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� In this diary, I record my life as a transvestite. Perhaps it will help somebody else, who finds their lifestyle doesn't quite match that endorsed by the 'tranny mafia'. Well, I've been there... and survived. The debriefing starts here.

�loves: All kinds of stuff that society thinks I shouldn't.

�hates: Microsoft. Obviously.

�reads:
secret-motel
artgnome
enfinblue
stepfordtart
ten-oclock
boombasticat
lawliiet
annanotbob
fifidellabon
my-serenade

Lynn Jones
Becky
Samantha

A touch of dysphoria
7:04 a.m. -- 2009-04-21

Complicated. What to say?

I've been in a state of... something like depression, for a little while now. I think I'm getting over it, but it was touch and go for a while, there. An issue that a psychiatrist would call 'gender dysphoria', I believe.

I've been spending a lot of time in London, lately, and it seems I am poorly-prepared for the sensations that our capital provides. I've become a real country bumpkin, gazing in wonder at the sights of the big city... where the fingernails are longer, the heels are higher, the dresses are shorter.

It's all a bit fake, I suppose. Glamorous, suntanned, elaborately coiffured... but fake. I mean the whole 'body image' and 'fitting in' thing must be a nightmare for girls who grow up there. Everybody's scary-skinny and every garment seems to be a designer label...

But I wish I'd been one of them.

I know that London life is bitchy and false and silly. I know I do important work (saving the planet, no less!) I know that if the sperm that fertilised my egg had lost the race to an XX-chromosomed one, I wouldn't exist... I don't mean to be ungrateful for the gift of life, but... maleness just hasn't seemed to 'fit' very well, in the last month or two.

But I could never be a transsexual. I'm a perfectionist, and to my mind the process and the result of sex reassignment surgery is unpleasant. You can cut this and implant that all you want... but I'd never be happy with the result. This is me: I'm stuck with it. Resigned to it.

Besides which, I'm happily married. So I think about both of us, rather than me, now. I made my vows in front of all those friends and family - and before God - and I meant them, and I still do. So I try to be a good husband. 'Male' being one of the fundamental characteristics of 'husband'...

Fortunately, Victoria seems to be the kind of person who likes a softer, gentler partner. I mean, not a wimp... but not obsessed with sports, nights out with the lads and so on. She still tells me I'm lovely, anyway!

I just... think I'd have made a better girl. But like I said, I can't do a lot about that. It's been nagging at me, at a low level but as a constant presence, like having a stone in your shoe.

I'm not even sure I'm a transvestite any more. Although, for research purposes I have just placed an order at Figleaves. Which, again... I can't explain. Except to say (quoting the wisdom of Lynn Jones) it's not a competition. There's no alternative Oscar ceremony in which I might have been nominated in the category of 'longest time without trannying'... there's no book of rules, only the rules we impose upon ourselves, and it seems I find it necessary to alter mine a bit.

Maybe a little retail therapy will help. (And besides, they had a special offer...)

If this seems very strange - talking about being resigned to maleness and then admitting to buying some new frillies - what can I tell you? I'm... complicated.

Clearly.

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