Phoenix Fights

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



I wake up this morning tired and hung over after one of those boozy lunches that turns to dinner, that turns to last tube home, so I make myself some tea and prepare to slink back to bed.

Ping! Up pops a reminder on my phone that I have to go into town to pick up something for tonight.

Already, I’m unhappy but I jump in the bath, take my meds, pull on a towelling robe and go to my underwear draw only to discover I have no clean knickers.

Well, to be more precise, I have no clean comfy cotton panties. Cursing, I look in another drawer to see if a stray pair had hooked up with a particularly static sock.


Then I remember my wearing sexy undies resolution. I guess now would be the perfect time to give it a go? When I say perfect, I suppose I mean unavoidable, and whilst I don’t think I’ve ever felt less sexy (or indeed receptive to knicker inspired admirers), I can’t go out in this weather without drawers, so……

I fish out a matching lacy white knicker and bra set and regard them with suspicion. M&S’s finest. The bra is still my size and the bottoms are of the ‘shorts’ variety, and given the choice, I would prefer a more substantial coverage than, say a g string.  I try them on and study myself in the mirror.

They are pretty, but…..

I check the TFL bus app on my phone that informs me that the one that stops outside my house is on its way. Shit. I quickly pull on a pair of jeans and a jumper, yank on some boots, sprint down the hall, grabbing a jacket and my bag from the coast stand and hurtle towards the bus that has just pulled up.

The moment I step from the pavement onto the bus platform, it happens. My treacherous knicker gusset, as if on cue, immediately morphs into a thin elastic band like innovation and disappears up my foof.

I freeze as if I’ve just been goosed (which would be like a birthday present in comparison to this), but the bus has already started to pull away, so its too late to turn back, people behind me are tutting and sucking their teeth so, resigned to my fate, I head upstairs for a seat.

Slice, slice, slice goes the gusset turned cheese wire, practically performing an ad hoc circumcision on me, whilst simultaneously encouraging the seat of the garment to thoroughly explore between my bum cheeks. My vaguely disconsolate mood turns rapidly into something resembling homicidal rage.

Who. The. Fuck. Invented. These. Things? Clearly not anyone who understands human anatomy. To allow 2 centimetres of cloth in width for the average ADULT fanny is far from generous and hardly realistic. I bet it was a bloke.

I manage to get to a seat without punching anyone, wriggle until I’m as comfortable as I can be (i.e. numb) and try to ignore my inner dialogue:

‘What were you thinking? Haven’t you learned anything from the last time? You now have to wander around a busy shopping centre looking for a dress for tonight whilst suffering death by a thousand cuts down there, you silly…….’

‘Excuse ME!’

I raise my eyes slowly over my sunglasses and stare balefully at this enormous woman who is holding about three bags, an umbrella and wearing a really strange hat. Classic Public Transport ‘Space Invader’. And she’s looking at me like I’m hogging the seat!

Partially to save my clitoris, and partly for effect, I slowly and deliberately move an inch closer to the window, allocating her pretty much three quarters of the space. Sighing dramatically, she drops herself practically into my lap causing me to have to wriggle out from under her, encouraging the cheesewire like damp strip of cloth even deeper into my anatomy.

How I managed to restrain myself from elbowing her hard in the ribs, I really don’t know. How could this be worse?

That question is immediately answered by some huge ‘gansta’ complete with ginger dreads sitting directly behind me, shoving his knees into my back, and shouting into his mobile for the entire duration about how the lucky callee was his ‘blud’, and ‘familee to me man’ and how much he’s looking forward to meeting up with his betrothed (well, he actually said ‘biatch’) that evening and applying his huge length to her ‘gash’ until she screams for mercy. Lucky girl. She should swap with me, I ruminate bitterly to myself, what I’m suffering is probably his idea of foreplay.

The rest of the conversation was around who he was going to hurt/kill/maim, and was voiced in a faux threatening manner a mere 4 inches from my ear, no doubt to intimidate me.  Twat.  To be honest, the only reason I was glad he didn’t have a gun was that I would have snatched it out of his freckled mitt and taken out the entire upper deck.

Still simmering with fury, I draft in my head a letter to the head honcho of frillies at Marksies about how he is illegally selling instruments of torture in the guise of undergarments, and if he doesn’t refund me/compensate me/pay for my reconstructive surgery, I will seek him out, stuff this wretched garment down this throat, scoop out his testes with a melon baller and feed them to my cats. And this is AFTER I make him walk down a catwalk wearing a pair size 6’s until his scrotum bleeds. What’s good for the goose and all that……

The minute I disembark from the bus I head off to Boots, jaw clenched in agony and buy a pair of nail scissors.

I then bolt into the café next door and head for the loos.


Are you fucking kidding me?

I turn to regard some gum chewing, scrawny teenager festooned with  Amy style tats, bristling with metal piercings and attitude.

‘Are you planning on buyin’ sometink?’

She obviously had a bee up her arse about something and decided to take it out on me; maybe she’d ran out of syringes or meth amphetamine.

I walk slowly and stealthily to the counter, my gaze never leaving hers for one second, watching with some satisfaction as her eyes widen to saucers. When I get there I lean against it, my face inches from hers and hiss one word/syllable.


She says nothing.

I return with some difficultly to the loos, take a cubicle, yank down my jeans, cut the sides of offending article and carefully fish it out of my private parts.

Oh my God. The relief.

On my way out, Miss Attitude seems to have been reunited with her mojo (probably facilitated by the presence of her long streak of piss goth colleague) and starts giving it some again.

‘Oh thank you! Bye! Bye!’

I smile sweetly, give them both a one finger salute and exit onto the high street.

It’s absolutely freezing. The wind is whipping around the shoppers, rubbish is airborne, scarves are flapping, umbrellas are blown inside out, and my fangita is getting more than an airing than it probably good for it, but you know what? I don’t care if it fucking sneezes, at least the torture is over.

On the bus back, I sit on the back seat near the window. The heating is on. I thank God fervently for that little bit of grace.

I sigh and pull out my paperback.

‘Excuse me?’

Again?  Really?!

I look up. A seriously cute young guy is smiling at me mischievously.

‘I think you’ve dropped something.’

I see something white on the floor. I go cold. Please God let it not be my shredded panties.

But it’s only a tissue. I pick it up.


He smiles and sits down next to me without impinging on my space. The pet.

So much for sexy underwear. It seems to me that palpable relief and gratitude is much more attractive to the average man on the street.

And maybe the fact that I’m wearing no knickers. And loving it. Albeit, for a very limited period indeed.

I look into my carrier bag and smile fondly at the contents.  A six pack of brand spanking new, ready to wear Granny knickers!

Well they didn’t do Bridget Jones any harm, did they?