Friends keep asking me why I named my blog The Butterfly Diaries and why I have not been generous enough to divulge this information to date. Tut tut. Well, to be perfectly honest the story behind the name is so bonkers I was too nervous to share it with you for fear you might dub me a complete fruitloop, but I suppose you think that now anyway.

For about six months before I split up with Mr Was Right I started noticing butterfly symbol after butterfly symbol in the most unlikely places and, as much as my ego kept telling me they had been fashionable for years, the butterflies got more and more obvious, desperately trying to attract my attention like the kids are prone to do when I sit at my computer for too long.

My ever-increasing list of butterfly symbols that have turned up in weird places includes:

. a butterfly sticker on my petrol tank
. a big butterfly embossed at the bottom of a pub umbrella stand
. a piece of paper blowing around at the side of the road revealing an intricately hand-drawn butterfly illustration
. a massive butterfly illustration on the side of a lorry
. a huge gaudy papier mache sculpture on a dingy back wall of a very small and traditional pub leading to the loos.

butterfly illustration

These weren’t the kind of butterflies I was used to seeing decorating Matthew Williamson dresses, Accessorise jewellery and my Toh Sho shopping bags. And why would they appear during huge moments of doubt? It got so ridiculous that I started spotting butterflies or butterfly symbols all day, every day. What were they trying to tell me? That I was being a social gadabout, that I was vain and rather too carefree or was this a kick-ass message about transformation?

Just when I started believing Mr Was Right’s theory that I was suffering from the onset of an early mid-life crisis, I would see yet another one. The red eyed techy guy who came to set up my new computer put a butterfly before my name on my sign in box. A friend gave me his new album which had an illustration of a butterfly unfurling from its cocoon. But it was not until a complete stranger lifted her top up in Victoria Station to reveal the most incredible tattoo of a butterfly on her lower back, said nothing, then walked away, that I surrendered, knowing something or someone was trying desperately hard to get through to me.

‘Power Animal’ specialist and regular Hay House contributor Steven Farmer says the person with butterfly as a symbol can be flighty and quite detached. According to him we love fresh air and have a lot of vitality – which fits if you call smoking a cigarette on your doorstep fresh air and an hour of poledancing practice vitality. Carl Jung tows a more serious line. The synchronicity specialist says that butterfly turns up when our ego consciousness gives way to spiritual consciousness. The Goddess Psyche herself was represented as a butterfly in Greek myth and butterflies are often seen around coffins and said to represent departed souls and the freedom of the soul upon death. I could go on and on but those clever people at Humanity Healing have put it in a lovely colourful nutshell in the following video. So check this out…

http://www.humanityhealing.blogspot.com

The butterfly asks us to accept our fluid lives as casually as she accepts her metamorphosis. She teaches us not to let change freak us out and accept the short life and death of things as we undergo the most difficult transitions in our lives. “But I don’t want to leave my lovely comfy cocoon,” we squeal. “Before I make the leap you must give me a sign, a really BIG sign…” And so she flutters softly into our lives to remind us to go with the flow and surrender to nature’s beautiful way…which is a dangerous philosophy when you are being pursued by a brace of Swedes and a G.

But more on that next time…

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Mr Was Right is around this morning looking super-grumpy and super-tired which explains why the kids are trying desperately to get his attention. “Dad, Dad, can you do this?” says Sid. “Hold your willy in one hand, point your gun in the air and go ‘whooooo, whooooo’.” Mr Was Right attempts a smile, “Sid. That is just what every man would like to do when he wakes up. I’ll definitely try it tomorrow morning.”

He gets our two dressed before chucking a man’s idea of kids’ breakfast down them. 2 Kit Kats, 2 Fruit Shoots and a shared pack of Twiglets later they head off into the misty morning waved off by Mama Tight, who, dressed rather decadently in silk pjs, quietly thanks the God of Separation she won’t have to deal with the additive and sugar-fuelled fireworks going off in the Audi in approximately 1 minute. Screeeeeeeeech…..I shut the door knowing Sid is getting the fourth degree for calling his Dad a “buttcrack” or such like.  

This morning was a toughie. Mr Was Right dropped the bombshell I’ve been dreading for the last 2 months. He told me to – GET A BLOODY JOB. And, well, I kind of had to agree with him. The blog is hardly paying for itself, the kids are at school most of the day and I am starting to feel RSI nerve twinges – thanks to my social media addiction. I need to get out more. Text goes out.

Work is fast becoming a necessity. Any inspired suggestions?

Brrrrr Forget anything child-related, seeing how you lost Jamie the last time I asked you to watch him for 5 minutes in Ikea;)) x Vag

Brrr Given up on the dating site idea then? Xx Janey

Brrrrr With your heels and Dominatrix disposition, you’d make a great door bitch, Ms Tight. Oh and what happened to the pole-dancing? x G

I knew I shouldn’t have told G about the lessons I have been doing on and off for the past 6 months and I know what you are thinking. You need a job. You can poledance. Go figure? Believe me, I’ve tossed that idea around but, while I’ve got nothing against poledancers, doing it for a living would jar with my Goddess principles. Dancing provocatively in front of leery blokes can’t do much for your self-esteem and I haven’t got much of that left these days. It would also probably put me off the male of the species which isn’t really the best position to be in when you are signing up with dating agencies. Besides, who wants a 30 something when there are all those beautiful teenage Croatians, Latvians and Hungarians doing their do in the clubs?

I had better add a few normal jobs to my CV. Not sure former model, kiss n tell blogger, tarot reader, twitterer, jolly good friend, reiki practitioner, pole dancing practitioner and rambunctious raconteur will go down too well in the current job marketplace. Or would it? Can you think of a career that embraces all my finer qualities? Please be kind.