Month: January 2016


Dear Violet.  Please join us for a Night of Bliss with Pastor Chris.   Don’t miss this opportunity to change your life.  It’s free and fabulous, but bring your wallet anyway. Donations are always welcome.

I didn’t have any other plans for Saturday night, but still – I knew this was one date I would turn down.

I replied saying Thanks but No Thanks and with all good blessings you cunts may want to remove me from your mailing list.

I have read all about Pastor Chris and yeah, he’s not my kind of guy when it comes to bliss.

My bliss promises good wine, fresh vegetables and fabulous sex.

His bliss promises to cure HIV, heal the sick, remove piles and oh, if you’re struggling to fall pregnant, he’ll help you with that too.

You can get your virginity back if you want it (apparently you should), rise from your wheelchair, find a young wife, or a new wife, and cure all your smells.

Cure your smells?

Who is this Pastor Chris with his sexist, misogynistic, bullshit behaviour and false promises. And why do people come from far and wide, clutching their crutches, to be healed?

Why does he have so much money while his congregation have none?

And most importantly, why does he have one hundred and ninety five thousand million followers while I only have a few hundred?

I try so hard to offer bliss to my readers too. Maybe not via God and false promises, but you know, underwear, champagne, nudity and skinny dipping are also pretty important.

Yet only his followers drop to the floor and yell Hallelujah, sweet Jesus and thank you thank you bless you God.

I’m getting pissed off readers.

I expect more praise.

More hallelujahs.

More fainting spells.

Just keep it real, for Gods sake.

And send money.



The return of Violet


writes a political rant on Facebook
yells a lot
yells some more
drinks coffee
calms down
deletes political rant on Facebook
opens Blog
and champagne
sticks to Blog
sex writing
and the idea of love.

Phew.  She’s back.



Things I dislike.

I do not like men who boast, who are aggressive, who have food in their beards, get into fights, treat women badly, have sweaty handshakes, miss the toilet seat, leave pubic hair everywhere, forget to use deodorant and kiss badly.

I do not like men who promise to call but don’t.

And I do not like men who tell lies.

The guy with the pink couch is none of the above. He doesn’t have a beard, he’s always immaculately clean, kind and super bright, and he has never lied to me.

In fact he has been blatantly honest.

‘I sometimes disappear for days, Violet. Sometimes for weeks. It is not about you, you need to know that.’

I said okay, that it kinda suited me, sure I get it, no problem, I’m a big girl, anything goes, no problem.

But now he has disappeared.

And even though I had said okay and even though I knew it was going to happen and even though I expected it to happen, I still dislike it.

And I mostly dislike myself for repeating patterns.

All the bloody time.

The pattern of falling back into the pattern of a yes / no / sometimes relationship. I have to remember it does not work for me. I am too soft. I am too sensitive.

And even if he says it is not about me, of course I think it is about me.

I deserve better.  And I have to remember that. It’s the age old adage of learning to love yourself and I am not fucking sure how to do that and sometimes I think I do, but honestly, I don’t even know what that means.

But I am going to try.

So watch out gentlemen.

The next man I’m with gets to marry me.

There will be a wedding with a beautiful dress and flowers and cake and friends and love.

And I am the only one who gets to disappear.

That’s all.


What’s in a name?

I had to go across to my neighbours today to ask them to turn their music down. They were blaring hip hop and as groovy as it was, I was struggling to work.

It would’ve been fine if the man who lived in the house was called Bob.

Bob, I would say. Would you mind turning your music down.

And Bob would say Sure Violet, and he would turn the music down.

But the man who lives there is not called Bob. His name is Desire. And Desire make me very bloody uncomfortable. Not for any other reason than he is exactly like his name.

Desirable. And very very young.

And so I avoid Desire at every opportunity.

He probably thinks I am mad. I see him mowing the lawn. He waves and I duck. He never wears a shirt and he has these eyes and anyway, I am sure you understand why I have to avoid Desire.

Today though the music was over the top insane.

Fuckit, I thought.  I don’t care about Desire, I’m going over.

I marched across the road, knocked on the door, ready for confrontation. Maybe confrontation with some sexual energy, but confrontation nevertheless.

A man opened the door. It was not Desire.

It was another man. A new man.

Desire’s tenant.

A tenant who clearly also digs hip hop.

Uh hi, I said tentatively.  I’m Violet, from across the road.

My name too is a little suggestive and I did think of giving myself a pseudonym, but it was all too quick.

Before I could say anything about the music he said –

That is one sexy name. Violet.

And he said it in the most charming, with a voice like honey, smooth kind of way.

V  I  O  L  E  T.

He looked at me with big dark deep eyes.  I was determined to stand my ground.

And you are?

I demanded to know.

I’m so sorry Violet. That was rude of me.

I’m Lovemore.

L  O  V  E  M  O  R  E.

He smiled and kissed me on the cheek.

Dear sweet god.

I have Desire and Lovemore living across the road from me.

They’ve told me Forgive is moving in next week.  And they’re still playing hip hop.

I’m either going to have to move in or move out.

Or love more.


Modern Love

The other night I was chatting up my barman when a couple approached me.

Violet, can we go somewhere quiet to talk.

I was kinda enjoying the courtyard with the music and the moon but they both looked serious and I thought perhaps something was wrong.

They didn’t waste any time.

We’d like to get to know you, they explained. We’re polyamorous. Basically, we’re looking for someone else to love.

Jesus Christ, readers, apart from the fact that I don’t know the difference between polyamory, polygamy and polyfilla, what is going on at the moment.

I cannot get away from threesomes.

I looked at them. Got up, signalled for another scotch, sat down again.

I’m curious, I asked. Why me? What are you looking for? And yeah, again, why me?

They thought I might be lonely.

There’s just so much love in the world Violet, and we want to share it. Spread it around.

I tried not to roll my eyes or fall asleep while they told me about their lives and what they wanted.

They grow their own veggies, smoke pot,tie dye their clothes, oppose nuclear weapons, stand up for the environment, do yoga, meditate, rescue orphaned animals, and children, play the guitar and sometimes, take a little LSD.

More love would be good.

Oh my god, I thought, I am so not a hippie and also how would they ever even remember to include me in their busy hippie schedule.

I would not fit in.  I don’t recycle, or do drugs,  and I also like to love one person at a time.

I excused myself.

Thanks but no thanks, I said, and suggested they maybe start a communal vegetable garden instead of having a threesome.

It would be a better way to share the love.

I left them under their haze of smoke and hurried off.

The DJ was playing David Bowie’s Modern Love. And I wanted to dance.

On my own.

Happily.  Thanks.