had any children, my email address and my phone number. I gave replies on all those. It won't matter to me if there is any comeback. If they seriously want my further views, it's an opportunity to influence their thinking. If they don't, I'm not going to worry.

The thing is ready for posting back this afternoon in the envelope they provided. It's really nice to be part of the Big Society.

Changing gear, what must the rest of Europe think of this kind of consultation?

The British attitude toward Europe must seem puzzling to outsiders. A glance at a map suggests that the British Isles are most definitely part of continental Europe, and to deny it is like saying that Cuba or Jamaica aren't really Caribbean islands.

But that strip of sea between England and France makes all the difference. It's a psychological moat. Literally so, when taking to a ship was the only way to travel between the two shores. But it still is so, even in these days of easy flight and even easier fast ferries.

The Channel Tunnel has made no difference whatever. Kent has not turned into a department of France, nor has the rest of the country adopted the social rhythms and lifestyle of the continent, unless you consider the institution of self-conscious 'French markets' in town squares here and there as such an embrace. Rather, the Tunnel has become a control point in the National Border, bearing in mind that if necessary it could be flooded or otherwise blocked off should an invading menace gather on the continental side.

The British have retained their island mentality. This is still a place of refuge, where we are, and they are not.

My late brother once declared that 'Britain is the best country'. That was in the 1980s, perhaps not the finest decade in British history, although it was (for many, though not all) a boom time when economically things seemed good, when we had recently sent the 'Argies' packing out of the Falklands. National pride was riding high. So were house prices. Lots of people gloated. It all came to a shuddering stop in 1989 when the Recession cut in, and the sinister terms 'last in, first out' and 'negative equity' became current. A sharp reminder for some that you should never take on more debt than you can afford. Did we learn? The 2007 replay suggests not.

My brother's words were not just about gung-ho pride and a white-hot economy though. He meant the whole collection of things that makes up what a country is all about. Its history and scenic beauty; its literature and music and pageantry. Britain has these in spades. Its freedom and tolerance and just laws - more debatable that, but certainly this country was not, and still is not, a police state with a slave judiciary, show trials and ghastly labour camps. Its artistic and design flair - great paintings, great sculpture, great buildings, great fashion, great expertise in putting on a show to remember. The British sense of humour. Fish and chips.

And more than anything else, the chance of every person to walk quietly down a country lane in pleasant weather, with just a cuckoo's call for company; to watch the trout take flies in a river so clear that you can see the pebbles at the bottom; to enjoy the lush greenness of a peaceful village green, with that special smell of newly-mown grass; and to feel mellow and contented sitting outside a very old pub, with a ploughman's lunch, while the church clock chimes the hour. No mosquitos, no earthquakes, no disturbance of any kind.

That's what he meant.

And the current Conservative logo, the spreading green-leaved oak tree, hooks into that.

How different from the strident 'torch' logo of an earlier era. And how different from the formal and carefully symmetrical European flag:

The Conservative logo is really quite cunning. It has a simplicity that suggests their policies are natural and easy to digest. The sketch-like fluidity of the design is a gesture against formality and burocracy. The greenness of the tree suggests that the welfare of the environment is uppermost in the minds of Conservative policy-makers. The shadow thrown by the tree suggests shade and shelter, an umbrella, a protection from rain or enemy missiles. And the fruit of the oak tree, acorns, is a metaphor for ideas, or savings, that grow.

Oak trees epitomise most of the English countyside, and recall Robin Hood and other myths dear to the traditionalist. The future King Charles II (reckoned to be a goodie) hid in an oak tree, to escape the nasty Roundhead forces (the baddies) who were searching for him. The village oak has always been the tree under which the folk of Merry England enacted its annual ceremonies of good luck and fertility, and settled its disputes. It was also the favourite place for lovers to keep their trysts. The logo therefore speaks not only of the land and its people, but of the deep satisfactions of English life as lived in the counties. It certainly has relevance and resonance in a Sussex village like mine. But it's not a logo that most big-city dwellers would think relevant to their needs. Nor would it speak to the Welsh or the Scottish, who as nations in their own right, have symbols of their own.

If you think that I'm a closet Conservative because my Dad was a Conservative, you'd be wrong. For thirty-odd years I decided to vote Liberal (and then LibDem), and have in most elections given them my support, not the Conservatives. I even gave Labour my vote in 1997, not something I say with much pride nowadays.

The trouble with the Conservatives was that although they spoke to the individualism in me, and usually governed with conviction (some would say perverse stubbornness), there was sleaze, and too much in their programme that I didn't care for. With Labour it was the opposite: they had a good programme, but were soft on putting it into effect, didn't pay attention to the consequences of sloppy laws and laissez-faire government, and failed to make me feel that I personally mattered. The LibDems were a reasonable compromise in most respects, with decent people at the top. But you have to understand that reasonableness and likeability are secondary to being effective in power. Running a country is a dirty job. When it comes to it, the voting public wants a government that can hack it. For decades they had more faith in the two main parties, unattractive though they both were, than in the nice LibDems.

It's a bit different now. A handful of LibDem people in the Coalition Cabinet have shown they can do the job. The problem is however that they seem like Conservatives. As the next General Election approaches, they will have to somehow differentiate themselves from that oak tree party, so that if one votes LibDem it will be for a party that stands for something that isn't Conservative at all. That'll be a hard accomplishment.

But I think the Coalition will have a lasting influence. It has proved that two parties can share power, albeit with one of them holding most of the reins. It has proved that despite the apparent handicap of having to compromise, things can get done. And if things buck up (as they seem to be doing) I may be minded to vote for that oak tree next time.

I'll make this the last of my holiday travelogues for now. Presumably those interested in the glorious Lake District scenery will have already absorbed all they want from my Flickr site. There will however be groups of nomads in Outer Mongolia who like to have it in words. So this is for you especially.

The English Lake District,a National Park, is that area in the north-west of the country which is full of mountains and lakes. It is celebrated as possibly the best walking country anyone could wish for, certainly by fans of the late Alfred Wainwright (1907-1991) whose books on how to walk up each peak, and then what to see there, have been venerated for decades, and in recent years made even more famous by Julia Bradbury's Wainwright Walks on TV. But of course the area attracted the much earlier attentions of the Romantic poets of the early nineteenth century - famously William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Thomas De Quincey - all of whom found sublimity in what they saw. Since they were all tortured souls, there must have been something about the scenery that could lift them out of depression. Alfred Wainwright was far more down the earth, and not plagued with the same dark mental overburden, but he too conveyed the ability of the high fells to banish all despair in these words about Haystacks, his favourite summit:

Haystacks stands unabashed and unashamed in the midst of a circle of much loftier fells, like a shaggy terrier in the company of foxhounds, some of them known internationally, but not one of this distinguished group of mountains around Ennerdale and Buttermere can show a greater variety and a more fascinating arrangement of interesting features. Here are sharp peaks in profusion, tarns with islands and tarns without islands, crags, screes, rocks for climbing and rocks not for climbing, heather tracts, marshes, serpentine trails, tarns with streams and tarns with no streams. All these, with a background of magnificent landscapes, await every visitor to Haystacks but they will be appreciated most by those who go there to linger and explore. It is a place of surprises around corners, and there are many corners. For a man trying to get a persistent worry out of his mind, the top of Haystacks is a wonderful cure.

You can feel his love and respect for the place. He goes on, speaking now of the actual summit:

Haystacks fails to qualify for inclusion in the author's 'best half-dozen' only because of inferior height, a deficiency in vertical measurement. Another thousand feet would have made all the difference. But for beauty, variety and interesting detail, for sheer fascination and unique individuality, the summit area of Haystacks is supreme. This is in fact the best fell-top of all - a place of great charm and fairyland attractiveness. Seen from a distance, these qualities are not suspected: indeed, on the contrary, the appearance of Haystacks is almost repellent when viewed from the higher surrounding peaks: black are its bones and black is its flesh. With its thick covering of heather it is dark and sombre even when the sun sparkles the waters of its many tarns, gloomy and mysterious even under a blue sky. There are fierce crags and rough screes and outcrops that will be grittier still when the author's ashes are scattered here. Yes, the combination of features, of tarn and tor, of cliff and cove, the labrynth of corners and recesses, the maze of old sheepwalks and paths, form a design, or a lack of design, of singular appeal and absorbing interest. One can forget even a raging toothache on Haystacks.

