Which brings me to the point of this post. Somewhere in the UK, a transman has given birth recently. The press in general, and Sun journalists in particular are desperate to find out who that person is. Desperate to the point of contacting Trans support groups and asking if they know him, desperate to the point of nosing around trans organisations, and inviting members of the public to ‘out’ the man in question. A large box is displayed on The Sun’s online article about the issue saying “Do you know the man? Call The Sun newsdesk on 020 **** 4103″ The paper also kindly provide an email address for people to contact them with the name of the man they’re looking for. I’m not that well versed in press practices to know if this would be rewarded with money – what’s the odds?

Now let’s get this straight – this man isn’t a murderer, rapist, paedophile or Great Train Robber. He’s someone who, to the best of my understanding, with his long-term partner, has made what must have been an immensely difficult decision. A new parent, who must currently be terrified. Natacha Kennedy of Trans Media Watch compares the behaviour of some journalists with their own claims following recent action over controversial methods used to gain information: “The Sun…claims that its journalists are subject to a witch-hunt. If this is not a witch-hunt par excellence, I don’t know what is”.

Whatever your feelings are about a transman giving birth, and mine are very mixed, that isn’t really the point. I believe passionately in an individual’s right to choose their own path. Some people choose to go about their business in the media glare, others do not. This transman has the right to respect, privacy and protection.

To paraphrase Kennedy, as trans people, supporters of trans people, and just plain old supporters of a human being’s right not to be hunted down, it is important that the press are told nothing, so that this man and his family can get on with living their lives.

Anybody being hounded by any journalists on this issue can contact Trans Media Watch for support and advice or call the Press Complaints Commission (PCC) 24 Hour emergency advice line on 07659 152656.

Well, that doctor wasn’t the first to suggest that me transitioning would signal the end of my loving relationship of (at that point) six years, and certainly won’t be the last. I’m not so naive that I don’t realise that historically not that many relationships make it after one half of the couple goes through transition. I do realise that as we change emotionally and physically, our relationships change too, sometimes just moving too much away from the core that held the couple together in the first place for the relationship to stay viable.

I know this. But as it’s nearly Valentine’s Day, I want to make a plea…don’t write us off. Don’t assume the worst. Don’t sit by the phone waiting for the bad news. Because it doesn’t happen to everybody.

I’m not going to go into the ins and outs (fnar) of my sexuality, and that of my partner. I think we covered that in my earlier post So, does that make you both straight now? Suffice it to say that I identify as queer, and my partner identifies as a queer lesbian. For a definition of what the word ‘queer’ means to us (and won’t necessarily for everybody), please see the Glossary I posted a while back. Sexually, yes, we’ve had a steep hill to climb in terms of my physical changes, and also the changes in the way I relate to my own body. But that hill hasn’t necessarily been a bad one to climb, and we’ve quite enjoyed some of the views to be had along the way, if I can stretch that metaphor a little further!

Emotionally, I have changed, and that has led to a lot of renegotiating (and me being b*tchslapped by Willemina pretty regularly). But all in all, I am still the same person I have always been, only happier, more relaxed, more comfortable, more confident than ever. I am finally feeling like the person I always wanted to be, and that’s actually done our relationship a whole lot of good. Let’s face it, would you rather your partner was uptight, depressed, stressed and uncomfortable, or the opposite? Some of the changes we have faced really have been a good thing for both of us.

We’re an odd couple, I know, a transman and a lesbian. But for us, it works. We don’t do anything special, we’re just very, very lucky. Relationships either work or they don’t. Some do break down because of transition, some because of other stuff. If you have friends in a relationship, and one is just starting out on their transition journey, please don’t assume the relationship will crash and burn. Of course, it might, but my point is that it’s horrible to assume, and unfair to say to anyone that’s embarking on their transition that what they are doing will lose them their partner. Just support them if that does happen, and please, avoid “I told you so’s”, because these things are NOT inevitable.

It’s been about 7 years since Willemina and I first met, nearly 18 months since we had our Civil Partnership ceremony (more of that, and the legal issues around it, at a later date. Not now – I’m feeling romantic). We are still together, and strongly so. I can’t guarantee we’ll be together, forever, until the end of our days. Who can? But we have pledged to be together until the point where we stop being happy with one another.

