Had an unexpected message on the Fann Summers community last week saying I’d been selected to test a brand new rose quartz dildo ahead of its release. Top secret mission! Thank you AS! The results are in.
Pixii by Biird Review.
I was really excited to be selected, out of the blue, to test this beauty for Ann Summers ahead of its launch.
First off, its presentation is superb. I almost didn’t want to break the seal on the box, it looked so good. Inside were an information leaflet and a smart navy faux leather case, containing the Pixii itself.
Pixii is made from beautiful rose quartz, a delicate baby pink colour, and is heavy, smooth and cool to the touch. It is compact but curved for maximum G-spot stimulation. It also has a slightly bulbous head.
My first impressions were pleasing. It was easy to see the potential for temperature play with the Pixii too. Actually testing the Pixxi was also pleasing! I was delighted that it lived up to the hype that despite not being huge it did definitely hit the spot. With plenty of water-based lube this crystal dildo had me gushing. Also felt amazing rubbed against the clit, giving a doubly happy ending.
The Pixii is both beautiful and practical. It is a high-end product which is reflected in its production quality and packaging. Would absolutely recommend.
I’m going to say this, because frankly, I’m fed up with the romantic notion that growing up in the 1970s was some magical, perfect even, experience of childhood. Highlighted by the regular social media posts (primarily Facebook as the demographic means more of us oldies favour it) telling us so.
What I am not saying is that growing up back then was all bad, it definitely wasn’t, but it’s too easy to see the best bits through rose tinted specs, and overlook the reality of childhood tinged for many of us by ongoing political unrest, food and fuel shortages, power cuts, poverty, neglect, abuse even. Set against a background of toxic parenting, keeping up appearances, brushing stuff under the carpet and hiding devastating truths.
I understand that childhood nowadays is very different. And whether children’s exposure to infinite technology is healthy is debatable. My vivid imagination can be attributed to long hours as a child trying to amuse myself. Rarely did I ever play with others, my parents were way too busy or tired. My brother had no interest in babyish girl’s play and I wasn’t socialised with other children before going to school. As I got older I relied on that imagination to write poems, and stories. My ticket to a world where I could be whatever I wanted. And wasn’t sad.
I was, without doubt, suffering from depression as a child, but such things just weren’t recognised then. I had excruciating separation anxiety and school phobia when it came time to start school. Resulting in vomiting, nosebleeds and ultimately an episode of selective mutism. I believe I also experienced generalised anxiety and that there is every likelihood that I’m on the autistic spectrum, but I just struggled on, because autism, along with ADHD, dyslexia and all manner of developmental, behavioural and learning issues “didn’t exist in my day”! I’ve heard people say it so many times. Usually quoting their own toxic parents or teachers that, “a clip round the ear would’ve sorted them out!” Well, surprise, surprise, those conditions absolutely did exist, and many of those children were labelled as disruptive, and dumped in a remedial class. But, oh my goodness, wasn’t growing up in the 70s a joy?!
You could actually get an appointment with your doctor in the 1970s. Face to face and everything. However you first needed to convince your parents that you were actually ill. An orange flavoured Disprin or a glass of radioactive Lucozade fixed most ailments. As a teen I had a perforated ear drum that bled for two hours, while I was in agony, until I fainted. I believe I was begrudgingly booked for a routine appointment the following day. Also as a teenager I burned my leg on the exhaust pipe of my brother’s motorcycle. Only when it was blistered and festering with impetigo five days later, and my tutor at school forbid me to return until I’d seen a doctor did my mother concede and make an appointment. Heaven forbid we should waste the doctor’s time! I think my late husband’s experience with a broken ankle and being denied a trip to A&E for 24 hours probably epitomises our generation of parents and their attitude to medical care for their offspring. Probably that example is made radically worse by the fact his parents were social workers in childcare.
