The wardrobe overflows
Dresses, skirts, a kimono
Still, nothing to wear.
I don’t know anyone who has just one cup of coffee in the morning, says no to a second glass of wine at lunch and doesn’t have sex on the first date.
These things take great courage.
Which is a bit like being a writer and working alone. One needs to be disciplined.
It helps to start off by getting out of bed. And then having a couple of rules which differ, depending on if you work from home or a coffee shop.
If you work from home, it’s important to wear the right pajamas. Men’s flannel PJ’s for winter are great, while silk boxer shorts and topless are good for summer.
Whatever you wear, it must be loose fitting. Easy for naps and easy too in case you need to do any kind of, um, sexual research.
Work with your dog. It can be lonely working from home and dogs are the best company. Also, they’re good for writer’s block.
Walking a dog is a nice distraction.
I do it at least three times a day.
Do not ever get a cat. You’ll be so busy Instagramming the damn thing that you won’t get any work done, ever.
You cannot work from home without great coffee. I like the Nespresso machines. They’re cute, sexy, and fill your home with inspiring aromas. Vanilla is especially helpful if you’re writing erotica and Colombian is good for horror. Caramelito will probably just send you back to bed, but hey, bed!
You may, of course, be an accountant, in which case I recommend decaffeinated.
And then there’s working in coffee shops.
It’s important to choose your shop carefully. I have a favorite but have had to learn certain skills. Getting a table at my trendy little shop can be a bit like the Hunger Games. People wait, using their Macbooks as weapons, ready to push anyone out their way as they race to their table.
You have to be fierce.
I’ve been known to trip up women in Louboutins if they try grab my regular spot. Or if they sit near an outlet and don’t use it!
How dare they.
And then – always position your laptop well. I used to get embarrassed when people saw me on Facebook, Twitter or Tumbler, and I’ve heard the whispers.
‘Jeez, she’s always on Facebook.’
But I don’t mind anymore. I’ve learned that everyone is always on Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr. It’s just how we work; it’s why we write for Goodness sake
Writing can be terrifying.
You never quite know when the next paycheck is coming in or if you can afford to buy that new frock.
But you can also push the snooze button 15 times in the morning.
Which I love.
See you in a while. Five more minutes…
The thing about sex:-
It makes you glow
Walk around with a spring in your step
And a secretive smile
Your legs get strong
And your arms and your ass and your abs
Sleep is so good
As are your dreams
You stay skinny
When you lie back afterwards
A little bit sweaty
And a little bit breathless
And a lot tingly
You feel fantastic
And you know you’re going to keep feeling fantastic
Because it’s time
To do it
All over again.
‘Are my shorts ruined?’ I asked my girlfriends.
‘They’re holding up pretty well,’ they gasped. ‘Imported?’
‘Yeah, from Paris’.
A tear rolled down my cheek. A few rolled down theirs as well.
We didn’t really care about the rip in my shorts.
But we did care that at any given moment we may fall off the edge of the mountain. And if we didn’t tumble to our deaths we would probably die from sunstroke.
All that would be left would be bits of our clothing, remnants of Revlon 24 hour ultimate colourstay lipstick and a few tubes of Vichy sunblock.
Damn the ranger who told us the hike was ‘relatively easy.’
Damn the national park who hadn’t maintained their paths.
Damn the fact that we hadn’t taken enough water.
A trail that should’ve been four hours turned into eight. We’d started off with our bras in our backpacks, feeling the sun against our skin. We laughed, we loved the views, we took breaks and we ate our chocolate.
And then – we got lost.
The path disappeared. No matter which way we went, we couldn’t find it. We could find precipes and ravines and sheer mountain drops. But we couldn’t find a path.
What if we seriously couldn’t get down?
We stayed calm. Mostly. Until the midday sun was beating down on us and there was no shade, no shelter and still no fucking path.
We unhinged a little. Some tears, some anger, a bit of panic and a few rants.
But then we pulled outselves together and strategised. And we did the mountain on our hands and knees. We scrambled, we scraped, we rock climbed and hey – we forged a trail.
We forged a fucking trail.
When we got to the bottom we yelled at the rangers. Really yelled! Then we cried a little more, collapsed on the grass, took off our hiking boots, ordered a couple of beers and started laughing.
And when we’d recovered we picked up our boots, hitched a ride back into town and found a bar where we could watch the rugby.
South Africa verse Wales. A really tough game.
South Africa won.
And so did we.
One more beer please…
This weekend I’m road tripping with girlfriends
We’re not taking a GPS
Or our laptops
We’re going to cook fresh fish and eat delicious vegetables
We’ll talk about clothes, shoes, men and sex
Maybe even sort out world peace
We’re going to hike, swim, sleep, read
And laugh, a lot
We’ll sing wildly with Tom Waits
Dance madly to the Proclaimers
Give each other massages
And flirt with everyone we meet
The only thing we’re not going to do this weekend
Is listen to the news
Worry about a single bloody thing
Have a groovy weekend you guys.
Yesterday I wore a gorgeous dress, pretty underwear and strappy sandals. My hair was brushed, my eyeliner was perfect and the aroma of Marc Jacob’s Daisy Dream wafted around me.
I did not bump into anyone, other than my ex-husband, the local homeless guy and the broomseller.
This morning I overslept. Leapt out of bed, brushed my teeth, threw on an old pair of shorts and a ripped vest, went for a run, did 12 kms, nearly died and collapsed on the grass, starfish style, to recover.
I was seriously fucked.
A guy. In a colourful t-shirt. A guy that I like a lot.
I sat up.
Sweat poured from my face.
I felt terrible. Dizzy. Faint. Nauseous.
A projectile vomit.
All over. Him. His shoes. His legs.
I’m going to finish my run. As soon as I’ve stopped hiding from behind my hands.
And then I’m never going to go for another run again.
And I’m never going to see him again.
It’s all about timing, isn’t it.