Phoenix Fights

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


13 Comments

EAR WORM No. 26 – Genesis – FOLLOW YOU FOLLOW ME #socialmedia #narcissism

I sometimes think I should come off social media completely as everyone seems to be getting on my fricking nerves nowadays.

Unbeknownst to them, I’ve already blocked two women’s comments from my Facebook feed as I’m sick to death of their terminal narcissism.

‘OMG, soo funny, I’m walkin down the street and this guy says Giv us a smile luv so I do and he said i’m bewtiful an I said watchit im a grandma and he said “you never u only look 30” O my days, how funny is that?’

Not.  Fucking.  Very.

1312643790905.cached

‘Blessings indeed, this director lovely James called me and said come back and work with us yr a ray of sunshine i said who me and he winked oh saucy, such a compliment being asked back AND paid feel like a Queen….’

Oh and these can pop up at about five or ten times a day.

Minimum.

I get honked by blokes in vans/lorries pretty much every time I go out (until they see me from the front – hah!) or winked at by builders, but do I bang on about it?

NO!

Because it means jack shit!  Most men would bang their wang into the office shredder if that was the only slot available to them, so I don’t really consider such behaviour as complimentary.

The only time I’ve posted about some finding me attractive was when some bloke tried to ‘friend’ me and when I clicked on his page, he had an AK47 slung over his shoulder.  Highly amusing.

If chilling. 😦

So male cat calling and flirting is merely a dick reflex, so get over yourself love!

brittany

The other one isn’t as big on words, but selfies?!  Oh my she aces in that particular field.

Again, five to ten times a day she uploads a captioned photo of herself.

On the train, smiling, looking, in all fairness, lovely – “All set for the challenges ahead!”

You go girl!

On the same train, smiling, with a croissant and a Pret coffee – “Breakfast!”

Yum?

Standing outside her destination avec sunglasses, posing with arm behind head and leg cocked in the air, sending herself up to prove she does have a personality and sense of humour – “Here!”

Great!  Good.  Now can we leave it at that please before I…

Sat in a cafe with a panini and coke with a nearly-as-pretty companion, pouting – “Bitches be gagging for lunch!”

Then put the fucking selfie stick down and EAT, BITCHES!

Then there’ll be one of her working, travelling home, getting ready to go out in leopard print robe and hair in rollers (but full make up, can’t be seen to look minging on FB), and then, Oh God, numerous shot of her having fun with a gang of equally vacuous bints and a whole host of gay BF’s, all gyrating, posing, pouting, clutching Moet bottles (an empty from the adjoining table no doubt – miaow!) and mugging for all they are worth.

Kill.  Me.  Now.

And it’s the same every day.

I have no problem with people uploading photos from an event, party, or special occurrence in their lives.  Good for them!

The people who moan about a friend boasting about her new baby/lovely husband/new car don’t know how lucky they are.  This bird could make selfie-ing an Olympic event.

One to one, both ladies are really rather nice.  A bit boring, but perfectly pleasant.  And I sometimes feel guilty for momentarily despising them so much.

So I edited my permissions rather than de-friend them as I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.

THEN.

Then my friends I get an invitation from Selfie bird inviting me to ‘like’ her new page.

Sigh.  Really?

Resigned to my fate, I click on it.  It says ‘Ditsy Dumbass – Official’ and she is categorised as a ‘Public Figure’ whatever that means.

I know she does some extra work so I assume this is self promotion, but why’s she dragging me into it?

It feels to me that (a) we are already ‘friends’ but (b) she is now letting me know that she is elevating her status over mine and (c) is now asking me to worship at her altar.

And, look, there are all the selfies I have managed to avoid looking at over the past month or so!

Oh.  Goody.

Deep.  Fundamental.  Joy.

FUCK OFF

How I LONG to message her and point out that if you have to ask someone to be your fan, then SURELY they’re not your fan in the first place, because if they were, they’d have sought you out of their own volition, no?  Especially when they have done everything in their power to avoid looking at you at all cost.

I don’t know why it gets to me so much.  But it does.  It does.

Social media has it’s place I think.  It’s great for keeping in touch with those friends you never see, it renders those boring Christmas card bragfests obsolete (because we already know all about your year, gobshite!), you can stay in contact with mates from overseas etc etc, but it seems to have turned our youth into a nation of self obsessed zombies, and let me tell you, they’re not content to keep their content to themselves.

This is ‘X Factor’ nation where everyone thinks they are oh so unique and special and that it only takes the desire to be famous (oh and perhaps the support of Simon Cowell, zombie god par excellence) in order to make your wildest dreams come true, and whilst I have nothing against self confidence and ambition, the hard work aspect doesn’t seem to have registered.

So now I have to click on ‘like’, be added to her ‘fanbase’ and once again, block her from my feed so I don’t have to look at all her tedious snapshots ten times a day.

THEN, before you know it, she’ll be asking me to share her stuff on MY page!  Well she can fuck right off, I can tell you.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; I do NOT belong to this planet!

And there’ll be hell to pay when the powers that be discover their gross error.

Beam me up Scottie….please?!

Rant over.

Namaste x


3 Comments

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

3186237317_5baa30bee9

You know what they say about old habits dying hard?

Well it’s a cliche for a reason.  And it’s especially hard to challenge them when they’ve been over a half a decade in the making.

As anyone who follows this blog will know that I haven’t always had a great relationship with my family, and you will also understand why.

But of late, my relationship with my brother James is OK.

Distant, even more distant since I’ve been in financial dire straights, but whenever we see one another we’ve managed to have a nice time and while away a couple of hours or so before the other has to go home.

And I’m regularly invited to spend Christmas with him and his family.  Mainly because it’s traditional, and the fact that I’m ‘Aunty Present’ and, until this year, brought lots of goodies for all to enjoy.

But apart from that, my presence isn’t really required.  Oh I’m welcome, in theory, to go spend the weekend with them.  Subject to approval and with the proviso that I might need to entertain myself as they all go about their business, and treat me with about as much interest as the family gerbil (who eventually died of starvation/dehydration, poor thing).

yuk

And if there’s a formal family thing with long lost rellies, I’ll be required to rock up, despite the fact that the venue is about 400 miles away from my home (and 40 from theirs) and that I have to spend a total of 8-9 hours on the motorway, and money (that I haven’t got) to eat at a shit restaurant whose sole USP is the ability to acquire faux fillets made up of re-consituted poultry skin/scrag/ligament mush that has been combined with water and additives, moulded, frozen, defrosted, cooked and presented to the unsuspecting diner as a chicken breast, smothered in some kind of white jizzy goop that itself masquerades as some kind of cheese sauce. With chips of course.

