Phoenix Fights

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


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ALL IN ALL YOU’RE JUST A…

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DAILY PROMPT – “BRICK”

So here I am.  In my little country idyll after escaping the Smoke and all it’s stresses, worries and concerns.  Plus my notoriety as the local BPD nutter in some circles.

I am, to all intents and purposes, safe.  People are for the most part friendly, normal, and no one knows my dark secret.

Or do they?

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Very little happens around here and I now know that any newcomers are the talk of the village when they first move in, and a great source of curiosity.  At least 3 pensioners knocked on my door within 72 hours of my arrival, scaring the shit out of my already traumatised cats (I’ve dubbed them the White Watchers – the pensioners, not the cats), and like their namesake’s, they don’t wait to be invited in.  I know I’m sounding very ‘London’ here (i.e. snotty), but I was in the Capital on and off for over 20 years, so I’m used to people that either mind their own business and/or don’t give a fuck about your shit, so the need for privacy is a hard thing to break, especially when you have stuff to hide.

Indeed one of these ladies wandered up to my desk and craned her neck to have a good old look at the paperwork strewn across it (some of which just happened to be from the NHS – great…), so I’ve taken to ducking every time I see a greying mop pass by the window and have nightmares about my secret being out, and a gang of them heading up my path with a Wicker Man on bonfire night, so my determination to be more sociable in order to appear ‘normal’ was challenged within a very short period indeed.

Also, I’m still something of a hermit, and despite the one neighbour I’ve befriended urging me to get out and about more in the community, I still find small talk deeply boring and energy sapping especially when everyone is so damned, well, normal…I miss my London freaks, I mean, friends.

So like the song goes, ‘Everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you’.  I’m still me, I  haven’t been cured overnight from moving north of Watford Gap, and, of course, my old worries have been replaced by new ones. And some old ones came back.  And on those dark nights and days of the soul, I still hibernate, only now, it’s more noticeable because the people around me have fuck all else to notice or talk about.

It could all be my imagination of course as I was off my meds at the time…

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Plus, my property is so exposed.  People can see in, which I’m not feeling, so I’m pricing up garden walls, blinds, gates and electric fences (just joking about the last one – I think) as we speak, which will only enhance my reputation as a cold ass London biatch even more.

Cos these people may be ever so nice, but all in all, they’re just a-nother brick in my wall.

Because, try as I might to leave it, that thing was never going to stay in south London.

Cos it’s with me. Wherever I go.

But it’s meant to be a new start?

Perhaps I’ll replace the wall and fences with trellis and blinds which will let the light it.  Oh and maybe take the barbed wire off back order.

For now, anyway…

Namaste x

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/brick/

 

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Daily Prompt: – What Jones’?!

‘Tell us about the one luxury item you wish you could afford, in as much detail as you can. Paint a picture for us.’

So. Given that this is my first proper post of 2016, and taking into account the agony of being in property buy/sell chain HELL right now, this is my little luxury item:

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Yup.

A house.  On an island.  On a beach.

I did think about waxing lyrical about that much desired Kitchenaid Artisan Mixer that I have lusted after for eons but have never treated myself to, but bollocks to that.

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No one said it had to be a little thing, it’s a  one shot deal and I ain’t messing around here. And the fact that it has already been sold isn’t putting me off none.  This house is mine.

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It was most recently owned by a Lord and Lady Long who were getting on in years, and the steps either side of that swaying 100ft Edwardian bridge were becoming a bit much for them, plus I believe they had problems with some of the more lively locals coming down to the beach after the pubs closed to party, make noise and even aim missiles at their beloved domicile.  Excuse me?!

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Which is why I’d need to also acquire a goodly stretch of that beach, and hire a couple of gnarly, sociopathic, ex SAS security men to keep the riff raff at bay.

Like I say; this ain’t a game to me.  I have had enough of the worst of humanity and those local wankers will do well to keep out of my way.  Plus I would have no neighbours whatsoever, so no need to keep up with anyone.  Jones who?

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I’ve always fantasised about living in a lighthouse, and essentially you get the same kind of views with this place, plus that aforementioned private bridge, so it will be a bit easier than having to board a dingy when you have to nip to the local Tesco for a pint of milk and some cat food.

