Phoenix Fights

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

25 DAYS OF SONGS CHALLENGE: DAY 12 – THE LAST SONG I HEARD

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You’ve lucked out on this one, folks.

‘El Tango de Roxanne’ was the last song on my iTunes shuffle this afternoon, before the phone rang and I turned it off, and comes with a clip from Baz Luhrmann’s musical tour de force ‘Moulin Rouge!’

This dance sequence still gives me chills and reminds me so much of when I had little trust in men, and whilst I was never a whore, I probably had a similar glint of mocking distrust in my eyes as ‘Roxanne’ did when encountering a member of the opposite sex hell bent on seduction back in the day.

Nor can I tango like that. Unfortunately.  As I’d give my eye teeth and a whole lot more besides to do so.

Passion at it’s finest, listen, watch and want

25 DAYS OF SONGS CHALLENGE: DAY 8 – A SONG THAT REMINDS ME OF MY FIRST LOVE

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Ah, this was so long ago…

But I still remember the song that brings it all back to me

CG was my first boyfriend, my first lover, and the first person to ever make me feel loved.

He was a little older than me, but worlds apart in maturity, was tall, dark, handsome and a bass guitarist in a new wave band. I was some geeky ex dweeb, who had only just binned her National Health glasses, discovered her figure, and started attracting male attention and could honestly not understand what he saw in me. Hence I was incredibly insecure and jealous of the inevitable attention he got from wannabee groupies, and was stupidly unsophisticated enough not to hide it, and so started the beginning of what probably is still, to date, the most passionate, fraught, tumultuous relationship I’ve ever had.

And somewhere in the midst of this, he took my virginity. Not that he had to persuade me that hard. Stronger than the Catholic guilt, worry about pregnancy, and the fear of ‘what the neighbours might think’ (apparently they trained telescopes on our front door 24/7) was the newly awakened surge of lust and desire to own this man body and soul that drove us both crazy whilst we waited for ‘the big day’.

Given the area where I was raised, and the lack of love in my upbringing, it was a miracle that I wasn’t some irresponsible little slapper who hung around outside the chip shop, smoking fags and going round the back of the offy with some spotty yob for a knee trembler.

I was surprisingly responsible and mature and he was unusually protective and solicitous for a working class new age axe man. We both went to see my aunty to tell her that we were in love and I wanted to go on the pill. Then with her blessing, I went to the doctor’s, got my prescription (I was of legal age), then started to take my pill every night when then two of us met, and as he lovingly watched that ‘little yellow bomb’ disappear down my slender, alabaster neck, we counted down the days until I would be his.

Properly. Wholly and completely.

But sadly our idyllic anticipation and excitement was ruined when my mother searched my room, found my pills and confronted me one morning, crying and calling me every slag, slut and whore under the sun because of what we planned to do. I fled in tears to my would be lover, who pale faced and nervous came back with me that evening to face the music himself.

She said nothing to him. Absolutely nothing. She chatted and flirted as usual, pretending much to our bemusement that all was well, but the moment that he left, she went after me again, insisting that he didn’t love me, only wanted ‘one thing’ and that I would be ruined because he would never marry me if I got pregnant.

‘You don’t have to do it’, she’d plead, ‘if he really loves you, he’ll wait’. And when I was naive enough to tell her that I couldn’t wait, she looked at me with hatred and disgust like I was shit on the sole of her shoe.

This went on for nearly a week, by which time, my mother had completely ruined this precious secret that we had, and turned it into something sordid, dirty and dangerous.

By the sixth day CG could no longer bear the effect this barrage of abuse was having on me, and forced a confrontation, which ended with her weeping piteously claiming only to have our interests at heart and forcing us to say that we’d wait until….until what?

Until we got married? I was just turned 17, my hormones were driving me around the bend and I could barely keep my hands of CG in public, nor he me. Did she honestly think we would abstain indefinitely?

Also, by then I was filled with indecision, worried that she was right that he couldn’t love me because he was too good for me, and I was terrified he would go off with some older, more experienced groupie and kick me to the kerb. I was also petrified that he would think I was a slapper if I did it with him, and not love me anymore.

This is where Marvin came in. Not as a third party you understand, but CG bought me a copy of ‘Let’s Get It On’ and that became the soundtrack of my seduction and introduction to the art of sex in a loving relationship.

