Phoenix Fights

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


Daily prompt: Just Another Day – TROUBLE MAN (BPD BLUES)


“Our days our organized around numerous small actions we repeat over and over. What’s your favorite daily ritual?”

Like many people that are unstable/out of work/downright idle, I don’t really have a routine, but from my darkest days when I only drag my butt out of bed to pee, to my extremely rare 24 hour highs, and everything in between, three things must happen:

  • I need to take care of my cats
  • I NEED tea.
  • I need to take my medication.

So rather than write some longwinded dirge about why this is the case and bore everyone on here who’s heard it all before, I decided to bastardise one of my favourite songs by the late, great Marvin Gaye.

Apologies in advance to his family and estate.

Sorry Marvin.  I love you…


I come up hard baby, but things weren’t cool
But I survived sugar, playin’ by the rules
I come up hard baby, said I was fine
But I was troubled sugar, movin’ down the line
I come up hard but that’s okay
‘Cause trouble men, I sure made them pay
I come up hard, baby

I’ve been real ill, baby, but I keep movin’, even when I’m down
I fall apart, but I’m still around
There’s only three things that’s for sure
Catshit, meds and cuppas
This I know baby, this I know sugar
But ain’t gon let it sweat me babe

Got me singin’, yeah, yeah, ooh
Come up hard, baby, I had to fight
Tried to fit in with all my might
I come up hard, fall apart, drank too much gin
Then start all over next day again
I come up hard but that’s the way
‘Cause trouble man it is here to stay, hey, hey

I seen dark places and I’ve been some faces
Made no real connections, had no direction
What people say, it ain’t okay, it bothered me, so
Now I say “Just fuck ’em”, I’ll make my own luck man
Don’t care ’bout no haters, I say “I’ll see ya laters”
It’s time I just try to be my own ‘Me’ now

I come up hard, baby, time to be real, baby
Heal my troubled mind, keeping up the fight
I fall apart, and I get down
There’s only three things for sure
Catshit, meds and cuppas oh
This I know, baby, this I’ve known, baby
Hey gotta pick this shit up baby, ooh

All right, baby, ooh
Some days it’s hard, some days it’s cool
I can’t make it, baby, playin’ by the rules
I’ve come up hard, baby, now it’s tea time
I add milk and sugar, hey, and take my Sertraline, oh, oh, ooohhh…




Daily Prompt: Mix Tape Masterpiece – NINETY NINE YEARS IS A LONG, LONG TIME….


First of all, thank you Daily Prompt for giving me the impetus to write something as I haven’t been out for about four days and nights, and was seriously thinking about how I could cease to be with the least amount of pain and inconvenience to everyone else until now.

FYI there isn’t a way; I’ve checked.

The sun is shining in Londinium today, and whilst that doesn’t mean shit to me, I’m going to make myself go out.  Partly because I don’t want to let down Aunty C (my wonderful counsellor who interrupted her holiday to call and drag me out of the mire) and partly because I’ve run out of milk, and if I have to stay on this shithouse of a planet, life without a brew would be totally and utterly intolerable.

In a similar way to ‘Steve Says’ (No. 10 on the list below) I’ve utilised one of those music challenge things usually found on My Space and Facebook to list my choices.

This is a version of ‘My Life According to (BAND NAME) where you have to select one of said bands songs from their back catalogue to answer the below questions.  In this instance, I’ve needed to have free rein in order to let you know how I really feel today.

You may find think this sounds like a seriously fucking miserable post, but it won’t entirely piss all over your Sunday Yorkshires as not all of these tracks are ‘Pity Party’ fodder, plus I can guarantee that all of them are TOP NOTCH.

Enjoy.  I’m going to venture outside to get some cow juice. Wish me luck….



Are you a male or female:
I’m a Long Time Woman – Pam Grier

Describe yourself:
Ball of Confusion – Temptations

How do you feel?
Dead from the Waist Down – Catatonia

Describe where you currently live:
Home is Where the Hatred is – Gil Scott-Heron

If you could go anywhere, where would you go?
Another Star – Stevie Wonder

Your favourite form of transportation?
Running Up That Hill – Kate Bush

Your best friend is?
Queen Bitch – Bowie

Your favourite colour is?
Almost Blue – Chet Baker

What’s the weather like?
Smokestack Lightning – Howlin‘ Wolf

Favourite time of day?
In The Wee Small Hours of the Morning – Frank Sinatra

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called?
Highways of my Life – The Isley Brothers

What is life to you?
I Dreamed A Dream – Anne Hathaway

Your relationship?
Alone Again Or – Calexico

Your fear?
Helpless – Kim Weston

What is the best advice you have to give?
Shower the People – James Taylor

If you could change your name, you would change it to:
Talullah – Jamiroquai

Thought for the day?
Hold On – Alabama Shakes

Your soul’s present condition?
Hurt – Johnny Cash

Your motto?
Whatever Gets You Through the Night – John Lennon


That’s all folks….