There were so many examples of unequivocal neglect, and harsh physical punishment. You can argue that our parents knew no better. Or were the product of their own toxic parents, but it doesn’t alter the fact that many of my age have had to undo what was drilled into us as children. I’m of the generation where if I don’t have something sweet to finish my evening meal I feel like I’m being punished. Pudding was for good children who ate all their mains. Unsurprisingly I struggle with my weight! If you didn’t eat your main, you went hungry. And if you were particularly unlucky, the meal you didn’t eat would be offered to you on subsequent days. Standing over children, forcing them to eat wasn’t unheard of. And no one ever suggested that might be wrong. Might be abusive. It’s just how it was.
I feel like our goal in the 70s was to not to make a fuss. Keep your head down. Succeed educationally despite the one-size-fits-all approach of schools. Don’t be different. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Unfortunately many of us felt like we didn’t have a voice. We grew up in a world of comparisons and measuring up, where we learned the painful lesson that we weren’t good enough, and despite our best efforts, we never would be.
And I am going to push my point further about the 70s not being all it was cracked up to be. Let’s not forget our role models were the likes of Jimmy Savile, Rolf Harris and Gary Glitter. They were able to prey on children because they were famous and lived to an extent in a protective bubble. Those who sexually abused the rest of us kids got away with it because they were family, friends, or trusted adults in authority. We, as child victims were silenced. We were told, “I can’t believe that!” “You shouldn’t say such wicked things about X” “I told you not to play round there” and my particular favourite, “That’s how girls get to learn about growing up and sex!” Dirty little secrets of abuse were buried for decades. I’m not necessarily saying more children were abused when I was young, but it certainly wasn’t talked about. Everything was brushed under the carpet. Played down. Children were not helped or protected then. I remember disclosing to a teacher at school to be told she had called me in to discuss my erratic grades, not those kinds of things. I believed she had an obligation to flag it up. Silly me.
Yet all that bike riding, playing in the woods and games of bulldog clearly compensated for the damaged childhood I experienced. Many experienced. It would be unfair to say I don’t have happy memories of childhood, I do. But let’s not weave a pretence of a magical age where children had freedoms not extended to youngsters nowadays. I remember Esther Rantzen launching Childline in the 80s. Because prior to that adults could hurt, neglect and abuse children without consequence because kids had no voice. Give me a society that values children as individuals and protects their rights any day. The verdict’s still out on excessive screen time.
During the course of the last few weeks, since having to rehome our kittens, and then subsequently saying goodbye to our cherished RoxyCat, I believe it is safe to say there has most definitely been a feline shaped hole in both our hearts. As much as we knew Roxy was irreplaceable, we were desperately missing having a cat in our lives and home. Essentially we’d gone from three cats to none in a matter of weeks, and it was tangible.
One evening Martin was in his office, at his computer, I was in the lounge staring at my phone and both unknown to the other we were scrutinising cat rescue centres, searching for a cat who might suit what we could offer. We are unable to offer an outdoor space, being next to a main road. We live in a flat. However we do have a sizeable enclosed catio, no other pets, no young children, rarely have visitors and we’re home most of the time (ie. we’re not working). We have a lot of time, love and fusses to give.
At one point, we were both looking at the same cat, and decided potentially she might be suitable for us. I am delighted to say that said cat, a beautiful tabby and white adult female is currently snuggled against my leg as I lay on the sofa.
We emailed the lady at the rescue who invited us to come and meet our girl. She had been there seven months already and because she is not a fan of other cats she had been housed in an enclosure in a shed no bigger than our catio by herself. We instantly fell in love with her, and were moved by her appalling history of neglect, hunger, flea infestation and ultimately being unwanted. As we were away over the weekend we arranged to collect her today.
It was, to be honest, with some trepidation we went to pick her up. Winchester is a small town, with a small town mentality. Everyone knows everyone. I had mentioned to a close friend that we were adopting a rescue kitty and immediately I learned exactly who the cat had belonged to previously. And I was told that she didn’t like to be handled. I suspected we would have our work cut out for us over the next weeks and months as she adapted to her new home and humans.
So we collected her this afternoon, paperwork completed, she merowled at us all the way to the vet, where we’d booked a check up for her, and signing her up for a pet plan. We also got her microchipped. She was less vocal coming home and I have to say, she is bossing this settling in lark.
