Yes, another song reference – it’s a habit, both when talking and writing. Have a look back through my posts, and you’ll spot them. Top marks if you got the ‘pretty piece of flesh’ reference in FTM Q&A. My partner didn’t get that one – apparently she just thought I was being weird again. Again?? I’m hurt.

So, back to the breasts. I have had a week chock full of visits to doctors. I went to see the doc in London last Friday, who has declared my progress ‘hunkydory’ – good to know. Also went to see the doc here in Norwich – more of that later. Both have agreed to refer me to a surgeon for ‘top surgery’. I’m over the moon excited about this, but at the same time in shock. When you start a long process like this, you really just have to prepare for everything to take ages. As I am transitioning courtesy of the NHS (National Health Service), I am bound by their timetable, and their funding availability. So I’ve had it in my head that I’d be looking at chest surgery sometime in 2012. Now it looks like I may be able to get it done this year.

I have hinted previously at my hatred for the Evil Twins, aka my breasts. Don’t get me wrong, I am a great lover of breasts, in all their warm wobbly glory, just not attached to me. They cause me huge feelings of dysphoria, and I wear layers of painful restrictive nylon and lycra to keep them out of sight. Chest surgery will be freeing – I can throw on a t-shirt in the morning without worrying about my shape; I can go to work without being turned cross-eyed by midday by my binder; I can go swimming again; I can take my top off without fear of arrest.

Those of you who know me from way back when will know that I have already had chest surgery once. I used to be a 32FF, and those enormous puppies were the scourge of my existence. I felt like a dairy cow, could never get clothes to fit that weren’t tents, and had to get used to people either talking directly to my tits, or just bringing them up in conversation like that’s ok. I had a reduction, largely to reduce back and neck pain, but mainly to give me a little sanity. Now I am a D cup, but dream of having no breasts at all, just a clean, manly chest. Of all the things that transitioning involves, this one is the most important to me. For my self-esteem, body-image, and ability to face the world with my head high. They give me no pleasure (literally, as since my reduction the whole area is numb) and I cannot wait for the day I wake up without them.

I need to wait to have my funding confirmed before I book a consultation with the surgeon, but from then, we’re talking a handful of months, which is nothing to wait after years of toting around the Evil Twins.

On a tangent, I learned a valuable lesson earlier in the week when I visited my Norwich doc. Never, EVER admit where you work. For the record, I work in the Customer Relations department of a railway company. When people write or email in to complain, it’s me that answers. I like to think of myself as a writer – after all, I spend time delicately honing my words, playing with nuances of meaning and crafting a (hopefully) perfect response. More often than not it boils down to “no, you can’t have a refund because the train toilet was smelly”.

My doc asked how work was, and I told him about my change in jobs and how well it was going. I only had to mention the words ‘railway company’ and he was off. Of a 30 minute appointment, 15 were spent with him giving me his opinion on the company I work for. I just wanted to know about my chest surgery…



Cartoon courtesy of the very talented Jiro. Check out Jiro’s work at The Bosoms (link on the right)