Phoenix Fights

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


I didn’t really have an eventful Summer of 2013, so nothing really stuck out in my mind, music wise. Most people have memories around events (weddings, parties, BBQ’s, festivals) which bring such songs to mind, but last year was a toughie for me all round so I wasn’t exactly a social flutterby.

I can of course remember the hits, but I’m not that into mainstream music as it gets played to death, and I get bored of it As for the likes of Robin Thicke (is a big dick, not has one), Mylie Cyrus, and that little turd Bieber, don’t even get me started…

I do however remember a very catchy song that was stuck in my head for ages, and the only words I could remember was ‘$20 in my pocket’.

Time for a bit of research; thank God for (were would we all be without t’internet?) which came up trumps and found me this little number, ‘Thrift Shop’ by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis (feat. Wanz).

And when I read the lyrics, it was even more relevant as I have been an avid charity shop moocher for a while now, and yes, coincidentally I did find a couple of gorgeous vintage summer dresses at my local ‘Cancer Research’ last year!

Plus I love the video (apart from all the fur – yuck) which is very funny and obviously ripping the piss out of people like me, but I’m a loud and proud dead people’s stinky old clothes lover, and really don’t care who knows it.


‘Cos they are ‘fucking awesome’! 🙂



I’m going to cheat a little here.

I want two songs.

But at least they are by the same artist, the wonderful, uniquely voiced Lloyd Cole.

And just to be extra awkward I’d like to state that I don’t really have a best friend anymore. Anyone I’ve given that description to in the past has invariably struck out at me (well in my little HSP BDP mind they have), and I don’t really trust any of them much anymore.

Hence the first song ‘Rattlesnakes’.  As in:

‘A girl needs a gun these days
Hey on account of all the rattlesnakes’

And whilst I don’t look like Eve Marie Saint in On The Waterfront (I wish), I agree on the therapy bit and that I need love.  Unfortunately ‘It’s so hard to love, when love was your great disappointment.’

I do love my friends though.  In my way.  And I’m aware that much of this could well be my imagination.

But I’d so love ‘A Brand New Friend’ that I could trust with my heart.  Maybe that has to be me.  So I’ve been told.

I know; boo hoo, hoo, crack open the gin, it’s yet another Sista S Pity Party!

Great songs though, so suck it up bitches and pass the frigging twiglets! 😉

Namaste x




I have a confession to make.

I appear to be having the female/middle aged version of wet dreams on a disturbingly frequent basis, and wake up feeling as if I’ve just orgasmed or am about to.

Sometimes I can feel myself actually rearing and thrusting like a frustrated filly in my sleep.

Talk about ‘Giddy up Cowboy’….


How disturbing/cringy/embarrassing.

Whilst it is no doubt a clear sign that my body is in good health, I treat it like a malady as opposed to a ‘happy ending’ per se.  That is to say in the way one treats a headache.

Your head starts throbbing, take a couple of panadol so that it doesn’t interfere with your day.

Your crotch starts throbbing, have a quick wank for the same reason.  To shut it up so you can get on with more important things.

Somehow, despite the menopause, despite the fact that I’m still taking meds, and over a year of my studiously ignoring it, my libido is once again stomping its foot, demanding to be heard.

I know, I know, sex is a wonderful part of life and doesn’t have to end after the menopause, and you can always get an understanding partner and buy shares in ‘slide and glide’, blah, blah, bleugh.


It’s just that it’s just soooo….bloody inconvenient.

It’s hard enough to get a date in London when you’re in a job and the right side of 30, but an over 50 year old, jobless, post menopausal BPD depressive?

Seriously where do you start?

Get a fuck buddy, some might say?


Not a bad suggestion, but I’m scared.  I haven’t been penetrated for at least four years, and (a) my mimsy might not allow a willie in, (b) it might (will) hurt, and (c) it might get stuck, and I don’t fancy being hauled off to my local Casualty clinging to the body of Mr A Nother as they are currently filming the TV series ’24 Hours in A&E’ there.

Plus it’s never quite as uncomplicated as it is on paper, I’m horribly territorial about my home as well as my body, and to be quite honest?