She’s taken everything in her stride. And aside from food, all she wants is love. Wherever Martin and I are, she’s right up close and personal with one or other of us. As the evening has gone on she’s become braver, exploring the hallway, the bedroom, the office. What I really didn’t expect was a cuddly, love-bug of a lap cat, but it seems that’s what we’re blessed with, and I have to say, my eyes may have been leaking a little. I’ve never had a cat so affectionate. She’s an absolute darling girl.
This sweetie has already begun the work of healing our hearts. And I trust in time we will be able to reciprocate. May she never again be afraid for her safety or be afeared that food may not appear. She has so much love to give. As we do.
With regard to current media events, I will say this; the majority of women do not report sexual assault or rape. That doesn’t for a minute mean that it didn’t happen. They may be fearful, ashamed or just choose not to for any number of reasons. I had my assault reported by the GP at my surgery who treated my injuries. I had the choice to pursue it or not. I thought going to the police was the right thing to do. I thought (naively) my assailant would be convicted. That it might protect other women. I swear, if I’d had a clue about what reporting would involve, and how after weeks of waiting I’d be told they couldn’t make a strong enough case against him and there would be no charges brought, I would never have bothered. The GP I saw said I’d obviously been assaulted. The police surgeon said the same. I was undressed, poked and intimately photographed from every conceivable angle. The original detective I spoke to used the phrase, more than once, “We can get him for that!” It was his certainty that encouraged me to pursue the complaint. I gave my evidence in front of a video camera, including being quizzed on what I wore and was made to feel stupid for holding a stress ball during the interview, despite them knowing my mental health is vulnerable. Heaven forbid I’m ever in the situation where I’m a victim of violent sexual crime again. But would I report it? Absolutely not. The experience was like being violated all over again. And for nothing. Hell would have to freeze over before I’d report again.
Don’t be quick to judge how women respond to violent sexual trauma. It’s rarely clear cut.
From August 2023. Not sure why it hasn’t posted before. In fact I think it did but was back in drafts. Apologies.
We made the decision together to book our cat Roxy in for the operation we’d been recommended she needed to remove the lump from her mammary tissue. Martin was quite literally selling his possessions to fund it, while I was jiggling money between my accounts to make sure there was a little extra available, just in case. We managed to access some funding from a local animal charity because of our being on Universal Credit. We had it covered; adamant we were going to give Roxy the very best chance we could. She was generally in good health, and was 100% happier again since the kittens had left. In fact she had just begun to sleep on our bed again at night, something she’d ceased since we introduced the kitties.
We dropped her off on the morning of the operation, and due to Martin having a call with a health professional that afternoon, I went and collected her later. She looked absolutely adorable in her hot pink petshirt. They handed me all the instructions, her painkillers and so on, and I took her home where she devoured an early dinner, and then made herself at home on our bed. To all intents and purposes she was fine. They told me the operation had been a success, and that they’d scanned her too, and found no further lumps. Aside from being a bit sleepy and wobbly from the anaesthetic, she seemed good.
She slept at my feet that night. I was afraid to move in case I hurt her. But I loved that in her most vulnerable time she still wanted to be close. As the day went on, I happened to notice her breathing was a little noisy. I told Martin and we agreed to keep a close eye on her. I wish now I’d taken her back to the vet there and then. Later I noticed the wheeze seemed to have gone again, so was reassured. Then, early evening she came from our bed out to the hall and sat outside the kitchen door. I was in the kitchen beginning to prep dinner. Suddenly I saw her keel over. I yelled Martin who scooped her up and laid her on our bed. I held and talked softly to her while he called the vet. By this time she was gasping for breath.
The vet agreed to see her immediately. But it was too late. She breathed her last with Martin on one side of her, me on the other, surrounded by our love. I was rubbing her chest as I cradled her in my arms, wrapped in a towel, hoping against hope that somehow this was reversible. Martin dropped me at the entrance to Pets at Home and I rushed through the shop to get to the vet, with our beautiful girl, limp in my arms, yelling at people to please get out the way.
