New Flat!

First of all, I loved my old room in the co-op. The kitchen was chaotic and had moths and rodents and finally kittens, but the people were lovely. Having 18 housemates meant that it never got lonely, even if it occasionally was loud at times I wanted to be asleep. However, Sonia and I wanted to do the heteronormative couple-y thing and got a flat together.

It’s the newly-renovated top floor of a Victorian house, just around the corner form my previous room. The landlord just converted a single family home into three smaller flats. As far as I can tell we’re the first (not related to him) tenants in the house. Clues include the smell of paint and that I cannot seem to locate a phone jack anywhere in the flat.

We moved in and the management agent gave us two sets of keys to the house a a key to a meter. Well, sort of. When the removal van finally showed up and got all of my worldly possessions to to my new flat at 6pm on Friday, it emerged that the keys they gave me do not actually open the door. I tried calling the letting agency and the property manager, but they’d all gone home for the weekend. So I told the mover to leave all my stuff on the pavement outside the flat and then I waited for Sonia to get home. Thank goodness it wasn’t raining.

My American readers may be wondering why one would need a key to a meter. Remember reading Pygmalion in high school? Eliza Doolittle went home to her room and put an extra penny in the heater because the professor had overpaid her for her flowers. It all seemed so terribly Victorian that you would have a meter that you needed to put pennies into before you could run your heat. Well, they never quite got rid of this system in England, just updated it. Now it’s a fob system. Somebody gives you a ‘key.’ You take the key to a corner shop – the kind of store that mostly sells cheap alcohol to adults and magazines and candy to kids. You hand them the key and some cash (really, cash only) and they add money to the key. Them, when you get home, you stick the key in your meter and it will allow you to spend exactly that much money. Imagine if you were running it a bit tight on the electric bill. Under this system, your power might be cut a few days before every pay day. The bonus is that you don’t need to pay extra to turn it back on. The downside is that all your food spoils. Plus you get to pay loads more than middle class people get with their normal power bills. The Victorians were masters of screwing poor people. When conservatives in this country speak of ‘Victorian values’ they do so with nostalgic pride, not the deep shame the phrase deserves.

So I went down to the Londis and put all of my cash on the key and went back to the flat and looked everywhere for the meter. It was Saturday and the property manager was having his day off. I was slightly concerned that the power might turn off at any moment, but I had gig-related activities and anyway, there was no hot water and needed to find the boiler. Finally, I found a mysterious electrical switch in the bathroom and turned it on. There was a gurgling behind the wall. Aha! This must be the boiler. Of course, it would need time to heat up. So we gave it time. And Then more time. It was sealed behind a wall. So I took a cold shower and was grateful it’s August.

Maybe I could just do a load of laundry in the mean time. Augh! Water everywhere!

Meanwhile, Sonia asked the guy downstairs if he had any insight and it turned out he was the landlord’s brother. He came up and used a pen knife to get open the bit of the wall with the boiler behind it and thus we discovered that whoever had redone the bathroom had thought it was a good idea to seal the boiler behind a wall, having first left it in the ‘off’ position. So we waited again for it to heat up. Also, the power meter was located. In the basement flat, which is rented by yet another guy. So, we need to put money on the card, then knock on the door of the guy living in the basement, hope he’s home and charge up our power. Obviously, this will not do, so today Sonia rung up the power company and had a series of confusing conversations with them. And a series of conversations with the property manager. It gradually and painfully emerged that the card we had been given was actually for the gas meter, which is also in the basement apartment, locked behind a door that even the man who lives in the basement does not have a key for. So the reason we’ve got no hot water is because the gas meter was completely out of money. Meanwhile, the electric meter also has a key, which we don’t have. There was all of £3 left on the meter by the management company, so I’m just waiting for everything to turn off at any moment. Meanwhile, the guy in the basement has gotten extremely pissed off, as it took a few trips to his flat to figure out which meter was which and what’s going on.

Apparently, not having access to a gas valve is also something of a safety issue, but nevermind.

