I wake up to see a strange light glowing through my duvet and a rather ominous whirring sound. Peeking tentatively under the covers I discover a four year old boy with a smile on his face pointing his charged up wind up torch straight at my lady bits. “Sid, what the hell are you doing? Go and get ready for school you monkey!” Poor lad, that view could put him off women forever.

I thought the worst humiliation I would ever suffer was when I left my Bunny on the side of the bath and found the bathroom perfectly clean and tidy and my favourite toy moved a few inches by my cleaner. But last week I was called into my bedroom for a magic show performed by magician Sid and his delightful assistant Nancy. Nancy, dressed in an emerald green circus style net skirt and swimming costume turns her arms to introduce Sid with his pyjamas dressed up by a glittery waistcoat as Sid says “Da-Daaaaaaaaar” and pulls something small, pink and plastic out of a hat. “Look at the little bunny ears, watch them move, they’re so cute,” squeals Nancy in delight.

“I really think you need to find a new place to hide your sex aids,” whispers Mr Was Right with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips. Clearly the cupboard in the bedroom with 3 suitcases piled in front of it is not enough to deter young foragers. Time to invest in a safe. A sex safe. Safe sex. But then that makes it all a bit serious. And what if I forget the number?

I send out a text to the ladies:

“Sex aid unearthed by kids this morning. Where the hell do you hide yours?”

Brrrrrrr ….God honey, that’s funny! Go to Babeland they sell lock up sex toy boxes X V

Brrrrr ….lol I bought a hide a vibe pillow a few months ago on ebay. My mum stayed in my bed. I didn’t have enough time to change the sheets and the vibrator I left under the pillow the night before went off when she attempted to lie down. Agggh, Xx red-faced Janey

And I thought my story was bad. I google Hide Your Vibrator and find the Hide Your Vibe Pillow which, I am told, has a secret silky compartment with just enough room to store your favorite toy and a small bottle of lube. All you have to do is “zip it up and toss it on the bed” apparently. Well isn’t that the general idea? You can also buy a sweet fluffy teddy that does the same thing but surely that is just asking for trouble from inquisitive kids?

Pretty up a shoebox says one mummy blogger. Clearly someone who does not have a girlchild with a shoe fetish. As I stumble from webpage to webpage I find something a bit different from Vulvalovelovely on the world famous craft site Etsy – a fanny shaped cushion to hide your favourite accessories. But that’s as obvious as leaving a note on your door saying the cash is under the green towel in my airing cupboard – help yourself – enjoy!

Anyone got any better ideas?

The Chinchillas have had more babies, Jan’s hot-footed it back to Sweden and J is playing hard to get. I check out Facebook to see if he’s on a trip too. Come on, you all do it! Aggh, he’s got messages from women with all kinds of strange profile pics. There’s one from Angel whose bottom is sticking out of bubble bath. I see another from a vixen with a stiletto heel unhooking her G-string and a lady with a Catwoman mask licking latex. This guy is clearly some goddang Pornmeister on sabbatical to fantasy land.

You can tell a lot about a person’s facebook profile so beware what you put out in the ether boys and girls. My friend Angie once lost a contract after someone saw her being rude about them on the social networking site. She had foolishly forgotten she had added them as a friend a few months before. I know we all spy on people these days but I still get freaked out on dates when the person knows my CV better than I do. I think, “I never told you that.” Even my 58yr old singing teacher, who, I might add, I would NEVER date, told me he knew everything about me through the Internet, although he rather creepily pretended he could read me like a book first. I gave up the lessons after that. My favourite story of Internet outing was told to me by my mate Allen who found out a guy was pissing him around with the sale of his house by googling him. After being told the guy could not complete (he was too busy mourning the death of his aunty) Allen found him in some online chat-room saying he was having a great day and about to head off to the pub for a few pints. A few minutes later Allen sent out a rocket of a chat message and within minutes the house sale was back on track and the guy had been publicly humiliated online.

Talking of rockets. I had better make like one as I am off to my first live pole-dancing performance in a few hours. I got into the art of tease to get rid of my cellulite. I also wanted to make my lower half move again after years in the sexual Gobi. Little did I know it would take me to another dimension with all sense of space and time disappearing after 10 minutes on the pole. Music does it to some people, art to others, well pole-dancing does it for me. Of course, I daren’t mention my hobby at Sid and Nancy’s catholic school; most of the Mums and Dads there really are too good for this world. When Sid blurted out “Mummy’s going pole dancing” to one Mum in the park the other day I had to tell a porky (thankfully I am a Buddhist if anything so I won’t need to head for the confession booth). I told her I do folk dancing in Ealing following recommendations from my Polish mum in law.

