Phoenix Fights

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



Screen Shot 2014-10-01 at 01.36.35

OK folks, as I am struggling with a lot of stuff at the moment, I decided to set myself some aims and ambitions for this month, and it occurred to me that those of you who also have mental health issues, or any other shit that might be impinging on your life, wellbeing and happiness might like to join me, so I’ve compiled one of those monthly challenge thingys.

I loves a monthly challenge I does, but sometimes some of them are too ambitious for me, don’t apply to me and my lifestyle and/or some fill me with fear and guilt lest I miss a day, so whilst there are 31 aims/objectives, you/I don’t have do be doing all of them by November.

It’s more of a tick list for your day if you will with the aim to try as many as possible, and includes the basics, but also tools and activities that I’ve found useful in keeping my head above the murky waters to date.

So, I’ll go through them one by one, even though most seem self explanatory:


Easy huh? Well no, not for all of us. And although most of us have to leave our pit to, at the very least, use the loo of a morning, it’s sometimes only too tempting to dive back under the duvet, even when it’s not a dark day.  So if you can, it’s best to make a habit of making your bed straight away so that there’s less of a temptation to do so.  Then you can….


Again some of you might be thinking ‘WTF?  Are you some kind of animal?’.

But for some of us, especially on dark days, are so full of self loathing and lethargy, we don’t think we are worth the effort of getting clean.  But there’s a reason for the belief that ‘cleanliness is next to Godliness’.  You just feel better after a freshen up.  So even if you’re going to crawl back to bed straight afterwards, have a soothing, fragrant bath and scrub your gnashes first and you’ll feel your spirits lift, if only but a millimetre.

3. GIVE IN (Especially for Dark Days)


As mentioned above, if it’s a dark day and still all too much even after your soak in the tub, don’t sweat it.

That’s what your hibernate tokens are for!  I’ve put six on the sheet for you to tick off, but don’t worry if you go over that.  Whenever you really need to, just go back to bed, wait for the storm to pass, and don’t beat yourselves up about it, my lovelies.


OK so I used to do ‘The Artists Way’ and one of the most useful take aways I got from it was to do what they call Morning Pages.  So, if you are able to resist hibernating, grab a notebook or a couple of sheets of A4, sit down in a quiet place and just scrawl down freeform anything that’s in your head.  Your worries, fears, too do list, there’s too much sugar in your tea, your urge for a big poo, whatever; whack it all down there and keep going until you’ve got nothing left to say.  It’s a great way to get everything out there, especially negative stuff, so your mind is clear for the day ahead.  Then if you still have time and the inclination…


I always thought I was crap at meditating; and in a way, I am.  I twitch, i itch, I scratch, I fidget, my mind monkey’s go crazy and I count the minutes until someone speaks, the alarm goes off, or I yearn for an excuse to stop what I’m going and go do important shit.  Like watch ‘Judge Judy’ or something.

But here’s the thing; I did a class last week and went home afterwards, cussed myself out for wasting yet another hour of my life.  But that night, I slept the best I had for a long time.  So on some level, sitting in that hall with a load of Buddhists, a stiff back and cold butt and trying, definitely did something. So I’m going to persist. And let’s face it, it’s 10 minutes! What do you have to lose?  And if you like it, you can always do more 🙂


I know, a lot of people have to go outside every day in order to go to work, get the kids to school, check up on their mum etc. but some of us don’t, in spite of George Michael’s enthusiastic little ditty.

And when you’re really down, you just can’t see the point of going for a ‘walk’ when you don’t need to.

Middle and upper class Brits have always kind of been down with going for walks, and tend to make you go along with them, just after you’ve had a massive Sunday lunch, which is incredibly uncomfortable and annoying.  Us working class proles are used to the more sensible option of hitting the sofa and watching a movie after a big meal.

That said, we’ll happily go for a walk TO the pub, have a huge lunch then enjoy a beer or two whilst kicking back in the beer garden (Summer) or on a knackered old sofa by a log fire (Winter), because at least theres some motivation there.

BUT the poshos have a point. Walking increases your fitness, fills your lungs with fresh air and speeds up your metabolism. So even if, like me, you don’t always have a reason to leave the house, do it anyway.  You can always come home afterwards.


I have a history of food issues (surprise, surprise), and have done about a million stints of binge eating before the diet that always starts on Monday but in actuality never starts at all, then in come the ghosts of guilt, the demons of disgust and the, erm, satyrs of shame.  Sound familiar?

But maybe you don’t have anything like that, but eat too much because you like it, or live off ready meals, take aways and Pot Noodles, and worry not one jot?

But if you treat your body like you do your car and give it top quality food, it (and you) will perform better, so make an effort to get the good stuff like your five a day, oily fish, wholegrain carbs and seeds and pulses down you as a priory before eating any crap.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want you to tart labelling some food ‘good’ and other food ‘bad’.

That way madness lies.

If you want a burger, have one.  Ideally make your own or buy one from a street food market rather than Macca D’s, at least then it will be worth the calories. Have some good chocolate or a really great slice of home made cake every now and again, then the next day stick to the low fat/sugar/salt options to balance it out.

List your intake.  Not to beat yourself up about it, but as an exercise and see which days your energy slumps and which days you feel fine and learn what makes you feel good and what doesn’t.  I bet some of you discover that your cat/dog eats better than you do!