On the positive, I was able to arrange an appointment with the phone company to come and install internet and a phone line. In three weeks.

But at least there are no mice. And, this is not a phrase I’m ever likely to repeat, thank goodness the cooker is electric. And at least partly works

A summary of British lols for Americans

So Thatcher died. She was like Regan, but before he was cool. All of his stuff: ruining education, breaking unions, fucking the economy, closing factories forever, laying the ground work for our current financial collapse – she did it all first. This makes her kind of unpopular with people who were negatively effected by austerity. So they went onto itunes and other fine purveyors of mp3s and bought copies of Judy Garland singing ‘Ding Dong the Witch is Dead.’

Meanwhile at the BBC – an institution that does not have an equivalent in the US, but let’s pretend it’s like NPR . . .. Imagine if NPR played the top 40 countdown every week. And imagine if this song was being downloaded in response to Regan. Imagine the exploding heads on Fox News.

The BBC has played all the top40 tunes every week since 1967. There’s a tradition to uphold. Or something. But the Conservative party is in charge of government right now and austerity is all the rage, so no way are they playing the whole song. They’re just going to play a few seconds of it.
One difference between the US and the UK is that in the UK, the slightly-more-left party actually has a spine. And rather a lot of people spend their 99p downloading Ms. Garland and do represent some sort of voice of the people, in a late-capitalism kind of way.
So a debate rages – which 6 seconds of the song will they play??!!!
And meanwhile, as we’re all laughing at this, major cuts to poor people just came into force – city governments are predicting a tsunami of homlessness and have no idea what to do. And the privatisation of the NHS started less than two weeks ago. So while the Ding Dong thing really is hilarious, it’s like the flying monkeys have vowed to appoint a new leader and double down on the policies of the wicked witch of the west.
so, um, lol?

An Open Letter

Background information below.

Dear Madam or Sir,

I am writing to ask what trans-run or trans-lead organisations or campaigners you are collaborating with for your campaign to drive mobile billboards around the Daily Mail?

I am also writing to ask you to reconsider this campaign. While I broadly agree with your goals, this campaign is expensive and I think the money could be better spent elsewhere. Due to the effects of economic discrimination, most trans people in the UK are far from rich. Many struggle to meet normal expenses or those transition -related expenses that are not met by the NHS. Obviously, harassment from the Daily Mail makes the daily lives of many trans people that much harder and contributes to the economic discrimination they deal with, and it’s a good use of funds to fight this. However, because these funds are limited, it’s important to be judicious as to how they are spent. Existing community organisations like Trans Media Watch are already running campaigns around newspapers and other British media. They also have relationships with media organisations and MPs. Donating money to them would certainly go further than a short-lived publicity stunt involving mobile billboards.

Indeed, I wonder who the intended audience of the billboard campaign is. Surely the Daily Mail is already aware that they’re full of hate. After Leveson, Parliament is certainly also aware. I would think even the general public is broadly aware of this at the moment. Therefore, it seems this would most succeed in drawing attention to your own organisation rather than the problem at hand. And while I’m sure you’re a very worthy cause and have admirable values, again, I don’t think you should be asking trans people to pay for your advertising campaigns. Would you consider dropping the billboard idea and raising money for a pre-existing trans organisation instead, like TMW, GIRES, Press for Change or one of the many other advocacy or front-line groups that are dedicated to helping trans people or improving our lot politically?

I fear that most of your money will not come from tans people at all, but from those with a strong and commendable interest in being allies, who want to Do Something and feel good about themselves in the process. Again, this is not the most judicious way of directing those well-meant donations. Our allies can feel just as good about themselves if they give to an established, long-running, sustainable campaign that succeeds at meeting it’s goals as they would feel giving to this publicity stunt. Perhaps they might even feel better, as the organisation the decided to support keeps making progress, vs having only a fleeting feeling of do-gooding which dissipates quickly as the Daily Mail continues to be awful after your short billboard stunt ends.

