In a book about how to be an adult in relationships by David Richo, I learned about the five A’s - appreciation, affection, attention, acceptance - with these four in place, we can have the fifth of allowing the object of our desire to leave our presence without feeling like catastrophe beckons. Even better, we find ourselves in a place in our lives where the five A’s are present from multiple sources, so we’re not so dependent on one mere human to contribute to our sense of being loved and whole. I could only ever remember three A’s at once. I had Post-it notes in my glasses cases for a while, then gave up trying to remember all five. I’m not very good at long traffic directions either, remembering anatomy, my friends’ kids' birthdays or the twelve astrological houses.

I wonder what being in a polycule might feel like. More support, more love, more folx to rely on? Yet there’s nothing like being the centre of someone’s attention to create a feeling of devotion. Are the two compatible? I don't see how. It feels like attention would be constantly split. And the emotional labour of maintaining a polycule seems like it’d be off the scale.

What if this change of direction allows me to be the bohemian queen, the artist and sexual intellectual? What if this unwanted and unexpected transition is truly for me?

Have I said how much I dislike voicemail? VMs for diary arrangements particularly drive me mad. Voicemail is for when it’s too complex for text; I use them sparingly, and listen intermittently. Thank god for the Transcribe function. I love short texts for simple arrangements. I’m less interested in niceties, your dinner, small talk or emotional processing by VM. And while I’m on my soapbox, leaving me a mini podcast and expecting me to remember and respond to all the points is best saved for a conversation. Or perhaps another more appreciative person. If you leave me a pointless endless voicey, it may not be your day.

I’m blessed to know a great many healers. Through gift exchange, payment and pure kindness, I’ve received so much lately: from bodywork, bioresonance, and homoeopathy to writing down how much I hate my mother with no disclaimers, and now I need to burn the evidence. I’ve no idea what, if anything, will work. Bringing it all to bear is a gathering of good intentions.

Breaking free from the insecurities that boringly routinely dog me took a friendly service-Dom. He listened, counterbalanced the inner critic with well-chosen genuine compliments so I didn’t feel like too much smoke was being blown up my ass, then tied me. In the untying, he encouraged me to break free of the ropes. I’ve felt lighter in myself since.

In a Shamanic journey to meet my goddess archetype, I met Medusa for the first time. I had to look her up. A mortal rather than a goddess, she symbolises feminine rage. No wonder she’s mad, after being raped by Poseidon and cursed by Athena for defiling the temple. If you want turning to stone, I’m apparently your woman with fury in a glance. I may not embody or feel rage very often, but maybe it’s a sign to have a Medusa piercing? Subtle bolshiness and a brave move at my age. I've had my thinning hair cut; is this the next step?

I want to push your edges. I’ll hurt you if you like. Ask me.

Seduction is my second nature. Even when I don’t want to seduce you, I don’t know how not to. I’m after the essence of magnetic potential, rather than the downright dirty of sex. Anyway, let’s be kinky friends at least.

I’m inspired in many places. I met a man recently on a bus who’d had prostate cancer. Not the kind of guy who’d ever be a friend of mine, we got chatting, and he told me he was off for a few pints with his mates on a Saturday. He said he used to just say “Fine,” then he didn’t have to explain or share with people what was really going on.

Who would have thought that being wrapped in cling film could be so relaxing? Crossing my arms against my body, the first part of me to feel wrapped, supported and held in place, they could let go. Then my tummy and my pelvis, each feeling contained, they could relax the held tension. I began to zone out from what was happening. As my legs, then feet, were wrapped tightly, they didn’t need to hold on anymore.  Cocooned from head to foot, my partner in Saran wrap kink could sit at a distance and witness their good work as I sunk deeper into silence and relaxation. Being cut out of the clear plastic mummification, it felt too soon to go back.

Romanticising pointless suffering is all too easy. How else do we make the case for staying in painful relationships? If all we have are excuses for others', or our own, poor behaviours, it’s time to stop romanticising and start getting real. What’s real, what's romantic? What’s love? What’s asked for? Differentiation is key.

I’ve tried to impose my version of a future in every relationship. Those boyfriends that didn’t work out had different ideas for their future, apart from the ex-Marine who was looking for a new queen to serve. Yet I couldn’t stand his servility. Beyond the boring old, oft-repeated tales of derring-do, the lack of awareness around his giving-to-get became intolerable; I also came to notice, and dislike, the way he ate; clinking cutlery violently noisily against the plate as if he still lived in a mess. My body liked his though. We mitigated much of the potential contempt and imprisonment of lockdown with kindness, wood gathering on walks and G-spot fingering.

I needed help in making the decision to sell the Greek house, to understand why. To have a less stressful life. Otherwise, the part of me that loves the largesse of it all could have carried on her reign. My quirky queenly ego can step back, grateful for the privilege of time spent in beauty and the help received and offered. Though letting go of this one feels like prying my fingers away from a deeply held knowing that I’d live abroad when I was older. It’s time for new dreams of the ease of ordinariness.

In expectation of disappointment, we stop asking. That’s natural, but what to do to make a shift?  When we focus on one desire as the centre of a bullseye, not reaching it can fuel a distressing rejection. However, when we have other desires in the concentric circles round the bullseye that are more easily recognised or met, all our eggs are not in the bullseye or a metaphorical basket of rejection.

Vision, enthusiasm and determination aren’t enough. Sometimes a bag of cash, building skills and knowledge, are more useful.

Being appreciated by me is part of the deal. Despite my domestic slatternly tendencies, I make a good salad and know some beautiful views for coffee. Secretly, I want to be devoted.

On the only guided tour holiday I’ve ever taken, I pulled a man in the heat and rawness of Cambodia. Edging perceptibly closer together on sticky plastic bus seats, the trip progressed through museums of skulls and death in the killing fields to floating boat people, and finally Angkor Wat temple; he was the only interesting person on the trip. Later in Phnom Penh, we whizzed around on motorbikes visiting temples, continuing the exploratory conversation, not touching, erotic tension building with the distance between us. Fortunately, we were both booked on the same flight to Kuala Lumpur, where he had a hotel room for the night. I had a peak experience of bliss, where, through unhurried oral sex, time stopped still.

I could do with a handyman about the Greek Manor House. Someone who can wield a screwdriver, likes fixing things, knows what is needed before things go wrong. Someone who loves each stone differently to me, creating solidity alongside beauty, and taking a few of my unkempt worries away.

I know no one is coming to rescue us, but wouldn’t it be great? Sometimes I need saving from myself. Don’t you?