I am lying in bed in a neck brace watching Foxy Knoxy’s trial in Italy on the TV. How could I have lost it? My Fireman, Stripper and Carousel went without a hitch, I even managed a few Christina Aguilera’s but as I flicked my legs up into my favourite position, the one that always wows my friends, the one that you see in the picture, I got the fear, I told myself I was going to fall and fall I did, right on my head.

What a blinking idiot. I mean, I should know. I am always telling friends to fight the fear and do it anyway. Hours of listening to the genius that is Dr Wayne Dyer on Hay House Radio should have brainwashed me into realizing that the laws of attraction will bring you whatever you want once you are plugged into it – negative or positive. So by saying “I am going to fall”, I should hardly be surprised that ‘by the powers of Greyskull’ the universe would react to my thoughts and send me plummeting to my embarrassing end. Why don’t I ever listen to my own bloody advice? I am always telling the kids to think positively.

Sid and Nancy both started – around the age of two – to develop this human thing we call fear – and I worked out that it was coming from the reactions of people around them, especially me and Mr Was Right – so I changed the way I reacted. Now if Sid falls over I don’t crumple my brow and go “Oooooeeeyeowch”. I smile, lift him up and say , “Great skills stunt boy”. If Nancy gets stuck up a tree and thinks she can’t climb back down, I don’t run to save her, unless she really is in a life threatening situation. I get her to say “I can do it, I can do it” and both kids now say “I can do it, I can do it” and jump from heights that make me and other playground parents squirm while I wait at base camp smiling a big smile, albeit with gritted teeth.

But it’s all very well telling your kids to change their negatives to positives when you don’t do the same yourself. I write in my affirmations book: if things don’t work out the way I plan I won’t try and push them to work anymore, I will say “Sobeit” and submit to the universe’s grand plan. From now on when I swing my legs up on the pole I will say “I can do it, I can do it,” just as, if a friend loses their job, I now say congratulations, if someone dies I crack open the champagne, if someone’s relationship breaks up I now pip, “How exciting, a new one around the corner.” As Dr Wayne Dyer preaches, ” Change your thoughts, change your life.” Like pole dancing you could be surprised at how incredibly liberating you find it.


 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.”


“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?

Vibrating at an extraordinarily high frequency, I feel sexy to the core and whatever is emanating from me is giving off some kind of weird gravitational pull. One guy I know who hardly ever gives me the time of day stops me at the train station to say, “Wow, you’ve changed. There’s something about you. You’re, you’re magnetised.”

“Magnetised? I’m having some freaking Kundalini moment.” I reply. “I’m a volcano about to explode. My husband of ten years has left. My kids are distraught. My whole world is crumbling and yet here I am acting like phoenix rising from the bloody ashes.” By this stage we are on the train, my train guy appears to have been hit in the face with a baseball bat while the rest of the carriage looks on silently, awestruck and more than a bit bemused.

“I’m sorry, I, I didn’t know.”

“No, no-one knows, apart from my closest friends. You are the first person outside my immediate circle I’ve told.”

“What are you gonna do? You still got the house?”

Train guy is going to wish he had never sparked up a conversation with me. As I rant and rant about old life versus new with delicate information I should be saving for the divorce courts I am sucking up the gas from my sweet liberation. And while I feel taller each minute I offload, the rest of the train carriage is mentally shrinking back towards the toilet door.

“Women don’t normally feel so alive when their other half clears out of the bedroom leaving nothing but a few used earplugs and stray pubes scattered inside the bed as evidence he ever existed, do they?”

“Um, well, um, no I suppose they don’t. I mean, I’ve never really asked.”

“I should be sitting in a darkened room, too paranoid to go out. Or sobbing and heading for the fridge.” I turn off the phone playing Rihanna’s ‘Disturbia’ into my pocket then notice a crowd of concerned faces looking panicky in my direction. Can they see something I can’t see? Am I really a female force to be reckoned with or deep, deep down is the fear goblin slowly chewing at my wiring sending me a teensy bit off balance?

I mean for God’s sake since I hit thirty, my boobs have started heading South, I am developing exclamation marks for wrinkles between my eyebrows and am now proud owner of a top drawer full of decaying underwear. What would a man, or men, find attractive about me? If you don’t know it already you are going to find out sooner or later. Giving birth naturally to two kids seriously changes the landscape of your undercarriage. Mine is not the geisha pout it used to be. Not that I need to look South to find out. When I last had a bath with my eight year old Nancy (another Aries) she asked,

“What IS THAT?” squirting bubbles through her lips.

“It’s my – um – flower?” I reply, desperately grappling for a word, having forgotten to consult the manual of PC (parentally correct) retorts.

“THAT is not a flower, Mum. THAT is disGUSTING. YUCH…Can you wear pants the next time you have a bath with me?”

And there ends the short sharp lesson in humiliation from small beings.

Soooooo, if I am really not so sure I want to share that part of me again with anyone sober should I be feeling kind of excited about rejoining the dating scene after 7 years of slow dehydration in the marital Gobi? And what is this incredible vibrating feeling? Has the phone gone off in my pocket again? Has Venus just skipped into my astrological sign? Or is that crazy love mojo meditation I got off Hay House’s Internet radio station actually starting to work?

“You just seem kind of younger, more vibrant, that was all I really wanted to say,” says Train Guy, looking rather sympathetically at me. “I’m sorry if I upset you – must go.” And with that he slopes off at the stop before his usual stop, waves goodbye and plonks himself down on the cold metal station seating. I watch a wave of relief wash over his face as the train pulls away and I leave Train guy waiting half an hour for another train rather than suffer five more minutes of Ms Tight’s relentless ear-bleed chat.