Ponies, people, the Bible, Jesus and me

Recently I spent a while chatting with someone using the nick ponygirl in a chat room. For over a year now she explained that she has lived as a ponygirl.

She has an owner … who owns five pony girls at the moment. Some of the things that she has mentioned:

• It’s not a sexual thing.
• She hasn’t been forced into it.
• She is happy.
• The ponies spend a lot of time restrained in various ways … mostly, I think, in ways that make it feel more like being a pony
• They don’t talk
• The ponies are trained
• They are disciplined
• They are well cared for
• The pony that I talked with has access to the internet once in a while
• Her family visit her every so often. They don’t find it easy … but they accept her choice. She doesn’t speak to them when they visit, but they do communicate by email

She said that the thing that she likes most is a sense of belonging.

In some ways, it’s not easy to understand why anyone would want to do this.

I think that quite lot of people would also find it hard to understand what it is that makes a guy want to wear makeup, a wig and a dress.

It’s not natural I’ve heard people say. I’ve even heard myself say it.

But is clothing natural? Plastic? Automobiles? Aeroplanes?

Maybe it’s really more about acceptability than it is about naturalness?

And different things are acceptable to different people.

Plastic, aeroplanes and just wars are acceptable to many people.

Pony girls and transvestites, gays and lesbians maybe to less.

There was a time when the Bible helped me decide what was acceptable and what wasn’t.

I was more of a “hate the sin but love the sinner” kind of person - as opposed to the “fire and brimstone” variety.

Nevertheless, the Bible was the final arbiter when it came to acceptability.

And yet looking back at those times, it was really my interpretation of the Bible that was the arbiter.

And my interpretation of the Bible was always flawed.

I think, in a way, everyone’s interpretation is flawed.

I mean … is it acceptable for women to speak in church? To commit genocide if God tells you to do it? To work on Sunday – or maybe that should be Saturday? To speak in tongues without an interpretation? To use contraceptives? To kill? To be gay? Lesbian? Transsexual? Transvestite? Pony girl? To manufacture weapons? To trade unjustly? To have two coats while someone else has none? To respond to one slap in the face with another?

Different Bible believing people have different answers to these questions.

Back in 1973, just after being Born Again, I remember reading a book Genesis in Space and Time by Francis Schaeffer. Even then it seemed odd to me that the author was adamant that the existence of a real Adam and Eve were fundamental beliefs, but that the story of creation in six days and the eating of the fruit of knowledge could just be viewed as allegories.

And I have had conversations with people that find it easy to own a whole collection of coats and yet condemn, absolutely, a whole series of perversions.

I know, for sure, that I am far from perfection. A little like Amy Ray’s friend:

My friend Tanner she says,
"Y'know me and Jesus we're of the same heart
The only thing that keeps us distant is that I keep fuckin' up"

And I do.

Back at Sparkle, I remember the policeman saying that his view of bad-mouthing members of the trans-gendered community was that it was similar to the racist comments that people make.

Not so very long ago, a man that lived in a Bible believing God-fearing part of the world had a dream:

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

Y’know. I think that pony girls, gay, lesbian and transgendered people are mostly just wanting to be free to be themselves.

Indigo, Dinners and Gatherings

I did get along to the Indigo Girls concert at Brighton on October 26th. In some ways it was similar to, and in other ways it was different from the Bristol concert.

The venue, Concorde2 is kinda nice. Not too big, not too small. And there is free parking right outside after 6:00 pm.

They played some of the same songs as at Bristol, but quite a few were different. Maybe this was partly because in addition to Amy and Emily, there was also Clare Kenny playing bass guitar and Carol Isaacs on accordion and keyboard. They both live in the UK and play fairly regularly with Indigo Girls in the USA. They played at Brighton because they happened to be around, and it was really nice.  For the first time ever live I heard them play Loves Recovery.

Stephanie Dosen played some songs at the beginning again. She said that she first got interested in playing music a long time ago after hearing Indigo Girls one time when she was babysitting. She’s 40 now … but looks a lot younger.

It was great.

Last night was a TV (as in transvestite) dinner at Billie and Kathie’s.

I wear my short black dress.

Sally says my bum looks a bit big in it.

