Phoenix Fights

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




You know, I’m one of those people who is always cold.

It’s something to do with metabolism but also my build.

I’m quite tall with long arms and legs, so I perpetually have cold feet, even in Summer, and whilst I don’t miss sharing my bed with a man at all (all that snoring, grunting, farting, chest hair shedding etc.), they can make great hot water bottles.  And I have very fond memories of creeping into the bedroom cold and naked when my ex was fast asleep all toasty and warm, lifting the duvet and suddenly launching myself onto his back like a malicious little spider monkey and listen to him scream like a girl :-).

So, even though it’s allegedly Summer over here, I still have to put on the electric blanket on for a few minutes just to take the chill off the sheets before I hop into bed.

So when I woke up last night burning with heat, my hair soaked with sweat, my first thought when I fumbled blindly for the glass on water on my bedside table was ‘Shit!  Trust me to get the lergy in frigging July!’

It didn’t even cross my mind that it could be a hot flush ‘cos I’m cranked up on enough HRT to stun a gorilla.

But when I woke up the next morning snot free with a severe case of bed head, I realised that someone had chucked a few extra logs (and about 3 cans of lighter fuel) on my ‘Phoenix  Rising’ bonfire.


I’m struggling enough with the ageing process as it is without Mother Nature upping the ante any more.

Unsure as to whether my current cocktail of youth/juice/libido retaining chemicals is working (clearly not) I did a bit of a Google search and found this delightful diagram of hope and inspiration.


Something to look forward to, hey girls?!

Well I tell you what, I’m not ‘aving it….

I’m fighting back.

Because, whilst I no longer expect to look younger than my age, I certainly want to look and feel my best for as long as I reside on this wretched planet.

So, let’s break this down and see if there is any escape from this proposed, post menopause shitty-end-of-the-stick:


Headaches and hot flushes/flashes (depending which side of the pond you live)


HRT, drugs, lots of water, good nutrition and dietary supplements


Thin, Dull Hair


Diet rich in vitamin D (nuts, seeds, oily fish), good hydration and tons of product including leave in conditioner, hot oil treatments and serums. Oh and sun block and/or a hat when in hot climates!


Horrible teeth/smile


Diet high in calcium, flossing, whitening treatments. And if all else fails, falsies or veneers!  Fuck the expense/mortgage/your kids inheritance, because I have no intentions walking around look like a crone from Tudor times just so someone coins it at my funeral….


Pancake titties with weird, kiddy like nipples.  Really?!


I have been sleeping in support vests/bras a la Marilyn for years, as my boobies have been keen on going on an expedition due south for some time, so I only really ever let them out for bathing and sex. And I/they have quite frankly forgotten when we last did the latter.  And whilst the nipple thing sounds a bit creepy, it probably wouldn’t bother me that much because big, long sticky out ones <shudders> have always freaked me out anyway….


Risk of Heart Disease 


Good nutrition, watch your cholesterol and get some exercise.




Yoga, walking and, <drum roll>  massage!  Because it’s for medical reasons, right?  And it would be rude/impractical not to get a facial and mani pedi at the same time would it not? 🙂 🙂


Dry/Rough skin


An oil rich diet, exfoliation and layer after layer of moisturiser.  Put a layer on; if your skin gobbles it up, put on another and another and another until it is satiated. Because I for one will not be walkiing around with skin like a badgers arse even if I live to be 100.  So there.


Losing muscle tone


Exercise, belly dancing and good orgasms (HA!, she laughs bitterly….).  And if all else fails, its a damn good excuse to wear Spanx/granny knickers.  


Simian-like body hair.


Jesus, that is grim…..  Dunno.  Buy stock in Gillette? Mass electrolysis?  Live in a onesie all year round? Fuck, this shit is mean….


Incontinence. Hopefully of the No.1 variety only?


Pelvic floor exercises, good orgasms (ha! again…) to strengthen your perineum.  If that doesn’t work, Tena Lady.  Or Pampers if there’s No. 2 involvement? 😦


An itcy, arid, receding front bottom


Aw, c’mon!  Really?  God, you really don’t do yourself any favours do you?  And don’t give me all of that Adam and Eve shit, do we women really deserve this nonsense?!  So, OK, Lanacane for the itchy, lube for the chafing and if your flaps are receding, give yourself a round of applause because quite frankly I would welcome anything that would hitch mine up right now….


Weak bones


Good nutrition and pumping iron. The former will strengthen your bones and the latter will increase bone density and help you work off the fury from being put in this position in the first place….


Dowdy clothes syndrome (see illustration)


Wear. Whatever.You. Want.  

Do you know, I’ve spent the last 10 years worrying about looking mutton and erring on the side of caution, when quite frankly I should have just rocked it, wore low cut tops and skirts up my arse before varicose veins set in. Who the hell are people to judge? The media judge you anyway either for looking like you’ve ‘let yourself go’ or for dressing like your teenage daughter, and anyway I’d like to see some of the faces and bodies behind those reporter bylines because most of them would turn milk sour.  Hypocrites.

