Phoenix Fights

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


Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror – WHAT YOU LOOKIN’ AT?


Look in the mirror. Does the person you see match the person you feel like on the inside? How much stock do you put in appearances?

I’ll be straight with you; I don’t like looking in the mirror, as I hate how I look.  

Sometimes when I do it, I don’t even recognise myself which is, as you can imagine, pretty unnerving, but a lot of times in the past, I’ve been grateful for the way my appearance has protected me.

Because, if my face is not animated or smiling, I can look a bit severe/intimidating.  

Not out of choice, but a combination of genetics, shitty karma, desire for self protection, gambolling paranoia and a sharp whack with the ugly stick tends to mean I can emanate a certain ‘Get the fuck away from me or suffer the consequences!’ vibe, if you will.

A black guy who was trying to chat me up a few years ago, told me confidentially in amused tones, that when he’d seen me before, he’d thought I was racist.  When I asked why, he said I looked like a racist. What does a racist look like?  You, he replied.  Strangely enough he never did get into my knickers but hopefully this example will illustrate that I don’t exactly have the angelic visage of J Lo or the sweet girl next door looks of Holly Willoughby.  More like the stern, patrician appearance of Maggie Thatcher, alas.

But my scary exterior, like antibiotics, didn’t just see off dangerous infiltrators (arseholes, sexists, bullies and bitches), but also the good folk.  Like timid but lovely potential pals, soul sisters and, last but not least, potential life partners. 😦

And now that I’m working on trying to be more open, friendly and accepting, the ever-so-helpful ageing process is colluding with the menopause and my dastardly karma and offering me jowls, dragging down the corners of my mouth and thinning my face, none of which scream ‘lovely, warm person, with a heart of gold and so much love to give’, fiendish bastards that they are.


And just to add insult to injury, I am also cursed with looking like a ‘lady’, which is what a lot of people refer to me as, especially when they don’t know me.  Which despite what you think, isn’t a compliment, as it means they think I’m rather straight, formal and foreboding, which could not be further from the truth.

Because whilst my dubious exterior hides, yes, a life long depressive with serious issues, it also masks a die hard wind up merchant, with a blistering sense of humour, a love of mischief, and, at times, the irresistible impulse to behave like a cross between Jim Carrey, Joan Rivers and a five year old after too many e-numbers.

People forget that middle aged women were once young and in their youth, have probably behaved worse than they did, and let’s face it, my generation ruled with regard to shocking a nation, so anything done nowadays in the name of rebellion is tedious and derivative as far as I’m concerned, hence I love encountering young pseudos who try and shock me as they always go away red in the face, with a rather profane flea in their ear.

On the plus (and I suppose minus) side, not too many people see me nowadays, so when I need to interact with the Great British public, I find myself trying to dress accordingly to fit in,hence don’t end up getting chased into the nearest train station like the Elephant Man.

Going to the supermarket?  Scruff out, keep head down.

Going dancing?  Wear something youngish, but not mutton.  Speak as quietly as possible so as not to be heard over the din, then I won’t be asked awkward questions like ‘What do you do for a living?’

Meeting people from my past?  Not that this has happened yet, but when I does I will try and concoct something that screams happiness, fulfilment, spiritual enlightenment and success which may involve smiling continuously, wearing a bindi and going barefoot whilst adorned in designer brands (from eBay) and leaping around with a bit of chiffon.



Yesterday I went on a mad mission to hunt down a coat (more on that later) in a smart part of town, so had to raid my old wardrobe and wear something tasteful/expensive and look every inch of the ‘successful’, stylish, monied (ish) senior exec that I once was, and ended up in a very expensive shop negotiating with the sales manager over the price of a cashmere coat. Thank the Lord I bit down my urge to seal the deal and walked away with this very pricey prize, but there is no doubt that this woman totally bought my act and had no idea that I was half mad and down on my uppers, about to go on benefits.

So, to my mind, whilst someone’s appearance can be indicative of who they are, you would be a fool to put too much stock into such things, especially as despite all my different guises and ageing fizzog, no matter how I look or what I’m wearing, this picture actually illustrates who I really am.



Think about this next time you see an ageing harridan, a fat, overprivileged banker, a hooded youth or blonde Barbie’d bimbo and try and hold back your misgivings and prejudices.  

