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dropped me in it. — I misjudged you. Chris was confused. It was little to do with you. It was nasty to let you go without knowing the truth.
    — Naw, I deserved it. Shite of the year, that was me, I said sadly.
    Over some beers he told me Chrissie's story. The breakdowns, the decision to radically re-order her life and gender; spending a substantial inheritance on the treatment. She started off on a treatment of female hormones, both oestrogen and progesterone. These developed her breasts, softened her skin and reduced her bodily hair. Her muscular strength was diminished and the distribution of her subcutaneous fat was altered in a female direction. She had electrolysis to remove facial hair. This was followed by throat surgery on her voicebox, which resulted in the removal of the Adam's apple and a softening of the voice, when complemented by a course of speech therapy.
    She went around like this for three years, before the most radical surgery, which was undertaken in four stages. These were penectomy, castration, plastic reconstruction and vaginoplasty, the formation of an artificial vagina, constructed by creating a cavity between the prostrate and the rectum. The vagina was formed from skin grafts from the thigh and lined with penile, and/or scrotal skin, which, Richard explained, made orgasmic sensation possible. The shape of the vagina was maintained by her wearing a mould for several weeks after the operation.
    In Chrissie's case, the operations caused her great distress, and she therefore relied heavily on painkilling drugs which, given her history, was probably not the best thing. That, Richard reckoned, was the real key to her demise. He saw her walking out of his bar towards Dam Square. She bought some barbs, took them, was seen out of her box in a couple of bars before she wandered along by the canal. It could have been suicide or an accident, or perhaps mat grey area in between.
    Christopher and Richard had been lovers. He spoke affectionately of Christopher, glad now to be able to refer to him as Chris. He talked of all his obsessions, ambitions and dreams; all their obsessions, ambitions and dreams. They often got close to finding their niche; in Paris, Laguna Beach, Ibiza and Hamburg; they got close, but never quite close enough. Not Eurotrash, just people trying to get by.

STOKE NEWINGTON BLUES
    I took my last shot in the toilet on the ferry, then made my way to the deck. It was amazing; spray in my face as squawking gulls chased the boat; a prolonged rush surging through my body. All hands on deck. I grip the rail and vomit acrid bile into the North Sea. A woman gives me a concerned glance. I respond with a smile of acknowledgement. — Struggling to find my sea legs, I shout, before retiring to the lounge to order a black coffee which I've no intention of drinking.
    The crossing is okay. I'm mellow. I sit in silence, no doubt a blank corpse to all the other passengers, but engaged in a meaningful inner dialogue with myself. I replay recent history, casting myself in a virtuous role, justifying the minor atrocities I've inflicted on others as offering them important insight and knowledge.
    I start to hurt on the boat train: Harwich — Colchester — Marks Tey — Kelvedon — Chelmsford — Shenfield THIS TRAIN SHOULD NOT STOP AT FUCKIN SHENFIELD — Romford EVERY INCH OF TRACK I WILL THIS TRAIN ON (What about Manningtree, where the fuck's Manningtree got to in all this?) TO LONDON Liverpool Street. The tube goes everywhere except Hackney. Too marshy. I alight at Bethnal Green and jump on the 253 to Lower Clapton Road. I shuffle down Homerton Road and into the Kings-mead Estate. I hope that Donovan is still squatting on the second floor. I hope that he isn't grudging about the Stockwell incident, water under the bridge by now, surely. I push past some harsh-faced domestic-pet-killing children who are aerosoling stylishly illegible slogans on the wall. So passé, so ghetto.
    — Watch it! Fucking