Water is amazing stuff, better and much cheaper than any high end moisturiser, the best antidote to cellulite and the best preventative to headaches and migraines, especially if you are on a shitload of meds like moi.

A lot of the time we mistake thirst for hunger. The next time you meander into the kitchen for a little sumptin’ sumptin’, ask yourself if you are really hungry.  Is your belly rumbling?  If not, it’s highly likely that you are thirsty, so give your body what it’s crying out for and clear the toxins out of your system in the bargain.


I don’t exercise anything like as much as I should, especially as I know how much better it makes me feel (self loathing, self defeating biatch that I am) but if you can, find something you love, like or can just about bear to do, and you’ll reap the dividends in high energy, accelerated metabolism and a calmer disposition.

Weights are great if you are just longing to punch your boss out, walking totally works for the less physical amongst us (maybe get a pedometer and do the 10,000 steps thing) and dancing is totally life affirming for everyone.

Oh and yoga?  How could I forget about that?  Marvellous stuff and you can do it at home!


This stuff is great, it’s kind of a way to tame the mind monkey’s by pulling your attention out of the dark clouds, coming back down to earth, being in the present moment and acknowledging what is actually going on with a level of acceptance, whilst not actually judging yourself for that reality.  Mindfulness is a big subject and Ruby Wax’s book ‘Sane New World: Taming the Mind’ is an excellent introduction to the practise and the way it can help you and steer you away from self defeating habits.

Simple example.  If you are at your desk working through lunch, devouring a Pret special, browsing t’internet and checking out your Facebook, whilst answering emails and fretting about your next meeting/argument with your girlfriend/next energy bill, and feel yourself going downhill, STOP.

Log out of your PC and take your lunch to the park. Focus on the trees, sunshine and happy chatter as you walk. Find a spot, sit down and totally focus on your sandwich and coffee and fully immerse yourself into the act of enjoying them.  Feel the warm wood of the park bench beneath your bum, listen to the birds, fucking breathe already and be present.  Then you have more chance of looking at your situation as it really is, and not your worst case scenario.


Sometimes, doing something sweet for someone else can completely lift your mood.

Note, I say your mood.  I am not going soft here, it’s a win/win scenario!

Giving the odd quid to a homeless person, helping someone carry a pram down the steps of the rush hour tube, paying someone’s bus fare when their Oyster card has run out can put the other person in a great mood, which hopefully they’ll pass onto someone else, who’ll do something nice for another person, perhaps even your boss, so when you get into the office that day, he might not be quite as big a dick as he normally is.

See how it works?  Like I say win/win. 🙂


God I feel like such a hypocrite writing this!  😦

Essentially I procraste for England, especially when I have to do something scary. So instead of mithering, fretting and having mad dreams about it every night I’m going to try and bite the bullet and just do the scary stuff ASAP, then let the cards fall as they may.  If you’re like me, grasp the nettle and have a go too.


You feel awful/worthless/ugly/unappreciated/uncared for and you’re struggling to convince yourself that you are worthy of love from anyone.

So love yourself by doing something nice for yourself.

It doesn’t have to be expensive, and it’s better to think about what your treat should be instead of just mindlessly buying yet another pair of black boots.

Have a manicure or a massage.  Get yourself a bar of expensive (not that pricy compared to those boots) artisan chocolate and eat it slowly and mindfully with a mug of good coffee.  Grill some peaches and have them with greek yoghurt and maple syrup for breakfast.  Treat yourself to the latest book by your favourite author.  Bake yourself a loaf of good granary bread to have with home made soup.  Go to a football match with your mates.  Treat yourself to cut price tickets for a concert or exhibition. Little things can lift the spirits as much as big ones.


I can go days without talking to anyone if I let myself.

By ‘someone’ I mean someone you actually want to talk to, as opposed to spam callers, your bank manager or that bitch of a bus driver who won’t even give you eye contact of a morning.  A friend, a relative, a loved one, y’know?

For me, this can be one of the hardest challenges, as I’m so afraid of people picking up on my mood of thinking I’m going to be a burden to them.

But I’ll try if you do 🙂


As above but face to face.



Conversely, we all know that there are people out there who will tap into our shit and give it a bit of a stab with the sharp end of  their letter opener, purely for their own entertainment, because they are wankers and not worthy of the trust it takes for us to share our vulnerabilities and they will not respect your honesty or bravery.

Be sure to guard against such tosspots when you encounter them.  Hide your fears/hurt/doubts/weaknesses behind an impervious confident smile, show them nothing, and remind yourself that such individuals are probably more damaged than you if they can treat another human being with such poor regard.

And whenever possible, avoid them completely.  Who needs that shit in their life?


I do however, know that there are some people like this that you have to see every day, like a boss, family member or cruel spouse, and their shit does not let up.

If you are in this position, do what I was unable to do, and, on the surface, keep your cool.

Stay focussed and do not give them the opportunity of harming you.

If it’s a work colleague, do not trust them, do your share and then some, cover your ass every time so they have nothing to pull you up on.

If it’s a family member, treat them like a child.  Be kind and polite when they’re on form, and when they’re being dickhead, give them your most sympathetic/patronising ‘Oh dear…’ look and excuse yourself, even if it’s just to the next room, and compose yourself.

