My friend paula let me know that one of her nieghbors might be searching for a subletter. It was kind of uncertain. Would he go? When would he go? I went to look at a flat in Lewisham that day and agreed to rent it because it was the first place that would have me and because it had many advantages.
Then, i got a call about the subletting thing. It’s an entire flat, right by the tower bridge, for not much more than i was going to pay for a room to the south. The location is astonishingly good. The rent – given the location – is astonishingly reasonable.
So, despite that i have to be out of brum <em>tomorrow</b> and despite having given a small deposit to the lewisham landlord and etc etc etc, i went this morning to look at the tower bridge flat. And i told the guy yes and even left some stuff there, but i am completely uncertain now that i’ve stepped away.
Whatever i do at this point, i’m flaking on somebody. I should have told him that i would let him know in the morning, but the timing is insane and i’m not exactly military-grade when it comes to dealing with pressure. So i said yes, but now i don’t know and i need to know by tomorrow morning, because i’m going to rent a station wagon and i should have an idea to where i’m driving it. Also, if i flake on tower bridge guy, i need to let him know that before he goes to the bank and sets up the direct deposit.
So, lewisham is not as central. The tower bridge is unthinkably, i-can’t-believe-it central. I say i want to do urban living, and that often means one bedroom flats in big buildings. It means taking the dog to a park and not having a garden. It means, often, living alone.
I’ve never had a hoisemate/ living situation ever get quite as disfunctional as the one i’m leaving. I’ve never lived alone either. Alone would be an improvement, for certain. I don’t want to get all Bridget Jones, but i do wonder sometimes: if i died suddenly, would anyone even notice? I mean, i certainly don’t want to suddenly keel over dead, but if i do, i don’t want to think my corpse would go undiscovered for very long. I mean, my dog will need to go for a walk. So, alas, i’m kind of afraid of living alone.
I kind of want a garden, despite my urban affectations. Also, the lewisham landlord’s daughter makes extra cash dog sitting. I would likely not need to find a kennel in july. I would have housemates. A huge, sunny room, a garden, another dog to keep mine company. And no gap.
The tower bridge guy is not leaving until next weekend. Paula has recwntly torn her living room to bits. She’s in no mood for me + dog + girlfriend. However, its what there is. Or a hotel. Or camping on a hastily planned bike trip while my maps are packed someplace.
So living right next to Paula would be awesome, as i’m very fond of her. Otherwise, i’m about 30 – 40 minites away. And my commute to school is also lenngthened. Or i could have an awesome location for an amount only slightly beyond my budget. With no dog sitting. No garden. No idea where i will spend tuesday night.
Also, i’ve been stealth with tower bridge guy. I can say that documents say ‘miss’ because of confusion around my name. But if he sees my passport or something . . .. In addition to everything else, i was stressing about this too.
What would you give up for location? This whole move is about location. About trying to be in the middle of things. But also about trying to find community and feel less alone.
I’m stumped. I have 12 hours. I’m a terrible flake.
Category: Uncategorised
Glad to be Leaving
I actually have no idea why the bill for gas and electricity is so large, but now I know why it came to a name that I don’t recognize. It used to be in the name of one of my housemates. The guy that moved out (thank god). When he moved out, he didn’t tell anyone. I finally asked his sister weeks later and she confirmed that he was gone, although I was pretty sure that’s what had happened when I saw that the TV and all the toilet brushes disappeared.
When he left, he changed the bills to be under a fictitious name. And didn’t tell anybody, except possibly his sister, what name to look for. So last week, I saw a letter from the electric/gas company addressed to an unknown name, and realized that I had given no money to either company in quite a long time. I opened it and it alerted me that the gas and power was going to be shut off in a few days time unless we sent them money. A lot of money. The bill is incredibly high.
I called the company and asked if it possibly dated from before we moved in. They refused to discuss anything with me unless I faxed in a copy of my tenancy agreement. I couldn’t not get them to agree to delay shutting things off, even. So I did that and they promised to send a revised bill and have not done so.
And then I started talking to my housemates. The sister refused to pay anything and demanded to know why I had called them. (Personally, I think of it as kind of a disaster when power and gas get shut off, but I’m also the sort of person who replaces lightbulbs. Indeed, I’m the only person in this house who replaces lightbulbs.) She claimed the electric company was lying about the amount that we owed. We had already paid bills for the time covered under that bill, when it was in her brother’s name. I asked if she could produce copies of these bills, as that would surely help resolve any disputes. She got suddenly very shouty and defensive.