Of course we went ahead and did it. How could we not? And when we finally did the deed it was sweet, funny, sexy and partially successful as of course my hymen put up a bit of a fight, but I never once regretted that he was the one who broke me in.

And whilst I loved the title track (our mantra was ‘giving yourself to me could never be wrong, if the love is true’), ‘Come Get To This’ was my favourite, and my favourite line was:

‘Oh, nothin’s changed, you’re still sweet as the mornin’ rain’

And whilst my mum finally figured out that I was no longer a virgin and was coldly disgusted, even she couldn’t take the shine off our love and how sex had only made it stronger.

She was right about one thing though. Our relationship didn’t last. And when we finally parted she said smugly ‘I bet you wished you’d never done it now! Don’t you feel a bit dirty and used? Aren’t you sorry you’re no longer a virgin?’ she could only stare at me uncomprehending when I declared that I was not.

The only thing I regretted was hurting him by falling out of love with him.

And I have never forgotten him.

Of late, as some of you know, my dying libido has had something of a resurgence. I have no idea what’s brought it on but can only put down as it’s desperate urge to hang in there and not be buried under my lethargy, indifference and diminishing hormones and it seems a sad way to end one’s intimate life after such a strong start.

If only I had another CG to send it on it’s way with a bang if you will. 😉

We are actually still in touch and it’s tempting to see if we can rekindle something, but experience tells me it’s never a good idea to look back.

Oh well, I had a good innings…now for the focus on love of a different kind.


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Daily Prompt: Green-Eyed Lady – SHINY HAPPY PEOPLE

We all get jealous from time to time — what wakes the green-eyed monster for you?

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OK, so let’s get one thing straight, I’m not a jealous person.

When one has such low self esteem that they don’t think they deserve to live at all, I don’t think I ever had the nerve or chutzpah to take something off someone, or demand that they not have it.

But I do occasionally suffer from bouts of the next best thing.

It’s what I’ve dubbed, courtesy of that ’80’s legend Jilted John, ‘Yeah, Yeah, It’s Not Fair’ syndrome.

I’m also occasionally prone to envy, but this (as my friend Helen has already outlined most ably in her fabulous Scribblefest), is a tad more forgivable as all you really want is the tiniest slither of the pie, and not to snatch the entire thing out of the hands of the current recipient, hurl the empty dish at their head afterwards then lean over and burp applesauce in their face.

Well not usually anyway… 😉

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I should know what jealousy looks like; I had and do have a couple of green eyed monsters in my life at present.

One cannot bear for me to have anything she does not, even if she can’t feasibly have it in the first place, one example being a hot date when she’s ‘happily’ married, a vintage bargain bag when she has a wardrobe full of new Pradas or a party invite that she cannot attend anyway.  But she’s a psychopath, so it’s not that surprising really (https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2013/12/15/run-run-run-away/).

When I was younger and more attractive, another now ex friend once hinted very heavily that life would be much easier for her if I were to put on about 3 stone in weight, as she was sick of her horrible, deadbeat boyfriends hitting on me, something I would always get it in the neck for, and not the HDB’S.  BUT if I was safely ensconced in a relationship and she was on the look out, she would have no qualms in asking me to be her wing woman in order to attract more men to our table for her.

That said, whilst YYINF syndrome is not quite as bad as jealousy, it is, I have to admit, mean spirited, whiney, pathetic and not all that different at the end of the day.

Ooops.

So regarding my particular (pale) green eyed character flaw, when does this terrible affliction kick in?

When I see the happy, the lucky, the fortuitous, the beautiful, the loved from the moment they were born, getting on splendidly in every aspect of life you’d care to mention.

‘And who might they be Sista?’ you may ask innocently.

And I say to you, ‘Oh they, and maybe even YOU, know who you are dear!  Don’t think I haven’t noticed, y’hear?!’

Because I SEE YOU pretty much every day; all glowing, confident and appreciated courtesy of your perfect parents, coasting gracefully through life, getting everything you want, meeting your soul mate at exactly the right time, having the wedding of your dreams, popping out 2.5 model kiddies without even so much as gas and air, climbing the corporate ladder with grace and ease and looking stunning in the bargain, blah, blah, fucking blah.

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You always get a seat on the notoriously crowded 7.45 am train from Guildford to Victoria, and even in a heatwave, sans air con, you arrive on platform pristine and box fresh whilst the rest of us are sweating, dishevelled, cursing wrecks.

