“A HANDBAG?” With apologies to Oscar Wilde…


I do love a handbag… they don’t have to be a designer brand, I have no use for dainty Chanel bags, although I love the perfume – I like big bags and I cannot lie…(sorry.)

When I was a little girl, I used to detest the pastel frilly dresses my mother inflicted upon me and couldn’t wait to change into jeans or trousers because they had pockets. And what do you do with pockets – why, put things in them of course!

I think I was about fourteen when I realised I could make the transition from pocket junk to a handbag, mainly for the purposes of being able to carry more stuff around with me… And yet I still use my pockets. They generally contain the crystal of the day, tissues, cat treats, phone, spare hair elastic…

My current handbag was a birthday present from my mother, a useful size with handy zips and compartments. A quick inventory of its contents follows, just for curiosity… my son is actually afraid of going in my handbag – in case he never makes it out alive…although if my handbag is left lying around, generally a passing cat will use it as a temporary resting place.

Photo-0109Who let the cat out the bag?

Here goes: perfume, body spray deoderant, hand sanitiser, hand wipes, tissues. (The bathroom section..) A paper plate, sachet of wet catfood, cat treats, hairbrush, three notebooks, address book and diary. Four pens, a selection of handbag crystals and a crystal guidebook, stress relief tablets, hayfever tablets and painkillers. And a packet of pink paper napkins with cacti on – my latest addiction – collecting paper napkins. In fact, they deserve a post in themselves…

But oh dear, what a lot of rubbish I carry around with me! Keys, moisturiser… no, I think that’s it, actually. But these, to me, are all items that I need, that make life a little bit more comfortable and nicer, just to have all these little essentials – to me, at any rate – on hand.


I think, perhaps also, my bag love could stem from my homeless days when you had to travel light and have all your essentials with you at all times… not unlike boarding school really, now I come to think of it!

And at least with handbags there’s none of that annoying tissue fluff that spreads over every item of clothing if you happen to forget and leave one in your pocket when you put your clothes in the washing machine.

Right. Time to put notebook and pen away in my bag… – ooh! Bonus handbag sweetie… tucked away in a corner… !


“Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby…”

21706327_113092622769487_1471741883_oI found this sculpture when I was poking about at Lizian’s. It’s called ‘Infinite Love’ and I think it’s beautiful 

PLEASE NOTE: This post is different from my usual posts as I do mention adult and sexually explicit themes. People who are under age or who may find the subject matter offensive, please don’t read as I would hate to upset you, and normal service will be resumed in the next post. Thank you x

Well. That was … an education. A few days ago, I watched some of a programme called “Monster Cocks”… I thought perhaps it would be a programme about a new breed of chicken – it was on a normal television channel. Obviously I was totally wrong. Obviously.

It was about gentlemen who have very large… cocks!!! (Picture me giggling immaturely at the use of this word…) There is, however, more to this (why is everything sounding rude…) than meets the eye – the enormous appendage may give the owner some bragging rights, but there are quite a few practical difficulties.

The man with the largest penis (13.5 inches) has clothing issues – he used to have to wrap it around his upper thigh and then put his trousers on. Three men with penises ranging from 11.5 to 13.5 inches found considerable success in the porn industry; but their personal lives, for all their excessive genitalia, fell sadly short of expectations.


Now. When a man and a woman love each other very much… oh, I’ll just SAY it! Your average woman simply cannot accommodate a penis of those proportions! Picture the metaphorical guardian of CrystalCats private property scurrying back across the bridge, running indoors, slamming the gate, lowering the portcullis, locking the door, hiding the key and then peering out anxiously from behind net curtains… as the owners of these priapic prizes explained the physical difficulties behind a more intimate relationship… rather like having a Lamborghini Aventador and not being able to drive. (I can’t drive, but then I don’t have a Lamborghini either…) You simply cannot insert something of that size into another human being without doing them serious internal damage.

Also, the amount of blood required to maintain a full erection in a penis that size meant that its owner felt light headed and couldn’t have sex anyway because he didn’t feel like it any more… mixed blessing indeed… Apparently there is something called a “cock ring.” No. Not chicken jewellery. A man puts it around the base of his penis and it helps to prolong and intensify sex.


I really feel that I have had a sheltered life – I’m not a stupid person as I am well aware of the mechanics of sex, you can safely assume I had it at least twice myself since I have two children (my son stuck his head round my bedroom door while I was watching this and was highly amused by the expression on my face…) but everything really does seem sexualised now sooner and sooner. Rather like seeing Easter eggs in the shops the day after Christmas…

I don’t have any particular hang-ups about sex, but it just seems all about the ferocity and action of it, “shagging” like “studs” as oppose to seducing like lovers… This programme also mentioned various statistics, like 60% of men fantasise about dominating women… what? Seriously? It would be a brave man who attempted a Mr. Grey on my arse..

