The Great Tranny Drought of '06

From our trans-environmental reporter.

At first I thought it was just me, but trannies up and down the country have been reporting the same thing: we're in the middle of the greatest Tranny Drought of recent memory. Trannies just aren't dressing, and even when they do they're finding the experience unrewarding and vaguely unsettling.

The signs are there for everyone to see. Tranny clubs that were overflowing this time last year, today appear more like deserts. And tranny blog feeds have, in some cases, reduced to a trickle.

Tranny levels in some parts of the country have got so low that the authorities have been forced to take drastic steps. I spoke to Jocasta Kittenstrangler, chairtranny of Thames Valley Associated Transpersons (TVAT) about their plans to overcome the drought.

"At first glance our measures might seem counter-intuitive," she told me. "We actually aim to reduce the levels of femininity in an area."

"And why's that?" I asked, putting my hand to my chin in a sincerely inquisitive manner.

"The idea is to 'dam' the remaining tranny levels in that area and force them to the surface. We find that when trannies are forced into not dressing, tranny levels eventually rise to well above their usual levels. The first step is a hose ban."

"A hose ban?" I asked with a raised eyebrow, during the filming of my cutaway shots about half an hour after she'd left.

"Yes," she said. "We ban the sale of all types of hose. Stockings, tights, hold-ups, etc. It's suprising how much trannies miss this luxury. Particularly the gardener trannies, who like to wear fishnets under their corduroys while they're pottering around the allotment on a Saturday."

"I see, and what if that's not enough?" I countered probingly.

"In extreme cases we might introduce communal pipe-stands," she answered. "But that really would be a last resort. We've not done that since 1976."

1976. So long ago that most trannies would have been too young to really appreciate it at the time. So I spoke to Martine Tulip, a "golden girl" tranny who remembers the Summer of '76 all too well. We met up in the pub she now owns in the East End of London.

"Oh yes, I remember the pipe-stands," she said, laughing into her pint. "They put one down our street. We didn't 'arf laugh."

"What was it, exactly?"

"A stand for pipes. You know. Like what you smoke. The man from the council comes and puts it up and loads it with pipes and tobacco and says 'This ere's for you trannies what ain't dressing'."

"And did it help?"

"Not arf, I took one puff and caught a glace of meself in a mirror. I looked such a geezer I immediately ran and put on the wife's wedding dress. The 'ole street were out in the street partying in frocks. It was just like the Blitz! The repartee was luvverly."

So, perhaps hose bans and pipe-stands are a possible solution to counter this current drought, but the question still remains: what's causing the problem in the first place? Back to Jocasta.

"It's to do with global warming," she said.

"I'm not an expert in tranny climatology," I replied humbly. "But surely that would increase Tranny levels?"

"Not necessarily, it's all to do with the Gurl stream, a cultural current that flows from America. The UK is right in the middle of it, and it keeps tranny levels in the UK artificially high. There are signs that some parts of the Gurl stream have already shut down."

"That's just bollocks, isn't it?"

"Er... yes. I just wanted to use the Gurl/Gulf pun."

So there you have it. Tranny levels at nearly an all time low, so much so that next month Manchester (traditionally a net exporter) is being forced to pipe in trannies from elsewhere. And no-one really knows why.

Although I think maybe it's just something in the water.

This is the road to Hull

Well, we're actually in a village near Beverley, having eschewed the delights of Hull. The Humber Bridge made the trip a lot shorter (or less wet, depending how you look at it).

Gotta go... Dr. Who just starting and Maureen Lipman's a baddie! :-O

Through the looking-glass

There's more to mirrors than meets the eye.

When we talk about the great inventions of civilizations, the wheel and the printing press tend to get pretty high billing. The idea to silver glass so that it gives a perfect reflection seems to get forgotten. But in my mind it's just as important.

There's something inherently magical about mirrors, I'm fascinated by them, and not just for vanity reasons. When I was a small child, probably like many other kids, I used to wonder if maybe the boy in the mirror was just as real as I was. Maybe I was just a reflection of him.

My gran had a wardrobe with two glass doors that hinged in the middle. I used to enjoy angling them close together and peering into the gap. A thousand eyes peered back, fading into bottle-green oblivion.

Also, I remember shining a torch through a mirror, and watching the beam hit the ceiling beyond the mirror as if it were just a pane of glass between two rooms. At the same time, the mirror-boy was shining his torch beam through on to my ceiling.