All you are privy to at that moment in time is the vehicle, not the driver.

Let the light of who you are shine in your eyes, and judge lest no ye be judged.

Innit. 😉

Trackbacks & Pingbacks

  1. Mirror, Mirror | Lead us from the Unreal to the Real
  2. Inner Peace | LenzExperiments
  3. Daily Prompt: Mirrored | Occasional Stuff
  4. Let me tell you about… inspiration [Melody #1] | Rob’s Surf Report
  5. DP: Mirror-Mirror | As I See It
  6. Rarely, I think, if at all. | Mishe en Place
  7. Daily Post: Mirror, Mirror | Sued51’s Blog
  8. M I R R O R E D | the bippity boppity beautiful blog
  9. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror | Poetry
  10. Mirror, mirror | Sanjuro Tokage Experiments in Writing
  11. A Zombie in the Mirror | Nodus Tollens
  12. Mirror Mirror On The Wall- When I Look In The Mirror….. | Thediaspeaks;
  13. Mirror, Mirror, Challenge | lordmikle
  14. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror » My Life, My Way, My Words
  15. Daily Prompt: Mirror Mirror | Occasional Stuff
  16. Mirror of the city | Le Drake Noir
  17. It not the reflection that matters | djgarcia94
  18. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror | Lancing a Windmill
  19. Mirror mirror – believe it or not | Going New Places!
  20. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror | jane sleeps here
  21. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror | Morrighan’s Muse
  22. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror | Picayune Pieces
  23. Aping Love | vic briggs
  24. The Eye of the Beholder | theauthorwhoknows
  25. Daily Prompt: Being Reflective! | All Things Cute and Beautiful
  26. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror | Moments Thru Lens
  27. Daily Post: Syncing the Selves | wordsandotherthings
  28. Daily Prompt: Mantric Mirror | Karen Gadient
  29. mirror mirror…or not? | life and loveliness
  30. Snow White | Active Army Wife
  31. Mirrored By Nature | Pairings: Art + What Goes With It
  32. Mirror Mirror: Who are you? | Passionate Dreaming
  33. Funhouse! | Edward Hotspur
  34. Mirror, Mirror on the wall…. | This is Me….. For All Its Worth..
  35. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirrored | @ The West Gate
  36. Forever Cold | martha0stout
  37. Mirror, Mirror: The Mirroring Effect? (Luke 6:45) | The Christian Gazette
  38. Who dat? | Mindful Digressions
  39. Espelho meu | Sonhos desencontrados
  40. mirror, mirror, on the wall | The Jenn Site
  41. Daily Prompt: Mirrored & I am slightly behind! | Daily Prompt & Blogging Progress
  42. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror | Jennifer Nichole Wells
  43. Daily Prompt: mirror | Chronicles of a Public Transit User
  44. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror | Edge of the Forest
  45. Tell Me What You See… Selfies | HAPnHAP
  46. Mirror, mirror, on the wall… | THERE’S A HELL OF A NICE UNIVERSE NEXT DOOR
  47. Mirror, Mirror | 365 Days of Thank You
  48. Riding the Number Line | field of thorns
  49. A Baby Laughing | Wiley’s Wisdom
  50. Daily prompt: Priorities | helen meikle’s scribblefest
  51. On mirrors and clichés | dreaming of melville
  52. Mirror, Mirror – Ramblings from the Swamp
  53. REFLECTIONS | The Pookshelf
  54. Mirrored | The Land Slide Photography
  55. I Guess I’m Beautiful? | The Janie Doh Daily
  56. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror | Admittedly Me
  57. Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall | Be more.
  58. Writing Challenge: Mirror Mirror | Miss Diaries
  59. Mirrored | 6 of One…
  60. What do You See in the Mirror? | Yellow Brick Road
  61. Daily Post: Mirror, Mirror | Conscious Cognition
  62. The Faces of beauty | UBeCute – Follow the child inside of you…
  63. Mirror, Mirror | The Adventures of Jonathan Dumlao
  64. Daily prompt: Mirror Mirror | dlbcorner
  65. Smoke and Mirrors | Rising Above the Clouds
  66. Man in the Mirror | Constructing a Life
  67. Daily Prompt: Mirror, Mirror | No Apologies
  68. Reflexive reflecting | travel adventures
  69. Facing the Mirror | The Dragon Weyr
  70. Who? Me? | Words ‘n Pics…
  71. What Do You See | Brain Sweets
  72. Mirrorer | L5GN
  73. Mirror, Tell Me Something… | Polymathically




Anyone who reads this blog regularly will know that I am frequently late for appointments, and it drives some of my friends mad.

