transretrogurl

Or ‘Bucket-Listing’.

So, just finished the first of two sessions and learned some very valuable lessons. But I get ahead of myself, let’s start at the beginning…..of the week.

I can’t say ‘no’ when I work. This often (i.e. all the time) leads to me working silly hours, travel mostly but also some very hard days. And this week was a doozy.

I had a double Sarah session planned in London – the first would be my first attempt at ‘bucket-listing’. I may have mentioned it before, but as you are here let me tell you again.

I missed out on a lot of the staple fantasy stuff some of the T-Community gets to enjoy because I umm-ed and ahh-ed in my head as to whether ‘Sarah’ was a good thing.

Turns out she is neither good nor bad, in the way that your foot is neither good nor bad, it is just part of you (pretty sure I’m going to get some internal telling off for that, comparing a potentially smelly body part with ‘her highness’). Having taken that on board I decided to have some fun and tick off some of personal fantasies.

For the first session, which I have just finished, it was to be dressing as a Disney Princess, dressing as Alice in Wonderland and wearing a Dirndl, the traditional maid’s dress in Germany and Austria.

And I was going to use a breastplate.

So everything was planned, get all the outfits together in my nondescript carry bag, zip up to London early in the morning of the Friday, have a session, have a second special session on the Saturday (Sarah gets to go out to a night-club and dance around her handbag until near-dawn), come back home on Sunday.

Then work sends me to Edinburgh on Monday through Wednesday. In addition my stress, which is oddly very bad at the moment due to the imminent evening out on the town without trousers, spikes and goes through the roof.

And I get a sty in my eye. For those who have never had one, they’re particularly fun *if* you don’t intend to wear eye-makeup. Which, 99.99% of the time, is fine for me. But not this 00.01%.

So I find myself in Edinburgh on Wednesday morning, sat at the train station at 6:50am, boarding a train which instead of taking 4.25 hours to get me near home, ends up taking 7.0 hours because of track issues.

All the time I’m sat on the train I can actually see the sty in my eye – it had become *huge*, a yellow lump on the underside of my right top eyelid. Normally I’d just pull it off – there’s a frustrated Doctor living in my head next to Sarah’s batchelorette pad who encourages me, with a dirty laugh, to investigate, in a surgical way, everything that pops up on my body.

So I’m aching, literally, to get this lump off of my eye. It can’t stay there, it would interfere with the placement of my false lashes (she says in a vain fashion).

I get home and my other half tells me off before I even have a chance to excise the little sod with a heated set of tweezers and a shaking hand. Turns out that bursting a sty is a bad thing, so I spend an hour with a hot flannel pushed against my face, periodically checking to see if the little bastard has sodded off. Eventually I ‘accidentally’ knocked it off when placing the flannel, leading to a spark of pain, a momentary fuzziness in the eye as the detritus and pus poured out, and yay, no bump where the lashes will lie.

By now my stress levels are all over the place, so I give myself a shave, losing my patience a number of times and nicking various sensitive parts of my body, and get myself to bed.

Up at 4:00am to shave the face which really, really doesn’t like it. Every sweep of the razor is like dragging a cheese-grater over iron wool. When I finish I can literally see the the stubble growing back out with a tiny little giggle from each anti-social follicle.

I have to drive to Birmingham International as the Sunday trains to my corner of England are effectively non-existent, so it’s a manic hour and a half of driving, followed by sitting grumpily on the platform and wondering if I’m ever going to be relaxed again.

Fast forward two hours and I’m facing the final obstacle before I can have some fun – getting the bloody breastplate on.

The breastplate, as I mentioned in the previous blogpost, looks and feels like a kinky wetsuit. Only issue is that to get it on you need to squeeze into it and I have long hair. Cue ten minutes of fighting with the damn thing, at one point getting it stuck over my head and actually wondering if I was going to end up as one of the amusing footnotes on the BBC new website – ‘Man found suffocated by false boobies’.

Eventually I man-handle the damn things over my head, pulling out a non-inconsiderable amount of head hair in the process.

And I find the only real flaw in the plan. The breastplate is fine, looks like I’ve suddenly grown a pair, if you’ll pardon the phrase. But the plate ends half-way up the neck. This isn’t so much of a bad thing, but it does means that a: I need to wrap chokers or ribbons around the join to end up not looking like a very uncomfortable barbie doll and b: I can’t bend my neck forward because I suddenly have an artificial double-chin.

So for four hours, and three outfits, I’m constantly fighting the breastplate to see who can make me choke first. That and, because of the design of the thing, it generates little air-pockets under latex, which sounds fine until you twist in such a way as to cause the breastplate to shift.

At which point various little fart noises are made.

Sigh. Not entirely conducive to feeling super-femm, but you live and learn. Plus side is that the pictures turned out brilliant as always, and I’ve ticked some bucket-list stuff off.

But tomorrow I go out and about in good old London, and I will be doing it without a breastplate. Mostly because of the fart noises, but also because I worked hard all year to get rid of my damn double-chins.

Stay beautiful sweeties, don’t let fashion beat you down!