Prior to the Longs, my house used to be a holiday let and here for your delectation is some of the Conde Nast marketing preamble regarding it’s many charms:

“Overhauling the place was an eight-month job. It has been transformed, decorated in all shades of seagull, white and greys; and has the feel of an airy beach house with natural wood and white-painted floorboards and four-poster beds swathed in muslin. Furniture is coastal-contemporary: egg chairs, ticking-stripes upholstery, molded dining chairs that emulate the outlines of driftwood. There’s also a bar room with a bar and a billiards table in it.

 But it’s the location that’s the thrill, nesting like birds on a clifftop. At high tide the island becomes surrounded by water, cut off from the mainland entirely. The only way up is to climb the steep steps which are cut into the rock face and flanked by hollyhocks, and cross the arc of the suspension bridge (like a mini Golden Gate). High-maintenance guests can pay a little extra for a couple of strapping young men to lug their luggage up.”
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Are there any sweeter words to me in the English language at this time.
And FYI, I mean the words ‘cut off’ and not ‘strapping young men’ thank you very much. 🙂

Apart from the words ‘exchanged’ and ‘completed’ I think not.  Because buying and selling simultaneously in the UK (except for Scotland) is one of the most financially risky, precarious, nerve wracking things you will ever have to do.  And if you have an anxiety issues like I do, it’s essentially the like cyanide icing on the strychnine cake that you never ordered in the first place.

Cut off.

Do I strike you as being a mite anti social right now?

Damn fucking right.

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So no one can come in unless you specifically allow them access.  Plus in the event of the zombie apocalypse, I would retract my bridge and those suckers can growl and snarl and hurl themselves against the rocks and pound themselves to hamburger, whilst I take pot shots at them with an air rifle and binge watch DVD’s, sipping wine from my cellar and slurping oysters from the shell as I watch the sun go down over the sea and wait for the military to arrive.  Sigh.

Back in the real world I’ll be lucky if I don’t have my flat repossessed and end up in my mate’s wonky old caravan with two wailing cats and a pile of possessions that I can’t afford to store.

So, given that beggars can’t be choosers, and if this is a little too big an ask, I’d be more than happy with the mixer.

Please?

Pretty Please?

 


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Daily Prompt: CRINGEWORTHY – “TONIGHT, MATTHEW I AM GOING TO BE….CRINGY!”

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“Do you feel uncomfortable when you see someone else being embarrassed? What’s most likely to make you squirm?”

Oh Lord, are you kidding me?

If anything I actually feel more uncomfortable than the person making a tit of themselves.

Not only that but my eyes water, which is a dead giveaway to anyone who knows me well, that someone should just sit down and shut the hell up.

I’ve suffered from this affliction for as long as I can remember, at least since very early childhood.

If my drunken Dad got up to sing at Butlins dubiously named ‘Talent Night’ to sing (especially if he did Al Jolson’s ‘Mammy’.  Oh God, just thinking about it make my arse clench), or my Mum sang along to a chart song (with all the wrong words, natch) dancing around the kitchen, I’d practically shove my head up my own sphincter in a vain attempt to escape the abject humiliation.

I used to die inside when the theme tune for ‘The Generation Game’ used to strike up on a Saturday night, as I knew that from the first cringetastic Brucey pose (“Alright m’loves?”) right through to the end credits, my eyes would stream as couple after couple would be made to perform all kinds of humiliating stunts and tasks, such as dancing with a samba troupe, making some strange, messy European delicacy or acting in some God awful play whilst Bruce eye rolled, goaded and jeered, for the delectation of the viewing public.

I think my sister has an over sensitive cringe gene too, as she would actually disappear into the pantry and put a tea towel on her head, such was her distress at British Light Entertainment in the 70’s, and this became the alarm cry for approaching mortifying moments in our house.

So whenever someone cried out ‘To the pantry!’ we would all scatter and do what we could to avoid the eye watering event whenever possible.

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Nor did this affection abate as I got older.  I could not, would not, watch ‘Stars In Their Eyes’.  I tell a lie I watched about ten minutes of one episode and when the contestant announced “Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be Richard Marx”, I just knew that the hellishness was just moments away.  And sure enough when some bloke emerged from the dry ice with a mullet wig and a dopey grin to the soppy strains of ‘Right Here Waiting for You’, I seriously, honestly wanted to fucking kill myself.

I can’t bear it when people are being duped and refuse to see it (ref Paul McCartney/Heather Mills).