P.S. My lovely and much appreciated existing followers, there’s no need to sympathise or comment as there’s just nothing you can say or advise, it just IS THE WAY THAT IT IS.  Praying optional though x

Trackbacks & Pingbacks

  1. Nine tracks of “Das Boot” album by U96 | Philosophic Notes of Alexey Markovich
  2. The Bell | Village & Countryside Tourism
  3. If you love to walk | Village & Countryside Tourism
  4. Daily Prompt: Mix Tape Masterpiece 6.10 | Family, Photos, Food & Craft
  5. Daily Prompt: Silence Is Full Of Music… | Ese’ s Voice
  6. Music You Can Grow Into. | The Ambitious Drifter
  7. Daily Prompt: MIxed Tape Masterpiece – Music | Charles Ray’s Ramblings
  8. 23 About Me | Daily Prompt: Mix Tape Masterpiece | likereadingontrains
  9. Mix Tape Masterpiece | geekergosum
  10. Daily Prompt: Mix Tape Masterpiece | Steve Says….
  11. Daily Prompt: Mix Tape Masterpiece – ANIMUSIC RESONANT CHAMBER | SERENDIPITY
  12. Mix Tape: Daily Prompt | BLUE BEAD PUBLICATIONS
  13. La la la. | Crossroads
  14. My life explained with Beatles’ songs | Neva Samaki
  15. Mix Tape Masterpiece « RPMAS
  16. Daily Prompt: Mix Tape Masterpiece | Life as a country bumpkin…not a city girl
  17. Who Are You Girl? | Prayers and Promises
  18. My 8 Track | My Days In A Song
  19. Boat Punk Mash-Up | The Life NomadikThe Life Nomadik
  20. “Mix Tape Masterpiece” | Relax
  21. If My Life Was A Mixtape | ASHINGTON POST
  22. 191. Top 20 Playlist…don’t mock me | Barely Right of Center




I ran out of milk yesterday.

Which means no tea or at least no tea as I like it.

I felt a frisson of anxiety, then scolded myself crossly.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!  You’re turning into one of those old dears that takes PG Tips on holiday to the Canary Isles! Do without tea until your shopping arrives on Friday.’

‘Well, I could just pop out down the road and pick up some milk from the corner shop?’

‘Drink water!  Eight glasses a day, remember?  What are you some kind of addict?’

Well, yes?

Anyway I decided to give abstinence a go.


There is so much more to tea than meets the eye.  It is comfort, reassurance, pure love in a mug.  It’s the ideal accompaniment for chocolate and cake. Everything is better when you have a hot cuppa clasped in your hands.  It’s the only thing you want when you get up, the first thing you are given when facing a crisis, and the none alcohol solution after dealing with life’s day to day challenges.

Water for all of it’s benefits, doesn’t quite cut the mustard in comparison.

I ended up rooting around for an alternative and found an old jar of instant coffee I’d bought for the plasterer last summer, and a small tin of evaporated milk (I put it in rice pudding sometimes).

I put the kettle on, made myself a hopefully comforting hot beverage and sipped it cautiously.  It was nice!  Now I know why ‘holiday’ coffee tastes different, they use this retro nectar instead of normal milk. Good knowledge!

After I finished it, I didn’t exactly feel wired, but I didn’t feel ‘good’. But hey, it was only until Friday, so I had a couple more throughout the day.

By the end of the day, the novelty had started to wear off, and  I felt distinctly out of kilter when I went to bed.


Woke up this morning, got myself a gun?

Not but I looked like I might?  My eyes were bloodshot, I had a cracking headache and my mouth tasted like dog shit, so this combined with a downer could easily turn anyone into an amateur Tony Soprano.

Coffee is evil!  No wonder people get headaches coming off it.

Grumpy, I stumbled out of bed, put the kettle on, swore, sighed, turned it off again, then headed to the bathroom and turned on the bath taps.

