I have to tell you what's gone on with the househunt!

I'm now sitting at Guy's campus with the loveliest view, one of my favourites. A mix of huge modern buildings, 50s brick, 1880s grimey white tile, hundreds of windows, walkways, scaffolds and smoking chimneys intersecting with pipework and stairwells. Yes, it's ugly. But I'm not sure anyone quite understand how much this breed of London ugliness makes me happy. To cap it off, I can also see trees, and lights and shadows playing through it all, and a huge sky of clouds peppered by regular planes. I'm happy.

I'm at a strange campus because I've spent the last two days papering student-haunts, and this is the end of my toils. Today, because I have no shame, I have also been carrying about a placard reading "HOUSEMATE WANTED". Unfortunately, the only offer that has gleaned has been from a yellow foam pig, whom we established probably couldn't afford make rent every week.

Yesterday was a sort of special hell. We were going to sign up Segnor Espania and Miss Interpreter at 11.30AM, so I came home specially only to discover that they had flaked out on us that very morning. Calypso and I did some calming painting (she's doing, as she calls it, "Mucha Sci Fi Tarot") but finally resigned ourselves to tromping back to Central. It was a crushingly miserable moment, but my motto is if you can't feel fantastic, you can at least look fantastic.

So I got out the tub of "man gel" Oceanic had abandoned there - mum had got it for her by mistake, not being the brand she needed. I've been intending for some time to attempt Agent Cooper-style slicked-back hair, and my day wasn't going to get any worse. My hair is too long to do it properly - it's heavy, so it scrapes the style back flat instead of achieving the foppish "puff" short haired folk get - but I shoved it into a pony at the back. With a bit of practice, I might be able to get a little puff. Calypso noted it had rather a boyish effect, though I thought it was a bit more 80s power-dressing. Very much like the photo to the left. It certainly made my face look good, if artificially giving my hair the greasy-unwashed look. I then pushed it over the top with a fake cravat and the Sixth Doctor frock coat. Looked worse (probably), but felt better.

We hit Central like a plummeting lift. Calypso manned the internet machine, and shrapnelled the web with adverts. I photocopied adverts, then went and papered every student building I could find. We'd already done the Strand Campus. It was a lovely, dark evening - glowy lights of all colours, public transport, glittery shops. I walked up to Bloomsbury and hit every college in the area: UCL, SOAS, Royal College of Surgeons, Birkbeck. Guess what else I found up there?

RADA.

I snuck in nervously, avoiding the urge to attack the smug, irritating types I found scattered all over the place, and went to the reception desk. As I had at the other Colleges, I stumbled over a request that the receptionist take my poster and have it put up. He accepted it, and replied "I'll make sure it's put up, sir." I thanked him and left, and it was only once I'd left and shut the door that what he'd said sunk in.

Sir?!

Being mistaken for a man didn't actually upset me as much as you'd assume it should - in fact, I grinned for the next fifteen minutes. While "passing" for male wasn't exactly what I'd intended that morning, nevertheless I had consciously styled my appearance after my male fashion icons, so I suppose I was sort-of asking for it. And it made some sense - that coat broadens my shoulders, what shape I have was hidden under a baggy jumper and as per usual, I wasn't wearing make up. Plus, this was RADA: they must be used to ludicrously effete fellas.

But I wasn't upset. While I've no desire at all to be a man, there is a fairly significant chunk of my brain which operates in a stereotypically "male" manner; and part of me would love to be a proper Victorian gentleman, hence the cravats and pretentions to chivalry. On a shallow, purely aesthetic level, it's a torment that I can't wear suits. I mean, I have the right to, and do my best with cravats and top hats and the rest, but I will never have the ability to make it look good in the way I want it to. Rather like that dress my sister and I accidentally bought on the same day. We both kept it, and it looks marvellous on both of us - but it looks like two different dresses when we wear them together, because we've different shapes. To illustrate my point, I've peppered this post with some of my favourite suit-wearers: Doctor number ten; 30s actress Jessie Matthews in First a Girl; Agent Cooper from Twin Peaks; 30s actress Marlene Dietrich in Morocco and singer Janelle Monae, who I've never heard of before but the picture looked great. My point being, they all look very fine - but fine in different ways.

But avoiding the obvious biological differences, I've little time for the gender binary. I feel that dividing people into two categories which influence the way they behave, dress, speak, move, and are treated is a shame on so many levels, not to mention unfair. Why would anyone want to limit themselves like that?

Bizzarely, the whole experience left me very conscious of how feminine I am. Going back on the tube, it occured to me that no one could possibly mistake me for a man for longer than the 5 seconds I had talked with the receptionist. The way I was standing, sitting, walking, positioning my legs, moving my hands - even, I felt, my range of facial expression would be different had I been raised male. No space or time, or indeed point to going into nature vs. nurture here - I think it's predominantly the way we learn to behave. Properly paying attention to the way men and women move is actually an exercise I'd recommend to everyone.

All in all, it was a fascinating occurrence. My first instinct was "eeek, won't do that again" - but a moment after, I amended that to "I will be careful how I use this in future". After all, with great hair comes great responsibility. There are many situations in my life where appearing manly is not an advantage - i.e. most of them. I'm glad I've been warned, so I never give off this effect by accident.

But I'm tempted. Very, very tempted to have a go at it properly. Work out how to sit and stand, and (assuming, for a moment, that I am convincing) see how people treat me differently.

Of course, the main downside of this whole scenario is the fact I spent my entire evening walking about with dead animal fat smeared all over my head. It's now gone all crusty, and I somehow respect movie gangsters and the rest less for knowing how nasty it feels in the morning. I've washed it once now, and it's still pretty gooey - today, I've been sporting the cancer-outpatient look, with a hair-concealing hat so concealing that it makes obvious something nasty has happened up there...

I've got a plan, however, for what to do next. I'm going to get my hair to frizz, then slick down the very top. It works, in my head, with a flapper dress and pearls.