But he gives a warning about being caught on Haystacks in bad weather, when you can't see where you are going and might stray near the dangerous north edge of the summit:

The only advice that can be given to a novice lost on Haystacks in the mist is that he should kneel down and pray for safe deliverance.

Wainwright nevertheless felt that Haystacks was the right place for scattering his ashes after death. In Memoirs of a Fellwalker (1990) he wrote this:

All I ask for, at the end, is a last long resting place by the side of Innominate Tarn, on Haystacks, where the water gently laps the gravelly shore and the heather blooms and Pillar and Gable keep unfailing watch. A quiet place, a lonely place. I shall go to it, for the last time, and be carried: someone who knew me in life will take me and empty me out of a little box and leave me there alone. And if you, dear reader, should get a bit of grit in your boot as you are crossing Haystacks in the years to come, please treat it with respect. It might be me.

It was a remark perhaps inspired by or based on the final sentence of Book Seven of his renowned Pictorial Guides to the Lakeland Fells, The Western Fells (1966), the last of the Guides in a series that was the fruit of a detailled personal programme of mountain-walking, note-taking and sketching that began in 1952 (when I was born) and was completed, one week ahead of schedule, in 1965. Here is the sentence:

The fleeting hour of life of those who love the hills is quickly spent, but the hills are eternal. Always there will be the lonely ridge, the dancing beck, the silent forest; always there will be the exhilaration of the summits. These are for the seeking and those who seek and find while there is yet time will be blessed both in mind and body. I wish you all many happy days on the fells in the years ahead. There will be fair winds and foul, days of sun and days of rain. But enjoy them all. Good walking! And don't forget - watch where you are putting your feet.

All this is heady and inspirational even for people like me who love driving powerful automobiles though snaking mountain passes, pausing only to photograph some splendid view. I am not the same as Alfred Wainwright. I prefer water to rock, lakes and sea to mountains, roads to tracks, and while I will renounce everything for a life of freedom and solitude, I will not put up with excessive discomfort or inconvenience. So Wainwright, if still alive, would gruffly despise me and banish me from his sight. He would do so anyway, of course, because he had a low opinion of women. In his Pictorial Guides he always seems to assume that the people who surmount the more challenging summits use the pronoun 'he'. Thank goodness the likes of Julia Bradbury have demonstrated that women can make it to the top too.

For the record, I own three 'original' Pictorial Guides, 'original' meaning that although they are by no means first editions, they are entirely Wainwright's original writing, and predate the 'updating' of the series from 2005 to 2009. Here they are:

Book Four - The Southern Fells - first published 1960. I have a much later impression from the 1990s, bought at a secondhand bookshop in Swanage in September 2009. It contains a handwritten note that says: 'To Tony, from your walking companion, Hazel'. Ah, where are they now? I think Tony did use the book: it has lost its dust jacket.

Book Six - The North Western Fells - first published 1964. I have a much later sixtieth impression, again from the 1990s, bought at a secondhand bookshop in Worthing in January 2007.

Book Seven - The Western Fells - first published 1966. I have a later twenty-fifth impression from the 1980s, also bought at a secondhand bookshop in Worthing in January 2007.

The updated edition is readily available to buy new, but the old edition seem to have vanished from the shelves of secondhand booksellers, and I doubt whether I will ever now be able to expand my own little collection, unless I wish to pay through the nose on eBay - which I don't. Clearly all those who could, snapped up at least one copy while they were available; or else an international syndicate decided to buy up all that there were, sending its agents all over the land, with the intention of stashing them in a hidden warehouse, and then leaking them onto the market for a ridiculous asking price.

Setting aside his slight misogyny, Wainwright's writing style, his dry sense of humour, and indeed his personal philosophy and reflections, are all beguiling and rather appealing. He was also brilliant with a sketchbook. But of course I like photographs, and what follows is the best of the bunch I took on my first full day in the Lake District on 1 July, the day before the weather turned wet, and my caravan suffered an electrical fault, events that together made me cut my stay short and head for home.

So first, peaceful Ullswater, my favourite Lake:

You can see how the sun comes and goes in the space of a minute or two! Typical of the changeable Lake District weather. Next, the Kirkstone Pass, the highest in the National Park:

And Little Langdale, with Horse Crag, Blea Tarn and views of the Langdale Pikes:

You really can't reach much of this scenery just by car. There aren't many roads, and not many stopping-places where you can leave a car and set off on foot. The roads are generally narrow and twisty, and busy enough with people like me to ruin any sense of having the place to yourself. Cars chug by all the time. At this time of the year, so do lumbering agricultural vehicles, and Fiona had a few narrow escapes as they charged down lanes that offered no easy place to pull in. As regards ordinary traffic, it's frequently necessary to stop and reverse for long stretches, so that an impatient string of cars ahead can get by. In short, you need to be alert when driving about in the Lake District, and often it's not much fun.

Not that it would be a laughing-party on foot. I saw plenty of rather hot and weary couples who looked in dire need of a nice cup of tea and a piece of cake. I also saw plenty of folk in saturated clothing, having been caught by a sudden shower. A hot bath and a tasty meal was probably much in their minds.

The geography of the Lake District is all wrong for seeing it by car. Fine for Ice Age glaciers, but not for cars. You can travel with some ease around the edge using the A66, the A595, the A590 and the A6, but not across it. The only 'fast and easy' routes through the area, the A591 and the A592, run north-south, and even they mean encountering heavy summer traffic at Ambleside or Windermere. I went to both places. I could imagine being caught in a really grotesque snarl-up at Ambleside.

There is no good east-west road of any description, unless you count the very minor road full of extreme gradients that runs westwards from Ambleside through the Wrynose and Hard Knott Passes. I did consider letting Fiona rip along that road, but realised that I'd simply end up hustling lesser cars on the verge of overheating and breakdown, or burning their clutches out, and in any case arriving on the west coast of Cumbria with a long, long journey back to Troutbeck Head in the north-east. Not worth it. Better to pitch somewhere near St Bees or Ulverston on another occasion, and see the western fells and lakes from there.

And when will that next occasion be? Not next year. If I can afford to go North, I will devote my attention to Scotland. Maybe 2015, unless I decide that Wales, the Land of Song, my country of birth and early upbringing, finally deserves a Grand Tour. There are huge chunks of Wales I've never yet seen. I'd say I actually 'know' Scotland better than I 'know' Wales. Which has my heart? Ask me once I've taken Fiona to the the most northerly car park on the most northerly island of Shetland, or spent a whole day on Hoy in Orkney, or slowly explored Mull, or the lesser-frequented parts of Aberdeenshire, or called to the cattle on the Sands of Luce.

I am still looking at the posts on T-Central. You might suppose that by now - almost five years from coming out, over four years on hormones, nearly four years full-time, two and a half years post-op, I would be past all that and living life without a heed to what other people in my position - but at an earlier stage - are going through. But you never lose the T in the word lifetime. It's always there in the word lifestyle too, no matter how cool and trendy and confident and fabulous you think you are.

And if you care at all, if you have any interest at all in other people, you will follow your own story again and again in whatever those other blogs have to say. Perhaps not in the detail; but in every case there will be that same series of all-too-familiar self-realisations, those moments of what-the-hell-do-I-best-do-now, the crunch times, the searing crises, and, eventually, some place reached in which peace of a kind has been achieved. Though never without a cost. Nothing whatever is without a cost of some kind.

I was going to post about something quite different today, but A Woman Named Sophie (see her in my Blog List off to the right, or visit T-Central also in my Blog List, or go directly to http://sophielynne1.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/she-decided.html) wrote a piece entitled She Decided yesterday, and I felt that I had some more to get off my chest on the whole business of relationship break-up and its fallout. Don't worry, I won't bleat on about my own case. You've heard it all before anyway, ad nauseam. I've found my plateau of relative peace and contentment. But that doesn't mean I can turn my back on all those parallel lives going on here and there, as if I've survived and that's all that matters. Even if nearly all my posts nowadays read as if life is now one uninterrupted garden party, with myself in full control of all arrangements, including the weather, and not a care in the world. The flip side is always there. It would only take one incident, one horrible experience, to set me back. To remind me that I'm an invention, a constructed person, a polished performer maybe, but nevertheless different from most other people. But even this situation is bliss, truly a state of grace, compared with the old life in which I never felt right.