Classy.

Other than that, I am apparently obsolete.  Peripheral.  Forgettable.

And every now and then I’ll see evidence on Facebook or via some other social media platform that he and my cousin and their respective broods have all got together at each others homes or gone on some jolly outing or other without inviting me.

And it hurts.

bully-web

When we were kids, my brother hated me (and in turn I hated him back), and turned to our cousin (who lived walking distance away) for succour and companionship which is probably one of the reasons that I’m the fuck up of the family and he isn’t.  Because even though our shared childhood was not the best, our mother loved him and he had Jack, so he was never alone.  Being the same sex, there’s was a natural bond, as was the habit of turning on me, an obvious target, to mock, jeer at, and pick fights with.

Me?  I had no one, not even a best friend once I turned geek, and I have forever felt like I am on the outside looking in.

And neither Jack nor James were ever encouraged to include or be kind to me.

They were lads.  And lads didn’t play with girls oop North, so they were let off the hook so to speak.

And as we came into our teens, and I strived to find some tribe to fit in with (be it mod, punk, new romantic), this was an endless source of amusement for this smug twosome, who, yes you’ve guessed it, went to uni, found a lovely inclusive brainbox peer group to join, and more life long friends to bolster their egos and emotional security.

I however flitted from one incarnation to another, and do so to this day.

Because I have no real clue who I am.

Over the years, I did form something of a relationship with my cousin, and once upon a time you could have called us ‘close’ as he would tell me things he couldn’t share with Jack, but when my brother and I fell out for 3 years, I was left in no doubt where I was in the family hierarchy.

No I couldn’t come for Christmas, Easter or Bank Holiday.  What were my motives?  Was I doing this to wind up Jack?

They could see me in March, some random weekend or a cold wet day in January; wouldn’t that be special?

tumblr_lvvhmqRGtD1qkmmtwo1_500

And after Jack and I eventually made up, I was no longer the black sheep of the family hence James welcomed back into the fold and was invited to everything!

Hurray!

Except I was indignant, bruised and in no mood to be humoured.

Nowadays everything has gone back to normal and I’m back on the outside looking in.  And today I made one last try to connect with my family, find out when the next big hoo ha would be, and get myself invited to it via my sister in law.

She sounded defensive and perplexed.

‘Why do you ask?  When?  What are you thinking?  Here, Jack’s, yours, somewhere in the middle?’

(In other words ‘What do you want from us exactly? Anyone would think you were family or something!’)

‘I honestly don’t mind Jen, I just thought it would be nice for us to all catch up sometime.’

‘Well Jack and James have just been away, we’re off doing something else Easter with my sister (oh the irony), then I’m back at work, Jack is blah blah blah……….but maybe we’ll catch up in August 2020 when I might be in London?’

Hey ho.  After over half a decade of being second tier, why did I ever think it might change?

It would be easier to get Clark Kent and Superman in the same room at one time.

I get it.  i genuinely do.  Spending time together for them comes naturally.  They’re more brothers than Jack and I were ever siblings. They both have kids.  They live quite close to one another.  Lots of their get togethers are probably arranged quite spontaneously.

I, however, take effort.  Not to mention that fact that I’m a little….

bagge_daffyduck

….and unpredictable nowadays. What if I rained on their lovely fraternal parade?

As for the bullying, I suppose kids are kids, and they didn’t know how damaging an effect their behaviour would have on me.

Boys will be boys.

And lets face it they weren’t the only ones who picked on me.  Once you’re being victimised it’s like you send out a high pitch signal that unleashes the dogs of war onto you.  It’s like those bastards can sniff the vulnerable out and let rip knowing you will take their shit.

To this day though, any word or story of bullying is guaranteed to get my hackles up.

25C60F2A00000578-0-image-a-3_1424207762664

In a recent episode of ‘The Gift’ one man, Jon, who bullied and beat up on another boy, Simon, at school for 10 years, suddenly got guilt pangs and sought him out via the show to apologise, wanting forgiveness.

90% of the British public were touched by his efforts and sniffled sentimentally into a Kleenex.

The other 10% (yes, me included) wanted his blood.

I’m sorry but who the actual fuck did he think he was to seek Simon out demanding forgiveness?  What brought on this sudden retrospective stab of conscience?  Why should he be made to feel better about his vile behaviour?

Miraculously though, when they finally came face to face on a pier, Simon (a big bruiser of a man nowadays) to my huge disappointment, didn’t smash him in the face, pick him up by the scruff of his neck, shake him like a rag doll and throw him into the sea.

He forgave him.

Jon, you are lucky it wasn’t me you sought pardon from as I’d have kicked you so hard that your balls would be jostling for position alongside your tonsils to this very day.

<sigh…>

I have such a long way to go.

Have I forgiven my tormentors, including John and Jack?  I thought I had.  But clearly it goes so much deeper than that.  And maybe they sense this.

Time to stop misting up that window and pawing at that door.

It was never my place to begin with.

Aunty C and the shrinks are right.  My sense of home and belonging has to start with me.

Back to the drawing board.

Namaste x

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b053kxhs


10 Comments

GET ‘ORF MOI LAND!

Doctor-Who-Amys-Choice-4

Yes it’s another fun packed day of Sista moaning about inconsequential shit…

But I have to tell someone otherwise I’ll say something to the person in question.

Which would not be good. 😦

So anyway, I have this ‘friend’ on Facebook.  She’s not really a friend as such but a relative of a close friend of mine.

I can count on one hand the number of times we have met or socialised, and we have very little in common, but that does not stop her tagging me on all of her banal Facebook posts, thus plastering her shit all over my home page.

These posts are getting more and more frequent and can take the form of ‘amusing’ memes, animal videos, photos from events that I did not even attend, and even her friends personal ads selling their old tat, looking for flat mates, their missing hamster etc. etc.

5834970375_grrrr128651997369060145_answer_1_xlarge

I must hasten to add that this lady is not a horrible person.

I think she’s probably trying to be friendly.

But I cannot lie, this unsolicited, intrusive activity is really starting to get on my tits now.  I’ve even had to amend my settings so I get to sort the wheat from the chaff and approve each tag on a case by case basis.  So now, I get an email every time she tags me on something, which invades on my space even more than before.

grrrr-dog

I mean, the fucking arrogance of it.