So Willemina Velvetina Pelicina, I love you with all my heart. You are my strength and the arms that hold me when I worry. You are warmth and giggles and craziness. Your smile makes my brain explode, and your farts are the stuff of legend. I’m yours.
***stop press***
New video up on YouTube – interview, romance, and me failing the latest manliness test in spectacular fashion! Just click on MrHerbertTurtle up on the right hand side of this post.

It’s been 5 months since I had chest contouring surgery. Over the course of a few hours on September 12th 2011, my D-cup was transformed into a chest suitable for a man. I’m not flat as a pancake – as my surgeon pointed out with a wry smile, what man my age and weight has a flat chest? Instead, I have a chest that feels and looks right for me.

I have been left with long welts of scars, stretching from my armpits to nearly the centre of my torso on both sides. They’re not pretty, but I don’t care, and I know they’ll fade. What’s far more important than a couple of scars is that the stress, discomfort and horror I used to feel looking at my own body is also beginning to fade. It’s not an overnight process – you can’t just miraculously disappear issues years old – but it’s happening.

I can run now. Not fast, or with any diginity, but without automatically folding my arms across my chest to a) stop people seeing my flying boobs b) avoid doing myself a damage and causing pain. I still occasionally catch myself clutching my chest, to run up the stairs, then realise half way up that it’s no longer necessary. The feeling I get at those moments is enough to make me want to cry. Happily, in relief, and huge gratitude to myself that I’ve made the decisions I have.

Before my surgery, I knew how desperately I wanted to rid myself of my breasts, and anticipated I’d feel better for doing so. I could have had no idea what a dramatic longer-term effect my surgery would have on my self-esteem and body-image. It’s mind-blowing. My posture still isn’t all it should be (I’m a huncher) but it’s improving, and damn…I look and feel good! (Ironically, as I type this, the radio is playing ‘Sexy and I Know It’…well, I’m working on that)

With my surgery 5 months behind me, and nearly a year into testosterone therapy, I am starting to feel comfortable in my own skin for the first time in my life. The feeling is beyond compare.

So I worked hard to try and present myself in a way that would ‘point people in the right direction’, and, let’s be honest, got a bit upset when people persisted in misgendering me. I guess part of the problem is that I knew myself that I was not a woman, and had very quickly disassociated myself from my old female name and presentation. Very early on in the process I moved headspace away from female. That’s not to say I have crossed some metaphorical canyon – I don’t believe gender works like that – but with self-acceptance, validation from the medical profession and a concrete decision to transition came a shift in something that I can’t even think of a name for. My ‘me-ness’, perhaps?

One of the upshots of this is that whilst the sensible person that I am realises that when strangers misgender me, it’s because they DON’T KNOW and CAN’T TELL, there’s another, big part of me that is genuinely surprised that they can’t tell! That sounds crazy, I know, but I now identify so strongly as not-female that it honestly seems illogical for people to call me ‘she’ or ‘the lady’. However, that’s my problem, not other people’s.

Armed with this knowledge, I have moved on from a point where I wanted to tell everyone how mistaken they were, in some bizarre antithesis of David Walliams’ ghastly “I’m a LADY” sketch. After all, there’s not a lot to be gained from embarrassing a stranger, and really, if I’m not going to see someone again, I’m unlikely, these days, to bristle too much when Will and I are referred to as “you girls”. Though actually, after nearly a year on T, I’m tempted to suggest someone referring to me as a girl needs to go to Specsavers.

Perhaps I am more mellow about other people these days because I do ‘pass’ a lot better, and fewer people use feminine pronouns or words to refer to me. It does still happen, though, and probably always will. I’m unlikely to ever look like The Rock, so a certain amount of ‘sucking it up’ will probably always be needed.

However, and this is an important however, I am talking about strangers here, not colleagues, family or friends. I think it’s reasonable to expect that the people who know, love, live or work with trans people do need to make the effort to think about the language they are using, and what it says about their attitude to the trans person in their life. Sure, mistakes happen, but as I’ve said in an earlier post, a quick ‘sorry’, correcting the mistake and moving on works wonders. Just remember how powerful a small mistake can be for the recipient.

Back to my strangers. People on the street will use gendered language without thought (and hopefully without malice), but I do have a particular bugbear with people in shops/service industries/professional customer facing environments using ‘lady’ and ‘gentleman’ to refer to people. In an ideal world, I would like it if people in shops and so on learnt not to refer to others with a gendered word. For instance, I went into a shop a while back, and had to see the manager and I was asked to wait whilst they were called. The person serving me, when the manager arrived, pointed me out and said “This lady needs your help”. Of course I sucked it up, but really, how difficult would it be to substitute the word ‘customer’ – just as polite. And I don’t just mean using more neutral language around people whose gender you are not sure of, but for everyone.