Thank you for your time,
Dr. Charles Céleste Hutchins

I’m not linking to the fund raising campaign that I’m writing to because I would rather not send users to their site. Briefly, this group has decided to raise £5000 to ‘encircl[e] [the Daily Mail’s] headquarters with mobile billboards plastered with the stories of the people whose lives [they have] ruined.’ This is all related to the untimely and tragic death of Lucy Meadows. She was monstered by the press in general, and specifically her home town paper, but outrage has largely fallen on a Rush-Limbuagh-esque columnist named Richard Littlejohn who wrote some rather nasty things about Lucy a few months ago.
There was a candle-lit vigil in front of the Daily Mail headquarters on Monday in reaction to this. Accounts I’ve read say that a large number of cis people showed up to stand in solidarity. Indeed, at the last protest I went to that was in regards to how the media treats trans people, cis people also outnumbered trans people.
I see this absolutely as a positive thing. I’m very happy that we have allies standing with us and that outrages against us are drawing general outrage. However, as with any instance where one is acting as an ally, it’s important to remember that allies are necessarily present in a supporting capacity. This means listening to those with whom one is allied and letting them take the lead and decide the direction of things.
I strongly suspect the the US-based for-profit company running this fund-raising campaign has slightly overstepped the normal boundaries of being an ally and tried to move more into a leadership role. Indeed, as they are for-profit, what is their revenue model? It’s obvious that they, like every petition site, are harvesting our personal information to sell it. How much of the money their raising for this silly stunt are they keeping? How much is going to overhead? How much is allocated for graphic design? Who is doing the graphic design? Who is going to be included and excluded from this billboards? Who decides? Is this even a trans-specific campaign? What is their ultimate goal? To target DM advertisers? Subscribers? To get the paper to entirely re-think their content?
This is all a reminder to pause and think before donating on something, including rage-donations. These can be really powerful and positive, like in the case of Feminist Frequency. But in that case it was very easy to see where to donate. Because Meadows cannot tell us what she wants, we need to be wary of those purporting to speak for her or for the community in general. The most important thing in giving money is not that feeling you get upon having done so, but whether it actually goes to the goal you are trying to support. Are you helping the person targeted? Are you making lasting change? Alas, we can’t help Meadows and I don’t see how this could make lasting change.


Dear Editor,

I am writing in regards to your recent headline, HEARD THE ONE ABOUT A SEX SWAP MAN WHO REPLACED A FEMALE COMIC?.
The transgender comic involved in the story is not a man, but a woman, something which you seemed to be aware of when writing the story. Also using the term “sex swap” is derogatory. A better headline would have read, “Have you heard the one about the transgender woman who replaced another female comic?”
The rest of your article seem to be fine and it’s a shame that it had this headline attached. If you have any questions or are in need of advice when writing about transgender people in future, the website for Trans Media Watch has a section in order to advise journalists and editors.
Thank you for your time.

Here’s an article you can just rerun every few months

Trans People Exist!

Reports in today’s Daily Mail show that there are transgender people in Britain. Their reporters were able to discover that this phenomenon, which effects one in one thousand Britons, appears to be even spread throughout society.
“Some trans people are very old, some are very young and the majority are in between those extremes” said researcher Dr Smith, “Fully half of trans people are less than the median age! Most trans people over the age of 6 have attended school – or are currently doing so.”
“We also found that trans people come from all different races and social classes.” said Smith.
Due to social pressures, many trans people do not feel comfortable talking about their past to national news papers. “Go away and leave my family alone!” said one 45 year old trans person to the Daily Mail yesterday, speaking under condition of anonymity outside his home at 134 Passing Lane, Oxford E1Q 3GL, just around the corner form the Tescos Express.
Still, trans people may be anywhere in the country. “This appears to be random, like left handedness” said Beatrix Jones of Trans United. “There are trans people in cities and in rural areas, from the northernmost bit of Scotland down to the Isle of Wight.”
Jones explained that trans people also may take a variety of jobs from showgirl, to university professor to dustman to “anything you can think of” she said.
There is also diversity in how they establish their personal lives. Many trans people have romantic partners, although a significant portion are single. Also, researchers found that many trans people have children. “As the UK does not mandate sterilisation for trans people, some have become parents post-transition. Also, many trans people forgo any form of medical transition and just transition ‘socially'” said Smith.
“Trans people do have some specific needs, like the ability to live their life without media intrusion” said Jones, shutting her door in the reporter’s face.