It’s a full moon tonight and, being a bit of a lunar loony, I know this is not only going to affect me but the audience as well. There’s a reason why Full Moon festivals came into being. Hardcore festival-heads know too well that we all have an urge to to bang a drum and wave a glow stick when the moon is in full glow. But feeling in more of a party mood is not the only side effect. We have problems sleeping, the police have more trouble dealing with anti-social behaviour and psychiatric hospitals report patients get that little bit more crazy when the moon is a balloon. Even the most avid disbeliever can see the Science bit. If the moon changes the way the sea works it must have some kind of effect on our own bodies of water.

I have a diary which charts the phases for me. Moon diary tells me that the waxing phase, from new moon to full moon, is the time that we are at our most outgoing and positive but as the moon then wanes we should put our more quiet and reflective heads on. It was Lovely Liz who got me into moon phases. One morning when the St John’s Wort and meditation was having about as much effect as a smile on a traffic warden, I did what I normally do when I feel low and trotted off to her flat to dump my troubles at her door.

“It’s the double moon, she said. It’s been happening to everyone.” No hint of a “Come on in, sit down, have a cuppa and tell me about the bastard,” oh no, let’s just get straight to the heart of the matter and blame the moon. In myth the Moon is said to rule things like feelings, intuition, fertility and creativity and nowadays even those who come up in hives at the mere mention of crystals, can appreciate there’s truth in what my friend says. Many winemakers, fishermen and hunters go by the lunar calendar and women’s cycles are synchronised with madame moon. So why don’t we pay more attention to it?

“Listening to feelings and hunches requires quiet time, something we rarely give ourselves these days, Abi,” sighs Liz.

Quiet time is something I value more than anything since I had children. Anyone who knows me well will have heard that I meditate for half an hour every day. They might even say, as they do to me, that it has made me a more relaxed person and seems to have halted the ageing process. But heading off into an altered state is not on my to do list today as I sashay off to wow a small crowd of full moon crazed punters with my fireman, carousel and trapeze moves. Power to the moon and power to the pole! Wish me luck tonight…

I heard on my DAB this morning that the most popular line ever sent off to the personal ads was from a medic.  It read “Lady doctor loves to laugh in bed”. In seven words she put across her intelligence, her caring nature (well, she’s a doc), the fact she was a good laugh and a suggestion that she was probably up for it – attributes which, according to dating experts, are handy to plug if you are going to date a man. The hundreds of guys who instantly applied to meet her was testimony to the genius of the one liner.

Others did not fare so well. Less fortunate was the “Tall, well-built woman, with good reputation, who can cook frogs’ legs, appreciates a good fuschia garden, classical music and talking without getting too serious,” who added to her framed advertisement as an aside, “but please only read lines one, three and five”. Lady, you’ve lost me.

Forget signing up for the courses with the Catch a Man and Keep Him gurus, reading men’s personal ads will give you a heap of clues as to what a guy is looking for.  Here’s one of the top ten most bizarre personal ads that made me giggle (yes I am a girl and I do read top tens!).

“Single male searching for double-jointed supermodel, must own her own brewery and grow her own pot. Access to free concert tickets a must, as is having an open-minded twin sister.” Which, when it comes to tugging heartstrings  worked a little better for me than, “Have Viagra, need woman, any woman from 18-80.” Wayhey, sign me up for that dude immediately – can’t wait to introduce Mr. Desperado to my friends. 

One year I gave Mr. Was Right a year’s subscription to Esquire for Christmas. My favourite bit of our top loo read was the Brutally Honest Personals. Does Esquire still print the page where men and women write in with 250 wds rubbishing themselves in public? While I suspect a member of the editorial team may have been responsible for making most of them up they certainly pressed my funny button. “Before I got married, I kept the names of men I slept with in a binder. I have herpes, but I don’t give it away,” is one that particularly sticks in my mind.

Well now it’s my turn and I am as lost for words as a disappointed contestant in Dragon’s Den.

“I’m clever, kind, I care and laugh when I come! Date me.” Desperate.

“Butterfly maiden, ready to wake up from her cocoon.” Too esoteric.

