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.




This 30 day forgiveness thing isn’t as easy as it looks.

I’m not talking logistically.  The process is rational, workable, and so far I only have to deal with pardoning one person, and not the worst fucker I have ever encountered in my entire life, and as I’ve mentioned, I’ve been focussing on 7-8 out of 10 rather than an 11.

And I’ve kept it up.  Reading the very sage words of Desmond, Mpho and the other contributors.  Listening to the meditations and thoughts about the stages that can bring about forgiveness.  I’ve done the written exercises.  Acknowledged my part in the friendship’s downfall, and yes, I’m feeling a bit better about her in my head, heart and soul.

Yay for me!

So why have I been so full of rage for the last few days?  I have been so shitty that I had to miss my pub quiz because I didn’t trust myself not to snap at one of my team because she annoys me so much.  One of the gentler souls emailed me asking if I was just feeling ‘meh’ or what is something more?

‘Oh just ‘meh’, coupled with a white hot anger that could take London down like Vesuvious did Pompeii, but don’t worry, it’ll pass…’

He didn’t reply.  I don’t blame him.

I had such plans, to take inspiration from others, to communicate more with my higher self, to find more to love about life, and I was keen to press forward the process immediately after my last post.

But it didn’t happen.  I got stalled.

It’s frustrating.  I’m coming to terms with what Miss Psycho did to me, so why don’t I feel better?

Trouble is, she is only one person.

At the front of a seemingly endless queue apparently.


I’ve never kidded myself that I only have a few people to forgive.

But some seemingly irrelevant folk come shooting out of the past and hit you out of nowhere.

A few days ago, a long lost old school friend contacted me out of the blue on Facebook to tell me that someone we both used to know is currently in London.  Curious, I asked who and it turned out to be one of my old teachers.

On hearing that name, I felt my skin bristle, my bones stiffen and something dark within me stir.

‘Do you remember her?’ asked old school chum excitedly.

Oh yeah.  I remember her.  But not for the right reasons.

A year ago, I would have told OSC what I thought of this bitch and why I wouldn’t piss on her if she was on fire.  But I impressed myself by appearing cool, calm and collected (thank God for IM, I’m sure my icy voice would have betrayed me on the phone), and remarking indifferently that I didn’t really know her that well, and hoped that she’d drop the subject.

‘Oh you must do Sista, she taught our class!  And she remembers you!’

Oh does she now?

Then I realised what OSC was hinting at.


Then something cruel and malevolent twitched and ticked and turned inside me.  So, she wants to meet up with me, eh?  Hmm, that could be fun…I’ve waited over 40 years to put this old hag back in her box and tell her what I really think about her and her teaching methods, and I now have the quickness of wit and verbal dexterity to tap into her insecurities and disembowel her.

So many people I know say that they only think of the sharp ripostes after the person they were arguing with has gone.  Not me.  They come up bang on time, and fly off my tongue, thick and fast.  Not many people who know me mess with me for that reason.

I could remember her tearing me a new arsehole in front of the entire class for the most minor of infractions; screaming at me, her face so close to mine that I could smell what she had for lunch on her breath; how I boiled with shame and unshed tears as I hung my head and stared at her legs, wondering why she never shaved them (I swear she looked like an extra from Planet of the Apes) as she humiliated me time and time again; for being such a two faced **** whenever she spoke to my parents about me on open days.

And why was she like that with me?  Because at first I liked her and thought she liked me, so was probably a bit over friendly and familiar with her when I was first in her class.  A terrible, heinous, presumptuous thing for a hopeful, gullible, innocent 8 year old to do, I know.

How very dare I?

Before anyone says it, I get that a lot of people encountered at least one sadistic wanker from their schooldays, be it teacher, fellow pupil, or if you’re extra lucky like me, both.

But this burned me, and has clearly left a scar on my heart that has not shifted or abated for all of these years.

This is where the personality disorder diagnosis rings so very true.

We BPDs never let things go.

When did it start?

I’m starting to think I was born this way. I cannot remember a time when anger was absent from my core.

And now, this stupid song from a TV show from my childhood keeps running through my head, and it goes like this:

‘Down in the meadow where the wind blows free, in the middle of a field stands a lightning tree.
Its limbs all torn from the day it was born for the tree was born in a thunderstorm.’


And that’s what I feel like sometimes.  Something torn, charred, contracted, but not allowed to die, and so used to being struck that it’s as if it’s branches are like arms, as it stretches up to the sky in defiance and screams ‘Come on you fuckers!  Is that all you’ve got!  More!!  BASTARDS!!!’

Two years ago, I would have gone to meet Miss S for tea, wearing my most expensive outfit, all sweetness and light, and I would have waited for just the right moment, then taken that bitch down.  I would have told her what a sadistic bullying twat she truly was, reminded her how many other kids she probably scarred with her big screechy outbursts, and that she was so crap a teacher I can’t even remember what she taught.  I would carefully and forensically emphasise how much I disrespect and despise her to this day, and the real legacy she has left in her wake, so if she thought that dropping in on her old pupils would be a feast for her ego, she should really think again.