Home From Hospital

The doctors had said I was going to be out “mid-morning,” so when it got to be afternoon, I asked the nurse what was going on. She explained that there’s only one pharmacist working in the hospital on Sundays. The ward didn’t have my antibiotic on hand. They only kept supplies of one I’m allergic to.
She came around again later to remove my de-pressurised drain. The right one had been gently coaxed from my side by a different nurse. But this one she took out all in one quick motion. It was quite a bit more uncomfortable than the right side, but everything on the left has been more uncomfortable. I remarked on the speed at which she removed it and she claimed there was less pain overall if it was done quickly. She also, finally, removed the IV line, which had been painfully poking me for the last few days. I couldn’t move my arm much without the needle n it restabbing me. It was such a relief to come out.
She came back again with a bag full of pill boxes and a letter. The pill boxes were all my prescriptions for pain killers and everything I had been taking while in hospital. They even included boxes of paracetamol (aka: Tylenol or acetaminophen).
The letter explained what procedures had been done and who had done them. There were also appointment letters for two outpatient followup appointments.
I asked the nurse if I should watch out for anything. She said I was going to be back so soon for a followup, that I really didn’t need to worry about anything. But if there was discolouration, then that would be something to lookout for.
I had texted Paula that I was being freed and I knew she was on her way, so I got dressed and walked over towards the nurse’s station to stand around. I was thinking of going outside and sitting there, but wanted to tell them where I would be, so they could direct Paula. However, by the time I got to the nurse’s station, I was feeling more tired, so they pulled me up a chair and then suggested I could go to the day room. So I went down the hall there, where two other patients were half passed out, watching Wimbledon. I have to confess that I don’t understand the popularity of tennis. Or golf. After sitting there for several minutes, I realised that what I really wanted was a nap, but I thought they might have made up or given away my bed, so I stayed where I was while Paula and Jara navigated the weekend engineering work on the tube system.
We went downstairs to the cafe and I had a bite and then got a cab from Tooting back to Wapping. The bouncing of the cab was extremely uncomfortable, but as there was nothing to be done for it, I didn’t complain. We got back and I very slowly climbed the two flights of stairs to Paula’s flat. It was a relief to be out of hospital and finally able to walk around a do things. However, things like pitchers of water turned out to be unexpectedly heavy. As I was getting ready for bed, I put a glass down on an unstable surface and made a grab for it with my left arm to catch it before it fell. Something in armpit pulled uncomfortably. I went to bed.
In the morning I woke up and stumbled towards the bathroom. I looked down at my left hip and saw some bruising. Funny I didn’t notice that when I was still in hospital. I splashed some water on my face and then realised it hadn’t been there when I was in hospital. I took off my binder to look at it, and it was a line of purple bruising from up in my armpit where the drain had been, all the way down to my hip.
I got the letter the hospital had given me and called the number on it and got the main hospital switchboard. I asked to speak to my surgeon and they put me through to her fax machine. Paula suggested that I call NHS direct, which is an advice nurse service run for the whole of the UK. The friendly nurse on that line suggested that I draw a line around the bruise and if it got worse, I should see a practice nurse or ring the hospital. Paula obligingly drew a line around it.