If it’s your partner, think about getting the fuck outta there, because no one should take that kind of shit from their husband or wife.  Easier said than done I know, but a bad marriage/relationship is the worst place to be for our kind.


I’m serious.  If you find yourself in a stressful or distressing situation, make an excuse, go somewhere quiet and ‘talk yourself down’ like you are on the ledge of a very tall building, preparing to jump.

You don’t have to say it out loud. But try and tap into your higher self and let them take over.

Say things like:

It’s OK, no one noticed you fluffed that slide on your presentation, they were too busy focussing on the good stuff!’

‘You’re safe, there’s no need to panic, we’ll wait here until the crowd disperses, then try and board a quieter train’, or 

‘Take no notice, she’s being a bitch because she’s threatened by you.  She doesn’t know that you’re in the loo freaking out.  Chill. Then we’ll put some fresh lipstick on, repair that eye make up and walk back to the table like a badass, OK?’

You’re essentially being your own in house counsellor.  Have a go.  it’s worked for me in the past.


Some of us have more physical contact then we ever really wanted, and then some, in the form of touchy feely men on the tube, snot nosed, screaming toddlers and overly sexually demanding partners, but some of us can go weeks without a cuddle.

And that’s hard.  Because as much as we may mentally dread someone being in our space, the human body needs touch, so try and get your quota somehow.

See family more often, lunch with ‘huggy’ friends and/or get yourself a pet.  I swear you’ll reap the benefits.


At the moment, much of my life takes place on the computer screen I’m currently staring at, but ‘It’s life Jim, but not as we should know it.’

Actually it’s no life at all.  It’s merely escapism, otherwise why would you feel so lonely?  Limit your internet time to 20 minute stints then turn it off, stop watching ‘Real Housewives’ and go out for lunch with a friend instead, Goddammit!

21. SAY “YES”

Oh Gawd, again, I am not good at this at all.

I bail all the time on social events, and as a result, I’m as lonely and isolated most of the time. Trouble is I’m crap at small talk, and unless I click with someone, I tend to long to go home 30 minutes into a party/dinner/Meet Up event because I get bored.

Naughty Sista!  Take it from me, it’s probably one of the most self defeating thing you can do, so say ‘Yes’ to stuff, even if you think you might regret it, and work through your boredom/anxiety/insecurity if you can. The only regrets I have are for not taking that chance and going out in the first place.

22. SAY “NO”

Are you one of those people who gets pressured into doing stuff because you’re afraid to say ‘No?’.  Usually by people who know they’re imposing but still do it because they know they can get away with it?

Fuck ’em!

Next time they saunter up wearing a shit eating grin with their:

‘Hey can I borrow your brand new car to take my druggy buddies to Glastonbury as we can’t afford trains, don’t have a tend so need it to sleep in?’

‘Hi! Can you just keep an eye on little Igor for say, 8 hours, he’ll be no trouble, he’s nearly over that stomach bug, and is just coming out of his ‘screaming as if he’s being stabbed’ phase?’

Or ‘Sweetie, I’m just off to the rugby, you don’t mind entertaining my sour, humourless, whingy face-like-a-smacked-arse parents till I get back do you?


Do a Zammo and just say NO!

Don’t get defensive, apologise or justify your decision.  Like Queeny says, ‘Never complain, never explain’ because you’ll just be giving them the opportunity to negotiate.  Just smile sweetly, utter that one syllable word and walk away to the sound of their jaw dropping to the ground.



Guess what?  I used to be a revenge freak.  If someone hurt, betrayed or shafted me, they’d be punished.  Either by my frosty silence, my cutting excoriating condemnation or even, once, I booked 10 early morning alarm calls in one night (I was young, OK?!) for an ex boyfriend.


Sorry.  That was not a good thing to do!  Well it was at the time, but us punishers perpetrate our own karma because as bad as we can be to others, it only pales into comparison of how vile we can be to ourselves.

Anger is destructive.  I am the living embodiment of that statement.  I was born angry and whilst it’s lessening all the time, I’ll probably be about 90 by the time all of it is out of my system. But nowadays I choose to try my very best not to lash out either to others or myself.

Be kind and leave the others to their fate and find a way to vent without hurting others.  You’ll definitely keep more friends that way!


Because like it or not, shit is coming to you.

And it’s not because you’re a bad person, have done something wrong or deserve it.  It’s just that shit comes to us all.  We emotionally vulnerable types are just not that great in dealing with or accepting it.

i rather naively believed that the more I was in touch with myself, and the more I prayed and meditated that the shit would, OK, not stop plopping down, but maybe come down the size of rabbit droppings as opposed to huge slabs of elephant dung.

What. A. Fool.

I really didn’t get it.  These things don’t stop it blasting out, they just train us to be more accepting and complacent about it, so that no matter how vile and stinky it is, we have a choice and the opportunity to choose how much it disturbs our equilibrium.

So when you get hit by a massive metaphorical doody (or a real one, some neighbourhoods are like that) shake off the worst and find a way of getting the pain/disappointment/fear out of your system (see Exercise, Mindfulness, Do No Harm, Something Nurturing).

And maybe invest in a robust umbrella. 😉


You feel that people don’t like you, so you try and morph into what they want you to be so that you’ll be accepted?

