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delirium happy

Just keep on trying till you run out of cake

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My day
delirium happy
Train to London: £65.50
Appointment with psychiatrist: £100
6 months supply of oestradiol: £60
1 month supply of triptorelin: £100*
Having an endocrine system that doesn't fuck me over: Priceless.

* Estimated. At the moment, I just have a private prescription. The price of the drug itself is £70, so it'll be that plus whatever the dispensing pharmacy decides to charge.


Other things from today, in snazzy bullet point form:

  • Psychiatrist appointment today went pretty much as I hoped. Only thing is that instead of goserelin, I walked away with a prescription for triptorelin. I'd never heard of this, but apparently it's also a GNRH agonist, and works pretty much the same as goserelin, but is cheaper. Other than that, I know pretty much nothing about it. Though I do know that it horribly violates Sangamon's Principle.
  • I bumped into auntysarah, entirely by chance, in the psychiatrist's waiting room, where she was accompanying a friend. The transgender community, to the extent that such a thing exists, isn't so small that everyone knows everyone else, but it is small enough that you tend to run into people you know at unexpected times.
  • I honestly don't know how people can live in a city the size of London. Possibly it's just that I'm a small town girl, but I find the seething masses of humanity quite overwhelming. There also seems to be absolutely no heed paid to the conventions of human interaction when it comes from getting from point A to point B. Everyone just seems to go there as quickly and directly as possible and damn anyone who gets in the way. At all times, in all modes of transport, right of way seems to belong to whoever is most assertive. At one point today, I had to dodge a woman pushing a pushchair at full tilt down Oxford Street, while she quite literally was looking in the opposite direction to where she was going.
  • I'm not quite certain how a trip down to London to see a psychiatrist ends up with me coming away owning two books I didn't start the day with. Or rather, I do know how it happened, but it still amuses me. My appointment was 16.30-17.00, and saver return train tickets aren't valid in rush hour. So instead of heading straight back to Euston after the appointment, I decided to go and hang out in Borders for a little while. I hadn't actually intended to buy anything, but I should know better than to think I can go into a bookshop without buying anything. I now own The Emperor's New Mind (Penrose) and The Caves of Steel (Asimov).
  • If there is anything in this world that is more of a rip off than buying mineral water at a shop in a train station, I never want to encounter it.
  • There are precious few things that I enjoy about train travel, but looking at myself reflected in the train window when it's dark is one of them. For some reason, I actually think I look kind of cute in that ghostly reflection, which hides all manner of sins. The other highlight of the train journey today was watching a posh-looking businessman on his posh-looking Vaio laptop failing utterly at FreeCell (a game at which I am completely awesome, naturally). On the subject of trains, I would also like to reserve a place in special hell for people who talk on mobile phones in the quiet coach on trains.

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Agreed totally about London. I think it's got much worse in the last 15 years or so, too.

The everyone-for-themselves approach seems to be a survival technique for overcrowded tubes and buses, where you'll regularly see 20 people cram themselves into an already full-beyond-capacity carriage at peak times. It seems to extend well to other, similar, situations, such as crowded streets, surviving supermarkets and ignoring the builder-lemmings who are trying to thrust a "Freelundun Loight!"[1] into your hand.

Pushchairs, or "Chelsea wheelbarrows", give you enhanced pedestrian powers, in much the same way that there's a special version of the Highway Code for white van drivers. Most fundamentally they exempt you from having to worry about finding space to move into, and place responsibility firmly in the hands of whoever is occupying that space already. This applies doubly on buses, though there is some dispute as to whether the pushchair has priority over a wheelchair user when it comes to the wheelchair space on buses. Ufortunately, this matter is likely to remain in dispute until such a time as the driver of a croweded bus actually stops for a wheelchair user.

Paradoxically, as a survival technique, I've taken up cycling. Dodging taxis, being overtaken with mere nanometres of clearance by white vans and laughing in the face of bendy-bus-death is all a lot less stressful and tiring than negotiating crowds, and a fair bit faster than most forms of transport.

Of course, like all London cyclists, I break all the rules: I indicate. I stop at red lights (yes, even when <3 vehicles have gone through them ahead of me). I ride on the road, and the occasional not-too-idiotic cycle farcility, never the pavement. I give way to idiot pedestrians who step out in front of me without warning. I even use lights[1] and reflective stuff after dark. This all confuses the locals immensely, which is fun.

[1] An unremarkable advertising-funded newspaper, m'lud.
[2] To make things worse, I don't even have a red light on the front of the bike.

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