After a few hours, I asked if it was worse and she wasn’t sure. Some parts might have been darker, but there didn’t seem to be anything new. I took a nap. At dinner, I asked again if it was worse. Paula gasped, so I rung the hospital and asked to be connected with the ward in which I had spent the most time. The person who answered the phone told me I should go to a walk-in clinic, or if that was closed, I should go to an A&E (Accident and Emergency, aka the ER).
I hadn’t eaten in several hours, so I picked at my dinner for several minutes, trying not to panic and then we called a cab to go up to the Royal London Hospital, which is very close by. The receptionist there said the wait might be four hours long. The waiting room was packed and there was a chair shortage. I sat on the floor for a bit. They called me after only an hour wait.
The triage nurse phoned their plastic surgery department and asked what to do. The doctor advised that they give me a blood test to make sure I wasn’t haemorrhaging. When I had been in hospital, they had been giving me shots of blood thinner every night and I mentioned this to the nurse. He nodded and led me to a cubicle. Another nurse came to take my blood. He had to get something and while he was up, I saw a drunk man start hurling abuse at the triage nurse until security threw him out. Then another man started screaming at the guy who was to draw my blood, telling him to open a locked door. The nurse asked what was going on. The screaming man’s nephew had just died and he was distraught. Somebody else came along to talk to him, but the nurse was shaken to have been screamed at and needed a few moments to calm down. I suddenly realised why so many TV shows are set in hospitals.
He finally came to draw my blood and then went away for a while. He came back several minutes later and said the blood test had gone wrong because my blood had been mishandled and he needed more. I decided not to complain because there was already enough drama going on without my contributing. Fortunately, the second time was adequate.
After several more minutes a doctor came around and asked me a few more questions and said my haemoglobin numbers were good. He told me to call the plastic surgery department in Tooting in the morning and said the amount of bruising I had was not exceptional for an operation.
I started putting on my shirt and he threw open the curtain before I had gotten the first button fastened. I was momentarily exposed and ashamed and then I remembered that it doesn’t matter anymore. My bare chest is not a site of privacy.
We got back at maybe 12:30 AM. I took painkillers and went to bed. When I woke up this morning, the purple bruises were the same as last night, but I now have yellow bruises spread over a lot of the left side of my chest and into my upper arm. I called St George’s in Tooting and explained to the plastic surgery department what had happened. The man on the phone sent me to somebody’s voicemail. I left a message but haven’t had a call back. My outpatient appointment is tomorrow, so if it can wait, I would much rather let it wait. The cab ride is long and expensive.
As it has from the start, my left side hurts more than my right and the drain site hurts the same as when it had a drain in it. It I extend my arm too straight, I feel a pulling around where the drain was inside. I wish I had made more expansive gestures with my left while I still had the drain embedded, but the IV line poking me discouraged this quite a lot. Alas, for my having been a wimp.
In all the story so far, nobody ever asked me for ID, nor for money. The receptionist at the A&E just wanted my name and address, but didn’t ask for any verification. The registration took less than 5 minutes. When they told me I could go, both times, I just walked out the door. This sort of non-capitalist efficiency used to be shocking to me, but I managed to get used to it very quickly. If your country doesn’t have a system like this, it could.