Then I turned them off.

I need tea.  I need milk.  Bollocks to waiting till tomorrow, I’m going to jog to the supermarket and get some.

I quickly splash my face, brush my hair and pull on some trackies.  None of the usual faffing around putting on ‘natural’ make up or trying to make myself presentable in any way, shape or form.  If people run away screaming or faint at till point at my hideous ugliness, then at least I’ll get served quicker.

Before you can say ‘procrastination’ and to the astonishment of my cats, I’m up and out the door, and back within the hour, sweaty and triumphant with two bottles of semi skimmed, some fruit and a sweat on.  Result!

Later after my hot bath and hair wash, as I nursed my well earned mug of deliciousness, I realise that this is the first morning I’ve kept to my resolution of walking/jogging every day without quibbling, procrastinating or finding excuses not to go.

In other words:

The fear of losing my figure didn’t get me out of the door and exercising.

The need to be fit enough to be a yoga teacher didn’t budge me.

Even my terror of having a stroke wasn’t enough to get me moving

Only another 24 hours of brew deprivation was scary enough to stir me from the couch.

No wonder I struggled on that hike.  It wasn’t them who were too fast, it was me who was totally unfit and unable to participate.  I forget that I’m not the same Sista who rushed to the bus stop every day, who marched to Oxford Street at lunchtime on errand, and sprinted off to the gym three nights a week, and am now largely sedentary.  Doh.

And this Road to Damascus moment was all down to the golden wonder.

Tea.  ‘Tis truly a wondrous thing.

Later this afternoon I went out and bought myself a pedometer and have committed to doing at least 10,000 steps a day, otherwise I will be shambling my way through the hokey cokey with a load of pensioners before I know it.  This and the ballroom lessons will hopefully bring me back to peak fitness, and to loving and accepting my body.

And if I waver?  No tea.  So I won’t.

Whilst it is said everything stops for tea, nothing gets done without it as far as I’m concerned, and one thing’s for sure, I can’t and won’t do without it again.

Every journey begins with one single step.  Only 9,999 to go…..




Some days all I can do is sit staring into space as minutes, hours, huge tracts of time go by.

Doors bang as others leave the building in the morning, and slam when they arrive home at night.  In between those times, the letter box clacks, mail and spam hits the mat, buses trundle by; workmen, delivery men come and go, Jehova’s Witnesses (or some other unwanted intruder) press the buzzer in vain, gangs of school kids yell, squabble and banter en route home for their tea.  The sun rises, brightens, moves slowly from the small bedroom window past the sitting room, to the other side of the block, then dims and sets.  The sky darkens, the moon comes up and I barely notice.

This time is interspersed with the bare minimum of activities; getting up for tea or water, using the loo, feeding the cats, cleaning the litter tray, going to bed.

At these times I still manage to care for my cats when I can’t for myself, but I thank God that I took them in, and that I love them enough to honour the small but important responsibility of being a kitty momma, as goodness knows what would happen if they weren’t here.

Days go by.

I know I’m coming out of the worst of it when I want to run a bath.

I know it’s not a false alarm if afterwards I want something to eat.

I never want much.

Sometimes I have something wholesome like a slice of wholegrain home made bread toasted, and spread with butter and Marmite.

Sometimes I want an orange, mango or some other fruit, craving something fresh and juicy for my dry, foul tasting palate, savouring the moment it soaks up the liquid goodness like a brittle, wispy, under watered plant.

Other times I just open the cupboard or fridge and grab anything that stops the hunger pangs until an authentic desire for food returns.

But sometimes only a Crunchie and a cup of tea will do.  I usually have a stash tucked away for such occasions.

Lest you confuse this with a binge, let me clarify that this is not so.  One Crunchie does not a bulimic splurge make.  And it’s usually the only thing I have or will eat all day.

Let me set the scene.

I’ve had a bath.  I’ve cleaned my teeth.  I’ve combed out my wet hair, put on clean pyjamas or a robe, moisturised my face, made some tea and am curled up on the couch, fresh and clean as a small child, waiting for a story before going to bed.

A new drama or movie will be about to start on TV.  Whilst watching telly can be unhealthy, addictive escapism, I actually want to watch this programme as opposed to blindly gazing at anything that happens to be on the box for hour after hour, and I will most likely turn it off and go to bed when it’s finished.