Enough already.  God/Buddha/Allah/that Rabbit from Watership Down made you the marvellous, unique, individual creation that you are, so embrace your quirks and oddities and stay true to yourself and you’ll attract your true kinsmen instead of cringing in a field of boring, bleating sheep, terrified that you’ll be found out.


My darlings, people like us need drug taking, binge drinking, overeating, or a constant drip feed of black coffee like a frigging hole in the head, especially, as I said earlier, if you are on masses of medication

Plus such mood enhancers come with a price, and the comedown is hard enough for ordinary folk to bear, let alone us loonies.

Anything beyond a few wine gums or a coffee flavoured Walnut Whip should be avoided or used in moderation.  OK?


Sometimes, even if you’ve had a crap day (or especially if you’ve had a crap day) and like me, you are prone to letting bad stuff take over and sully everything, it’s good to make a list of the nice things that happened and stuff that you are grateful for before hitting the sack.  They can be anything from getting a pay rise, to some hot girl smiling at you on the train, or bumping into an old mate, to having a good nights sleep, it not raining that morning or your flatmate leaving you half a pizza in the fridge when you get home. There’s always something to be grateful for if you look hard enough.

It’s also a good way to start the day, but I’d wait until you’ve had your first cup of tea/coffee first.

Just sayin’.

28. PLAN

Try and plan out a schedule for your week, as it will enable you to ensure that you’re not bogged down with just work and drudgery, or it will ensure that you have something to do if you don’t work and tend to hide from the world.  You might not always stick to your plan for that day, but if you’ve got your week mapped out with fun, nurturing, positive arrangements, you’ll be less likely to let it whizz past in a SSRI stupor of nothingness.


Had an encounter with some total tosspot/bitch and you’re still seething about it?  Try not to let it disturb your rest.  Figure out their side, why they might be behaving like a complete twat, and you might actually start to feel sorry for them.  If that doesn’t work, you might want to put pen to paper and rant about them in your….


Remember Morning Pages? Well I also do them before going to bed, especially if I have loads on my mind.  Somehow spilling out my troubles on paper before turning out the light somehow makes me feel as if I have shared them with someone and sometimes I even have a solution when I wake up.  Certainly worth a go I reckon. Then have another crack at Forgiving! 😉


You don’t have to be religious to pray you know.  If you don’t believe in a Higher Self, just use your prayer as a form of affirmation or to talk to your subconscious.  Share your troubles, your fears, your wishes for the future and see what happens.  Or, of course, you can meditate instead.

Easy, right? 😉

OK, I know it’s not easy to do anything when you’re at your worst.

But if you print out the attachment, look at it every day and try and do as many as possible, then you’ve achieved something, by the very act of considering your options!

It goes without saying that I’d love for as many of you as possible to join me on this as I’d love your company and to share your stories, so please tag me in if you decide to have a go!

What the hell, in order to get the ball rolling I’m going to tag the first ten fellow sufferers I can find, starting now!

Please have a go and share with others if you’ve a mind to.

I’ll be creating a nice certificate for you to have on your wall (don’t get too excited, OK?) when we’ve finished, and who knows, maybe this list will help you in the way that it’s helped me at times.

That said, no worries if you’d rather pass on this.

Good luck Mistas and Sistas! xx



How can anyone who really loves music make a call on this one?!

If I absolutely have to, then today, I think it’s probably ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ by Simon and Garfunkel.

This song was released in 1970 when I was 8 years old.

In those days before anyone saw depression as anything other than a self indulgent weakness, before anyone round my way knew BPD even existed, and before anyone really examined their own, let alone their kids’ emotional health, I know that (a) I was very unhappy and (b) there was something wrong with me and (c) that no one was going to help me.

Then I saw Pan’s People ‘dancing’ on Top of the Pops to this song, and my ears pricked up. I ignored those silly tarts flailing around the stage in bits of chiffon, blocked out all background noise and listened to the lyrics carefully.

It was then that I knew that I was not altogether alone, and somewhere in America, there were others like me.

Well there were probably people like me in the next street, but how was I to know that?

It used to make me cry (much to the amusement of those around me), so it’s ingrained in me to avoid playing it voluntarily, but whenever I happen to hear it, it still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and a lump come to my throat.

Simple, timeless, heartfelt, beautiful. x



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?!






The other night a friend very kindly offered me some free tickets to the launch of a new West End play, along with press party passes, and without giving it that much thought, I gratefully accepted.

It wasn’t till the day before the big event, when I was raking around inside my wardrobe trying to find choose ‘grown up’ evening attire that I started to feel a little uneasy about it.  The last time I went to an event like this was via my job, and time had not erased the memories of being surrounded by ‘plastics’, not being comfortable in my skin and having to spend entire evenings after a full days work trying to be someone I wasn’t.

My friend L sympathised but urged me to chill out about it.

‘It’s different this time isn’t it?  You’re not being forced to attend, entertaining someone, or having to mind your ‘p’s and q’s’.  You’re the client this time, as far as they’re concerned, and we can relax and have fun!’

This was all true. But it was still weird and I was anxious about any small talk that I may need to engage in.

‘So what do you do?’