So I say, if you like something, wear it.  

If you have long hair, keep it.

Want that black leather biker/mid life crisis jacket? Buy it.  I did and whilst I don’t wear it in the traditional way a la Chrissie Hind, I wear it and will wear it until it drops off me or I drop off this mortal coil.  So what if people smirk?  Worse case scenario, I get mistaken for Alice Cooper and even then, I’ll get upgraded to First Class when travelling via plane or get a good table at the Ivy. 🙂

Check out these over 50’s chicks:


Look at Fern Britton! After losing near enough five stone, there’s just no stopping her, let’s give her a round of applause!


Look at Patti Stanger with her long hair and short, shorts! This gal does not give a shit! Let’s give her a patti (sorry) on the back!


Look at Vivienne Westwood rocking her long hair and her, erm, very interesting ensemble!  Let’s give her a rousing cheer, a pair of knickers and thank God that for once, we can’t see her vajayjay, shrunken or otherwise….

Joking aside, let’s face it, these ladies would never let Father Time beat them.

They’d bare their disturbingly white/snaggly yellow teeth, raise their tiny, inappropriate skirts and kick out, scream, and lob their £500 pot of Creme de Mer at his old beardy head, then have him escorted out of the building by their bouncers.

I’m not saying that if your personal style is more along more traditional, elegant lines that you should start dressing like Rihanna; just don’t think that you have to subdue whatever your image is now, or start to dress down for the sake of respectability or ‘good taste’.  God knows that Mother Nature neutralises our beauty enough as it is when we hit middle age, so feel free tap into her rainbow and shine.

Buy that cobalt blue coat, rock that burnt orange tunic, work that perfectly cut black pencil skirt, and swathe yourself in that faux leopard stole when the weather turns cold.

Ladies, to quote Dylan Thomas:

‘Do not go gentle into that good night; old age should burn and rage at close of day; rage, rage against the dying of the light’

And keep an extra large glass of water handy by the bed for the next time naughty Mother Nature lights that fire under your ass. 🙂





I’m going to say this quietly as I don’t want to scare it away (yet), but it appears that my sexuality has slunk back in the door and is sniffing around, growling quietly to itself and sharpening its claws on the cat post in the corner as we speak.

Know how I know?

Well apart from the weird horny dreams I’ve been having of late, I am finding my encounters with some of my partners at ballroom lessons a whole lot more uncomfortable/exciting.

Since I hit 40 I’ve always managed to persuade myself that women who pray on younger men were tragic, and to date I only ever viewed boys as (a) little brothers (b) amusing/irritating in equal parts, or (c) a target for any tiny shreds of maternal instinct that I have left.

I have nephews, my friends have adult sons and I’ve had to deal with young, handsome men in the workplace for years, but my role was never in question then.  My natural instinct was to ‘Auntie’ them, that is to say give them the benefit of my experience of the world when needed/requested/essential (not in that way), cuff them around the head occasionally and bung them a tenner or the odd bit of cake when the mood took me.


Everyone knew who they were and what their roles were.

Until now.

Now I find it increasingly difficult to look some of my partners in the eye whilst lumbering around the dance floor.  Especially one young, doe eyed Latin bloke who, like most mediterraneans has no problem with intimacy whatsoever, and locks eyes with me flirtatiously whenever we partner up.

I like to think that I am a sexually confident, formidable, sophisticated woman of the world who is beyond being unsettled by any man, let alone some little slip of a thing that can just about grow a beard, but the other night, quite frankly, I barely knew what to do with myself around him so I alternated between avoiding him, being silly (cue mad, overly dramatic tango promenades), and locking eyes with him, pretending to flirt and then being totally unnerved by the genuine chemistry that sprang up between us like, well, like a big, happy, bobbing man’s member.  Eeekk!


I know I should be pleased that my Mojo has returned and I haven’t totally dried up like an out of date vanilla pod, but I find this attraction to men young enough to be my son absolutely mortifying, as it is something I never dreamed would happen to me.  In fact whenever I’ve seen an older woman slobbering over some kid (I had to use eye bleach for months after one  particular holiday in the Gambia – don’t even ask) I’ve told friends that if I ever did anything like that to put a bullet between my eyes.  Right. Between. My. Eyes.  Don’t even think about firing a warning shot or winging me, because if I’m behaving like that, I’ve already hit the slippery slope (missus) and there will be no coming back from it.

Not only that, but I’m not even good at going out with good looking men of my own age, let alone half of it, because, as a very insecure women who has little trust in those of the male persuasion (romantically albeit), I don’t like being the less attractive one, as, as far as my twisted logic is concerned, the odds are higher with regard to my being hurt.

