Let me see your war face

 In Milan I noticed (and it was hard not to) that the hosiery brand Golden Lady has hired the most prominent spots in the metro stations to advertise. Their poster catches your eye at the bottom or top of every escalator: a model in a very simple pair of black 15 denier tights - nothing special; in fact, they're just like my first pair I bought with my pocket money aged about 10 - but it is very, very effective. Presumably men will be thinking of buying something for the lady in their life, women will be thinking of looking good, and TGirls like me experience an explosion of dysphoria that is like a bomb going off every time I see the poster. I want to be like the model (and I don't mean young and attractive  - well, maybe I do). A voice in my head says, "Sue, you don't need more tights. You've already got hundreds of pairs. What are you? a centipede?" But the product is not the issue. Dysphoria gets you in ways like this.

Not to be outdone, another leading brand, Calzedonia, has got their campaign going too. It's war! And in war, it's the innocent who suffer. I'm taking cover!

 

Old

Today, I began the laborious business of claiming an occupational pension I am owed. I'm allowing 18 months to go through the process from start to finish, including avoiding double taxation and obtaining tax reliefs, reducing exchange rate complications and other issues. My accountant is on standby!

This means I am officially old.  

It's not the first time I've mentioned this but I have noticed a distinct change in my face in the last couple of years - more saggy, more jowly - and it's something only a Fairy Godmother can fix. I've been reluctant to post photos of myself. My makeup doesn't hide this and I'm starting to look for tips for makeup for older women which I hope to adapt because of the added complication that trans women have in their faces. As for hair, I've always worn a hair colour that's close to my own (I'll never manage the Marilyn Monroe look!) but I'm wondering if a new wig with a hint of grey is something to consider. 

Rats! 

They say age is a matter of attitude so now I need to find some attitude! 

Faking youth in 2008

 

 

Remembering the dead

By ancient tradition, November is the month when we especially remember the dead. Obviously for me, Transgender Day of Remembrance is the main event. But as part of my exploration of the lesser known areas of the riviera, I went to Bordighera British Cemetery. I've been aware of the existence of this place for a while but never found it before. That's because it's a cemetery within a cemetery, tucked away behind high walls within the main cemetery that is itself behind high walls. That said, it's a beautiful, quiet spot with a mountain torrent on one side and a forest of date palms climbing the hillside on the other. The lane to get there is hard to find, the one tiny sign pointing up a narrow alley to the only entrance is even more so.

Waving palms

Spot the tiny signpost to the tiny alley

 

Many people over the centuries, not unlike myself, have come to this area for the healthy climate, from wounded crusaders in the middle ages who had their hospital at Ospedaletti to consumptive Victorians who appreciated sanatoriums like the now derelict Villa Helios at Sanremo. In the First World War, when Bordighera was practically a British colony anyway, with about 2000 British residents to 1000 locals, the British Army set up a hospital for sick and wounded servicemen fighting on the Salonika Front in Greece and later on the Italian Front. The British Cemetery, then, is where those who died of wounds or from popular diseases of the era like pneumonia or Spanish flu, is managed by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

I wasn't looking for any grave in particular; I visited just out of curiosity. There is a cabinet at the entrance containing a visitors' book that I signed with my fem name and a list of the 72 British Commonwealth men and 12 "Austrian" men buried here. They call them Austrian but they came from all over the Habsburg lands. It also contained service sheets from the recent Remembrance Sunday service. It's one of those odd things that the service date was based on the armistice with Germany on November 11th 1918, which is irrelevant here: the Salonika Front armistice with Bulgaria was on September 30th and the Italian Front armistice with the Habsburg Empire was on November 4th. To further cloud the issue, the First World War is also known locally as the Fourth War of Independence, as Italy emerged piece by piece from Habsburg rule over the course of 70 years (or longer if you count Napoleon as part of the process). But I guess all these historical niceties made little difference to these poor guys who found peace sooner.

From the Commonwealth War Graves Commission list of graves

British Commonwealth graves, men from the all over the world

Some Habsburg Empire graves along the back wall. I like that they have carved the double-headed eagle on each. Presumably these men were prisoners-of-war being treated at the hospital. Some Polish and other Slavic names among the German ones

Why Indian driver Rup Lal has a grave all to himself is not made clear. A civilian, maybe? A Hindu or Muslim who couldn't or wouldn't be buried with the Christians? 

