Wednesday, November 29

Motherhood, men and multi-tasking

I looked up the chatline operators job and the first question after name and address stuff was 'have you had experience of phone sex?'. Just a yes or no tickbox, no space for 'well, not professionally but I'm a damn hot amateur with a 100% success level'. And anyway, this was for the form for the tarot reading positions!

I don't know why I'm even looking at jobs like this, my last time full time position was as a book-keeper and even part-time I was Area Manager in charge of forty people. I'm not a dim bird, I love learning on the job and pick things up easily, get along (and flirt) with all kinds of people and tend to get promoted quickly. I think that may be my fear actually, promotion usually means more hours and more responsibility and as a single parent there's only a set amount of time I want to be away from the kids, specifically babygirl. Then there's the whole poverty trap thing in that the more I earn the more rent etc. I have to pay, private rent isn't cheap and there's no way I could get a mortgage on my own.

It doesn't help that I'm a bit of an all-rounder and still haven't figured out what it is that I actually want to do, I usually fall into jobs through ex-colleagues moving on then ringing me to join them a rung up. Flattering, of course, but hardly a career plan.

Ick, enough whinging! I've been enjoying myself decorating babygirl's room the last few days. I've got one more coat of paint to do today then it's finished. My trusty cordless drill will come out for the new shelves and I'll even make sure that I put the tv bracket up the right way this time. Groovy Chick is dead (actually I think she was murdered in one of BG's hormonal mood swings!), she now has very grown up buttermilk walls and - eep! - wants a bra for christmas.

Policelady called when I was weilding my paintbrush and asked to come round for ten minutes. I thought she was going to tell me one of the parents had topped themselves over the weekend (friday being the first court appearance) but no, it was to make yet another statement. This time because step-dad was trying to say that my abuse by someone else (yes there was more than one incident, I obviously had victim tatooed on my forehead as a child cos I certainly wasn't irresistably gorgeous!) was the cause of my having knowledge beyond my 7/8 years. Bullshit, because this series of episodes happened after his but still I had to spend Monday thinking about it and Tuesday talking it through while she wrote it down.

Monday being my busiest teaching day I wasn't chuffed at having a head full of dredged up shit and A picked up that something was wrong. I denied it and kept my public smile despite his attempts to get me to talk but he wasn't fooled and mailed me later to say 'I can still listen you know. Lots of love'. Sweet. I sent a quick reply to say he had enough crap going on without me adding to it then sent a longer mail yesterday explaining, more honestly, that I didn't want to tell him then be disappointed in him for giving me the wrong reaction. I really must sort out my feelings towards that man, it's a big mass of confusion at the moment.

So today will be more painting, power tools and spirit levels, putting oil, water and brake fluid in the car and getting the tumble dryer fixed as well as doing all the child collecting and feeding that need doing. Who needs a man, eh?

I may not need one but I wouldn't mind having one around...

Friday, November 24


A - Age. Recent experiences with older men have made me realise this isn't important.

B - Broad. Shoulders and chest, I mean. Combine them with a small waist and good thighs and I melt. Oh yeah, see G for what you're thinking of!

C - Children. He has to understand my protectiveness and not try to get in on our in-jokes unless expressly invited.

D - Dick. That he has one and doesn't act like one.

E - Emotional intelligence/maturity. Sensitive is good, tortured is bad. I don't mind helping anyone through the odd down time but don't be constantly moping round with your 'woe is me' act cos it isn't sexy and makes me want to assist your suicide.

F - Fuckability. Closely related to chemistry but not always to looks, an undefinable aspect that's either there or not.

G - Girth. Much more important than length as it feels fantastic and doesn't bash the cervix during vinegar strokes.

H - Humour. He simply must laugh, loud and often. Especially at my jokes.

I - Intelligence. He doesn't have to be a professor but Sun readers need not apply.

J - Job. Preferably something that involves wearing a suit or uniform. (Traffic wardens excepted)

K - Kinky. A willingness to play is essential!

L - Love. It's not all about sex, he has to be able to show something deeper.

M - Mother. If there are apron strings attached I will run away, fast. If he shows a healthy respect for her, their relationship is good and she's nice, he gets bonus points. Sympathy points for dead ones.

N - Nuts. Shaved. Yum!

O - Orgasm technique. Bonus points for having good ability, respect points for asking if he doesn't.

P - Past. We all have one but I don't want to hear every little detail about your ex's!

Q - Queen. The way to treat me in public. But not in the bedroom, in there I'm a dirty filthy ho.

R - Respect. I need a man I can respect. Once I lose that I just can't bear them breathing near me.

S - Sensitive. I like a man that's in touch with his feelings. Just don't take it too far and (oh, see E again!)

T - Tunes. He has to love his music and at least put up with mine. Shared tastes get bonus points.

U - Underwear. Clean goes without saying. Lycra boxers score extra points. Y-fronts or briefs score derisory laughter.

V - Very. Into me, that is.

X - X-factor. That certain something that makes him stand out and me stand up to catch his attention.

Y - Youth. Not about age as such, more about letting the childish side out occasionally and having a damn good time.

Z - Zips and other garment fasteners. Knowing how to undo them without breaking the flow of the proceedings is a very sexy skill!

I don't think that's much to ask, is it?

Rare as a wombats wingnut?

How many people in the UK share your name?


fixed the blog. I'm too good to you, really I am.

Thursday, November 23

Firstly, an apology. Since beta-ing myself up I've been playing around with settings and templates and it now appears that I've totally buggered it. The site looks like crap with it's massive font squeezed into anorexic columns and every time I preview it I think of Ron Jeremy doing Nicole Ritchie. Not pleasant. I promise I'll fix it tomorrow. Or soon, anyway.

Now that's over, a little updating on my non-dating.

Vi, no I've not heard from pissing P (great name for him!). I did pass his flat on my way back from a karate grading on sunday and notice a strange car on the drive. Knowing that the '3 minute sex at 9pm' couple upstairs never have visitors it had to be someone at his. I just giggled and hoped she bled like a stuck pig so he had to change his sheets. I really must watch Carrie again.

Monday brought disappointment in the fact that I hadn't made as much as I wanted on ebay, then work in the form of new students to teach very basic martial arts to whilst still challenging the other, variously graded belts with progressively less basic hurting techniques. Preferably without any of the tiddlers tiddling on the carpet in abject fear. I was already relying on handing over to A so I could go to a writing workshop and knew he'd very dis-chuffed at being left with such an awkward class, specially since he'd told me at the grading that his car was still playing up and he might have to use public transport to get there at all.