Who does she think she is exactly, plonking her crap all over my real estate?  Which is what your Facebook page is of course, it represents you, your personality, your friends, your likes and preferences, beliefs and principles, NOT those of some tiresome old bint you barely even know.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s like someone coming into your home and plonking a horrible, stained, chintzy sofa into your sitting room, leaving, then all your visitors think you wanted it.  Or someone parking their shitty rust bucket of a car in your drive.

Horizontally.

Across two spaces.

Or interrupting you mid sentence.

Or telling you then end of the book you’re reading.

Or even someone writing their pointless drivel in your blog!  In your name!

Eye-of-the-Tiger

FUCK OFF!

I am woman, and oh Lord, Emma, you really don’t wanna hear me ROAR right now!

I mean, I don’t even want good friends doing that shit to me.

One of my pals makes really lovely crafts, and every now and then she’ll tag me on her latest creation, and lo an behold, there it is on my page, immediately initiating lots of ‘Oh that’s lovely, did you make it?’s from my friends.

Then I have to reply ‘No I didn’t fricking make it, Jenny did, and she is hanging out for a bit of Sista praise (or just wants to show off), but isn’t patient enough to wait for me to spot it in my feed, so she hauls it onto my page and drops it at my feet like a cat bringing in a dead bird, and is waiting eagerly for a metaphorical scratch behind the ears as we speak!’

Or words to that effect.

Whatever happened to observing peoples boundaries FFS?

I know that I am particularly territorial and like my own space, but honestly some people are just absolutely oblivious.

In a very rare outing to the pub last night, a male acquaintance quite literally sat with his knees pushed up against my thigh, his face inches from mine, arms thrashing and gesticulating wildly like some mad professor.  If I wasn’t quite fond of him, I’d have found a broom and poked him hard in the ribs with it.

I’ve clearly spent to much time in my own company as I am, quite honestly, allergic to my own species nowadays.

Back to Emma.

How do I deal with this situation?  The way I see it, it will be win/lose no matter how hard I try for a mutually beneficial outcome.

If I’m honest with her, she’ll be offended and my close friend will be annoyed at me.

If I don’t say anything, I’ll spontaneously combust and do something very drastic.

Like tagging her on every single thing I upload.

Especially the most profane and offensive stuff as she’s a Christian 🙂

Or I could tag her on porno uploads.

Mens_Harry_Potter_I_Solemnly_Swear_Mischief_Managed_T_Shirt_Print

Oh Lord.  I can just see myself doing that after a few drinks one night!

Any ideas anyone?

Namaste x


4 Comments

SELFIE, BELFIE, VANITY, INANITY

stupid-firls-facebook-selfies-funny

I am a hair’s breadth away from de-friending one of my Facebook friends.

I say ‘friend’; I hardly know the girl, but I did like her when I first met her earlier this year.  Young, pretty, friendly, she seemed to know everyone and everyone seemed to get on with her.  We had a bit of banter too, so when she sent me a friend request, I had no hesitation in adding her.

Also, to avoid implying that I was misled by my initial impression, she seems as nice online as she was in person.  She has a squillion friends, posts lots of spiritual positivity memes, she can spell (yes I am a grammar pedant – sue me), never seems to have a bad word to say about anyone apart from the odd passive aggressive swipe (‘Haters gonna hate!’), but where it all falls down is her obsession with herself, in the form of daily, in some cases hourly selfies.

Just to be clear, I don’t mind a selfie in the way that I don’t mind a good old fashioned photograph. If you’re on holiday and want a photo of yourself in Times Square, at Sydney Opera House, or in the Blue Lagoon, that’s perfectly OK with me.  I’d love to see it.  Hell I might be jealous for a fleeting few seconds, but that would be more about your being somewhere cool and me being here, not how hot you look in your bikini.  You go girl!  I was young once, sigh….

And if you’ve just got engaged and want to share the happy moment, my day will peak with a little spike of happiness on your behalf.  I do not resent good things happening to other people.  I never have.

In fact any special occasion, why not share?  It’s one of the good things that social media delivers, especially if your family and/or loved ones are far away and need to see those snaps to still feel a part of your life.

animal-attack

And of course if you have one like this, tag me, ‘cos I really want to see it. 🙂

As for celebrities, I’m not even going to go down that road.  Let’s face it, they get on everyone’s wick, and whilst I get sick of seeing Kim’s big oily bum, Kiera Knightly offering to get her tits out and Jennifer’s nude shots and depressing reason for doing them (‘He’s going to look at porn or look at you!’  Oh dear.  Shall you tell her or shall I?), I guess that’s what goes with the territory in Celebville nowadays, and I can avoid looking at them, if I try really, really hard.

But this gal seems to outdo even the mighty Kim K.  Because these are not just mobile phone shots.  There are camera shots, reversioned shots, recoloured shots, make up free/just woke up (a.k.a. washed my face, applied some concealor, lip gloss and got back into bed) shots, old photos, new photos, photos from the future….just kidding.

But if it were possible, believe me Maisie would take ’em, get back in the Tardis, come home and upload ’em. It’s just a perpetual onslaught of Me, Me, Me, Me, Me, Me, ME.

Maisy on the way to work, on the train, having breakfast, posing next to a film poster, posing with her friend at lunch, posing in costume, posing au naturale (see make up free/just woke up) partying, chilling, posing with her family, dog, in Starbucks, shopping in the supermarket, in sexy underwear, clubbing, dancing on a plinth, with the gas meter reader, getting a smear test, having a poo (OK I’m lying about the last two) and loads and loads of her posing and vogueing at home with her flatmates.

That’s right.  Her flatmates.  The people she lives with and sees every single day.

That’s like me grabbing my cats and taking a shot of me trying to hold onto them whilst boiling the kettle, them uploading it with the caption ‘Bitches be gagging for tea in da morning.  Word.’

Or one of you seizing your disgruntled, protesting partner when they arrive home from work, and taking a shot of the two of you staring blearily into the camera, caption ‘Me and my grumpy boo, waiting for the frozen lasagne to cook, better get the scotch out :-s’

Who does that?!  What is she trying to say?  That her life is so damn wonderful that every minute of it has to be recorded for posterity so that future generations can marvel at her fabulousness? If that’s how she truly feels about her time on earth, then I am actually envious.

Maybe that would explain my irritation every time I see her pretty little full lipped fizzog beaming up at me, every single time I check my Facebook feed.

