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…




I have a confession to make.

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

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

Talk about ‘Giddy up Cowboy’….


How disturbing/cringy/embarrassing.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Seriously where do you start?

Get a fuck buddy, some might say?


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

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

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

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

Ah, those were the days…

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

Whatcha say?

30/5 UPDATE – It happened AGAIN last night!

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





OK, this is my first proper ‘ear worm’ for y’all, aka a song you really don’t want stuck in your head.  Ever.

Well, it’s stuck in mine, so suck it up suckers!

And the reason this catchy little number has been driving me barmy all morning?

I received a letter reminding me that my annual cervical smear test is due.

Oh deep and fundamental joy.  NOT.  A modified car jack with sharpened lolly stick attachment up the fanny, just what every single, celibate gal needs of a morning. 😦

Oh, and any blokes thinking ‘Here we go, another woman banging on about her hormones and shit’, try imagining this bad boy cranked up your dirt box then opened wide.


Got it?  Good.  Show a bit of empathy for once.

And of course the minute I get prone on that paper couch and spot the bloody thing heading due south, my minnie goes on lock down and is harder to breach than an airborne Airforce One, making the whole transaction even more of a battle.

So be warned, I’ll be in a dangerous mood that day.

Seriously, when the fuck will they leave my poor old carcass alone and start working on my head via group therapy?  What with all the tit squishing, blood letting, head shrinking and booby perverts peering at my girls mid exam (, I’m gonna start breaking out in hives every time I recognise my GP or hospital’s postal stamp on an envelope.

Whoever ends up breaching my person that day had better have a gentle hand otherwise someone’s gonna have themselves a case, and quite possibly a broken face too.

Next life I’m coming back as a man, do you hear me God?!!


Daily Prompt: Write Here, Write Now – I SAW YOU LOOKING AT MY TIT

Write a post entirely in the present tense.

This poem is dedicated to the young man who just did my ECG examination:


I saw you looking at my tit

You went all red, you little git

And though I should be in a snit

I am amused, I must admit


I saw you looking at my bap

My cotton robe, it had a gap

I should have given you a slap

You sneaky, cheeky little chap


You took a peek at my booby

They’re not all that, you must agree

So I am pleased you’d want to see

The honkers of old, bonkers me


I caught you looking at my tit

Young man, so virile, strong and fit

And though I should be in a snit

I’m chuffed, you fluffed up little git

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