Curb your enthusiasm.

The problem with not holding emotional court to a found guilty jury is that I have very little restraint went it comes to matters of the sexual kind.

I find it interesting to contemplate why people have such a hangup about sex and subjects surrounding of the body, being told what you should of shouldn’t do makes me wants to push against the constraints and see how far I can take it.

Now I’m not excusing rape, or any weird shit (we all know what I mean), but why can’t you have multiple partners and enjoy yourself, as long as you’re careful and no one gets hurt in the process.

No one gets hurt in the process.

Now that’s a difficult one.

I used to fantasise about the last person I slept with, even if I knew it wasn’t going to work out or there was no conceivable way that I would ever meet that person again and if I did I wouldn’t care, but day dream non the less, different scenarios, chance encounters, you name it.

But as you get older, wiser, but definitely older this subsides, you learn to leave the dalliance at the door, or bed in most cases, you don’t offer a phone number or take theirs (unless you want to see them again) you start to think in what you would perceive as a more masculine way of thought.

Am I now the one who is hurting others by treating the situation as what it is rather than romantically what it could be?

Am I missing out on the wistful musings of ‘What if’?

I don’t think so.

The thing to watch out for is if I start to use people for the sake of it, use it as a crux to make myself feel better and the result is someone else doesn’t, even though a small part of me gets off on that slightly….Just being honest.

With personality disorders of any kind it’s learning how to curb your enthusiasm for whatever addictive siren is calling you at that time. It’s gleaning from the experience something that will enhance rather than destroy, yourself and the people around you.

I will try to heed my own advise.

Well, maybe.








Tumble Weeds

I can honestly say that in the last couple of weeks nothing but everything has happened.

My weekends have pasted with friends, children, laughter, sunshine and….

An epiphany.

It has taken me a year of heart wrenching clarity, loneliness, tears, tantrums, dark times and even darker thoughts, don’t get me wrong, I have had some most excellent experiences, grown closer to friends and loved some moments so much that I could die happy.

I am now over my Ex, it felt like a huge grieving process, people say that but it is true.

You have to go through a tumble weed of emotions to get back on track and steady yourself, did I see the light at the end of the tunnel of unlove, no, it seeped up and in without me even knowing it.

I no longer wake up feeling like something happened, like I was missing an important part of who I was. I wake up now thinking about the day ahead, what can I make for dinner, where will I walk the dogs and how to have my hair.

Trust me, this can only be a good thing.

For everyone, my children mostly but a big shout out has to go to my mother, my friends and even my colleagues, it doesn’t matter how many people try to help you but until you get to that stage yourself they might as well be speaking Mandarin.

This does hold one or two draw backs, my artistic flair normally flairs when I’m depressed, whether that be writing or painting or making love, this has diminished a touch.

Shit, you can’t win them all can you. Maybe I need to channel warmth and fuzzy bollocks instead (good thoughts not hairy ballsacks)

Fuck that, I’ll try wine first.

Well, whatever starts to float my imagination it won’t be about the past, but most certainly about the future….



Feast or maybe famine

Feast or famine.

Now this could mean so much, too much food…Then not enough, or you allow yourself not enough.

For me it’s ‘Love’

It’s a beautiful moment when you’re on an even keel, neither tiltering here or there.

The up’s and downs certainly take their toll, and yes, I did write their, as they are all beings in themselves.  The stroke of acceptance from the bell of the phone, or a ‘good job’ from someone who should’ve bothered.

It all counts. Even more so now social media and phones take hold.

The fact you are home, single and alone is shocking, but go back 50 years and no one gave a fuck.

You were just alone and thought nothing of it.

Now, I went back on Tinder, not sure why, bored perhaps? Yes, and lonely.

So, I got talking to a nice chap, witty, bright, looked good on his pictures….27..Ok..OK…

Anyway, I asked for a facie, which is a picture not staged, he didn’t do it, why? Why would you spend the whole evening talking together but you couldn’t bring yourself to send a normal picture, I let it slide…However, at one point he said ‘Shut up’..In a joke…Well no, no.