For probably the first time in my life, I don’t want anyone inside me that I don’t trust and feel something for.  Which is pretty unfortunate because I don’t actually trust anyone.

And in the meantime, this song is blaring in my ear mockingly, reminding me of my youth club days when myself and my other geeky friend danced and sang along to it, blissfully unaware of the sexual implications.

Ah, those were the days…

In the meantime my body keeps reminding me that whilst I may be done with sex, sex ain’t exactly done with me yet.

Whatcha say?

30/5 UPDATE – It happened AGAIN last night!

WTF IS HAPPENING WITH MY BODY?!!!  Is this some menopausal ‘last chance saloon’ thing?!





At last!

Something that’s easy, i.e. non traumatic to write!

I just have to hear the opening bars to Earth Wind and Fire’s ‘That’s the Way of the World’, and something in my depressive little soul stills and bliss enters…

And apparently it is ranks at No. 329 in Rolling Stone’s Top 500 Greatest Songs of all Time which I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised.  Earth Wind and Fire can do no wrong in my eyes as their music was pretty much the soundtrack of all the good stuff that happened to me in my 20’s.

There are even cover versions of this song apparently?  Not. A. Good.  Idea.  I don’t care who’s singing it, they’ll never top the original.


I  have to say there are other songs that tame this savage beast (Diana Krall’s ‘Peel me a Grape’, Chet Baker’s  version of ‘Almost Blue’, Maxwell’s live version of ‘Wherever, Whenever, Whatever’ etc) and ‘Reasons’ gave this song a run for it’s money, but it’s numero uno as far as I’m concerned.

Soaring voices, the best musicians, fabulous productions and not to mention the most beautiful lyrics.

‘You will find peace of mind
If you look way down in your heart and soul
Don’t hesitate ’cause the world seems cold
Stay young at heart ’cause you’re never (never, never, ..) old at heart’

Enjoy x





Oh shit.

This one was always going to be the hardest challenge for a variety of reasons, not least because I can’t use ‘their’ song lest I blow my cover.

The song that goes round and round and round in my head on a loop as it did all those years ago in that over warm nursing home bedroom, waiting for the worst to happen.  That in itself is a story begging to be told, but right now, I just wish it would just fuck off and get the hell out of my ear hole.

Not now.


Time to choose a less revealing alternative.

But what?

And more to the point, who do I dedicate this to?

Mother?  Maybe Foreigner’s ‘Cold as Ice‘ would fit the bill?


Father?  Chas & Dave’s ‘Sideboard Song (I’ve got my beer)‘?  Not that he ever stayed in to drink. That might have been a nice compromise as at least we’d have got to see him more…

Nah.  This is no time to be flippant.

Or is it?

Ha!  Inspiration has finally rewarded me with a doozie!

Not that either of my parents ever heard of him, but I think Tom Waits’ ‘Warm Beer, Cold Women’ fits the bill nicely.

The first line goes:

‘Warm beer, cold woman, I just don’t fit in’

Sounds like the perfect epitaph for my long lost childhood methinks.

Plus I love Tom Waits, and my dad always loved honky tonk, jazzy stuff, so he has lucked out here.

My mum and I never really shared the same taste in anything much, let alone music, so she’s just gonna have to put up and shut up in this instance.

Day 3 completed, box ticked, crisis averted, job done.

RIP bitches. x




Most people remember practically everything about their exes (good and/or bad), but this one was a quite difficult actually, because at first I couldn’t think of a single song.

Not because it’s a few years since we split, or because there was animosity, which of course there was, because he was an infuriating, selfish  asshole of a manchild and I was (and am) a crazy, personality disordered, fiery bitch; I think it was more about the fact that I’ve put that side of my life to bed of late and not let anyone else into my heart since that time, so it’s kind of like looking for a lost file in a rusty old cabinet.

So in order to try and dig out and reconnect with those feelings,I checked out pictures of us together in my iPhoto library, and realised, that for me and BM, it was always all about Christmas.