Sex, rather than a mutually enjoyable activity does seem to be portrayed in some aspects, like reality shows, about the power play, but it’s the ultimate in bodily invasion really. Whatever happened to the delicious balance of trust, the delicate eroticism of a look, a shared smile and the knowledge that he knows that you know exactly the power of a touch, how he can touch you and make your knees melt and pulse race… or gentlemen, think about it, the simple pleasure of having a lady lay her hand on your chest to feel your warmth and have your heartbeat quicken; far more intimate and erotic than a mere good hard shag. Although I suppose that has its place.

Perhaps I’ll just have a cup of tea.


(Also, I must add, for my own peace of mind – ALWAYS USE PROTECTION!)

Sodalite And Sympathetic Cats


Generally speaking, cats aren’t known for their sympathetic natures. For example… I have done one of my “Oops Mummy fell over a fairy” comedy falls and the cats present have looked at me as if I’m not right in the head…

I have been on the receiving end of one of Lily’s Murder Mittens that has left me tearful and bleeding…

Charlie! Look what that little b*&%$ did!”

And I have received the reply:

Well, I don’t think she really wanted the flea treatment…”


But also a sympathetic lick across my scratched hand. Unless she was just tasting my blood.

I do like it when you have your hand near a cat when they are having a quick wash and brush up – quite often you will find yourself on the receiving end of a sympathetic lick…

Poor woman – hasn’t the first idea about personal hygiene…” (I do. Really.)

There have been times though, when I have been low or sad, and I would like to think that my girls realise this, and come to offer me sympathy and comfort with their furry purring warmth.

There is real sympathy, empathy and emotion between animal and human at these times, something to be treasured, encouraged and nurtured.

Sodalite can be used to promote these bonds of communication: as it is blue, it works with the throat chakra to bring compassion and emotional intelligence. It’s a good crystal to use in group sessions as it promotes emotional balance and understanding.


It itself, Sodalite possesses the inherent quality of sympathy as it works with you, gently encouraging self-acceptance without judgement, sympathy without pity, fitting neatly into the crystal rainbow repertoire as the metaphysical “Agony Aunt”…

And who hasn’t shared their problems with a warm furry comforter, and felt better?


Or… “Animal Tails”…?


Here’s the start of my other option… how does this compare to “Dream”?

The Beginning…

Why is it that the colour palette of childhood memories remains so vivid in your mind’s eye, so poignant, so carefully delineated…my very first memory involves a cat, and from that day to the present I have usually been accompanied by a cat or two. Or three. Currently four…

My very first cat, my very first friend was Snoopy, a large black cat, who was originally a gift from my father to my mother. She however, has resolutely remained a “dog” person so Snoopy, by default, became my particular friend and comfort.

I was born in the seventies, not so far removed from the Golden Age of Hippydom, the Summer of Love and Psychedelia, but very different in terms of attitudes as strikes, unrest and power cuts made the news. For me though, it was a time of learning and sharing, an establishing of my own little foothold in the world around me.

My first memory then, my waking into being if you will, involves the sort of day we all remember from being a child: golden, dusted with magic and sunshine. On this day, I remember very clearly, bunching my fists in my cat’s furry armpits and hauling him upright to walk with me.

I remember so very clearly – I was maybe about two or three – the thick plushness of Snoopy’s fur, soft as love, the smooth cotton of my dress – blue with white flowers – and the springy dry feel of grass under my bare feet. The colours were bright and crisp, so bright you could taste them and smells – I wish I could bottle the scents of childhood, the golden days of summer when the sun shone, the sky was blue and the Earth gently baked.

Snoopy walked tippytoes with me, good naturedly and patiently. He was the first in my long and usually rewarding association with animals, my first introduction to the value of their friendship and love. He went on to be my best friend, dressed uncomplainingly in dolls clothes and a major player in my childhood adventures in the theatre of my imagination.

The sun was high overhead and the clouds were white and puffy, like cotton wool or cold candy floss that you could reach up and pull down by the handful to eat. At that age, every day is an eternity, a page waiting to be filled, a story just beginning…

The Letter


Don’t ask for my secrets
And I won’t tell you lies.

Don’t look in my eyes
There is no surprise.

You birthed me, you held me
And what do you see?

A rival? A victim?
You took everything.
What’s more – I let you.

I didn’t know – how could I see?
Dead from your past
You poisoned me.

The one who should love me
Above all other –
Don’t look at me and expect

Lotus And Laughter


I was at once drawn to this beautiful stone… I have a crystal point necklace in it and I was very taken then, by the gentle greens and greys of this member of the jasper family.


I owe them an apology actually – I dismissed all of them out of hand at one point simply because I wasn’t immediately drawn to Red Jasper… and now they are having the last laugh, laying out their bounty of crystals from Ocean to Polychrome… like a tempting metaphysical cheeseboard… without any of the side effects I seem to have acquired after eating cheese, like double vision and a blinding headache.

Anyway… this palmstone is about the size and thickness of a digestive biscuit, a wonderful mix of translucent green and grey, two of my favourite colours, with a delicate overlay of black spots.