I would then have dabbed my lips with a napkin, flicked my hair, dropped some money on the table, chucked said napkin in her general direction and strode out of the restaurant.

Exultant.  Avenged.  Justified.

They say God doesn’t put anything on your plate that you can’t handle.

This however just isn’t fair.  I’m good at destroying people with my tongue dammit, and to wave this opportunity under my nose like a nice bit of rare steak, then snatch it from me before I can sink my teeth into it makes me want to howl with rage.

And then I saw this <warning, v harsh language so don’t open if you are easily offended>:

And I thought to myself ‘Do I want to be that person who hurts people like that?’

And the answer was………YES! 🙂

Well definitely this person at any rate.

But I won’t.

I’ll hold fire, even though the temptation is ENORMOUS.

Not that she deserves it.

Looks like I’ll be working on this forgiveness thing long after 30 days have past.

Today, in old London town, the heavens properly opened and torrential rain and hail bucketed down. Thunder rumbled, lightening flashed and people scurried and struggled with their umbrellas, as I sighed with pleasure and turned my neck from side to side as I drove over the bridge home.

I always feel better after a storm.  Maybe there’s hope for this old stick yet.

‘Grow, grow, the lightning tree, it’s never too late for you and me;
Grow, grow, the lightning tree, never give in too easily’





It’s clear to me that I can’t really drink alcohol anymore.

It’s just not worth the repercussions.

Anyway this is all Stephen Sutton’s fault.

In my infinite wisdom, I decided that it would be a good idea to cut out a photo of him and stick it to my fridge, so that if I was stressing, grizzling, crying, feeling sorry for myself, worried about something, inwardly dying etc. I could look at it, take inspiration and ask myself ‘What would Stephen do?

Great idea, huh?  I was quite chuffed with myself for coming up with that.  Who wouldn’t snap out of their shit and pull their finger out at the sight of Stephen beaming kindly at them through his specs?

Trouble was, as day turned into night, it started to make me feel a bit paranoid.

I used to have a friend who was big into a form of yoga and meditation that is run by a big ass, almost corporate organisation in the US, and for a while, I dabbled with it too.  Andy, delighted, dragged me along to a group satsang with him one evening, and whilst some of the devotees looked a bit out of it and zombie like, I loved the sense of community, the chanting and the meetings, and the mail out correspondence course that landed on my mat every month did seem to be spookily relevant to my life at any given time.

Then one day, Andy gave me a framed photograph of his guru as a gift.  And whilst it looked very nice at the makeshift alter in my bedroom, I was uncomfortably aware of her eyes following me around the room a la Mona Lisa, and her expression had changed from being lovely and ‘Ohm’ to being rather ‘Hmmm…’.

As in ‘Hmmm, you don’t fool me dear, not for one second…’


And she freaked me out so much that I had to take it down and put it away in a drawer, where it probably is still to this day (ridiculously I didn’t dare chuck it out), and I gradually moved away from that particular cult, I mean, sojourn in my life.

And now, 20 years later, I appear to be getting ‘Hmms’ from my Hero, SS.

And it made me really twitchy and restless.

So much so that I really started to want a drink.

Not just a small beer.

Not just a modest glass of wine.

I’d remembered that I had a nearly full bottle of sloe gin left over from Christmas.


I know.  I know, I know, I know

But just for once, I just wanted to get shit faced.  I didn’t want to meditate, I didn’t want to pray, I didn’t want to actively forgive and I didn’t want to think about anything.

I just wanted that warm, buzzy, muzzy, fuzzy feeling, to watch the sharp edges of the world magically blur and to stagger off to bed and disappear into dreamless unconsciousness.

It only took two glasses.  I was always a bit of a lightweight, but nowadays I’m beyond pathetic.

My vision swam, the edges blurred, and when I finally retired, I crashed spark out and didn’t wake up till morning.

And I felt awful.


Not hungover or headachy.

Just as if all the bad stuff in the world had seeped into my being, leaving me, in turn, indifferent, angry, resentful, sad, lonely, hopeless, hated and hateful.

Today was the hottest day in the UK this year, and I’ve spent it indoors, swaddled up in fleecy gym wear and swigging hot mugs of tea, staring mindlessly at my computer screen.

And I still feel cold.

And now the sun has set and I feel so alone.

Even my friend/foe the moon is nowhere to be seen.

And that bottle of gin in the cupboard is keening and calling to me.

I really want some.  I just want this fucking day to end.

It’s not fair!  I barely drink anything compared with my friends!

But I know it’s to do with it clashing with my meds.

I go out to the kitchen, and there he is, smiling at me, eyes a twinkle.

‘You needn’t start giving me evils either’ I mutter to myself, ‘I bet you caned it big style of a Saturday night!’

Yes, but he was a teenager, Sista!

The smile seems to widen, and I remember what he’s doing there.

It’s hard when someone less than half your age makes you feel twice the degenerate.