There was an interesting phrase on the bill. It said it was extremely accurate because they had sent somebody around to read the meter. Apparently, the previous bills all said they were the amount that the residents had called up to report.
Now, this is pure speculation on my part, drawn from conjecture and partially remembered rants of my very ranty ex-housemate, but what I suspect is that he was calling them up every month with invented numbers on the meter. Then he switched it to a name unconnected with him and hoped that nothing would get shut off before his sister moved out.
How much is the bill? Less than my monthly rent in London is going to be, but not much less.
The gas/electric company promised to send something within the week, when I explained that we were all about to move and I needed to see something in writing to present to my housemates or else I would get stuck with the whole thing. They made false promises about mailing things.
There’s false promises and duplicity all around. And I’m going to get stuck with the entire bill. Because the only way I’m getting any money out of the lying weasel or his sister is going to be to take them to court. And the whole process will certainly involve a wall of manic shouting from both of them. I have more financial capital than emotional capital. I can pay money and make the stress go away.
I was joking earlier that the vibe living here made me pine for the good old days of a disintegrating marriage. Truly I have cursed myself to an expensive divorce.
Yay! I have a room in London!
Today, I exchanged money for a key to a house in Lewisham, London. I have a gigantic room that looks out on a garden. The garden is magnificently overgrown. Somebody planted many lovely flowers several years ago and then it’s been neglected for years, so the flowers grow and twine in glorious tumult. The room has tile floors. It’s kind of echo-y, but that will improve as I move my stuff in. It’s large enough that I will be able to set up my gear and have enough room left over that I think I’m going to try to freecycle a couch.
I found the room via Outlet, a gay flatmate-finding service. I don’t know if the owner is queer herself or not, but she’s part of that community in that she makes costumes for drag queens. She’s off to some week long festival in Scotland to work with a drag troupe. She also has a gigantic german shepherd (alsatian). Xena get along famously with the other dog. And the owner’s daughter is willing to make pocket money dogsitting, so it seems I won’t have to find a kennel when I go to that States in July.
Lewisham is in the south east of London. South of the Themes is not considered as hip as north, but I’m not hip. This room is big and the rent is less than my mortgage used to be, so I’m happy. After I let the room, I walked into the center of Lewisham. There was a market going on, which was unremarkable except that a march came through it. There was a guy with a bullhorn and some chanting people and another guy with a trumpet, who would play a lick in between the chant lines. The chant lines didn’t change, so neither did the lick. He played the same 3 or 4 (out of tune) notes over and over and over again. I thought it was weird just on the basis of that, but then as they approached, it turned out that they were doing publicity for a faith healer. Friday night!
Is this every friday night? Is this a one time thing? How do you get 50+ people to march around chanting and handing out pamphlets for a faith healer? As entertaining as this spectacle was, it was also kind of alarming as highly-motivated Christians don’t tend to get on well with my people.
Nearly everyone marching was black. The rest of the market was mixed. After they went by, the commentary among the spectators was amusing. They mostly seemed confused, actually. I’ve always thought of faith healers as an American phenomenon. Some of the commenters were clearly unfamiliar with the concept and not exactly open to it.
The area has a very Oakland-like vibe in general. Including both diversity and snark! I went to a nifty diner and chatted with some people there.
I went to see two other flats on Saturday. The landlords for them were also really cool. I hope I can keep in contact with them. I had two more to see, but canceled, since I’ve got this room.
So I’m going to be moving in the next week.
I might as well be trying to move to Mars
I’ve called or emailed more than 30 landlords. I’ve called 10 or 15 letting agents. I’ve seen two flats, both of which silently rejected me. I’ve got an appointment to see one more. My existing rental contract runs out in 10 days.
The most productive conversation I had today was with a letting agent that suggested I give Xena away. Right. I’m going to give up my loving companion so I can have a shitty studio.
Brits have a reputation for being a nation of dog lovers. But when I think about it, the only people who say that are, themselves, British. No foreigner ever remarks on how beloved pets are. In fact, most Brits seem to be afraid of dogs. If they’re not afraid of being bitten, they’re afraid of some other, unspecified evil. Dogs smell bad. They shed. They might chew things. They might spontaneously burst into flame and destroy the entire neighborhood as they run around setting it on fire.