The way we refer to people doesn’t have to be gendered – have a look through some of my blogposts: whilst I don’t always manage it, it’s very rare that I refer to someone specifically by their gender. That’s not the way I think about people…but that’s a whole other blogpost!

Let’s give you a bit of history. I was diagnosed 12 years ago, long before it was trendy, after years of crippling depression and occasional bouts of frankly weird behaviour. Finally, the doctors realised that anti-depressants were making very little difference (and now, with the benefit of hindsight, it has been acknowledged that they made my behaviour a lot more erratic) and I was handed a new label: “Type 2 affective bipolar disorder”. Actually, I was pleased to get a label, though I’m not keen on the practice of shoeboxing people. I figured that maybe I wasn’t crazy after all, and things could get better.

I took a medication called Sodium Valproate for a very long time – it’s not altogether bad stuff, though the list of side-effects is scary. I mean, weight gain, loss of libido AND lack of energy? Come on, Doctor! Sadly, as well as all of this, the pills weren’t really stopping me from either getting depressed, or having very unpleasant weird times. Quite a few years ago now I found myself going into hospital (voluntarily, I might add!) as my desires to remove myself from the world I found I couldn’t deal with became less of a pipe-dream, and more of a game-plan.

Being in hospital for a few weeks enabled me to start again, from the bottom up, with the aid of a new medication: Lithium. I still take the stuff every day, and whilst it also has had side-effects, it has helped me manage things very well. Unfortunately, the Lithium has caused me to have hypothyroidism, which isn’t great, but honestly, the chance to live a life where I feel in control and mostly happy is worth a few thyroxine tablets.

So how does this connect with my transition? In many ways, not at all. However, one of the biggest fears I had when approaching my doctor about being trans was that I would be turned down flat due to my medical history. After all, people with bipolar often come up with some pretty flighty and impressive schemes, and at that time, are convinced that the way they feel is right and valid. So imagine a registered female bipolar patient walking through the door and saying (in many more words, of course) “I’m a man”! I was terrified I wouldn’t be taken seriously. Thankfully, I needn’t have worried.

More than one doctor specialising in transition has reassured me that bipolar disorder and gender dysphoria are not mutually exclusive conditions, but I believe that there will always be, in the background, the thought that my bipolar has led me to somehow believe I’m transgender. And that I’m really really good at convincing doctors…

Except…except that I am so much happier, mellow and balanced these days. That I am starting to like my own body and self for the first time ever. That I haven’t had an episode of mania for around 3 years. That I haven’t had an episode of serious depression for over a year (and that was very much related to my job at the time). That I no longer classify myself as “ill” or “surviving”.

Now don’t get me wrong – I don’t think that the decision to transition, and the process of doing so, have somehow miraculously sorted out my bipolar. I’m not daft, and I’m still taking the tablets. Many trans people live with bipolar, and I would never suggest they stop their medication. Don’t.

Two of my doctors have suggested that it may be possible to consider reducing my Lithium dose, in a couple of years, as they both believe that many of the issues I have experienced in the past that have been attributed to bipolar, may actually have been connected to my gender dysphoria. It makes sense if you think about it, but is also confusing, and unsettling, as when I was told back in January 2000 “You have bipolar”, I clung onto it, and have remained clinging ever since, only ever seeking solutions within the boundaries drawn by that diagnosis.

Now I am having to find ways to continue managing the bipolar symptoms on the rare occasions they come up, whilst also appreciating that those symptoms may simply be me. At the same time acknowledging that things may still change as I pass through my second puberty and into a new adulthood. Phew.

I was once told I have a lot of baggage – which is true – and a lot of that is to do with the mental health issues I have had over the years. There are many people who still choose to judge me based on those past issues. But then, as I’ve said before, our experiences make us who we are. Mine have made me pretty unshockable, able to empathise with the problems of others, and with the firm understanding that we all tread different paths through this life, some wigglier than others. That’s my mental wealth.

There’s a million and one issues involved in living with another person – be they your partner, child, parent, sibling, house-mate, etc., let alone when that person identifies very differently to you. Personally, I find other people quite ‘tricky’, and frankly, it’s a miracle that my partner has put up with me as long as she has. But she has, which is all that counts.

