Potatoes, mostly
8:20 a.m. -- 2009-05-18
Sunday: what a day! Where to begin?
I�ll blog about Saturday�s cult-busting excitement another time. That was a good day, too. In fact, even today�s excitement might require a few entries, since I�m on a train and I don�t have the ability to download the images from my camera.
I�ve been to the seaside, and I met Anna...
But not Bob. He stayed at home. Wise, perhaps, because it was cold and rainy by mid-afternoon.
Raining? At the seaside? What�s that about? That never happened at the seaside when I was a kid! (Okay, maybe once or twice.)
I have had what feels like a fair bit of alcohol. For me, a lot. I may struggle to be coherent. Fortunately, my laptop isn�t funky enough to offer Internet access from a train. This will give me a chance to edit things around a bit before I post. (I�ll try not to over-sanitise...)
Arriving in Brighton (how nice, to leave the car at home for once), I headed off downhill in search of the waterfront. I have to admit that I felt a little bit of that �wow - there�s the SEA� thing. Just like when I was a little kid. To see the sea is proof positive that you�re somewhere different; you�re on HOLIDAY, baby!
I let those old feelings wash over me. Today was a day for reminiscences; why the hell not? Reached the waterfront, camera out... and took clich�d pics of the west pier, mostly. I headed west... and Hove hove into view.
That journey along the esplanade always seemed to take an age, when my legs were shorter. This time, even with a strong wind in my teeth, I was in Hove after a quarter of an hour. Hove is to Brighton as... I dunno... as Jabba the Hutt is to Han Solo. Only without the funny dialect.
Now... I need to post some pictures about this at some point, because either somebody had slipped something strange into my tea, or there were masses of superheroes running up and down on the waterfront. And they must have slipped something into my camera�s tea, too, because it also thinks it saw any number of Incredible Hulks (and just plain Incredibles), Batmen, Robins, Wonderwomen, Mutant Ninja Turtles, Xenas... even a �V for Vendetta� that I particularly liked.
So... yeah. Hundreds of people spending Sunday lunchtime running around dressed as a comic book character. And not once did anybody rattle a tin under my nose. If it was for charity, they missed a trick, there.
Well, I�d arrived early, so it was good to be entertained. I walked further along the seafront than was strictly necessary, to revisit some of my old haunts. The �pitch and putt� where Sally sliced her golfball, and hit a car... the caf� where I saw my first ever �Space Invaders� machine (and rapidly gave it all my money)... the bowling green where my boring parents used to sit and watch the �action�. The uniquely British system of beach huts: making it possible to holiday in a place that�s bleak enough to require a refuge... and (as I understand it) passing those refuges down through the generations, by dynastic succession. Daft... but colourfully painted. Beautiful, in a way. Not sure my photos will really do them justice, though.
Anyway... I was in Hove... and Anna wasn�t far away.
Being a tranny - at least, a secretive, paranoid one like me - has at times been all about alibis. �Plausible denial�, as they say in American politics. An old school friend provided my alibi, today. I hadn�t seen him for a couple of years, so I had a good excuse for getting back in touch. I spent some time with him and had lunch, which was all very nice... and then Anna called. I�d been hoping she would, although I tried to be careful not to pressure her into coming out to see me.
As soon as I could decently make my escape, I... made my escape. Jogged back along the seafront as quickly as I could, mindful that I was keeping our favourite diarist waiting.
We met up. The weather had turned bad by then, but Anna said no problem; she was impervious. And I think that�s probably true. Certainly, in the time we had together, I didn�t see anybody perv her.
Oh, I couldn�t resist that one. Blame it on the beer.
What next? Erm... where to begin? Quite a watershed moment, for me. Meeting somebody who can say �So... you like knickers, then?�
I mean, somebody other than Lucy my long-suffering ex-girlfriend, and who isn�t another tranny. That�s different.
But it was all surprisingly, wonderfully normal. We talked about that a bit, and gender, presently, but all kinds of other things. About nuclear angst, university days... and we shopped for potatoes. I�d already been to the supermarket with alibi-man, and then Anna and I trawled detoured through two more mini-markets to obtain spuds. Success at the last, but If I�d known potatoes were such an in-demand commodity, I could have brought some with me. We may not haz much in The North, but we haz potatoes in abundance.
We did only the tiniest bit of culture. Or more accurately, dropped in on Sara, which gave me the chance to see one of the Anish Kapoor installations. I thought the cones that looked like poured �crumbs� of colour were attractive, but would have been better if they had been less neat but what do I know? I�m an unemployed aerospace nerd and not a famous artist. Maybe I should have read the blurb to find out what it was all about.
We visited a few pubs. I, at least, drank more than usual... having already started with alibi-man.
We talked. There were revelations. There was an appearance from a musician friend who asked the most incredibly penetrating questions you�ve ever heard. I mean old-fashioned university entrance interview kind of stuff. I wish I could remember the exact wording. My answers left me feeling most inadequate... and maybe I was. I dunno. But then it�s hard to explain why you keep (and publish) a diary without telling the questioner what it�s all about. And for some reason, I just didn�t feel like saying �I�m a transvestite in remission.� She can probably figure that out pretty quickly, of course. Ah well.
And, er... Sara knows all about me? Hmm... Okay. F_ck! But, well, she was cool, too.
Which just goes to show, one needn�t get hung, drawn and quartered for being a weirdo like me. At least... not in Brighton. It�s that kind of town. Accepting! It has a strange kind of �surrogate Islington� vibe about it in places, as if Londoners have decamped there and brought their snobbery along with their furniture, but it�s by no means universal. Could be a lot worse.
Could be Southport.
Anna tells me I completely failed to notice a trans-something person, working in an Oxfam shop. She finds that interesting. I find it further evidence that my continued, vain avoidance of glasses has to come to an end, sometime soon. (I wear glasses for driving; don�t worry.)
So am I thick, or just myopic? Does the knife-edge of gender mean less to me than it used to? Or was she mistaken, at it was just some poor hormonally-challenged lady? At the time, my attention was elsewhere. I was just glad she didn�t start holding dresses up against me, and suggesting I ought to snap up a bargain. (Charity shops still make me a bit nervous...)
Okay, I didn�t actually think of that at the time. I�m exaggerating for comic effect. (And failing? Probably.)
Well, it�s late. My train is about to reach its destination, and after a short walk I�ll be abed. No chance to send this tonight, and perhaps that�s a good thing. In summary (because I have about one minute left) let me say that Anna rocks! She talks frankly about problems, and she talks a lot of sense. But not too much; I wasn�t there to consult the oracle, after all. It was fun!
+++
When she talked about her breakdown, I wanted to reach out and touch her hand. But I didn�t, because boys don�t really do that. But I wanted to, and I want her to know that. I feel for you; I really do. The straight-jacket of how I�m supposed to behave won out, and we had to make do with eye contact. It had the merit of being much less likely to freak you out, but I hope I didn�t come across as being too reserved. How terribly... British! I suppose there�s some programming that we just can�t break.
What did you really think of the Man from Venus, Anna? I wonder... and maybe it�s none of my business. I sensed disapproval at the way I conceal my girlie side from Victoria. I�m not very happy about that either, but I remember how thoroughly I crashed and burned with Lucy, although the disaster took about three horrible years to play out.
I�ve blogged about that before. Maybe I should have another try at explaining, but I�d simply be making excuses for lying to my wife. I know, I know, I know... it�s unwise and it�s disrespectful.
Life on Venus: between a rock and a hard place.
previous - next
|