There are round about 20 people there … a record attendance, I think.

As always, its great to catch up with people’s news.

Julia spent a few days in Bath and has been out and about quite a bit.

We talk about the why’s and wherefores of being a transvestite.

I mention that ever since Sally, my wife, accompanied me to a TV dinner she has been gently-ish pestering me to go along to a “Contemplative Fire” gathering with her. Each of us challenging our comfort zones.

To my horror, Julia thinks this is a fine idea.

I explain the discussions I’ve had with Sally … the reasons … or maybe excuses … that I have.

“Was that a girlie conversation or a guy one?” asks Julia.

“A guy one.”

“Ahhh I thought so” nods Julia knowingly.

Sally says that the gathering would be fine with the concept of Andrea. So who knows … maybe Andrea’s first outing to a churchy kind of thing will be to a gathering?

Then again.

Tina asks me about the story of Pink Punters and the front fastening bra.

“Why would anyone wear one?”

I know, I know, it is more liable to pop-open.

But it is my favourite.

We’re beginning to plan Sparkle 2010 … Tina, myself, Billie and Laura are planning to get there. And maybe others?

Nikki denies having a fetish for photographs in hotel corridors.

Tina thinks I don’t snore. At least not in Manchester.

Nikki thinks I breathe heavily whilst asleep and explains how useful the earplugs provided by Pink Punters can be.

I try to explain that I think Indigo Girls are musicians that are lesbian rather than lesbian musicians.

Short dresses and hold-up stockings are a risky combination. I think that the baby oil that I apply after showering maybe doesn’t help. The stocking tops are slowly sliding down my legs.

Katie is keen on an evening with a schoolgirl theme.

“So … who doesn’t have a schoolgirl outfit?

Only Kathie.

The second Tuesday of March 2010 is maybe the date.

Why Indigo

This post is mostly prompted by the previous one.

It may be that I’ve already said this … but at the risk of repeating myself …

Why do I like Indigo Girls so much?

A collection of connected and not so connected reasons.

I like lyrics that speak to me. Especially when they are sung by the person that wrote them. There’s something special about it. A feeling of connectedness. Empathy. Understanding. Closeness.

I like songs that touch me. That make me cry. Not because they make me feel sad. But because they touch me.

I like the sound of folk rock.

When I first discovered Indigo Girls it was the folk rock sound. The harmonies. Lyrics that touched me.

Loves Recovery is a song that has affected my life. I came across it at a time when I needed to know if it was possible for love to recovery. I’ve heard the song many, many times. It still touches me.  Still makes me cry. The tears are happy ones.

Quite a few Indigo Girls songs do that.

As well as the songs that bring tears, there are ones that make me smile and words of wisdom. A few words from Amy’s song Second Time Around: 

Here’s what I found about compromise
Don’t do it if it hurts inside
Because either way you’re screwed
Eventually you’ll find
That you may as well feel good
You may as well have some pride

The girl that I chatted with at the concert in Bristol last Saturday mentioned that she felt a kind of connection because of the connection that there was between Indigo Girls and the Church and the struggles that they have faced.

Because there isn’t much of a Lutheran presence in the UK, she goes to an Anglican church.

I explained that once I was a Baptist, but now I’m not really anything.

At the moment I don’t see a way back. Too many apparently unanswered questions and contradictions.

Indigo Sunday

Sunday 18 October 2009 - an Indigo night in Bristol.

Plan A had been to get to the Indigo Girls concert at either London or Brighton.

The plan fell apart upon discovery that both venues were sold out by the time I got round to trying to book.

So Bristol it was.

Only traces of Andrea make the trip. Bright red finger nails from the day before.

I arrive at the O2 Academy at 6:30 pm and join the end of a queue of maybe 40 people. There are three doorways, but just a single queue.

The queue gradually grows.

There was a time when bright red fingernails would have led me to keep my hands in my pockets most of the time. These days I’m not so bothered.

6:40. a barrier is built to demark the doorway on the right.

6:45 the queue is ushered across to the right of the barrier.

6:47 another barrier between the other two doorways.

6:50 signs appear.

To the left: O2 Customer Priority.

Middle: Paying and Guests

To the right: Ticketholders

O2 is a mobile phone company that also manage a selection of musical venues.