I carefully open the Crunchie which is cold from being in the fridge, and slowly, tenderly snap off a small chunk, push it to the back of my mouth with my tongue and bite down.   The firm coating yields, the honeycomb shatters and my mouth fills with the slightly burnt taste of sugar and smooth, silky milk chocolate.

I then take a sip of boiling hot, milky tea, and the remaining shards dissolve along with the chocolate and flood my mouth with sweet, sweet comfort and a powerful sugar rush.

I slowly, carefully continue in this way, savouring each mouthful until the Crunchie and nearly all of the tea has gone, whilst losing myself in someone else’s story playing out on the TV screen.  I then fold the wrapper until it is as small as can be and pop it in the bin.

When your cry for help has been unanswered, when you don’t love yourself enough to eat proper food, and you’re still waiting for The Man (as opposed to ‘a man’) to appear, all you can do is give yourself 10 minutes of oral, sugary comfort and thank Tuesday it’s Crunchie.




OK so before anyone says it, I know I’m not supposed to read or share any of this yet, but what the hell, shoot me…..

Note to the uninitiated, this isn’t meant to make sense, OK? So why am I writing it?  It’s all I’ve got right now…..

Snowing, another morning, still at home. Watching people scurry by in their winter woolies, faces screwed up against the wind.  Where did all that time go?

Only seem capable of cleaning, feeding and keeping myself warm, how can I move myself forward?

In a warm coat and bibbity bobbity hat, oh God I can do better than that…..

Bailed on ballroom again last night, hey ho…Who am I?  More to the point who do I say I am?  

Hi, I’m Sista and I’m not sure what/who I am yet, can I come back to you?  What, really?  You don’t want to dance with me?!

Hi, I’m S, yes I took a bit of a sabbatical from work for the last year…..what?  Did I travel, volunteer, work in a kibbutz, run a marathon, get an allotment, set up my own business, write a book?  No of course not, I’m a total fucking loser, hey…hey…..where are you going….hello?

God knows I’m good, God knows I’m good, God may look the other way today….

So quiet here today, blazing fire, warm dozing cats, hot tea, all I need is a loud, ticking clock and for Mr Tumnus to pop by and play me a tune and I might fall asleep forever…

…never have to worry about going out again, such a lovely idea….George Michael you can stick going outside up your ….., staying in is the fetish du jour……

Except my fucking itchy hand would keep me awake of course, it’s big and raw and driving me crazy, my quarter stigmata for an undeserving martyr, who likes a tomata, and reads of Siddhartha…

Dr B will kill me for clawing at it and making it worse, I’ll come home with a big plastic cone around my neck, disobedient little bitch that I am.

Today only day left to do Artists date, wonder if she’ll take a rain (or would that be snow) check?


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So 2013 is flying by, and that frickin’ date in February that so many of us ladies dread is looming like a threat. Oh joy.

Nowadays it even pops up on my calendar as a reminder!  Everyone is talking about their plans for it, but I’m lying as low as I can so that no one asks me what I’m doing….

I’m trying to enjoy the days leading up to it, but one thing’s for sure, next week, there’ll be no escape.

Yes folks, next week heralds the start of Lent, every (lapsed, in my case) Catholic girls worse nightmare, as we have to decide what we give up for 40 days and nights until Easter Sunday, when, invariably we lapse back into a good 48 hours of indulging in that which we sacrificed.  I say girls as I don’t know one male who does this, more’s the pity, as, whilst I’m sure a lot of you out there are thinking ‘What is the point?’, it is a good opportunity for us to examine our lives, habits, diet etc. and figure out what we might miss the most and why, and maybe, just maybe, it might be good for us to do without it for a while and see what happens.  Whilst we do this for holy purposes 😉 , it’s also ace for losing weight before the summer holidays hit.

Over the years, I have done without cakes, desserts, chocolate, white carbohydrates, artificial sweetener (harder than you might think), and dating.  The latter was the most interesting as the minute I gave it up, more attractive, eligible men started to approach me, (cue that old bus analogy, yawn), and of course subsequently disappeared into the ether 40 days later, and I’ve not really got back on track with dating since and have been more or less content without it.

So, as you can see, keeping up this little religious tradition can be quite educational and useful, that said, completely eliminating men from your life may be a mite excessive, I must admit 🙂 .

This year’s sacrifice is going to be a tough one.  I am going to, officially, for 40 days and nights, from abstaining from any form of alcohol.

