Phoenix Fights

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




I’ve just go home and I’m buzzing!

My clothes are soaked with sweat, my hair is wrecked, I’ve probably sustained severe whiplash, but I’ve just had the best night ever.

What is the reason for this drastic change in mood?

Alcohol?  Chocolate?  Lottery win?  A nice wank?

None of the above.  I, my friends, have just been to a Ceilidh dance 🙂

If you are a British and of a certain age, you will probably remember doing ‘country dancing’ in the summer with your school, where you were partnered up with some very reluctant, snot gobbling, grubby brat of a boy who didn’t want to dance, wouldn’t hold your hand and would spend most of the time clomping all over your best Clarks’ sandals wishing he was dead, playing footie or at least at home watching Scooby-Doo.

Well it’s different when they grow up to be men, especially if they are Scottish.

They love it!

Plus, unlike other partnered dances, hardly any one shows off , no one gets sniffy if you go wrong (if one person screws up, everyone tends to via the domino effect going down the line), the music is brilliant, people of all ages go and the endomorphic hit is amazing.

So fuck the weather, fuck the fire, fuck my knackered old microwave and fuck my….well, bollocks to my ageing fanny, just give me a bit of the Gay Gordon’s and all is well with the world.

Let’s just hope that my neck forgives me in the morning…. 😉



Well, I am having a dee-lightful day so far today – NOT!

It’s raining again, I can’t light my fire (spare me the witticisms please), every appliance in my domicile is breaking down, and I’ve just had the most horrifying experience….

Men – this is not for your eyes, so please, look away now.

Have they gone?

OK ladies…..

I just sat down to answer a few emails, and I had to adjust my seated position to make myself comfortable because it felt like…. or I appeared to be…. sitting on my own fangita.


What kind of fuckery is this, exactly?

Is it not enough that our hair goes grey, our faces droop, our tits sag and our libido leaves home, now we have to suffer this kind of indignity?

So what now?  I’m growing a frigging scrotum or something?

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t sitting on a lorra, lorra labia, but something is clearly there that did not used to be there.

I think it has gotten plumper and…. OMG I’m hyperventilating with horror here…. it kind of, erm, isn’t as tight to my perineum as it used to be.



I’ll say it.

It’s grown.  Downwards.  A bit. 😦  😦  😦

And when I come to think about it, when I’m doing yoga and go into downward dog, my eyes tend to be drawn there, because it now has a presence, whereas in the past it was…..


No one warned me about this.  Sure people bang on about the ‘change’, hot flushes, putting weight on, less skin elasticity, etc., but getting a bigger pussy?!  That said, no one briefed me on the sneaky little patches of hair growth where there once was none (toes, nose, palms of hands) nor that my bush would get ambitious and want to branch out into new, exciting territory, as it seems that nowadays I need a chair, whip and flame thrower to keep it under control.

Someone should have said!!

I call a friend, K, for advice and support.

She laughed.

‘That’s only just happened to you? Really? I’ve got a right pair of flaps on me now, have done for a while!  Don’t worry about it, know what my Steve says? All the more for him to chew on!  Ha Ha!’

Oh GOD….I’m really not amused at all….she has a man, who has seen her in her neater days, how am I supposed to introduce ‘monster minge’ to a new boyfriend?

All those hideous misogynistic names that used to mean nothing to me?  Now, some horrible little demon pops up unannounced, sits on my shoulder and hisses them in my ear….

Piss flaps!

Beef curtains!

Meat wallet!



I know it’s a small thing (shaddup!) and should be of little concern in the greater scheme of things, but I do a lot of yoga and won’t be able to wear tights if I have a big laa laa, so what am I supposed to do about that?

Do Spanx make something to address this?  A snatch support or something?

My mind, in desperation reaches back to the happy days when I was with my first boyfriend; he loved my minny so much, he used to look at it with a torch like a younger, more pervy Bill Oddie, with a preference for beaver over badger.


Who’d want to look at it now? They might get their nose bitten off 😦 .

I know I should love it no matter what it looks like, ‘no ones looks the same but they’re all beautiful’, blah, blah, blah but I don’t love the rest of me that is on show to the world, so how am I supposed love something that shouldn’t be making it’s presence known in the first place, whose sole intent is to cause me discomfort and embarrassment?

This plus my lack of libido, I’m starting to wonder if I ever have sex again….

