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…

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So you want to know how the story ended with Mr Sweden? Come on I know you have been itching to hear all week, and what a week! Jan and Joachim have texted and emailed with fighting talk. In a nutshell, Jan has decided he is going to be in charge of the talking and J is in charge of the naughty stuff. What are these Scandos like? The email trail has become so hysterical I feel duty bound to share a few extracts thus far following on from a sharp retort I sent after they dubbed me their “mutual girlfriend”:

From J To Jan, Abitight

Abeeee..You’re just full of surprises .. A characteristic we both value!

Explanation .. Me, Scared? Hun, you can’t build a sentence with those words and include my name .. It just doesn’t work 😉 Well ok, seeing as you are such a fab chick, I’ll try to explain what was going on in my head (remember the marbles had still not come back home at the time). Jan’s nickname for you is now “our mutual girlfriend”. I believe he sees it along the lines of him taking care of the talking, which only leaves me with the naughty stuff, but I can live with that, since he’s my best mate and you are just awesome. OK back to the explanation …

Jan is, correction, WAS my stylist .. Haven’t told him yet but he’s fired! It’s now every man for himself 😉 This stuff about tripping each other on the way to our double date, which should have turned out differently if you had pulled a date for Janny as instructed. Focus baby!

OK, OK back to the explanation .. I was merely looking to stir up some fun by sending the text to both of you .. I gather now it was somewhat far-fetched or possibly just way too brilliant .. Jan replied “what?” You replied “I’m confused” .. So, it didn’t work .. You choose the reason, I am from a neutral country 🙂

J x

From Jan To J, Abitight
J, you are the most confusing person I know… Why the hell have you fired me???
You picked up Abi after being styled by me. After that, it´s been downhill. Me and Abi have a much deeper relationship than a cave man like you could ever understand. I will keep an eye on you two…Looking forward to Abi fixing me up with a hot date nearer the end of the week

jan the man xx

From AbiTight to J, Jan

Hey Jan…Looks like the hot date might just be you and me the way J is behaving, although I am not sure I really believe his hard man act! I think he’s bonkers about me.

This is all a bit Swedish. When I am not laughing, I am feeling a tiny bit scared!

X Abi

Since you are wondering, I never went to bed with either of them following that Mansion night. While they were waiting for a taxi I slunk off in my heels and walked home without even a kiss goodbye, which got me top points for adding to mystique from Virginia and J and Jan, who had slipped his business card into my pocket an hour or so earlier. I texted the next day, Jan passed on J’s number, J was clearly text-cited and fixed up a date for three TO-NIGHT. The RSVP that I am not into threesomes had clearly not put him off. I figured that was probably what they were angling for in the first place.

“What!” yells Virginia, on our regular roller-skating jaunt around the park. “You turned down two gorgeous Swedish men for what could have been the most amazing experience of your life? Abi, Abi, Abi…my cousin Tarka swears by threesomes. She’s had two guys on a leash for the past year. They visit her once a month, everyone knows where they stand, no-one gets hurt and Tarka says it is the best sex she has ever had.”

“I’d just be too busy laughing to concentrate on the job in hand,” I say. “Plus they’d be discussing the old Venus fly trap the next day. It would make me paranoid. Besides I got a real date instead. Who knows where it may lead?”

J says as Janni is only in town for the weekend he is coming and asks if I can bring someone else. I had Janey ready to go up until five mnutes ago but she’s called to say her baby is sick and her blokie won’t let her go as he’s too nervous to be left with the baby alone so here I am Abi-no-mates, sitting in a restaurant between two drop dead gorgeous guys. Fantaseeeeee Isssssllllllllannnnnd.
“You really let Janny down, Abigail,” says J half-joking while squeezing my knee.

I try to make up for my lack of attractive girlfriend by paying Jan lots of attention. Turns out he works as a location scout internationally for a famous fast food company although it clearly grates on the guy as he tells me it is his job “to make people fat”. No wonder he jumped at the chance to eat sushi tonight. J, meanwhile, is unemployed having recently been made redundant by a company who staffs hotels and fancy apartment blocks. I give them the whole Abi Tight sob story over a sushi platter before J pipes up.

“Spearmint Rhino??”

Well of course I couldn’t say no. Remember Mr Was Right’s receipts? I had to witness first-hand what he saw in the place.

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…

 I’m going to dust down the cobwebs and shake my booty at the Mansion tonight. This supposedly super-chic restaurant set in a small excuse for a mansion and overlooking a  park famed for flashers and a surplus of dog plop is doing so badly for punters on account of its rather tasteless decor that its manager leases it out to club promoters once a month. I tried eating here once but the smell of the fish glue they used to stick the orange rubber flooring down kind of overpowered the sushi. I later heard from my DJ friend Salamander, that the guy who bought this place is into gimp attire and sado-masochism. OK so this is one place I won’t be scouting for work. As open-minded as I think I am I can’t work for a guy who walks around on all fours attached to a lead for fun. Still, the club nights are wicked and it’s the only place close enough to walk home from after getting my dance fix.

Tonight I have gone for chic rather than foxy. I am wearing my favourite part-suede part-patent purple and blue Miu Mius, a midnight blue Vanessa Bruno dress and the hair is up and back and styled with To Sho bands in an Audrey Hepburn stylee do. “You told me to dress sexy,” says my Polish au pair friend Kasia (Cancer), “You look so smaaaarrt.” If by smart she means I don’t look kinda slutty which Kasia has gone for, her low cut leopard print dress flashing a pair of boobs which are so tightly pushed together she looks like she has a bum on her chest, then she’s right. Our idea of sexy is clearly very different but, kerching, mine seems to be pulling in the boys.

I get us a couple of JD and Cokes. “The man at the end of the bar would like to buy you a bottle of champagne,” says the  latex-loving owner who must be short-staffed since he is working as barman tonight.  I look to my left and spot a 5 foot troll of a man dressed in a kind of Miami Vice get up with the sleeves rolled up on his pastel pinstripe jacket and long ginger hair tied back in to a limp pony tail. He starts waving and gesturing for me to come over. He clearly doesn’t recognize me. “Thanks but I’m sorted,” I shout to the person I last saw picking up his daughter from Nancy’s school. Good God, I talk to his gorgeous wife all the time. I’ll never be able to look her in the face again.

And just as tonight is starting to unravel and look like the biggest mistake since Gordon Brown  I spy the most drop dead gorgeous man walking into the room. The people dancing close to me seem to go into slow motion as I turn, he smiles, I flash a smile with a Princess Diana duck of the eyes back and Mr 6ft tall, dark and handsome sidles over.

“Hi, you here with friends?” I say

“Yes I am, madame, you having fun?”

He has a lovely accent, the bluest eyes and dark, dark spiky hair.

“Where are you from? “ I ask, unable to decipher the accent.

“Sweden by way of Italy.”

I’m in fucking heaven!!

“I’m Joachim. What’s your name.”

“Abi”

“Abeeeeee, I’m in fucking heaven. Come and meet my friend Jan,”

 We walk towards an equally gorgeous but blond man I take to be Swedish too. The next twenty minutes is taken up with two guys fighting over me by trying to outcharm me and outwit each other. Who cares if this is possibly some kind of Swedish line-up for a threesome? I’m loving it. Kasia has gone home with the gimp owner/barman and I am here with two guys who look like they just dropped straight off the catwalk. Looks like I am following the Dalai Llama’s philosophy to the letter but when did Happy feel this Good?