The bearded lady

Pee on a stick

Pee on a jar

Pee for the doctor

Pee.

It has become an every day part of my life.

And I am little prude when it comes to discussing things like that, so it's been quite the journey thus far.

I am resisting the urge to go into the city centre and buy another pregnancy test.

1) I'm alarmingly skint, on month 4 of furlough salary and

2) There is literally no point paying £7, it is literally pissing money up the wall.

See what I did there?

I've lost count of the amount of pregnancy tests we have bought, let alone the cost.

We've tried every brand of ovulation test under the sun, every app, a little chart that lives on our fridge, all of it.

Being married to a scientist ensures a procedural like methodolgy to baby making.

Times, temperatures, dates.

I've become a living breathing experiment.

Fertility denied our referral based on the fact they think it's "likely" that I am indeed ovulating, my so-called regular periods denote as such.

Then why, oh why, after our 1,000,000 attempt at getting pregnant, are we no closer?

The doctors ran a full blood panel and told me I had such low progersterone levels that ovulation was an inpossibility.

Prior to that, an a few years ago, the doctors told me I had the hormone levels of a post-menopausal woman so that doesn't exactly inspire confidence.

So I am frustated.

Sat at my kitchen table, now working part time, I have thrown myself into work and I am excited to regain my structure and my purpose, any more at home doing nothing time and I would have lost the plot.

But there are still moments in the day, due to working at home, where I can't escape wondering.

What is wrong with me?

Is it the weight?

Because I see much fatter birds than me pushing prams a plenty

Is it the hormones? If so, why do the doctors keep ruling out PCOS?

Guys, I'm going to share something that only my darling wife knows and loves me for regardless.

I am a bearded lady.

I kid you not, were it not for my handy friend gilette, I would look like that lady in the greatest showman by mid week.

My hair, my once beautiful hair, falls out, beyond measure. And no matter how gentle I am, what products I use, handfuls leave me on a daily basis.

The irony, too much fucking hair on my face and not enough on my head.

How's that femininity?

I think we have become so obsessed with the "expected aesthetic" than many of us who are not particualry "normal" hide our 5 oclock shadows,.... in the shadows, for fear of mockery, shame and perceived lack of feminiinty.

Don't get me wrong, I can be a big butch dyke when I want to be, and I own it, I am proud of who I am, and I use that word as a positive identity, not a negative slur.

But equally, I love pretty dresses and lacy bras, and makeup and shoes, just as much as the next girl. Which is hard to pair - the heel with the stubble.

The flat with the hairy leg

The flowy dress with tarzan swinging by.

So when my hormones are literally failing me, I am irrationally pissed off.

I can gym it, slim it, and eat a vegan diet until I'm an NHS worthy BMI, yes I can, but lord help me, someone fix me.

I spoke with the doctor yesterday to ask for help, we've done our research, I've had the scans, there are no cysts on my ovaries, but I do have a hairy fucking face and insane periods that lurge from one extreme to the other.

As I type this I'm on ady 33 of my cycle, which used to be a normal 28 predicted to a T situation.

Some months I can hit the gym, go for a swim and barely notice it, other months I feel like auditioning for Carrie.

TMI.

I know, I'm sorry.

But you know me, open book policy and sharing is caring.

I feel like I'm failing.

We took our most recent pregnancy test on Sunday and I closed my eyes and made Sarah look first, we were both still that little bit hopeful despite promising ourselves not to get our hopes up.

I cried as soon as I saw that glaring singular line staring at me, and of course, as any hopefuly hoping to get pregnant lady will do, I shone a light and looked at that damn test in every which direction, squinting for the sign of a second line. ALas, if it's not there on first glance, it's not there.

It's so frustrating.

I lay in Sarahs arms in our bed and the only words I could muster were 

"I'm sorry,"

And she laughed and then gave me a stern look.

Sarahs stern looks are serious business.