He did get there, having borrowed a company car so I cheerily nipped to the loo to get changed and he took over the class. Like superman coming out of a phone box, I returned looking completely different and noticed a few shocked faces from mums and lustful looks from dads that only usually see me in angry white pyjamas with tied up hair. One dad called out 'blimey, Sensei - you do scrub up nice!' and A turned to say something sarky but stopped in his tracks. Oh, the power of that magic skirt! He's seen me with my hair down and flowing, he knows how good my boobs look in a pink, v-neck sweater (it's one of my trademark things, I have six in various shades), he'd also seen my black knee high boots when he arrived so the skirt was the only thing that could have made his jaw drop that way. Smiling to myself at shutting him up I comforted a little one that was scared of A, got my stuff together and rushed off to the workshop.

The skirt had a similar effect on the blokes there too, a mixed bunch of older fellas and one very nice young bloke that I was asked to sit next to. He was a bit too good-looking for my tastes and not really big enough but it was nice to see him trying to hide his wedding ring as we chatted over the tasks. His writing wasn't bad but there was some serious talent in the room so he was a bit over-shadowed, bless him. I got great feedback on my pieces which pleased me no end, I'll definitely be putting more work into this area, it's something I love to do anyway (but you all know that cos you read my verbal diarrhoea!) and I'd like to see what I'm really capable of.

Came home to find a email from A 'so whens the novel coming out and am I in it? I want a signed copy' He must have been under the spell for ages after I left, he hasn't contacted me for anything other than karate talk in months and sent this the minute he got home! Tuesday at training he was mucking about kicking my arse and physically flirting like mad. I said I might take thursday night off and he made up a reason to really need me there so I went tonight and, as I thought, the reason was non-existent. He was looking out of the window cos I was late and I called him down for a ciggie where he told me he'd bought me a present and it was upstairs. It was a big bag of mixed nuts and sultanas, my absolute favourites. That's the most thoughtful thing that man has ever done so I can only assume he's making a sincere effort. How I feel about this is the subject of another post, methinks.

I was going to wear the skirt to a pub party for my mates birthday tomorrow but her husband saw my ex-husband at footy and invited him to come too! Bloody arse! I daren't look too good in front of him cos he'll delude himself that I'm trying to attract him and I can't even flirt proper with anyone else with him there cos he'll do the puppy dog act and I'll look like a nasty, insensitive bitch again. He did that all through our marriage and I so hated it! Shame it's not fancy dress really, I could have worn a full burkha and veil!

Wednesday, November 22

A nice bit of skirt

A couple of years (ok, maybe a few years) ago I fell in love with a skirt, totally despite myself and my stupid fashion prejudices of the time. It's a panelled, stretch denim number that's fitted at the top then flares out, mid-knee, in a fishtail affair (Alright, three inches below mid-knee, my being a short-arse cow) A UK size 16 so it's really too loose to be as fitted now but I will never, ever part with it. Even if I, in a fit of stupidity-induced coma, were to succumb to the current fetish* to attain a size 0 body and never eat again, I would still keep this skirt. Beloved readers, this is a magic skirt.

It never comes out of the dryer without the hem flicking up randomly and it's a bastard to iron, normally the kiss of death for my wash-and-wear lifestyle, but the redeeming qualities of the magic skirt are, like orgasms, multiple and very, very good. Not only does it lend itself to any v-neck I wear with it, it's a nice shade of used denim, comfy as a cuddle and stays just the right temperature no matter the weather.

The magic part of it though, is the spell it casts over men. Oh yes, this piece of cotton and lycra has the power to make men lose all strength in their knees and turns even the most muscular thighs and calves to cotton wool.

Men become desperate to talk to me upon sight of the skirt but stumble over their words, as if their brains are being squashed up and tongues pushed out by the sudden wild dilation of their pupils.

Their hands openly display the internal war raging between desire and decorum; first advancing, drawn towards the skirt then retreating suddenly when logic slams them like a car door to rake through hair, fidget with keys or wave money at a bartender.

The magic skirt is also a thief. It actually steals oxygen. Just as they most want to puff up their chests and impress the skirt, the mere presence of it means they can only breathe in shallow, laboured gasps. It can be quite frightening to watch and at times I've had to excuse myself for a few minutes to remove the skirt from their sight and allow them to catch their breath, although strangely the asthma-like noises become even louder in the time it takes me to walk to the ladies or make a phone call. I think the back of the skirt has more power than the front which is handy really, that sort of effect combined with my usual proud display of cleavage would surely kill men stone dead as the blood rushed to their centres and everyone knows the deceased are terrible company.

It was cheap and it makes me cheerful every time I wear it. Every woman should have one.

*The trend for which, by the way, is led by gay, male couture designers so wake the fuck up, girls! Of course they think the curve of tits and hips are unattractive, they only see beauty in lads! Personally I believe that it takes a real man to design clothes for a real woman and D&G (Dicky and Gobby) just don't make the grade.

Sunday, November 19

Headlines and lifelines

The headline life update - life sucks.

The detailed life update - life sucks big, hard rocks instead of a big, hard cock.

I have just seen off the small songbird that decided, for the first time in years, to nest in my nether regions. Looking on the bright side (as I'm stupidly inclined to do) this may mean that - at the very least - I can expect Bill Oddie to turn up with a set of binoculars and twitch between my legs at any moment. Having watched his bizarre performance on NMTB recently, I'm quite reasonably afeared of this outcome, frustration aside. Personally I think frustration is inevitable when the yeast count is the only thing rising in the knicker area. However, being too skint and doctor-phobic for the one tablet solution I was reduced to the tried and tested 'poke yourself intermittently with a tampax dipped in live yoghurt' palaver. Hey, at least I'm organic, if not orgasmic. I can only hope that the former Goodie is too busy with some other Great Tits to come and check mine out.

As a bonus, I've discovered that even my ever-hungry children won't nick a half used pot of live, unflavoured yoghurt from the fridge so I've given myself a hygiene point for having the foresight to leave the string dangling and make sure I had sole access to the dairy fairy, even though it did play havoc with the cardboard applicator.

I am currently what my nana would have called run down. My body is chucking all sorts of ailments at me to let me know that my mind is overloaded. Thanks for the heads-up, body but I ALREADY FUCKING KNEW THAT! You really didn't have to add physical annoyances and upsets to the list of mental and emotional shit that I'm carrying in order to announce their importance, honestly. Come to think of it, I'd really appreciate if you didn't feel the need to help out again. Ever.

I finally got brave enough to ring the stop-smoking helpline and got an answering machine. I was very pissed at this so lit a ciggie and, after the beep, blew a raspberry then put the phone down without leaving my number. Ha! That'll teach 'em for not being there with a real person when I wanted one. Gits. Course I don't think I withheld my number so it's entirely possible that when I call back they'll have an idiot alarm sound so they can blow a raspberry back at me and tell me to buy my own patches.