Top Surgery Part 3

When I got out to the ward, I felt good enough to start blogging and high enough from opiates to think it was a good idea – and to make loud declarations about my genitals when offered a bottle to pee into. This is probably part of why they wanted me to stay in bed rather than try to walk.
My surgeon came by, and was concerned about my left drain. She thought it might need to be flushed out in the morning, which would be a second operation under full anesthetic. She asked that I get no food after midnight.
Paula stayed with me a while and then visitng hours were over. It was a dramatic night. One old man kept wanting to know where his wife was. A young guy woke up screaming and ripped out his IV line. Then morning came. My left side still seemed swollen to me, but when the surgeon came by, she said it was ok. I felt very relieved.
she told me to try walking around some and to move more like i would at home. She also told me that they’d been forced to take out my ear piercing and it had been lost. It was a ring through my upper cartilage, which was alright, but it did get in the way a bit when i wanted to wear headphones for more than an hour. Apparently, it’s a very big deal when a piece of jewlry gets lost. I’m not overly bothered by this, but the principle is important, she said.
I would need to spend another day in hospital to have my drains observed.
The drugs given to me by the anesthesiologist were all wearing off and i began to feel ill. Paula came to visit and coaxed me into eating a bit. In a sharp contrast to my other nurses, the one i had then was not sympathetic. Paula eventually interceeded and i got a shot of something that was supposed to make me feel better. It took the edge off, but didn’t really help. Around midnight, i rung my buzzer to tell the night nurse that I thought I was going to be sick, but I ended up demonstrating the verb rather than saying it. I didn’t keep anything i had swallowed that day.
A doctor came around to talk to me. I told him I had tossed my cookies. He looked bemused. I said, “is that something you can say in Britain?” He said he got my meaning and then he poked at my stomach and prescribed some drugs for constipation, as apparently the food I ate just had nowhere to go. The nurse came around later with two gigantic syringes. I was alarmed, but she noted the IV thing is still in my arm. So the contents of the two huge syrninges went into there. Then she gave me pills and a sweet liquid. She told me to drink a lot of water with the liquid. I actually felt thirsty, which was a change.
In the morning, I felt dizzy and weak and could barely sit up. But as my stomach settled and I ate things, I gradually felt more alive.
A doctor came by to examine my wounds and said that my right drain should be removed. A nurse came around later and depressurised the drain container, which apparently has some suction on it. Then she used a bunch of pointy tools to pull the hose out of my chest. It was kind of uncomfortable, but didn’t hurt overly and afterwards, it was a nice relief.
Because the left drain was still in, they would keep me for another night. But the ward was getting ready to close for the weekend, so they got a push chair to move me upstairs. I was greatful not to have to walk as I still felt kind of dizzy.
The ward that they moved me to seemed to be full of people suffering from weekend-related accidents. Directly opposite me was a very unhappy man with his arm in a sling, being gaurded by two bobbies. The cops were on the phone, trying to figure out who had arrested him. Other people had broken arms, dog bites, etc. When Paula came to visit, she said it seemed more peaceful than the previous ward, but she missed the arrested guy angrily explaining about how he was the victim and was intending to sue the police.
“Are you alright?” Paula wanted to know, “Jara says you haven’t been on facebook for hours!”
As of this very morning, they say they’re going to let me out. A doctor has come to tell me my prescriptions and my remaining drain has been depressurised. I feel good enough that I think I could go straight home, but am relieved that I don’t have to.
I’ve gotten top quality care here and at no charge. The NHS is fabulous. Socialised healthcare is awesome.

Top Surgery Part 2

Somebody was moving my shoulders. “I’m sorry, I think I fell asleep.” I said and opened my eyes. I was in the recovery room and still quite groggy. I was shivering or started to shiver and then got a warm air blower and put the pipe of it under my blanket. It seemed to work instantly.
it seemed like a flurry of activity around me, but it’s also possible that i slept between spread out things. Also i had a blood pressure cuff that did measurements every 5 minutes. I can’t remember many details, but the nurses were very good.
The room haf 9 gurney bays and there was one nurse for every 3 gurneys plus 1 or 2 extras to spell them on breaks or help for 2 person jobs. My nurse was named Helen. When she got her tea break a nurse named Joan filled in. They were both brilliant. Capable and caring. They were lovely.
Not long after I became alert, my left drain started filling quickly, such that it was nearly half a litre of blood. They asked what to do and were told to sit me more upright. That worked.
they gave me morphine in a drip, but not enough to make me loopy. Then they gave me some water. Then tea! Such lovely tea. It soothed my sore throat, and was one of the most satisfying cups of tea ever. Then a sandwich. Then a pain pill.
I looked down at my bandaged chest and was filled with a profound sense of relief. I was fine. I made it. It worked! It was amazing. Somethingthat for years I was afraid to even want and it was done and I was ok.
However, because of the drain issue, They thought they might need to send me back to the theatre, so I was in the recovery room for a long time, so I chatted w Helen and had more tea. Eventually, a surgeon that I didn’t recognise said it would be fine and i got sent to a ward.
A gurney pusher and two nurses, one of them a student at Kings College, came to move me. They asked an elevator full of people to clear out for me. “Sorry,” i said to a woman who got off. “You must be very important,” she joked. “Everywhere I go, the paparazi!” I said. The gurney didn’t take up the whole elevator, so the nurses were telling people to squeeze in. “Come on, get in there. Ok, now climb on top!” “He’s a bit too young for me” the woman said.
We got to the ward and Paula was there.