So I got a little grumpy with the GP on the phone.

He says no chance of ovulation, therefore, not producing an egg, which makes our monthly attempts rather silly.

Fertility clinic say, yes, could be ovulating, no reason to think otherwise.

No reason other than a big fat blood test result that says so.

I had a little rant about my hairy face and my erratic monthlies and that these factors were major playerse when it came to PCOS and that just because a random ultrasound "x" amount of years ago, showed no cysts it didn't mean there were no issues.

I mean, for one, constant flare ups of pelvic inflammatory disease for one, thanks to undiagnosed "clap" from delightful sexaul predator, the irony, the gift of a pregnancy and an STD, neither of which were welcome.

And now, I suffer from the fall out on both fronts.

THANKS.

I want to run to the shop and buy doughnuts.

And eat a pack of 5

But I'm not going to.

Because what good would that do? Aside from put me further back from my goal?

When we got another negative on Sunday, I had my cry and then got up and at it, went to the gym and smashed through a 700 calorie workout.

Not a doughnut in sight.

For me to get to a NHS worthy BMI, I'm looking at loosing 4 more stone, thats still quite the mountain to climb, but whilst we are waiting for them decide what the hell is wrong with my baby making equipment, it gives me some time to keep at it.

We have sickening stresses in our lives, both Sarah and I, things that go on behind the scenes and would keep even you, my avid readers up at night.

Stress leads to high levels of cortisol, high levels of cortisol reduce progesterone levels.

Stress leads to fucked up fertility.

Theres no amount of citalopram on planet earth that would take out some of the major stresses ongoing.

Stress of big shit.

Stress of little shit

Stress of fertility shit.

I'm surprised I don't have grey hair - well, depending on how long it lasts.

So after much grumping, I'm going to drink a glass of water, have a decaf tea and get back to doing what I'm good at - working my ass off.

For all my hairy faced sisters out there, stay postive, we are all in this together.

It can be absolutely mind numbing and heart breaking for you and your partner, but the pay off will be so so worth it, no matter how it happens xxx

I Eat

If you open my cupboards on this sunny tuesday afternoon, you will find an abundance of long haul, safety net foods.

We are talking tins, pastas, pulses, rice, the whole nine yards.

We've got protein bars, healthy snack bars, enough fruit, nuts and seeds to feed the pigeon population of Manchester (aside from the scalding danger of £150 fine of course)

In the freezer you will find meat, fish, veggies, leftovers, the same goes for the fridge.

Laden with jars, and tubs of essentials to ensure never a meal is lost, or missed, or yearned for.

Why?

Because I'm a chubby fucker?

No.

Because since holding down a job that I love, or any job, for that matter, and having ensured an income of some kind for myself, thats reliable, no matter how big or small, the one thing that will always be wherever I am is food.

This is not some fat girls neverland, where the cupboards buldge and strain under the weight of a tesco shop gone mad.

This is a scared little girls habit.

For as long as I remember, food has been a priority. Stashing it, stealing it, hiding it, keeping it longer than it should be kept, to the point of disgust.

Buying it, storing it, eating it.

When I was first adopted into the middle class land of the Cheshirite wonder couple, I began taking food from my plate at meal times and stashing it in strange places in my bedroom. Under the bed, in my knicker drawer, under the wardrobe where there was a little alcove.

Bits of sandwiches, satsumas, all of which would crinkle and rot and stink out the place.

My mother would follow the scent of sad foods fate and find green and scary looking bits and pieces dotted around the house.

She called it my most disgusting habit. Her favourite word was "slut" and it made me giggle up to my teenage years for the fact I thought she had misunderstood its meaning, alas, she soon came to apply it in both terms of "slovenly, slut," and "slutty mc slut pants, living the lesbian dream,"

Needless to say, my strange relationship with food has been a lifetime affair.

And there is a perfectly good reason for it.