I know that sounds over the top but it's typical of what happens when I dare have a little paddy. Monday evening I pinched a bar of chocolate from A (he had a whole packed lunch made for him with Hula Hoops and everything!). Instead of gracefully allowing me to enjoy it and not die of hunger he chased me across the room in front of the laughing students and parents, had a good dig round my bra where I'd stuffed it and then, when he realised I'd hidden it too well, picked me up and turned me upside down to shake it out! I'm sure that's not what they mean by 'pick up a penguin'.

Thursday I cried off teaching with A, not due to the penguin incident but because it was the night that the abuse charges were going to be made official and I wasn't having a very good day. The CPS decided on 15 charges and it has to go to Crown Court because of the seriousness. I thought we'd find out this week which way he's pleading but no, it'll be bloody Spring when I finally discover whether I have to go to a trial or not. Ick.

Still skint too, though I've decided that going on the game isn't a good idea. Not least because the advert in my local rag asking for 'escorts' specifically mentioned that mid thirties ladies need not apply as they already had too many of that age. In great big print across the bottom of the ad (did they think we wouldn't be able to see it with our aged eyes or were they just making sure we knew we weren't welcome? My money's on both). So, that was me told. The market is saturated and has no room for any more sexy, confident, intelligent companions over the age of 24. My only hope is to leave it another thirty years and go for the fetish crowd. I could be old enough for Wayne Rooney by then...

In the meantime I'm economising and ebaying and thinking about the other ad I saw for home based chatline operators. If it's the kind of chatline I think it is then I'm damn sure I wouldn't want my kids hearing me at work so I'm not holding out too much hope.

Tomorrow night I have a creative writing workshop so who knows, maybe I'll be discovered and come home with a huge cheque as an advance on my fabulous novel!

Saturday, November 18

Proud parent

Babygirl is doing her homework as I read blogs between exciting bursts of housework.
Literacy demands that she notes the different sections in the local rag and, stuck, she asks me "what's it called when they print who's died this week?". I call the answer from the kitchen before popping in to check how she's doing.

She spelled it 'obitchuaries'

That's my girl.

Wednesday, November 15

Musical musings

This is a bit of a follow on from my last post, a stream of consciousness thing that's been bubbling in my head since I openly posted the words of a song that said what I wanted to but just couldn't articulate at the time.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not your stereotypical single mum that dreams of having her tragedies published in a 'real life' weekly (or as a mate of mine calls them, 'council flat magazines') because they're, like, waaaay too fackin' classy for Trisha an' anyway me dealers bird well she reckons them cants at the sosh watch all them shows an' chase ya to take the appearance fees off yer latest loan for Moay and Shandorns new Nikes fer facks sake!

Oh no, my eyes actually auto-avert if I come within ten yards of so much as a tabloid newspaper, I have a season ticket to the rather professional, if local, theatre so see more plays than movies in a year and only read Cosmopolitan for the centrefolds. Oh ok, and to giggle at the sex advice and tick off those tips that I've been doing for years. I've just never been highbrow enough to appreciate things like poetry in the accepted form. Classics usually leave me cold, apart from the odd notable exception brought to life; John Hannah reciting Stop all the clocks in FWAAF being the most obvious example (and yes, I know that's a movie and not a play but sod off with the picking up on details, this is a free-flowing thought thing, so there)( Having said that, the fact that I feel the need to use so many brackets to defend/explain myself is something I'm taking note of for a future non-pierced-navel gazing post)

So if, at best, I'm not illiterate and, at most, I'm actually quite a typical gemini that thrives on communicating and is easily able to do so; I can't help but wonder why do I constantly fall back onto song lyrics to express my feelings to those I care about in any way (including myself, after many years of personal growth work)?

I possess a madly wide range of music on my hdd and I've hooked it up to my amp so I can play mp3's through my massive, if old, Wharfedale speakers and hear my music of choice wherever I am in the house. Ok, the street. Oh alright! The locality if I'm having a particularly loud day but come on, I'm bang in the middle of a square mile or four of deaf pensioners so it's not like I'm disturbing anyone. The only complaint I ever had was from detached next door neighbour (who was the original inspiration for Catherine Tate's 'Nan' character, bless her) about Lemar finishing/Laughing Lenny Cohen starting and I learned my lesson; I've never been idle enough to let my player run alphabetically since that day so it's hardly ASBO time chez bitch.

The vast majority of people in my mobile phone book have their own, specific, ringtone so I know who's calling or texting me before I dig through my handbag. There are currently... *checks*.. 128 contacts on my pink v3 and each tone takes about ten minutes of mp3 editing and transferring from pc to phone, is my obsession showing yet? Is this a symptom of phone phobia or of an unhealthy need for a strangers words and melodies to remind me of my real life people and therefore inform my reaction to them contacting me?

My earliest (good) memory is inheriting the old music system when my parents upgraded to a vinyl and cassette set-up. Along with the teak-veneer encased player and matching, tinny speakers I got a collection of eight-track tapes that grew as everyone else duly updated their technology. Through these I discovered artists as varied as Uriah Heep, Talking Heads and Gene Pitney that I could listen to whenever I wanted, losing myself in lyrics and tunes that either confirmed I wasn't alone in my feelings or took me somewhere completely away from them depending on my need. No more simply accepting what the radio dj decided I should sing along to, this gave me choice in my escapism, the power was giddy-making. Better even than my beloved books, music lending itself more readily to multi-tasking than reading.

Maybe it's just that I'm aurally fixated. Sure, on a base level I appreciate a good looking man - and a good looking woman too as I'm being honest - but looks mean nothing to me if the beautiful one can't talk in a way that engages me. My standards for conversational engagement are pedestal height; if you don't amuse me with quick wit, enthuse me with your eloquently expressed passion for something I've never seen the attraction of or disabuse me of a notion I held whilst debating you'd better be able to talk just the right amount of dirty to hold my interest, let alone my tits.

This, of course, is the key to my attraction to online relationships and something that sis, being both dyslexic and suspicious of anything virtual, simply can't understand. She gives me an almost pitying look if I mention that the reason I'm smiling is an e-mail and I just know that her counsellors mind is thinking 'Oh dear, Ange is taking refuge in the virtual world and avoiding real life contact for fear of being vulnerable'. Bollocks. When you're communicating by e-mail or IM you stand or fall on your use of language and, for someone like me that loves words, it's the perfect filter. I've been accused of not wanting a real relationship when online has moved into real life but it's not that I don't want a real relationship, more that I won't accept a relationship where physical presence replaces proper communication. That's what lazy people do, they stop talking and assume that just being there is enough. It isn't. Not for me, anyway.

Maybe I've answered my own, clumsily asked, question. Perhaps music is so important to me because it represents true communication of real emotion; good, bad and ugly, and that's what I crave? Or maybe I'm just too lazy to think of my own words so pounce on other people's, pointing and crying 'See? See? That's what I mean!'