For the love of Christ!’ I seethe inwardly, ‘Get the fuck over yourself!’

This perpetual narcissism gets to me more than I am comfortable with.  What is my problem with her exactly?  That she’s younger, prettier, and happier than me?  Well that accounts for most of the population, so unless I am kidding myself, I don’t think it’s that.

Maybe it’s my essential Britishness that makes her stick in my craw so much.  Unlike Americans, Aussies, and well probably the rest of the planet, we are taught to be modest and self effacing from birth, and if we do happen to have big tickets on ourselves, we’d better damn well hide it because the sheer audacity of liking oneself only makes others hate us.  It’s ridiculous I know, but deeply embedded into our collective psyche.

I also have actor ‘friend’ on there, an average looking guy who’s a ‘friend’ of a mutual ‘friend’ who added me, and in a moment of weakness I accepted him, even though I’d never met him in my life.  I then got an invitation to ‘Follow’ him. I am Fabulous

What?  WHAT?!  Who I am meant to be following exactly?

I clicked on his page, and on closer inspection, it turns out he isn’t an actor or even an extra.  He’s a wannabe extra/model.  But his self belief and confidence is such that he thinks I should fall at his feet and worship him.  I should have known from all the pouting.

Incidentally am I alone in finding men that pout deeply unattractive and laughable?  Surely no grown woman can take them seriously!  Haven’t they seen ‘Zoolander’?!

As I write this, I realise that I should be amused by him, and quite frankly could benefit from taking a leaf out of his book, but his audacity and presumptuousness made me so indignant I almost wrote to him to ask ‘Who do you think you are exactly?’

There are also a couple of people on here too that I’ve had to unfollow.  Not because I don’t like their writing; I’ve actually forgotten what and how they blog because every time they post, I get to see yet another image of them posing seductively, looking wistfully into the distance or gazing beneath their eyelashes Princess Di stylee, and I flick at my mouse with mounting irritation and whizz past them.

Especially if the post has a ‘I’m So Ugly/Unconfident/Alone’ heading.  Why?  Because (a) they are full of shit, (b) no matter how many ‘likes’, followers or ‘Oh you’re so beautiful!’s they get, it’s never enough to appease, and (c) even though they incessantly fish for positive affirmations, it’s clear that no matter how many they pull in it will ever, ever be enough.

Maybe, just maybe, they’re as unhappy as I am and I should feel empathy or even pity for them. But I seem to be unable to do so and think it’s only a matter of time before I block Maisie’s posts or even kick her to the kerb.

pretty-cat-eyes

In a way she reminds me of one of my cats. My Charlie has this really annoying habit of jumping up at me like a dog whenever I’m working on my iMac and digging his claws into my legs if I ignore him. When I finally break my flow, stop typing and turn to him, his beautiful little face is staring raptly into mine and I want to kill him.  Because I know that within a matter of seconds he’ll run off with his tail happily swishing in the air, only to come back in five minutes when I’m reabsorbed in my work and do it again. And again. And again.

‘FFS Charlie, WHAT?’ I’ll wail in exasperation.  I know he knows it annoys me. But he doesn’t care.  He’s safe in the knowledge that I’ll never do any more than tell him off and tickle the top of his head. Because I love him.

Maisie, I barely even know.

And beauty without substance is transient and loses impact as time goes on. Pretty wrapping paper on a gift box.  That incredible picture on your wall, painted by a local up and coming artist that you barely even notice anymore.  The pair of Tiffany earrings that you forget you bought.  That gorgeous old boyfriend/girlfriend that you thought was such a catch, who ended up being so needy and in your face that you used to hide whenever they came round.

Hasn’t everyone had one of those in their past?  That guy or girl that thinks they’re so beautiful that they don’t need to have or do anything else, who after the lust dies down, bores you shitless?

I was also guilty of using my body and OK’ish looks to secure attention when I was younger.  Nowadays I can barely be bothered to put make up on.  And whilst I still get the odd wolf whistle from building site workers (usually the oldies/half blind geezers about a mile away), my metamorphosis into one of the ‘invisible’ is nearly complete, and to my surprise, there is much comfort to be gained from this.

All that pressure. All that make up. All that trying.  All that botox.

Did it ever bring me happiness?  I think not.

I genuinely hope that Maisie, the wannabe actor and the blogging narcissist are happy in their skin, and whilst they’ll never know how much they irk me, I’m sorry for my judgement, anger and impatience toward them.  After all we’re all on the same journey.

Some of us just got the better road map and a head start.

Namaste x

walking-each-other-home


14 Comments

TAKE ME OUT

wolf

Well.

I did it.

I rang my mortgage lenders, hung my head, and rolled over, then closed my eyes, waiting to be torn to shreds.

Or that’s how it feels at any rate.

And although it was what I was advised to do, and in theory the most sensible course of action, I know in my heart that I have sacrificed my last shred of dignity.

Lost job?  Check.

Claiming benefits?  Check.

Bad credit rating?  Imminent.

The thing is that I rang them in good time so that this wouldn’t happen.

But I am such a naive fool.

Because even though I have no bad debts and have not defaulted on any outstanding payments (yet), now that I’ve alerted them to the fact that I may not be solvent for much longer, they are now on red alert.

It also doesn’t help that I have my mortgage, bank accounts and credit card all with the same people, so I’m guessing that using my plastic is going to be touch and go from now on, and that any overdrafts and/or loans will be totally out of the question.

Not that I need or want debt.

It’s just like having that ‘You can stay with us if you’re desperate’ offer which, as I’ve previously mentioned, has not being reiterated of late.  There is no way I want to stay in anyone else’s home, nor accrue debt if I can possibly avoid it.

it would just be nice to know that these things are in place should the worst come to the worst.

Just in case.

But now the final nail is in the coffin of the person I used to be, the person I thought I was at any rate.

You see, whilst I don’t think i have much to be proud of in my life, one of the few things I have prided myself in over the years is that I have been quite sensible with money.  Apart from the occasional splurge (which tended to be on food/wine as opposed to designer clothing), I paid all bills well in advance of the deadlines, paid my credit card off in full every month, and did everything I could to ensure that I would never end up on the street.

A tough working class upbringing by one parent who lived in the pub/bookies and another who scrimped and saved and who feared this above all else tends to rub off on a kid, and I was determined that her fear would not be my fear, let alone my fate.

Funny how things turn out, hey?