A poppy is the UK's war memorial flower and one on a cross has been left beside each grave after the recent memorial service. Blasius Klensbigl, what a marvellous name! 

 

This cemetery is always open unlike the surrounding civil one which closes at night. Presumably that's why there's a separate alley to get to it. 

A curiosity, therefore. The older I get and the more feminine I get, the more war disgusts me. I've never been called to fight, unlike my grandfathers and great-grandfathers who all survived but did not much enjoy the experience. Those who are currently trying to wreck the eighty plus years of peace in Europe are pure evil. 

Let's go to the main cemetery. Some cultural points as many of my readers come from the British Isles where cemeteries are usually the same as churchyards, so every church is surrounded by graves, people are buried there in perpetuity, and the traditional tree is the yew. In Italy, by contrast, the local cemetery is almost always a necropolis, a "city of the dead" on the edge of town, a very ancient idea (there are necropolises three thousand and more years old here). You usually hire a plot for a number of decades and then, if deemed reduced to just bones, your loved ones are then disinterred and put in a pigeonhole in the columbarium (the "dovecote") ... those who like creepy tales can read below about a deceased distant relative of mine (and this all ties in with the tights that started this post, if you can believe that - oh yes, everything on Sue's News and Views connects!) The preferred cemetery tree here, as has again been the case for thousands of years, is the cypress, because many species drip sap as though crying tears, and the preferred flower for graves is the chrysanthemum. A warning to men: never, ever give your Italian girlfriend chrysanthemums as a gift. Oh, and wear bug spray as cypresses attract mosquitoes like nothing else!

As is usual, the locals, who are all Catholic, are kept separate from foreigners who have all sorts of religions: Russian and Greek Orthodox are here, Jewish, Anglican, Lutheran ... Celtic crosses and Stars of David abound. Even in death people have to be separated, it seems. But, near the tombs of the Russian Princes Galitsine, is a large cypress embracing a smaller cypress. This may be an accident, or trained this way by the gardeners. I think it is sweet, and makes me happier to see than all those dead soldiers.

Rest in peace. I'll try not to dwell on how I'm getting old. Oops, I just did! 

 

My creepy family stories for your winter fireside entertainment

Skip this bit if you don't like yucky things.

In Italy, you rarely buy a burial plot in perpetuity but hire one for a number of decades. After the rental period, your loved one is exhumed and you are invited to agree whether or not they are sufficiently decomposed to be moved. If no, you rent out for another decade; if yes, the plot is then returned to the council for hiring out to the next unfortunate. Pity about that lovely marble tomb you spent lots of money on in your grief; that just gets chucked away. You can move the bones of your loved one to another cemetery, or to the columbarium where the costs are a lot less. 

Some distant relatives of mine were invited to the exhumation of their mother. Whilst her top half was decomposed, her lower half was not. This is because she had been buried in the Sixties in a lovely outfit but when nylon tights were really tough and they preserved her legs. Needless to say, she went back underground for another decade or two!

Perhaps better than friends whose grandma was deemed ready to be moved. They decided to take her elsewhere, packed her in a choice receptacle - a cardboard box - and drove her to her new resting place with the box of bones rattling along merrily in the back of the car. 

People are a bit too matter-of-fact about dead people round here! Where's the sentimentality?

 

That's a long enough post for now. I'll save yesterday's fata morgana at sunset for another time. 

My title comes, of course, from a line in Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket. It seemed adaptable to the themes here. 

Sue x 

Hot stuff, or dresses for empresses

 It's very hot so I am taking things gently, especially in the afternoons when the sun is at its fiercest. Blogging is a gentle task so here we are!

Firstly, thanks to readers for their recent support over my sudden dysphoria. I guess the heatwave brought everyone to the seaside early and all those healthy women suddenly turning up en masse with next to nothing on really hit hard: I should be one of them, I thought; I'm missing out, I told myself. 

I've been returning to equilibrium, especially as, without boasting, I don't look too bad in a bikini myself, with a bit of curvature in the right places to fill both parts. Less around the tum would be better but we are working on that. I lose appetite in summer, which helps, as does more activity.

Thanks also for your support over family health troubles. My relative will be in hospital for quite a long time now and all we can do is await the final outcome of his treatments. He's not dying, though, and that's the main thing.

