Who Am I?

In the greater scheme of things, I am a nobody. I’m not powerful, popular, famous, celebrated, accomplished, successful, gifted, a role model, icon, spokesperson, mother, teacher, life saver or the holder of any other status that holds mass market appeal or admiration. I am, by comparison to most definitions, an insignificant nobody. I exist on the fringes of acceptability. I matter only to those that selflessly love me despite my lack of recognisable achievement. That, I feel, is an achievement in itself. It’s a testament to the kindness of others in a world where the ‘ordinary’ are often ignored, the ‘average’ are treated as examples of what not to be and the ‘different’ are regarded with suspicion – until they become YouTube hits. After that, they’re either described as ‘amazing’ or ‘freaks’ depending on media and celebrity judgements. It’s a weird world.

I like being me. My invisibility is actually a superpower; there is nothing I cannot do because there is no-one looking long enough to judge or condemn me. I get love from family, which I return in spades. I get encouragement from friends, who accept me as I am… ordinary. I offer these people nothing incredible or coveted. I give them, instead, something unique. I give them me – all 100% insignificant, un-inspiring, un-employed, un-attractive me. And yet they love and like me.

Next time you say you don’t believe in miracles, just look in the mirror. Then ask yourself, is there someone that loves and likes you just for being who you are? I think this may be the biggest miracle of all. There is always someone there to accept us. Even if we don’t always understand why.

Beautiful Grief

I had to attend a funeral today, held in a very old Orthodox church. As the mourners piled in, I found my grief numbed slightly by the beauty of the church. It made me more conscious of the beauty of life. All life. Especially mine. I wondered what I would hope for if I lived long enough to see death coming. Would I make it to old age, where the whisper of the wind becomes a faint calling from the other side; every passing Winter is a warning, every Summer a blessing, every Fall an omen and every Spring a re-birth of the will to live longer to see it all again.

The 94 year old great grandma being buried today was a lucky woman… She made it far longer than most and leaves behind a joyous legacy. Even in me for, as I sat there in the beauty of the church, grieving her passing, I found a will to live my life not for the better but for the moment – the here and now. My life, my present, my here and now, is blessed and beautiful. I just never saw it before. Thank you great Grandma and God bless you for eternity.





Channel Your Inner Kid


Since entering my 30s, I’ve found my desire to paint and draw increase with a passion. Sick of looking at a computer all day, I can’t tell you how good it feels to stop thinking and start doing. Working with my hands has given me a freedom that feels euphoric.

I’ve even started modelling with play-dough, using clay, braiding friendship bracelets and finger painting. I’m loving every second and have even started looking at Arts & Craft courses at local colleges. I dream of gaining a qualification in something like Pottery, Ceramics or Glass Blowing. Quite how I would pursue my skills at home, I don’t know. But I refuse to be put off. It’s not in my nature. At least, it never used to be. I was always admired for my tenacity but then, responsibilities and the weight of life took over and I lost some of my gumption. No more. I want to channel my inner kid and do all the things I enjoy doing.

If someone says ‘No, you can’t do that!’ I’m going to stamp my foot, pout and respond: ‘Why not?’ and then do it anyway. Yes, I have responsibilities. Yes, I shouldn’t be spending any money on my hobbies during the current economic climate. Yes, I should act like a grown up and stick to a corporate career. But… No, I’m not going to do any of that. I’m going to do as I please. I’ve got one life to live and I want it to be in gloriously full colour, as illustrated with paints, chalk, crayons, stained glass and anything else that takes my fancy!

Six Month Experiment Finally Ends (Results Explained Here)

You’d be forgiven for thinking that I hadn’t posted a new blog during the last six months because I’d got bored, was too busy or perhaps had died! In fact, I deliberately decided to stop blogging for six months. Why? Because I needed to see if new posts were the cause of traffic to my page or if they would make absolutely no difference.

Obviously, search terms and tags are hugely important; they are the primary drivers of traffic to my page. But does the date of the blog actually matter? This was what I wanted to know. In a nutshell, I suspected that my lack of regular blogs wasn’t a big issue. But was I wrong? Well, following my six month long hiatus, the answer is “yes” and “no”. Confused? Let me elaborate. It turns out that my overall stats are up year on year. But my monthly hits are starting to decline (since April, which saw a huge rise). Through four months of silence, my blog was going from strength to strength, but for the last two months, it had stated to under-perform (although still enjoyed more visitors than received during same time-period last year).

So, with this in mind, I’ve learnt two things:

1. I missed blogging and it was silly to stop.
2. My tags are my best traffic-driver

Was it worth it? Probably not. Yet, I’m glad that I conducted my little experiment. Go figure!

Why Wearing Spandex Can Be Sexy If You’re A Bloke…

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Let’s face it, every heterosexual girl and every homosexual bloke wants the same thing… a good man who exudes enough chemistry to make you want to rip all your clothes off and sit on his face lap. Add to that a certain charm, bravery and courage, and you’ve suddenly got the perfect guy. Or have you? What if I was to tell you that you need some spandex as well? Confused? Keep reading…

Several years ago, during the course of my work as a PR girl, I came face-to-face with a buff bloke in a red lycra suit, black spankies and a hair-do so quaffed, it wouldn’t move a millimetre in a category five hurricane. I fancied the [shiny] pants off him. Yup, ‘superhero’ Major Victory – his description, not mine – was very delectable indeed. I was so aroused, I spent a full bank holiday weekend locked indoors watching him cavort on the SCI FI channel (as it was then called) in the most bizarre reality TV show – ever. It was the brain child of comic book legend Stan Lee (which explained a lot!).