You think you know yourself, or one knows oneself, don’t you, until things gradually fall away.

Your job, your business, your ethics, your social life, your dignity, your pride.

Maybe this is what is meant to happen to me.  Maybe I’m being tested.

On the plus side, there isn’t much else I can lose right now.

Apart from my life.

pp31942-spiral-reaper-game-over-poster

And right now, I just wouldn’t give a shit.  In fact in some twisted way, I’d love it because I’d be able to just give in, for real, rent out this shit hole, guilt one of my friends into taking in my boys (with visiting/sofa rights of course cos dying would make me shameless), get the old credit card and just party until all my credit has gone and/or the geezer in the black coat arrives with his big knife thing and drags me off to wherever.  Maybe the place where the other sucker with the white robes should have dropped me off in the first place.

Whatcha say big boy?  We got ourselves a date?  Because dragging me ain’t gonna be necessary.

You don’t even have to wait till Halloween, I don’t want to come on too strong but any night works for me.  Hell, you don’t even have to buy me dinner.  I doubt you’d eat much anyway.

Because, for the record, you don’t scare me, you boney bastard, so quit all that grimacing and whoo-ing and get your skinny arse over here and take me out.

Before the next thing happens.   Because I have a horrible feeling that I haven’t even reached bottom yet.

Incidentally someone is so going to get it in the neck for all this one day.  Because my memory, patience and appetite for revenge probably even outstrips yours.

In the meantime, God please help me endure this life and that which is yet to come.

It’s the fucking least that you owe me.


11 Comments

HUBBLE, BUBBLE, YARN & TROUBLE

MAIN-Lynda-Bellingham

Today I have been mostly sighing.

I reiterate – sighing.

Not crying.

Despite things not going so great of late, I was doing OK.  I’ve been doing a bit of buddhist meditation and trying to accept my fate and was staying on a relatively even keel, until I went to my first Schema Therapy session.

To clarify, whilst this was my first session, it was the group’s second meeting, because, after all that angst filled waiting, I managed to miss the first one because I’d got the dates mixed up.  I’m pretty sure they (the two shrinks) thought I’d done it deliberately but I hadn’t.

One day seems very much like the next when you don’t have a life.

So, when I rocked up last Thursday, they were very effusive when welcoming me to the flock.

But I don’t trust them.  Partly because (as the scorpion said to the frog) it’s my nature, and partly because I haven’t forgotten them pretending my financial situation didn’t exist and that this would ensure that I was going to be there for the entire two years.  I was quite frankly amazed that someone so intelligent and well qualified would resort to behaving like an ostrich.  Well I’ve told ’em and if they still choose to pretend that my imminent departure isn’t happening, that’s their funeral.

Also, the list of participants they showed me were women and there are men in this group. That’s going to be awkward further down the line.

The first, my first, session started with the ‘bubble’ exercise where we had to close our eyes and visualise being in a lovely bubble that none of our worries or anything bad could penetrate and where we were safe, at least for the 90 minutes we were at the hospital.

My friends, there are only so many things that a bubble can repel.  And an gang of burly baliffs would smash that motha to pieces, so I stared at the carpet by way of compromise and played along.

We then did this thing with a ball of yarn where we had to say our name wrap the yarn around our hand then throw it to someone else, until everyone was tied together, thus illustrating the unshakable bond between us.

Oh God, how I itched to take the piss out of it, so when they asked us what it looked like, I kept schtum.

But then they had to ask me, of all people, what I saw.

‘It looks like a pentagon.’

‘Ah yes’ enthused Shrink No. 1, ‘I can see that, so it’s like we’re points on a star?’

‘No.  A pentagon.’  As used in black masses? Fortunately I managed to keep that bit in my head.

Then, ten minutes in when one of the girls got emotional, Shrink No. 2 broke out some lengths of felt fabric for us to cuddle and link between us to signify softness, and a comforting bond.

What the absolute fuck?  Is anyone actually falling for this shit?

Well yes they were.  From what i could tell, I was the only cynic amongst them.  And that’s when the penny dropped.

Even in an entire group of misfits and outsiders, I’m the outsider.

That’s no mean feat is it?  Practically something to be proud of.

Except all I felt was despair.

I have nothing in common with the others.  I’m older, from a different area, a different background, and I’ve had lots of therapy over the years, whereas all the jargon, tools and visualisations seem to be new and wonderful to these people.

It’s not their fault but my trust in them is zero.  How can I bear my soul here?

On the plus side, I kind of feel that I might be able help them, and in that sense, help myself.

At one stage I pulled out my bottle of water for a drink and copped a worried grin from No. 2, then when one of the girls asked if she could drink from her flask of tea, everyone froze.

‘Um…’ said No. 1, ‘well, what does the rest of the group think?’

Everyone shifted uncomfortably.

‘Yes’ chimed in No. 2, ‘I think this should be a group decision.’ She nodded gravely.

Sorry?  It’s green tea, not methadone!

I had to pipe up.

‘I’m sorry but it didn’t even occur to me that drinking wouldn’t be allowed’ I said incredulously ‘I get very dehydrated from my meds, and can’t go 90 minutes without water, so as long as it’s not a can of Guinness, I don’t see what the problem is?’

The group burst out laughing and even the shrinks allowed themselves a faint smile.

‘Yes, well if everyone’s OK with that, we’ll agree that you can bring drinks into the group.’

Oh, goodie, goodie gumdrops.  Am I going to have to put my hand up to go wee wees too?

I reported back to Aunty C and she laughed.

‘Try not to rubbish it too much and see what you can get from it.’

I took that on board and congratulated myself on surviving the first session.

Except I haven’t.

Today I watched brave, ballsy Lynda Bellingham’s (British actress) final interview, when she spoke of her incurable bowel cancer and her resigning herself to imminent death, but was planning one last Christmas with her loved ones before popping her clogs.

But it never worked out that way as she died on Sunday.

And here’s me planning the most Scroogy Christmas I can because I feel unloved and let down by my family.

If I had to describe that moment, I don’t think I can do it justice, but I felt a combination of shame, sadness, anger, envy, shame, resentment and pain.

I didn’t cry but I can feel all those unshed tears lodged in my thorax again, and I keep doing those big shaky sighs that you do when you’ve bawled your eyes out.

Maybe it’s a matter of time.  I just pray God that it doesn’t happen there.

Maybe I’ll go and see the Munsters at Crimbo after all.