People with O2 phones begin to ask about the priority entrance.

All you need is an O2 mobile phone.

A little sheepishly the privileged few move across to the left.

Being an O2 customer I become a sheep.

Each O2 customer can bring a friend.

Within minutes I have a new buddette. Karen (I think) needs a friend with an O2 mobile phone. She’s been in the queue since 1:30.

7:00 the doors open.

No one checks anyone’s mobile phones.

I’m glad that I don’t have a handbag with me. They are all getting searched.

Into the auditorium and there I am standing at the very front just a few feet away from the stage.

“So … have you been a fan for long?”

The girl to my right and her husband have travelled over from Portsmouth.

She’s American and has seen Indigo Girls frequently in the USA.

Aged 30 and a fan since junior high school … age 14 or so.

She attended seminary and one day hopes to maybe be a pastor within the Lutheran church.

We talk a little about the church’s views on women, vicars, gays and lesbians. She smiles as she says that she was almost surprised to grow up and discover she wasn’t a lesbian.

We both see Indigo Girls as musicians that happen to be lesbians rather than lesbian musicians.

Favourite songs include The Wood Song, Ghost, Mystery and Loves Recovery.

Prefers the acoustic kind of sound.

8:00 and Stephanie Dosen takes the stage. And she is good.

I like her voice and her music.

She’s wearing a frilly white skirt. Black tights. A little wrinkled and torn. The tights that is.

Makes me smile to think how unfeminine I can imagine myself looking with torn tights and how feminine she looks.

Stephanie … smiling as she tunes her guitar.

“Joni Mitchell has a guitar that tunes itself when she pushes a little button.”

More twiddling and fiddling with the guitar.

A cute little smile.

Very quietly.

“Bitch.”

“Don’t anyone tell Joni I said that. When I see her I’ll tell her ‘I did not call you a bitch.’”

Stephanie introduces a song with what she insists is a true story.

A night drive in winter. Cows at the roadside. Cold and shivering.

She begins to sing. A freedom fighters song on behalf of the cows.

Drumming on the steering wheel.

All of a sudden the car is skidding, facing the wrong way and rolling over.

With a hint of sadness. “And the cows never came to visit.”

The words have changed, but the next song came out of those moments.

9:00. Emily and Amy take the stage.

They start to play and then stop.

Amy could perhaps have used a Joni Mitchell guitar at this point.

They both laugh a little.

“Any questions?” Emily asks the audience.

“What’s your favourite pizza?”

“Well … cheese is good. And lately … mushroom and Canadian bacon.”

The atmosphere is friendly, almost intimate.

“Amy … please may I have your plectrum?”

“My plectrum? Well yes … especially since you asked so politely.”

“So how many people here would have asked for a picker?” asks Emily.

“Meeeeeee”.

“Only one?”

“But I am American”.

Amy: “Plectrum … it almost sounds sexual.”

Emily: “Anatomical.”

Amy: “Yes that’s what I mean.”

A request from the audience.

Amy: “Nooooo you cannot play with my plectrum. It’s a kinda personal thing.”

Amy: “It’s a good thing that our new songs are different than the old ones. If they were the same it would mean we never could have gotten better.”

Emily: “When I was younger I would write lots of songs. As you get middle aged it’s easy to find yourself repeating yourself. It takes longer to write songs now.”

Lots of conflicting song requests from the audience.

Then: “Play whatever you want.”
Amy, smiling : “That’s what Mr Obama says.”

“Amy, I love you.”

“Emily, I love you.”

Emily: “We love you too.”

All of a sudden its 10:40 and the stage is empty.

And then they are back and play a couple more songs.

Amy hands over the plectrum.

Time for home.

I loved it. The music. The people. The experience.

Just a few minutes ago I booked a ticket at the Concorde 2 in Brighton for next Monday – it seems it’s not quite as sold out as I thought. £20 at the Concorde 2 web site. The alternative was a bargain at £94 from what is, I guess, a less than honest web site. Now I just have to organise leaving work early enough to get to Brighton by 7:30.

A little like Emily I find it easy to find myself repeating myself.

See what I mean … three myselfs in two sentences.

It’s an easy thing to do in a blog.