Of course it wasn't really like that. I fully understand how the beam was being reflected creating the optical illusion, but it felt that way.

Mirrors have always appeared in fairytales and folklore. Vampires are revealed by their lack of reflection. Snow White was betrayed to the Queen by her tell-tale mirror. And, or course, breaking a mirror is seven years back luck.

Arthur C. Clarke says that any sufficiently advanced techology is indisguishable from magic. A mirror, as a piece of techology, is simple enough that we all know, on a rational level, how it works. But on a evolutionary timescale mirrors haven't been around that long, and our monkey brains haven't evolved to treat mirrors as mundane elements of our environment. In short, we each have to learn that mirrors aren't magic.

The ability that mirrors have to "trick" our minds is being put to good use. Many amputees suffer what's called "phantom pain" in limbs that are no longer there. In some cases it seems that this is caused by the portion of the brain that "knows" where your limbs are positioned being at odds with what the eyes can see.

Researchers have found that by using a mirror-box that reflects the amputee's remaining limb into the place where the missing limb should be, it "fools" the brain into thinking the limb is still there, and the pain is reduced. It's even been found to work with other kinds of pain too.

Finally, the best kind of mirror magic is tranny-related. I still can't quite put into words the feeling I get when, after finishing getting made-up and dressed, I look in the mirror for the first time.

I look in, Becky looks out. The boy looks in, the girl looks out. Reality flip-flops rapidly between two states, then something clicks. Becky looks in and I look out. She's me and I'm her.

It really is magic.

The lateral force is strong in this one

I knew that my MacBook Pro had a motion sensor in it, but I had no idea just how well it had been engineered. It actually knows the angle it's being held at in space, in two axes!

How do I know this? Cos MacSaber tells me so. Which is why I've been waving my laptop around like a loon. And not because it makes fantastic lightsaber noises when I do it. :-S

Laptop fight anyone? :-)

Now a major motion picture

Langdon held the print in his hand and ran his eye along the frame.

"Look here, there's a word," he said, holding the frame closer to the light so Sophie could see.

Sophie squinted. "B. E. I. O." she said. "Beio? What does that mean?"

"Beio is a place in Cameroon... maybe the next clue is there. The B is written in lower case. Perhaps that's significant."

"Wait," Sophie said, grabbing the frame from Langdon. "They taught us this at Cryptography school."

Langdon watched open-mouthed as she turned the entire print upside down.

"Look at the word now," Sophie said, smiling.

"Oh, it's not a word at all!" Langdon laughed. "It's a number! 0. 1. 3. 9. 0139."

"One hundred and thirty nine," Sophie said. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"Hmmm... there was an Aztec sect that believed there were 139 deadly sins. They were big of sin, the Aztecs. And of course, Jesus lived at 0139c Tabgha Mews, Nazareth. The Grannenites of Hove believe that God created the universe in 139 days because he was using PRINCE2 methodology..."

"Hmmm, nothing that can help us now," Sophie said. She cast a critical eye over the print.

"Maybe the clue is in the picture itself."

Langdon looked over her shoulder.

"That's the picture? I thought it was just the backing paper."

Sophie scowled. "No!" she said. "It's modern art. I quite like it. It's synaesthetic."

"Bless you," Langdon said, absent-mindedly handing Sophie a tissue. "So you think the clue is in the stripes?"

"Maybe," Sophie said. "If only we had one of those laser things like they have in Tescos."

"Maybe we could ask the artist?" Langdon suggested.

"It's a bit late for that," Sophie said, biting her lip.

"You mean... Dead?"

Sophie pointed over to a figure lying face down in a pool of light further down the gallery. It was wearing a full-length ballgown and clutching a bottle of red wine in an outstretched hand. Langdon had assumed it was another "installation."

"She found out they had a free bar," Sophie said. "We'll get nowt out of her until tomorrow lunchtime."

Now you too can join the adventure!
Buy an original print of "0139" and help crack

THE CURRAN CODE

(And help make a bit of money for Sparkle too.)

Lawks it's Lordi!

I can see this running and running. Christmas number one? :-)

Douze points

Do you guys across the pond ever wonder what stops us little Euro-peen countries a a-fussin' and a-feudin' all the time these days?

It's a little thing called the Eurovision Song Contest. Once a year we all get together for a big sing-a-long and relentlessly take the piss out of each other. It's fabulously camp, wonderfully crass and highly enjoyable with a few glasses of vino collapso.