There’s an assumption, when someone comes out as being trans, that suddenly there will be a lot of drama, upheaval and heartache. I’m going to be looking at the impact of this on personal relationships sometime around Valentines Day, so won’t go into that side of things too heavily now. However, it needn’t all be about drama. Here are a few things to help you look after the trans person in your life:

1) Don’t assume ANYthing. Sure, read about trans people, watch the documentaries, check out Chaz Bono’s book/TV programme/etc. if that does it for you, but please don’t assume that YOUR trans loved one will necessarily conform to all, or any, of the things you read/see/expect. We are all individuals, and just as (say) every person with blonde hair is different, so is every trans person. Despite the jokes made about both groups of people.

2) Don’t call us ‘brave’. I’ve talked about this before, but really, I’m just me and I can’t say I’m particularly brave. Going to the dentist last week practically made me wee myself, and I’ve never rescued a small child from a burning building, so no, no bravery here. Feel free to focus on your loved one’s specific acts of bravery (eg: coming out to a family member who has traditionally had an issue with LGBT people, for instance) but please don’t call us brave just for being who we are. And on a related note…

3) Don’t call us ‘inspiring’. I’d love to think I’m inspiring, perhaps through my writing, or my YouTube videos, or because someone I know has found me helpful at some point. But please don’t call me ‘inspiring’ just because I’m trans. Focus on someone’s actions, specifically what they have done or said that you admire, not just the fact of their existence. Trans people just exist.

4) Appreciate that if we are taking testosterone we are going through a lot of changes, but that we are still basically the same old people. Don’t let people get away with sh*t because they’re transitioning, but at the same time, be prepared to accept that life can be a bit roller-coastery for us at times. And remember that, like anyone, sometimes we need a big hug, and sometimes we need space. Talk to us if you want to know which.

5) As much as you want to be involved in helping us match up our outsides with our insides, be very wary of giving us advice on “how to be more like” the gender with which we identify. Just because I ask you whether my new shirt makes me look manly or not doesn’t mean I’m giving you free rein to say “well, whilst I’m at it, you look really girly when you stand like that”. Sometimes I do ask my partner for pointers, but this is negotiated, and you won’t make your trans loved one happy by pointing out to them on a regular basis how UNlike the gender with which they identify they currently look/act.

Most of all, though, please do what Elisha Lim and Rae Spoon sing in this video. And yes, the first few seconds are minus sound…don’t adjust your sets.

It’s quite easy for people to assume that as a transman, I must have been a really boyish child, refusing to wear skirts, skinning my knees all the time and playing with my cars and toy construction set. Not true. I had a few dolls, and an amazing dolls house my Dad made. It had little electric lights, carpets, and soft-furnishings made by my Mum. Very cool. I was musically minded and fond of reading, so you’d be more likely to find me practising my flute (I started young) or sitting with a book than setting up a teddy bear’s picnic or trashing a Hot Wheels car. Then, as now, I suppose, I was a little bit of everything.

It has always disturbed me that catalogues such as Argos actually had a “Girls’ Toys” and a “Boys’ Toys” section, but to be honest, it was only reflecting a similar segregation in stores such as Toys ‘R’ Us, and just about any conventional toy shop you’re ever likely to walk into. These days, Argos no longer labels its toys by gender, but by type. A small improvement, but you’ve only got to flick through the catalogue for it to be blatantly obvious which products are aimed at which kids.

Now fair enough, I know that playing with pink stuff occasionally did not turn me into a raging feminine Stepford Wife-type. Equally, insisting that my daughter had a wide variety of not-particularly-gender-specific toys when she was growing up did not stop her enjoying so-called ‘feminine’ things as she grew older. Hopefully, as parents, we can bring up our children to realise that whilst pink is a lovely colour, toys can be fun whatever the colour, style and what section of the shop/catalogue they have come from. In an ideal world. But children learn fast, and a scarily high percentage of what they learn is not from us parents…it’s from Out There. The majority of kids want to fit in. I’m sure a sociologist could explain better than me why this is, but I’m guessing it goes back to cave-dwelling days and the need to be part of the group for survival. Hence if a boy gets it drummed into his psyche by media, marketing and his peers that pink is for girls, that’s going to stick, however much he might wish to go against the flow.

