angelamoonchild.bsky.social

The interviewers and myself, just fell about laughing. My response being: "You could say that.."

I'd never actually expected to get the job, let alone an interview. Looking at my successful passing the civil service exam as sort of exercise, or experiment. And merely another life experience. But when one of the set interview questions was "have there ever been any big changes in your life..?"

Scary. Listening to one's instincts is important in these situations. As is being able to assess a situation, not upon what one is being told, but what one is not told. And so, when filling out the civil service application form, I made a point of quoting these experiences in my competences.

And questions. Lots and lots of questions. The audible relief at being taken seriously. But press. Level tone of speech throughout. No nerves. No questions. Telling me way too much apparent detail about themselves. Detail that doesn't add up. Report that. No sponsorship meeting It's a trap..!!

Most, on first contact via telephone, come across as nervous. The silent phone call: The phone rings, I answer, "Click". The phone goes down. Repeat, for one or two times, and then a quavering voice says: "Is that Angela..?". Stress levels audibly high. Gradually decreasing as the call proceeds.

Other meeting took place in art galleries, museums, isolated car parks. Never pubs. Too obvious and public. Too much risk of being overheard. I needed to sound them out. Are they genuine? Are they press? I did, actually, encounter one whom I very strongly suspected of being press. He felt wrong.

Playing a strangely surreal, and atmospheric tune. It felt like I'd walked straight in the the plot line of a Graham Greene novel, and was now wondering who'd be cast in the role of Harry Lime. Although the party I did meet, did not engage me in a conversation about cuckoo clocks.

Security was paramount. Hence the copy of Paris Match, red carnation in the button hole, or specific instructions as to where to meet. One such location being, the main door of Lichfield Cathedral, at 11 O'clock, on a Saturday morning. I wasn't prepared for the mediaeval fair, though. A barrel organ

Meetings in odd places. Carry a copy of this week's "Paris Match" type territory. One must understand, that even today - especially today - being Trans, and not being 'out', carries risks. But, in 1999, the risk of being 'outed' - to friends, work colleagues, family members - was deadly serious

Somehow - and I nowadays scratch my head, and wonder as to how this all worked out - I became an Area Organiser (basically an area rep). And this led to me meeting and greeting ordinary members, who wanted to avail themselves of the advantages that went with becoming a full member.

Alongside my day job, I'd also joined a national help and support group. Not knowing precisely where to look but, after being given some suggestions from an LGBT+ switchboard - in those days just LGB - picked one with a respectable sounding name. Initially joining as just an ordinary member in 1998

I simply responded: "If they give me one like that, I'll ask for my money back"

We did have some laughs. Some mildly inappropriate, but mostly just good humour. Like the time a work colleague, in a foul mood, came stomping into the workshop. Referred to the works manager, in a none-too complementary fashion. Calling him a "c____".

Sky high. Rhythmic droning in the ears - I'd initially put down to someone's car stereo, playing very bass music - being evidence of stress, anxiety, what-have-you. Attempting to fit in with societal 'norms' and tabloid opinions, and therefore denying a large part of one's personality, can do that.

And yet, here I was. Taking the very first steps in that process. Not precisely understanding everything that that entailed. But knowing in my heart, that this was a direction in life, that I desperately needed to take. Calling it 'survival instinct' isn't, I feel, any overstatement. Blood pressure

What now..? Well, I could always take a step back, and recount the experiences predating this particular train of events. January 4th 1999. The first working day of the New Year. "Good morning. And yes, I am wearing makeup" 'Gender Transition', as a term, wasn't even in my vocabulary, at the time.

...already be gone. Signing off for the very last time. Angela" And, in one final melodramatic touch, I added: "Cue The Doors - This is the End". Then: Sign out Control, Alt, Delete. Closedown. Hand over my security pass. Exit stage left. What now..?

In a private message, away from the prying eyes and interference of area managers etc., I took some time to bid those from the departmental community group a fond farewell. Wishing them all the very best in their future endeavours. This final goodbye concluding: "By the time you read this, I will...

A final 'last post' touch. And an acknowledgement that this really was the end. For all the bad things about working here, we'd somehow got through it all together. The comradeship, the bad jokes to break the tedium, even the shared experience of "us vs them". Pull down the flag. Play the last post.

His usual sign-off being "bysie bye". On this occasion however, I don't think there were many dry eyes. The office was rapidly approaching closure, with many of us leaving the department within the following month. "...a final "bysie by" from me" All that was missing, was him putting on a record

One of our wonderful doormen - we had doorwomen too, but autocorrect doesn't seem to want to acknowledge that fact - was in the habit of adding a few personal touches to the monthly tannoy checks. Basically, a kind of mike and speaker check, on the "audio integrity of the broadcasting equipment".

Universe, let alone occupying the same planetary coordinates.

Then, after five years has elapsed, we be even worse off. Civil Service logic, can be compared, in many ways, to Army Intelligence. In that it is a contradiction in terms. The higher ups, in putting forward this "attractive proposal", again clearly demonstrating, that they're not living in the same

"I'll take the money and run", being the majority response to that proposal. Commuting for upwards of an extra three hours a day..?! Getting travel expenses paid, for the first five years, but as that payment is a taxable benefit, that results in the equivalent of a £2,000 per annum pay cut.

"We're not going to be compulsorily transferred to _____, are we..?" "Thank ____ for that..!!", being the heartfelt response, when the answer was in the negative. No compulsory transfers, but we could stay with the department, and commute every day to (a), (b) or (c) office. No thanks...