Tuesday, November 14

For an ordinary girl

Actually, I don't mean any old ordinary girl. I mean OG herself, the one that always gets there before me and says it better in comments. Yep, that one. I've been wracking my brains to get the right words for her and can't find them, they all just sound wrong when I type them. Either too blanket supportive, which just isn't me, or too 'tough love' which I don't feel comfortable with unless I know that person on a more real level and know how it will be received in their heart. Still, there's this niggling feeling that I want to say something, that I have the sentiment right, the motive is pure, that I may actually be able to help in some small way. And that I want her to read it but not the cause/object of the issue.

I've been listening to James Morrison - Undiscovered as I wracked. Highly recommended it is, too; lovely lyrics, great voice, sweet tunes. This track pretty much says what I was struggling to...

I've been twisting and turning in a space that's too small
I've been drawing the line and watching it fall
You've been closing me in , closing the space in my heart
Watching us fading and watching us fall apart

Well I can't explain why it's not enough
Coz I gave it all to you
And if you leave me now
Oh just leave me now
It's the better thing to do

It's time to surrender
It's been too long pretending
There's no use in trying
When the pieces don't fit anymore

Oh, don't misunderstand how I feel
Coz I've tried, yes I've tried
Still I don't know why
No I don't know why

Why I can't explain why it's not enough
Coz I gave it all to you
And if you leave me now
Oh just leave me now
It's the better thing to do

It's time to surrender
It's been too long pretending
There's no use in trying
When the pieces don't fit anymore
The pieces don't fit anymore

You pulled me under so I had to give in
Such a beautiful mess that's breaking my skin
Well I'll hide all the bruises; I'll hide all the damage that's done
But I show how I'm feeling until all the feeling has gone

Well I can't explain why it's not enough
Coz I gave it all to you
And if you leave me now
Oh just leave me now
It's the better thing to do

It's time to surrender
It's been too long pretending
There's no use in trying
When the pieces don't fit anymore
The pieces don't fit anymore

If you listen to the album, OG, my hope is that you get to 'Last Goodbye' stage sooner rather than later.

Monday, November 13

Lazy days and Sundays

For the first time in - ooh, actually, I don't know how long - I did absolutely nothing constructive for most of yesterday.

It began with Ex, very unusually, turning up early to collect the kids. So early that I was still in bed; dreaming the kind of freaky, mad dreams that you only get when you've half woken to have a pee then gone back to wrap the still-warm duvet round you again in an attempt to make the world piss off and leave you alone for another hour (or you're wearing a 24 hour nicotine patch). This particular dream featured large piles of cash being counted in the presence of Robbie Williams, an african baby and a fart. For shame! I awoke feeling completely embarrassed at how much my subconcious mind takes in the media representation of the lives of slebs.

I spent quite some time setting up a fancy new rss reader within firefox then realised it doesn't do what I thought it would. Bum, isn't that just like a man?! Still, it looks kind of important ticking it's news headlines across my status bar, even if it doesn't sing shoot the runner and give me a one-click link the very instant my favourite online people update their gossip.

I then read loads of blogs, commented on a few and had a warm and fuzzy when I found that some of my favourite bloggers have linked to little me. Cliqueable links, you gotta love their life-affirming properties.

This coming week I have to quit smoking. I wish I could say it was a choice but it's more due to financial circumstances (i.e. I'm bigtime broke and it's just before Christmas when I must supply a blue iPod Nano, a pink PS2 and a non colour specific laptop amongst the traditional stocking fillers in order to ensure that my children continue to pretend that they love me). I plan to request NRT on prescription even if it does mean I have to attend group therapy with a fierce matron to get it.

Who knows? Maybe I'll meet the man of my dreams at a session that starts with me saying 'my name is Angela and I haven't smoked for ten minutes' to polite applause from the assembly of randoms worrying beads in the same boat. It's the perfect solution really, what better way to replace a regular hand-mouth habit than keeping them busy on a man? Failing that I can always try and sign up my fellow quitters to karate and earn some membership fees. Crikey, I've actually convinced myself as I type that this is a good idea. Gawd bless the NHS!

In other news, policelady has a meeting with the CPS today and there is a court date booked later this week to formalise whatever charges they decide are in the public interest. I wonder if he's bought a new suit out of his 5k blood money?

Saturday, November 11

Pussy pounds and pensiveness

I'm completely and absolutely broke. My bank manager has disowned me and my plastic is all used up.

I'm completely and absolutely horny. My bonk manager has disowned me and my plastic is all used up.

Is it really wrong to think about killing both these birds with one stone?

Wednesday, November 8

Is he taking the P? - Part 5 (where the title finally makes sense)

Part 4 of this series has been posted but, as it took so many attempts to complete it's hidden, shamefaced with tardiness, in the sidebar. You might like to have a look there and catch up before reading this, the final instalment. Or not. You could be the type that reads the last page of a book first and who am I to judge you for that? No judgements here, beloved reader, just options.

Sunday evening in my house is a whirl of school uniform laundering, homework encouragement and intensive teatree nit-repellent applications. All done whilst trying to model calmness to three children that have been fed sugary snacks washed down with fizzy drinks all day courtesy of their father. Nice then that this particular evening of madness is punctuated by texts from P that make me roll my eyes and smile with their banal normality. I remind him that the Royle family is on later and wonder if he, as others have done in the past, will notice my passing likeness to Caroline Ahearn. I'm bloody glad he doesn't when the show starts and my phone displays 'Shit, don't she look old!?'. We text idly through the next couple of hours till the ritual goodnight message and plan that I'll bunk off teaching with A the following evening and pop round for an hour.

Monday passes with the usual texts and calls till the time comes for me to teach kicking and punching to a bunch of small people in masks whilst personally dressed, somewhat unconvincingly according to my students, as a witch's cat. Obviously this isn't traditional martial arts attire but I like to have fun at Halloween. And Christmas. And Easter. Fuck it, I just like dressing up! My unusual lack of real effort in the costume department is quickly forgiven when I hand out the sweets, fickle creatures that children are. Towards the end of the second lesson my phone rings with A's tune. I glare at it ferociously, thinking that if he has another silly little man-germ he can damn well find a different mug to take his class for him. Nothing will stop me seeing my man tonight, oh no. I'm going to be strong, you just watch.

Resolutely, I answer the call and hear him ask 'do you really need me there tonight?' between sobs. He's actually crying! Shit, shit, shit! This is unexpected but I gather myself enough to learn that his car has broken down and it's the final straw after another stressful weekend dealing with his ex. Knowing that he's two steps into a major depression I decide that tough love is a better idea than hating myself for feeling like a total mug whilst enabling his descent into the void so tell him to get himself to class by bus and I'll take him home afterwards. Fussy I may be but I'm not a completely heartless bitch, despite what I've been told in the past.