Surely if companies insist on making toys that are explicitly aimed at girls pink, encouraging girls to play with them in a stereotypically ‘feminine’ way, then however we try to educate our children, they will think that girls and boys *are* those stereotypes. Children who believe that are, I believe, far more likely to find it difficult to accept people who differ from the gender binary, and will undoubtedly struggle if they find that they themselves do not feel comfortable trying to fit into the gendered roles that media and marketing are trying to slot them into.

So, back to Lego, my favourite childhood toy. One of the things that has made it so lasting, I believe, is its total flexibility. With my toffee-tin full of bricks, I could make absolutely anything I wanted, even adding, say, a working windmill with my little Lego engine, or a Lego car. Did I make stereotypically ‘girl’ or ‘boy’ things with my Lego? Who knows – my memory isn’t that long. But at least I had the choice to make ANYthing I wanted.

Lego have just brought out a new range: “Friends”. It’s aimed at girls. How can I tell? Well, apart from the general pastelly purply pinkness of the colour schemes and the Bratz-like, slightly sexual female Lego characters (yes, I did say sexual…did YOUR Lego characters have make-up on and short skirts when you were young? Oh, and ‘lipsticks’ that look suspiciously like…well, you check out the picture) the blurb that describes the toys online could never be accused of gender neutrality. You know, if I try to deconstruct this any more, I may cry, so here’s a taste for you to look at yourself:

It’s a busy day of beauty fun down at the Butterfly Beauty Shop! Emma loves this posh little salon at the center of Heartlake City! Shop for lipstick, makeup and hair accessories! Emma and all of her friends will look fabulous with bows, sunglasses, a hairbrush, mirror, lipsticks and new hair styles. Get the girls ready for any event with the salon where you can rearrange the interior! Includes Emma and Sarah mini-doll figures.

• Includes 2 mini-doll figures: Emma and Sarah
• Features fountain, bench and salon furniture
• Accessories include a money brick, hair elements, lipsticks, a purse, bows, sunglasses, a hair dryer, hairbrush and a mirror
• Give all of the LEGO® Friends makeovers
• Gossip out on the bench by the scenic fountain!
• Shop for makeup and hair accessories!
• Pay with the money brick!
• LEGO Friends pieces are fully compatible with all LEGO bricks
• Collect all of the LEGO Friends sets for a whole world of LEGO Friends fun!
• LEGO mini-dolls are LEGO minifigures made especially for the world of LEGO Friends with thousands of customizable hair and fashion combinations
• Measures over 4” (12cm) tall, 6” (16cm) wide and 6” (16cm) long

I do not believe that questioning gendering of our children’s toys will turn those children into super-accepting adults, willing to embrace the sexuality and genders of themselves and others with joy, peace and understanding. I do, however, believe very strongly that whilst we continue to accept the ruthless gendering that is being forced on our children, we are potentially making it very difficult indeed for children and young people growing up and questioning their gender identities to accept themselves, and seek and receive acceptance from others.

The trouble is, I’ve always found New Year a very difficult time. More often than not I spend those few minutes around midnight crying, rather than roaring “HAPPY NEW YEAR!!” in people’s faces, and allowing bleary beer-soaked revellers to kiss me. And not because I’m drunk.

So why so glum of a New Year? I’m not all that good at major celebrations, full stop. I know how much birthday and Christmas celebrations mean to people, and I am heartily jealous of those who can fling themselves into the seasonal mêlée with abandon. There’s rarely much to be gained from publicly airing your discomfort, so I’ve made a habit over the years of getting as involved as I can, and staying quiet about the stupid stuff rolling around inside my head.

At New Year we tend to look back over the year, remember the good times, mourn for the bad times, and move on. I like the idea of a celebration of moving forward, onwards and upwards, but I do find it very difficult to get my brain to behave, and think positively. In my pessimistic mind-set, New Year marks the point where all those past events, emotions and experiences are sealed forever in the past, with no hope of redemption, and I cry for the dashed hopes of the year gone by, remembering how eagerly we all wanted better times a year ago.

Actually, though, 2011 has turned out to be a pretty marvellous year for me, so perhaps I need to ditch my usual ‘glass half empty’ attitude and embrace the New Year celebrations for what they are – a time to celebrate survival, growth, and the ability of human beings to bounce back from even the hardest situations.

In terms of my transition, 2012 is a year full of hope – In March I will have been on testosterone for a year, and it is during this coming year that my appearance will become more and more masculine – leading, I hope, to less social discomfort. I don’t hope or wish for anything more than that for my transition this year.