I die inside if someone is trying to be funny but isn’t.  Especially if they don’t even know it.  Yes I’m talking about you, ‘Newzoids’ (impersonators are some of the worst offenders)

And of course I can’t stand karaoke.  When I was working in the corporate world, I used to get dragged to these fun filled ‘team building’ nights that would end in some manky hole of a club in the West End, where we would be forced into a grubby room with sticky carpet and fag burns in the leatherette sofa, and forced to warble into the mike (“No no Sista, you have to do at least one!”) alongside some twat you despised, which would then be uploaded onto Facebook or You Tube for added humiliation.

For that alone, I should have walked out a long time before I actually did.

Again, I tell a lie.  I’ve done it once or twice.  But ONLY with people I like, who made no effort whatsoever to make it sound nice.  We just bawled ‘Living on a Prayer’ like a pack of howling wolves, and that was alright.  We knew we sounded shite.  We took the piss out of ourselves, played mock air guitar and shook our heads Wayne’s World stylee and that was, if not enjoyable, then tolerable.

It’s when people try and think that they’re actually good at it that opens my tear ducts, especially when they’re really earnest about it and then feign modesty when everyone tells them how good they were (with fingers firmly crossed behind their back) when they are just GRIM.  That is absolutely torturous to me, and I don’t know whether I feel sorry for them or wish them to spontaneously combust.

Probably both.

Oh, how could I forget?

For the life of me, I have yet to be able to sit through all 4 minutes of this, especially the last minute:

Absolutely.  Agonising.

I have no idea why I take on other people’s humiliation so eagerly.  I mean it’s not like they benefit or appreciate it.  In fact they probably just gaze at me, puzzled, wondering why I’m crying and/or looking so pained.

I am HSP and empathic though which may account for some of it.  Quite why I syphon off people’s humiliation instead of their confidence, triumphs or good luck is a mystery, but I’m putting down to my BPD and probably a whole slew of shitbag karma.

Hell fire.

Here’s hoping this life is my last shift.

Namaste x

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/cringe-worthy/


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DAILY POST – WHOA! – GET THEE BEHIND ME SANE MAN

What’s the most surreal experience you’ve ever had?

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I don’t want to sound like I think myself ‘special’ or gifted, but I’ve had such a weird old life to date, that to be honest, the norm tends to freak me out more than ‘Whoa!’ encounters.

I’ve seen and interacted with ghosts, witnessed a proper miracle, read fortunes, seen into the future, and felt so many incidents of deja vu, I swear God’s trying to fuck with me and having a right good laugh to boot.

I’ve even had a poltergeist tamper with my toiletries in my flat share bedroom (the door was locked whilst I was out so there was no way it could have been anyone else) in the form of inverting them with the tops off so that I had to let the contents splurt out onto my dressing table in order to put them back again.

But even then, I shrugged and thought ‘How annoying, must have been a man’ before cleaning up the mess and going downstair to watch TV, so nothing much phases me really.

Until this one night, when I believed that I encountered evil.

At least that’s how it felt to me.

I was working in a bar of a gentleman’s club in the West End at the time, and believe me, all kinds came in.  Actors, politicians, gangsters, triads, businessmen, footballers, drug dealers, gamblers and of course, other hospitality workers, but none of them cracked my composure.

On the surface I was a hard faced, aloof, bleach blonde bitch and everyone, whatever their status, was treated the same, with anything from professional politeness and a bit of banter if I really liked them, to cold, scathing dismissal if they behaved like twats.

Underneath this veneer I was a seething mass of contradictions, tempered by an undiagnosed personality disorder, an unpredictable temper, and a dogged fear of any kind of personal intimacy.  This was the ’80’s and being mentally ill was not something you ever shared with anyone.  There was none of this, transparency, new millennium empathy (well on the surface any hoo) and willingness to understand.  Oh no, if you were fucked up, you kept it to yourself, which is why I ended up thinking I was the only one who felt that way for years, so on went the suit of armour whenever I left my room and interacted with the normal everyday folk.

Back to the story.

So one night, in walks this guy.

A perfectly normal looking man.

Not handsome, but not ugly.  About average height and weight, smartly dressed, wearing good shoes and a nice watch.

Not a loner like some of them.  He was accompanied by a bunch of relatively respectable looking buddies.

Not drunk, or gobbing off and being obnoxious, like some of the hard men, or the famous, giving it ‘Do you know who I am?’.

The perfect customer really.

So as he approached the bar, I stepped up to serve him.

And that’s when I realised that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Because as his eyes fixed on mine, he smiled and I immediately felt uneasy as my gut started to churn.

