I don’t know whether to make this post to Lynn or about Lynn because this is a post I never wanted to write.

Lynn was my therapist and she passed away recently after having particularly aggressive cancer.

My world without Lynn is weird. There’s no other way to describe it. My world is missing something and I’m scared that it will never feel as full.

At Lynn’s funeral there was a reading of some sort that said that whatever Lynn was to us she still is. I get that, it’s not as though I’m ever going to forget her but it isn’t the same. I can’t text her when I need some instant reassurance and I can’t cry in her car watching Ted talks with her.

Lynn was the first person I came out as trans to and she was a constant supporter of mine. She challenged me, swore with me and gave me the confidence to start my transition.

It all sounds like trivial things written down but she saved my life and hers was cruelly taken from her.

She was relentlessly positive and remained so even when she must have been in agony. I know she must have been scared and in pain but she didn’t show it; she had a level of strength that was immeasurable.

In one of my early sessions she asked who I idolised. I’ll be adding her to my list.

It’s kind of ironic how she taught me so many coping strategies for life and yet she didn’t teach me how to cope without her.

I’m angry. I’m angry at the world. I’m angry at the people who don’t appreciate their lives and I’m angry at those who moan. I guess I’m angry with myself. 

She requested that “Bat out of hell” be played at her funeral and when I heard it a week ago on the radio I sat in my car and sobbed.

I cry little and often and normally alone. I’ve cried in restaurants and pubs and even at work on the bus.

If I try really hard I can still remember what her voice sounded like.

I’m upset for selfish reasons mostly. I feel sad that she’ll never see me transition fully and she won’t meet my children and she won’t see me grow into the man that she helped me be.

I just have to hope that she knows how much I valued her and that she knows that I’m alive today because of her. Because I am, I owe her my life and I’ll live it in a way that she’d be proud of.


Places I’m drawn to. 

My nan moved to a flat and out of the “family bungalow” about 6 years ago yet, for some reason, when I thought about visiting my nan today I was thinking of going to said bungalow. 


I have loads of extremely happy memories from the bungalow; including hundreds of my grandad who died before my nan moved out. However, I also have unpleasant memories from it and I’m realistic to know that the building is just bricks.

Having said that, when I found out she was selling the bungalow I was fuming. I had spent a lot of my childhood there and it felt like a second home to me. I would go there after school when my mum was working late and I’d had learnt to ride a bike in the back garden.

But without my grandad it wasn’t the same.

Her new flat, whilst spacious and light, is missing a presence for me.

Similarly, I’m drawn to Derby where my paternal grandmother lives and where my dad spent a lot of time.

I was talking to a friend recently and I expressed a yearning to go to Derby, even though I don’t feel like going there fulfils me. 

“You’re looking for your dad.”, she said “But he’s not there.”

It’s true. He’s not there. Pictures of him are scattered everywhere and half of the person who created him is there but he isn’t.

I stopped myself from making a last minute hotel booking in Derby recently and the yearning to go has gone.

I feel like Derby is where I run away to when my actual life (the monotony of work and the stress of relationships) gets too much. 

So how do I find peace with all of this loss and no substance to fill the space? 

A question for you all.

Evening everyone!

When I set up this blog I planned to talk about my comedy career (or lack of) but, as the year went on, I found myself posting more and more about my life; including my sexuality, my work and my photos. I’ve even braved topics such as my dad’s death and the things I fear in life.

And, a couple of times, I’ve talked about my dreams. (As in the things I think when I sleep.)

Last night I had a dream that came as a bit of a shock to me. It wasn’t upsetting or distressing or really abstract; it was just a shock. I was with people I knew, having normal conversations and doing day-to-day things but one aspect of it jolted me awake; and there were tears, both happy and sad.

I have been wanting to share with you (my awesome readers) some of these slightly deeper and a lot more personal things but I’m not sure how you’ll take to it.

I considered making a whole new blog to get these emotional rambles out but I don’t think it’d be the same; I don’t think I’ll find this supportive network anywhere else.

Obviously, if I were to start posting those kind of things on here I’d continue to carry on posting songs of the week and photos and reviews (“Hey Wagg, where is that Maxxie review?” “Yeah, it’s coming… Soon…”).

So how does everyone feel about me posting these slightly more experimental things on here? It wouldn’t be frequent but they’d be a lot more compulsive and maybe a little bit less coherent.

Let me know, I look forward to your opinions. 🙂

Life, death and Ford Fiestas.

Sometimes in life you think about death and sometimes in life you are forced to think about death.

I spend my whole life worrying about trivial things; “Is the mash lumpy?” and “Will my hair look ok?” and I sometimes forget to think about the bigger things; the more important things.

The “what if that person had been two minutes later?” things.

Why was she in her dressing gown? How much had he had to drink to be that drunk? Why the briefcase?

Why the bloody briefcase?

We were having a conversation at work about death and I, and a few others, confessed that we were scared of death. I’m scared of the uncertainty of it. I’m scared of when it will happen, how it will happen and, most importantly, will anyone I care about be there when it happens or will I be alone? Turns out I’m not just scared about death; I’m petrified.

And, in all honesty, I think I have a right to be.

Some people have done what they want to do in life; met the one, got the dream job, travelled to that idyllic place.

I haven’t but I want to.

If I died tomorrow I wouldn’t be content that I’d done it all; I’d be annoyed that I’d barely started.

So today I’m thankful that the mash isn’t too lumpy and that my hair looks reasonable and that I’m alive. I’m still alive.