Namaste x

http://www.ok.co.uk/celebrity-news/lynda-bellingham-final-appearance-loose-women


7 Comments

PITY PARTY TRACK 20 – TRAPPED – COLONEL ABRAMS

Yes it’s Pity Party time again, so swig down your vodka and orange (squash), put down your cheese straws and hit the dance floor as I’m just lining up the 12″ version of Colonel Abram’s ‘Trapped’ so you can get down with yo bad self 80’s style.

I can get even more down on mine.

😦

Apols for my absence of late, but I so wanted to have good news for you for my next post, but sadly things have not gone according to plan.

Re my three pronged approach (see Safe as Houses) I’ve done two out of three (which Meatloaf will concur, ain’t bad), but am shit scared to do the latter.

Mainly because my property has been on the market for two weeks now, and I’ve only had one person over to view it.

ONE.

So I can’t even say to my lenders that there’s lots of interest and that I should be out before Christmas and pay you off in full, so right now I am nigh on nostalgic for the days when my biggest worry was which club to go to, and whether my flat mate would ‘borrow’ my favourite tarty, scrunchy body con dress before I got home from work.

1400702716whitney_h_24

Hell, I’m nostalgic for that pitiful fear I had but two weeks ago at the mere thought of selling this place.  Little did I know that the market is practically moribund due to (according to the estate agent) concern of how the election might affect interest rates and the imminent arrival of Christmas.

Didn’t tell me that when I listed with them, did he, fucking slimy, bloodsucking twat?

Then I was terrified that I wouldn’t make enough to finance my new life elsewhere.  Now I’m shitting bricks and having nightmares about being repossessed, ending up on the streets, and/or having bailiffs take my car.

And before anyone suggests it, I can’t rent it out because I wouldn’t make any profit and I wouldn’t get my rent paid by the government because I’m be a property owner.  And no, I couldn’t stay with friends because now it’s critical, everyone’s has gone very quiet and seem to have forgotten their casual ‘Oh you can always come and stay with us’, because, let’s be honest, they never thought it would come to this otherwise they’d have kept their gobs shut.

As for my family, they never made that offer in the first place (no hypocrite they), and are now very much ‘Oh everyone’s in the same boat’ when I showed them the white of my eyes out of sheer desperation.

Well we’re not actually.  We’re not even in the same fucking river!  No one is going to make you homeless you bastards.

The only good thing about this situation is that you find out who your real friends are.

Trouble is, I don’t appear to have any, so I am trapped, and totally powerless and at the mercy of besuited bankers whom I will have to come clean to, and hope that they give me six months or so to shift this pile and get the hell outta Dodge.

On the plus (?) side, I’ve started Schema Therapy!

Oh boy, now that’s another story.

Stay tuned for another exciting episode of ‘The Fall and Fall of a Failing, Flailing, Fucked Up 50 Something’…..

Namas-frigging-te x

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2014/09/06/safe-as-houses/


8 Comments

PITY PARTY TRACK 19 – DESOLATION ROW – MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE

You can push a person too far, and right now I’m at the end of a very long, frayed rope….

Yesterday, after months of saint like patience and extraordinary self control, I finally snapped tore one the Perkies a new arsehole (in the manner of Rorschach after a particularly trying day) when, on receipt of my desperate plea for timings and information re my schema therapy treatment, she let it slip that the start date had been moved AGAIN, (4 times to date) and my formal written diagnosis of my condition would not be sent out until everyone involved had completed their questionnaire sessions.

‘How do their answers have any bearing on your analysing and sending out mine?’ I asked in reasonable, if slightly strangled tones, moments before I flipped.

‘Well..um…I’m not sure, but I’m calling you back just to say…well…you know…we understand it must be soooo stressful…’

‘Actually I don’t think you do.  Because I’ve almost ran out of money and may not be in situ by the time you, sorry, they get their arse in gear and finalise a date.’ ‘Oh no’ she replied in those oh so familiar sickly sweet tones, ‘that must be sooo awful….’

Watchmen-Movie-the-watchmen-1989049-1800-751

BOOM.

‘You know what?  I don’t think you’re getting it.  I’ve had to put my flat on the market, I’m down to my last grand, I’ve just had 2 bills that will amount to, oh say around £10K that need paying this year, and I don’t have a fucking job!’

‘Right.  Oh.  I’m so sorry to….’

‘Sorry but I don’t want to hear it.  I don’t want your standardised scripted call back that you make “so they feel acknowledged and listened to” because it’s bullshit.  It’s like you’ve recorded the same droning faux sympathetic message and play it down the receiver to all of us, and it’s just not good enough.  This is beyond a joke.  I’ve been waiting nearly a year for treatment since his nibs charmingly informing me that I was BPD and I’ve had to deal with the fall out of that all on my own (sorry Aunty C) whilst you lot diddle around, putting us through hours and hours of the same stupid fucking questions, intermittently treating us to your best ‘oh dear’ faces in lieu of real empathy, and move the goal posts again, again and again….’

‘Oh, well I….’

‘….and in the meantime we all sit in limbo, either hanging onto our place in society for grim death or mouldering away at home waiting for SOME TANGIBLE SUPPORT….’

‘…yes, I….’

‘..so the very LEAST you owe me is a formal written diagnosis so that at the very likely chance that I’ll be somewhere else by the time you get your act together I’ll have something to present to a medical professional in a new borough, where hopefully they might take it and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!!’

‘I’m so sorry but…’

‘Look I know it’s not you, but for God’s sake if you don’t know when it’s going to happen, be HONEST because every time you move the dates, I promise you, it’s like a kick to the stomach to someone like me, and y’know what?  Not everyone is as outspoken as me, and let’s face it, the last thing you want is a suicide on your hands?  Just saying!’

I don’t remember who hung up, but I do know that afterwards my hands were trembling with rage, but felt curiously released and revitalised. Aunty C (my counsellor) laughed when I told her.

‘Good for you!  It’s great to that passion back! You are better off not relying on them, move forward, don’t hang around for them or you’ll be there forever!’

That was yesterday.

Today brought me back down to earth with a thunk.

Another service bill because they ‘under estimated’ last year’s. This is like some kind of conspiracy. How am I going to sell this place and afford somewhere near my friends now? I don’t know whether to explode again or sink into a sludgy puddle of lethargic, defeatist despair.

3227034-2103224255-dr-ma

I swear if I counted Dr Manhattan amongst my close friends, i would happily volunteer to be ‘ink blotted’ right now, then I wouldn’t have to deal with all this shit anymore.