And yet at first the old life was so hard to leave. For one thing, nobody really wanted me to leave it, and some did fairly extreme things to block my way, such as emotional blackmail to keep me in line. I think that's simply human nature: the dislike (or intense fear) of change or disturbance in the 'natural order', the unwillingness to face a real world in which things shade off into each other, with many states of being existing, all valid and viable, not just two clear-cut, well-defined states.

I personally had no fear of becoming another sort of person. After all, I was still going to be a human being, I was still going to be the child of my parents, I was still going to have a position in my family hierarchy (and a senior one at that).

And I would remain a village resident, a neighbour, someone who could do useful things in the community if so moved, someone whose monthly spending, and taxes paid, would help to keep the country's economy afloat. If asked, I would gladly serve on a jury. I would certainly hold an opinion on what politicians should do, and vote accordingly. Given all this, why was there this resistance to my becoming someone different, especially if I would certainly become a more relaxed, more confident, more emotionally unchained, more effective person?

Sophie's ongoing story and many other stories like hers provide the reason. Becoming someone different means abandoning a role. No longer looking like a man or a woman. No longer looking like a father or a mother. Appearance is everything to some people: they will not accept that the person within is basically the same, and that it's a question of identity, of self-perception, not a failure of love. The yearning of a slave for freedom and a new status, and not the desperation of a madman or coward to push others off one's tiny liferaft after the ship has sunk.

It seems that a small percentage of relationships, obviously very special ones, do survive the shipwreck. Sophie put it at 3%. I'd put it at less than even that, not because I'm a pessimist, but because relationship breakup seems so universal. I personally know of one or two that are bucking the usual rule, and I hold onto them as if they were Glad Tidings Of Great Joy in a religious sense. They say: it can be done.

But I keep coming back to the cost. It's like a Law of Physics. Every action has its reaction, so that things stay in equilibrium and the energy balance is maintained. Perhaps the chief lesson in life, made vivid by having to become someone different and unfamiliar to others, is that there is no such thing as an act with no consequences.

Regret is something else. Regret has its place, but in a survival scenario it is a luxury no living thing can afford. It saps courage and the will to fight. But regret is not the same thing as sorrow for what has been lost forever. Every person, every animal I could say, experiences sorrow. It's a natural emotion. It makes your heart heavy, your throat tight, your eyes brim with tears. And then, having mourned, you step forward along a path that leads to who knows where, even if you have a map and think you know where you're going.

I've not gone far down that path yet. I still think I know where I am. But I'm already lost. It doesn't matter: the adventure is enthralling all the same.

The first-ever Trans Pride for Brighton kicks off tomorrow (Friday) evening, and goes on till Sunday. An overview can be found at http://transpridebrighton.tumblr.com/.

It's actually Trans* Pride, the asterisk meaning that all kinds of trans people will be welcome. So not just full-blown transsexual boys and girls; it's anyone at all with a gender issue. I am not involved in any way with its format, organisation or anything else. I am simply a possible spectator.

As I say, it's the first such event. It'll be feeling its way, and there's no loud march through the town to Preston Park. The accent is on quiet celebration, and quiet explanation to those curious to find out more. There is entertainment. The programme begins on Friday evening with films at a cinema; Saturday sees the big gathering just off the seafront, with a club event in town later; and Sunday is a big family picnic. It should be a great way to spend a sunny weekend in Brighton, and meet up with many people.

This event is not to be confused with the well-established annual Brighton Pride in early August - see http://brighton-pride.org/ - where the big thing is your gay or lesbian sexuality, and to celebrate it in huge style with a series of massive happenings.

The late-July Trans Pride is about gender only, which may seem to the ordinary public much the same thing as one's sexuality - in other words, who you fancy. But look at it this way: being trans says nothing specific about your sexual orientation. You could be gay, lesbian. bisexual, asexual or simply not bothered. If some trans people are also gay or lesbian, they might certainly be interested in both types of Pride. But being trans does not automatically mean you want to wave a big rainbow flag.

So will I be there this weekend?

Well, I wasn't going to be there at all. Saturday is the twentieth anniversary of a meal in Henley-on-Thames that M--- and I shared in 1993. We weren't a couple then. We were still just friends who went walking together, and we planned to try a hike on the Chilterns. M--- also had some relatives in Henley, and if they were in she intended to say hello. They were out, and, feeling hungry, we had a meal in an Italian restaurant that was still there some years ago. It's therefore also the twentieth anniversary of my being introduced to tagliatelle in basil pesto with parmisan cheese on top. So this Saturday I was going to drive to Henley, find the restaurant, and have the exact same meal. I really place that kind of value on anniversaries! And then take it from there: there's plenty to see in that lush part of the Thames valley, and plenty of breeze up on the Chilterns if it felt a bit too hot.

You must be mad, you might say. What is the point? But you are not me. There is no law that says pointless anniversaries must without fail be deleted from electronic diaries. I would not obey such laws anyway. There are in fact many events that pop up in my diary, to remind me of this or that, and not just things M--- and I once did. I like to be reminded of them. I'm historically-minded.

But not all of them can be observed.

On this occasion, I shall bow to urgings and persuasions and turn up in Brighton around 2.30pm, park Fiona on a day visitor's parking permit, and sashay along the seafront to the New Steine venue. I shall be dressed as my usual self, and behave normally, and hope to spot some faces I know. If I see nobody, I'll try a text or two, and if that draws a blank I will melt away and go home. But at least I'll have come into Brighton and made a gesture of support.

The world of trans women is a very topsy-turvy one. What would otherwise be fine and very practical, such as big strong hands, serious musclepower, and height sufficient to reach whatever is on the top shelf, is actually regarded a misfortune, because women typically have little hands, no strength, and are short.

Nothing much is said, or at least I've never heard much said, but I suspect that some trans women are seriously envious of other trans women whose physical characteristics are closer than their own to the female norm. I've been guilty of it anyway. And the joke is, ordinary women don't find weakness and shortness very amusing. It may make you look cute, but it's just not practical and makes life difficult. There must be a lot of women who would like to be stretched somehow, so that their squat dumpiness would turn into slim elegance. And a bit of height and clout does make a woman harder to browbeat and treat badly.

And yet (it seems to me from observation and conversation) most trans women have this tendency to be unduly self-critical of their bodies, and tragically envious of a life with small extremities and a permanent crick in the neck from having to look upwards too much. It's an understandable envy, but it's a bit strange all the same, because Big and Strong can indeed be Beautiful. Or at least Very Useful.

Believe me, when I'm trying to clean the outside of the caravan, or push it about, I'd welcome a longer reach, more push, and more power in my grip. I've got some heft (meaning fourteen and a half stone) but that's not terribly helpful. There are times when I wish I could bend iron bars, ot at least unscrew bottle-tops without spraining my wrist. For a solo lady who has to do it all herself, bulge is no sustitute for brawn. I think that I would find changing a tyre on Fiona or the caravan truly beyond my capability. In fact, that's the real travelling nightmare: not getting lost, nor getting stuck in traffic: it's actually the fear of picking up some sharp object and suffering a flat tyre as a result. No, not even that, because I'd just call the breakdown people. It's the wait for a fix, knowing that you can't do it yourself.

I've twice had a breakdown towing. The first time was in September 2006, in daylight, when a caravan tyre burst far from home in Shropshire. The second was in October 2008, in the dark, on the M11 in Essex, when I lost power in the engine. The first incident was part of the Old Life. The second was at the beginning of my transition. Both incidents involved the old car, the Honda CR-V, which was getting old and less reliable, and not super-reassuring Fiona who came along in 2010. But even Fiona has had her punctures.

Lack of strength sometimes doesn't matter if one has an inventive mind. My cousin R---, a retired headmistress a few years older than myself, has a maxim that there is always a way of approaching any lifting problem. She is clever enough to figure out the workaround. I'm not. So there is a lot of physical stuff that I've mentally dismissed from my DIY repertoire. Such as shifting furniture from room to room. Or landscaping my garden. That actually sounds quite feeble, but I honestly feel that the Melford physique isn't up to it, at least not without risking injury.

My take: don't knock natural advantages too much. Think in terms of uselessly short weak fingers, and a frustrating lack of height. And being ignored or pushed around because you are small and lightweight. I'm even thinking that my big conk may be better than a tiny retroussée nose: it has more presence - more force and individuality. All the most famous Romans, male or female, had big noses.