This is why I choose to be single, not play the game…Or fuck off, I’m far to good for this shit.

No more Tinder, I have realised that I don’t need lustful looks and catfishes to tell me I’m ok.

We all are. Deal with it.


Zombie Bags

This dating malarky is full of wanton promise, chased pretend dreams, good and bad sexual encounters, interesting and boring conversations.

One afternoon I invited a gentleman over for ‘lunch’ he wanted to talk and have a coffee, hmm you can tell from that he was old school, 47, possibly the oldest man in my repertoire.

So, I indulged, we sat on the sofa discussing quite a lot and one element was what we liked to watch, I mentioned I liked Zombie movies, he said he had never seen any…..In hind sight or hind shit as I like to call it, I should of sent him packing right there and then…dramatic, granted but, but no!

He then said, Oh, are you the type to plan and have a basement just in case..Queue me looking at him and thinking, I live in Oxfordshire, they don’t build houses like that..Duh..But if they did, of course I would, I probably should have shut up then, but instead I started talking about my Zombie bag, no, not a bag made from Zombies and I’m pretty sure making shit out of human flesh is still frowned upon (ask Kayne as if anyone has skin pants it would be him).

I do, I have a ruck sack full of water purification tablets, knives, a tomahawk, first aid kits and bracelets that can be unraveled into fishing wire or something, the list is endless.

I like knowing it’s there, I hope I never have to use it, I don’t wish for an Apocalypse or a civil war but who knows what’s just round the corner.

Mentally, and slowly I’m starting to build up my own Zombie bag, getting things ready for what is to come, or even if it doesn’t I’m ready. Setting my pretty maids all in a row.

You can take things out you know you will no longer need (men with no humour or wit), replacing with men that make you think, laugh and feel at ease.

So yeah, I’m going to rock my Zombie bag and if you dislike it then when the shit hits the fan, don’t come looking at me to save your ass as I would have skinned you alive and made bags for all my friends.

Needless to say, there where no other dates with him…..


Not the last laugh.

Last weekend was a ride of every emotion plausible.

It was heartbreakingly clear by the end of the Bank Holiday that I was very close to the precipice of ending my life, my beautiful, fucked up life.

And for what? Because I had become so self consumed that I couldn’t see the bigger picture or even tiny weenie small ones.

I say this every time about hitting rock bottom…You can only go up from there.

Bollocks, utter bollocks.

Friday I spent cleaning, drinking and cleaning, and drinking, and drinking, even though I knew I had friends to see and loads of things to do on the Saturday, once I start I can not physically stop myself from drinking if it’s in the house, any drop, sliver, or smudge of booze, I will drink it, lap at it like a fat kids dripping ice-cream.

I painted after I had cleaned, it’s one of my best work.

So when I woke up in the morning (still drunk) I walked into the room and saw my painting, it was of me, I had painted myself, true it’s a bloody good picture, but of all the things that I could have painted, I painted myself.

Perhaps this is where some of us go wrong, or something happens to us to make us look inwardly most of the time instead of outwards, at the stunning countryside, gorgeous children, warm and fucked up friends and comforting pets.

But we don’t, we analyse, strip and tear our very being to shreds.

And for what? Perhaps if we cut ourselves some slack and leave the berating at the door, we wouldn’t feel the need to shut it in everyone’s faces.

This weekend, I laughed more than my muscles would allow, I have had sex with a beautiful stranger who’s body was as tight as a matrons bed, I have walked the dogs and mowed the lawns and lived, but lived too hard, what goes up…Must come down…and it did.

People are not designed to live that extreme, so now is the time for refection, or to reflect my own advances of narcissism, oh and to not drink.

Yes, not to do that. Have you noticed I didn’t say to not laugh and not to…Well, you know.

So this week I’m not aiming high at all, I’m saying…Today…I will not drink…Today I will just muddle through…Tomorrow….

We’ll see. Won’t we.