Windsor, Hare Krishna and TVs

Saturday 17th was another chance to go walkabout in Windsor.

One of the challenges of doing this as a tgirl is allowing all the extra time that is needed for makeup and selection of clothing.

The makeup actually begins on Friday night with nail polish. Sally suggests I go pink. And so I do. For a while. Three coats of Urban Princess. Then an accidental argument … my thumbnail versus a door handle … changes everything. The pink stuff taking for ever to harden. So off it comes. To be followed by two coats of bright red Hot Gossip and one of 3 in 1.

At round about 9:30 on Saturday morning I begin the final preparations.

I’m still not skilled enough with makeup to manage much in the way of subtlety. I know that there are different looks … nightclub chick … everyday smart … casual … and all the in-betweens as well.

I just go for a little less foundation. Paler eye shadow. A little less eye liner and mascara. Pink lips instead of ruby red. Thoughts of Urban Princess versus Hot Gossip momentarily pass through my mind.

I select a bra that isn’t front fastening. Having it come undone in the middle of Windsor would be way more inconvenient than the time that it did at Pink Punters. I have discovered that when your boobs aren’t attached to your body it’s really important to have a bra that is unlikely to pop open. The bra is black – one of a pair that I bought at Peacock’s in Bristol - £6 for two.

A mid length denim skirt and red top – courtesy of M&S.

Shoes with low heels.

As I put them on I know they don’t feel anywhere near so good as four and a half inch stilettos. I know, also, that in an hours time I’ll be glad that they are nice and low.

I’m all ready by about 10:50. It’s kinda nice to just potter around the house and relax for a few minutes.

Sally has been busy all morning doing stuff in the garden.

I’ve managed to train her into realising that Andrea’s nails are way to delicate for such tasks. But I do make the coffee.

Tina arrives at about 11:30 just as Sally heads out to play golf.

The comic irony of the situation isn’t lost … wife out on the golf course … hubby out shopping in a skirt.

After applying a few finishing touches we head for the car.

There are a couple of neighbours chatting a few houses down the street. I resist the urge to wave and say hello. I also resist the urge to run back to the house. I have no idea if I am recognised. If I am then I am. Mostly people seem not to notice. But I would be even less noticeable if I were shorter than six feet tall.

Tina drives and mostly I remember to say which way to go.

Arriving at the car park in Victoria Street we pay at the pay and display meter and head off for the town centre.

Alas, Shoe Fetish is no more. It’s been replaced by a shop that sells motor scooters.

We walk slowly.

There are one or two quizzical kind of looks as we walk past people. It must be our husky voices.

But no one pulls faces or passes comments.

Gazing into a few shop windows we wander up Peascod Street from the St Leonard’s Road end.

Turning into King Edward Court we go into the British Heart Foundation charity shop and take a look around.

I see a white handbag – I have white shoes but no white handbag. It’s in excellent condition and a snip at £2,75. The lady at the till doesn’t really look at me as I pay.

We pay a visit to Fenwick’s. Then Boots, Daniels and Marks & Spencer.

Then on to Cafe Rouge. The place is pretty busy. The staff are, as always, very helpful and friendly. The other diners pay us no attention.

I order a Hoegaarden beer, Tina a lemonade. The food arrives very promptly and is excellent.

We chat about girlie kinds of things.

The waitress drops by … “Is everything alright for you, ladies?” It makes me smile.

It’s then a walk along to the castle and a photo opportunity or two.

As I pose a little and Tina juggles two cameras a group of ladies walk by.

“Would you like me to take a picture of you both?” asks one of the ladies. We gratefully accept the offer, and she takes a picture with each of the cameras.

 

Then on down to the riverside. Tina changes her boots for a pair of flat shoes.

We should have brought some bread for the ducks and swans.

 

On the way back to the car park we call in at WH Smiths where Tina buys a newspaper.

As we stroll back down Peascod Street a man approaches us.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

Brief introductions.

“What’s your name?”

“Andrea.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Of course.”

“And yours?”

“Tina.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m afraid that I have to tell you that you’ve exceeded the local limits for looking cool and being hip whilst out in public. So I’m going to have to ask you to pay a voluntary fine as a penalty.”

Of course, we are smiling well before this.