As I presented her to the vet, I announced, “I think she’s already gone” almost calmly. Déjà vue much from the night my first husband died; when they rushed me through from the relatives room to his beside, where I saw all the monitors flatlined and the alarms ringing. Before anyone said a word to me, I said, again calmly, “He’s gone hasn’t he?” I always say, you can take the girl out of nursing, but you can’t take nursing out of the girl.
I look after people. It’s what I do. Even when my gut instinct tells me to walk away and look after myself.
So that evening, when Martin decided that drinking himself to death seemed like a good option, smol wife was the one who refused to let that happen. Aside from accidentally bumping the knob for the hob, where I’d dumped the stuff I was preparing earlier when the cat collapsed, and nearly causing a fire, husband also fell off the bed onto the floor and was unable to get up. There was no way I could remedy this situation, I just offered suitable receptacles in an attempt to keep assorted bodily fluids off my new carpet. I was pleading with him to not upturn his vomit bowl, but was repeatedly told, “I don’t care. My cat died.” I have to say, despite his drunkenness, I felt disrespected on a whole other level. I don’t intend to hold his behaviour against him, we’ve discussed it, but I’ll be honest, it made me question our relationship. I called my son to be with me, as I was feeling so absolutely broken. I also spoke to an out of hours doctor who sent out paramedics. In the meantime Martin had sobered up enough to want to get off the floor, with Chris and I assisting. We laid him on his side on the bed and waited for the opinion of the ambulance crew. Their main concern was his blood sugars, being diabetic, since we hadn’t eaten all day.
Satisfied he was not at risk, the paramedics left us to it. I’d sent Chris home previously and I spent a very long night considering the events of the previous couple of days. Roxy’s op and subsequent demise. Racing through Pets at Home with a dead cat in my arms. Averting a kitchen fire. Dealing with a drunk husband with a death wish. Not a great week so far.
It has been put to me recently that once again I find myself in a domestic abuse situation. And that I have absolutely lost my spark. It was always my concern that given both our histories of trauma and mental illness that Martin and I would exist in a co-morbid relationship. Certainly in recent weeks with everything that has happened, and our ongoing mental health issues, it has felt a bit like that. We find it near impossible to communicate effectively with each other when we’re struggling. We’re worlds apart. Our needs remain unmet. And we’re unable to breach the void. I say this not to point fingers; it’s merely an observation. We need to do better.
Also, our finances continue to worry me. It’s hard to be chipper when constantly weighing up whether we can afford the essentials, let alone the treats I rely on for my self care. I’m bipolar, I buy stuff to cheer myself up. But currently I can’t. I’m aware it sounds totally selfish, but I’m finding that a challenge. So much change and loss, for us both. If I could afford to go back to my counsellor I would. But I can’t. I’ll just try to process it all myself I guess.
Things I know
I miss RoxyCat
I love Martin unconditionally and intentionally
I’d like another cat sometime
I continue to be stronger and more resilient than I ever give myself credit for
Please note testing is for Ann Summers and includes items of a sexual nature.
I was fortunate enough to be picked by Ann Summers to product test the Kinky Fantasy Gift Bag. And I’m very grateful for the sexy fun that ensued for my partner and I!
The bag contains seven items (incidentally the same contents as in the other products stocked; the Sexy Weekend Bag and the Love Bag, also by Loveboxx). Only the colours of the items varied. Here is a breakdown and description of the gift bag contents (in no particular order).
Faux rose petals. A good amount to set a romantic scene, but quite an orangey red and not the best looking quality.
Bullet vibrator. Not a bad little vibe, 10 functions and surprisingly powerful. Takes one AAA battery (included). Has a nice feel to it, like a silicon coating. Fun and versatile.
Novelty handcuffs. Definitely not designed to be used as BDSM restraints, quite flimsy construction. The emphasis was definitely on the novelty aspect, more for fun role play than serious restraints. Came with two keys, of which we still managed to mislay one during play!
Blindfold. Very basic, but effective in providing adequate sensory deprivation.
Tickler. Again very small and basic, but adequate.
Vibrating c0ck ring. Disposable item (the button cell batteries can’t be replaced). Not great for the planet. Operating switch was really temperamental, appeared to have been quite poorly constructed. The jelly part of the ring was almost too stretchy and unfortunately didn’t have the desired effect.