Suddenly, that old Bonnie Tyler track seemed almost phrophetic: ‘I need a hero / I’m holding out for a hero till the end of the night / he’s gotta be strong / and he’s gotta be fast / and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight.’ ‘Hell yeah’, I thought. ‘That’s what I’m talking about. Bring on the heroes and let them be super. There’s nothing noncy about a man in tights.’ Unless they haven’t been washed first… but that’s a whole other blog.

If you think about it, a superhero kit is nothing more than a uniform, but with a lot more stretch and colour. It’s like looking at your wife in her kinky Ann Summers get up… she puts it on, she takes on a sexy persona and – pow! – a slut is born. It’s the same principle for men wearing lycra. They put it on, do a few stretches, run round the block and a [super] hero emerges. But are we really ready for them?

Superheroes are bold, brave, selfless, sexy, courageous and morally incorruptible. And covered in spandex. Yet, I thought there was nothing remotely attractive about a Fathers For Justice protester clad in a Batman cossie who dominated the news in the same year I met the luscious ‘Major Victory’. So what if he was scaling a building while police helicopters did a loop-the-loop right by his head? In theory, we should have broken out in a hot flush and started gagging for the guy’s number. Instead, most of us frowned sympathetically and thought no more about it.

Modern society just isn’t ready for any superheroes… If I was standing at the bus stop and a man clad head-to-toe in blue lycra suddenly offered me a ‘lift’ with his miraculous power of flight, what would I do? Threaten to headbutt the deviant freak and tell him to clear off, thinking all the while of how ashamed his mother must be. Perverted loser. Harsh, I know, but in this day and age, we’re surrounded by nutters and weirdos… even if the aforementioned freak turned out to be truthful and suddenly shot up into the sky, I’d still be looking around for David Blaine and a camera crew. Worse still, I might run like an Olympic athlete towards the nearest police station, sounding certifiable with my tales of a flying man in Spandex. And then I’d be the one labelled as ‘Loser’.

Really, the only way it’d be cool to fancy a man in fancy dress is if the media embrace him, build him up into the nation’s saviour and he becomes a celebrity. After all, it’s acceptable to lust after an icon – even one in spandex – without people thinking you’re some twisted cow who needs to get out more. Even his mother suddenly feels proud. He sells his story in a multi-million pound book deal, a film is made about his life, he bags a supermodel girlfriend with more bones jutting out than a mass grave genocide pit and he’s completely unattainable to an average girl like me. Yes! That’s the key. It’s the fantasy that’s alluring, not the reality. I like the idea of being with a superhero. I’m just not sure I’d like the reality. It’s the dream of having someone kind and brave and gifted and über-strong for a lover that triggers the tingling session in my spine and other areas.

By remaining a dream, I’ll never be disappointed. There’s no real-life hero who turns out to be a twat when you meet him. There’s just imagination, hope and desire. You can hear it in Bonnie Tyler’s voice as she wistfully belts out: “Where have all good men gone? / And where are all the gods? / Where’s the street-wise Hercules / To fight the rising odds?” He’s probably around here somewhere, but too scared of aggressive female bloggers to ever make himself known…


Hell is not an afterlife,
Hell is a reality.
I’ve walked through its doorway
Of masked duplicity.

I know what it wants,
I’ve seen its hunger and its greed,
For all the souls it has,
These aren’t its ruler’s need.

A soul is not enough.
It still wants to take.
A never-ending appetite,
It feeds on your ache.

Say goodbye to happiness.
So long dear sanity.
Farewell to kindness.
Welcome dishonesty.

Burning all emotion,
Cremating empathy,
Incinerating love,
Bringing apathy.

Charred by its fire,
Strangely feeling cold.
A dark, dank emptiness;
Quickly takes hold.

No more sounds of laughter.
No light through the dark.
Desolation, despair and sorrow.
The world is horribly stark.

To exit through the door,
To leave this world behind,
I died every day,
I had to lose my mind.

Resurrection is a blessing.
I feel safe, alive and wise.
My soul is dead and buried.
A new one forced to rise.

I don’t know who I am.
Can’t say who I will be.
It doesn’t really matter
I finally feel like… me.

It’s All About Me

We’ve all got things that make us individual. By that I don’t mean our genetic make-up or physical appearance. I’m talking about the unique traits and characteristics that make us the quirky and interesting people that we really are.

In my case, I have several stand-out features… I’m deaf in one ear. This is by far the greatest physical gift that God could have given me. Think about it… I get a peaceful, silent night’s kip by sleeping on my good ear… when I’m in the club, cornered by a boring geezer who wants to chat rubbish in my ear – I can let him! I put him on my bad side and strategically nod now and again, hoping that I’m not agreeing to anything obscene. From habit, I lip read so I always look at people’s mouths when they talk rather than into their eyes. When there’s a buff bloke in my face, I don’t even need to chat him up. He instinctively assumes that my lip reading is actually body language for ‘I want you’ and does all the work. Sweet!

Then there’s my one-handed typing. People have tried to stamp out this trait by sending me on various typing courses. Still, I refuse to conform. Why waste two hands on a keyboard when you can type with one and hold your mug of tea in the other? Aren’t we supposed to be the ‘multi-tasking’ generation? And I can type over 70 words per minute so it’s not like I’m typing like a tortoise… It’s a gift I tell you!

And then there’s my relationship with shoes. I need new shoes. Every week. I can’t survive without them. My little feet need to feel the comfort of soft new leather, the pressure of a slim sexy heel, the comfort of a hand-stitched sole… There are shoes out there that call my name as I walk by them in the store. They say ‘Nix, take me home.’ And I do. Quite often, I buy two pairs of the same shoe – one to wear and one to keep, like a piece of rare and beautiful art. If only men were as good looking…

I am truly unique. And I love it.