I don’t know the exact reason for sure, but I know one of them is down to my underlying reluctance to leave my flat for anything/anyone, especially if I am going somewhere where I will be out of my comfort zone.

Last night was such an appointment.

As a challenge, and to meet new ‘healthy’ people (as Aunty C, my counsellor, calls non mental folk), I joined a ‘Meet Up’ group and arranged to go and see a gig with them at a pub.

I wanted to see the band, the group looked nice (I’d met the host before and she was fun), but as always, when the time to leave approached, I used all kinds of delay tactics (Facebook, tidying up, sorting out sock drawer, bleaching spoons etc.) and had to fight hard with my inner demons who came out with the usual shit (everyone hates you, you’re ugly, too old to be going to gigs etc.) to make myself leave the flat.

To do this, as advised by Aunty C, I tried to play the ‘Good Parent’ to myself, and reassure the child (that’s me) that it’s OK to be nervous, but to that it would be good for me to socialise, make new friends, and that if the child doesn’t like it, she can always come home’.

That’s easy enough to say, but in real life, things aren’t always that simple.

Leaving when you want or need to isn’t something we tend to allow ourselves the luxury of, as even with good friends, we don’t want to seem aloof, rude or impolite, and whilst a few of my very close friends do sometimes tolerate me legging it mid event, strangers won’t necessarily be quite as understanding.

Take last night; by the time I managed to convince myself to get out of the door, I was already 15 minutes late, and very conscious that this was hardly creating a good impression on the group, but in the end, it was a blessing in disguise, as when I arrived, I found my new buddies in a vast crowd/queue waiting to get into the room where the gig was taking place.

So we spent about 40 minutes standing there in a sweaty, sticky pub being pushed and shoved, and I could feel my anxiety grow minute by minute.  Had I known that was going to happen I’d have stayed welded to the sofa.

I don’t like crowds.

I don’t like feeling trapped.

I don’t like people touching me.

Had I been on my own or with close friends, I would have been out of there like greased weasel shit, but because I was there with new people I had just met, not only did I have to stay, deal with my mounting claustrophobia, listen to my inner dialogue….

(it’s hot, i can’t see the door, i wanna get out, don’t touch me, how much longer, i wanna get out, who did that, try to look normal bitch you’re trying to make friends?!!, i wanna get out, touch me again you stinking fucking pseudo hippy twat and I’ll rip your liver out and slap you around the face with it, you’re drifting off again focus on the conversation, what’s her name again, i wanna get out, i’m going to faint, i hate you and your fucking backpack you cretin, i want out of here now, OW! etc.)

….biting down the urge to punch anyone in arms length of me and head for the door, I had to make small talk.

Small talk.

Small.  Talk.

Two simple, seemingly innocuous, one syllable words that without fail or exception fill my soul with a cold, creeping, despairing dread.

It’s not that I’m not capable of it.  I am. Well I used to be.

I did it for decades, as it was a requirement of the job and industry that I worked in.

And for most people, it might have been a pleasure because a lot of the people that we schmoozed were nice enough, the events usually took place in very salubrious surroundings and I was being paid well to do it.

It’s just that it took such a super human amount of effort for me to network, that I’d usually need to be shit faced to drum up the energy, and need a day off sick afterwards to recover from it by not speaking to anyone at all.

It’s not that I think I am better than anyone else; quite the contrary.  It isn’t that I think I’m better company than anyone else; I just find pointless, social chit chat hard work, soul suckingly boring and a complete waste of life.

I don’t know whether it’s down to my depression/paranoia/nervousness, my being empathic/HSP or both but I honestly don’t get it.

And some people can willingly, nay happily do it for hours.

I suppose putting me in those kinds of scenarios is a bit like someone who’s not keen on kids being locked in a crowded nursery, who’s forced to coo, entertain and sooth them whilst all the while thinking, ‘Fuck, I wonder when I’ll be able to escape from this’.

Only difference being kids are generally pretty amusing.

