Phoenix Fights

Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….


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So, as you might have gathered, I’m home alone a lot during the day.

I’m at home today and someone downstairs is banging.  And smashing stuff.

Why is that a problem, you might ask?  Well I don’t exactly live in the most salubrious of areas, and my neighbour’s back door was kicked in the other week right under our noses.  Not a window. Not a door panel. The mad bastards just kicked it and kept kicking it (and this is in broad daylight) until it caved, then climbed in and stole her stuff.  We have building works going on at the moment so no one thought twice about all the noise, but the sheer audacity and boldness of these desperados is somewhat chilling to say the least.

Bang, bang, BANG!

There it goes again. I know I’m naturally paranoid, but you have to admit, I have good reason to be this time.  OK so they’re not trying to knock my back door in (don’t go there), but I have to be a good neighbour and watch out for others, plus if they ever tried to break into my place, let’s just say they wouldn’t want to encounter me with a carving knife in one hand and a power drill in the other, channelling ‘The Bride’ in ‘Kill Bill’ mode.  Break into my place, you’re going to find yourself in the ‘United States of Sista’ and a whole lotta trouble….


OK, that’s it.  I grab my mobile and text our (relatively new) caretaker.

‘Hi CT, it’s Sista S in flat 6, there’s some very loud banging going on downstairs, do we have official workers on site today? Could you check it out? Thanks!’

I then put down the phone, put on some trackies and go do some yoga.

Ten minutes later the banging stops, then twenty minutes after that, there is a knock at my front door.

It’s CT, leaning on the banister nonchalantly, hip cocked, one eyebrow raised with the look on his face.


By the look, I mean…. OK, let me give you some examples of where/on whom you might have seen it before.

Kenneths Williams and Connor and, let’s face it, most of the male cast of the ‘Carry On’ team, Robin Askwith from the ‘Confessions of a Window Cleaner’ movies and Lenny Henry as Theopolis D Wildebeast. Lots of rap stars use it. Little Justin Bieber tries to do it (bless, his balls haven’t even dropped yet) and Joey Essex does it all the time, to hilarious effect.

But the general gist of it is ‘Hey baby!’ accompanied by a cheesy, sleazy, trying to be modest, shit eating grin.

The more specific version aujourd’ hui  is ‘C’mon baby, we both know why you really called me.  Hey, it’s your lucky day.  Help yourself to my good thang.  Hop. On.’

Groan…. really?

He clears his throat.

‘I’ve just checked things out downstairs and it’s all quiet now.  There are some guys updating the windows at No 4 though, so, that’s where your, erm noise is coming from…’

The right eyebrow rises a little higher and he attempts to smile playfully.

He honestly thinks I made this up?

I’m torn between pure irritation, coruscating scorn and hysterical giggles.  Does this little gnome think he’s a sex god or something?

I catch my reflection in the hall mirror and inwardly wince.  I’m looking all of my 50 years old, in my big baggy onesie, no make up, and I have a red scaly nose, so I’m hardly the hottest thing on the planet myself but that’s beside the point.  I do not fancy this man and have never given him any kind of encouragement or signals to indicate that I do.


‘OK, great, well thanks for checking it out CT, much appreciated!  Bye!’

As I close the door I inwardly grin as I watch the self assured smirk on his mush morph into a twist of frustrated confusion.  Whaaaa?

Is it just me or does this happen to every single female living alone?

‘Cos its not the first time for me, oh no.

I had one guy who did some work for me come back after hours cause he left his hammer and volunteer to do ‘extras’.

Another builder emerged from the shadows one night when I was parking my car and scared the living shite out of me, claiming that his wife had chucked him out.

I once asked the guy who did my neighbour’s electric wiring to send me a written quote for some work I needed doing.  He, however, chose to hand deliver it, and when I answered the door dazed from being woken up from a nap, he was there, holding an envelope?  Then he did the look, raised the eyebrow and took a step towards me as if to come into my flat, only stopping short when noticing the alarmed horror on mine.  The worst thing was that a week or so later, my neighbour (who knew nothing of this) asked if he could access my place in order to finish her work as her place is on the floor below mine. Great.  I made sure my ex was there when he arrived and he couldn’t get out of here fast enough.

Let me stress that whilst I admit that I am quite partial to a masculine, authoritative manual worker sometimes, but if I did like someone who was doing work in my home, I would (a) indicate my approval without making the first move, (b) only respond if I thought they liked me and (c) expect to be asked on a date and treated like a lady and not a ‘wham, bam, thankee ma’am’ opportunity.

Anyway, for the record, I did not find any of these guys attractive, nor did I give them the come on in any way, shape or form.

Then again, maybe my poor sex deprived body is making overtures all on it’s own, and leaking out ‘FUCK ME BEFORE I DRY UP!’ pheromones whenever someone with a willy is in a half mile radius of me?  Damn you Mother Nature, mind you own business, y’hear!

More likely is that presumably these neanderthals are adding together one and one then getting three all on their ownsome.

As in ‘older woman living alone + cats = gagging for it’.

Or it’s the old ‘numbers game’ where ‘any hole’s a goal’.

Either way chaps-that-do-this, it’s very annoying, potentially intimidating and you should at least wait for some kind of signal from the lady that she likes you before sauntering up to her with the look, your Roger Moore eyebrow, your ‘personal service package’ and your nuts all aflame.

And if I wanted to fuck you let me assure you that (a) you’d know it, (b) you’d have to work for it and (c) you’d respect me in the morning and every morning thereafter.

In the meantime, I am not Barbara Windsor circa 1962; I’m Sista Sertraline 2013 so move with the times already!


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