Now, I know that the weather is not conducive to heavy clothes but today I was looking at a magazine that describes an exhibition now on in Paris celebrating Charles Frederick Worth, who more or less invented haute couture as we know it. He seems to have been the first to use live models to strut his creations, put fashion house labels in his clothes and introduce seasonal collections. He dressed Europe's most elegant ladies in amazing outfits back in the nineteenth century when women's fashions were just stunning. No hoodies and leggings in sight! 

I mention this because, let's face it, we all fancy ourselves in a floor-length satin dress, don't we? I mean, take this Worth ballgown in pink tulle modelled for us here by Empress Elizabeth of Austria. I really, really want this (and if becoming an empress is what it takes to get it then, hey, I'm up for that!)

 

Not to be outdone, here is Empress Eugénie of France in a ravishing white satin and lace gown. Yes, please. 

An evening dress in green. Corsetry is the answer to all waistline issues! 

Imagine going to a trans club in one of these outfits. Then if some admirer annoyed you could declare, in your finest cut-glass Victorian duchess voice, "Unhand me, you ruffian!" as Hubert, a true gentleman, steps in with a stern, "You scoundrel, Sir!" and removes the irritating admirer, who is promptly led away to a life of hard labour in the colonies. You then marry Hubert and have sixteen children, nine of whom are destined to die of consumption, cholera, scarlatina, etc. Ah, the good old days! When life was short but the frocks were long. 

Anyway, I though I'd share the gorgeousness with you. As the curators say, there's a public fascination with fashion these days, but people are forgetting the history of fashion. This aims to reawaken that consciousness with its 400+ sumptuous items.

Here's the official exhibition web page in English: Worth, Inventing Haute Couture

A review in English: A Journey to the Origins of Haute Couture at the Petit Palais in Paris 

There's a long video in French on setting up the exhibition, with a lot of views of the dresses and accessories. I didn't post this link originally but Susie has viewed it and commented below like the dedicated girl she is, so here it is after all. English subtitles are available. Worth is pronounced Vort by the French. (Disappointingly, most of the curators and restorers here are in jeans. "Standards, ladies, standards!" as my imaginary duchess would say.)

 

More generally on the subject, here's an introductory video on Worth with lovely pictures and photographs, and showing real dresses on mannequins: 

Worth on Wikipedia: Charles Frederick Worth and House of Worth. 

The exhibition is on at the Petit Palais, Avenue Winston Churchill, Paris, till early September. Oh, and my birthday's coming up; just a hint. 

Sue x

Unorthodox solutions for steamy weather

 I had hoped that the couple of thunderstorms over the last two days would have cleaned the air and cooled things down but they've just made everything steamier. I can manage to wear a swimsuit but I really don't want to wear a lot else today! 

Every summer I write some kind of post like this on how to cope with hot weather when your a TGirl, e.g. wigs & makeup in summer and swimwear for TGirls but when it's really hot and sticky like this all I can suggest is that you do the things that need physical activity at times when it's a bit cooler, i.e. morning and evening. 

Whilst staying hydrated is regularly quoted as the best advice, I'm not so convinced by cold drinks as by hot ones when it's steamy. People boggle at me when I say that but hear me out. A cold drink or ice cream cools your insides but does little for the discomfort of prickly, sticky skin. A hot drink makes you perspire properly, thereby cooling you down; and as the drink is hot, you can't gulp it so you get 'dosed' more gently and evenly; and something like tea is a pick-me-up. Tea is a favourite drink in North Africa and the Middle East, the hottest places on earth. Theirs has lots of sugar (for energy) and usually mint in it, which is an anti-inflammatory and a breath-freshener, and their tea is the best thing on a hot day. As for any perspiration that tea causes, well, that's why I wear a swimsuit.

As for alcohol, I advise avoiding wine. Instead, mix spirits with lots of mixers/juices. A little gin with lots of tonic is working for me this year. But yours may be a sangria, a spritz, a Pimms or whatever is fruity and cool.

My photo above to illustrate this post was taken on a hot afternoon (36°C / 97°F) so I was wearing a short denim skirt and tights. 

"Tights, Sue? Are you mad?" No, actually tights/pantyhose in hot weather are good for avoiding several heat-related problems. Obviously, I mean gossamer-thin items like these (they were 7 denier), not those black opaques you don with your slippers by the grate in winter! 

Wearing tights helps to wick perspiration away from your skin (just ask a professional dancer); eliminates chafing (chub rub) if your thighs rub together when walking and reduces chafing from your shoes; and makes your legs look smoother and more uniform in tone. 