It’s not that I don’t like people either.  I just find it hard work to operate on such a superficial level, because I need some kind of spark or connection on a deeper level in order to invest time in a person.

That’s one of the reasons I don’t have hoards of friends.

Because in reality no one does.  What popular people actually have is 70% acquaintances, 20% casual friends, 10% good friends.

And whilst I know I need to have more casual friends to complement my few good mates, I don’t have the energy for a load of acquaintances who I have to fight to feign interest in.

Some people are very good at pretending to give a fuck when talking to someone they have no interest in whatsoever.

But whilst having to do this at various functions in the past, I have had to fight the urge to flick the canapé off the cocktail stick I’m holding so that I can slam the sharp end into my eyeball, then I can escape to A&E/ER where I can sit on a nice uncomfortable plastic chair for 6 hours next to drunks, screaming kids, yobs, disorientated pensioners and people with unusual things stuck up their orifices and not have to talk shite with anymore anymore.

And to be honest?  I’d sooner talk to any/all of the above than someone banging on to someone about the frigging weather.

And when I have  had to make small talk with someone who is a genuine, card carrying, 18 carat bore?

My tolerance level is zero.

I’m not being a diva here, and I do try and be polite and interactive, but because I am both unconfident and shy, I find it hard to maintain eye contact at the best of times, but if someone is excruciatingly dull, they exhaust me and I have to fight not to hurt anyones feeling or embarrass myself by drifting off in their presence.

I did actually once fall asleep when chatting to one client at a dinner because I couldn’t escape any other way.  Luckily he thought I was hammered.  I had actually been drinking water all night.

Back to last night.

Somehow I managed to stay put (cursing Aunty C for every minute of my life I was losing to this hell) and eventually the crowd carried me towards the room the act was appearing and I found myself in a seat with the rest of the group, and whilst I did the small talk thing with them as best I could, all I could think was that there was only about 2 inches of space between me and the big long haired beardy in front of me and the woman with halitosis behind me, perspiration was practically dribbling into my eyes and the girl next to me’s thigh was so mashed against mine that I was considering proposing to her.

So I endured….

The band came on.

I endured….

My face hurt from smiling.

I endured….

The hairy bastard in front of me flicked his manky mane and the tail end of it landed in my drink.


Oh how my new friends laughed!

Oh how he laughed!

Oh how I laughed!

But I really wanted to scream.

Then, mercifully came the interval, and I made good my escape to the bogs.

You can guess what happened next, can’t you?

Reader, I legged it.

Because I was specifically told that if I didn’t like it the child can always come home’, right?


But I doubt that my host felt the same way when I text her to say I had to leave  because I had a headache, the cat had coughed up a fur ball, or whatever lame excuse I gave her.

Because, I suspect that by her complete radio silence that in her eyes what I did was rude.

But there was no way I was going back into that sweaty hellhole to talk about the weather, peoples kids and/or what they ‘did’ whilst drinking warm, hairy vodka and cranberry with a complete strangers thigh pressing enthusiastically against mine.



Welcome to the first chapter of ‘How to Make Friends and Influence People’ by Sista Sertraline 😦

Maybe I’m just not cut out for ‘healthy friends’….

So what do I do in future?

Not go to these things?

Try and be more normal?

Take double doses of medication and come across as a stoner?

I honestly don’t know.

But even amazing evenings out in the company of like minded souls can feel like a complete anti climax to me, so I guess how I behave in ‘polite society’ on a regular common or garden evening with dull/predictable/normal/well meaning folk is just the nature of this anti social beast….

And I’m done with pretending to be anything other than who and what I am.

You know, little kids and grumpy old aged pensioners are great at this kind of shit, because they just say what they mean, if they don’t like someone or something they say so, if they don’t want to do something they refuse to do it and if someone tries to make them, they kick off, go apeshit and behave in a generally embarrassing fashion until someone drags them out of the building and gives them a telling off, some sweets or a Mogadon.


Maybe there are some things to enjoy about getting old after all 🙂

Come and get me menopause, I’m all over this!




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. 🙂





Oh I forgot to update you on my libido!

I’ve discovered (not telling how) that it does spark up when ‘provoked’, but happily stays dormant if left alone, so I reckon it will diminish entirely if I let it go.