Current favorites at the half way stage with the EnVérite jury is the German entry. Country and Western stylee! Big pink frocks! :D

Pre-Eurovision Fun

Fathers for Justice just invaded the National Lottery stage!

I love it when stuff like that happens. The Voice of the Balls had to keep talking for ages while they cleared the whole thing up. :-)

See you on the other side of Eurovision!

Missing my spark

The observant amongst you may have noticed that I've not blogged much of late.

It's a little strange, I've wanted to write stuff, but when it's come to the crunch I've not been able to think of anything to write about. I could say that it's because nothing exciting has been happening in my life, which would be true, but I've not let that stop me before.

It's more to do with change of mood, and a change in the way my brain's been working.

Normally my mind seems to fill with ideas slowly, like gas filling a badly-ventilated apartment. These ideas float around for a bit, and then something will spark in my mind, and there'll be a huge explosion of creativity, normally in the form of a blog entry.

The ideas are coming, the room is full, the budgie is lying dead in its cage, but no spark. It's most upsetting.

I'm actually quite proud of my mind. I like the way it surprises me. I like the way bits of it seem to go away for days to work on something, and then come back sheepishly and say "we made this". It's like having my own internal R&D department.

I also like the way I can see patterns in things, and find the truth in things by the way they relate to other things. I like having a certain amount of wit to put these things into words.

All this sounds very conceited.

I remember once, a long time ago before I left home, I was having a conversation with my Dad, and he said something very clever and funny. I've completely forgotten what we were talking about, or what it was that my Dad said that was so amazingly witty, we just laughed and I went back to watching telly.

About ten minutes later I looked over to my Dad, who was staring into the middle distance with a big smile on his face.

"What are you thinking about?" I said.

"I was just thinking about how clever I am," he said wistfully, and laughed.

It was such an incredibly immodest thing to say that I laughed too. I laughed because I knew exactly what he meant, that great feeling you get when you know what you've just done or said is clever, and you replay it over in your mind just to savour it's greatness.

That story might not throw any light on why my spark has deserted me, but it might go some way to explain why I blog stuff in the first place.

It's pure vanity, dear Reader. Sometimes you get to see the fruits of my impressive wit, sometimes you have to put up with me staring into the middle distance and thinking just how jolly clever I am.

But I'd rather have my spark back.

Question...

Just how scary is this?

Especially (shudder) this. :-/

For some reason they remind me of Doctor Who baddies. I can see an army of them descending on the Doctor and Rose. Led by... er... Cassandra probably.

P.S. On the Who front I know what that one piece of the TARDIS that wasn't broken in the crash was for.

Think about it: they crash randomly through dimensions and end up in a London where the first thing they see is a poster for Rose's dad, who just happens to be intimately tied up with Cybus industries; and where Mickey's double just happens to be the leader of the rebels.

That glowy bit that was still working must have been the improbability drive, Douglas Adams probably left it there when he was helping write the show! Still, incredible coincidences are par for the course with Doctor Who, and I loved this episode anyway. :-)

Spoiler for next week: Mickey is turned into a cyberman, (but it's okay because Ricky becomes his "replacement" in the series). However, Mickey's conversion to metal monster goes a bit wrong and he ends up as a kind of bumbling wisecracking robot with strange powers who unaccountably says "boogie boogie!" a lot. The Doctor takes pity on him and drops him off to be cared for by a typical Eighties family, where he is renamed "Metal Mickey", in a bizarre retro-spinoff twist.

Some of the above spoiler may not be true.

I hate being ill

I took a day off to today to go up to Liverpool to see Jessica for the weekend. It was going to be great.

But instead I got laid low by some kind of bug on Wednesday and I'm still feeling the after-effects now. So, no weekend in Liverpool, and a waste of a day off spent in bed!

Ho hum, at least Jane's here to look after me!

Every Tranny's Free

(to wear foundation)

Ladies and trannies of class of '06... wear foundation.

If I could offer you one useful tranny tip, using a good foundation would be it.

The shadow-covering and complexion-enhancing benefits of a decent foundation have been proven, whereas the rest of my advice is based on the experiences of a tranny who hasn't really managed to get it right herself yet.

I will dispense this advice now.