‘Oh, I don’t work, I’m broke and bonkers, I just stay at home, watch TV and dream about owning my own business.  I did have all kinds of plans, trouble is, I don’t have the balls to get on with them and make something of myself!  How about you?’

‘Well I…oh is that Sadie Frost?  Excuse me, I must go say hello…..’

How do I end up in these scenarios where I feel lesser than others?  Will it always be this way, wherever I go, whatever job I do, whatever class of people I attempt to socialise with?

As for the thought of bumping into anyone from my working past and having to bullshit my way through that conversation, makes my blood run cold.  I’m so ashamed of not having a ‘life after corporate hell’ success story to share with them.

‘Highly unlikely you’ll bump into any of that lot,’ L sniffs, ‘anyway if you do, just smile and give them a regal wave from our posh seats and turn the other way!’

I smiled at this, nodded, and promised her I wouldn’t bail. 

But I wanted to.

When the big evening was finally upon us, I predictably had a big panic attack when getting ready, and ended up surrounded by clothes strewn all over the floor before finally settling on my most comfortable, but low cut Noa Noa LBD, a pair of black heels, stockings, a nice wool/cashmere coat and a bright pashmina wrap.

I gave myself one last appraisal in the mirror before heading out for the bus, and noticed my perplexed, dismayed expression hadn’t changed.

Who is that person?

She looks so foreboding and formal?

Why’s she got her tits out when it  5 degrees outside? And where are her leggings and favourite Dr Marten’s boots?

Fortified by an anti-d and beta blocker combo, I scuttled out of the door, onto the tube and then scurried up to the theatre to pick up the tickets.

‘Sorry madam, nothing here for you under that name’ say the box office lady looking absolutely mortified.

My heart is thumping like a jackhammer.  

They know I’m a fraud.  I look ridiculous. They don’t want me in there.

‘Ring your mate!’ says L, proper peeved, so I do, hoping fervently that he wasn’t contactable.

He picked up straight away, apologised profusely for the mix up, and arranged to meet us in a nearby cafe and sort it all out for us, and as we sit there amongst the casually dressed patrons, I feel ridiculously overdressed.  

My feet are killing me.

My legs are freezing and actually trembling.

My fanny is in shock from extreme exposure, used to being protected by knickers, tights AND jeans in these harsher than usual climes. I’m just hoping it doesn’t sneeze mid performance and put the actors off their lines….

Alex arrives, red in the face and full of apologies.

‘It’s all OK now, just go and see Sonja, she has all your tickets, and call me if there are any problems.’

‘Oh don’t worry, we’ll just go for a quick drink instead if it’s going to be a hassle!’ I say accommodatingly, fantasising about thermal leggings, Ugg boots and hot chocolate with Baileys in front of the TV.

‘Will we hell!’ mutters L, determined to have her glamorous evening.

We walk to the theatre in silence, me panicking like fuck, L fully aware that I’m in a state.

‘Look how do you manage when you did that “extra” work, with all those cameras zooming in on you?’

That was easy.

It wasn’t me.

I was pretending to be someone else.

‘So do that now!  You look amazing!  No one would guess that you’re a….erm, well that you’re…’

Unemployed?  Terrified?  A complete and utter failure?

But she’s right. I’ve got to pull my shit together and get through this.

When we arrive at the theatre, I swoop up to the box office and ask politely but firmly for our tickets.

‘Yes, we have them here madam.  So sorry for the mix up!  There will be some complementary drinks at the bar for you, by way of apology.’

I smile my thanks, and head for the much needed alcohol injection, trying not to show how much my frigging heels hurt as I glide up the stairs with L in hot pursuit behind me.

‘They didn’t even acknowledge me,’ she grumbles, swigging back the bubbles and chomping on a handful of cashews, ‘I’M the Marketing Director of <huge American TV network> and they look at me like I’m your assistant!’

‘Don’t let it bother you,’ I mutter in reply, ‘at the end of the day, it doesn’t mean jack shit, does it?’

But she’s right; I clearly look the part and get lots of smiles and nods from people both at the play and the after party, clearly assuming that I’m something that I’m not.  So I took L’s advice and acted the part of a well to do, well connected lady (whatever that means) with a big house and even bigger job.

But when it all got too exhausting, we snuck off and sat down somewhere quiet for some much needed respite.

‘So!  Nothing to worry about hey?’ L grins rather drunkenly, ‘have you enjoyed yourself?’

‘Yes, it’s been fun!   But this is the last time I’m getting tarted up like this for a long time!  How the hell did I ever walk in these things?’

Suddenly there is a bit of a kerfuffle at the other side of the room, with lots of camera flashes and excited chitter chatter.

‘Oh look!  The actors must be here!  Quick, let’s go have a look!’

But I stay seated, because to be honest, that kind of thing never did get me off, and it certainly doesn’t now.

They’re just people like me, pretending to be someone else.

They just get paid for it, that’s all.

And perhaps, just perhaps, they’re as mad as I am.




So.  I was watching the penultimate episode of ‘The Big C’ tonight (don’t tell me what happens in the final one please!) in which Cathy goes into a nursing home, and appears to encounter a lot of dead people in various forms and it occurs to me that I seem to be living a very similar life to her of late, i.e. living in the same few rooms, eating, drinking, sleeping, excreting, watching TV and taking medication.

Only difference being, I don’t have cancer or any visitors.  Dead or otherwise.