I text P to explain that I'm soft in the face of others mental crises so won't be making it round tonight after all, he's understanding and asks that I let him know when I'm done and update him. A turns up, in gorgeous body if not mind, so instead of seeing a man about a snog I simultaneously engage the adult class in a challenging, made-up-on-the-spot kick based lesson, crack jokes to help them forget how much their legs hurt, deal with the paperwork and hold A up emotionally. It's times like this that hormones, bleeding one week in four and the fanny-ripping agonies of childbirth seem a small price to pay for such useful multi-tasking skills (though I still think blokes got the better deal with multi-asking abilities). I get home at last, say a proper hello to No 1 Son and snatch mouthfuls of manky salad leaves as I take a call from K, my lovely karate mate. Afterwards a quick, apologetic goodnight text to P tells him I'm home safe and will let him know the ins and outs when we speak the next day.

Tuesday starts with the normal 'good morning, sweetheart' text and the, also normal, sound of children arguing over bathroom rights. We text and talk through the day, him catching up on what went on the night before and both of us lamenting that I simply won't pop in for an hour on a tuesday cos it's training night and I'm not fit to be seen after a session with my Sensei. I text him when I'm home and he calls straight back so once again I try and chew quietly as I chat about how A ignored my call offering a lift to training then rang me while I was there to make an excuse and pour some more woe down my ear, knowing full fucking well I'd be in the middle of a big group of our mutual mates at the time. P tells me he's done precisely nothing all evening, confirms our plans to go out for Saturdays indian-that-wasn't on Weds and we say goodnight, looking forward to actually seeing each other again rather than just talking. Words are great but arms they ain't...

In addition to the usual texting, the early part of Wednesday is broken up by at least four calls from him organising which resturaunt, what time, confirming both then changing things completely and asking if I'd prefer to try the new place on the High St rather than a curry amongst the general chatter about his day. Each time I flip the phone shut I look at it and laugh a little at just how keen he is and how open he is about it. It's a nice, warm laugh and reminds me how long it's been since it last happened, I'm glad to have it back.

At three o clock he calls yet again and I pick up, wondering with a wry smile what else he wants to change to improve the evening. He's on his way home early but it's not to get ready, it's because he's ill. Yes, the deadly man-flu has struck again and he needs to cancel. Externally I make suitably sympathetic noises, internally my bitch is screaming 'for fucks sake just take a fucking lemsip and stop fucking whinging, it's not fucking cancer!'. He says he'll call me later after a shower and some sleep and I settle in for the usual wednesday evening routine of shopping and snuggling with the kids, pointing and laughing at the people who can't clean then parade their homes on telly while two mad women chuck bicarbonate of vinegar round and count bacteria.

He calls as promised, speaking to the kids before me as the phone is passed along the sofa. Full of apologies again he asks if we can make it the next night. I tell him I can't, remind him that I teach on thursdays and this one is specially important cos I'm training four, young brown belts for a seminar display this weekend. I can't decide if the reaction I get is an 'I'm poorly' sniff or an 'I'm miffed' sniff but either way I'm not into being sniffed at down the phone so tell him we'll aim to get together on Friday and say goodnight sweetly.

No text on thursday morning, there's a first. Still, it's a busy day and quite nice to get on with planning tonights lesson without interruption being that I can't quite wake up properly even with workmen banging and crashing in the road outside. That done and two washloads battled with, I text him to say hi and hope he feels better before throwing myself into loud music and more boring but neccessary chores. After a couple of hours it dawns on me that he hasn't replied so I think he's copped the arse over my not being available tonight and decide to go for the humourous approach to ice breaking, sending '
If it wasn't for the fact that i'm annoying the workmen by singing along loudly with dido i'd think i was deaf cos my phone hasn't rung all day! Hope you're ok honey, missing you loads xxx'

Another couple of hours and there's still no reply. I now start to feel guilty, wondering if he really is ill and, rather than being petulant, he's actually lying helpless in his flat, suffering horribly and unable to get to the phone for help, tormented by the sound of my messages arriving. I have a dark image of 'I told you I was ill, bitch' on a headstone and do something I have rarely, if ever done. I call him. It rings twice and goes to voicemail which I find a bit strange but still I leave a message saying I'm now officially a bit worried about him and could he please let me know if he's ok, I have to go to a school meeting but will put the phone silent rather than off so a text would be great.

I check the phone subtly throughout the meeting about No 1 Son's ICT work and there's still nothing so I decide that I'll pop round on the way home and just rush getting ready for class. Pulling out of the car park I hear his ringtone and carefully try to read his text whilst negotiating traffic (yes I know but this was an emergency). I can't make sense of it and there is /*missing txt*/ at the end to make matters more confusing so I pull over, it rings again and this time I get the full message.

Hi Angie, sorry I haven't been in touch, I feel dreadful and didn't feel like chatting much At the moment!...I have realised that I don't want 2 have a relationship at the moment!...the awful one that I had before is still affecting me, I think u r a wonderful girl Angie, but I just need 2 be on my own 4 a while!...u have done nothing wrong and there is no other motive...take care x

The full message, indeed.

Tuesday, November 7

Pounds and pensiveness

How much does the average woman think the innocence of her daughters is worth?

I'm a really empathetic person when it comes to other women. As much as I find Tracey Emin's 'art' hideous, I'll stick up for girls expressing themselves in any way they want (especially if it goes against gender sterotypes and makes people think), shout loudly against the glass ceilings and disparity of pay that still exists, positively scream my defence of mothers that want to be acknowledged for their role in bringing up the next generation without the aid of minimum waged childcare workers, champion and lead by example the single parent that's trying to have a life of her* own as well as nurture and educate her offspring on precious little funds. Sometimes though, a woman will do something that I just can't understand no matter how I try and see it from her place.

The day my step-father was arrested for abusing me and my sis he was escorted back to collect some belongings as the terms of his bail meant he couldn't live with my mother for the duration. She'd spent hours hearing all the gory details that she'd closed her ears to over the past two decades then been taken home so by the time he arrived she'd had quite a while to figure out a suitable reception. Did she scream at him? Leap at him with a kitchen knife? Spit at him, maybe? I'm sure anyone reading this can add to the list of what they'd do when faced with the man that abused their daughters, with or without accompanying police officers.

She gave him £5000. In cash.

My shock and disbelief are still kicking shit out of my empathy.

* Yeah I know, but for the purposes of this rant there are no male single parents, ok?

Monday, November 6

In the morning... know we won't remember a thing. In the morning, you know it's gonna be alright.

