Phoenix Fights

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



I had to think very hard about this one…

As some of you may know, being HSP, along with a lot of other shit, I have a very low embarrassment tolerance and as a result of this, I’ve had a lot of songs sang at me, rather than to me.

Allow me to explain the difference.

When I was teenager, one of my biggest hates was seeing ‘old people’ (ha!) trying to be cool when, to my mind, they were NOT, so Saturday night TV in the 70’s was particularly painful viewing as people with prime time shows like Bruce Forsythe, Lulu and Cilla Black did just that every pigging week.

This came via a variety of mediums, such as by singing their own groovy theme tune (urgh), their own versions of chart hits (unforgivable) or, worse still, duetting live with said chart topper (NOOOO!), all accompanied by unnecessary ‘yeah’, ‘whoos’ and ‘baby’s and, of course, obligatory dad dancing.


The memory still makes my scalp prickle. 😦

And at these times, I would try and disguise my acute discomfort, leave the room and lock myself in my room before anyone noticed, but my evil fucking sister would immediately tune into my agony, turn up the volume to max then chase me up the stairs, pass me, then block my bedroom door, singing along to the cringefest into whatever microphone-esque object was at hand, gyrating madly, as I fell to my knees, curling into a ball, fingers in my ears, howling ‘NO! Mum! Dad! TELL HER!’

She particularly liked doing this to the theme to a programme about the Guinness Book of Records which was utterly heinous, and I had to train myself to be out or locked way safe about five minutes before that programme started, such was my aversion to this innocent, happy ditty.

So much for ‘at‘.  I will spare you any video clips.

To‘ wasn’t much better. Being such a fucked up individual, unused to love, I have been unable to appreciate a lot of heartfelt, romantic gestures such as being serenaded without resorting self defeating tactics such as mockery, sniggering and jeering, so whilst I’m sure it happened more than once, my brain has, for once, saved me and locked such memories in that rusty old filing cabinet marked ‘Not to be opened under any circumstances whatsoever’.

But I see one dog eared old file that has slid out of the bottom file and onto the floor.


On the plus side the song is ‘Moving‘ by the incomparable Kate Bush, which I love (along with the rest of ‘The Kick Inside’) but the memory of my second boyfriend singing it to me at intimate moments whilst gazing into my eyes (with emphasis on the line ‘Give me life, please don’t let me go’) still makes my bum hole clench with embarrassment.

In all fairness I don’t remember mocking him.

Much. 😉

But I do remember freezing, rictus grin on face and waiting agonisingly for it to be over.

Jaysus, and I wonder why I’m a spinster…

Sorry Steve, I hope your at home now with someone who appreciates your romantic soul so much more than I did…



  1. Your writing enthralls me Sista, thanks for that.

  2. Nobody’s ever sung to me entire life, which is sort of good, because my reaction would have been much the same as yours. But on the other hand, it’s a pretty sad comment on my thunderous failure to stir romance in manly chests.
    The closest I ever got was a plaintive query from my husband (14 years older than me) while listening to this.'m+64+beatles+youtube&qpvt=+when+i%27m+64+beatles+youtube&FORM=VDRE#view=detail&mid=C37BCB6F01090BEC7AC7C37BCB6F01090BEC7AC7
    As it happened, he went and died at 61, and by the time I made the grade, he’d been dead for 17 years. What an anticlimax!

  3. So where are you, dear Sista? Missing the song you can’t bear to listen to is one thing, but total vanishment…? Nah. Not on.

  4. Madame, I do not know if it is common or we are just too similarly peculiar, but, while never having been sung to since toddler-age, simply the thought of such makes me squirrelly. Even someone performing a song live who, while engaging the audience, exchanges a look with me induces wincing and eye averting. Raising the question, Is this sensitivity so abundantly clear that intimates intuit not to even try singing to me, or, as Ms. Meikle suggests of herself, am I simply absent the capacity to spur such demonstrativeness?

    From IRVING CAESAR’S SING A SONG OF SAFETY (1937), this is one of twenty-one little tunes meant to instruct children in basic survival skills—looking both ways before crossing the street, not loitering around rail tracks, avoiding thin ice while skating. The volume contains lyrics and piano accompaniment, which my grandmother sang and played for my mother, who in turn, sang them for my sister and me. With no piano in our home, our mother’s performances were more impromptu than our grandmother’s had been for her. She would sing them as lullabies, upset salves, idle ambient music and upon request. This song was a particular favorite of mine because of its jaunty melody and “old-timey” locution:

    When you ride a bicycle, watch out for the motor cars
    When you ride a bicycle, never take your hand off the handlebars.
    Peddle slowly to and fro, you’ll get where you want to go
    Don’t do tricks you think you know, ’cause you saw them at the show.
    Keep cool as an icicle, when you ride a bicycle.

  5. Why, Madame, you are always welcome to flaterringly pilfer from my lexicon. (Only more so because of my already cavalierly running round employing, at any and every opportunity, “mimsy”, “minny” and “Christ on a bike”. 😀 )

  6. Of course, we all know that “flaterringly” is the obsolete, Middle English term of which the modern “flatteringly” is the derivation, so, please excuse this moment self-satisfied pendantry. 😉

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