So-oo, I’ve decided to try and masturbate with my hand held shower head in the bath at least every other day, endure the ‘less than earth shattering’ orgasm and hope that my G Spot and clitoris have ‘muscle memory’ and remember what they’re capable of instead of presenting me with such a weedy result for my efforts.

Plus a warm subtle flow of water is like being licked and it’s easier to fantasise when something’s not juddering in your hand like a pneumatic drill and making enough noise to wake up the entire building.

It’s also easier to wank in the bath as opposed to bed, where even the tiniest amount of twitching under the bedclothes incites homicidal curiosity in my cats and believe me, that ain’t no turn on!

2 days in and it’s still a bit frustratingly lacking, and I tend to feel over tingly and weak afterwards, but never mind, we shall overCOME….

And if after a month, it’s still crappy, I’m giving up, getting a loyalty card from my local bakery, retiring to a bungalow and buying a job lot of elasticated trousers.  The End!

Oh and I haven’t dared get hold of any marijuana yet, but as soon as I do, I’ll let you know if it helps at all.

Here we go, onwards and upwards! 😉



Well, I am having a dee-lightful day so far today – NOT!

It’s raining again, I can’t light my fire (spare me the witticisms please), every appliance in my domicile is breaking down, and I’ve just had the most horrifying experience….

Men – this is not for your eyes, so please, look away now.

Have they gone?

OK ladies…..

I just sat down to answer a few emails, and I had to adjust my seated position to make myself comfortable because it felt like…. or I appeared to be…. sitting on my own fangita.


What kind of fuckery is this, exactly?

Is it not enough that our hair goes grey, our faces droop, our tits sag and our libido leaves home, now we have to suffer this kind of indignity?

So what now?  I’m growing a frigging scrotum or something?

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t sitting on a lorra, lorra labia, but something is clearly there that did not used to be there.

I think it has gotten plumper and…. OMG I’m hyperventilating with horror here…. it kind of, erm, isn’t as tight to my perineum as it used to be.



I’ll say it.

It’s grown.  Downwards.  A bit. 😦  😦  😦

And when I come to think about it, when I’m doing yoga and go into downward dog, my eyes tend to be drawn there, because it now has a presence, whereas in the past it was…..


No one warned me about this.  Sure people bang on about the ‘change’, hot flushes, putting weight on, less skin elasticity, etc., but getting a bigger pussy?!  That said, no one briefed me on the sneaky little patches of hair growth where there once was none (toes, nose, palms of hands) nor that my bush would get ambitious and want to branch out into new, exciting territory, as it seems that nowadays I need a chair, whip and flame thrower to keep it under control.

Someone should have said!!

I call a friend, K, for advice and support.

She laughed.

‘That’s only just happened to you? Really? I’ve got a right pair of flaps on me now, have done for a while!  Don’t worry about it, know what my Steve says? All the more for him to chew on!  Ha Ha!’

Oh GOD….I’m really not amused at all….she has a man, who has seen her in her neater days, how am I supposed to introduce ‘monster minge’ to a new boyfriend?

All those hideous misogynistic names that used to mean nothing to me?  Now, some horrible little demon pops up unannounced, sits on my shoulder and hisses them in my ear….

Piss flaps!

Beef curtains!

Meat wallet!



I know it’s a small thing (shaddup!) and should be of little concern in the greater scheme of things, but I do a lot of yoga and won’t be able to wear tights if I have a big laa laa, so what am I supposed to do about that?

Do Spanx make something to address this?  A snatch support or something?

My mind, in desperation reaches back to the happy days when I was with my first boyfriend; he loved my minny so much, he used to look at it with a torch like a younger, more pervy Bill Oddie, with a preference for beaver over badger.


Who’d want to look at it now? They might get their nose bitten off 😦 .

I know I should love it no matter what it looks like, ‘no ones looks the same but they’re all beautiful’, blah, blah, blah but I don’t love the rest of me that is on show to the world, so how am I supposed love something that shouldn’t be making it’s presence known in the first place, whose sole intent is to cause me discomfort and embarrassment?

This plus my lack of libido, I’m starting to wonder if I ever have sex again….

Hope I haven’t offended anyone, but this blog reflects exactly what is in my head at any given time, and this is currently what I am obsessing about.

Ladies, please share your stories/experiences, and give me the will to live again?!




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….




So, I’m still applying Scary Man juice (testosterone gel) to try and hot wire my libido back to it’s former glory.