As a rule I love Razorlight (I think they're Squeeze for the naughties which is a big compliment from me) but that's a really fucking stupid lyric. We may not remember a thing but if it was really gonna be alright in the morning would we (Oh ok, I, to be specific) be up at this time on Sunday/Monday journalling/blogging in order to find some resolution that finally brings sleep despite being absolutely physically shattered from a weekend of training, partying, driving drunken black belts home and dismantling old/assembling new beds for children?

I think not.

Sunday, November 5

Is he taking the P? - Part 4

Sunday morning. Ex is late to collect the kids as usual but I'm too happy to care. No hangover despite sleeping only having four hours sleep to work off a months worth of alcohol units and I'm going to P's for the whole day, life is just too good to let a bitter, passive-aggressive scorpio ruin the buzz.

The plan is to shamelessly watch the repeat of last nights X-factor while we both do something we're good at and the other isn't in between shagging like monkeys on E, obviously. Specifically, that I rid his pc of the spyware and virii it's riddled with then install some nifties that enable him to surf porn and not get re-infected (cos he's a net-prat) and he cooks a roast dinner from scratch (cos when he asked how I did my roast potatoes I said 'Don't you mean who does them? Aunt Bessie, of course')

He was up and about when I got there cos of the ex being late so the whole 'stay in bed and I'll join you' thing didn't happen but there was a rather lovely hello snog against the kitchen worktops again while the kettle boiled. It was all rather 'morning after' in that we were both knackered but in that lovely, satisfied way you only get after a mutual late night with a like-minded sexy bastard. We stood in the chilly October sunshine, holding each other and playing footsie with the jealous cat, smoking (outside like we're supposed to, for a change) and standing on a chair to peek over the fence at the other gardens with him trying to be discrete that he was laughing at the fact that, even with the help of B&Q's finest, I had to go on tip-toes just to look like Chad.

Tea drunk and mood drowsily dirty, we go to bed. Slowly, almost like last night was the foreplay for this foreplay, we relish in the naked touch and feel of each other, the thrill of a new body mixed with the familiarity of having enjoyed it before. There's no rush, this is erotic rather than full-on-horny but it's just as good, if not better. There is no competition with Stella today, he's rock hard with no intervention from me and then, at last, oh my god, yes! He's slipped effortlessly inside me and my hands drop to his lower back to pull him slowly, lazily, deeper as he kisses me and uses his tongue to reiterate the entry of his body into mine.

We enjoy the slowness and let the feelings grow, his thrusting and my reactions very gradually becoming harder and faster in the glorious, unspoken agreement that comes from giving and receiving pleasure. The rest of the world goes about it's business outside the window but we're totally oblivious, lost in the sight, sound, taste and feel of each other and never wanting it to stop. He does stop though, to turn me over so he can take me from behind. With anticipation burning my brain I flip onto my front but instead of feeling him fill me from yet another delicious angle I hear him say 'shit, you've come on' and feel like a bucket of icy water has been tipped over us.

A penny drops along with the ice, that's where his age shows. I recall him looking a bit sneery when he told me that the couple upstairs never miss a 3 minutes at 9pm so 'must do it when she's on' and my feeling that he's not a red carpet man is confirmed when he passes me some tissues and crosses to the sink. I nip to the loo and, to make my frustration worse, find it's only spotting that's cleared up already. As I'm not even due for a week I doubted I'd actually discover the niagra falls that his tone of voice implied but deal with the offending drip anyway and return to find him in bed.

We snuggle together and talk about how my being sterilised recently seems to have messed with my previously predictable, non-spotting cycle. My hands are wandering over his body as we chat and kiss till one meets his own hand on his still hard cock. He looks apologetic and says 'I really need to finish this, is that ok?'. I reply with a laugh, 'of course it's ok' and enjoy feeling him pleasure himself against me for, oh, at least thirty seconds before asking if he'd like a hand...

The second I touch his rigidness I want to feel it in my mouth so I kiss and lick my way down his chest and stomach, pushing the duvet off as I go to make sure he gets the full view of my long, blonde hair following the journey of my lips towards his cock. When I get there he tastes of pre-cum and I lick gently around the tip of him, teasing us both as I hold his base firmly with one hand and the other strokes and gently squeezes his beautiful, shaved balls.

The constant cries of 'oh wow, that's so lovely' from this, normally quiet, man serve to encourage me even more and I take him deep and rhythmically into my mouth whilst still using my hands on the parts of him that I can't lick and suck. He twitches and thrusts against me but I'm enjoying this so I change tack, slowing down for a while before speeding up again to take him right to the edge and bring him back a couple of times, loving the effect and knowing when I do let him release it will be all the more intense for the teasing. I soon sense more urgency in his low moans so instead of tormenting this time I continue my warm, wet pace, look up and meet his eyes across his chest, feel him explode in my throat then watch him fall back into the pillows as I swallow and smile to myself.

He pulls me back up for a kiss and cuddles into me again, saying 'babe, you didn't have to swallow you know'. I tell him I don't do anything I don't want to and that he tasted nice enough for me to want to, adding with a giggle 'anyway, I wasn't sure how much more mess the sheets could deal with'. After more snuggling, talking, stroking and laughing as he tells me that there actually is such a thing as a bad blow job, we get up for tea and a smoke.

The day continues as per the plan, him bringing me tea and toast, preparing the meal and calling out from the kitchen to ask if I'm ok as I work my way through the mess that is his infected hard drive. I sing along to the X-factor and we periodically meet on the sofa to cuddle up with the newspaper and the jealous cat in between our tasks. The meal is fantastic and I eat it all, showering him with compliments and thanks. He returns the sentiments as he notes that his monitor sits there idly rather than displaying pop-ups every five seconds. Bloated from the carbs I refuse the offer of ice cream and we stay on the sofa, entwined in each other and half watching Goodnight Mr Tom as darkness falls outside.

My phone rings, it's babygirl letting me know that they're home and she needs me to return to reality and find her school uniform. I get my stuff together between kisses goodbye and he shows me how the key he had cut doesn't work properly. I tell him there's no rush, kiss him just once more on the doorstep and drive home singing loudly and smiling inside.

Friday, November 3

Is he taking the P? - Part 3

Saturday morning and I don't call him cos he said he wants a lie in plus I'm on a housework blitz cos the half-term has left me living in a bomb-site.

He calls me tho, quite a few times throughout the day and, amongst other things, says
- that he's really looking forward to this evening,
- that he'll come to my place for the first time tonight and say hi to the kids (when he'd called the landline to speak to me they'd sometimes picked up the phone so I agreed to a very quick 'names-to-faces' thing on condition that I could push him out the door at any moment I perceived they might possibly be thinking about being uncomfortable) before escorting me on public transport so I can have a drink or ten with him,
- that he's going to the bookies a bit later and will pick up a bottle of brandy 'for when I pop round in the week'.
- that he didn't get any brandy in the end so if I picked a bottle up while I was out he'd pay for it.
- that he was on the bus and it was full of noisy teenagers.