Plus waking up next to someone who looks like a Caravaggio saint, whilst I look like Bette Davis in ‘Baby Jane’ is quite frankly, my idea of hell.

And then, if I had any doubt about it, the final bit of evidence came to light today, as I have spent most of this evening tearing various BT operators limb from limb because their service is shit.  In the end I had to put the phone down because I was shaking with anger and frustration, and my higher self was scared of what I might say, and that they might end up calling the police or needing therapy or something.

As I sipped a G&T to help me calm down, it struck me that I haven’t lost my temper like that for a long, long time, and then the final bit of the puzzle clicked into place.

My most angry, resentful, temperamental time on this earth has been during my potential child bearing years.

Anger = passion.

Passion = sexuality.

Sexuality – jiggy jiggy = cranky + Scary Man Juice = homicidal rage.

It’s official.  Somehow my Mojo has been rejuvenated and amped up my tendency to fly off the handle, and now, something that has teeth, claws and appetite is stalking around the periphery of my flat, glaring ominously and demanding to be fed.

But how?  Scary Man Juice hasn’t really worked before now?

And then I remember.  I haven’t taken my meds for two days.  And whilst I’ve always been aware that Sertraline is hardly an aphrodisiac, this is clear proof that it has been having a libido stifling, bromide like effect on me.

So I face an interesting dilemma; Sexuality v Sanity.

The choices here are:

1. Release the Kraken and potentially unleash a scarier, more unhinged Sista on the world?


2.  Keep taking the tablets?

This I need to think about.

Lives are at stake here….

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Apologies for the Facebook style brevity of this post but I just had to share!

Whilst trying to squeeze the last bit of Scary Man Juice (aka testosterone) from it’s tube this morning, after five minutes of struggle, I resorted to bending the flattened body towards the metal cap and pushing hard.

This resulted in it spurting out of the cap, and with startling velocity, hitting the bathroom window with a SPLAT!

I don’t know, you know what they say, you can take the juice out of the man……..I’ll let you fill in the rest….

I’m just pleased it didn’t go in my eye, or, worse still, on the head of my toothbrush….. 😉




I’m sat on the edge of the bath, wrapped in a big blue towel staring in fear and loathing at a little tube of gel.

This can’t be right, surely?

I part the towel slowly and regard the suddenly goosepimpled landscape of potential application sites.

But where?

‘Not us!’ say my tits, ‘for we are the epitome of femininity.  It wouldn’t be right, in fact it would be downright obscene!’

Good point.

‘Don’t even think about it!’ shrieks my tummy, ‘your fucking ovaries are in here!  Are you mad?’

Not totally, but I’m well on my way thanks.

I open the tube, squeeze a bit of gel out and smear it between my fingers.  It stinks of some kind of chemical perfume, obviously added to mask the smell of man musk.


‘If you put it on us’ hiss my arms, ‘people will smell it!  They’ll think it’s your perfume!  They’ll think you want to smell like this!’

Shit, thats true.

‘Not us, not us’ plead my thighs, ‘put it on your calves!  No one will smell it down there!’

Yes, but it might be too far away from my core to work, plus it might get on my cats and they’re mental enough as it is without any additional testosterone.  There is no doubt about it, my thighs or rather one of my thighs is the only option.

I squeeze a pea sized blob onto my fingers, reach down to the spot above my right knee and pause.

Come on bitch! Do you want your va va voom back or not?

I’m hyperventilating now.


On the next out breath, I smear it all over my knee and lower quad, then hang up the towel, run into my bedroom and yank on some jeans.

That’s it.  It’s done.

I can still smell the cloying sweetness half an hour later, so decide to put on some body lotion.

I strip and look down at my right knee, half expecting to see a thatch of newly grown hair like a werewolf’s pelt.  Nothing.  But the smell is overpowering.

‘You may not have a hairy knee,’ whispered my right thigh, clearly piqued at being singled out ‘,but what you end up with is very hairy legs, like a geezer. And it won’t be fine hair, oh no; it will be thick and bristly like a badgers arse.’

Oh God.

‘That’s right,’ chipped in the left thigh, ‘I can feel it growing on me now.  Can you see it yet?  You’re going to look like a geezer from the waist down.  A big, rugby playing, alpha male, hairy arsed geezer.’

As quick as a flash I’m back in the tub, hosing down my legs, grimacing in horror as man juice dribbles down my calves. And not in a good way.

‘And nor is it likely to be ever again is it?’ said my nunny, clearly unimpressed by my blatant cowardice, ‘Well done you. Don’t expect to get any co-operation from me any time soon.’

But I don’t care. Bollocks to sex (pardon the pun), it’s a highly overrated activity as far as entertainment is concerned anyway.

That’s not true.

My memory isn’t anywhere near as bad as my ability to delude myself is good.

I’m just not quite man enough for man juice yet.