The man’s eyesight is, of course, immediately suspect.

Actually he is a member of a Hare Krishna group raising money to help support homeless people.

His western name is John … his spiritual name is much more complex.

We make a donation and he gives me a booklet … pink to match the colour of my lips he says.

“Do you have blue ones for boys?” asks Andrea.

“But of course.”

Back to the car and home.

Each little trip out helps me feel more relaxed than the last time.

I have the feeling that Windsor town centre is a good and relatively safe kind of place for a transvestite to wander around in. People manage to “read” me without a lot of difficulty. But that doesn’t bother me really. A thing that Fiona Floyd shared with me several years ago has influenced my feelings on this. As Fiona said, “I’m not a girl, I’m a transvestite. If someone points a finger at me and says ‘Hey that’s not a real girl … it’s a tranny’ then it’s not a problem really … that’s what I am.” I feel the same way.

I think the centre of Windsor is maybe this way because people don’t have problems with strangers and off-beat people. The town relies heavily on tourism and really can’t afford to get overly upset about issues of gender or race or a whole range of other things.

One day maybe residential areas that don’t rely on tourism will get to see people as being people.

Pink Punters again

October 10th provided an opportunity for another trip to Pink Punters.

The room at the Campanile Hotel is booked … especially good value if you book two rooms at the same time.

On the day I pack quite frugally … for me at any rate. A fairly normal selection of makeup and other accessories. Only three pairs of shoes, 2 dresses, one skirt and one top. Three bras, two pairs of stockings, two pairs of tights and two of hold-ups. Two suspender belts.

No partridge and no pair tree.

I know. There is no way I’ll get the chance to use it all in one evening. But there is a logic in al of this.

The tradition is to get made up and dressed. Eat at the hotel. Change. Head for Pink Punters.

So two sets of outerwear are needed. And I’m not sure whether to wear the black dress or a skirt with a top. So I take three.

And it’s nice to change shoes. And heels are nice. And maybe I’ll drive home the next day as a girl … so I need some flat shoes to drive in.

The dresses need a strapless bra. The skirt and top are fine with a bra with straps. I have no idea why I took three.

Stockings are fine with the long dress. The spare pair is insurance against laddering.

The skirt is ok with holdups.

The short dress is safer with tights.

And a spare pair of each. Just in case.

I bought a new suspender belt at Debenhams in Bristol … but haven’t given it a try out yet – so I take a spare just in case.

I almost forget the makeup remover.

The drive to Fenny Stratford … Bletchley … the home of Pink Punters … is pleasantly uneventful. The M25 is being widened … again … so has a 50 mph speed limit for what seems miles and miles and miles. But it is moving.

Round about 5:00 pm I pull into the car park and start to dismantle Tom Tom.

My phone rings.

“Hello.”

“Andrea?”

“Yes".”

“It’s Nikki. Where are you?”

Nikki arrived earlier in the afternoon and is out shopping. We’re in room 12. Nikki has paid half already. Well … half of one room or a quarter of two.

The man at reception is very patient as I check in.

The transgender thing isn’t at all strange to staff at the hotel.

In the room the ritual begins.

Shave. Shower. Moisturiser. Underwear. Makeup.

Phone.

Laura and Billie have arrived and are next door in room 14.

Nikki arrives.

She has a nice new pair of shoes.

She spotted a handbag outside the door of room 14 so goes to tell Billie and Laura about it.

Knock knock. “Hello. This is room service.”

“Oh … it’s going to be a half hour before I’m decent!”

”Ha ha! It’s only Nikki. You left your handbag outside.”

Nikki begins to remove makeup and showers ready to start over again.

I finish off with the makeup.

Knock knock. “It’s room service.”

But it sounds a lot like Billie so I just open the door.

With makeup and no wig I know I look a little like a clown without the red nose.

I look a little odd even with the wig, I know.

We agree to meet Billie and Laura in the bar.

Jewellery.

Dress.

Hair.

Shoes.

I head for the bar while Nikki continues with the makeup.

Billie and Laura are (well at least Billie is) watching Leeds play against St Helens. A big rugby league match. The TV set is muted though so we can talk as Billie watches.

There are two other people in the bar who pay us no attention.