I do have some specific New Year’s resolutions, but rather than list them, I would prefer to offer you a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson, which sums up the thinking behind the resolutions I have made this year:

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us”.

As for tonight’s celebrations, I will be spending the evening with my partner and her best friend – two of the best people I can think of with whom to bid 2011 a farewell. There’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer, and a bottle of something sticky, purple and alcoholic in the fridge. Forward, onwards and upwards, and hopefully this year I won’t cry.

Wishing everybody the most brilliant of all years to come.

“A merry Christmas, Mark!” Will said.

“Bah!” said Scrooge, “Humbug!”

“Christmas a humbug!” said the eager-faced Will. “You don’t mean that, I am sure?”

“I do,” said Scrooge. “What’s Christmas time to you? You have to pay bills without money! You’re a year older but not an hour richer!”

When Will left, two gentlemen came in to collect money for the poor who had no place they could go. Stingy Scrooge, however, didn’t give the gentlemen any money, because they wouldn’t accept Paypal. When it was time to close the office, Scrooge talked to his clerk, Bob Scratchit.

“You want all day off tomorrow, don’t you?” said Scrooge.

“If that is okay, Sir,” answered the clerk.

“It’s not okay,” said Scrooge, “and it is not fair. After all, my YouTube stats will still need compiling. But if it must be, I want you to start work even earlier the following morning.”

Scratchit promised that he would; and the two went home.

Scrooge lived in an old house. The yard was very dark and scary that night and rather spooky, but Scrooge was not frightened easily. “Humbug,” he said, opened the door and walked in. He locked himself in, however, which he usually didn’t do. But then he felt safe again and sat down in front of his computer, powering it up whilst pondering on what to Tweet about his day.

Suddenly, Scrooge heard a noise, deep down below, as if somebody was dragging a heavy chain. The noise came nearer and nearer, and then Scrooge saw a frumpily dressed, but strangely familiar ghost coming right through the heavy door.

“Who are you?” said Scrooge.

“I am the ghost of your younger self, Markina Scroogetta.”

“But why do you come to me now?”

“I must wander through the world and I wear the chains because I was so unhappy in life. Three spirits will come to you. Expect the first tomorrow, when the bell tolls one.”

When she had said these words, Scroogetta’s ghost disappeared; and the night became quiet again. Scrooge went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep immediately.

When Scrooge awoke, it was still very foggy and extremely cold, and there was no noise of people in the streets. Scroogetta’s ghost bothered him. He didn’t know whether it was a dream or not. Then he remembered that a spirit should visit him at one o’clock. So Scrooge decided to lie awake and wait to see what happens.

Suddenly, the clock struck one. Light flashed up in the room and a small hand drew back the curtains of his bed. Then Scrooge found himself face to face with the visitor. It was a strange figure – like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man. Its hair, which hung about its neck and down its back, was white as if with age; and yet the face had not a wrinkle in it.

“Who, and what are you?” Scrooge asked the ghost.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past. Rise and come with me.”

The ghost took Scrooge back in time, to a place where his younger self, Scroogetta, was a child. There Scrooge could see a sweet-natured girl reading books, playing with friends and listening to music on a record player. Scrooge shook his head – those really were the Stone Ages before Kindle, Skype and Spotify. How had he made it through childhood – no wonder he was so messed up these days.

The spirit also took Scrooge to a University, where Scroogetta was a student. Scrooge saw the merry times they spent in the student bar. There was drink and music and dancing and Scrooge could see Scroogetta spending the night before essays were due in drinking copious amounts of Thunderbird and typing up her work on a twin-floppy machine. The thought of those days before available Internet made him shudder. “THIS is why I’m so mean”, he thought to himself before the Ghost of Christmas Past led him onwards.

Then the spirit took Scrooge to yet another place. Scroogetta was older now. She was not alone, but sat by the side of a wholesome young husband.

“It is sad to see,” he said, softly. “that another love has displaced me – the love of The Sims. I think it is better for us to part.”

“Spirit,” said Scrooge in a broken voice, “Take me back! I cannot bear it any longer. Stop rubbing all these memories of my broken past in my face!”

He struggled with the ghost to take him back. And finally Scrooge found himself in his own bed again. He was very exhausted and sank into a heavy sleep.