You can go to the January sales and never get jostled or flustered, and always nab the best bargains as you walk, no glide, through the yielding, parting crowds like a cross between Moses and the frigging Timotei girl swishing through a field of daisies on a soft, summers day.

If you’re male, you’re everyone’s best mate, super masculine, but stylish, and a decent sort too, generous (shit, you can afford it!) excelling at all sports, and you’ve been told more than once that you look a bit like a cross between Davids Beckham and Gandy.

Your folks adore you because you were the perfect child, and you adore them back because they did everything for you and are just the best parents ever!

You always get a green light, never a red.  And I’m not just talking about driving.

You always get upgraded to first class on the plane, even if you’re in your oldest jeans and tattiest t-shirt.

You’re the must have dinner party guest in your circle because not only do you shine, but you have the ability to charm, make everyone feel comfortable, are attentive even with the most boring neighbour and you are guaranteed to entertain everyone into the night with your hilarious anecdotes and cutting edge opinions and knowledge about, oh, just about everything.

Despite walking everywhere you have never ever scratched the leather off your stiletto healed Jimmy C’s.

And of course, it goes without saying that you’re also anything from attractive to extremely good looking.  How could it not be so?

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Doors open for you.  Packed restaurants miraculously find a top table for you.  Flowers grow, soufflés rise, the stubborn bend, and legs do part.

And the hardest thing of all for someone like me who had a hideous childhood, was never loved, has mental health issues, struggles to keep friends (whine, whinge, whine…), and never, ever had or will ever have what you have?

You’re usually a bloody nice person and I would no doubt like and admire you if I knew you, when I so long to hate you.

Because IT’S NOT FAIR!

Who decides who has a great life and who has a shitty one?

I WANT ANSWERS!!!

All joking (kinda) and ranting aside, i know that I’m luckier than most and things could be a whole lot worse, but sometimes I look at these shiny happy types and wonder how things might have turned out for me, had I been lucky enough to have the chances they’ve had.

I guess we’ll never know.

In the meantime, I try and fight my irritation and caustic, destructive, corrosive jealousy, sorry, envy, stop bloody MOANING and make a mental note of which queues to rise early for when my next life is due.

And if Holly frigging Willough-booby gets in my way in the Looks Department, there’ll be HELL to pay.

Back off Blondie, haven’t you had ENOUGH blessings?  You’re INSATIABLE!!

Oh Gawd, I feel yet another rant coming on….Here we go, two, three, four…..

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/04/04/daily-prompt-green-eyed-lady/

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ANGER WATCH 2 – WHAT YOU LOOKING AT?

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I reached a turning point this weekend with regard to the way I feel about my looks.

Not that long ago, i.e. less than a year ago I wouldn’t even go outside to empty the bin without putting some make up on.

Since I was old enough to get away with wearing them, cosmetics have been my friend.  I applied a generous mask foundation and powder.  I turned up the drooping corners of my eyes with big ‘ticks’ of shadow, applied layer after layer of mascara, used black/blood red lipstick to distract the eye from my big teeth and general used a whole palate of colour as armour against the name calling, cruel asides and bullying I used to have to endure in secondary school.

Fortunately my ‘clarting my face with make up’ (as my Mum used to say) co-incided with the punk and new romantic era, so I fitted right in and no doubt looked the epitome of those times, with my aubergine hair, blackened eyes, sneering mouth and cold hauteur.

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And when the times and make up fashion changed, it still took about 45 minutes of slappery for me to achieve a ‘mininal’ look that I could live with.

Even when going to the gym or staying with family or close friends, I would hastily apply some concealor, a bit of mascara and flesh lip colour so that they thought I woke up looking that way.

As for when A MAN stayed over, well you don’t even want to know the trouble and palaver I went through to look acceptable when he awoke, not that it ever did me any favours really.  Men can smell self hatred a mile off.

But this weekend I, without even wearing my regulation huge sunglasses, not only went out without a scrap of make up, but I did a ‘before and after’ style photo shoot for a women’s magazine.

Not that I love or even accept my face, you understand. That would be far too ambitious a claim right now.

I’m just trying to get over myself and come to terms with the idea that I am more than the sum total of my looks, and that ‘me’ is more important than my appearance.

And I really ran with the experience.  I laughed and joked about it, had a laugh with the other girls, bantered with the photographers and generally had a really fun day. The mood was aided by all the champagne they served with lunch but I was still very proud that I faced my fears and did it anyway.