‘Hello darling, how are you tonight?’

Confused at my body’s deeply visceral reaction, I managed a shaky smile.

‘I’m well thank you sir, how are you?’

The smile broadened, and the eyes twinkled with some kind of malign glee.

‘Very well indeed love!  And I must say you’re looking beautiful tonight!’

Not pervy.  Not an inappropriate thing to say at all.  It was a bit cheesy though, and in normal circumstances, I may have come back with some sarcastic/humorous retort, or a cold, impassive stare, depending on my mood.

But hell, no.  I was not going to fuck with this guy.  No way.  No how.

‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say so.’

My manager, Tony who just happened to be passing, overheard, and flicked me a puzzled glance, recognising that this was not my usual M.O.

The smile broadened even more.

Now I really had his attention, and all I could do was hope and pray that he would take it away, and I could feel a trickle of sweat run down my back.

He chuckled

He knew.  I swear to God he knew.  I immediately dipped my eyes away from his scrutiny.

What the fuck was wrong with me?  Get a grip and serve the man Sista, do you want everyone to know what a crazy, paranoid headcase you really are?

And there we were, the sane man, the crazy woman exchanging pleasantries as the rest of the staff and clientele acted like nothing was amiss at all.

But it was.  It was.

I cleared my throat and willed myself to look up.

‘Anyway, what can I get you?’

How can one face contain so much knowing?  He knew that I knew, and also that I knew that he knew that I knew.

That sounds like some kind of old Radio 4 comic skit I know, but this was not in anyway funny at all.

And he wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily.

‘Oh I’m not sure actually’ says he cocking his head to one side, ‘what drink would you recommend for me?’

He also knew me.  He could see me.  I don’t know how else to say it.

He saw my fears, my pain, my self loathing, my self destructive ways.  He knew how ugly I was, both inside and out.  He could smell last nights tawdry one night stand on me as surely as if his nose was plunged into my crotch.

The skin on my belly crept with fear and loathing.

He licked his lips casually, enjoying the spectacle of me squirming on the gaff of his attentions.

Then, before I had chance to fashion a reply, my saviour arrived in the form of lovely, lairy, chain smoking Tone who nudged me out of the way, rolled up his sleeves, grinned at the gargoyle in front of me.

‘Time for your break Sista.  Garn, get a wiggle on or you might miss your role model, Sue Ellen on Dallas!’ then winked conspiratorially at him.

‘Come on mate’ responded my tormentor, ‘is that any way to treat a lady?’

As I scurried away from the sound of their raucous guffaws, I knew Tony would be puzzled by my lack of response, but all I could think about was getting as far away as possible from that impossibly sane man.

This was of course coupled with an irresistible urge to turn around and look again, if only to verify that what i’d witnessed was real.  Evil is always fascinating to even the average sane Joe, but thankfully self preservation won out that day, and I made it to the staff room, shakily made myself a strong cup of tea and prayed that he’d be gone when I had to go back.

Because that’s what I believe I saw in that man that night.  Pure unadulterated evil.

The hole in my claim however is that no one else seemed to perceive it.  Not Tony, not his mates, none of the other staff members.  No one.

When, an hour later, I returned to the bar, he was gone.  But Tony was not.

‘What the fuck was that about Sista?  You alright?  ‘ave you got your period?’ he jibed, flicking me on the backside with a soggy bar towel.

Relieved beyond measure, I managed a feeble ‘Yeah, have you got a spare tampon you can let me have?’ whilst he cackled and pretended to look in his pockets, assured in his old school, sexist way that I was OK, and well enough to finish my shift.

But I never forgot that encounter.

And some years later when I read Stephen King’s ‘The Stand’, I immediately recognised a version of him in the character ‘Randolph Flagg’.

I of course, could have been wrong.  Could have been having an off night.  It could have been the manifestation of my own inner turmoil that, for some reason I plastered all over the visage of this very ordinary young man.

But I don’t think so.

And I still evoke it to this day, some 30 years later, prodding it like a tongue nudging a rotten tooth and wonder who he was, and what his role was here on earth.

I guess I’ll never know.  Hell I don’t even know what mine is, let alone his.

I just know that I never want our paths to cross again.