Here are just a few items from my own collection to illustrate what I mean: from 5, 7 and 10 denier; various summer shades for Caucasian skin from 'nude' to 'suntan'; toeless for if you have peep-toe shoes and you like your painted toenails to show fully (of course you do); bodyshaping or bodyfree; looks that are matt, glossy, 'healthy shine', 'oiled'... There's a big choice. 

 

Open-toe seven-denier nude in action:

Another good choice is fishnets in natural or lightly coloured shades. I have them nude, white, apricot, etc.. The 'nude' ones on the right in the photo below are very light-looking whilst the 'nude' ones in the middle in the photo below look very tanned, but as they stretch you actually get a natural shade on your legs in both cases. A close friend swears by openwork lace at all seasons, even in black, like my favourite Jonathan Aston 'sweet roses' pantyhose here on the left.

 

These are those Jonathan Aston fishnets in nude when worn:

Here are my fishnets in light apricot to match my yellow-pink dress. With the stretch, these gave a light flesh tone

 

(By the way, these are the sandals that had to go recently as they were scuffed, worn and falling apart after many summers.)

Have a nice summer. 

 

Dysphoria update

It's not great. See my first photo above again, the one with me next to a bigger, curvier, bustier, more brazen (!) young woman. 

There seem to be uniquely feminine women around this year, all curves and jiggles, and none wearing very much in this heat so the curves and the jiggles are enhanced and on show. I keep telling myself that I too have curves and jiggles, and that's no lie. I'm proud of my very feminine hips, and my recently improved bust measurements are exciting. Maybe it's just regret that the women around me are even curvier and jigglier than me because they got a natural advantage when the curves and jiggles were being handed out. 

To be honest, I'm also feeling disappointment at the fact I am no longer young. Smooth curves, perky jiggles and rich hair get replaced by wrinkles, sag and greyness. Nature, you're a mean bitch!

Sue x 

Bikini envy

 Well, it's not so much envy as bad dysphoria. What do you expect? There's a heatwave on and suddenly all the women are in their bikinis ... except me. And, unusually, I'm not coping too well with that. I don't tend to suffer much dysmorphia about my body, but all of a sudden it's hit me. Maybe a friend emailing about her successful GRS, with FFS also scheduled, didn't help either. Don't get me wrong; I'm thrilled for her, but it's a bit hard to handle all of a sudden. 

It'll pass. Like the ebb and flow of the tide, it comes and goes. 

Passionflowers in bloom seems an apt photo to post here. These are in the hedgerows in the lane behind home.

 

 

Surf rock 

Bikinis, summer, tides ... A number of people have blogged, commented and paid tribute to Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys who passed away last week. If you are into surf rock and ultra-cute sixties outfits then, depending on how much gender dysphoria you are currently experiencing, you may like/hate to visit the Surfrajettes website and YouTube channel. Beehives, matching minidresses, white go-go boots and, as they put it, "eyeliner as thick as their guitar strings". 

I'd like the talent just to look that good, let alone play music! 

 

The good stuff

Times are not good for the trans community in many parts of the world. Here in Italy they are mixed but I'd just like to pay tribute again to two sources of strength. 

One is Elle Italia women's fashion magazine that resolutely supports the trans and broader queer community. Every other week there is an article on trans topics, e.g. how a parent should listen to their trans child; an interview with a trans person; life as a drag queen (see photo); and this week several articles supporting Pride. Thanks to Elle for positive allyship.

 

Pride itself seems to be attracting more and more support. Either people feel safer coming out or they feel the community needs more clout. Our regional Liguria Pride in the regional capital Genova at the weekend increased its attendance from 35,000 last year to 40,000 this year, despite the high temperatures. 

Liguria Pride 2025 in Via XX Settembre, Genova, the regional capital's answer to London's Oxford Street. ( ©facebook.com/CoordinamentoLiguriaRainbow )

 

An impressive turnout, one to be proud of. Sorry I couldn't be there. (But a wig in that heat? Hmm.)

Have a good week, all.

Sue x 

Dysphoria attack, and getting away

 It's been a strange week. A dysphoria attack, a few days away, a long lonely walk across the mountains at night, and a unexpected miracle.