Many times I self reflect and look at my behaviours and think "why the fuck did you do that?" "why did you say that?" and I'm left mind boggled with no bloody idea other than that, "it just happened"

But where food is concerned, it's really quite clear cut.

Pre-adoption I bounced around foster homes, some good, some bad, some where food was plentiful and wonderful and some where food was a punishment and a chore.

Before foster care, was life in London town or indeed up north, where food was the last priority on the list.

My brother and I were born into a turbulent and abusive family, where alcohol and drugs took precedent over the basic needs of a child, like food, water, cleanliness, hygiene.

My child court case records cite on so many pages the lack of sanitary care applied to us as children, and as its most relevant to this piece of writing - the complete malnutrition we suffered at the hands of two people who just didn't care.

Horrors upon these pages talk of abuse, physical, sexual, and the absolute absence of safety and basic childcare necessities.

Stories of bedsores, piss stained children, dirty bodies and matted hair, scantily dressed, if at all, empty fridges and cupboards, and social worker notes that even on paper sound horrified by the conditions we were so often found in.

I write "so often" as social services for some unknown reason let us go back, time and time again, the prospective mother had turned over a new leaf and decided she fancied another crack at having children, only to read three pages on, that I, for example, had been found in the care of my sexual predator of a father, who had a knife in his hands, and had the police talk him down from suicide and violence as I sat on his knee. I delightful read. Not quite Stephen King, but equally as harrowing.

Alas, the food.

Ah, the food.

Or lack of it.

By the time I was put into foster care, my brother was hooked up to a bunch of hospital machines to get him better, such was his malnurtition and bedsores from lying in his own filth, that we spent what felt like forever as a little girl, apart.

I was alone for the first time in my life. With strangers. And my only solace, was food.

The fact that there was food, was a marvel, a novelty, I was greedy.

When we were together again, we enjoyed our best friends forever relationship, Fran and Jay against the world, we had overcome such horror together, that nothing would stand in ur way, and we would do it all, together.

Cue, excellent foster parents, truly, the dream, and food, so plentiful. More than, love.

And an understanding of Fran the secret stasher.

I had the absolute pleasure of reconnecting with my foster parents a few years ago, and having thought often of my food habits, I asked freely : "if I had stashed food the same way with you, what would you have done?"

My beautiful foster mothers response? "Put a little lunch box under your bed with things in and change it as often as needed to make sure you knew there was always something there,"

THIS my friends.

FUCKING THIS.

This is the response of a loving mother.

Not "slut"

Not "disgusting"

Not fat shaming, behaviour shaming, undermining, belittling.

My delighful mother could never grasp the roots of my strange food addiction, despite having read, seen and heard the full horrific accounts of my beginnings, my mother, my dirty pig of a father, and despite being a woman of the law, she lacked the basic empathy that would have made her a decent comrade and confidante.

We were never meant to be friends, or understand one another, because she was too preoccupied with perfect as opposed to perversion.

I sit now, at 33, writing at my kitchen table, aware, that at my weight, being obsese, as per the bmi scale, that something has gone horribly wrong.

And I know it.

That my relationship and dependence on the security and comfort of food, my one true best friend, is as devastating to my health, as my addiction to cocaine was.

At least with cocaine I was thinner!

I eat when I am happy.

I eat when I am sad.

I eat when I lack purpose.

I eat.

Because it is a huge part of who I am.

I didn't engage with my parents growing up, I was too troubled, and they were too focused on their own priorities and specificities of raising a child should be.

My brother was a clean slate, and recovered brilliantly, slotting into the perfect family ideal with issue and this remains true to this day.

He doesn't have the same toxicity for food, or anything else for that matter, becasuse he was shaped by a family that I do believe genuinely love him, for who he is, because he is theirs.

I am not.

I am many things.

Drastically successful despite hurdles.

Drastically regretful and consumed by ghosts.

Desperately apologetic for all the shit that has come to pass.