Quite how I’ll feel when I see the end results (if I can bring myself to look at them at all) is another thing entirely, but I just felt like I needed something of a baptism of fire to get some traction with this issue, so to speak.

And over the last few days, I took it further and went to the shops completely au naturale. And whilst fewer men looked at me, women seemed to be more smiley and accepting of me.  Maybe it’s because I look less aloof or imposing.  But the freedom of just going out and thinking ‘Whatever’ has been immensely liberating. So what if people think I’m ugly? It actually seems more the case that I’m invisible rather than mockable, and that’s alright by me.

So I have been giving myself a bit of a pat on the back today.

Less self hatred?

Check!

Less jealousy/envy?

Check.

Less angry?

Check.

More forgiving/accepting?

Check!

It’s all coming together, I thought smugly to myself, I’m evolving more and more every day.

Until tonight.

When I happened to log into Facebook and was met by the most hideous photos of myself that I have ever seen in my life (well for a couple of months anyway) in full glorious technicolor on my friends Tina’s profile page.

I was gobsmacked.

And as I clicked on them in horror, I remember vaguelly that she took some later in the afternoon, when a few of us were a bit, well totally, trollied.

She didn’t drink much that day, so she and the other girl in the pictures look fine.

Well gorgeous actually.

Whereas I look absolutely hideous.

For a start, is obvious that I am pissed.  My eyes are closed in half of them, in the other half I look totally out of it, and in all of them I am just downright coyote ugly.

Fuck!

My response was instantaneous.

My temper soared.

I immediately sent texts and emails to my hapless friend, pretty much saying ‘WTF Tina?!  If you are my friend, TAKE THESE DOWN OR CROP ME OUT OF THEM!  I hate them!’

I was absolutely livid and my hands were shaking on the mouse as I scrolled through them again, again and again. What kind of friend would upload these, knowing how I feel about my looks?  So when she called me on my mobile I was ready to pounce.

Before she can get a word out I hiss ‘What were you thinking Tina? Don’t tell me you thought they were nice photos of me because you know they’re not!’

‘I thought they were, when they were little!  I didn’t have my glasses so I couldn’t see them properly!’ she stammered, clearly in distress, ‘Then when I uploaded them I….’

‘Well of course,YOU look lovely in them!’ I continued bitterly, bristling with self righteous indignation ‘Good for you, and I can see why YOU want them on YOUR page, but the very least you could have done was crop me out of them!’

‘I didn’t mean to upset you!  I’m sorry, I’m taking them offline now, I’m so sorry…’

‘Sorry, I have go, I’m going out, ‘ I snapped briskly in reply, ‘speak to you later.’

And I put the phone down.

And seethed.

Some friend!  Of all the selfish, vain, stupid….

…she always looks stunning, it’s alright for her…..

…didn’t give a shit about me….

…all over Facebook…..

Uh oh.

Let’s go through that check list again:

Less self hatred?

Erm….

Less jealousy/envy?

No.  I was jealous of my friend because she looked nicer than me.  And I’m ashamed.

Less ANGRY?

Oh fuck.

More forgiving/accepting?

…..

This was where I rallied a bit, because once I realised how unreasonable I was being, I immediately called my poor, long suffering friend and apologised for my tirade, my paranoia and my endless self obsession.

And she was lovely.  She fully got why I was upset, was mortified that she upset me and that I still hate the way I look and promised me she’d warn me if she was going to upload photos of me in future.

Especially shit ones.

Oh, balls.

Do I really want to come from under the wing of ‘Big Sista S’?

Seems like I’m not a very nice person without (much of) her.

But I’d have never even tried to do this shoot if I was still huddled up in the cloud of her 100mg a day embrace.

Onwards and upwards.

Tines, I’m a jealous, self hating arsehole, and I’m sorry I flew off the handle.

I’m trying to improve but have to acknowledge that my shit runs deep and change will only happen gradually and not overnight.

And doncha know that Rome wasn’t built in a day……

Hey, hey, hey….


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FAIR TO MIDDLETON

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I don’t know about anyone else, but I find myself reading articles in the papers nearly every day that make me sad, angry, ashamed of my own kind, but more than that, ashamed to be a middle aged woman as the ‘ladies’ who write or are featured in them, do not do themselves, or the rest of us, any favours.