French people – they love dogs. The Dutch are fond of dogs. Brits? They wet themselves in terror. Which should not be surprising as that seems to be their response to anything slightly out of the ordinary. I cannot believe that these are the same people who beat the Nazis. I think that evil Nazi scientists must have introduced a mutation into the British gene pool which causes a general inability to cope with anything.
I don’t know why I think it would be better to live in London than Brum. It will still be in this fucking country. Sure, they have the NHS and Doctor Who and an active squat scene, but just because their infrastructure is slightly less dismantled than US infrastructure . . . well, I mean, at least America is full of Americans. We might be all a bunch of fucking cowboys, but cowboys can cope with shit. Also, cowboys like dogs.
My budget for a studio is now greater than my mortgage payments were for my house in Berkeley. And I probably won’t find anything. I’ll be lucky to find anything even if I stay in Brum. It was only a fluke that I got this place and it’s sort of falling apart and it’s the best that I’ll ever be able to do in this fucking little country.
Edit: 21 June 2008
I deeply regret any pro-cowboy comments that I’ve made.
NHS endo
I’ve just talked to an endocrinologist in a british hospital. The hospital, Birlingham City Hospital is a newish building. It has large windows and an airy, almost pleasant interior. There is a large central atrium in the center of the outpatient wing. This is part of a shared waiting area. It’s almost like cafe. Food and drink are available.
I arrived early for my appointment, as directed and checked in and waited. The receptionist asked where the patient was. “I’m the patient.” She double checked everything and aplogized. Later, when a nurse called me, she also double checked my name and address. The NHS has me listed as “Miss Celeste.” My efforts to change this have, so far, failed, alas.
The endo’s assistant asked me a bunch of questions and sort of hinted at scary things that can go wrong on T. Blindness?!? Um, not that I’ve noticed.
The endo then came around to talk to me and ordered a million blood tests and said his assistant would write a letter telling my GP to prescribe sustanon, which is the form of T given to transmen in Europe. I can do it every 3 weeks instead of every 2. Huzzah. I’m to return in 6 months for a follow up.
He ordered 17 blood tests, so now I’m now waiting to have my blood drawn. The tests are for various hormones, cholesterol, glucose levels, things that I don’t recognize. Gods help me if they have to take 17 vials. I’m using that blood!
Anyway, the hospital is clean and bright and airy. I’ve also been to a hospital in france, alas, and this is altogether more pleasant. But that was Paris’ “worst” hospital, so maybe this isn’t a fair comparison.
Seeking London Lodging
I’m currently combing the internets looking at flatmate listings for London. I hope to find LGBT-friendly folks someplace fairly central that will take my dog and I for £110/week or less. This is more than double what I’m paying now and I’ll have to also ride trains a lot more. And yet, it’s still definitely on the low end of what’s out there. I have faith, though. Somebody will be taken with my dog or that I have a recipe for cactus chili (somebody was recently kind of amazed when I talked about eating prickly pear leaves, so you never know).
My queer-focussed ad says:
I’m a 32 year old ftm looking for London housing starting by July 1. I’ve been transitioning for about 6 months. Before that I was a dyke. I’m a post-grad student, with a dog. She’s an 8 year old lab mix. Friendly but reserved. She is old and spends all her indoor time sleeping and would not require any attention from you. She gets on very well with other dogs and has lived well with cats before (she’s overly curious at first, but soon returns to her sleepy state).
I’m looking for a home with some communal space and queer or queer-friendly housemates. I’m from California originally and like to think of myself as relaxed and easy to get on with. I’ve spent the last 3 years abroad and plan to live in England for the next 2 or 3 years while getting my PhD. I like to play music, but I’m not loud. I don’t mind if you are.
Feel free to contact me at celesteh@gmail.com or to pass along my information to your friends who need a housemate.
I really don’t want to have to be stealth in my home. Some of my mail gets addressed to Miss or Ms. I recently told my cable company representative that my bank had mistakenly listed me as “miss” because they thought I had a girl’s name. This story is apparently believable – different cultures/countries do gender names differently, but it wouldn’t explain why my former landlords were all using the wrong pronouns. So I don’t know how much choice I have about being out – not that I want to live in fear of being found out.