Scrooge woke up in the middle of a snore, just before the clock struck one again. He sat up in his bed and waited for the second ghost to come. And there it was – the Ghost of Christmas Present. It had curly brown hair, sparkling eyes and it wore a simple green robe with white fur, endorsed with the logo ‘iGhosts’. Its feet were bare and on its head it wore a holly wreath with a single green apple on the crown, one bite missing.

The ghost took Scrooge to Bob Scratchit’s house. In the kitchen you could see Mrs Scratchit preparing Christmas dinner. Her children were cheerfully sitting playing Gears of War on the Xbox. Then the door opened and Bob Scratchit came in with Tiny Tim upon his shoulders. Tiny Tim was Bob Scratchit’s youngest son. He bore a little crutch and had an iron frame around his limbs. He stared intently at the screen of his mobile phone.

“Come away from Facebook for a while, Tiny Tim”, said Scratchit, “You’re starting to remind me of Mr Scrooge”.

“In a minute, Dad, I’m just poking some hot girl in America.”

“Ok, Tim, but no Angry Birds while you’re at the table. And kids?” he called to the other children, “You’d better not be playing that on my profile!”

Then Christmas dinner was ready, and everyone sat down at the table. As the Scratchits were very poor, it was not much they had for Christmas dinner. But still everyone was joyful and you could feel that they all had the Christmas Spirit in their hearts.

Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present visited many homes in many places: they saw sick people who were cheerful; couples whose love spanned the miles, poor people who felt rich that day – all because of the Christmas Spirit.

“Maybe,” thought Scrooge, “Just maybe, Christmas Spirit is more important than all the technology that I thought I couldn’t live without?”

The bell struck twelve. The Ghost of Christmas Present disappeared. And at the last stroke of the bell, Scrooge saw the third ghost coming towards him.

Slowly and silently the ghost came nearer. It was very tall and wore a deep black piece of clothing, which covered its whole body and left nothing of it visible but one outstretched hand.

“Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?” asked Scrooge, “I fear you more than any other spirit.”

The ghost did not say a word, and Scrooge was really scared. They wandered through the city and Scrooge heard some men talking about a massive Facebook server meltdown. Scrooge felt a pain in his guts and wanted to find out what they were talking about. But the ghost moved on, and Scrooge thought once more of the Christmas Spirit.

After that, the ghost led Scrooge through streets that were familiar to him; and as they went along, Scrooge looked here and there to find himself, but nowhere was he to be seen. They entered poor Bob Scratchit’s house and found the mother and the children by the fire. Quiet. Very quiet. The noisy little Scratchits were as still as statues. When Bob Scratchit came in, the children hurried to greet him. Then the two young Scratchits got upon his knees and laid their little cheeks against his face and said, “It’s the Red Ring Of Death, father. What shall we do?”

The ghost moved on and took Scrooge to the window of his office. The spirit stood and solemnly pointed to a dark hunched figure sat at the desk. Scrooge slowly went towards the window, and following the ghost’s finger saw himself, weeping incoherently, clawing at a computer screen that read only “Application returned no data. This may be expected or represent a connectivity error.”

“Spirit!” Scrooge cried, “hear me. I am not the man I was! I will not be the man I must have been so far! Why show me this if I am past all hope? Good Spirit, I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year, rather than spend all my time online! I will live in the past, the present, and the future. The spirits of all three shall be within me. I will not ignore the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me that I may change my fate!”

Full of fear, Scrooge caught the spirit’s hand. But the spirit suddenly changed – it shrunk and faded and finally turned into a bedpost.

Yes! And the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the time before him was his own, and he could make the best of it. Scrooge immediately hurried over to his PC to write a blogpost about his experiences, or at least post a Facebook update, then stopped himself.

“I will live in the past, the present, and the future.” Scrooge repeated, walking away from the computer without turning it on. “I don’t know what to do! I am as happy as an angel! I don’t know what day of the month it is. I don’t know how long I’ve been among the spirits. Hallo! Hallo there!”

He ran to the window, opened it, and put out his head.

“What’s today?” cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes.

“Today?” replied the boy. “Why, Christmas Day! Are you mental?”

“It’s Christmas Day!” said Scrooge to himself. “I haven’t missed it! The spirits have done it all in one night. Hallo, my fine fellow! Do you know the Wholefoods at the corner? And do you know whether they’ve sold the big tofu log that was hanging up there?”

“What, the one as big as me?” returned the boy. “It’s still hanging there now.”