And still, entangled in the fatty wonders of the world.

I could eat and eat until I feel sick.

And I have.

Filling a literal void.

An emotional one.

I didn't know how to build relationships for a long time, so my relationship and longest lasting to date, is that of me and Mcdonalds, or Mcvities.

When I was homeless, food was paramount. A sandwich here, a tin of cold beans there, and when I was living in the depths of depravity in a brothel, the McDonalds burgers given to me by the delightful Italian pimp Steve for doing "a good job" were literally heaven.

I once lost my temper with Sarahs father, well and truly lost my temper. I was enraged.

We sat at a McDonalds drive through and he ordered a multitude of things willy nilly, ate them without pause or thought or thanks and I thought, you ungrateful prick.

I watched him eat two double cheeseburgers in mere minutes and I thought "do you know how many hand jobs I would have had to give to get two fucking cheeseburgers?"

The gratitude I would have felt to be allowed to eat.

Locked in a dodgy warehouse in North London surrounded by sleazy men and Eastern European women who would sooner kill you for your burger than praise you for a good weeks work!

And I thought, am I wrong? Is this irrational?

How do people treat food with such fickle nature?

Such disregard and lack of appreciation?

Now I am settled, I am home, I safe, I am stable, I am loved.

I cook with love, and adoration for all that I do, that I share.

My favourite time of the month is when I do the big online food shop, this is my task and honour, and mine alone, I stock the house with things I know Sarah loves, that I love, that we will cook together and I admit, yes, lately, the big online shop has been so much better for us.

Less Turnocks teacakes and much more lettuce. This is good.

Slowly but surely, I am moving away from my dependence.

I have had outrageously sad times of late, manically depressing moments, mental health has taken hold of me, stress has savaged and ravaged me, but my inclination to eat it all has faded.

I make better choices, but the relationship is still there.

Now I choose calorie deficit and less gross foods.

As opposed to lurching from one extreme diet to the next.

I used to favour the maple syrup diet, obsessed, truly.

It was brothers 18th and I knew my parents would berate me if I came home from Uni fat, and I had been living the ladette life of lesbianism, ciders, snakebites and pints a plenty.

So two weeks before returning home, knowing there was a size 14 Karen Millen dress that required my attention, I hit the maple syrup diet, dropped two dress sizes, wore the fuck out of the little black number, wowed everyone and then was back in Wales in boxers, baggy jeans and pizza boxes before you could say boo to a goose.

The yo-yo of "what will mummy and daddy think"

And we all know how wonderful tactile my father is when it comes to fat Fran. If the man can't muster a compliment on my wedding day, I'm pretty sure dropped to a size 10 won't make any difference.

Now is the time.

Now is the only time.

I am getting older.

And if I have hopes of a long, happy, healthy marraige and life with my wife and our future plans, I am going to have to breakup with my one true love, not Sarah of course, food!

I'm sorry McDonalds, and KFC, your profit margins are about to dip, because for the sake of my family and my own happiness, it's time we took a break.

Truly,

It's not you, it's me.

It's just love

I don't know how you do it

I don't know how you find the time, 

To smile,

And not cry.

How you've gone all this time,

And put up with the worst parts of me,

All of my lies.

You're unbreakable,

Formidable, 

And I'm constantly in awe of the wonder of you.

Yesterday you looked so sad,

I had to take a minute out,

When you weren't looking,

I had a breath,

A tear and came to save the day.

With my words,

My mighty sword.

It's the least I can do for you my love.

Because I'll protect you,

Like sometimes I haven't 

From it all,

The dark places, spaces,

The footsteps that make you stop.

Drop.

Heart beats fast.

It's ok wife, love of my life,

I've got you

I promise.

Hold my hand tighter.

No-one can hurt you now.

I cried through my vows,

I couldn't get a single word out,

And I had practicsed,

When you were at work

And I was home alone,

I'd recite the words we wrote together,

Over and over,

I knew them all.