Part of what was nice about being in Holland is that I was kind of just a regular person again for a while. It would be nice to be like that more of the time.
I’m in Brum
I got to the ferry terminal before 9:00AM on Sunday. The check-in supervisor agreed to check in my dog then. She gave me a hard time about the dog having two chips and her rabies certification. At the time, I was alarmed that there might be an issue with getting on the boat, but I think the woman was just annoyed and wanted to give me a hard time.
I was super, super, super grateful. I expected to be told no or to have to pay a high last-minute fare, but neither of those things happened. Apparently, I had a very flexible ticket. So, it was with great joy that I learned I could get on the boat and wouldn’t have to buy a new ticket. Huzzah.
Checking in to the ferry means biking up to the check in booth where you present your travel documents and receive a cabin key. If you have a dog, they have a chip reader you must use. Then you bike up to the Dutch border patrol who inspect your passport and give you an exit stamp. The agent frowned at my passport and turned to her coworker and explained in Dutch that the picture looked like me, but the passport seemed to say I was a woman. There was obviously some kind of problem! She turned to me. “I’m transsexual.” I said in English. She asked if I had any documentation proving that. I offered to show her my testosterone ampoules. “You must have this problem with your passport a lot.” she said. Actually, a panhandler had called me “mevrouw” in the train station that morning. The agent looked shocked. How could anybody think that?! She let me on the boat. “Have a good trip, sir!”
One advantage of biking onto a ferry is that immigration at Harwich is not nearly as awful as immigration at the airport. I think this is partly because there are not conveniently located holding pens. If detaining somebody is really easy, then they’re more likely to do it. If it requires leaving your booth, finding a supervisor, etc etc etc, well, it’s too much trouble. I was barely hassled at all. Alas, the gender marker on my passport was not any kind of an issue.
But the problem with biking onto ferries is that they’re really meant for cars. Especially the daytime ferries. I was the only biker at all. I biked over to the train station to discover that no trains were running. I talked to somebody. “What train were you planning on catching?” she asked. Um. I wouldn’t think it would be making too much of an assumption that you could just get off one of the twice daily ferries and then get on a train at the attached train station. That’s just crazy talk! Finally a bus came by and refused to take me unless I folded everything. He came back for me an hour later. I’ve now been all over East Anglia by bus. It’s lovely country. Narrow country roads. Rolling farmland. Pretty little pubs. Bed and breakfasts. We went from tiny shut-down rail station to tiny shut-down rail station where nobody got on or off the bus.
We finally rolled in to a working station. I asked for an itinerary from the agent. “You can’t get there tonight.” he said. I could get as far as London, which my ticket specifically didn’t cover. Note to travellers: do not buy tickets between Brum and Harwich which say “not London” for the route, as such a route does not exist. The agent said I couldn’t go that way. I whined. He relented.
I called Paula and explained my predicament. She was not exactly thrilled. She had to go to work in the morning. I whined. She relented. It was a warm night at midnight, when I stood ringing her doorbell. I pondered pitching a tent on the grass in her courtyard. Presumably, the neighbors would complain. I kept ringing the doorbell. Mine wouldn’t wake me up either, actually. But hers finally did and she let me in.
The next morning, after peak hours on the train had passed, I biked across London to the cheaper station to Brum. My ticket still said “not London” and as I was on the second day of using it, I was not entirely sure about it. The station agent didn’t want to let me past the fare gates. I whined. He relented. Note to travellers: when facing disasters in the UK, try whining.
I called Eric, who had my keys. He was at school. So after my train came in, I biked to school from the train station. Brum is hilly once you get off the canal path. Also, all my stuff for gigging + bike touring stuff + dog. I got to school and drank some water and got my keys and then went home where I put on clean clothes. I desperately wanted a shower after sweating so much, but Nicole’s train (from the airport where she arrived that same morning) was past due. I just wanted to wear socks that hadn’t been worn for three days previous.
Nicole was not pleased at my lateness, but I whined and she relented. It took me voer 24 hours to get home. I’ve flown inter nationally and made train connections, etc and been home faster. Every time I try to cross the UK, something goes horribly wrong or near wrong. Also, biking down Oxford street really sucks.