The good news is I haven’t grown a moustache :-).

The bad news is that I’m not getting any real urges down below to spontaneously follow up on :-(.

Take last night for instance. I went to a Latin American style dance show with a friend. We had great seats so were only about five rows from the stage. The dancers were fantastic and had amazing bodies. The men were largely topless and I could smell fresh male sweat in abundance, something that always used to give me something of a high.

So did this get me off? No. I watched unaroused, smiling indulgently like a proud nana as these ripped gods shimmied past me as they sambaed down the aisle before intermission, whilst simultaneous analysing their physiques in my head (the ex personal trainer in me) as they passed.

‘Great delts, has neglected his triceps though…that one’s a little lean, needs to develop his traps……Bar body! Do something with your legs sweetie, you look like Johnny Bravo…..yup, practically perfect in every way, which reminds me, I must take up dancing again…..’

The question is, if these magnificent specimens don’t float my boat, is a man closer to my age going to be able to?

So, I left shaken (forty dancers jumping around does that in an old rickety London theatre) but not stirred.

Which is probably all for the best as far as they were concerned, as no one likes to see a lecherous old woman drooling over chicken unless it’s with her Sunday roast covered in gravy.

So then, if it is the case that I’m no longer aroused by young men, how is it that instead of going to bed at a reasonable hour last night, I spent a good hour, maybe even two, watching videos of the boy band 5ive performing their hits on You Tube?

And that’s not the worst of it. I wasn’t watching them as they are now on the Big Reunion i.e. in their thirties. That would be bad enough. No, I was watching clips of them from about fifteen years ago, at the height of their fame, when they couldn’t have been older than, erm…. 22?

God, WHAT IS THE DEAL HERE? I tell you something, I don’t embarrass easily, but I’m actually blushing from sheer unadulterated shame whilst typing this….

There have been times when I have really wanted to share my blog with various people in my life, but today I am fervently grateful that no one knows who I am as this is so cringe worthy! My friends would give me major shit if they knew about this (I can just hear them shrieking ‘Ohhh, young man!!’) and I would bloody well deserve it.

Please believe me when I tell you that despite how this appears, I was not turned on whilst watching this footage. Honestly. Why would I lie? At the height of their fame, I wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in 5ive. They were, and are little boys when compared to me as far as I’m concerned.

But I did feel something. A couple of members of the band would have been my thing when I was a teenager (ruggedly handsome rough diamonds for anyone who doesn’t know who they are) so this was probably part of the reason I was watching them instead of, say, Take That.

The more I think about it, whilst I was kind of marvelling at their beauty, sexual pungency, sheer vitality and potential, there was also a sadness, an element of mourning to it I think.

It was kind of like saying goodbye.

It also felt eerily familiar. Have I been in this place before? Is there such a thing as reincarnation? If there is then please God let my next life be one without depression where I could look at my 19 year old self, if not with love and admiration, then not with hate and loathing, and look at boys such as these and think ‘I am as worthy of this person as he is of me’. Because right now, in the world as I know it, there is no going back and living this life again, no chance to see boys as friends not enemies, and no chance to believe in young love and all the enrichment it brings.


As for the state of play re my orgasm, I still have no urge to masturbate and only do it once a week if I remember, rather like going for a run on a Sunday morning to get the papers. But the last time I did it (it was not last night, I swear) it was the same as last time.

Using motor racing terms, it was pretty much 0-60 in a matter of seconds, flying past the chequered flag at record breaking speed, a bit of a buzz, a thrumming engine I couldn’t turn off, so nothing worth getting RSI of the wrist for.

This is the point where I could very easily pull out of the race, bail on this project and forget all about jiggy jiggy, but there is one thing that I haven’t tested yet.

I haven’t been close to a real live man of my own age (as in on a date) for a good year or so, so actual erotic interaction with a real life specimen might be a different thing entirely.

You know I told you that I’d rejoined that online dating site? And had two guys contact me? And I swore I’d get back to them?

I lied. I didn’t :-(. Sorreee…

But I will. Today. Well they’ve probably buggered off by now, but I will interact and be open to meeting someone on there. For experimental purposes only.

I was also told by a very reliable source that marijuana is very good for helping the medically impeded climax, so I’m off to see a man about a dog, let’s hope I don’t get arrested….

Bye for now!