And when the moment came, 

They got caught in my mouth,

And all I could do was breath,

Breath you in

Breath you out.

So beautiful

You stopped me in my tracks

You do every day

I catch you,

Serious faces

Working faces

Smiling,

Crying,

Laughing,

Loving.

I get to glimpse them all,

Lucky me.

But yesterday my love,

Such sadness crept upon that face 

And shone through your bright eyes

And i was angry

I am angry

I wish I could do more

You get upset when you read my writing sometimes,

You feel my pain

You see it on my face

Yesterday I saw yours and I wanted to make it better

What can I do

How can I love you more

Support you

Fix you

Make it better

Tell me love

I'll do whatever it takes

It's higher stakes

Now I know who I am

And you helped me unravel the road

Saw the good 

Saw the pure

You write me love notes,

You write me poetry

You love me

And it's heaven.

So I write for you,

I write to fight

TO make a change,

To bring you peace

Or give you back the piece 

That he stole

That I stole

The parts that faded away

And faded to grey

We'll make them bright again

Take my paintbrush and go wild

Show me your creative side

Not a white wash

Not blanket approach

Let's do it properly

Create art

Love,

Hope,

Babies and so much more,

I'll do it all

For you my love,

My Sarah,

Who I adore

They don't lurk anymore

I'm having a Fran grump.

Take cover.

I am no stranger to the criminal justice system, this we know.

More than is a healthy relationship and more often than not, leaves me crippled in an emotional mental health heap that usually requires professional help.

I say usually, always.

Alas, upon reading my favourite local newspaper, and one that has been kind to me in the past, I'm enraged.

There have been moments over the past few years, where I have seen an article that provokes my anger and out of care and sensitivity to Sarah, I've let it lie and held my tongue.

Today is not one of those days.

However it began as all good days do.

Coffee, kisses, breakfast, and at least for Sarah, working from home today and me meandering through another fruitful furlough Wednesday....

A little scroll through social media, and for the second time this week, there is an article about a woman being fined £150 for littering, nay, dropping a bit of butty for a pigeon to snack on.

Scandalous.

In Piccadilly Gardens non the less! Because of course, in the armpit of Manchester City Centre, a rogue baguette is what one should focus on, not the spice epidemic, the systematic and increasingly alarming rate of homelessness and poverty, no no, its some poor girls lunch scraps.

Dare I say, £150 seems a little exessive for odds and ends of Greggs delights, especially when paired with the fine assigned to an actual crime - the attempted rape of my now wife, and beautiful partner, Sarah.

Of course, that's not what Manchester Magistrates called it, when the man in question was sentenced back in 2012.

No, it was an attempted sexual assualt, and considering this man was "known" to police, and this was not his first offence, HOW, how, that disgusting bastard got off with the following sentence, I will never ever understand.

"A 7pm curfew, a ban from Piccadilly Gardens for "x" amount of months, and a victim compensation order of £150,"

This is a man who sat opposite Sarah outside the court room, and grinned as he walked in to enter a last minute guilty plea - a guilty plea in this country generally denotes a third reduction in sentencing, which is often not received well when entered at the point of entering a plea, not entering a trial.

The spineless shit.

One would hope, that as per the sentencing guildelines of our so-called justice system, and having been and on the receiving end as such, that a man, who has been apprehened and known to the police for attacking and stalking young women in the city of Manchester on countless occasions, would not walk away from a court room a free man.

We had had a wonderful night out with friends, at a classic student haunt, because, at the time, Sarah was indeed a student.

And as all students do in this fair city of ours, they get the magic bus back to Fallowfield or yonder.

And so, we walked, via a particularly good chinese take out place, through China town and towards the bus station.

Upon leaving China town, we felt a presence and heard footsteps behind us. Holding hands, and said bag of Chinese food, we walked a little quicker, so did the footsteps behind us, Sarah stepped closer to me and we turned the corner at Marks and Spencers on Piccadilly Plaza or whatever the fuck they call it these days and POUNCE.