Only £1 an hour more, but hey... We'd heard rumours, and there'd been suggestions for some years. Which is one of the reasons I decided to "hang on in there", and not quit my job. But then came the day that management called us all together to break the news: "This office is closing" First question:

in as much as my 'work work balance' included work that, whilst being both creative and hugely distracting, was educational and paid fairly well. It paid better than sitting at a computer screen, going half blind through eye-strain, and half mad though tedium.

these distractions. I needed them, in order to retain some degree of metal equilibrium. 'Work life balance', they call it. Trouble is the 'they' that seem to spout this kind of platitude, are usually on a very much higher pay grade that us mere mortals, and so can afford such luxuries. I was lucky,

Life mirrors art - isn't that what they say? Or is it art mirrors life..? Whichever way round it is, I'd found another distraction from the humdrum and the day to day tedium. Otherwise, I'm fairly sure that I would have simply walked out of the office one day, and never returned. I didn't just crave

Leading, eventually, to "Philippa Caught Reading in the Early Morn". Strange, how life can sometimes go like that.

And so, almost inevitably, I ended up listening to the actual teaching part of Life Drawing classes. I was getting paid to attend the lectures.! Naturally absorbing ideas on scale, proportion, angle, line, and drawing technique. This got me itching to pick up a piece of charcoal, to have a go myself

And this new career had me lying, or sitting, or standing, for minutes, or even hours, at a time. And there's very little to do, whilst concentrating upon retaining a given pose. There are only so many evening meals that can be planned, only so many shopping list, that can be mentally compiled

During the photoshoot, the photographer - who also happened to be very good at hair and makeup, I hasten to add - asked me if I'd ever considered Life Modelling. I hadn't, but it got me to thinking. And that's what led me into posing au naturel for art students, in later years. New career direction

I'd got back into painting a drawing, partly as a result/consequence(?) of being asked to pose for a calendar, some years earlier. "What's the catch?" I'd asked, when first approached to do the photoshoot. "It's to be "Au Naturel"" That wasn't a catch. Leastways, I didn't see it that way.

The painting - acrylic on canvas, entitled "Philippa Caught Reading in the Early Morn" - was well received in the small gallery exhibition. Still suffering with "the wobbles". Seeing that piece of my own artwork, on a gallery wall, for the very first time, was highly restorative for my self-esteem.

"Push the button. The person on the other side of the screen gets an electric shock" type thinking Seeing people as an abstract. Just numbers and letters on a computer screen. Data to be processed. I'm sorry, but I can all too well imagine myself in their shoes. I'm more than beginning to hate this.

But this is anxiety and depression, by proxy. The kind of a job - without, again, wishing to be overly melodramatic - more suited to a functioning psychopath. A+B=C. Therefore, if Person A, owes B, we proceed, with all possible haste, to C. Never mind how anyone feels about the situation.

OK, so it's all just paperwork. But a distinct psychological difference can be felt, when you're processing the kinds of paperwork that indicate it's "all gone wrong". The hopes have gone, the aspirations have evaporated, the dreams have become nightmares. The tedium, I could live with.

Well, whatever this is. I think, looking back, that my original job was somehow heartening. Processing the wants, dreams and aspirations of hopeful people, trying out new ideas - embracing the future, and not looking mournfully backwards - in a huge variety of strange, weird and wonderful ways.

Meanwhile, the job is changing. It's going from "let me see how I can help you today", to "pay up, or else". Basically, demanding money, with menaces. I hate it. Sure, I didn't sign up, expecting the day-to-day to be excitement filled and adrenaline fuelled. But there's tedium, and then there's...

Ah well. We can dream can't we... Back to the office. Back to the humdrum. Back to the "I wonder what people really think of me..?". Cornwall still tugging at my heart strings, nonetheless.

OK, so this was just a working holiday, in all reality. But this break from the humdrum, and getting a taste for what felt like a far more civilised pace of life, gave me the profoundest feelings of calm. Of being somewhere that I wanted to be. F*** the rat race!! I'd rather be here, doing this.

Office work until about noon. A quick trip to the post office, or some such. Then down to the nearest stretch of coast, for a swim. I'd originally fallen in love with Cornwall, about 40 years previously, and at a much tenderer age. Now, these much quieter surroundings felt more like home.

However, on this occasion, the admin work in question, was taking place not in the usual depressingly dreary surroundings of the fifth floor of an office block, but in a small, stone built, cottage in Cornwall. Breakfasting outside in the sunshine - yes the sun does sometimes shine in Cornwall.

Meanwhile, I'd been asked to submit a piece of artwork, for an upcoming exhibition in Manchester. What is it they say about buses? None for ages, but then three all at once. I submitted a painting. Acrylic on canvas. Then spent the best part of a month - and I do mean best - doing admin work.

That particular year, was a strange one. The invitation to Westminster Abbey, and one for the interdepartmental shindig, arrived when I was away from the office, doing something else entirely. A good friend had asked if I could "mind the shop", as they were to be going abroad for about a month.

16 Sept

And no, Mr Hitchcock, vertigo is not a fear of heights.

15 Sept

Ascending an escalator, and feeling that the ceiling was getting lower and lower, made me want to duck. Trying to get onto a descending escalator, and being convinced that it was running opposite to the direction of travel. Strange and alarming perceptions. The "wobbles" being only the half of it.

15 Sept

"I might as just as well 'ave stayed at 'ome...". Ah well. At least I can say I was there. Thankfully, I'd travelled with colleagues unconnected with any of these issues. As negotiating the London Underground, in the midst of a vertigo relapse, is no joke. Believe me. And I was glad of their support