I put the gin back in the cupboard, put the kettle on and wonder grimly how long it will take me to get to sleep tonight without any booze.

God I could do with some spliff.

Just as well they don’t sell that at my Sainsburys.

Well it’s goodnight from me, and it’s goodnight from him.

Namast-frigging-ste. x



It was a bit of a sad day yesterday.

I’d been experiencing the inevitable guilt fest people like me go through when someone young, vital, and full of love dies.
God alone knows why he takes the ones that want to stay, and keeps those of us that would be thrilled to be beamed up Star Trek style to the great beyond down here.

Yesterday young Stephen Sutton finally died at the heartbreaking age of 19, after a four year battle with cancer, who, before thumbing a lift to the afterlife, raised a staggering £3.2m (and rising as we speak) for the Teenage Cancer Trust by working his way through a 46 item bucket list and being sponsored along the way, after having been told that his cancer had spread and that he didn’t have long to live.

Whilst most people (i.e. me) would have, on diagnosis, sighed pitifully, settled back under the duvet (assuming I ever emerged from it in the first place) and intermittently slept and stared wistfully into space whilst everyone (I don’t know ‘Who?’ OK? Just go with this willya?!) ran around doing shit for me.

I might have stretched myself a little by planning an Ealing Comedy style will/inheritance challenge scenario to torment my family after my demise, pitting them against one another whilst alive by way of pre match training. 🙂

But that would be it.

Not this kid. He was a fucking whirlwind and did not waste one second of his life.  He grabbed it by the throat and made it work for him and for those in his position, and had a blast doing it.  Did being in pain, sick, nauseous or weak get in his way?

Not for one single moment.

He even completed his exams and got A*s aplenty in the process.

And whilst he’s been doing this?


I’ve been vegetating away at home doing squat for pretty much two years.

Oh the shame…

I and others with mental health issues have no doubt wished for death at least a couple of thousand times in our lifetimes; and it still happens.  I do try not to because (a) it doesn’t work, (b) it’s an affront to people who are dying and very much want to live, and (c) unless I am woman enough to crash the party and boogie along to the mortal coil shuffle, it ain’t happening.

I did it again yesterday though.  One more time.

As I’d have given anything to take this kid’s place.

Not for me. But for him.  Because for less than 2o years, the world was a better place with him in it.

And my heart aches for his mother and loved ones.

If you are trying to guilt me into taking an active part in life God, it’s starting to get to me, y’hear!

I had to go to the dentists today and be fitted with some god awful medieval oral contraption in order to stop me gnashing my remaining teeth to chalk.  Mincy ( went to great pains to be nice to me again, bless him, and I feel vile for judging him before.  Anyway it was hardly a barrel of laughs but at least it got me out of the house.

Afterwards I must have walked for miles and miles. Rain was forecast and I didn’t have a brolly, but whilst the dark clouds were never far away, I didn’t get wet.  And as I walked I tried for once to see the good stuff and be thankful and mindful.

The sun on my pallid little phis.  The breeze in my hair.  The soundness and solidity of my body.

My back didn’t ache.  My head didn’t hurt.

I wasn’t the person over the road being screamed at by his scary, chavvy partner.

A toothless, snot nosed little cherub beamed at me as I walked past.

I got a cheeky wink from a huge roofer as I passed under some scaffolding (what is it with me and big, dirty geezers?!).

My freshly washed cotton trainer socks were not rolling up and chafing my heels like they usually do.

The way my stomach relaxed as a long, luxurious, silent-but-deadly fart exited my body as I passed a gang of surly looking school kids <Man!  You is rank!>.

And my fully functioning, almost full , hot water bottle of a bladder, insistently reminding me to stop for a loo break already.

Nothing is perfect.

At least I didn’t wet myself.

And I am here.

An animated, corporeal lump of meat, bones and blood perambulating along the street.


And for once? Bordering on grateful.  Or at least trying to be.

I catch a late lunch and sit in the late Spring sun, nursing a latte, pondering my next move, and when I think about the last year, some things have changed, and I am better than I was.  Aunty  C would be thrilled to hear me say that as she is very pro my recognising what she sees as my triumphs.

I am less angry and aggressive.

I get out and about a bit more.

I earned some money.

I am learning to live with loneliness.

I am learning to forgive.  Properly.

But I can’t carry waiting for something to happen all the time as the days of my life whizz past.

In health, I give others good advice. Everyone says so.

In fact I’d go so far to say that I give really good advice. Everyone use to come to me for it.

But it’s that age old thing, innit.  Physician heel thyself and all that. But maybe it’s time I tried.

Time to book an appointment with…me.

Yes, I’ve finally lost it.

I hope that God has put meat on your bones and colour in your cheeks, young Stephen, and that you get to keep on partying hard in the afterlife, along with some well earned rest.

Do me a favour though, and give the Man Upstairs my best won’t you?

I just want to make sure He hasn’t forgotten to put my name on the guest list.

Lots of love