Hope I haven’t offended anyone, but this blog reflects exactly what is in my head at any given time, and this is currently what I am obsessing about.

Ladies, please share your stories/experiences, and give me the will to live again?!




I’ve always liked hares.

They seem, to me, to symbolise freedom and joie de vivre, and whilst you’ve gotta love a bunny, they have a certain ‘fuck you’, cheeky insouciance that rabbits don’t.

So when one popped up in my dream last night, I sat up and took notice.

Dream as follows:

I’m on a train platform, clearing junk out of what used to be my business car, an Audi A3.  This thing is like a cross between a tardis and a bottomless pit as the crap just keeps on coming.  Sticky bags and dusty boxes of files, papers, toys, books, business documentation, office equipment.  I’m upending this stuff endlessly into bin bags with the help of a couple of friends/ex work mates.  The boss appears, boards one of the trains and asks me to find something she lost on a nearby five mile plot of land for her.  I feel irate, tired and stressed and wonder when I’ll be able complete this task to catch a train home too.

I look into the car and it’s now a old train carriage stuffed with boxes of shit, bags of straw, bits of wood and other stuff.

I pull a bag out.  It’s wriggling.  I drop it, and out run a family of rats. Someone tries to hurt the rats but I stop them.

Then another bag moves.  I step away from it and watch.

Out limps a thin, dull eyed, ratty, half starved hare.

I’m astonished, then horrified, mortified and consumed with guilt.  It must be three years since I used this car, has she been trapped in there since then?  How on earth has she survived?

I tentatively reach out to stroke her and only just manage to touch her back (I can feel the vertebrae of her spine, her fur is greasy and she has bugs stuck to her skin) as she shies away, turns, and creeps carefully back into the car/carriage.

I inwardly groan; she can’t stay in there.

But how can I get her back out?

Suddenly a beautiful red leash appears before my eyes.

Then I wake up.

The message is clear.

I’m the hare, and I need to keep working on getting back my health so that my natural joie de vivre returns, but clearly I have to drag myself kicking and screaming back into the real world first.


I just hope that’s a very strong leash….




Picture the scene.

You are a peace loving group of muslims living in Yorkshire miles away from the horrific stabbing in Woolwich London, and you discover to your horror that the far right group the EDL (English Defence League) plan to pay your mosque a little visit and it’s unlikely to be a social call.




So.  What do you do?

Do you hide?

Call the police?

Increase your numbers and prepare to fight fire with fire?

No. What these delightful Northern folk did was put the kettle on, and greeted those no doubt threatening, pugilistic individuals with a tray of tea and biscuits in the spirit of openness, friendship and understanding.  

No doubt taken aback and mollified by this simple act of kindness, some of them actually accepted this hospitality and even joined in their football match afterwards.

I’ve always believed in the soothing, comforting properties of tea, and this story has totally made my day.

I reckon Drummer Lee Rigby would have approved, and were he still here, joined them for a mug of the brown stuff and a kick around too.


Love comes in many forms and sometimes it’s the simplest things that are the greatest levellers.

Love, peace and big mug of Yorkshires finest to you all x






Still trying to crawl out of my mental/emotional shit pit, so not a lot to say today, so thought I’d fall back on one of these spammy word game things, and I’d love it if you joined in!  Promise I’ll do better tomorrow x

Over to the wonderful, beautiful, flawed genius that was Marvin Gaye….

Using only song names from ONE ARTIST, cleverly answer these questions. Pass it on to at least 5 bloggers you like and ping back me. You can’t use the band I used (Unless you really want to) Try not to repeat a song title. It’s a lot harder than you think! Repost as “My Life According to (BAND NAME)”

Pick your artist: Marvin Gaye

Are you a male or female:
I Met A Little Girl

Describe yourself:

How do you feel?
Mercy, Mercy Me

Describe where you currently live:
Inner City Blues

If you could go anywhere, where would you go?
California Soul

Your favourite form of transportation?
Flyin’ High (In the Friendly Sky) 🙂

Your best friend is?
Abraham, Martin & John

Your favourite colour is?
Purple Snowflakes

What’s the weather like?

Favourite time of day?
Midnight Lady

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called?
Is That Enough?