If you want to go out dressed, do it now. It's never too late to come out of the closet, but the later you leave it, the more missed opportunities there will be to regret in hindsight. Trust me, in 20 years time you'll look back and be glad you had a chance to be the person you wanted to be.

You are not just a guy in a dress.

Don't worry about "passing" as a girl. Well, worry about it, but don't worry so much that it stops you ever getting out of the door. Know that being a tranny isn't about passing, it's about feeling good and knowing you look the best you can.

Do one thing each day that makes you feel girly.

Smile.

Don't waste time on people who mock you, and don't mock others for being different than you are.

Pluck.

Don't be jealous of other trannies that look better than you do. There'll always be girls who are thinner, or have more feminine features, or have better clothes. Equally, there'll always be some trannies who are less fortunate than you are. That's just the luck of the draw.

Take compliments at face value, give compliments honestly.

Remember the name of every tranny that you meet. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Exfoliate.

Don't feel guilty that you don't want to be the same kind of tranny as your peers. If you want to go around looking like an Vegas showgirl then do so. There isn't a right way to be a tranny. Once you choose to ignore the taboo that "boys don't wear girls clothes", every other rule becomes pretty much optional.

Buy good quality makeup.

Maybe you'll transition, maybe you won't, maybe you'll give it all up, maybe you won't, maybe you'll marry someone who hates you dressing, maybe you'll be the bride at your own wedding. Whatever happens, don't be too upset that other people are "better off" than you. Every tranny wants to have something that some other tranny is taking for granted. Trust me, that other tranny wants things they can't have too. The phrase "the grass is always greener" almost perfectly describes the tranny condition.

Talk things through with your partner. Even when it hurts. Even when you don't really know how you feel. Even when you think they finally understand and accept it all... they don't. Talk and keep talking.

Accept the fact that most of the stuff you buy you'll never wear.

Always dress to your age. Or younger than your age. Or older than your age.

Don't follow tips in beauty magazines, most of them are written for real girls and don't work for guys. For example... usually less is NOT more.

When it comes to telling other people, choose wisely. Never tell someone just because it's fun to surprise people. But equally, never avoid telling a friend because you're afraid how they'll react. They'll be cool with it, that's why they're a friend.

Accept that even your closest tranny friends are on different journeys from you. Work hard to stay friends even though they might be dressing more, or dressing less, or transitioning, or starting a family. Deep down, you'll share a bond that formed at that brief moment where you were both in the same head-space at the same time; and that never goes away.

Be a French maid, but don't equate femininity with servitude. Go blonde, but don't associate blonde with dumb.

Tuck, or at least try to hide it well.

Accept certain inevitabilities. People will stare, some will be even be rude. Just remember it's some people's fate in life to be assholes, and it's your fate in life to reveal who they are.

Don't shop at Transformation.

Don't take risks just for the thrill of it. Don't walk the streets at night on your own. Don't meet up with people without telling a friend where you are.

Be careful when taking advice from other trannies. They're all doing it for their own reasons, they all have their own agendas, and what worked for them might not work for you. Trannies like to flock together for moral support and guidance, but no one tranny in the world has all the answers. They just like to think that they do.

But trust me on the foundation.

Becky EnVérité

(with apologies to Mary Schmich)

Betsuki

I'm getting the same brain-ache I got when I discovered that Japanese ebonics book, all thanks to Jessica.

Today she noticed this blog entry (translated version) linking to her site.

As I'm not able to read Japanese, the original version is impossible to decipher. The Google-translated version is only slightly less opaque. It appears to be a blog about the "equipment" that trannies use to achieve their look.

In the latest entry, the author has even had a go with this old reprobate (translated), apparently excited about the change from Graham to Siobhan!

And yep, after a bit of searching I tracked down little old me (translated), from last December. The author seems to have been reminded of theatrical grease-paint.

Hmmm. Anyone care to give me a proper translation? Please? :-)

Dream punning

I have a stange and possibly unique trait, I often wake up with a pun in my head. It's quite odd, at the moment of gaining conciousness, where the dreams scatter to the corners of my mind like soot sprites, one phrase will remain blinking in the sunlight.

This morning it was... wait for it... Margate SG1.

I then spent the few minutes of waking slumber trying to thing of other possible shit UK versions of US shows. I was going to do a top ten or something for the blog. Unfortunately the only other one I could think of was My Name is the Earl of Wessex before the creative muse deserted me.