Not that this was the only time we were together.  We split and reunited at least 3 times over as many years, but Christmas was the time we really connected.  I think that because at heart we were two lost souls and whilst we both know that  it was never going to be forever, we took refuge from the world during the holidays and allowed ourselves to feel something despite the pain that we knew lay ahead of us.

The first Christmas we spent together we hadn’t know each other long, but we were both single, seriously attracted to one another and equally attracted to not going through the motions of driving miles to be with loved ones, sleeping on some creaky old camp bed, eating stuff we didn’t like, seeing people we liked even less, etc. etc.

And it was so simple.  He did (most of) the shopping.  I cooked.  I decorated my small flat.  He rocked up mid morning with champagne and fresh OJ, after I’d had lots of beauty sleep, a nice luxurious bath and had lunch on the go.  We went to bed.  We got up and somewhat dishevelled, I finished lunch whilst he set the table.  We exchanged lovely, thoughtful, but not exorbitantly expensive gifts. There was no stress preparing stuff that year.  He loved my cooking and was (is?) a total gannet so I knew he’d gobble up anything I put before him.

Missus. 😉

And when it was time to serve the food, I put on my very own Christmas music mix.  None of that Live Aid/Slade/Wizzard/Mariah cliched nonsense that’s played on a loop every year, everywhere, thank you very much.  Just a choice selection of really cool songs that I harvested from iTunes, one of which was Luther‘s version of ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ which I love.

And we did.  Because tucked away in this warm, twinkly, spicy scented haven, there was no one to judge him, me or our relationship, no worrying about whether or not we wanted kids (or indeed could have them), no one looking down on him for not being my intellectual equal, or me for not being a 30 year old supermodel, no family quizzing either of us about our relationship and what we were doing together in the first place.  Just us luxuriating in one another.

And after lunch, we went back to bed for a nap, made love, got up, had a bath, then be-robed and utterly relaxed and replete, snuggled up by the fire with glasses of port to watch Christmas TV and movies.  It was the best Christmas ever.

Of course the world couldn’t stay at bay for long.  It invariably intervened as did the people that know us best, and of course, it and they tore into our love, as did our individual problems and burdens, of which there were plenty, and a few months later, we split.

Then got back together.

Then split again.

And got back together.

By the time the next season to be jolly arrived, BM and I had settled on being JGF’s and I had managed to persuade him to look after my cats whilst I went back to Manchester to spend the holidays with my family.  So on Christmas Eve I arrived at his place mob handed with my boys, all their food, litter, toys and whatnot, then loaded my boot up with food, presents, wine etc ready to hit the road early the next morning and beat the traffic.

12 hours later, I woke up with the dreaded Norovirus, and couldn’t even sit up without retching, and after at least three attempts to pull myself together, had to call my folks and tell them that I wasn’t going to be there for Christmas day.  They were understanding but probably a bit miffed, and I was as miserable as can be, especially without my boys to snuggle up with me.  I called BM and told him my tale of woe, and asked him ‘Can I have my cats back please?’, promising him I’d wear a mask or something so he didn’t catch my lurgy whilst we did the exchange.

And he, bless his heart, not wanting me to be alone, immediately came over with my boys and his lunch ingredients and cooked it here, whilst I hid in the bedroom and tried not to heave at the smell of goose fat roast potatoes.  He even offered me a portion of it, which for BM was a big deal as, like another big hunk of Italian manhood, he was not good at parting with his food.


And as I shivered with fever on the sofa in my jammies, my head in his lap, this song came on TV, and our eyes met, and we smiled sadly at each other.

‘I probably love you; well, I know I do love you.  Y’know?’ he remarked staring back at the TV screen vacantly.

I nodded.

‘Me too.’

And we had as merry a Christmas as a virus stricken, pallid, nauseous middle aged woman and a fucked up 40 going on 14 year old man could have that day, just hugging and silently acknowledging the hopelessness of it all.

About six months later he met someone, fell in love and we drifted apart.  But to this day, he texts me every Christmas day and every New Years Eve to wish me seasons greetings and all the best for the new year to come, and a little candle flames in my heart when I open them, soppy cow that I am.