I wouldn’t even notice his fine physique, Billy C jawline or his huge blue willy wafting gently in night air.

Nope. Just splat me dude, then fuck off back to tinkering around on Mars, ta muchly.

tumblr_lvusz5rtgf1qbgx0w

I honestly don’t know what’s going to come down on me next, but at this rate, I’ll be homeless.  I guess that’s when I’ll find out who my real friends are.

Look out for me sweeping up on my very own desolation row. I’ll be the one that ends up running riot with that broom in the direction of my local mental health facility.

Pray for me.

Namaste x

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2014/04/29/holy-moses/


19 Comments

AS SAFE AS HOUSES

2012-05-12_16-15-58_852

It’s ironic that after all of these years of hiding away at every given opportunity in this little burrow, I’m now being forced to leave it for good.  But it’s hardly surprising and I’m being ejected at my own hand really.

To my eternal shame, I do get benefits from the government, but they do not cover my mortgage, which I totally understand.  Why should they buy part of my property for me?  But it’s some other humungous charges that are to be my downfall.  On top of my repeatedly sticking my head back in the sand, pretending that my payout/savings would last forever.

Then came the day when I realised that not only did I have but a couple of grand left, but a massive bill would be winging its way to me in a matter of days, and I felt all the blood drain from my face and head to my bowels where it sloshed and churned miserably, and still does to this day.

Being penniless and on the street has always been my worst nightmare.  It was my mother’s before me too, and I seem to have inherited that from her.  Along with bad eyesight and goofy teeth.

Thanks for that, mum.

So why have I brought my own horror story to life?

Well for a start, in the past when one door closed (job wise) something else tended to creak open so I’d always, if not land on my feet, manage to stagger to them with a couple of grazed knees and a mild case of concussion.  Nothing amazing or career enhancing you understand, but I’d put my feelers out and something would come up on my radar and save my financial bacon.

Not this time.  In all fairness, as most of you know, I did deliberately eschew the corporate world for the last 2 years, and of course my EUPD (BPD) diagnosis did nothing to stabilise my condition or confidence, but I have applied for other jobs. One or two of similar seniority, some mid range, but mostly pretty lowly ones, that paid a fraction of what I used to earn.  Jobs i could do blindfolded, with one arm tied behind my back.  

Did I even get a callback?  

Not one single one.

I’ve done odd days of ad hoc work.  I’ve tried to sell my baking.  And above all, I’ve been constantly on the alert for a sign from God whom I thought, given that I’m watching and listening so intently, might give me a clue as to what my purpose should be on this earth and perhaps open a door for me. Even the tiniest crack in some some shitty, splintered, graffiti festooned door somewhere would do.

Hunt_Light_of_the_World

Is that too much to ask?

But if he’s sent me any messages, my network must be playing up as I’m still no further on when it comes to figuring out what my next steps are with regard to this predicament and indeed the rest of my life.

And I constantly mull and ponder and question myself.  Have I been making this all up? Is there a God?  Does he/she/it have a plan for me?  Or is it all random and I have no more of a destiny than that little grey mouth pounding it silly head against the hot bulb of my reading lamp?  My cat is watching it very intently so I don’t fancy it’s chances once it gets bored of doing that either….

147571456_8099d57b93_z

So I’m meant to live, eat, shit, fuck, sleep, die and decompose and it’s no more complicated than that?

Or I am burning up some horrible karma from a previous life where I’ve been a total biatch, and that’s why I’m getting the silent treatment?

Maybe God is just thinking ‘Lazy, cocky little mare, who does she think she is?  Who said I have a plan for her anyway?  Slog away aimlessly little insect until I decide to acknowledge and give you something useful to do.  If you’re lucky.’

Boy I’ve done a number on myself, make no mistake about it.  Because if, no let’s be honest, WHEN I leave here, I’ll be unable to do the 2 year Schema Therapy trial as I’ll be living in outside London so not entitled to it.

The only thing that would rectify this situation would be if I got a full time job here and was able to fully support myself.  And let’s face it, that ain’t looking too hopeful.

But maybe this is meant to be.  Maybe I’m meant to move.  And if I’m able to buy a little place outright with what I get from this place, that would be a load of my mind.  I could get a tiny house with a little garden for my mogs somewhere in the sticks.

What if I can’t get a job in Newfoundtown?  Well I can’t get one here, so what’s the difference?!  And whilst I might be super broke, the bailiffs might take my TV (ARRGHH!), and my leccy and gas might get cut off, I’d still own the place and no one will be able to repossess it.

As for the Schema, I’m due to get a proper written diagnosis so maybe that will help me get some alternative therapy in the new borough/city/county.

Oh God, the thoughts just keep whirling around in my head.  And after the shit that’s come from living in it to date, I still want to shrink back into my brick shell and not do anything bar trembling under my duvet.

Aunty C (my counsellor) is being wonderful and supportive and optimistic. But I know she’s afraid for me too.

As for my family, I’ve pretty much told them that I’ve run out of money and have to sell, and that message was met with complete silence before my sister changed the subject and wanted to catch up on some gossip about a mutual friend.

No offers of support or help.  I think she’s worried I’ll ask for money or ask to stay with her but I’d rather slice my tongue out than do that, as the last time I did that, many years ago, she presented me with an invoice the day I left.  The bill was calculated as if I were lodger renting a room, there was a charge for the food I imbibed per day, a share of the energy bill, TV licence, council tax etc., and came complete with a date that it must be paid by.

I walked away in shock.  I hadn’t even started my new job and felt about as loved as a dose of herpes.

Then a week later she demanded a contribution toward a very expensive gift for a family member when I didn’t have a penny to my name, and when I told her I didn’t have it, she threatened to stop me seeing her kids if i didn’t comply.

I forgave her many years ago. But some things you never forget.

What I would have appreciated was a call asking if I was OK, maybe some advice and a bit of sisterly support, but she can stick it now.

One thing’s for sure, I won’t be moving anywhere near her as many have advised.  Anyway I don’t have to worry about being lonely in the new town, because that’s always with me, wherever I go.

So I just need to get on with it so that I can walk out of here with my head held high and not tweezed out, wriggling all the way like a winkle on the end of a pin.

That’s a good point!  I could live at the seaside!

OK so this might be a good thing, but I’m going to do a three pronged approach.

1.  Get this place valued, start looking for somewhere and figure out how much money I need to facilitate the entire operation.

