Month: November 2015

Sunday porn

It’s early Sunday morning. Still dark. I’m awake but not really. Everything is quiet.

I sit up, sleepy, stretch, slip my top over my head.

And I reach over.

He’s fast asleep. He has his back to me.

I kiss him on the right shoulder and run my hands through his hair.

I touch him softly on his cheek. Then on his ear. And his neck.

I bite him, just a little. I run my hand, my nails, slowly down his back.

And around. Gently and not so gently.

I lean over. And, touching but not touching, I move my nipples over his skin.

He wakes. He turns over. He pulls me towards him.

Touches me. His big hands. Hard. Strong. Feeling. Everywhere.

My panties get pulled off.

I’m ready.

Wet, from now, wet from last night.

He doesn’t need to wait. He goes inside me.

It’s good. It is so good.

I come. He comes.

We don’t talk. He makes coffee.

I sink back into the pillows. Go back to sleep.

When I wake up he’s gone. I put my PJ’s back on.  Drink my coffee. Read the papers. Pick up my book.

It’s Sunday.


Snow peas too

I don’t do gratitudes. They drive me nuts, I hate the sentiment, I never get why they need to be public, also why we can’t just be grateful every day but oops goddammit and sorry I just can’t help myself, someone stop me stop me stop me.

I’m grateful:-

I’m grateful for sunbeams

And single malt

I’m grateful for vintage stores and second-hand dresses

I’m grateful for butter

God I love butter

I’m grateful for the car guards who always tell me I look gorgeous

And even for the ones who don’t

I’m grateful for the little girl I saw giving her party pack to someone who’s never had one

And I’m grateful for parties

I am so fucking grateful for chocolate


And croissants

I’m grateful for lip gloss

And moisturiser

Especially the anti-ageing kind

I’m grateful for men

Especially smart men

And good looking men, sexy men, tattooed men

And I’m so so grateful for women

The friendship, love and shopping that comes with them

I’m grateful for artichokes

And asparagus

Snow peas too

I’m really grateful for good television series

Especially The Bridge

And Breaking Bad

I’m a little bit grateful for Captain Chaos

Reminding me about my Dad

And unconditional love

Mostly I’m just grateful

So fucking grateful

For people who can spell

For Love

For family and for Freedom

And for love again

i am

One sentence

Last week I went to a writer’s workshop. I’ve been to many and I always come out with something. A new skill, a new thought, a brainwave moment.

But last week I came out with something extraordinary.

One sentence.

The woman who ran the workshop read some of her writing to us. It was deeply moving. As she started reading, maybe it was her voice which was so filled with emotion, a lump developed in my throat.

And as she continued, I started crying.

Not just crying, weeping. Her words were exceptional. But painful.

‘How did you do it?’, I asked at the end. ‘How did you ever manage to get those astonishingly beautiful but such difficult words on paper?’

She told me it had been the hardest thing she had ever done. But that someone had once given her brilliant advice.

Write one sentence a day.

Just one. And it will be difficult. But you will find that after thirty days, thirty sentences is quite a lot. And then it slowly gets easier to write two a day. Then three. Until you’re ready to write it all.

It was such good advice and I feel eternally grateful.

I have a story, a difficult story, that I cannot write. I’ve tried, so many times, and each time I delete.  I get overwhelmed with emotion.

Today I wrote my first sentence. It was hard. It may take ten years for me to write the story that I have inside. The only one that I really want to tell.

Tears were streaming down my face as I wrote it.

But I’m so glad that I have begun.

Eternally grateful.



There’s something very sexy about a jazz club.

It’s about the dim lighting, the black and white photographs on the walls, the smoky atmosphere.

The bar. Always the bar. Women sitting on stools in gorgeous dresses, legs crossed over, wearing high heels.  Cocktails.

Men standing, knocking back whisky, admiring the women.

All of us admiring the jazz.

The smooth sexy sound of the saxophone.

The brass of the trombone.

The double bass and the centrepiece piano.

And the smartly dressed drummer.

I went to the Orbit Jazz Club last night. I went for the music.

And the music was beautiful. Sultry jazz, sexy jazz, jazz that made you feel free.

I’d dressed up. I sipped a mojito. I was alone.   I never spoke to anyone.

And I loved it.

Until the end, when another jazz lover came over to join me.

And then I made the choice whether to go home as I’d come.


Or with her.

And that’s the thing about jazz.

It gives you permission to do anything.


Pic courtesy of The Orbit, taken on International Jazz Day, Three Steps Within.


My dog Scarlet is thirteen. I walk her almost daily at Emmarentia Dam and she’s always a little nervous and a lot unpredictable.

Odd, my friends call her.

Intriguing is what I say.

She never goes near the water. And lately her arthritis has been really bad, leaving me to wonder how much longer she has.

Today we went walking with friends.

And for some insane, crazy, who knows why and I’ll never get it reason, Scarlet plunged head first into the water.

Whoosh splash, she was gone.

Surrounded by ducks, geese and a huge body of cool sparkling water.

It was fabulous, this dog who has never swum before. Whichever way the ducks went, she went too.  Swimming like a pro dog Olympic doggy paddle champion of the world.

Unbelievable. Hilarious. Brilliant.

Until we realised she wasn’t coming back.

We were standing on the edge, yelling for her. And she never once turned to look at us. She was a dog on a mission.

Except this old dog was getting deeper, further and more and more distant.

I panicked. She would have a heart attack. She was going to drown. She would disappear under the water and that would be the end.

There was no-one around to help.

‘You’ve gotta go in, Violet,’ said my friend. ‘Go. Go.’

I was hesitant. I’m not a strong swimmer.

But I threw off my clothes. And I plunged in too.  It was warm and delicious, except I wasn’t feeling warm or delicious. I was terrified.

I didn’t get anywhere close. She swam left, she swam right, she ducked, she dived, she became one of the bloody ducks.

And she ignored me completely.

I had to turn back or I would’ve got into trouble.

It had been an hour. We yelled some more, one of us naked, one not. And then I threw my clothes back on and ran for help.

I found a couple of cyclists who under normal circumstances I may have flirted with, except I hate cyclists.  Now, tears streaming down my face,  I begged them to rescue my dog.

Except she did not want to be rescued. She was having the swim of her life.

And then, just like that, TWO HOURS LATER, she swam in. Shook herself off, grinned, I swear she grinned, jumped into my arms, licked me all over and we went back home.

I thought she would die from exhaustion in the afternoon. I thought her heart would just stop beating while she slept.

She hasn’t died. She doesn’t even seem tired. She’s happy and content and clearly has a doggy bucket list of things she wants to do.

I’m the one who’s shattered.

But if I think about it, it was very nice skinny dipping in Johannesburg.

And so we’re planning another activity.

Today the ducks in Emmarentia, tomorrow the dolphins in Mozambique.  Who knows what adventure awaits.

Scarlet.  She is an intriguing dog.

  • with thanks to Lesley Cowling for the doggie bucket list inspiration.