A few days ago I drove down to Arundel and bought two works of fiction at Kim's, the secondhand bookshop there.

One was The Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers. This was published in 1903, and the plot centres on secret German naval preparations in the years before the first World War, as discovered by intrepid Britons in a sailing boat. It caused a great stir. It seemed like a wake-up call, a trumpet blast when the serene reign of Victoria was as yet hardly over, and the pompous but frivolous new reign of Edward VII hardly begun.

I see the entire period since 1900 as a prolonged effort of the British people as a whole to get to grips with the realities of the world, an effort that is still going on. Immigrants are as guilty as native Anglo-Saxons in maintaining an image of Britain that is always behind the times, always stuck with certain illusions that carry on through generations, as if they were viruses that can mutate to resist demise. I dare say all countries are the same. But we live on an island, and still have some prestige and influence and clout, and these facts make it all the harder to discard old attitudes. There is in fact no pressing need to. We muddled through in 1914-18; we did so again in 1939-45; and we are still muddling through, never quite sorting out the important issues of the day, merely tinkering, like a committee that likes to be fair to all points of view but ends up being fair to nobody, and making no decisions worth the name. Inertia is a national failing and a national disgrace. The Riddle of the Sands was a book to disturb the complacency of 1903. I look forward to reading it. I expect to find that it somehow has a modern ring.

But just now I'm well into the other book, Agatha Christie's murder whodunnit, Cards on the Table, published in 1936. This seems to be classic Agatha Christie. In the 1960s and 1970s I owned quite a collection of her novels, and was a big fan. I admired her Hercule Poirot very much, although I never cared for Miss Marple.

Then I got tired of her, and in the 1980s I turned instead to Dorothy L Sayers, whose Lord Peter Wimsey was by then more to my taste.

Lord Peter was a more interesting character than you might suppose: he had seen the horrors of the first World War, and it had moulded him, put him in touch with the common man, so that although he remained a rich aristocrat, and one of effortless talents at that, he strove to be down-to-earth.

The key books for me were Have His Carcase (1932), about a man found murdered on a Devon beach; and The Nine Tailors (1934), about the death of a man in a church bellfry and set in the Fens. Dorothy L Sayers was very good at creating atmosphere, describing a local way of life and the local people that fit the scene. Have His Carcase is a summer season world of hotels and tea dances, immigrant waiters and lonely ladies on separate tables. The Nine Tailors is a world of agricultural tradition in which passions are kept well hidden, about the mysteries of church bells and how they are rung - she spent a long time learning all about bellringing in order to lend authenticity to the plot - and the ever-present threat of catastrophic flooding in this, the most low-lying part of East Anglia. (The ending is biblical in more than one sense) There was also the ongoing attraction between Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane, whereas Hercule Poirot, though gallant, was too old and dignified to woo anyone.

Eventually I got tired of Dorothy L Sayers too.

I flirted with yet another British writer, Margery Allingham (the Albert Campion books), as well as American writers such as, obviously, Raymond Chandler (with his creation Philip Marlowe). I also tried 'historic' whodunnits, such as Judge Dee in the books of Robert van Gulik, and in the 1990s brother Cadfael in the books of Ellis Peters. More lately I have acquired a collection of Henning Mankells (that's the police detective Wallander, in Sweden).

To a greater or lesser extent these were all worth reading, but ultimately they didn't hold my attention. Somewhere along the line, in one of my house moves, I jettisoned nearly all of my Agatha Christies and all of my Dorothy L Sayers. Now I expect I'll be looking for some of them again in secondhand bookshops!

I still have a little-known Agatha Christie book, Death Comes as the End, which I bought when on holiday with my parents in Cornwall, maybe in 1967. This is set in ancient Egypt, and is a sort of murder investigation at a time when the accepted methods of sleuthing were unknown. She knew what she was writing about, having an archaeological connection, and the book is pervaded with the heavy atmosphere of the tomb, but I don't recommend it if you like swift action. I also used to own Ten Little Niggers, which is about ten people who have committed murder - or have at least been morally or carelessly responsible for the death of someone else - but were beyond the reach of the law. A retired judge invites them to his Devon island, and then bumps them off one by one. It was made into a successful film. In recent decades the title of this book, which refers to a macabre nursery rhyme, has had to be changed, and I doubt whether it's now possible to find an original copy.

What is the charm of the Agatha Christies of the 1930s? Take this book I'm into, Cards on the Table. It's about comfortable pre-War London, and airy villas in the country that you can reach easily by catching the 4.48pm from Paddington. It's about dinner parties with bridge afterwards. About one particular dinner party, in which the caddish host gets a stiletto plunged into his chest while a game of bridge takes place only a few yards away. About the four persons who were playing that game, who may each have had a past death on their hands, who were afraid of exposure and instant arrest at the word of their host. One of them must have done it. Four other persons, including Hercule Poirot, who were in another room and could not possibly have done it, set about sifting the evidence. Great stuff.

But the book is interesting also for the characterisations and the attitudes. One of the four possible suspects is a nervous young woman, so lacking in self-confidence and nous that I can't imagine her existing today. Another is an older woman of my own age, shrewd and full of life's wisdom, who could also be a cool and efficient murderer. Then there is a doctor, a clever and quick-thinking man with, of course, handy clinical knowledge. And, last of the four suspects, a military man of action: Major Despard (he might as well be called James Bond). Apart from Monsieur Poirot, the other four - the investigating team, you might say - consist of a police Superintendent, a female crime novelist, and a secret service Colonel.

Perfectly typical 1930s people! No doubt the two military types smoked De Reszke cigarettes.

The thing that strikes me is how straightforward it would be to hold a conversation with these people. Mostly the language hasn't changed. Much the same idioms and expressions. But with of course a few jarring notes here and there. For instance, Colonel Race insisting that Major Despard couldn't have done it because

'...he's a stout fellow. Record quite unblemished. Strict disciplinarian. Liked and trusted by the natives everywhere. One of their cumbrous names for him in Afica, where they go in for such things, is ''The man who keeps his mouth shut and judges fairly''. General opinion of the white races that Despard is a Pukka Sahib. Fine shot. Cool head. Generally long-sighted and dependable...Despard's a white man, and I don't believe he's ever been a murderer. That's my opinion. And I know something of men.'

Ouch. The forthrightness and condescension of 1936! Or this exchange between Anne Meredith, the nervous young woman, and her much-less-nervous companion Rhoda Dawes about the solicitor Anne had just seen, at the suggestion of Major Despard:

'...What was the solicitor like? Very dry and legal?'
'Rather alert and Jewish.'

Ouch again, although the solicitor's alertness won Rhoda's approval:

'Sounds all right.'

And so on. The prejudices of the inter-war years have largely been replaced by new modern prejudices that will themselves take decades to recede. I suppose the 1930s attitudes expressed by Agatha Christie's characters seem 'in period' nowadays, a passing fact of historical record, as innocuous as anything expressed by a Dickens character. But if you happen to be an African, or a solicitor who lives in north London, then passages in this book could make you feel uncomfortable. I remember another 1930s book, possibly also by Agatha Christie, that featured a homosexual man. His flat had a cliché green decor. The investigating police inspector sneered at it, with 'Pretty, very pretty' on his lips. There were lots of ways in which to seem questionable and unpukka before the War. She was reflecting what her readers thought at the time, and it wasn't always nice.

All this said, it remains a fascinating era. I'm still wondering who stuck that knife in, and what will happen when the truth is revealed. I bet it was Major Despard after all! (Maybe)

Let me say at once that I didn't actually make it to the Trans Pride event, although I drove into Brighton with every intention of showing my face there.

Despite the title of this post, it had been sunny all morning, and remained so until about 2.30pm when steady rain began to fall. But that petered out by 3.30pm, and the rain did not come back till later. So, weatherwise, Brighton's first Trans Pride was reasonably lucky. And in other respects it must have been nice to attend - I saw some pictures taken by a friend who was there at the New Steine venue. Apparently trans folk from all along the south coast, and from London too, attended, maybe three hundred altogether: the New Steine looked pretty well populated.

But I'm leaping ahead. As I said, I drove in, not terribly hopeful of being able to park. Weekend parking in Brighton is always problematical. I was in a fatalistic frame of mind: 'If the gods have decreed that I shall attend Pride, then they will give me a parking space.' Well, they had clearly debated the matter up on Mount Olympus, and had reached a concensus in my favour, for lo, there was a space. Right then: all I had to do was saunter over to nearby New Steine.

