As you'll have noticed, things have been - to say the least - a bit frenetic of late. Frankly, I've had lots of issues to work through and I'd like to thank all of you for your patience and for sticking with me through all of this. I've been doing a lot of reflecting and I think I'm beginning to get a handle on things.
My childhood, I now realise, holds the key to many of my recent travails. As is common for people of my background and class, I went to a miner public school (that's not a typo - it was a public school for miners. I come from Wales, remember?) With hindsight, I can see how this has had a big bearing on my life since then. On my last day at St. Scargill's, my form tutor took me down from his knee and after I had put my clothes back on, took me aside from the rest of the form and whispered these words to me to prepare me for the big wide world outside the school gates:
"There are some chaps out there who just aren't like us old sport. They don't wear trousers. They're called women. Steer clear of 'em."
And God know I tried. But it would take more than the ramblings of a mysogynistic old fruit with a moustache, wearing a Marlene Dietrich costume to prevent my interest blossoming into an obsession. Which brings us to the events of the last few days.
Regular readers will be aware that my flirtation with transvestism has led me into the shady netherworld of the counter-culture. Sure, it seems all fluffy and safe from the outside. But once they've got your mules under the table, you become prey to a dangerous and subversive minority bent upon turning innocent curiosity into full-blown femininity. You see, for some of these people, it's just not enough to slip into some prettily patterned pantyhose and a flimsy, see through microdress. No, these guys have to go a bit further. They can't just stick a couple rolled up socks down their chest like the rest of us. No, they gotta have real breasts! And the real hardliners have even dispensed with the little fellow downstairs and replaced him with something quite unspeakable... Some of the real extremists even go as far as to indulge in a monthly ritual that culminates in severe blood letting and a week or so of quite alarming grouchiness. For some even further from the mainstream, even that is not enough. No, these ideologically motivated guys skip the period ritual altogether and - wait for it - in 9 months time, your holding their little brat, going coochie-coochie coo and getting splattered with cow and gate all down the front of your best frock.
It's shocking, I know - but that's the dark secret at the heart of this femininity business. If I could just take the lingerie and the heels, I'd be OK - but I'm just not that sort of girl. And a word of warning here, these crazed lunatics - Tit girls, as they are known within the largely moderate and acceptable majority of transvestites - are on the rise. In fact, you may not want to believe this, but I can almost guarantee that there is one in your office - possibly even lurking somewhere within your own home...
So, with heavy heart, I shall be going back to being plain old Bob again. This is especially sad as I 'm sure you'll agree, I made a much better woman than I do man. But, hey! That's showbusiness. But fera not - I shall return from time to time with tales from the other side. And just to take the edge of the pain, I shall leave you with one last lingering look at my luscious pins
before I hand you back to dear old Bob.
Love on y'all,