He got to my place and met the kids. The boys were taken with how easy-going (i.e. not scared of them) and openly chatty he was, as well as the No 1 Son being unusually impressed that he knew what was going on with Chelsea FC. Babygirl simply thought he was very tall and very handsome (yep, I do know she's too easily impressed and I'm working on it, believe me!).

He tells me at the bus stop how great they are and insists I take the money for the booze, having searched for and found the receipt in the bag, despite my protestations that I'm happy to buy my own addiction. We drop the hooch and mixer off at his place and walk (uphill, in heels ffs!), swapping smokes and arms and funny stories that make the elderly couple in front of us flush, to the High St where we decide to have a drink before the curry. He'd already told me he was affectionate in public but bloody hell! His arm didn't move from me the whole night apart from loo breaks and bar visits. How we managed to drink so much between all the kissing and laughing at green-eyed people staring at us whilst wearing bad clothes, well, I still haven't worked that bit out but in the end we forgot about dinner and went back to his place to drink a bit more in private.

The signs were clear that he was happy to have me alone but none of these signs came from his trousers so he looks at me and says 'sorry babe, the beer has got to me. You know what would be nice? If you'd come and get in bed with me for a cuddle'
I start to wonder if this man is a figment of my drunken imagination.

Good looking? - check.
Intelligent? - check
Funny? - check.
Single? - check.
Kind to children and animals? - check.
Likes good, hard, horny sex and erotic, naked cuddles? - Red alert! Red alert!

Fucking hell, that can't be real! Quick, stab it and see if it bleeds green ooze!

I didn't stab him and we played about a bit in between cuddling and talking for a couple of hours (oh come on, brewers droop is no more than a challenge to this woman, I just couldn't resist seeing if my gob on his knob would surpass the effect of that bitch, Stella!) till I said I really had to go, being that it was half-past-stupid o' clock. He called me a cab which he insisted on paying for and told me to make sure to text him that I was home safe. How am I meant to stay a cynical bitch with men like this within five minutes driving distance, I ask you?

Sunday was fun, I'll do that post when I'm not so pissed. Which means after the five hour karate seminar and sober cos I'm driving night out with karate people that I have booked for tomorrow.

P is for Prat. Stay tuned to learn why this is the case.

Is he taking the P? - Part 2

Considering the day started with a ridiculously early meeting between me, sis and the policewoman about the case it ended better than I could have imagined so I go home on a high from our 'hour' together and continue e-mailing him tracks from an album he wanted. I'm skint so can't do gifts as such but I'd downloaded it then realised I couldn't burn and present it as planned cos my bells and whistles dvd-rw thinks audio cd's are below it and they skip when played. I texted him to say which tracks were waiting for him to hurry up and get them so I could send the rest (he checks his email online rather than use a dedicated mail client and it appears that his box has a limit) After a while I get...

Hi Darlin, sorry I missed ur text, the phone was on charge in the bedroom, all shagged out 2nite but feel great, gonna go 2 bed now I am absolutley wacked, try and get an hour and a quarter 2mrw, sleep well 2nite and Ill text u in the morning, nite Darlin XXXX


I'll sleep like a log after that hour with you! You might like to know no man has ever made me cum like that before, if that wasn't even top form you are damn good baby! I love being with you out of bed too, it's not just your body that i want :~) sleep well darling xxx


That's one hell of a compliment, thank u...I really enjoy ur company in and out of bed it's a rare thing in life, u sleep well Sweetheart its payday 2mrw u stay 2 hours and Ill bribe the kids!...nite Babe XXXX

Friday comes and we're texting and talking all day again, dirty stuff, work stuff, funny stuff, it's just so easy and nice to be able to live a life alongside someone living theirs and meet up in the middle to fancy each other and do lovely rude things together.

The boys and their mates were at a theme park and I spent the day dismantling babygirl's massive, cabin style bed and putting together a much more grown up one. With real tools, cos I do all this stuff myself. There's a halloween disco that night so the plan is that the boys get back, the mates are dispatched home, I take babygirl and No 2 son to look scary with an assortment of cousins/friends then get them tucked up in the care of No 1 son and nip to see P for an 'hour'.

Plan, my arse. The boys coach got stuck in traffic and none of them had keys so I spent the night dropping off and collecting children then feeding them vast amounts of chinese takeaway and keeping one mate overnight again cos it was so late. P is understanding about it as we're seeing each other on saturday night for a meal/drinks then I'm spending sunday with him. I figure it'd be good to miss each other a bit
and anyway, he's tired from work and thinks his cold/flu may be coming back so I think it's best I stay away cos I get impatient when men whinge about every little ailment.

Back later with Part 3 - the wild and wet weekend entry...

Is he taking the P??

Ok, having had my moan I'll update on the P situation, lots has gone on from last Thursday to this one so I'll spread it over a few, bite-sized entries that won't keep any beloved readers away from work for too long (cos I'm thoughtful like that)

Thursday - No class to teach cos the hall is in use by someone else. Great on two counts, one cos I don't have to see A who I'm still pissed with and two cos I can spend some time with P. We've been texting and talking all day and can't wait to get together again now we've finally had basic carnal knowledge of each other and desperately want to take A levels with ambitions of a uni place. I sort the kids out and go round, we're liplocked before I can even say hi to the cat and in bed shortly after. Ten minutes of snogging and touching later he says 'I'm sorry but I can't wait anymore, can we just have a good, hard shag?'. I, of course, answer 'God, yeah!' and pull him onto me. From then on it's just like movie sex where everything is right (but without that strangely angled sheet that leaves the male lead's torso exposed whilst covering the female lead's breasts).

He's kissing me and fucking me with the most fantastic depth, pace and rhythm, I'm loving it; loudly appreciative, wetter than Wimbledon fortnight and in awe at how long he can go for (don't forget my last lover was the original 'two pumps and a squirt' bloke). I can't quite believe how good this man feels and I feel a familiar build up of sensations in my body, a craving to tense every muscle I have till the very core of me releases the magic that forces them to collapse in waves of pleasure. I'm confused, this can't be right, I never cum this way! Even with J (fab shag, fucked up mind) I could only cum on his cock if he stayed deep and ground against my clit, never when I was enjoying a good pounding from the full length of him. I don't tense anywhere, just ride with the fabulous feeling and before I know it I'm crying out that I'm going to cum. He breaks his silence to say 'Cum, babe' without missing a single, beautiful beat and that's it, that's IT! I'm cumming so hard, falling headlong into a pit of warm, wet release that just goes on and on and on and is all the more powerful for sneaking up on me. I think that's the first orgasm that I've been given rather than had to take and oh my days it was fucking good!