2.  Doctor/dumb down my CV with a view to getting secretarial/admin work.  A EPA/Miss Moneypenny kind of role ideally.

3.  Write to my lenders and explain the situation, ask them what they can do for me, and if nothing else assure them that I’ll be paying them off in full so they have nothing to fear and don’t need to repossess.

Lord I’m scared.  But I’m going to bite the bullet and get on with it.

I have Clara and my friends, and I also remember that I always feel stronger when i look after my body and diet. In fact the Lent period was the healthiest I’d ever been so I guess i should get back on that too.

I think this is a quite good plan.  Unless stuff goes wrong.  And there’s so much that can go wrong. Especially with my karma.

Fuck, STOP THAT SISTA!

This fucking FEAR rules my ass big time.

I just want to find a place I can call home.  As I’ve never felt that I belong anywhere.

And it occurs to me that if I can conquer this SHIT and feel a sense of belonging within myself then I could feel at home anywhere like those little molluscs, adrift in a vast, all encompassing ocean, but perfectly happy in their self sufficient shells.

That’s quite a way off though.  

And even they have to look out for the pricks….

Please pray for me.

Namaste xx

 

 

 


12 Comments

BY GUM

File created with CoreGraphics

Over the years, and especially in the last two, holing up on the sofa and watching TV has always been how I’ve taken refuge from the world.

Until recently.

Of late, I’m actually frightened to turn the damn thing on as pretty much everything seems to bring out some kind of negative emotion in me.

This afternoon I got lucky though.

After coming home for a long walk in one of our beautiful parks on the first of hopefully many Indian summer days, I sat down with a mug of tea and just caught the beginning of David Lean’s 1954 comedy film, ‘Hobson’s Choice’.

It’s the kind of thing I would have watched with my mum on a Sunday afternoon after our roast lunch back in the day.  One of those ancient, crackly, black and white jobbies that we’d sit through time and time again, enjoying it’s old fashioned values and predictable endings, laughing occasionally and listening to my parents remark on how times had changed.

Essentially it’s the story of a drunken, selfish tyrannical old bootmaker Henry Horatio Hobson, his three daughters Maggie, Alice and Vicky, and poor old Will Mossop, Hobson’s uneducated, unappreciated, browbeaten employee. The girls are essentially his unpaid staff and want to get married to escape him but whilst he’s willing to let two of them go, he wants to hold onto the eldest and most savvy, Maggie, dismissing her as an old maid at 30.  Maggie taking great exception to this, persuades innocent Will to marry her, steals him away and goes into business with him, and essentially drives the old man out of business.  Will thrives under Maggie’s tutelage, and at great surprise to both of them, they fall in love.  It ends with Will going into partnership with old Hobson, providing he takes a back seat and that they rename it ‘Mossop & Hobson’, giving Henry (and a protesting Maggie) ‘Hobson’s Choice’, aka none at all, and they both acquiesce, Maggie finally letting Will wear the trousers.

Cheesy right? But in that couple of hours, I felt warm and safe inside.  

An hour later when the news of yet another US journalist being murdered by the heinous Jihadi John, I shuddered, shrank back into the cushions, felt unshed tears stirring inside and wished to be anywhere any time other than here in 2014.

So much has changed over the last 60 years that the world we live in now is virtually unrecognisable, and whilst I would concur that we have achieved a lot (by way of medical, technological and cultural advancement), we have also in some cases, taken things too far, and/or completely in the wrong direction.

We have so much and yet so little.

More money, less time.

More access to information but more corruption.

More stuff but a devastated, polluted planet.

More food, but more chronic obesity, starving millions and exploited peoples around the world.

More freedom of choice, but too much to choose from.

More freedom of movement but at the cost of the family unit.

And I wonder if the bogey man that has been hovering at my shoulder (just out of sight, natch) and cavorting gleefully through my dreams all these years might finally be showing his fuck ugly face.  

As I am dancing on a knife’s edge of financial disaster and have to move so will be losing my home, security and my promised 4 years schema therapy which I’ll only get if I stay in this area of London. And I can’t.

But it’s not just about my personal stuff, as death, ugliness, cruelty and disaster in so many forms seems to be swirling all around us all in 2014.

And I’m afraid.  For everyone.

And right now I’d do anything to go back to a world where you at least had a fighting chance.

Wars were fought fairly.  Or so it seemed in the movies anyway.

There was a patriotic sense of community.

People looked at each other in the street and not at their iPhone.

TV was innocently entertaining, and not dominated by reality TV where people are pitted against one another, humiliated and pushed to the point of breakdown.

Bullying consisted of being pushed over in the playground, and not being pressured to kill yourself over social media.

There were Stars as opposed to celebrities.

Reporters knew their place, and that was to report the news and not stalk innocent people, root through their bins and try and take photos of young female’s vaginas.

No one felt guilty about ageing.  It was what happened.

No one felt guilty about being pleasantly plump, hence no one ended up so big they had to be removed from their bedroom via a crane and airlifted to hospital.

Sex was precious and intimate instead of the combination of an aerobic exercise class, a beauty contest and a mutual genital sneeze.

No one would dream of sharing their sex life with anyone other than their wife/husband, let along make a sex tape.

And no one would ever, EVER want to watch a video of some fanatical, cowardly, sadistic bastard decapitate an innocent, handcuffed, helpless journalist with a crude, rusty knife.

For the record, I’m not naive.  I reiterate I know some things have changed for the better.  But right now I’d love to live in a world were you could trust the person sat next to you on the bus not to blow you to smithereens, you could love your curves and wrinkles, families looked out for one another, and the food you put in your mouth was made a few days ago, and wasn’t filled with stuff you couldn’t even pronounce. 

A world where you were told that there was someone for everyone, and people worked at their marriages instead of upgrading and trading in their partner every 5 years or so as if she/he were a car.

A long long time ago lived a little girl who believed all that.  It didn’t last of course, she’s a cynical old cow nowadays. But today just for a moment she longed for her very own kind, dim, loyal Will Mossop who would partner up with her, look after her, work along side her, and the morning after their wedding night, look into her eyes as if she were some kind of miracle, uttering the immortal line ‘By gum!’.

But it’s Hobson’s Choice isn’t it?  In other words there’s no going back.  Or as Maggie might say ‘All you can do dear, is keep your chin up, put your best foot forward and hope for the best’.

Fuck me.  I never thought I’d be taking my inspiration from a fictional Northern spinster.

I must be getting old.

Please be careful out there x