I was pushed out of the way, bag of chinese food in hand and Sarah was dragged from my grip and into a dark and dingy alcove, with perverted mans hands and breath in places no sick fucks hands and breath should be.

I gathered myself and grabbed the fucker. Sarah had managed to push him off, before said hands could enter places I would chop said fuckers hands off for touching.

Somewhere in between flashbacks to my own trauma, I chased that prick across Piccadilly Gardens.

Now this in itself, is no wonderwoman feat, because in all reality, it should have been the middle aged StageCoach bus driver who had watched the entire ordeal and done NOTHING, and duly seen the pervert flee and done NOTHING.

Sarah rang 999 and I pursued the wannabe rapist.

And there in Piccadilly Gardens, I held him, until the Police arrived on seen, and in my rage I asked him why the fuck he felt he had the right to do this and he looked me dead in the eye and said "because you girls make it so easy,"

He was carted into the back of a police van where they took his details and the police officer who arrested him, told us he was known to them for this sort of thing.

Disgusting.

That a dirty little prick like that was lurking in Piccadilly Gardens and freely.

The policeman gave Sarah some lovely advice, to keep her house key in her hand and should anyone ever accost her again, to poke them in the eye with said key.

However, in this fair city, it would seem more likely Sarah would get done for assualt than this monster for predatory behaviour.

And lo' the defence for this penis pending?

A cultural misunderstanding.

In his country, he told the judge, this sort of thing was acceptable.

Which is fine love.

But you're in Manchester now and the law says NO FUCKING WAY.

Or apparently, slap slap naughty dick, keep it in your pants, stay away from the area and try and behave yourself.

Several months later, and on her birthday non the less, Sarah got a cheque for £20 in the post from the victims compensation. Poor little pervert apparently couldn't afford the compensation order of £150 and was paying in installments.

Well also, FUCK YOU. As when I had a stonker of a victim compensation order to pay and rightly so, "couldn't afford," did not come into it.

As far as the CJS consider fraud and compensation, if you don't pay, you go before a judge and you go to jail.

If you snatch at the pants of a young woman in the dark spots of Piccadilly Gardens however, you can pay in pennies if you like.

I digress.

£150 for feeding / accidentally feeding the pigeons of Manchester seems a little steep, and a little out of sorts with what the real priorities should be for the delgihts of Piccadilly Gardens.

Might I recommend investing in some CCTV perhaps?

Use these fines to make it a safer place?

Because upon charging this bastard, the police told Sarah and I, without doubt, there was no available CCTV footage to show the judge.

I have walked and walked for years and years through the gauntlet of big brother that is the piccadilly precinct and I can tell you, as you fellow Mancs will know, there are fucking globe CCTV cameras everywhere, one in particular, outside Marks and SPencer.

I myself traunched into City Tower to demand the footage, and was told by the police that my vigilante justice would do no good.

Well I can assure you PC fuckwit, if I ever, and I mean ever, see that bastard again, I hope there is no CCTV to show in a courtroom of what I would do.

It took every fibre of my being not to rip him limb from limb when I had him in my hands, but I gave him to you to punish, and you didn't.

And yet, the MEN will continue to report bullshit stories whereby someone had their leg touched on a bus and the world stopped to find the sicko that did it.

Some pervert grabbed an arse or a tit unsolicited and it is disgusting but it has become so unpunished and unchecked that it is somehow unafraid.

These men that lurk, don't lurk.

They wait. They follow. They slalk. They grab. They grope. They leer, sneer, photograph, and ultimately traumatise the women of this city. 

Because for women, and for sexual assualt, and rape there is no justice.

So if you see me feeding the pigeons, you can kiss my fucking arse.

Let's just call it a cultural misunderstanding, because in my country, we love the fucking pigeons mate.