Journal

"Oh!" I suddenly thought to myself last night, "This is those stuffed birds all over again, isn't it?" and I burst into inconsolate weeping.

I would have been perhaps eleven or twelve years old; not quite old enough to routinely travel into the city myself by train. I was desperate to get out of the noisy, cruel, and violent outer suburb where we lived for at least a little while, and also desperate to spend some time alone with my father, being eleven or twelve years old, the eldest of four children and therefore not getting an awful lot of parental attention in the normal course of events, and thinking the world of him, as I did.

The Sunday paper had just landed on the front lawn, so I tiptoed across the cold dew in my pyjamas to fetch it. I unrolled it, rolled it tightly in the opposite direction to flatten it out, and turned to the what's on section of the classifieds.

I bought two little ceramic side plates today because:

[Part 72 in a continuing series titled "Katy is self-obsessed and oversharing again."]

I was bullied by a teenage boy yesterday. That hasn't happened for a while.

It was just a little en passant misgendering while I was waiting to cross the road. "Hello Mister," he called, in that unmistakably nasty tone, as he cycled by. And immediately I was cast back to the school playground.

I'm working on a theory that bullying is far more prevalent in socially, ethnically, and culturally homogenous communities. Bullying (as opposed to common or garden violence or provocation) becomes more absurdly futile as communities become more inclusive; you can't humiliate someone for failing to adhere to a comprehensive and universal set of social norms that doesn't exist.

There comes a time in every girl's life: you're maturing, and you need to turn to your mother for answers to awkward questions.

Like where on earth does one go to buy handkerchiefs?

All I've got at the moment is about ten fraying mens hankies, which I think are the same ones my mum bought for me when I was a teenager.

Mum laughed and explained that everybody uses tissues these days, which is why hankies are so hard to find.

It's not that I'm a tissue sceptic. I'm quite persuaded that tissues are superior from a public health perspective, provided you bin them immediately after use, and don't just shove them back in your pocket/handbag/whatever. It's just that I find tissues will more effectively remove makeup, whether you want them to or not. The daintiest dab with a tissue risks exposing the full horror of my big red Karl Malden boozer's nose, which I'd rather avoid.

It's a potent memory: being a child and wobbling about on your first bicycle, focusing so hard on coordinating all the actions required to keep it upright — and failing — until you stop fixating on each individual movement and suddenly "Oh my god! I'm doing it! I'm doing it!"

And then you become self-conscious again and promptly topple over. But that momentary success renders what had seemed a futile pursuit potentially fruitful.

I raise this as a metaphor because when you're a child who is trans and/or neurodivergent, and has no way of knowing that these are perfectly commonplace ways of being, you will find yourself confronted — typically within a year or two of school — with the apparent reality that there is a fixed and very limited number of legitimate kinds of human being, and that you aren't one of them.

I'm absolutely furious.

…is the sort of thing I'm likely to say any day of the week. About a week ago it was particularly appropriate, and occasioned by the start of term at uni and receipt of the timetable for my subject. The timetable is quite sparse, consisting of a single tutorial a week and the due dates for assignments. Ordinarily it causes no distress until I approach one of those deadlines.

Took a promethazine early last night, as I was too exhausted to do anything useful with my evening, and it was upsetting feeling so useless. As usual, this led to being out like a light for ten hours and at least one weird dream.

So I was on a coach trip; some sort of school excursion deal, and in the seat next to me was Peter Davison.

We had a long conversation about acting and television production. And it turns out that he is every bit as lovely as you would expect.

Anyway, as you do on long coach trips, we got a bit tired, and as we'd become firm chums by then we had a bit of a snuggle. Nothing inappropriate; just a perfectly innocent, congenial, arm-in-arm, head-on-shoulder snuggle. That's a thing isn't it?

It turned out we were going to some workshop, and I ended up on a table full of strangers where we did the usual icebreaker thing. I couldn't see any reason not to say that I was currently living in Havana.

A couple of weeks ago I was cleaning the flat and unpacked some of my boxes of books and things. Not to finally properly move in after two and a half years, just to douse the boxes with cockroach spray and repack them again. It's a glamorous life.

In amongst the things I've not been able to throw out, there's a high school report from July 1987. I've no idea why this is in my possession in the first place; I assume my mother has the rest of them, along with other cherished reminders of my childhood triumphs.

I think I must have seen it at Mum's place decades ago and pinched it for it's entertainment value. According to Wikipedia, ADHD (then called ADD) was known about in the 1980s, but clearly the Australian education system wasn't equipped to identify it. Here's a selection of insights into my temperament as a callow youth:

… poor attitude has been detrimental. - Year master

… lacks the competitive spirit… - English

I haven't had a good month. I have to decide where to focus my energies when I don't really have any energies, and nobody's much interested in me anyway.

I was feeling pretty low last night, had drunk as much wine as I could usefully drink, and had taken a promethazine in the hope that I'd be zonked out for 12 hours, and might resurface with a more positive attitude.

Then I got an email from Darrell, the convener of my local #U3A philosophy group. I'd left it too long to enrol for the new year, so I missed out on a place in the class and was on a waitlist.

He invited me to come along anyway as an "Illegal", in the expectation that people will drop out, so I might as well be there from week one.

It was such a kind and thoughtful offer that I burst into tears.

Of all the things I've done in the last couple of years, talking about caustically controversial stuff with other dotty old people once a week has without question been the most fun.