What is life to you?
It’s Madness

Your relationship?
Running From Love

Your fear?
I Heard It Through The Grapevine

What is the best advice you have to give?
Ain’t No Mountain High Enough

If you could change your name, you would change it to:

Thought for the day?
Onion Song (The World Is Just A Great Big Onion)

Your soul’s present condition?
Trouble Man

Your motto?
You Ain’t Livin’ Till You’re Lovin’




Well, I was right.

A ten year friendship is now totally over.

And whilst I understand that the pre bout style mind games that this old friend played out are (a) a result of hurt, (b) something she can’t help and (c) something I probably participated in before this year, they are all the more transparent now that I refuse to dance to that particular tune anymore.

S totally ignored my sincere, frank, open olive branch, and when I emailed her via Facebook to say that I would take her silence as a rebuttal, suggest we break contact on Facebook too for closure, and wished her and her partner well for the future, she came at me like a wounded animal, sneering sarcastically about not knowing I’d set a timeline (hmm, a week since I offered the olive branch, nearly a year since we’ve been proper friends), accusing me of being passive aggressive but agreeing we should call it a day.

I speak of course as a reformed (well, I’m trying) bitch on wheels, and I am, if anything, twice as fierce when I snap, but it’s remarkable the way my efforts at being reasonable are met with such fury and aggression.  It’s like the people in question don’t want to lose that power over me and would prefer that we keep circling each other instead of sorting things out to some kind of conclusion, whatever it might be, with honour and dignity.

But to be honest, in my heart I knew that there were only two choices; leave the friendship mortally wounded on the mat, twitching through its final death throes, or put it out of its misery.

And I hate things being left in limbo as I don’t like suspense.  I like to know where I stand so I don’t have the patience to play the ‘who will flag first’ game.

Being ‘friends’ but not friends.

The sly, barbed, less than subtle jabs at me on Facebook.

The missed celebrations.

Having a trusted partner in crime.

The sadness of watching each others lives commence without the other.

So I forced her to decide, and decide she did.

What I’ve learned from this is never to get into these kinds of stand offs with anyone like this again as it’s cruel, perverse and a complete waste of time, as in the end nobody wins, as if two people can’t have a normal, rational, honest conversation with one another without pitiful attempts of psychological power play, it’s best not to enter the ring in the first place.

Goodbye S.  Whilst I honour what we had, I recognise that this is long gone, and I will now let this friendship breathe its last.

I never did like blood sports. 😦






So I did my one hour date with City Boy on Friday night.

It wasn’t the best of starts as I was half an hour late after getting my times mixed up. 😦  I swear my brain (or that naughty moon) tricks me into sabotaging these things….

But he waited.

And he was nice.

And normal.

CB is on the dating website because he split from his last partner some time ago, and his daughter is off to uni soon, so it works out that he’ll have more time to explore London and will be free most weekends.

He works as a banker, spends half his time in London, half his time in Oxford, has a splendid relationship with both of his exes, they all have timeshare of a big country house where they all get together with their big gang of super successful ex uni friends and academics for big hearty meals, and everyone gets on famously.

So all a bit ‘Peter’s Friends’ really.

He was very chatty and amiable, nice looking, not in bad shape and seems like an all round good guy.

But all I could do is look at him with fascinated wonder and think ‘You’re so…..normal!’

I felt like we were almost different species, and that I hadn’t the heart to inflict my madness on this utterly balanced, happy, successful chap, and that to take this further would be like acting out a posh, British version of ‘The (Wo)Man Who Fell To Earth’ with CB being Mary Lou to my Newton.

And, when the day finally arrives when I have to peel off my mask, reveal to him my true self, and reach for him invitingly with a long, slimy arm, he’d run screaming from the room, wondering what the hell he’d fallen in love with.


And I just couldn’t deal with that.

I’d like to say that I’d be happy to be friends with him, but even that seems kind of intimidating, so I’m going to let this one pass by and hope he meets some lovely, successful lady in her forties who works high up in media, has a first in something or other, a child of called Muffy, Buffy or Tufty who is up at Eton doing rather well, is on the board of a charity, arranges flowers in her spare time and has an exceedingly close, convivial relationship with her gay ex husband who is now her best friend.

Oh, and doesn’t go all weird whenever there’s a full moon.

On the plus side, Goatee Man has been in touch and suggested a trip to the movies.  Yay!

Whilst I feel there is something about GM that he has yet to reveal to me, I’m much more comfortable with that than, say, normality to the point of perversity.

I must ask him whether he wears contact lens or not though…. 😉