 

Dysphoria attack

Last weekend was the flower festival with marching bands and flower-decked floats. On Saturday it was raining and I decided to stay in and go to the main parade on Sunday. But on opening the Sunday morning paper and seeing the big photos of Saturday's marching majorettes, female dancers in leotards or fancy frocks, I had a real meltdown. I don't have much body dysmorphia, thank goodness, which is why surgical transition has always been an unlikely option for me, and I keep dysphoria at bay by dressing as a woman every day and enjoying other more feminine items and activities, but some things can trigger real anguish about my gender and for some reason dancers in costume is one of those things. Ballerinas in pancake tutus particularly, but drum majorettes, too, even gymnasts. Maybe it's the skimpy outfits and motions, both designed to emphasize the female form, that thing that I don't fully have. Combined with bad memories of how my sisters were always being packed off to ballet classes, ice skating lessons and the like (none of which they ever took to, incidentally) and I would have loved to do but wasn't allowed to because "it's not for boys". 

Gender dysphoria stinks. Transphobes have no idea and no care.

Go away, just go away. Please just go away. AaaAAurrRgh!!! :-( [Photo tribute: Hugo Martinez]

So I avoided the flower festival altogether, which is just as well as I would've felt pain.

 

A break in Nice, France

I went to Nice during the week. It's not far but the journey there and back is so slow and difficult that it's easier to book an apartment or hotel and stay overnight as they are really cheap at this time of year. This actually saved money as Nice's restaurants are overpriced and I could cook for myself in my apartment. I wanted to spend time in homeware shops and media outlets, see the famous Saleya flower and herb markets, and do a bit more sightseeing. I was partly successful in all of that but even 48 hours wasn't enough. 

Some photos:

The Bay of Angels lined by the famous Promenade des Anglais under a moody sky with occasional divine beams from above ...

The great cascade in the fortress above the city ...

I love the Greek-style mosaics on the citadel, the site of the original Greek city of Nikaia ...

 

The staircase telling the story of Odysseus and the various unsavoury characters he meets, such as the Cyclops, Circe the witch, and sea monsters ...

 

I'll spare you more of these but I loved them. Modern Port Lympia lies near to where human habitation has been dated to 400,000 years ago ...

The Saleya street market stalls are very pretty, including spices, local lavender and soap ...

 

Among other things, the soap stall sold bars made of asses' milk. Cleopatra would approve, no doubt. (Personally, I prefer not to invest in businesses offering Egyptian goods - they're usually pyramid schemes!)

So it was a good little break. 

 

A night in the mountains

It's 25 miles (40 kilometres) from home to Nice as the crow flies (or, more aptly, as the mountain eagle soars, or as the seagull skims the waves). But the journey is always slow no matter what means of transport you choose, and the geography of the area is largely to blame - narrow winding roads, frontier posts, steep climbs, tunnels ... 

I went by train. My journey home back to Italy was awful as a tree fell on the tracks between Menton, France, and Ventimiglia, Italy. This is a normal occurrence, along with rockfalls, floods, etc. and you have to adapt to the dynamic landscape if you live locally. But it's how the railway is managed that is the main problem and French railways have always been arguably the lousiest in Europe. They promised a rail replacement bus to Italy and kept promising and after two hours of false promises I asked them if they weren't just talking rubbish and why were they wasting our time when we could have been making alternative plans. 

Since there are no cross-border buses and cross-border taxis cost an unbelievable sum - more than three nights in a hotel! - I took my suitcase on wheels and walked most of the 12 km from Menton to Ventimiglia up and down the winding mountain road that runs through the steep craggy landscape of the border lands where the Alps hit the Mediterranean (illustrated in my post here). If they hadn't wasted my time I'd have been at Ventimiglia by sunset; as it was I was mainly walking in the dark. I didn't spot any wolves (though perhaps they spotted me ... and licked their lips as they loped silently along, keeping pace ...) Anyway, the rare bus that serves the sparsely dotted mountain hamlets of the frontier country caught up with me and took me the last 4 km to Ventimiglia from where getting home was easy. 

You may think me nuts but I've always sworn that if you want to get from A to B without fuss then your own two feet are a sure guarantee that you'll get there and within a certain time. 

 

Miracle

And when I got home I found that the crooked mini-Trump next door had got his latest set of workmen to place the new panels in the dividing wall between us, a job that's been waiting for four years and which I was just on the point of asking the relevant arbitrators to intervene on. The job's been done very well and professionally and without a word. He may have sensed my bad vibes or something. This gives me greater privacy and what TGirl doesn't want that?