Can anyone else think of any? :-)

One bad Apple

What is it with me and customer care lines!?

Recently I noticed a fault with my MacBook. While running on battery and when the remaining charge got to about 30%, it would suddenly switch off, without going to sleep or even a "battery low" message. It was as if it were a desktop unit and someone had just unceremoniously pulled the plug.

A bit of hunting around the forums confirmed that this was a "known fault" with some of the early batch of rechargable batteries that came with the new MacBook Pros. So I rang the AppleCare people to get it fixed under warranty.

The support line was excellent, minimal menu-navigation required and I got through to a human almost straight away. I talked through my problem with her and she agreed it was a faulty battery, and arranged to send out a replacement.

She then asked for my credit card details, explaining that they wouldn't be used unless I failed to return the faulty battery, in which case I'd be charged for the price of the battery. This was fair enough, I could imagine people who knew about the fault wangling free batteries out of Apple otherwise.

My credit card details were handed over. While she was arranging the courier details she asked if I wanted to extend my warranty for another 3 years (for a cool £270), explaining all the benefits that that would allow. I said that as great as it sounded, I just couldn't afford it.

Less than a day later the new battery was delivered. I swapped it out, charged it and allowed it to discharge fully with no problems. Great! So far, so Apple-are-the-best-company-ever.

Imagine my surprise (you have to say that bit in a Lynne Faulds Wood stylee to get the full on "this is where things started to go horribly wrong" effect) when I get an email from AppleCare stating:

"Thank you for purchasing the AppleCare Protection Plan. This certificate confirms that you agreed to AppleCare Protection Plan terms and conditions and the Apple product(s) entitled for coverage. "

And going on to say that my coverage expired in 2009. A swift call to AppleCare confirmed it. I had "purchased" 3 years of cover on my credit card.

"So you didn't give out your credit card details when you called?" the man asked. I explained that I had given out my details but that was under the understanding that they were only being used as insurance in case I didn't return the faulty part.

The man said that this was true, but that the system for purchasing extended warranties was completely separate from the system for booking replacement parts and there was "no way he could see" that my credit card details from one location could have ended up in the other.

The concept of copy and paste, or maybe even writing them down on a piece of paper, was obviously beyond the bounds of reason. From his tone of voice it was clear that I was either a) a confused person who didn't realise that they'd given out their credit card details twice or b) trying to weasel out of a contract after changing my mind.

It took a bit of explaining in a manner of "patient but with a simmering undercurrent of bloody furious" (I'm beginning to find that this works best) for him to go away and sort out the problem, and after about 30 minutes of phone call I really shouldn't have had to make, I'm being reimbursed.

As with all these things though, I'd like to know what really happened at their end. Was it a computer "glitch"?

Did the woman hear "yes" when I clearly said "no"? In which case I would have expected her to go into a bit more detail of what I'd be getting for my money!

Or maybe there's some kind of commission thing involved for each warranty sold, and she was sneakily trying to up her quota for the month! I guess I'll never know.

By the way, on the subject of customer services, I got an email out of the blue from Sky's customer services department the other day. They'd found my rant on their Sky card replacement cock-ups and wanted to know more so they could investigate what had gone wrong. The power of blogging!

The best bit was when they said they couldn't find any "Becky EnVérité" on their records. :-D

The Blaine game

"He's like a god in a mortal body," added Hector Rodriguez. "I think he's just showing everyone there's nothing that man cannot do. He can do everything and anything."

Who's Hector talking about? Some explorer of great renown? A peace-making politician maybe? Some inventor of a life-saving product?

No, he's talking about David Blaine, who's stunning achievements include Staying in a Box for a Long Time, Staying in a Lump of Ice for a Long Time, and now: Staying Underwater for a Long Time.

The English have a long tradition of lauding magicians until one day we realise what arses they are, and turn against them overnight. You have to be an arse to become a magician. It takes a special kind of sociopath to sit up all night learning how to do stuff and then not tell anyone how you did it, with a smug grin on your face.

One by one, magicians have fallen foul of the British publics annoyance at not being told how it's done. Paul Daniels fell out of favour quicker than his original hair fell out of him. David Blaine went a similar way very quickly when Londoners were not impressed by his box-staying abilities. It wasn't even a proper trick, for heaven's sake!

Derren Brown must know he's on borrowed time. I think he'll squeeze one more series out of his "I'm much cleverer than you" mentalist act before people start saying "Yes, but you're a bit of an arse really, aren't you?" You mark my words.