Forget it. I’ll send out a clarion call to friends on Facebook asking them to pitch. You can help too if you want.  Just add your comments under this week’s  blog. After all it would be churlish to throw away the opportunity of tapping  into all you clever people out there in the ether.

Bye. Yep. Bye. See you ….I flop back on to the door to close it as jumbled thoughts race through my mind at lightning speed. The man I married 12 years and 62 haircuts ago is outside revving up the engine on his new silver Audi A6 saloon, clearly not in the best mood following his sharp exit. After 18 months of screaming, tears, therapy, tears, separation chat, tears, divorce papers, tears, my drinking partner, friend, enemy, co-creator of too many things that mean so much in my life, the only man to ever buy me a vibrator and say I love you to my fanny has – finally – yes, finally checked out.

How do I feel, how DO I feel? I mean people will ask, they are bound to. I don’t know. Excitement, fear, free, lonely, fucked. Fuck. FUCK! Nothing. I feel nothing. The text goes out.

“A rather teary-eyed Mr Bojangles has left the building.”

Bojangles is what friends call him on account of his wedding dancing – although, my Bojangles is admittedly more David Brent ‘Renaissance man’ than celebrated Harlem Hoofer. I slam the phone on the Knoll (table) and am greeted with a brrrrr minutes later…

“Coffeeeee m’dear?xxxxxx”

Brrrrrr…”Y’ok chick?:)))))))x”

Brrrrr…”Well what do you expect from a guy whose moon is in Cancer?;)Lx”

Brrrrr…”Did he take the bloody chinchillas with him? lol xx”

“Nope, left carrying two suitcases, guitar, much-loved signed photo of Neil Young and favourite houseplant.”

“So, honey, how do you feeel?” bleats ever-so-concerned mate Angie (Gemini) over a cup of camomile tea and homemade scone half an hour later. Oh Lordy. I knew I should have dropped by to see a male friend. A male friend would never ask how you feel. They don’t want to know the emotional stuff. They’d put a practical slant on it. What you gonna do? You still got the house? Did he take the Audi? Who’s he shagging?

Brrrr. Twitter, link to photo. Up pops the side of a bus with an advert for Ann Summers latest lube. At last a bit of light relief. Virginia , aka V or Vag (another Aries), probably did a small wee in her pants sending that one.

“Thanks V, needed that! BTW, when is it sensitive to erase the married on facebook?”

Brrrr. “Now Chick, now. Bite the bullet, just DO it and none of that ‘it’s complicated’ business! Live your truth laydey:)))

You think when you separate that that is that – you’ve scaled the mountain – hard part over. But, while I have adapted to the rot of our relationship after a year’s slow composting, none of my family has the slightest clue. Who first? Tell Charlie, my sister, and it’ll be on Loose Women by lunchtime. Tell Mum and I’ll get the lecture with her life as the master-plan. Poor Dad will just cry and worry about my safety. And, because I don’t want to go into massive detail, at what point can I cut the conversation short and put the phone down without seeming like the world’s most heartless bitch?

It’s going to be painful. My family thought our marriage was perfect. They loved him more than me. They didn’t see the creases in our relationship I tried so desperately for years to iron out: his lap dancing receipts, the longer and longer lunch breaks, the workaholic, monosyllabic man I played house with, the ‘bitch’ rants after a few whiskies. And what are HIS family going to think when they find out I wasn’t exactly Mother Theresa myself?

“I must change the sheets.” Oh Lordy. I’m talking to myself out loud already. I’ll be investing in a brace of cats next like some of my thirty-something friends. I reach for the fridge, get out a half-drunk bottle of chilled Prosecca and sit at the Knoll with my dog-eared deck of Goddess oracle cards designed by world-renowned clairvoyant and Doc of psychology Doreen Virtue (Yes,that is her real name).

As I shuffle the pack one flips out …Butterfly maiden…I flick through the book….

 Transformation

“Ain’t that the truth.” Scheisse, I’m talking out loud again.

You are experiencing enormous change right now which brings great blessings. Be part of nature’s cycles of birth, death and rebirth. Allow old parts of your life to fall away. This Hopi Native American Spirit will guide you through this time of transition and help you spread your wings.

Brrrrrrr…”Hey U, Cum 4 drnk – celebratn time. xG ”

“Can’t G , too much to do,” I text. “Letting dust settle, getting to grips with divorce thang.”

“Get to grips tomorrow. Things look better in the morning. xx”

“Spose you’re right. Should be out painting the town .” G.