I didn’t plan for it to be this way, but since I got back from the yoga retreat I’ve gradually eased myself back out of people’s lives.  It wasn’t hard; my relationships have always been low key and people do back off with relief when they know you are low.  I also think we mentals scare others because they don’t want to think as hard as we do about what is going on in our lives, as they’d rather not get into that mindset themselves and potentially realise that they’re not as happy as they think they are.

So the days pass, and like Cathy, I’m either drugged off my tits or waiting.

Waiting for something to happen.

It’s not like I haven’t tried or made moves to do stuff that I think might help me and/or others and get me back out into the world.  I’ve volunteered.  I’m trying to sort this place out.  I’ve applied for jobs that I think I can tolerate for the money.

But nothing seems to feel right or progress in any way.

And I pray for an open door, and extended hand, a sign of what I should do and which direction I should go, but nothing happens.

And I wonder to myself.

The things I think I believe in and think I’ve seen, and felt in my heart, are they all just my imagination?  Is it all just hooey?

Is there really any meaning to any of this?  Any rhyme or reason?

Or do we all just live, die and return to the earth as rotting meat, ashes to ashes, dust to dust?

And if this is the case, is there anything actually wrong with that?

I just want to know what I’m dealing with here.

That bonging therapist in Spain told me I don’t know myself.  She’s right, I don’t.  I thought I did, but I’m still a leaf in the wind wondering where I’ll drop.

Actually that’s not right. I’m a leaf on the end of a branch, waiting and seriously hoping that the Autumn wind will blow my ass off of it and onto pastures new.

Then I imagine that I’m getting messages from unexpected sources, Facebook, leaflets, messages, horoscopes.  Teasers, if you will.  Do this, try that, find it, find your path, find you.

Just my imagination?

Yesterday, I found myself on Osho’s website and drew one of the Zen tarot cards, and got ‘Suppression’.

It reads something like this:

‘In Sanskrit, the name is alaya vigyan, the house where you go on throwing into the basement things that you want to do but you cannot, because of social conditions, culture, civilisation.

But they go on collecting there, and they affect your actions, your life, very indirectly.

Directly, they cannot face you – you have forced them into darkness, but from the dark side the go on influencing your behaviour.  They are dangerous, it is dangerous to keep all those inhibitions inside you.  It is possible that these are the things that come to a climax when a person goes insane.

Insanity is nothing but all these suppressions coming to a point where you cannot control them anymore.  But madness is acceptable, while meditation is not – and meditation is the only way to make you absolutely sane.’

 Osho The Great Zen Master Ta Hui Chapter 11

I may be a desperado clutching at straws here, but this is spookily accurate.   I do seem more willing to embrace my insanity than even trying to meditate properly.  Something about it scares me.

But I’m going to try again.  Tonight. Before I go to sleep.

I know you’ve heard this a million times before from me, and I might still bail yet, but when you find yourself relating to a (fictional) terminally ill woman and envying her because Bethany, the death predicting cat is slinking around under her bed, it really is time to grow a pair and get stuck in or I really might as well top myself and donate my body to Gunther von Hagens, as at least then I’d be halfway useful.

Please God, if you exist help me stick with this, this time.

*Night night x

* P.S. I’m not going to say ‘namaste’ anymore until I truly feel, believe and live it.  Amen to that.

EAR WORM No. 6 DAVID BOWIE – Boys Keep Swinging


Just in case you didn’t read my last post (how very dare you?!), I went to see ‘David Bowie is:’ at the V&A and can’t get this song and video out of my head, so just had to share it.

There are various claimants to the title King of Cool and right now,after watching this video, in my opinion, Bowie is: IT.

Especially for my fellow scary oddballs and super freaks! x




I’m not very good at Artist’s Dates.

Well, it’s not that I’m bad at them; it’s just that I don’t always want to do them on my lonesome and from now on I’m giving myself permission to do them my way however that might be.  

Ordinary folk who work full time, have a partner/kids/dog and a very full life with barely a moment to themselves probably claw a little ‘Me Time’ away from the chaos with their inner artist every now and then.

Me?  Time on my own is the norm, so this time, I invited someone else along.

A second date with Mr Goatee was in the offing (the guy I met at Waterloo), and I was dying to see ‘David Bowie is:’ at the V&A, so I suggested he came along too, which was a great idea, especially as he got there first, did all the queuing (something I hate) and had tickets in hand by the time I arrived.


And it was everything I hoped for.

The exhibition, not the date 😉

Actually, joking aside, it was great to have him there as music is something Mr G and I have in common, and both being huge fans of the Thin White Duke, it made the whole experience so much more enjoyable.

And of course it goes without saying that as far as fulfilling Artist’s Date criteria, it was (or should be) any Creative’s wet dream and then some.

It takes someone pulling together something like this to realise what an extraordinary career this guy has had.  The exhibition takes you from his humble beginnings in Brixton, to his mooching moodily around Soho, on stage at ‘Top of the Pops’, Berlin, Manhattan, the world, and through a plethora of metamorphoses that, if you’re a fan, will make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.  

Because it takes courage to be different and as soon as his fans got used to one incarnation, he would snatch it away and come back as someone completely different, and shock/amaze/inspire the world all over again.