But I was waylaid by two friends, K--- and N---, who had finished their voluntary three-hour stint on the Claire Project stand there, and were disinclined to get soaked in the now-falling rain. They were on their way to a cosy trans-friendly pub. Apparently the event had now entered its 'music' phase. That didn't interest me at all, so I went with them, preferring wine and chat to music no matter how inspired. Once ensconced, N--- showed me the pix referred to earlier.

Well, at least I had witnesses that I made the effort to drive in, even if I didn't end up at the daytime event itself. There was an evening event too, starting at 8.00pm: music at the Blind Tiger Club. Quite apart from its dodgy-sounding name, the club scene was not my scene, and being deafened by rave music, or even Teletubbies family-friendly music, wasn't my idea of fun.

So I decided to sip white wine, and then go home. But it didn't end like that. I eventually made up another threesome with friends M--- and C--- for an early-evening meal at a serve-yourself eatery in North Street. It was 'healthy food' and worked out at £8 a head. Two full plates, plus apple juice, were all I could manage, but stuffing myself completely countered the effects of the white wine earlier. Nary the slightest sign of a hangover later on. So the advice of the Epicurean Roman poet Lucretius in De Rerum Natura ('On the Nature of Things') was confirmed: If thou wouldst avoid possession by Bacchus, then let the fruits of the table be your antidote. Wisewords that plainly justify a jolly good nosh. I believe St Augustine also had something pithy to say on the matter too, but we won't go into that.

Today I hanker after forests and lakes, on my own. So once ready I'm off. A few hours on the heathy wastes of the Surrey/Hampshire border will do nicely.

A regular club event called Traumfrau has been running in Brighton since 2012, popping up in various venues but lately settling on the Blind Tiger Club. I'd best give you various links to click on. The home page for Traumfrau - which means 'dream woman' in German, if I'm not very mistaken - is at http://www.traumfrau.co.uk/, where they say this about themselves:

Music you actually like, talented performers and a touch of DIY.

Traumfrau is the new queer* night for Brighton and beyond, born to bring together and support queer performers, artists and DJs, and to generally just rock your pants and your dance shoes off. Calling all beautiful queers and homos, yes we want you to get involved! If you are a performer, an artist, a musician and want to get on board, or if you’re just a dancing queen and want to know what and when next, get in touch via our Get in Touch page!

*Traumfrau is a queer, non judgemental, inclusive, non ageist, non sexist, non sceney, non exclusive, safe space. It welcomes people of all age and gender in all their fluid expressions. Please help keep this space a happy one for others too.

Well, that's pretty clear. Pension-age post-op disco dollies who like music will be welcome. But not only them.

Interesting that the word 'homo' is now in the process of being reclaimed, i.e. brought back from being a pejorative term for homosexual men, and rehabilitated as a word of pride, rather as 'black' has so gained in respectability that it has supplanted 'negro'. Homo is not there yet, but you can see how this word might, after generations in the wilderness, become standard, and let 'gay' usefully return to its original meaning of 'bright and joyful'.

I'll give you some more flavour of what Traumfrau is supposed to be like. This from BrightonSource at http://brightonsource.co.uk/reviews/traumfrau-review/:

There’s a great gay scene in Brighton of course, but as Traumfrau recognises it can be a little too shiny, young and pretty. The girls behind this exciting new queer – not gay – night try to be a bit more inclusive for those girls that don’t fit into the mainstream. Normally at The Tube, this jaunt over to The Blind Tiger sees Le Tigre legend JD Samson take to the decks, playing a hip and poppy selection that culminates in Deniece Williams’ ‘Let’s Hear It For The Boy’.

“I’m trying to be the cool kid at school because everyone is so cool,” Samson says, but the Traumfrauen are perhaps the most receptive and non-judgemental crowd around. As well as a live band and a theme – in honour of their guest this one was genderqueer – Traumfrau has interactive posters to encourage people to break down their barriers. This is not just a night to get drunk and dance at – it’s more playful than that.

JD enjoyed it so much that she wants to come back. High and deserved praise for this exciting queer night.

And this is from ZhooshBrighton at http://www.network.zhooshbrighton.co.uk/events/traumfrau-brighton-s-queer-night-for-girls-and-their-friends:

Brighton’s queer night for girls and their friends. Music you actually like, talented performers and a touch of DIY. Get in early if you want to catch some comedy gold with young and talented Canadian comedian Mae Martin. And as always expect a night packed with surprises, great music and 4 DJs on rotation - riotgrrrl/postpunk/electro pop/rockabilly - so you will never get bored, and glue and crayons for those who enjoy some cutting and sticking in between a dance and a drink.

A much needed girls - but not girls only - club night, Traumfrau was born for the joy of all those who love a night out, really good music and a queer crowd to share it with. An intellectual dancefloor for the unusual crowd. If you have joined it once, you will be back.

By the way, 'queer' in Brighton parlance - I'm not assuming it applies anywhere else, though it may do - merely indicates that 'my gender or sexual orientation is not standard', and that in turn might mean 'just a tad' or 'desperately in need of a life-changing makeover'. It doesn't mean 'gay man', although not so long ago it most certainly did. Helpful Brighton & Hove City Council officials know the term well. But I'd say it would still be unsafe to go up to the average male or female Brighton resident and say, 'Are you queer?' with full certainty of being understood. And don't try it on a tourist, no matter how hip and clued-up they seem.

Back to Traumfrau. They were much in evidence during Fringe time last May, and now, with Trans* Pride and main Brighton Pride upon us, their posters have been everywhere, updated. Their special Trans* Frau poster featured an eye-catching young lady:

Gosh, she looked good! Natal or trans? Really, I couldn't decide. She must be trans, but if so she'd had a marvellous job done on her face. The eyes, nose, mouth and chin looked as perfect as it gets, even allowing for the usual cleaning-up that publicity shots receive. I wasn't sure about the vivid pink dreadlocks, but had to admit they suited her, and were the finishing touch if the purpose of the photo was to get across the message that Trans*Frau was a confident celebration of life and fun.

It wasn't hard to trace who she was: Lana Wachowski, the trans-female half of the brother/sister Wachowski duo who were responsible for the film The Matrix, its sequels, the whole gamut of Matrix-related media products, and later films too. Plus much else, such as comics. See the Wikipedia article at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wachowskis. In October 2012, after a reclusive ten years or so of changing from one state to another, Lana had received recognition in the Human Rights Campaign, for coming out as trans in an industry that is not well-known for being gung-ho about anything that might put off audiences. Although it'll take up half an hour of your time if you look at it all, this high-quality YouTube video - which, having watched it, I recommend - is all about her: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=crHHycz7T_c.

The greater part of the video covers her speech at the Human Rights Campaign award ceremony. An interesting speech, which may inspire you. I thought the end part, in which she speaks about her supportive mother and father, and her super-supportive brother, was especially worth watching. At the twenty-seven minute mark, she describes how her dad said this to her after she'd become Lana:

What matters is that you're alive, you seem happy, and I can put my arms around you and give you a kiss.

Gulp. My Dad never said that to me... As for her brother, she describes how they were both at a press conference, and her brother thought it best to say this to the reporters:

Just so that we are clear, if anyone asks my sister something I don't like, I will break a glass bottle over their head.

How protective is that? I have nobody who would say those words for me. You may be in the same boat too.

All right, Miss Wachowski was an established media personality with cash and family support, no worries about her industry credibility, and able to call the tune with the news people rather be their victim. Lucky girl! But she obviously does feel that she is an inspiration to many others, and although to my mind she does not come across as quite so young and bubbly as the Trans* Frau poster might suggest (she was born in 1967, and will be forty-six in December) I am happy to salute her as a trans icon.

Having seen her and heard her and watched her mannerisms on the YouTube video, I also admit to some envy. Yes, I know she's fifteen years younger than me. But these images are so much how I'd like to be sometimes:

The bald-headed man is her protective brother. Mine's dead.

Whereas this is me, taken yesterday:

Or - looking slightly less windswept - a month ago in St Andrews in Scotland:

Or, to be really fair, as I was in October 2012, perhaps at the very moment that Lana was making her award speech:

Hmmmm. She's still better-looking! But I can get over it. And I take consolation in five things:

1. I'm not famous, I'm not an icon, and I can live a private life.
2. I've got a better voice. Hers is very good, but I think mine is even better - so there.
3. I do it with my natural grey hair. That saves a fortune on pink dye.
4. You can pronounce my surname far more easily.
5. I've got Fiona.