Sex dice. I had high hopes for these and thought they’d be a lot of fun. Unfortunately as a couple of disabled oldies we were not able to partake in the suggested positions and locations. Have seen foreplay dice before that are a bit more inclusive and they would have worked better for us personally.
The gift bag seems to be aimed at couples, going away overnight, for a short break or having a fun night in. My partner described it looking quite cheap and I have to concur that the items weren’t of great quality. I’m not convinced the cost is justified for the benefit of having the items packaged together. I would prefer to purchase separately what I really want.
I didn’t really find the contents particularly kinky (which could just be me), but the fact it was no kinkier than the other two comparable gift sets seems to confirm this. Definitely not suitable for more than an absolute beginner kinkster. However, we had an enjoyable evening which started out innocently with the kinky fantasy gift set and progressed to some more in depth bondage play so I’ll take that as a win!
I use a Facebook site that offers things free of charge in our local area. While it isn’t entirely perfect, it is a reasonable way to locate or rehome items, with a view to reducing waste. The admins do a great job of keeping it running as smoothly as possible and it is accordingly very popular. A local lady I know of was asking for various things associated with her cat having had kittens. We, or rather Martin, offered her a scratching toy that our cat had flatly refused to acknowledge. When she came to collect the item, I was at the gym. I was surprised on my return that Martin had enquired about the kittens and their availability. Until that point we’d never really discussed the option of more pets. And my feelings were consistent; we can’t afford any more pets, and Roxy, his mature cat, would hate it!
Somehow over the subsequent weeks, Martin had sold me the idea of getting a kitten. I’m a big softie, and as much of a sucker for an itty bitty stripy kitty as the next cat lover. He convinced me that Roxy would love the kitten and it would bring out her long buried maternal instincts. I figured Roxy is his cat and he knows her best. He also made me believe that financially things would be ok. In fact every doubt I brought up, he had an answer for. I wanted to believe him. I wanted that kitty.
Nothing prepared us for gorgeous Lucy. She was the most beautiful itty bitty stripy kitty. You could clearly see her Bengal markings within her tabby. But her Bengal genes were strong in her personality too. Exceptionally energetic, needing constant stimulation from waking to sleeping. Craving our attention endlessly. In an attempt to meet her needs we went back and got her sister, Misty, an adorable tortoiseshell. They were lovely. I would sit on the sofa sometimes with two cute kitties snuggled against me and they would melt my heart. But somewhere, deep inside, I was aware that I was holding back. I didn’t believe we’d be able to keep them, and I was, as much as I could in the face of cuteness overload, guarding my heart.
Martin on the other hand was already completely and utterly in love with them. I had, from the outset said I was unable to look after pets, and that they would be his responsibility, and they were his girls. He was smitten. I actually believed for a time that he loved them more than me. For me, the cracks were already appearing. Despite Martin’s best efforts, the flat smelled like one huge litter tray. I was getting stressed that my furniture and curtains were just huge vertical scramble nets. My new carpets one big scratching post. Maybe I was naive, but when I’ve owned kittens previously they were never quite so, well, feral. The wildcat genes from their Bengal grandmother were strong in these two. Attempts at discipline, buying more different and challenging toys all seemed futile.
Then there were the vet appointments. Firstly their jabs they’d had previously were not compatible with the ones our vet used. Ok, we can work with that. We enquired about getting financial help with spaying them when the time came. Of all the animal charities, we struggled to find one that covered our home town. Suddenly more and more bills are piling up. They were getting through more kitten food and cat litter than I could shake a stick at. I was beginning to panic about the long term financial implications of owning them.
While all this was developing, firstly, Universal Credit put our monthly payment on hold. Suddenly we potentially had no money and no date given for that to be resolved. Secondly at this time, Martin’s doctor decided to change his antidepressant, so he was on a weaning-off dose and not doing well. And I started on HRT, which seemed like a good idea at the time in light of my menopause symptoms. Unfortunately within a few days I was unable to stop crying, was severely depressed and struggling to keep myself safe. By day six my doctor had advised me to stop it again, and over another week on I’m starting to feel less horrendous. I have to say, I was scared. Martin also was scared. He’s never seen me so acutely ill.