Jasper is a great crystal for comfort and relaxation, so it is sometimes also called the Supreme Nurturer. It’s highly protective and a stone of balance – you’re balanced in yourself, Mind, Body, Spirit, then you can heal more completely and easily.

Lotus Jasper in particular, will bring peace and calm, evoking your ability to relax and deal with difficult situations. It’s healing and soothing, and good to work with for grief, restoring balance to the heart chakra.

Humour and laughter bing balance to Life – it’s not all doom and gloom after all. My son has the ability to reduce me to tears – through laughter, of course, and I find my cats an endless source of laughter. I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that sometimes I provide as much laughter for them as they do me…


I’m usually away with the fairies most of the time, and therefore the perfect subject for stealth attacks. An under-the-bed ambush is guaranteed to produce a rewarding scream of fright and leap in the air – followed by the tap-tap-tap of claw paws running away…

Ha ha! Got her a good one there!”

Has anyone else ever experienced the crushing weight of panic in a dream and as you struggle back to consciousness with ever-increasing desperation you become aware that no, you really can’t breathe, there’s an awful weight on your chest, perhaps you’re having a heart attack and somehow there’s a terrible smell of catfood …

Brrp!! Hi! Were you sleeping? Not now – ha ha ha!”

Then Tooty kicks you in the face as she jumps off your chest restoring breath …


Cats definitely have a more subtle sense of humour than dogs… Dogs – at least, my mother’s dogs – are more “Hey, look! I’ll knock you six feet in the air – that’s funny!” And then they jump on you while you are lying on the floor considering whether to call an ambulance or just cut out the middleman and go straight to the undertakers…

So yes. I think living with me, my cats have enough to laugh at and so I can pride myself on my sophistication – if I’m enough to make a cat then I must be pretty cool… I think.

Or is the joke on me…?


Cookers. Just Don’t

21460040_173122433242964_27392622_o (1)

I’ve had one of those weeks really. The best part of it has been taken up with the melodrama of my mother’s cooker… her old one was quite an elderly beast, nearing the end of its natural lifespan. However, the crisis came somewhat sooner than expected when it began tripping the main fuse in my mother’s house whenever she switched the oven on.

She looked at me accusingly…

What? I didn’t do it!”

Don’t be stupid, Samantha, I want to know what did!”

She was obviously assuming that I had somehow acquired a degree in Electrical Engineering from somewhere… by process of careful elimination, though, I was able to ascertain that it was definitely the cooker that was tripping the fuse, and nothing else, like the washing machine, for example, or a blown lightbulb.


My mother pooh-poohed my tentative diagnosis, so the council was called to check the house wiring. The electrician that arrived confirmed my suspicions that in fact an element in the oven had blown which was causing the rest of the electric to switch off via the circuit breaker for safety reasons (oh yeah I know what I’m talking about!) and that my mother would have to buy a new cooker. My heart sank.

Buying white goods with my mother has its own particular set of pleasures since she hails from the school of thought that you should be able to get the all-singing all-dancing latest model and still have change left from a hundred quid. Ha.

Having ascertained that there was no possible way my mother could cram an Aga into the space in her kitchen designed for a reasonable sized electric cooker, we managed to select a suitable model for a reasonable price from a certain shop who shall remain nameless (think of a Greek hero looking for a golden fleece and you’re halfway there…)

Delivery was arranged for as soon as possible, which happened to be ten days away but Mother has a microwave and we would be able to manage..( “Couldn’t you get them to bring it sooner, Samantha..?” HOW? When they have to bring it straight from the warehouse and don’t happen to have one already knocking about under the desk…)

The great day arrived… as did the cooker. Faulty. I’m not joking. Aside from anything else, it was just a fraction too wide to fit in the allotted space, so we had to remove the fitted cupboard. But once in situ, the oven made a noise like a particularly bad-tempered tank and yes – you guessed it – blew the electric.

I was a little annoyed, but putting my newly acquired and completely hypothetical electrical knowledge to the test, I was able to deduce that it was in fact a faulty oven, rather than a problem with the actual wiring of the house. I duly made the ‘phone call to arrange a replacement product for the following day. (Why? Why did she have to wait ten days for the first one and yet they could arrange another one for the next day..? Hmm..)


The next day came. According to my mother, the delivery men were a lot more careful the second time, even taking the outer packaging off for her. Once again, we gathered, the court assembled, waiting for its king… the cupboard had been fully removed, the floor cleaned, the relevant wires connected up and the cooker just needed to be pushed gently into position…

My mother leant forward and tenderly removed an errant piece of cellotape from the front of the gleaming appliance… and… the door fell off. Seriously. I couldn’t make it up if I TRIED.


What?! I didn’t do it!!”

And now we are waiting… for another replacement… another delivery. Me? Oh…I’m hiding. My phone’s switched off…shhh….

21458593_173122279909646_1359111582_oYes. I know. The pictures have absolutely no relevance to the text… Just made me feel better to look t something pretty…