More soon, I'm tired beyond belief from recent events and don't want to drink any more, I just need to sleep.

Thursday, November 2

A is for arsehole

While I'm having a whinge, I'll update the A situation. He's still on emotional death mode and radio silence so we only connect when we teach together and I do miss our friendship and silly, gossipy texts (the sex was shite even tho he has a face and body that makes me drench me drawers).

Anyway, we had a guy turn up to his karate class last week, we'd already started and the etiquette for being late is that you stand at the side in ready stance until bowed in by a Sensei. He isn't a regular student but is wearing a gi under a hi-visibility vest so,
assuming he's embarrassed at being late for a class and wanting to put him at ease, I carry on teaching with A and keep an eye out for when newcomer is ready to join in.

Said eye is stunned to see him take a variety of small objects from his carrier bag and arrange them carefully on a table, then put some of them back in the bag and repeat the process at least four times. Meanwhile, one of the students is desperately trying to catch the eye that I don't have on the newcomer so I go over to him and he frantically whispers that he knows this bloke from work. His work is a co-op charity affair that employs adults with learning disabilities so the penny drops and I figure he's just here to watch our student train so they can chat about karate on their breaks. As if my life could ever be that easy!

The newcomer keeps wandering about the place, every now and then approaching a student and pointing at their belt if it had come slightly undone. I look around for A cos it's his class and I know he hates when I pull rank and make him feel stupid, he's hiding at the other end of the room so I patiently and politely tell newcomer that I'll sort my own students out and he must sit on the side if he's to remain in the dojo during a class.

We call a water break and go over to the desk to sort paperwork. A is still on 'can't cope' mode so I do the figures and, as I'm totting up, the newcomer approaches us and says something none of us understand. We look at each other confused as he holds out two old-fashioned cameras and says, much more loudly, ' TAKE ONE!' After a good minute or so of 'no thanks, mate', 'we're not allowed to accept gifts' etc., he plonks them on the desk and walks away, stopping only to re-tie the belt of one of our younger students before tipping him upside down. The lad was in fits of giggles so I assumed he also knew this guy and it was just me out of the loop.

A called for the students to get padded up for sparring and they partnered up in two rows. There was an odd number so one of us had to jump in and, as A was padded up and ready before I could even blink (again, tucked away at the far end of the room) I had to take supervisory position. I mentally note that newcomer is engrossed in his pattern making activity again as I tell the class what I want them to practice during the session and call 'hajime!' I still don't know how he managed it but fuck me, the second I set them towards each other, newcomer strides across the room and right between the advancing students!

A, the bastard, deliberately ignores the situation - I have no such luxury. Newcomer is both learning disabled and black but fuck it, I've gone way beyond the realms of political correctness by this point; my students are getting nervous so my training kicks in. I shout 'Yame!' at the top of my voice to call an immediate halt to the controlled violence I had only just instigated and power towards newcomer with my hands in a fence/wedge position and my eyes full of hunters intent. I hear a strong voice say 'Get back over there and stay there or I'll put you outside!' and realise it comes from me, much smaller and less muscled than newcomer but far more scary at that point. A says and does nothing to back me up, newcomer returns to the side of the room and I restart the class as if nothing has happened whilst quietly marvelling at how I'm controlling my automatic adrenalin dump. A mother comes upstairs after class finished and aggressively asks what went on cos her daughter recounted the events in a rather over-dramatic fashion upon being collected. A gets his tongue-stud in a knot so I talk to her and she goes away, appearing satisified with my assurances.

The following day I get an early call from our Sensei asking me to explain what went on as there's been complaints to every member of the hierachy from the parent of a 19yo student and A isn't answering his phone. I've enthusiastically sucked his balls so I know they're small but ffs he does possess a set! Not only did he leave me to sort the situation at the time, he now dumps the official explaining onto me and it's not even my fucking class!

I lose respect for men way too easily, I know this. I've tried really hard to accept that showing some weakness is human rather than a sacking offence but I can't help it, this episode has finally killed anything I felt for A. I forgave his being married and waited for him to sort his head out even tho it meant I wasn't getting any sexual or emotional contact, I was willing to put up with him being a crap shag who I had to fake orgasms for (knowing that praise and education are wonderful things), jeez, I actually read up on the best ways to work with a smaller-than-average cock that came prematurely even when wrapped in the thickest possible condom to try and make it work . I toiled my tits off for this relationship!

Obviously I was mad to do so cos I've finally realised that he's not the man I want to be with and fuck wildly for forever, he's just an arsehole.

With a small dick.


Wednesday, November 1

Random ranty ramblings

Sis is having a hard time dealing with the abuse case, it's affecting her persistently volatile marriage plus she's involved in another court case to do with access rights (also within the dysfunctional collection of oddities that I have to call family) as well as due to start a new job next week so she's very stressed. Understandably, so I offer my usual constant listening and verbal support. Unfortunately this stress coincides with the onset of winter and her husbands annual SAD depressive period, which means that when my ever present ear stops being enough to salve her sensitive soul, she goes into 'let's tell Bitch where she's going wrong in the areas of mothering her children, coping with the case (i.e. drinking), her ex-husband/the current men in her life and not being a productive, tax-paying member of society' mode.

She thinks this is for my own good, she thinks it's the only 'tough love' that I get cos she thinks that no-one else will stand up to me and tell me the truth. I think 'sis, I really do love you to bits but shut the fuck up dumping this shit on me just cos you wallow in the emotion of it and I merely stick my fingers up to it and get on with life cos I have no other choice, much like you're moaning about having to do yourself, eh? And while I'm at it, kindly fuck right off with the 'I'm doing you a favour by saying this' self-righteous tone cos it just makes me want to kick you in the tits.

None of which I can actually say cos I'm the one that just stays strong and laughing while everyone else takes to their bed, fit-of-the-vapours style, with the back of their hand on their forehead or has toddler-style, weeping and wailing tantrums. It has always been thus, since I was firstborn to a woman who's a professional victim I never had the chance to learn how to have a good gnashing of teeth while someone else did the 'there, there' bit, put the kettle on and sorted the kids out. That's not a problem, it just means if I need to offload I have to find alternate means and I have a full complement at my disposal from my years of research. Brandy and coke works well - hell, if I drink enough of it I can sometimes even squeeze a few tears out - a good sparring session or pummelling my punchbag/a set of pads held by a beefy martial artist, journalling (and now blogging, of course), not to mention rampant sex. I sometimes wonder if my quest to get more women into martial arts is less to do with empowering them personally and more about giving them an outlet for their emotions so they don't passive-aggressively take them out on some other poor bastard. Probably both.

I'm getting messages that posting and saving may not work (again! what's occurring with blogger lately ffs?!) so I'll try and post this bit then rant on in another entry cos if I lose any of this I'll be so pissed off!