I have no regrets that we parted.  It was never going to work out between us, and he’s probably the first ex in recent years that I wish no ill will, so if he’s found happiness with his new lady, that’s fine by me. The time we had together was explosive, passionate, frustrating, hilarious, gut wrenching and beyond exasperating.  But there were periods between the storms that were tender, gentle, touching and so full of a different kind of love, one that I was not used to, that it left me forever a changed woman.

Whatever the future holds for either of us, I think a little part of Christmas will always belong to me and BM and it’s unlikely that his memory will be usurped.   Besides, I think I’ve used up all of my dating lives so to speak, and to settle for mediocre after the men I’ve loved and who have loved me with such passion, would be an insult to both them and myself.  Or maybe I’m just too frightened to hope.

I can’t help but feel that I’ll be lonely this Christmas and every Christmas that follows, but I’ll just have to wait and see what Santa has in his sack come December won’t I?

In the meantime, as George Benson sang, learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all, and if I can do that, anything’s possible.




Some days I have so much to say, but no way of getting it out.

Because I’m too low. Or too pissed off. Or too wary of boring you all to death with the same old shit.

But one thing I can pretty much always talk about all day long is music, especially songs that means something to me.

So when I saw Twindaddy’s 25 days 25 song challenge, I thought, I wanna play!

Except he’s just finished it. Always super quick off the mark, me….

Nevertheless, I’m going to do it anyway and if anyone would like to come along for the ride, I’d appreciate your company. 🙂

So, first cab off the rank, a song that reminds me of my childhood…

Marc Bolan & T Rex File Photos

Like most young, pre pubescent kids, I started having crushes on boys from about the age of 8, and by far the least embarrassing object of my affections was Marc Bolan from T Rex.  Probably because he was pretty androgynous and unthreatening with his make up, glitter and stars and whatnot stuck around his eyes, but anyway I had his posters in my bedroom, I cooed at him longingly when he was on Top of the Pops, and ‘Hot Love’ was the first single I ever bought, and I played it again, again, and again.

The next day I was dragged off to the optician and was fitted with a pair of glasses.

Before that, whilst I wasn’t necessarily one of the cool kids, I wasn’t an outsider, and just about got away with being a ginger with goofy teeth, but my geeky cheapo National Health bins soon put paid to that.


Suffice to say, I absolutely hated them.  Before I got them I saw the world through a gentle, blurry haze, and everything being brought into sharp focus for the first time, probably ever, was a rude awakening. Everybody and everything looked ugly, spotted, scarred and flawed, especially me.

Apprehensive about the kind of reception I’d get from my friends, I refused to wear them on the way home in case I was spotted, but showed them to my favourite aunt when she begged me to later that evening, promising faithfully not to laugh.

We went up to my room and taking a deep breath, I sat on my bed next to her, took the blue rimmed monstrosities from their case and wedged them painfully onto my face. They pinched and her face immediately seemed nearer, as she squinted at me, thick blue eye shadow creasing, her expression unmistakably one of suppressed mirth.  I saw to my dismay, the corners of her mouth twitch.  Then no doubt trying to distract herself, she spotted the sparkly one gazing down at us from the wall.

Oooo, you like him do you?’ she cried teasingly, ‘well he won’t like you with those on!  He was on telly the other day and he said “Boys don’t make passes at girls that wear glasses; because they’re always in classes”, and she shrieked with laughter.

Well done Auntie Ethel, thanks for the support.  One for the feminists – not.  Germaine Greer would have been so proud, you tactless, evil, blubbery old brass.

Even as a kid you know that if grown up mocks you, you get to school and you’re gonna be toast, and I begged my mother not to make me wear them.

Of course she made me wear them.

Of course I got shit at school.

And here heralded the start of  the ‘ugly years’, isolation, bullying, eating disorders, self harm and my 40 plus year hatred of the way that I looked.

But I’ll always remember the way I felt the day before, when I carefully lowered my brand new single onto the record player, lay on my bed and stared moonily at my beloved Marc, and could still believe that we might ride a white swan off into the sunset together.