More often than not, the target of their distain is someone in the public eye, who for some reason, cannot, or is not willing or able to speak up and defend themselves.

Case in point, today I want to talk about the Middleton sisters.

First Kate, who tends to get the lions share of this kind of vitriol from some pretty mean old cougars.

A whole plethora of people in the public eye have criticised her style, lifestyle, make up, thinness and, even for not recycling her clothes often enough, this particular allegation coming from Vivienne Westwood.  So presumably she won’t mind too much when Kate doesn’t buy any of hers?  And at least the Duchess no doubt remembers to put some knickers on when she goes to the palace, which is more than we can say for Viv, who’s nunny is never out of the papers of late…

Conversely, the less than regal Ms Kelly Osbourne very kindly indirectly informed the Duchess of Cambridge that whilst it might be politically correct in the UK to wear the same thing more than once, doing so in her country is considered a ‘faux pas’.  I doubt that Kelly even knows the direct translation of ‘faux pas’ i.e. what it means, but it’s awfully nice of her to let Kate know what the done thing is in the USA, so that she can perhaps let her advisors have the afternoon off or something.

Whilst I quite like Viv and Ms O, neither of them live in what any of us mere mortals would call the real world, and they seem to forget that Kate is pretty new to this job, was herself a commoner not that long ago, and probably wore the same frocks once a month like the rest of us, and as these conflicting views indicate, you just can’t please everyone or indeed anyone all of the time.

Then, the author Hilary Mantel in a lecture at the British museum dubbed Kate ‘a plastic princess’, ‘a jointed doll on which rags are hung’, ‘bland’ and ‘born to breed’, just, coincidentally, around the time that she needed some cheap publicity for her Costa book award, niftily ensuring that the sales of her novels would soar, clearly reinforcing the theory that there really is no such thing as bad publicity, as thanks to her patronising, bitchy tirade, people in this country actually know who she is now.  Not exactly a badge of honour though, is it?

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Then, hot on the heels of this onslaught came broadcaster and TV’s Mrs Potato Head, Sandi Toksvig’s declaration that the Duchess ‘does not hold a single opinion’ and that she is ‘not enough for me’.  Cue KM breathing a massive sigh of relief no doubt….

Ms Toksvig then compares Kate with Cheryl Cole who she likes and admires, remarking that Chezza, unlike a lot of famous women ‘says what she thinks’ and rather more sinisterly admits that she ‘does fancy her quite a bit’.  Run, Cheryl, run!

These  two seemingly intelligent older ladies are essentially shooting fish in a proverbial barrel, knowing full well that the Duchess’ job is quite a unique one, and that anyone joining the royal family is going to be somewhat limited with regard to what she can say or do in public.

So, unlike Cheryl Cole, Sandi, Kate cannot get into a cat fight/race row with a female toilet attendant, call Lily Allen ‘a chick with a dick’ on Twitter, or take Simon Cowell down a peg or two on TV.

See the difference, you pompous old battle-axe?  X Factor judge/singer v wife to the future King of this country?

I think that we also forget that Diana didn’t have that much to say with regard to opinions until she split from Charles, and was only really able to speak freely after this.

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Another British journalist who seems to delight in putting down her fellow females is the infamous Liz Jones.

I try very hard not to be a hater, but Ms Jones pulls my chain more than practically anyone else on this planet.  Ex diarist and editor of Marie Claire, Daily Mail columnist Jones quite frankly makes me looks sane.  She is in turn arrogant and self pitying, attacking men who are disrespectful to women, then attacking any woman that shows up on her radar, pleading poverty and practically begging for donations then sneering at those who can’t afford her designer lifestyle, decrying men then boasting about her anonymous ‘rock star’ boyfriend, and she still bangs on about her ex husband (who she split from about seven years ago) in practically everything she writes, even though she stopped writing her diary of their life years ago.  Get over it biatch!

Liz also has rampant mid life crisis disorder and has over the past couple of years (after bitching about practically every woman over 35’s physical deterioration as if it were a criminal offence) had a face lift, has had various facial injectables and, to my infinite chagrin, a horse tattoo on her arm to make her look younger and more rock ‘n’ roll.

Just after I had mine.

If it wasn’t so painful I swear I’d get mine removed. 😦

She also has the uncanny knack of turning any article about any subject (Cameron, Obama, Mandela, the Moors Murderers, nuclear physics, bread making) into one about her good self complete with shots of her grinning, newly stretched, shiny moon face beaming up from the pages.