“Is it!” said Scrooge. “Go and buy it! I am in earnest. Go and buy it and come back with the man that I may give them the direction where to take it. I’ll give you £50 for it. Come back with the man in less than five minutes and I’ll give you a copy of the X factor winners album!”

The boy was off like a shot, returning briefly only once as the tofu log was £85.

“I’ll send it to Bob Scratchit,” whispered Scrooge cheerfully. “It’s twice the size of Tiny Tim.”

Scrooge then went to church, which had been turned into a beautiful art gallery, and looked at the pictures for a while, then walked through the streets, and watched the people. He had never dreamed that anything could give him so much happiness.

But Scrooge was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early there. If he could only catch Bob Scratchit coming late. And he did it; yes, he did. Bob was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time. Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come in.

“Hallo!” growled Scrooge, in his usual way. “What do you mean by coming here at this time of day? I am not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore,” he continued, jumping from his stool, “and therefore I am about to raise your salary. A merry Christmas, Bob.”

“Well actually, Mr Scrooge, I just came in today to hand in my notice. PC World is looking for staff, pays much better than you, and frankly I’ve always hated this job. Sorry, mate.”

Scrooge was shocked. “But what about that wonderful tofu log I sent you?”

“Mrs Scratchit sold that on eBay last night. We bought an Iceland Prawn Ring, and the rest of the money’s going towards the new Xbox. Cheers, anyway. See you.” And at that Bob Scratchit left Scrooge’s life for good.

But despite all of these setbacks, good reader, did Mark Scrooge become a better person? Did he learn that Christmas Spirit was far more important than social networking? You will have to decide for yourselves, by reading his future blogposts, viewing his YouTube videos, or catching him on Facebook.

Merry Christmas, one and all, wherever you and your loved ones are.

That does sound a bit over-dramatic, doesn’t it? Clothes are just clothes. Baubles are just baubles. But when the image you are projecting is so drastically different from that scared inner self, clothes are as much prison as armour.

I started binding during the summer of 2010, flattening my chest, and very much improving the way I felt about the way I looked. At around that time, I stopped trying to pretend that I was this feminine being, most notably at work. It was due to be my last term of teaching, and I was desperately unhappy, and just couldn’t keep up the pretence of court shoes and eye-shadow. Of course the students at my school noticed. I increasingly became the butt of lesbian jokes, despite the fact I’d recently got married and changed my name to Mrs. Ok, ok, you and I know I married a woman, but that wasn’t common knowledge amongst my pupils. Though they sure as hell suspected it. So I dressed reasonably smartly and androgynously, and put up with comments like “She’s just bitter cos I’ve got what she’ll never have” (male student pointing to his dick).

Finally, leaving the classroom, I could present myself as male full-time, which led to a whole new problem – I dressed like my grandad.  Of course, jeans and a t-shirt are fine for down-time, but being smart for work was tricky for me. Men’s trousers sit strangely on feminine hips, tending to ride upwards, so I’d end up with a very high waist. Hence my newfound celebration of sleeveless jumpers, covering the waistline, and also helping to disguise the bound chest. All very well – clothing as armour, yet again, but not very sexy.

Testosterone is slowly changing my body – my shoulders are broadening, my hips are getting smaller, as is my bum (well, so I’m told: it’s a bit hard to see round there). My tummy is a little bigger (think man smuggling mini-wok), but I’m keeping my weight down, so hopefully I won’t end up looking like Andy Capp over time. As a result of all this, trousers are fitting far better, and the reliance on sleeveless jumpers has practically disappeared.

Chest surgery has, of course, made a huge difference to the way I feel about myself, and changed how clothes fit and feel. As much of a stereotype as this may be, my outside and my inside are starting to match up, and this has made shopping for clothes far less of a trial. In terms of trying things on, I now look in the mirror and think “wow – you look pretty good”, rather than “oh god, it’ll do”, which is far healthier for the soul.

My final problem remains – the clothes may be fitting properly these days, but I still have no style! Beyond jeans and a funky t-shirt for casual, and shirt and tie for work, I am clueless about what to buy. So many years experiencing buying and wearing clothes as a chore have led me to become a nudist have given me a deep-seated distrust in my ability to get it right.

Ages ago I asked a couple of lovely friends to take me shopping, but never had enough money to do it. Thanks to my birthday, I think the time has come to hit the shops in earnest…