But I've got no brother. And no mum and dad. Boo hoo.

One shouldn't really use a platform like this to advertise a friend's artistic efforts, but I do want Alice to become as widely-known as possible, and be a success. And I can do my little bit by featuring her now and then on my blog.

This is the Alice who is my oldest trans friend, and was the subject of the short video mentioned in my post on 15 June 2013 called My friend Alice has made a film about being herself. Now a two-minute video of her reading one of her own poems is available on YouTube - see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otVY1Juvewo.

Don't let the word 'poetry' put you off. I'd like everyone to see this clip, in order to get a more rounded notion of what Alice is like as a person, and also as a public performer who makes a gentle but well-received impression. The people she mentions in the poem are her encouragers and promoters, and the poem is about having your life half-wrecked because, thus spurred on, you spend every waking and sleeping moment playing with words and ideas, scribbling ideas on the toilet wall when a pencil is available, chanting the words like a mad woman while walking the streets when a pencil is not, so as not to let go of them.

Me, I'd just flop down onto the pavement and capture those fleeting words using a note-taking app on my phone - quick and simple - and cut-and-paste them later into the Word document that will become my on-stage crib. But Alice is delightfully old-fashioned where Tech is concerned, and in the moment of inspiration never thinks of doing what I would do. Each to her own methods.

Alice's promoters on this occasion are the duo who organise dining evenings for the paying public under the banner Come Rhyme With Me. These began in London, and have now taken off in Brighton. The idea is that you get a trendy dining experience, a chance (of course) to make new friends, and in any event see and listen to a succession of local poets and writers, who are presented to you like the dishes of a meal. A great idea, if you wish to mix good food with fresh and original verse.

I think Alice is gradually gaining a strong reputation in the Brighton literary scene. It's the very kind of thing that will expand her public presence beyond the quirky one she would in any event have had, for Alice plunges into Brighton Life with gusto, and seems to be known to and loved by everyone who takes any part in the frenzy to have a great time. She is however no prima donna. She is unselfish and unpushy, very concerned to nudge others into whatever limelight is going, and to introduce people she knows to interested visiting businessfolk with media connections. I hear that she spoke to an Amsterdam film distributor last weekend at Trans* Pride.

I look on all this, on the entire Brighton scene - literary or hedonistic - with detachment. I salute it, I agree that it's colourful and exciting, and can be a lot of fun, but mostly I want to keep out of it.

For now.

I do however wonder what will happen when, only 464 days ahead - I am now counting - my State Pension comes into payment. I mean, I don't feel like an old-age pensioner, any more than Alice does. I intend to be very sensible, and save a big chunk of the new cash - that'll be for better holidays, and likely household contingencies, and, in the long run, my Medical Fund. But I'll still have cash left over for frivolity and simply having a good time. And if I keep my weight in check, I can if I fancy hit the Big Town in style, perhaps in the sort of get-up Lana Wachowski thought suitable for her Human Rights Campaign award acceptance speech (see yesterday's post), pink hair and all.

I mean, who is to stop me? What is there to lose? Where is the Regulation that says people of sixty-two shall behave in a seemly fashion? Alice knows of no such laws and prohibitions.

By that time, Alice may have gone viral. Supposing she has? It makes you think. Will caravanning be enough?

Another friend of mine, R---, has just bought herself a small tent in a '50% off' sale. It cost her £25. She is thrilled at the possibilities it opens up for an instant getaway to an Atlantic beach (she surfs) or a nature reserve (she watches birds and butterflies, and really all wildlife). Everything needed for a weekend in the open air is in her car, and, jobs on hand permitting, she can take off whenever she feels inclined.

What freedom! Even more than I have, because there are certain preparations I always need to make before I set forth with the caravan, and of course I load it up with clothes and food and a host of home comforts that R--- knows she can do without. She can literally be out on the road inside an hour, heading westward to where the surf is perfect.

R--- lives in Brighton, in the heart of it, but scorns the frenetic social scene that is the backdrop to my last few posts. Last weekend's Trans Pride wasn't her cup of tea. The upcoming Gay and Lesbian Pride weekend is a big annoyance and irritation, and not something to plunge into and relish. For her, it represents a succession of nights with sleep interrupted by drunken and loud-voiced celebrants, and the discovery of vomit or worse on her doorstep next day. I'm not knocking the G&L participants especially - all of Young Brighton tends to hop aboard and party loudly till they can't stand up. The other side of Fun City. If she possibly can, she'll be out of town.

I think R--- has a firm grasp on the simple things of life. Which brings me on to whether my life is full of simple things, or has it all got a bit complicated and fussy. Should I look at what else I could do with my time? Things that will suit my likings, but be worthwhile, and in some way good for me.

I made just such an appraisal six years ago, in 2007, and now I've done it again, to see what may have changed. Boy world versus girl world, you might say.

The 2007 appraisal was made after retirement had lost its first novelty, and I was thinking that I ought to consider some new activities to add interest to my life. It's a curious historical document, a relic of the Old Life. Of a moment before I realised that I'd need to transition, and look instead at a host of challenges that were not yet imaginable. It was all set out on a spreadsheet, which ranked a longish list of activities according to how each of them scored. The activities included ones I currently pursued, or had pursued in the past and enjoyed, and activities I had never tried. Every one was scored under two main heads, with subheadings:

1. THE POSITIVE ASPECTS FROM MY POINT OF VIEW
Exciting
Therapeutic
Mentally stimulating
Creative
Artistic
Gets me out of the house
Good in the evening
Sociable
Physical exercise
Physically skilful
Useful
Can produce income

2. THE NEGATIVE ASPECTS FROM MY POINT OF VIEW
No appeal
Stressful or potentially troublesome
Physical injury possible
Must join a group to pursue
Time commitment
Storage problems at home
Cost

I allocated a positive score from 1 to 3 against each of the Positive Aspects, and a negative score from -1 to -3 against each of the Negative Aspects. Or a nil score, if I was neutral about any aspect. In that way I arrived at a net score for each activity. I then sorted all the activities into order, with the highest-scoring at the top, and the lowest-scoring at the bottom.

It was a method of rationally taking into account all the key elements that mattered to me when deciding what to commit time to. The words 'to me' are vitally important - it wouldn't matter two hoots how someone else would approach these activities, or what their own score might be. I had to be completely honest about what I personally felt about these things, and not bow to conventional opinion.

So how did the 2007 exercise turn out? What seemed good or bad six years ago, when I was still stuck in the Old Life? Here is the result, the 'best' activities for me coming at the top, with their scores, and the ones I was regularly following at the time in bold:

Photography (14)
Writing (11)
Setting up a new home (11)
Caravanning (10)
Extensive travel (9)
Walking (9)
Cooking (7)
Learning DIY skills (7)
Painting (6)
Learning a language (6)
Genealogy (5)
Map collecting (5)
Reading (4)
Badminton (4)
Driving (3)
Eating out (3)
Listening to radio (2)
Watching television (2)
Surfing the Internet (1)
Listening to music (1)
Going to the cinema (0)
Going to the theatre (0)
Opera (-1)
Cycling (-1)
Dancing (-2)
Part-time job (-2)
Full-time job (-4)
Learning to fly (-6)
Voluntary work (-7)

There you are. Remember that the items in bold were the ones I was actually giving time to. And that while I loved doing some things, their score might be dragged down by high cost - driving for example. Strange that DIY ranked so high, and opera so low! But the runaway best activities are no surprise.

This obviously called for a retest! So I did just that, on the same basis, but adding girly things like blogging and pleasure shopping. This was the result now, in 2013:

Photography (17)
Blogging (15)
Writing (13)
Caravanning (13)
Driving (3)
Learning a language (11)
Seeing friends (10)
Perfecting my female persona (9)
Walking (9)
Extensive travel (9)
Painting (9)
Cooking (8)
Eating out (3)
Visiting museums and galleries (7)
Setting up a new home (7)
Opera (6)
Visiting historic properties and gardens (5)
Map collecting (4)
Badminton (4)
Surfing the Internet (4)
Reading (3)
Listening to radio (3)
Watching television (3)
Pleasure shopping (3)
Genealogy (3)
Going to the theatre (2)
Learning DIY skills (2)
Listening to music (1)
Dancing (1)
Buying artworks (0)
Going to the cinema (0)
Part-time job (-2)
Full-time job (-3)
Learning to fly (-4)
Voluntary work (-5)
Cycling (-8)
Horse riding (-10)

The front runners are still there, but several things have changed. Although I have lost many people from the Old Life, including my partner, my social life has blossomed, and with it the activities that go with having friends to see. And the discovery that I am good at some important new stuff (such as how I now speak) has clearly made some activities less daunting - learning a language for instance.