The girl at the bar asks “What would you like to drink?”

“A white wine. Do you have a Chardonnay?”

“Ooooo you slut” giggles the lady rugby spectator.

Perhaps rugby union spectators are more gentlemanly? Well, the male ones at any rate.

We sit and talk rugby a little.

And t-shirts. Nail polish. Dresses.

Nikki arrives.

Leeds beat St Helens.

We move to a table in the restaurant area and order some food. Tastes varying from burgers to swordfish.

Nikki and Laura:

Billie and Andrea:

Guess who?

Another tgirl is eating in the restaurant. Her dress is quite short … maybe too short to be bending so far over the buffet table like that.

After the food it’s back to get changed for the short trip across the road. Nikki kinda likes photos in the hotel corridor. And so …

Those straps keep on dropping down:

Decisions, decisions.

Black dress or skirt? Stockings or tights?

And so, back in the corridor all transformed.

 

 

 

Laura had almost worn dress several times before. It’s very transparent. She managed the transparency pretty well … bit it is a little on the short side.  Cute legs though, don’t you think?

A short walk across the road and there we are.

In we go.

I see Nikki collecting what looks like some sweets from a jar attached to the wall.

I like Pink Punters a lot. The kind of place where people can be different without worrying about being hassled. You can be who you want to be. You can be who you are.

It’s fairly quiet early in the evening.

As time passes we talk and dance. And it’s a nicxe place to sit and watch people.

We talk to a girl that is in the process of becoming a full time girl. Medical appointments and things on the horizon. She explains that most people already know, apart from at work. In about six months time she will become a girl at work as well. She talks about the hopes and fears that go with all of that. She knows it’s not going to be an easy journey.

When I go to the bar to buy a drink the girl always calls me “babe”. It’s quite cute, so long as you don’t associate “babe” with “piglet” too closely. She has a painful leg … football (soccer) injury sustained on Friday. The girl sitting at the bar plays rugby, but prefers football.

A whole group of people are wearing white t-shirts with lots of messages written on them.

A few sit at the table next to us.

“Happy birthday Harry” I read on the back of the guy sitting just to the side of me.

I lean to the side.

“Are you Harry?”

“Yes …”

“Happy birthday!”

“Thanks … how did you know I was Harry?”

I explain it’s more a case of writing on the back than psychic talents.

Christian sits beside me and we chat a while. His girlfriend, Leandra, is sitting just opposite.

He’s impressed that my wife copes with the concept of Andrea so well and encourages me to buy her a big bunch of flowers and a holiday to the Bahamas. Leandra says she wouldn’t mind a trip to the Bahamas as well.

Sam sits beside me … he’s Harry’s partner. Tomorrow he gets to meet Harry’s parents for the first time and is a little nervous about it.

Simon says hello.

A little later on the dance floor he invites me for a bop.

The Pink Punters photographer is taking pictures.

 

We leave at a little after 4:00 am.

Next morning Nikki breaks the bad news to me that I snore. Or at least, breathe heavily whilst asleep.

Of course, I know this already.

She says it was lucky that she picked up the earplugs at the nightclub.

So, the jar wasn’t a jar of sweets, it was a jar of earplugs.

A really nice evening!

Lima, Tambopata, Cusco, Machu Picchu and Miami

Things have been drifting along over the past few weeks.

We spent a family holiday in Peru. One of those “it might be the last ones we manage to take together” kind of events.

I’m a bit of an oddity in our household. As well as being the only transvestite …so long as you discount the fact that Sally and both my daughters sometimes wear trousers … I’m also the only one that would generally rather spend a relaxing few days at home rather than go through the rigmarole of packing, spending hours and hours and hours travelling, unpacking etc etc etc.

As Peru approached … or at least as mid August approached … there were moments when I questioned my sanity. In re-reading about “day 2 of the Inca trail” it was hard to remember what it was that ever convinced me that this was a good idea.

The flight was scheduled to leave Heathrow early on a Wednesday morning. It meant setting the alarm for 4:00 am. Good practice for the days ahead.

The night before was a TV Dinner.

My cunning plan was to pack everything the night before the TV dinner. Breeze along to the dinner. Sleep for a few hours. Wake up. Travel to the airport.