People I would like to thank: Kendra for letting me sleep on her futon unexpectedly (and lending me a SIM card), Paula for letting me sleep at her apartment unexpectedly, Eric for being around with my keys.
I missed my fucking boat
I thought i was supposed to check in at 22:00, so i came at 21:48 to give my self a few minutes.
The people behind the desk wouldn’t even acknowledge that i was pounding alarmedly on the door. Finally, i saw a police van and they told me i was too late. The boat sails at 22:00. It was 21:55. She said she was sorry.
If i can check in to a boat tomorrow before 10:13, i can still take xena. Otherwise, i can’t go until tuessday because she will need to be re-treated for ticks. Not that there’s any poasibility of her having any. But the re-treatment will be bad for her health.
Fuc fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Now i’m on train back to den haag that i couldn’t even buy tickets for because the fucking macjine at the ferry terminal only takes coins or dutch cards.
Nicole, eric has my keys. I will email you his phone number when i get to kendra’s house and can get some juice in my phone.
I knew i would fuck this up somehow. Fucking god fucking damn it. Fuck, i have a dr appointment. I’m such a fucking idiot.
Plans? What are they?
So, today i was supposed to leave on an overnight bike trip, but my bike buddy cancelled. Her thesis defense suddenly got rescheduled. Ouch. She encouraged me to carry on alone. Ive been considering that advice, but since I have a semi-monastic existance in England, Im not really looking for more alone time right now, so Im in Amsterdam.
Im staying again with Petra and Erika and Suzane et al. I havent yet blogged about their house. I want to describe it as Eden. Its completely idyllic. Next to the Vondelpark on Overtoom. All of the housemates are good friends. They seem to be good friends with all of their neighbors. Everyone walking by seems insanely friendly. I talk to the dog people. And they have a garden. With apple trees (oand figs and kiwis).
But, its not Eden, as the house cat will not lie down with my dog. (I think they would, if given more time.) But its better than Eden. The tree of knowledge is up for grabs. The people that live here are academics, activists, musicians. Also, (I think I mentioned this before) they have a poster of Buck Angel in the bathroom. Innocence is overrated.
The building is a former police station, which was squatted several years ago and became legalized. In the basement, there are still two jail cells left, one of which has the original door. It is a small cement space with no natural light. The door has a lot of locks on it. Petra offered to lock me in, but I declined. I dont want induce anxiety!
Whatever bad mojo the building may have once possesed has long since been cleansed. Its lovely. The people are lovely. I used to dream of having some sort of hippie commune, with a combination of shared and private spaces. Where people shared resources and worked together at happy communal living. Its very gratifying to see a successful model.
Its also interesting that its decended from a squat. I think what I want to do when I get to London is find a studio to work in and rent that, to keep my gear and to work away from where I live. And I think I want to squat some living space. Theres a queer squatter movement around Europe. A lot of people talk about how the squat scene has declined. But, I mean, I think the solution for that is to get more active!
This house shows how something oppositional can be vibrant and be integrated into the community, to create beauty and vibrance without gentrification. If given resources, people will create their own solutions to social problems. Squatting is a resource to communities.
The Last Day
Evaluation
So on the last day to the ETC, we started out with an evaluation. It was a big love-in. “I love you guys! You’re all so great!” It was a nice, positive vibe. There was some discussion about privacy and posting images from the con and some also about possibly having some equipment or an organization. The stream was constantly screwed up, so maybe an org should buy a computer for streaming instead of trying to recycle junk computers into a stream machine every time?
Aileen spoke up about how she was happy that there was no organization and it was all kind of ad-hoc. She talked about how people could just do things and it would all fit in some how. She said that since people wanted me to come, they had just changed the policy on who could come and that was that. An organization might be limiting.
I felt all warm and fuzzy. Aw, they really do like me! I’d spent the whole week feeling awkward about whether I was really meant to be there. Was I intruding? Were people annoyed by me? Was it all in my head? When people shortened “women and gender minorities” to “women” what did that imply for my presence? Aileen’s statement was not contradicted at all. Clearly my nervousness had been in my perceptions only! I felt pretty good and thanked people for letting me come.
That was a weird thing to do.