But there are still things with minus scores, which will almost certainly not be pursued, such as work on any basis. And there is no way I will be committing myself to a saddle. I've become very nervous of injuring myself.

Obviously, if you ever meet me and wish to grab my lasting attention, here is a ready-made list of things that I find interesting and would enjoy discussing! You know, we all could do something similar, and it might suggest who would make ideal friends. Or even partners, if the chemistry fits.

Only kidding!

Celebrity Masterchef returned to BBC1 last night, and naturally I had a look at it. Four women to pass the critical scrutiny of ringmasters John Torode and Gregg Wallace. Three of whom I'd never heard of, although I had heard of their background girl band or famous husband or comedy mum (What? See below, at the end) or whatever. And then there was the fourth - Janet Street-Porter, known to me as a journalist, TV personality, a past media boss, and one-time Ramblers Association chairperson. Also for having an outspoken and abrasive manner, put over in a distinctive London accent that I've never heard anybody else employ to such caustic effect. A no-nonsense woman who can push so hard that she gets things done. Or should that be, gets her way? Meow?

The old format is there as before. I do like John Torode's 'ingredient recognition test'. It amuses me to see John and Gregg looking alternatively kind and encouraging, then stone-faced and critical. I should think that in real life John is intolerant of incompetence in the kitchen. I should think that Gregg, mostly a salt-of-the-earth chubby guy who really likes his food - though he's slimming down nowadays - has his bad-tempered moments. Who hasn't?

But neither strikes me as the kind of loose cannon Janet Street-Porter aims to be. She isn't going to play the game. She isn't going to 'suck up to John and Gregg', as she said as a put-down remark to the three other contestants - this was after the initial make-what-you-can-of-these-ingredients test, which featured a massive red spider crab and a very limited choice of things to use with it. She was put out when John Torode disapproved of her using the big crab shell as a bowl for her orange-sauce covered salad leaves. (I didn't myself think it was a terribly bad idea, even though it was an inelegant one, as the shell was so big it resembled half a skull) Fire leapt from her narrowed eyes.

After that early confrontation, she seemed determined to put the two judges in their place. She looked constantly poised to strike, war glinting in her watchful face. To her credit, she had good technique, knowing for instance how to bone a duck, and could genuinely put tasty stuff on a plate. But I couldn't stand her manner. I hated her calling such attention to herself. I didn't like her putting the other contestants in the shade, and I did not want to see John and Gregg humiliated. I find naked power struggles unedifying to watch. But gratuitously bad behaviour is a total turn-off. I duly turned off, and wrote last night's post instead.

Was I right to walk away from the spectacle? A lot of people might think that John and Gregg do wield far too much stern power on this programme, and need the occasional feisty challenge to keep them on their toes. But a lot of what they do is just theatre for the camera. The scenes in which they sneeze, fart, trip over, rip their trousers, get the contestant's name wrong, swear, fluff their lines, descend into giggles, mess up the demo, drop the duck on the floor and tread on it, are all edited out. You simply see two unruffled, frowning and hard-to-please demigods with a taste for wicked challenges. But the show is not a sham: the contestants really do have to show brilliance, and really deserve to get whatever acclaim may eventually come their way. But it isn't a cold-blooded struggle either.

It's television entertainment. And to my mind, a cross and belligerent attitude that has elements of bullying in it doesn't sit well with the sort of show this is intended to be. I wanted to see a set of people, who might not have the time for great cookery, step up to the mark and produce something delightful and surprisingly accomplished. I did not want to see the atmosphere tainted with argument and backchat from one prickly contestant. OK, hats off to Janet Street-Porter for being a forceful and talented person. But boo to her for making me abandon the show.

At least I can step away and get on with something nicer. In this electronic age, that is increasingly an option. It's true. You can turn it all off if you want.

Think about it: the days of getting at you by knocking on your physical front door are drawing to a close. The world is now geared to streaming messages at you through screens, or by mass phone call campaigns. It's that way because it works better - whether it's a political statement, or a sales pitch, or a request for your charity, the well-crafted and glossy message will be consistent and endlessly repeatable. It's a drip-drip, wear-you-down, nag at you, keep-you-thinking-about-it technique that gets results, because if you hit a large enough number of people with the same consistent message, a lot of them will eventually react in exactly the way you want. And their conversion to the cause or product will influence those around them.

But the relentless electronic stream can be cut off if you wish. I do so wish. And have found out how. Life is more peaceful as a result.

Although pressing the 'off' button on my TV remote control remains the easiest way of shielding myself from the big television egos who want to grab my attention, going only half-way - and merely muting them - can be highly entertaining. It's certainly the best way to watch advertisements: it adds mental stimulation and interest to what you see, because you have to work out what the ad is actually all about. You can admire the photography without the distraction of the commentary. It elevates some ads, and reduces some to absurdity. In any event, it stops the message getting through as intended. Bad for business? I don't care. They only want me to spend money on things I don't need. And if some of the message is still getting through, and it irritates me, there's that lovely 'off' button.

So I don't need to hector anyone, or rant - I just press that button. And in similar vein, applying that phone call filter also does the trick.

Even saying 'no' at my front door has become pretty easy. In the past, politeness held one back. One didn't want to seem rude. But 'they' have pushed too hard. Now they can have it back in their face. With a smile of course.

That said, I would never go onto a show like Celebrity Masterchef and be unpleasant. Even if it was my distinctive trademark.

PS: In my first paragraph, I was definitely thinking that Katy Brand was comedienne Jo Brand's daughter. She's not. Nor is she the Katy Brand who was briefly married to comedian Russell Brand. I've now got this right in my head. It just shows how very little I know about the world of entertainment! I regularly commit gaffes whenever Somebody Any Ordinary Person Will Know Well is mentioned. Never mind.

I've been having difficulty getting that poster picture of Lana Wachowski out of my mind. If you go back a little bit, it's reproduced (from a casually-made photo of mine) in the Traumfrau, Trans* Frau, and Lana Wachowski post on 29 July, in which I also show some other shots of her off the Internet, mostly from the October 2012 Human Rights Campaign award ceremony, in which she gave a speech.

So what made such an impact with me?

The poster picture shows a confident and attractive youngish woman with nicely-styled but still very outrageous bright pink dreadlocks, set off rather well by a plain black sleeveless dress. All that appeals.

Closer inspection reveals minimum make-up and minimum jewellery, which is also very appealing. She looks wholesome and natural.

The full-length shots of her in other photos of that award ceremony reveal black heeled ankle boots that I wouldn't have worn myself, but which don't clash with the outfit, and rings on her wedding-ring finger. Nothing amiss there either.

After listening to Lana's speech, which brought out selected bits of her personality, background, and attitudes, I still felt that she would be interesting to meet and speak to, but the appeal was less. She clearly wasn't of my world - or put differently, I wasn't of hers. And there was no chemistry. To put it bluntly, I liked her look, but I didn't fancy her.

Still, the image itself has persisted. It really has made me think that I ought to slim down a little and consider another hairstyle. Nothing wrong with that. From time to time it's good to take inspiration from elsewhere, and apply it to yourself. I suppose I'm saying that I've moved on from admiration to analysis, and from there to selective emulation, in a way that will suit me.

If I were different, however, I can see how easy it would be to get completely stuck on her image. To get obsessed by it in fact.

This presumably happened all the time in the golden era of movie stars, when the studios actually made it their business to manufacture a fanciful but alluring public image for every actor or actress under contract. It didn't matter what the star's real name or background or personality was, nor whether they really were having an affair with so-and-so. If they could be used to sell movies to the paying public, these people would be 'improved' with dentistry, beauty enhancements, deportment and elocution lessons, and all the transformations that good clothes and skilful make-up can contrive. They were under contract, they had to comply, they usually wanted to comply, and the result was a dangerous kind of illusion. It was fiction. No wonder so many lost a grip on what was real, along with their sense of identity. The general public also lost a grip on reality, and did not see the real person behind the façade. They saw only the image, and judged only the image.