You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men? Come Monday I realise that  tgirls are not immune from this syndrome.

Emailed apologies and Tuesday night sees me packing and unpacking and packing suitcases. A little on the irritable side of grumpy.

In a sense, only a a few small pieces of Andrea gets to go to Peru. Things like girlie jeans, panties, finger and toenails, perfume.

In another sense, all of Andrea gets to be there as well since all of Andrea is me.

Wednesday August 12th sitting at the airport in Madrid waiting for the connecting flight to Lima and my mobile begins to ring.

I look at it.

It’s work.

I press “Ignore this call”.

A couple of minutes later … a text message.

I have voicemail.

I listen to it … and phone work feeling glad that the European Union recently forced mobile phone companies to reduce the rates that they charge for calls within Europe. Calls now cost only a small fortune.

On the flight to Lima we get to fill out a form asking if we have recently had a fever, a headache, a cough … I don’t know of anyone that admitted to this.

At Lima airport people are giving out information leaflets about Swine flu. A few, though hardly any, are wearing face masks.

We spend a few days in the rain forest … a 3 hour boat trip from Puerto Maldonado along the Tambopata river. The lodge is lovely. The lack of hot water not so bad as I expected it to be. Hot and humid. The nights might be cold we are told … maybe even as low as 16 degrees … Centigrade.

We see caimans, capybara, spiders, parakeets, trees, plants, the jungle from all kinds of angles.

Walking is an activity that makes me glow. A bright shining kind of glow. 

I empathise with the author of this: http://trichallenge.wordpress.com/2007/08/20/“horses-sweat-men-perspire-ladies-merely-glow…”-or-why-proverbs-are-complete-tosh/

After a pleasant few days of perspiration we fly to Cusco.

At 3,310 metres it’s quite a bit higher than the jungle.

A few pleasant days acclimatising and we board the bus that takes us to the 82Km starting pint of the Inca Trail. That’s 82Km from Cusco … the walk from here to Machu Picchu is about 42km.

Day 1 and all is well. No problems.

Apart from sleeping in a tent and having no showers.

The guides are great, though. Miguel explains that you can spot the “real” travellers in Machu Picchu as opposed to the ones that got there by train. It’s all a matter of fragrances.

Day 2 is in three parts.

Part 1 is fine.

Part 2 … the walk to Dead Woman’s Pass … at 4,210m this is the highest point in the journey. At the start of the day we were 1.2Km lower.

It was steep.

I have fond memories of thinking … if I had a voodoo doll of Sally … the plotter of this whole adventure … and a couple of pins …

Maybe they’ll rename the place Dead TGirl’s Pass?

Rolando, the assistant guide is assisting whoever is at the back.

Which is me.

Very patiently he walks along and we talk.

Sit down.

Walk

Sit down.

Walk.

The proportion of time spent sitting down is increasing.

“Let me take your rucksack”.

I only take a little convincing.

And then my younger daughter arrives … having walked back from the top.

She takes my rucksack and we continue.

I’m walking four times further than she and Rolando … crisscrossing from one side of the path to the other.

Approaching the top, Miguel waves me on.

Now it’s a mere 800 or so metres back down the other side.

And I missed noticing the outline of the mountains that looks like a dead woman. Rolando explains that all you can see from this angle is the boobies.

Day 3 is easier … but a lot of downhill and very sore toes.

Julia asks me if living in a household where everyone else is a girl  has made me more “feminine”. Oh yes … definitely … I smile.

A campsite with a bar!

Day 4 is a very early start and a brisk … for me at any rate … walk to Machu Picchu.

The walk was hard work for both myself and Sally. The daughters found it a snip … hardly a glow and not much heavy breathing.

The sights … spectacular. The history interesting.

Back to Cusco.

My fingernails are torn at the tips … so with … only a a liiitle weeping and gnashing of teeth I cut them back.

Lima.

Miami. Thirteen hours at Miami airport.

I am amazed how long it takes to get through passport control at Miami airport.

And that the old green visa waiver form still has to be completed even though it also has to be filled out online before the trip. The one that asks if you are carrying a firearm or if you are a spy and other interesting kind of questions. It doesn’t ask about coughs, headaches or fevers.

Heathrow.

Windsor.