Just for clarification I am not an alcoholic; I am pretty much a lightweight when it comes to drinking, so it affects me markedly after just one glass which can lead to awkward situations, bad decisions and inadvisable Facebook posts and tweets 😦 so there are benefits to trying this out for size.

The main reason I haven’t given it up before now is that, well….there are various reasons:

  • I absolutely hate going out for dinner and not being able to have wine.  The right wine matched with every course totally enhances the overall experience, and being forced to drink some kind of posh, sugary crap masquerading as an adult beverage spoils it, isn’t worth the calories and quite frankly, leaves me feeling that I should be sitting on a ‘kids’ fold up table instead of with the grown ups.
  • Giving up certain things for Lent can backfire on you; for instance, one year when I gave up all sweets, chocolate and desserts, I actually put weight on as I made up for their absence by eating too many white carbs such as pasta, bread and rice.  What’s the point of that?  Yes, I know I’m meant to sacrifice things in order to suffer for Jesus, but I’m sure he doesn’t want me to turn into the Michelin woman as a result of my devotion and support.  Anyway, anything that encourages gluttony is a sin.  So there.
  • So, as I’ve said, I’m not a caner, but I have to say, there’s nothing fun about being the only sober person in the room whilst everyone else behaves like twats.  Nothing.
  • Having a cold glass of something at the end of the day whilst by the fire watching a good drama, or whilst sat in the garden watching the sun go down is one of life’s greatest pleasures, is relatively low calorie and satisfies something in me that a glass of water doesn’t.  Similarly a mulled wine after a cold walk in the park, a dessert wine if you don’t have pudding, a G&T after a tough day at the office, or a dram of good port with cheese and biscuits.
  • Having a glass of wine when attending a wedding, a formal/work dinner or when meeting new people makes you relax and appear more confident, which for obvious reasons is something I tend to need.

Bloody hell, I didn’t really know of the depth of my love, or need for the odd snifter, maybe I do have a problem after all……notice how I went from ‘I’ to ‘you’?!

That said, the main reason why I am doing this is because of the affect it has on me since taking my current level of medication.  It doesn’t make me feel bad at the time, quite the contrary it makes me feel quite nice, but I have the most bizarre dreams and feel quite stoned of a morning, so I suspect that I’m not doing my body, especially my poor little unloved liver, any favours.

I also think that my alcohol/drug cocktail has kept me somewhat sedated for far too long and if I don’t stop imbibing at least one of these elements, I’m going to end up a reclusive homeless person with a bad habit that I can no longer afford, so action needs to be taken.

The plan is also to take more exercise and improve my diet.  That said I’m not putting too much pressure on myself, but have already taken steps in this direction.  I’m eating less flesh and more plants, less sugar, drinking more water and my yoga is also coming back together nicely so I hope to greet Easter Sunday morn bright eyed, bushy tailed with a nice big Easter egg in one hand, and a Bucks Fizz in the other!

Only joking about the latter.  Honest.

I have three quarters of a bottle of very good Viognier in the fridge which I will slowly, lovingly, reverentially finish off in the form of one glass a night for the next four evenings, then, when Ash Wednesday arrives I will be ready for the off.  Yes I do have other alcohol on the premises, but I will not drink it, I promise.

So there you have it; ‘How to Channel Your Catholic Guilt’ by Sista Sertraline, coming to a store near you soon.  I’ll practically have a halo come Easter if all goes according to plan.

That said all this goodness is going to get very, very boring though, so what can I do/have to take the place of wine, booze, chocolate, cake, i.e. all of these lovely, sensual stimulants?

Hmm, I know what you’re thinking…. perhaps it is time to tackle that, but it certainly won’t be until Valentines Day is done, looking for love/sex in the first two weeks of February smacks of desperation a wee bit too much for my liking and whilst I have my crutches (missus), men have never been one of them.  If anything, resisting them was my fetish.

What’s that I hear? Beautiful singing, a siren song….

Hark!   A harp playing in the background…coming from the kitchen…..a crying, a yearning, a keening……a tinkle of glass against plastic….

I’m coming my darling!  Just let me get a glass…let me pour….

Oh the fragrance, the chill, that cold wet condensation around the bowl….

I cup it gently, momentarily in my palm, then take the delicate stem, so firm and proud in my fingers…..

My precious, let’s cherish our final moments together before love tears us apart.…

it is here I close this entry, as some things are too private to share, even with you.