Top surgery part 1

I woke up before 5 this morning, took what i knew would be my last shower for a while, gave myself a T shot, packed my bags and got on the tube. My appointment letter was for 7 but I arrived almost 20 minutes early and waited for the surgical admissions lounge to open. That was the same place I had gone for my previous appointment, at which they had collected vital signs and data. A sign by the door said they open at 7, but it closer to 10 minutes after that.
The head nurse gave a speech about the admissions process. He then called us by name one at a time and asked us if we wanted to give them a phone number for a visitor. I gave them Paula’s number and later they called her and told her what ward i was in.
at the same time, other nurses were calling people one at a time and taking temperature, blood pressure, weight and allergy information. Shortly after I talked to the nurse, I got called by the anesthesiologist who explained a bit about the drugs she would give me to kill pain, knock me out, keep me from feeling ill, etc. She (or the nurse before, i can’t remember now) game me two red id badges- one for each arm. They’re red to indicate that i have allergies. Which are to two different antiobiotics. She told me they do my op around 10.
i went to wait again and then the surgeon called me in. She drew on my chest in permanent marker. “You’re quite wonky, aren’t you?” She said. Apparently my spine is curved which she said was the reason my moobs were very assymetric. I felt guilty about my bad posture and tried to blame playing sousaphone in school, but she said it was likely genetic. I told her that a piercer had said i had weird nipples and she sympathised with the piercer! The lack of social skills made me more confident in her surgical skills.
She explained how the op would work: they cut away tissue around my nipples, while keeping the nerves and blood vessels attached to them. Then the would sew that to what was left. She explained that an insufficient blood suplly could cause a nipple to fall off, but told me should build a very comvincing new one and tattoo on an areola and it would like fine, so i shouldn’t worry. Sensataion in my nipples will be decreased. Then, she went through a consent form and asked me to sign it.
i went back out to the lounge and checked my email and then started to read a book. They called me up again and said it was time to get changed. I was extremely nervous. I took off all of my clothes and put on a hospital gown, a bathrobe, anti-bloodclot socks and foam slippers. The the nurse took me downstairs to another nurse who double checked everything. Yet another nurse took me to the anesthesiologist’s room. In it was a gurney, which i lied down on. They put electrodes on me and a needle into my hand. There was a large numbers of ampoukes laid out.
The doctor chatted about her honeymoon in california as the she gave me a shot of pain killer and the nurse gave me an oxygen mask. Then the doctore hooked up a huge vial of milky white stuff she said would know me out. She warned me it would sting.
“so this is the last ting i’m going to remember.” I said and then verified that it does sting. I thought about how it was very odd to have an experience knowing it was going to be erased. I could already be past the point of where i would forget, but right now it was all real and i felt very present. I don’t know what I felt after that.

I Changed my Name Today

I am now, legally, Charles Céleste Hutchins. (But you can keep calling me Les). I changed my name via a device called a statutory declaration. Rather than hiring a solicitor to draft the document, I used a web form at Press for Change and added a spot at the bottom for me to sign. I printed it out and then called around Solicitors in my area. One of them told me to just pop by.
A woman there looked at the form and had me sign it in front of her. My signature is wonky as I’ve never signed “Charles” before. Then, she she asked me to raise my right hand and swear that the contents of the form were true and correct, so I did so, feeling kind of goofy. She then filled out her part and stamped it. I paid £7 for this, which is apparently the going rate.
There are several ways you can change your name in the UK, but this kind is the only one recognised by the US embassy. I also need to show that I’ve been using the new name, so I called my phone company and will need to mail or fax them a copy of the form. Tomorrow, I’ll go to my bank for a new checque book and then my GP for a new NHS card. Those three documents should be enough for me to get a new passport with my new legal name. I will also need to inform my university and documents that they send me would also count for the embassy.
This is a lot easier than changing at home would have been. I’m quite pleased.