And he did all of this pre-punk when the world was still shockable.

There was so much to see from posters, to album covers, records, lyrics scrawled on exercise book paper, props, film clips, specially created sets and the costumes of course, are glorious.  All of this plus wireless activated dialogue via headphones, and an endless soundtrack of his back catalogue which just makes you want to go home and play all his stuff on shuffle again, again and again.

Suffice to say, his influence on music, fashion, art, popular culture and of course, all of us odd ball, unconventional, never-could-fit-in freaks was and is immeasurable.


Bowie, with his mismatching eyes and crooked teeth never tried to hide his weirdness; indeed he flexed and worked it like a steroid fuelled muscle man, and in doing so made himself the living icon that he is today.

And if he dared to be different, then why can’t we?  

Whilst Bowie studied and always feared mental illness (his half brother committed suicide in 1985), if it was ever part of his genetic inheritance, he trounced it and turned it around by allowing himself to let loose with his wild imagination, and be entirely, utterly and unapologetically himself.

So my fellow fruitcakes, from now on I’m going to try and be myself without fearing what anyone might think of me, and I’d love it if you did too.

After all, what’s the worst that can happen?

World domination? 😉

Go and see this if you can.

And gimme your hands; ‘cos we’re wonderful x

P.S. Another date is on the cards too!





I used to love Masterchef, I really did. But tonight I discovered that I can’t watch it anymore. Not without snorting with derision, and/or curling my lip at any rate.

This is mainly down to one of the two hosts/judges, the ludicrous Mr Gregg Wallace.

I used to quite like this sarf London greengrocer made good, and whilst he isn’t a trained chef per se, he owns a restaurant, clearly loves his food, and was quite jolly to watch.

Until the tabloid press got hold of him that is, and I was unfortunate enough to learn a little more about him.

Dubbed by the BBC as an ‘ingredients expert’ Mr Wise claims to himself as ‘that fat bald bloke of Masterchef who likes puddings’, which all sounds charmingly self deprecating, but if his attitude to women is anything to go by, that statement was really just a pile of manure.

Our ‘fat bald bloke’ has been married three times. Nothing wrong with that, you might say, and there isn’t. Not in isolation that is.

He got divorced from his first wife, then had his two kids with his second, who found out he was having an affair, one of many apparently. The marriage fell apart, she then had a nervous breakdown and ended up in hospital for three months, so the lovely Mr W went for custody of his kids and got it.

What a prince.

Then our intrepid hero went off to find himself a younger, thinner better looking model and found one young enough to be his daughter named Heidi on Twitter (his main stomping ground), so married her, she gave up her job, and he wheeled her in to help parent his offspring and be his arm candy.

So what, you might say? No one really knows what goes on in a marriage and anyway, he’s not the first famous foodie to ditch his wife for a honey (yes I’m talking about you, Heston Blumenthal), and you’d have a point, I suppose.

Back to the story. Pretty soon, the novelty and reality of being married to ‘the fat bloke off Masterchef’ started to wear thin for Heidi, she called time on their relationship and they split up.

Gregg was devastated.

“Heidi was perfect,” he said at the time in a newspaper article. “It’s not often you find a model who’s also a biology teacher. She had everything, beauty and intelligence. I still love her and if it were up to me we’d still be together. When we split up I went into therapy because I was very upset.

“In one session I gave the therapist my vision of a perfect life. I’m on an old, worn sofa. I’ve got corduroys on, an old checked shirt, rugby on the telly and in the background is a lady who I love and I’ve got trust in.”

Isn’t that last paragraph rather telling? Maybe not to some of you; I’ll continue.

Our wounded hero despite his heartbreak quickly made moves to replace Heidi, and continued to punch above his weight. Indeed after a mere couple of weeks of freedom approached the lovely Sophie Dahl at a function, opening with the classic line ‘You taken?’ Fortunately for her, she was.

Mr Wallace went on to date a number of young ladies, one of whom, Cara 27, was stunning, and again, young enough to be his daughter. But Cara it appears wasn’t good enough. Gregg (who was/is a chubber himself) allegedly told size 10 Cara that she was ‘looking big’ and needed to lose weight if she wanted to be with him as he wanted her to ‘turn heads like Heidi does’. She was also told her wardrobe was lacking and that he wanted her to ‘look expensive’ whatever that means.

Suffice to say they split up and Gregg went on to date lots of other lucky ladies who reported back with similar stories, so if any of you girls out there have a jones for this veritable stud muffin, you’d better get on a diet, practice your head turning skills and appoint a personal shopper if you want a chance landing him, as he has recently lost a couple of stone in weight via Weightwatchers and is ‘ready to date’ seriously again.

Be afraid Twitter girls, be very afraid….

You would however have to usurp a young blonde lady called Anne-Marie who is 26 years old, and sufficiently head turning for him to acknowledge her as someone he likes in the papers.


Mr Wallace professes not to be a playboy, and I agree. He’s not. He’s a ridiculous, vain, self centred, insensitive, insecure, misogynistic little boy in the body of a middle aged man and clearly sees women as a cross between a mother and an accessory rather than an equal partner, soul mate or best friend.

What also failed to endear him to me is his attitude towards mental Illness.

