Pink Ball, Corner Pocket 

There are many useful words in the Scottish lexicon.  My favourite is probably Baws. It’s potential uses are legion. A single word that can mean many things depending on context.

It can just as easily mean “the argument you are putting forward carries no scientific merit” as “Damn it,  this rain is torrential and I am without an umbrella “. It is singularly useful.  But it’s probably chiefly used to describe one’s testicles. And that’s what we are going with today.

As the spectre of surgery soars ever nearer on my horizon,  I find myself wondering more and more what my operation will really mean. It may be the ultimate case of separation anxiety.  Imagine a distraught dog wondering where it’s Master has gone. I think we all know that nobody is being sent to live on a really nice farm in this scenario and I’m mentally preparing for the fact that I may miss my accoutrements. And the impact that may have on me.

Humour is my default position whenever I face something difficult though.  I like to think it’s a healthy enough defence mechanism.  But this post is partly to illustrate that I really have thought everything through. No metaphoric stone(s) left unturned. The change might potentially be traumatic but I’m ready for it. Or as ready as I’m likely to be. To be fair,  it’s not like I’m using them much. I wish I could donate them to medical science though. Because it was hard enough to find the courage and being Transsexual takes a barrowload of baws.

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