By the way I’m lying about the milk.  Given all that I’m about to sacrifice, I’m sure that Baby Jesus wouldn’t begrudge me my lovely cuppa everyday, would he?

Now that would be a deal breaker…

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It’s going to be one of those days.  It’s 10 o’clock and I can’t get out of bed,in spite of the insistent pawing of my cats and an uncomfortably full bladder.

The flat is stifling as the heating is on too high, everything aches and the silence is deafening.  I can almost hear the blood running through my veins, some evidence at least that I really exist at all.

If I swivel my eyes to the right, I can see some of the outside world, the sky and trees and a passing plane.  Outside the world continues to turn without me thank you very much.  People are working, travelling, working, laughing, shopping, shouting, fucking, crying and I am not needed.  No one calls to ask where I am, no one asks me to join in, to help, to participate.  I could lie in this bed till I die and it is unlikely that anyone would intercept.  I’m not complaining.  Just observing.

It’s no one else’s fault.  It’s mine.

Will I make it out of the door this year?  We’re four days in and I’ve yet to succeed so far.  The beauty of this modern world is that you can pay people to bring you stuff, you have freezers to store food, TV to pass the time, and t’internet and social media so that you can kid yourself that you are popular.

I have nearly 200 hundred friends on Facebook of these:

  • 10 are family
  • 5 I actively dislike
  • 30 are ex work colleagues who think I’m bonkers
  • 15 I can’t even remember how I know them
  • Only 8 am I likely to see this month

How many of them have given me a wide berth since my own personal apocalypse in 2012?  I don’t know because I am (a) too paranoid to be rational and (b) far too scared to count.   Being loony is by all accounts a bit of a social no no.  Which is a shame.  Because the plus side of being loony, i.e. the so-called manic side, means we’re a fucking good laugh when we want to be.

Are they all bad, horrible, neglectful, self-serving bastards?  No. Not all of them anyway.  They have a life.  I don’t.  Simples.  I’m the one who freezes when getting to the front of the queue for the Ride of Life.  I’m the one who loses my bottle, steps aside and refuses to get on. Why should they try and persuade me otherwise?

Dexter, the slyer of my two little mogs has located the exact location of my bladder and has decided to all but Riverdance on it.  I wince.  He purrs.

I’m thirsty.  My mouth feels disgusting as I didn’t bother to clean my teeth last night, and I left my nightly glass of water in the kitchen.  Great.

Stomp, stomp. Lucky the pending menopause hasn’t caused my pelvic floor to give way yet, otherwise I’d have wet the bed by now.  The smug, self-satisfied purrs are getting louder.

The faint buzz of someone accessing the building causes me to start, and Dexter to freeze mid stomp.

And then I remember.  I may have a parcel arriving any day now.

I grunt (v feminine) as I upright myself wearily, whilst Dex springs gracefully onto the rug, giving me that perky ‘Hey!  The kitchen’s this way!’ look as he bounds out of the room, peeking over his shoulder helpfully.

It’s 2013 and one of my resolutions is not to inflict this on the poor postman, whose salary does not compensate for having to interact directly with a stinky, greasy hair peri menopausal emotional wreck, still in her old mans jim jams and covered in cat hair, with fetid breath and peepers full of eye snot. The poor man did enough of that last year, to the extent that he once did a double take and gave me a Carry-On-Esque ‘Cor!” when on one very rare occasion, he saw me in full make up and dressed.  In real clothes.  Not my pastel blue onesie, which makes me look like George Doors with hair, sans drumsticks.

I make it to the loo (my pee smells of Sugar Puffs – nice) turn on the bath taps, then stagger to the kitchen and chuck some Iams at my boyz.  It then occurs to me that eight good friends is quite a lot actually, especially after what they have witnessed, and that I am in fact, loved, in some way, shape or form.  Am I turning a tiny wee corner?  Or, more likely, is my medication finally kicking in?

My bath is full, warm, bubbly and fragrant, my cats are fed, my bladder is empty (and no longer being molested), a late Christmas present is winging its way to me and a hot mug of sweet tea is moments away.  Little things I know, but little things can all add up into one biggish, lumpy thing and for that growing mutant clump of nice stuff, I am grateful.

Now you must excuse me because I STINK, my bath awaits and I may have a male caller today (sixtyish, bandy, Nat Health gegs and fag stained teeth) so must pretty myself up, well, get clean at any rate.  I may even get my first ‘Çor!’ of 2013 if I can be bothered to put on some slap.