Beach
Then, we rode the train north to the the dunes and walked several km to the beach. It was a bit cold and cloudy, but still very nice. The beach had a strange, thick foam. We sat out and picnicked. Some people tried to swim in the frigid, foamy north sea. After a while, we moved to a cafe where we drank tea and hot coca and beer. It was on the beach, but had glass set up to obstruct the wind, but not the view. Some ETC people starting climbing up the outside and juggling and otherwise being silly. I laughed so hard my sides are still sore.
It started to rain, so we went back to A’dam. Some of us went to a benefit dinner for migrants. A few others, including me, went to get stuff from our space, with a vague promise of dinner.
The Discussion
There was no dinner. Instead there was a lot of discussion about the future of ETC. I felt really uncomfortable during it because it talked a lot about trans issues. Some of the people there felt like there should have been discussion before the definition of who was to come was changed.
What I was thinking at the time was, “I’ve only been transitioning for a few months. I’m not fully secure with it. Anything talking about this is like poking a fresh wound. I want to be proud of who I am and my queer identity, but I still feel sad that I failed at being a woman. I really tried to make it work, but couldn’t.”
I don’t have a clear memory of everything that was said. Because unless somebody is saying something like Aileen said, it feels like poking a wound. In fact, some of the things said were transphobic. It mostly wasn’t personal (it never is), but I felt terrible afterwards.
Right now, my inclination is that I will not go to another ETC event. Last year was really the last time I went into a gendered space as a woman and it was so positive and the contacts that I made so valuable, that I had hoped I could still participate. Part of my pre-transition identity really had a lot to do with being in a certain kind of gendered space: feminist spaces where variance is welcome. ETC was the perfect combination: feminism, tech, green, free culture. All these progressive elements have synergy and it was so wonderful to be around others making the same connections.
A generation ago, there was worry that lesbians would somehow mess up feminism. Now it’s transgender people. C’est la vie. I’ll do my own sort of gender liberation, you do yours. I’m in search of a community. God knows where I can find it.
The Party
So, feeling like shit, I started biking towards a drag party. At least I can do drag, right? Or something. I was really feeling low wondering how I will ever be able to have a coherent sense of self if I have to pick between my own gender and the political issues that I see as so vital. Part of what motivated me to transition was that guys a few years out say that they don’t really have to think about gender anymore. It’s something that for years now, I’ve had to think about all the time. Now my hopes to be able to move on to something else seemed to be doomed. I wanted to just keep biking forever and not stop.
But I did stop and there was a sign on the door which said, “you are now entering a gender-free zone.” Well, that’s a positive development. I paid my cover and went to get a beer and one of my (awesome) hosts was behind the bar dressed as a pirate! She took me around backstage where I painted on a goatee. There were people in all kinds of drag. Butch women in dresses. People presenting some female drag items paired with some male drag items. Hairy cleavage. Goatee and eye makeup. Every kind of genderfuck. I started feeling better.
There was a burlesque show / drag show / comedy show / whatever fun thing. Dykes, bis, trannies, queers. It was awesome. Afterwards there was dancing. This being amsterdam, there was also more booze and more pot and it was totally awesome.
And suddenly, instead of being some irreconcilable fringe character, I’m all sexy and cool. Girls were after me!
I’m in puberty right now, for the second time. It’s cool, but it’s still weird. I haven’t been feeling especially attractive. But there, suddenly, people wanted to kiss me! I was out dancing and being drunk and stupid until the sun came up.
The Next Day
I went to help clean the bar. I was supposed to help clean the ETC space, but the bar also needed cleaning. And I had happier feelings about it. There were people I really wanted to see while doing ETC cleanup, but my last conversations there had sucked so much.
So I got things out of going to ETC this time, but I think it was a lot about seeing people I had met before and being in a country that I want to return to. And being in queer spaces that were just coincidental to ETC.
I don’t know anything about anything. I kind of like being foreign, obviously, or I would move home. But, I guess that’s a broad category of experiences and some are great and some are not. I was thinking of trying to play on the Ladyfest circuit, but right now, I’m wary of it. Part of being foreign is creating communities of outsiders, of expats, of artists, of queers. I felt it sometimes in ETC, with some people. Some folks there were awesome.
I need something right now. English isolation = not so great. Somebody in the discussion of doom suggested that I start a group. I guess I have to.
Anyway, that’s the last about ETC. I’m ready to move on and feel some complexities some place else. Maybe in music. I’m supposed to be a composer.