Namaste x

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/whoa/


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DAILY PROMPT: In Loving Memory – EAT ME

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‘WRITE YOUR OWN OBITUARY’

‘Here I lie all spent and gone

I am dead but you’re not done

Much you took, but hear me, Living

I’m the gift that keeps on giving

 

Here I lie all spent and gone

But your greed it has not done

In life you took from me, but still

There’s yet the reading of the Will

 

But before you exit Hon

The giving is not as yet done

There’s my wake and if you might

Will you stay for a quick bite?

 

There is coffee, there is tea

Much for you, and much of me

For the main course is a roast

Of the girl you’ll miss the most!

 

Have some bicep, have some pec

Bite me, get it down your neck

Binge on this my last repast

You can even eat my ass

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Oh, you’re a veggie do you say?

Do not fret my friend, I pray

I will don a mushroom suit

And you can dine on my grey fruit

 

You going to pass? Well OK Honey

Just don’t think you’ll get my money

EAT ME, or you won’t make good

So lick it good just like you should

 

There! I knew you’d join the dots

A leopard does not change its spots

Have some wine my friend and pray

That it might take the taste away

 

You took in life, you take in death

But as I inhaled my last breath

You were not there to keen or mourn

I died alone, as I was born

 

So as you suck and gnaw my fingers

I pray that this grave lesson lingers

And you then know, my kith and kin

That you get out what you put in

 

Take my money, splurge and spend

But Death will come for you my friend

One day when you will lease expect it

Then you will leave the stage and exit

 

Will you give as much as taken

From your greed will you awaken

And vow to give and love enough

Cos in the end it’s all just stuff

 

You’ve ate your fill, oh praise the Lord

It’s time to go get your reward

I hope it feeds you and you find

I’ve left the best of me behind

 

Here I lie all spent and gone

I am dead so now we’re done

Much you took, but please do know

You only reep just what you sow

ELVISthankyou

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/in-loving-memory/


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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Circle of Five.”

‘A writer once said, “You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.” If this is true, which five people would you like to spend your time with?’

Eh?

Not sure what was meant by this so googled it, and apparently the saying comes from motivational speaker and ‘America’s foremost business philosopher’, Jim Rohn.

Hmm.  A business guru.  They’re always so well known for their emotional intelligence, no?

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I mean, look at him!

Look at Jim Rohn trying to look nonchalant and modest with his gazing intelligently into the distance pose!  Would you honestly believe a single thing that this spin master and his ilk might profess?

But OK, I clicked on ‘new post’ of my own volition, so I will honour this agreement and play along. 🙂

Anyway, by this he implies that who you are and who you will become depend heavily on the company you keep.  If you have no personality or your own sense of self that is.

So, given that the main company I have nowadays is my two tom cats, two shrinks and my counsellor, that would make me scratchy, cuddly, destructive, scrappy, greedy, needy, cute, learned, patronising, empathic, patient, emotionally intelligent and funny.

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Hey!

I take it all back!  Perhaps there is something in this shit after all!

Note I relate more to the feline that the human company 😉

BUT if I could chew the fat and liaise with five other humans so that I can leech off some of their finer qualities, this is who I would choose.

1. AUNTY C (MY COUNSELLOR)

Yes of course she makes the cut! I’ve been going to her for a number of years now and have grown as a person because of it, and I love her to pieces, and before anyone says it, I don’t give a shit if that is perceived as being inappropriate.  She is incredibly loyal, has stuck by me through thick and thin, charges me a pittance (if anything) for her phenomenal skills and is hilarious to boot.

And if I do end up on the caring profession, there is no better role model than she.

2. NELSON MANDELA

The King of Forgiveness bar none. His actions changed the world and everyone around him. Yes, I’d like a bit of that, thank you very much, so he can pop around whenever he likes (yes I know he’s dead!).

I’ll even make some carrot cake.

3. JANET STREET-PORTER

In complete contrast the formidable Ms Street-Porter is sharp, strong, opinionated, does not give a fuck what anyone else thinks, and deep down, has a heart of gold.

I think she’d toughen me up a bit, plus as a hiker going out on yomps with her would be hugely entertaining and would certainly get me fit again.

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4. BILLY CONNOLLY 

Still the funniest man on the planet, does not mince his words, takes no shit, the original beard meister (take note Shoreditch trendies) who rocks it like no other.

Not only that, but he’s charming, engaging, the perfect chat show guest, an amazing raconteur and someone who (nearly) always manages to see the best in everything and everyone, something I could certainly do with.

5. MY FRIEND MANDY

Mandy is not perfect, and neither am I, and whilst we’ve had our fall outs, she is still the person who makes me laugh the most, we bring out the child in each other and I believe that she genuinely loves me and wants the best for me.