I actually have a personal tranny-related story about David Blaine.

A few years ago I was just getting over a nasty relationship and just starting to find my feet as a tranny. I decided, last minute, to book a hotel in London and visit Trans-Mission all on my lonesome. The hotel I managed to get in to was the Tower Thistle, which sits directly on the Thames by Tower Bridge.

When I arrived at my room I was suprised to find that I'd managed to wangle one with excellent views of the river, and Tower Bridge itself. And there, on the other side of the river, framed neatly by one of the arches in the bridge, was David Blaine in his glass cage.

This was causing chaos on the bridge itself. People were slowing down to rubber-neck at the Twat-in-a-Box, and traffic was backed up way past the approach roads to the bridge. Little did I realise how it was going to affect my evening.

I got dressed and ready to go out, and went down to the main entrance of the hotel to wait for a cab. After about twenty minutes it became clear that none were coming. The traffic was so busy on the bridge approach road (which was also the access road for the hotel) that no cabs were bothering to come down.

So I decided to walk to a better vantage point for cab-hailing. This meant walking all the way along the bridge approach road. Which by now was basically a parking lot.

I pretty much became the second attraction for rubber-neckers on the bridge that night. The cat-calls rang in my ears all the way up to the main road junction, where I managed to hail a cab.

The cab driver actually said he'd not realised until I spoke that I was a bloke. Which did my confidence the world of good.

In fact, just the experience of walking along the bridge did wonders for my confidence too. It showed me that usually the worst that can happen for a tranny in a crowd is a few cat-calls and horn-beeps.

So, David Blaine helped me become the tranny I am today. I'm starting to believe Hector after all. Is there nothing that man can't do?

My Long Weekend

Some highlights...

On Friday Jane and I went to Cambridge to do a bit of shopping. Whilst browsing the sale racks in Debenam's, a smoothly-spoken announcement came over the tannoy:

"Ladies and gentlemen. Today we are giving away a free paring knife in the store. If you'd like a free paring knife, please come to the covered display in the cook shop on the first floor."


I asked Jane, "Do you want a paring knife?"

"No."

We continued to browse.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the free paring knives will be given away in just one minute. If you'd like a free paring knife, please come to the covered display in the cook shop on the first floor."

"I want a paring knife. I'm going."

"Fair enough. I'm staying here."

To be honest I think she was glad to get rid of me. I was starting to do my impression of a small bored child in a shop. If you want to visualise it, imagine an grown man acting like a small bored child in a shop.

A small expectant crowd of unemployables and pensioners were gathering around the table. After a few moments a man appeared and started talking about wonderous things.

Then some magic happened.

When my head cleared I appeared to be the proud owner of a set 3 of the World's
Sharpest Knives Ever. Trust me, these bad boys are sharp. He cut through a hammer with one! Well, not right through, but he made a nasty dent in it. If I ever need to score a mark in a hammer whilst carving tomatoes, I now have just the tool to do so. I also have 3 of the World's Smallest Juicers (they're also the World's Shittest Juicers but they choose not to promote this fact, and I'm not complaining - they were free), and of course, my free paring knife.

We then bombed up to Nottinghamshire to spend a highly enjoyable evening catching up with my friends Julie and Rich. Jane had a bad cold, but liberal amounts of medicinal alcohol kept her going.

Next morning I was introduced to the "Would You Rather?" game by R&J's young daughter. Basically it's a test of nerve and scruples. You're offered two choices and you must pick one. For example: "Would you rather... kiss 10 boys or kiss 10 dirty pig snouts?"

Spirits boosted by their hospitality we headed off to Sophie's Barbecue. It being her birthday some present-giving was involved. She's now also the owner of a World's Shapest Knife (yes, I am that generous).

She got some other cool presents too, Rich gave her a framed version of this:



Which you might recognise from a previous soirée at Sophie's, where she came dressed like this:



Sunday was mainly tidying up, slobbing around and watching The Mighty Boosh on DVD.

Monday was mainly travelling home, and me getting Jane's cold. Which of course has mutated into Man Flu. Blegh.

iwantoneofthese.com

Futurama is one of my favourite shows, and the episode featuring The Gender Bender is great.

All I need is for someone to buy this for me, because I is poor.

(Photo courtesty of Jane, who wouldn't buy it for me. Because she is mean).