In a quote from his appearance on ‘Who Do You Think You Are’, regarding his discovery that his great-great-grandmother suffered from it, he stated “You just don’t expect tragedy round the corner. And it is a dreadful thing to say, but I am ashamed of mental illness. I felt it might reflect on me, somehow.”

In the same magazine article, referring to his teenage daughter, he commented “She’s very posh. But she looks like me in a frock, poor love.”

Unbelievable. That is his flesh and blood, his number one priory (or should be) and the only good thing he can say is that she’s posh? Oh and that she falls short in the looks department?

Whilst Mr Wallace still clearly has some pulling power, I think I can confidently predict that he is unlikely to find a lucky young lady who will hang around long enough to get to stand behind the sofa and stare fondly at the back of his head, on hand for anything he might need whilst he lounges, farting and yelling at the telly in his ‘corduroys, checked shirt and slippers’. Unless he acquires one that has a strong patience threshold, an ability to play the long game and a desire for UK citizenship, that is.

Indeed as I have discovered tonight, I cannot even bear watching him comment on a fucking fried courgette flower without wanting to jeer and throw things at the telly as I am unable to take him seriously in any capacity whatsoever.

Which is a shame; I used to like that programme.

Oh well, there’s always The Great British Bake Off.

Paul Hollywood, don’t you dare fail me now!

Looking on the bright side, it is heartening to realised that there are worse things than being single and being Gregg Wallaces’s other ‘arf would undoubtedly be one of them.

One thing’s for sure, Dickheads don’t get bigger than this.


Leave a comment



Forgive me but I just have to share this with someone.

As well as blogging I also Tweet as I was told it was a good thing to do to connect with like minded people.  I haven’t got very many ‘followers’ as I’m anonymous and am not entirely sure what I’m doing, but I toil away regardless.

Anyway a woman decided to follow me the other way, so, as a courtesy, I followed her back.

She then tweeted me something along the lines of the following:

‘Thanks for following me.  Bet I’m more bonkers than you!’

Okey dokey.  Seemed a bit inappropriate, plus I didn’t know it was a competition?  That said, I do say rather wryly on my status that I’m bonkers, and I suppose everyone deals with these things in different ways.

I look at her profile. She’s in her 60’s, socialist, atheist and a self professed ‘loudmouth’.

Innocuous enough I suppose, so I reply something along the lines of:

‘Perhaps SAL, Perhaps!  Have a look at my blog if you like x’

And think no more about it.

Today I have a look at my Twitter account and I notice that I have dropped a follower.  Because I have very few, I decide to have a look and see who’s bailed.  It’s SAL.

I puzzled. She approached me?  I mention it to a friend later in the day who is experienced in all matters Twitter.

She laughs and tells me that sometimes people deliberately follow new people whether they are interested in them or not, and wait for the British politeness to kick in when they are in turn followed back. They then leave it a few days then drop the newby, the net result being that they have upped their body count, and presumably boosted their ego/profile/perceived popularity.

Whilst I don’t bristle at this news (OK maybe i bristle a bit), I decide to sift through my followers with the intention of un-following SAL, if for no other reason than to teach her that crime, sorry, duplicitous behaviour does not pay  :-).

It’s then that i realise that she has not only stopped following me but she has actually blocked me.

I’m speechless.  I barely exchanged more than a sentence with her.

Then I realise that she must have taken one look at my blog and twigged that i am actually a bit damaged (and not in the Colin Hunt ‘I’m craaazzzy me!’ kind of way), therefore not a wacky kindred spirit. So she decided to leg it.

Not only that, but she found me so threatening that she had to block me, just in case I erm, came after her and did something to her by way of revenge?  Quite why or what she feared I have no idea.

There is no other rational explanation. Believe me I’ve thought it through with the aid of a mate and a couple of good bottles of wine over dinner, and we’ve both arrived at the conclusion that we don’t blame her. Quite how I’ve been allowed to be left at large within community, roaming the streets, knuckles dragging along the floor for as long as i have is quite disgraceful really, and a marksman from the funny farm should swing by with a tranquiliser gun ASAP before someone gets hurt.

Whilst I look nothing like my photo, if I had money I would be highly tempted to hire a detective to track her down, then dress up as Sista Sertraline (i.e. a nun) and stagger after her down the street with a bloodied coat hanger in my nutty little fist, shouting Papa Lazarou style ‘You’re my friend now SAL!’

Joking aside, whilst it’s easy and quite therapeutic to poke fun at people like this, it is pretty alarming that in this day and age that those suffering from mental illness are perceived as being so alien and threatening that one should not even be seen to associate with them via a social media site.  And whilst she can do me no harm on Twitter (especially is she is in hiding, under armed guard presumably), I certainly wouldn’t want her on an interview panel if I was applying for a job.

If you deign to click on my hyperlink again and happen to read this SAL, I would never have contacted or harmed you, unless we count your reputation. You could have happily sat there amongst the others totally unmolested as you weren’t actually interesting enough for me to interact with.  Had you passed me on the street, you would probably perceived a tall, well dressed, stylish woman in her 40’s, and whilst no doubt your inverted snobbery would have furnished you with an alternative reason to dislike me, you would never have been able to detect my illness in a month of Sundays.

Finally, I’ll take this opportunity to complete my (then) Twitter status:

Some people think I’m bonkers….

…but I just think I’m free.