Providing I don’t have anything more or better than she does. 😉

This used to gall me, but I’m learning to accept her and my other friends as they are and hopefully as they accept me.

So Jimbo, spending time with the above folk won’t necessarily bring me success, money or global respect, but some things I’ll have you know, are more important than money.

And at least I won’t have to have a twatty pretentious photo as my website byline.

Namaste bitches x

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/circle-of-five/


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DAILY PROMPT Can’t Get it Out of my Head – A HUNTING WE WILL GO (REBLOG)

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If you were to pass me in the street, you’d probably think that I look like the average, mild mannered, rapidly ageing, peri menopausal maiden, if a little frosty about the edges.

But I have a secret life.

I’m a very adept, dedicated, highly skilled, sniper.

Not the kind that fires semi automatic weapons at passing civilians, of course. Although in the neighbourhood I live in, it’s not unheard of and sometimes a prudent course of action if you’re carrying a designer handbag, the latest iPhone or even a six pack of Fosters.

I’m one of those really annoying people that goes on eBay and just when the last seconds of an auction are ticking away, jumps in at the last moment and bids for your item, and usually stealing the deal right from under your nose.

Nice huh?

But I don’t do it to annoy. I’m kinda of addicted because it’s (a) something to do, (b) a cheap(ish) thrill and ( c) I’m hunting, not wabbits, but crafty stuff, antiques, retro shoes/boots and especially, super warm, beautiful cashmere goods.

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I’ve always wanted a 100% cashmere coat, but would never stump up for the price of a new one, as, rather like buying a new car, it’s one hell of an investment and loses value the minute you walk it out of the shop. Plus, I’m unemployed. So in the winter months I peruse eBay just waiting for the right item to pop it’s head up, then I can monitor my target and wait those 45 seconds at the end of the auction to strike.

And it’s turned into something of an obsession.

Especially when something I want is elusive or in short supply, then I’ll usually end up hunting it down to some small village in the Cotwolds and demand to buy it, which is why I ended up driving 40 miles to a small exclusive boutique the other day to purchase a beautiful mohair car coat that I hadn’t even tried on, as it was the last size 10 in existence. Fortunately it fit me, but to be honest I barely ever go out anymore, haven’t worn it yet and am unlikely to until Autumn, so quite why I felt compelled to buy it right now I do not know.
But when it’s winter, cold, and as a tallish person with long extremities I always get the urge to swathe myself in warm sumptuous layers to protect me from the weather. I’ve always been quite a sensuous person too, so am very attracted to natural fabrics that feel good against the skin. Cashmere, wool, brushed cotton, alpaca, you name it and you’ll find me buried under a pile of it come October through to March.

And in the summer, when the weather is hot (ha!), cottons, silk, linen and light denim make up the majority of my wardrobe.
I’m not rich or a snob, it’s not about that. I love brushed cotton as much as virgin wool, but I can’t abide anything unnatural, itchy or sweat inducing against my skin.  Nice fabrics and yarns feel like caresses to me, which probably boils down to the fact that in my day to day life, I am rarely physically touched.

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Of course I get light, air kissy, mwah mwah embraces from my London friends when I meet them, but apart from when I see my family, it’s rare that I am on the receiving end of a proper embrace, let alone a cuddle. And when you see photographs of me with a group of people, I’m always slightly separate/aloof from the group, even if I’m liked by them, as ironically from a body language point of view, I strongly suspect that I put out an untouchable vibe, when I’m probably more in need of physical contact than anyone I know.

And don’t even get me started about sex. The thought of it is just unimaginable to me right now.

There is no doubt that I am lonely, isolated, and as a result I have built myself a very comfortable, homely fortress here in South London, and with it’s plush carpets, log fire and cosy nooks and armchairs strewn with throws, it would be the ideal little sanctuary to come home to.

If I ever went out that is.

And as much as I love and appreciate my home and the garments that make up my wardrobe, there are times where I’d be willing to set a match to the lot of it in exchange for a cuddle from someone I can trust and am able to love and and will love me in return.

But until that person comes along, if they ever do, I will stay here snug in my lonely bunker, behind the blanketed barricades, scanning the horizon for something that will kill the pain.

If only for sixty seconds.

(Originally blogged as CASHMERE CUDDLES, WOOLEN LOVE)

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/cant-get-it-out-of-my-head/

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