Altogether a very strange week.

Have a good weekend. And please soothe any dysphoria you may have with a pretty frock and your favourite perfume.  

Sue x

What sets you off?

 I messaged a trans friend via a social media site and, as it happens she'd just posted a picture of a favourite band of her youth and how it drove her gender expression wild at the time and continues to do so. I was going to say gender dysphoria but that's too negative - you can get a very positive response from gender triggers.

This is what she posted:

© Smash Hits magazine 1985

 Strawberry Switchblade were a short-lived group from Glasgow that sang songs, yes, but developed a uniquely polka-dot, rara skirt Lolita look. Needless to say, they were big in Japan. 

© Lookin magazine 1985

It's the ultra-girly look, isn't it? All those extra ribbons, bows, lace and froth, rara skirts with extra ra, high heeled booties, jazzy nails and big big hair ... 

I wish she hadn't posted it. I've been reliving the bad old good old days of ridiculously overblown '80s girly-girl fashion that drove me gibbering in my teens and it's driving me nuts again now! I could do with a touch of youth too, perhaps, but I can't get stuff like this at the moment! Or even fit into it, I imagine! And to think that last month I picked up a bright red lacy burlesque rara skirt in my storage unit in London and put it back thinking: now when the hell am I ever going to wear that? Answer: now, dammit, I want it now! 

So, yes, this triggers my thirst for feminine expression like nothing else. I suppose it's largely the association with an influential time of life. What if I'd been a teen in the '50s? Tight sweaters and wide skirts with petticoats would've been the trigger, no doubt. Or the 1890s? Waspie waist, presumably - just as well I don't have to try that right now! I'm genuinely not sure what the youth of today are into but in the 2060s what will the CDs/TVs/trans folk be reminiscing about?

So that's what's bugging me right now. I need a polka dot rara ribbon combo right now to feel complete! These leggings I've been doing my housework in are perfectly feminine, up-do-date, sporty and flattering but wouldn't it be so much more fun to be a beribboned strawberry girl? I doubt much work would get done, though, apart from polishing the mirror all day!

So no thanks to my friend! I can't get this out of my head! 

Just one more thing to add to the growing list of influences (click the relevant label, right, for more).

Harvest time on the riviera

Talking of older things, I've been enjoying the various local antiques markets recently and got things for the home: clocks, teapots, glassware and the like, and a lot of cheap books, DVDs and CDs. One girl's junk is another girl's treasure!

The wine harvest is starting and the fountains are flowing with wine! Well, it's something like it anyway!

Here's combining the two!

Of course, there are all sorts of other things in season: olives, garlic, snails (!), mushrooms (lots of mushrooms!), and food markets and food fairs abound here right now. I had some really fabulous porcini mushrooms (ceps) in my pasta in my favourite restaurant last week. And swordfish seems to be abundant just now, too. I enjoyed this little slice poached with white wine, lemon juice, mushrooms and my own parsley at home and it was special. Mmm.

I bought Arnold the Olive as a tiny cutting three years ago during the pandemic and he's now grown big enough to be producing a crop of olives himself. Photos another time when it's not pouring with rain, which is another feature of the season. But the annual summer drought needs ending somehow.

Happy autumn. 

Sue x

Seasonal low

It always happens at this time of year – but much earlier than usual this year.

“I don’t want to be trans any more. Going to give this nonsense up and forget it.”

But I know from experience that in a few weeks it’ll be business as usual: down the salon for pretty nails, then a neat new wig, new shoes, a pretty frock for summer and those gorgeous tights that just can’t be passed up. And hey presto, we’re back in business again, en femme just about all the time. Happens every year, although in the past couple of years it’s been only a week or two of down time.

This year it’s worse, though. Partly because of the anniversary of all the abuse from other TGirls I had in May/June last year that’s made me more cautious. Plus a creeping realisation that a family inherited trait has serious implications for my and my siblings’ future health. Plus my abusive and enraged father’s deranged fit this morning: yet again a triviality turned him lurid purple with hate, he shook his fists, ground his teeth and spat and shouted and cursed and cursed and cursed just as he has behaved through the whole of my life. It makes me feel that I have now seen that bully for the last time. I’m not happy right now. But at least my fledgling business is keeping my mind occupied.

Hoping normal service will be resumed soon.

Sue x