Liz did find recently herself somewhat out of her depth when she had a pop at feisty young Rihanna, dubbing her ‘Pops Poisonous Princess’ in the Daily Mail, berating her for being a bad influence on young girls, and shockingly claiming that her fashion sense ‘incites rape’, as Ri Ri promptly bitch slapped her within an inch of her life, and Instagrammed her using a very unflattering photo where her fans also gave Liz a roasting.  She then took Jones’ criticisms apart, claiming that she never aspired to be a role model, said that Jones is a ‘sad, sloppy, menopausal mess’, that she Rihanna was happy to be who she was, and essentially told her to back off.

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Ouchies!

AEGON Championship - Day Four

Today, Liz has clearly finished licking her wounds and recovered from that fight, and she is now having a go at Pippa Middleton, stating that she has terrible dress sense, proclaiming mockingly that she must ‘dress in the dark’ and has the sheer bloody audacity to criticise the lovely 29 year olds body, sneering at her ‘knobbly knees’ and ‘spaniels ears breasts’.

Whilst Pippa’s taste in clothes is clearly a matter of opinion, Jones’ relentless misogyny and attack dog behaviour, particularly towards young, pretty women makes me fume.  I know reaction and attention is cat nip to someone like her, but I have in the past responded to her columns online, and vented big time.  Shameful I know 😦

I also need to emphasise that I’m not a die hard royalist here, although I don’t mind most of them, and love young Harry.

I just don’t like bullies.

The thing is, (and I hate to admit this) she and I are near enough the same age, so I get how she feels deep down under that ‘look at how young I look’ airbrushed veneer.  I haven’t always felt loved or accepted, I didn’t manage to find the right man to have children with…

(Oh, sorry, she hates kids, she much prefers animals.  She’s a vegan, you know? Albeit a leather wearing one…)

…and I sometimes get a bit wistful when I see a young, beautiful girl out strutting her stuff, wishing I could go back in time and reclaim my much-derided-but-was-pretty-damn-hot-actually twenty year old body and live my life again without fear and taking more risks, but I’ve never ever felt or shown the kind of jealousy and hatred that Jones clearly feels towards the next generation.  And I can safely say that I’ve never had a go at anyone who hasn’t attacked me first, especially if they weren’t able to defend themselves.

The fact is lovely-ladies-of-a-certain-age, we had our turn, we did what we did with it, and now it’s their turn, so move on with love and acceptance to the next part of your life, and don’t look back.  I struggle with being older too, but there’s no point in being bitter and twisted about it.

And those vitriolic old bags who feel the need to attack or pick on young women, either in real life or in print, I suggest you take yourself off to somewhere nice and peaceful, do a little self searching and see if you can figure out what’s behind that impulse, as understanding yourself might just be the key to coping with the ageing process without hurting others.

As for you young ‘uns?  Enjoy your youth, my beauties, no matter what your shape, size or style, live, laugh and love bravely without regrets because time is so very short and precious; far too precious to be obsessing about your appearance or anyone elses’ for that matter.

And to Jones, Mantel, Westwood, Toksvig et all, I say, bitches, pick on someone your own size, or failing that, take a good long hard look in the mirror and apply some of that lofty, arrogant, coruscating criticism to your good selves.

And let’s just hope it doesn’t crack before you finish.

EAR WORM No. 4 THE KILLERS – Mr Brightside

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I slept badly last night, and this fucking song has embedded itself deep in my ear and is driving me crazy.

All those years I worked with D, I told myself I never had a thing for him and I feel like a total eejit ‘cos he’s married with a kid now and had I been able to admit it, make myself vulnerable, and take the risk of rejection, who knows what might have happened?

And now that I’ve admitted it, it hurts and whilst I’ve always said that i wasn’t a jealous person, the realisation is that I’ve never allowed myself to care enough for good looking men to be made jealous, but boy am I making up for it now!

D doesn’t know this and as far as I’m concerned, he’ll never know. Pride is a terrible thing, but right now, it’s all I have. And I want him to be happy.

I think.

Wake up Sista, unless you are reincarnated, there is no going back, there is only forward, so get this out of your system and move the fuck on before it’s too late and you’re too old/wizened/jaded/afraid to meet anyone else.

In the meantime, I’m going to have to secretly block D’s posts, ’cause to be honest?

I just can’t look, it’s killing me…..