Here's a 1938 shot of Hollywood actress Carole Lombard, for instance:

Or a 1951 shot of society personality Betsy von Furstenberg:

I could imagine these images, whether seen in a movie magazine or Vogue, entrancing some people.

I'd consider myself level-headed, and not easily swerved off course by a pretty face on a poster, but look what has happened to me! The image is a basic tool, a basic way of grabbing attention and triggering reactions. And I have been unable to resist all of its pull.

It makes me wonder about people who are even more likely to be entranced by a picture, including the pictures that bloggers show of themselves.

Some trans bloggers publish very nice self-portraits indeed. Perhaps they are keen to convey the fact that they are attractive people, making real progress with their transition. That's completely understandable. I've certainly been a past devotee of the 'before-and-after' post, and have regularly updated my profile picture to reflect the developing personal state. I like doing 'travelogue' posts featuring a shot of myself at some unusual place, to prove I was really there. There must be dozens and dozens of self-portraits scattered about in my posts; and many other bloggers behave no differently. My question: are we being entirely wise?

Who might get obsessed by these pictures? Oversexed perverts come immediately to mind, but for every one of those there might be fifty possibly lonely souls who wouldn't hurt a fly, but can't help getting wistful and imaginative over a nice face on a blog. The problem arises when they don't read or understand the text, and derive no clues as to the personality of the person in the picture. Then they might build a dream, perhaps a romantic one, based on the image alone. And that could lead to obsession, and even frank stalking, with the real person's feelings completely out of sight.

This is certainly a danger for younger trans bloggers, and not just high-profile people with actual journalistic or media careers. It could apply to you and me - well you anyway - as soon as the prettifying and feminising effects of oestragen take control.

Should one worry overmuch? It's hard to say. I've blogged about stalking before, and fear it, or any attention suggestive of it, whether romantically driven or spurred on by darker motives. I'm not going to reiterate any of that here. But it's something to be aware of. And unlike Lana Wachowski, most of us can't afford a lovely home secured by the latest technology, nor a team of bodyguards on hand if we need them. Food for thought.

Three days ago, when driving home from an electrolysis session in Bexley, a warning message popped up in Fiona's display: 'SRS Airbag Service Urgent', and a red symbol came on and stayed on. This meant that a fault of some kind had been detected in one of the airbags, or in a component that decided when any of them should be deployed, or to what extent. The module inside the steering wheel in front of me has for instance a two-stage deployment.

The last time I had an airbag warning was three years ago, soon after taking delivery of Fiona. It was one of those faults that come to light after a car has been in manufacture for a while. Once its incidence becomes frequent and general, there is a general recall. My case was one of the pioneering ones, before there was a general recall notice, but it was nevertheless a free fix authorised by Volvo HQ. I did not think I would get away with paying nothing this time though.

It was however a fault I wouldn't hestitate to address. This was a safety issue. Airbags protected one from impact injuries. I did not feel at all like ignoring the matter, and relying on just my seat belt, and the sturdiness of Fiona's build, until I could afford to have whatever was amiss dealt with.

In any case, it might not be my airbag, the one (or more than one) that would save me. It might be an airbag for a passenger seat. How could I ask anybody to be a passenger in my car if I knew that a life-saving device might not come into play and save them, should an accident occur? Their injury or death on my hands? What would I say to their loved ones? Really, there was no choice in the matter.

So yesterday my usual Volvo dealer at Portslade carried out a battery of electronic diagnostic tests. It looks as if the airbag module in the steering wheel is indeed the one at fault, although the precise nature of the fault can't be determined without a certain amount of fiddly dismantling to physically get at the module, and then make further tests. Apparently the electrical connections suffer wear from turning the wheel this way and that while driving, as you steer. (I must try to steer less in the future) I'm told the labour for dismantling, inspection, and the reassembly pending a replacement if needed, will be about £100. Sigh. And if replacement is in fact needed (of course it will be) then another £188. Sigh again: a heaving bosom in fact.

But what can you do?

It's no good saying, oh, we all used to drive rickety old rustbuckets held together with string and grease, with no seat belts, crossply tyres, and drum brakes that faded after eleven seconds, and never, never came to harm. The Good Old Days. I say phooey. I never felt safe in Dad's first car, a knackered black base-model late-1940s Ford Prefect (registration number EHT 411) which smelled of leaking petrol and looked nothing like this cherished and gleaming example:

It looked more like this:

And here is the beast itself, in a June 1960 shot with Mum, myself and little brother W---:

We were on holiday in Burnham-on-Sea in Somerset. We had driven all the way from Barry in South Wales in the days before there was a Severn Bridge. I don't think we took the Aust Ferry, though we may have tried queuing for it. I think Dad went all the way up to Gloucester, then down the Burnham side of the Bristol Channel. I do remember it raining hard at one point, and the windscreen wiper whizzing off sideways into the road, and Dad stopping to find it. I think he did, but I can't remember whether he managed to reattach it there and then. We probably parked on the side of the A38, and glumly munched cheese sandwiches till the rain eased off. No doubt rain leaked in.

This was the car with direction-indicators in the form of arms that popped out when you turned a switch - or were meant to. Often they wouldn't oblige, or if they did, they stayed out and wouldn't retract. In the end, Dad reverted to hand signals.

EHT 411 was constant trouble, and charmless, though clearly memorable. Dad inevitably took it to the scrapyard in Barry Dock, receiving £5 for it I believe. Even then I was car-aware, and felt a little pang at its passing, but it was very scary for a nervous child. When Dad got promotion in 1963, and we moved to Southampton, he bought a brand-new Hillman Imp, 433 FCR. It was white with red seats, had a rear engine (just like a Porsche 911 did) and looked a lot like this:

That's not me in the picture. Here's a June 1965 shot of our Hillman Imp, standing with trailer on the quay at Southampton ready to be driven onto the Townsend-Thoresen ferry to Le Havre:

We were going to France for three weeeks. The Hillman Imp was bliss after the Ford Prefect, but it had two annoying faults: it wasn't roomy, and its water pump was constantly breaking down, so that on a long journey you had to stop often to let the engine cool off. Also, my younger brother W--- would get car-sick at the drop of a hat, and we'd have to stop for him too. Tiresome. The roominess mattered. Dad and his just-up-the-road pal Les Hinton were constantly nipping off to the New Forest to collect wild pony manure to dig into the poor soil of their gardens, and they would make it a gleeful family outing, complete with picnic items. You can imagine what it was like being in close confines with two or three bags of pony manure. No wonder I developed a taste for big cars that worked properly, and were too nice to taint with awkward passengers and strange whiffs!

But even the relatively civilised Hillman Imp was a tin can of death compared to Fiona, or indeed most modern cars. How things have improved! Most of us have become so safety-conscious, and rightly, because after all the average car can propel itself along at speeds well in excess of the national speed limit of 70mph. But 'can do' is not the same as 'can do safely'. Fiona is fast and powerful, but also heavy and stable, with great brakes, and permanent four-wheel drive. Plus numerous sensors and radar to scan the road in front and rear, and throw noises and flash signals at me, not just to keep me alert, but to warn me of things out of my field of vision. Intrusive? Irritating? No way. The safety systems were a key element in my choosing this car.

So fixing the airbag fault is an expense I will accept without demur. The financial impact can be managed. And there is some hope that it won't quite be £288. The dealer is going to ask Volvo to meet some of the cost, as I am not long out of warranty. Fingers crossed, then.

Girls and bridges, and masks and hats. And cats.

Misrepresentation

Potential embarrassment outside a St Andrews caddyshack

Edinburgh with Brenda and Morag, part 1

Misrepresentation - the story continues

Edinburgh with Brenda and Morag, part 2

The most desirable accolades

The questionnaire and the oak tree

One fine day in the Lake District

You never lose the T in the word lifetime

Trans Pride in Brighton this weekend

Strange envy

Agatha Christie and murder mysteries

A rainy afternoon in Brighton: my Trans Pride report

Traumfrau, Trans* Frau, and Lana Wachowski

Stand-up poetry from my friend Alice

Boy life versus girl life - how one's activities change!

Belligerently bad behaviour

The image is seductive

Safety expenditure, impish thoughts and ponies