And my best friend says to me, “I don’t think you should be keeping your kittens.”
I knew she was right. They need people who have the energy to devote to them. Somewhere with a safe outdoor space. And the resources to give them everything they need and deserve. But my heart was broken and how the heck do I broach the subject with Martin?
To say our marriage survived by a thread, I don’t think is exaggerating. Unfortunately both our ‘his and hers’ depressive moods were at their worst. Both of us spoke harshly to the other. It was ugly. Blood, snot and tears. I wasn’t at all sure if we’d make it.
Amongst the chaos we took Roxy Cat to the vet for her annual jabs. To our total dismay the vet discovered a small lump in her mammary tissue. The recommended surgery and treatment will be the best part of £1000. She also had some bloods taken which show an anomaly in her kidney function. We were both floored. Although she’s Martin’s cat, she and I have a special bond and the news hit us hard.
Roxy had been unhappy since the day the kittens arrived. She would mostly stay out of their way, even if that meant being out in her catio in the cold and the wet. That seemed no way for our much loved, older, potentially poorly, girl to be spending her days.
And our other consideration was Roger. Our motorhome. Since getting him earlier in the year we have loved being able to plan impromptu trips away. That would be impossible with the kitties, who needed so much attention and were still feeding three times a day. Originally, when planning to get one kitten we had thought we could harness train her and take her with us. But not two. It would never work. Rogering, as we like to call it, has become our escape, our sanity. It’s a travesty to just leave him in storage, unused.
The ever wise best friend assumed responsibility for the rehoming of the kitties. We sobbed and wailed as we collected up their so many possessions. I nearly lost the plot when we handed them to the foster carers because we hadn’t located Lucy’s favourite mousey toy. It was so hard. As much as I’d tried not to get attached my heart was breaking.
We want them to have a great life. Together. No way should our beautiful girls be apart. With people devoted to them. Room to explore. Outdoor space with trees to climb. Regrettably they weren’t right for us and we weren’t right for them. They weren’t right for Roxy. Now we can devote our love and energies to her again.
My other concern has been the lady we got the kittens from. I was worried she would be upset when she discovered we gave them up to a rescue charity and would have thought we should have returned them to her. Truth is she was no better equipped to care for them than we were. In fact less so. And we were concerned that she would use them, Lucy in particular, for breeding. It has been one of the hardest decisions I’ve made. I’ve always been judgmental of people who take on pets then give them up. But I guess you never appreciate the issues until you’re actually in that situation. Despite us both struggling with more acute mental health issues currently, I still believe we did the right thing. For the kittens, for Roxy, for us. Just excuse if we start crying again.
I admit, I’m no canine expert. But the spaniel, in my mind at least, encapsulates many of the endearing qualities that dog lovers seem to appreciate.
Their dogged enthusiasm for life is inescapable. Their eyes are bright, their tails are endlessly waggy and their capacity for love and faithfulness seems boundless. A dog of dogs.
Spaniels are characterised, it seems to me, by their over-enthusiastic and loving nature. And yet, however waggy the tail, however adoring the eyes, however excited they may be to greet someone, if that person doesn’t like dogs, that spaniel is never going to be to their liking. In fact the more the dog bounces and wags and licks in an attempt to win that person over, the less impressed that person is likely to be. Some people find a dog’s constant yearning for love, affection and attention just too needy. Maybe they prefer cats. Or reptiles. Or birds.
Let me put it another way. Imagine a beautiful peach. Just the perfect size and shape and juiciness. At its peak of peachy, fuzzy ripeness. But if I don’t like peaches, it’s perfection is in vain. I’d pass it by.
You can’t be everyone’s cup of tea (other warm beverages are available). And if you’re coffee, you can’t become tea just to please somebody. Just be the best coffee you can be. Your people will find you and love you exactly as you are. Be a beautiful peach. Or an over enthusiastic spaniel. But please stop trying to please people who will never appreciate your amazing, unique qualities. You are enough, just exactly as you are.
pinkpalaceangel 