Month: February 2016


I’ve put champagne on ice, stocked up on snacks, have a gorgeous frock ready and waiting, new lipstick, perfume, a really pretty necklace and am super excited for the Oscars tonight.

I don’t have shoes but that’s okay, I’m going to curl up on the couch, sip my drink, wait for the show and pray, pray, pray, for poor Leo to win.

He has to. Because The Revenant must have been pure agony to act in. It’s this epic adventure in which Leo gets mauled by a bear, washed down icy cold rapids, ambushed, thrown over cliffs, buried alive, stuck inside a horse, stabbed, shot, scalped, squashed, bowed and arrowed at, buried alive, betrayed, beheaded and really, just befucked.

I found the movie excruciating to watch and can only hope that DiCaprio got paid billions to make it. He spends months crawling in the snow, covered in blood, eating dirt, desperate, drowning and dying and at one point I found myself shouting out loud to please god JUST LET HIM DIE, let this agony end.

It was like porn, but gore porn. And I was surprised because The Revenant’s had rave reviews. The cinematography is extraordinary, the setting, the camerawork and I guess Leo himself, are all pretty astonishing. But it’s kinda hard to understand the accents, at least half an hour too long, and oh well, there is a lot of blood and tons of dead people.

I like Leo.  He was brilliant in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and Wolf of Wall Street and apart from being super gorgeous, he’s a good actor. I’m not sure he deserves an Oscar for this performance though, it’s more like an olympic cross country  marathon in suffering.

Except, I would hate for him to have  gone through absolute hell for nothing. So, please, White Oscar Academy, give him the prize,  just to make sure he never has to do anything so painful again.

Give him a decent meal.  Clean up the blood. Run him a bath. Let him relax a little.

Maybe he can come curl up on the couch next to me and share my champagne.

Maybe he could even buy me shoes.


N.B. I may have exaggerated about the beheaded bit. And see it, if you have a strong stomach . I do not!

How to be Unfuckwithable

Always wear great shoes.
And sexy stockings.
Don’t text your ex.
Know that you’re worth a whole fucking lot and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
When people put their shit on to you tell them –
That is your shit, not mine.
Say it again.
That is your shit, not mine.
Stop apologising.
Acknowledge the wolf whistlers
Then give them the finger.
Get into shape.
Drink that green juice, if you have to.
Remember that love is perilous
But go for it anyway
On your own terms.
Carry a yoga mat
Even if you never use it.
Walk with confidence.
Put your shoulders back.
Walk tall.
Do not accept mediocre.
Wear perfume.
Don’t be scared to ask for help.
Don’t let anyone put you down.
Know that you deserve the best.
Stop caring what everyone thinks.
Be you.
And most importantly
Be strong
Strong enough
Click Alt Delete
Toxic in your life


We’re okay

This morning I thought I would do a quick google search on how to set fire to a couch. I didn’t learn anything I hadn’t been taught by you guys (vodka, petrol, hire an arsonist) but man, I did pick up a whole bunch of other stuff.

I learned that the colour pink represents compassion, Revenge is a fabulous television series (I know because I watched three episodes), the Huffington Post gives great advice on the right kind of man to date and somehow I bought two dresses, a pair of shoes and a gorgeous leather bag from

I watched YouTube clips on dogs and cats, laughed out loud at all the puppies, cried at the cat that got lost in Greece, donated money to a GoFundMe thing, found the perfect red lipstick with a nail polish to match and I very nearly booked an air ticket to India.

In fact, that tab is still open and before the end of day I may well have flights booked to Mumbai!

I have been sucked into an internet rabbit hole, a delicious vortex of stuff, and it is too fantastic.

I forgot about the German and his couch and mostly I laughed and I did not do any work and I read all of your blogs and I didn’t even think about revenge.

Also, I’m learning a ton of stuff. Apart from the toxic flames that come from burned furniture, I learned about new books, great women, unusual sex positions, how to make a damn good blueberry tart, the size of Donald Trump’s penis, music, food, anything and everything you can find on the internet.

And if ever you guys are contestants on Who Want to Be a Millionaire, I really could be your ‘phone a friend’.

In fact, I want to be your phone a friend. Because you readers are fabulous!

And I am so grateful for all of you.


That’s all.  And now – well – see you soon – I have air tickets to book and maybe still matches to purchase.

You never know.  I’d like to keep the German guessing…


Are we safe, Violet?

I’m staring to laugh about this now, mostly because I’m in a really good space. But I didn’t laugh so much when it happened.

Violet.  Meet me for a drink later, usual place, 5 pm.

Cool, I said to the guy with the pink couch. He’d been super stressed and not so well, so we’d had little contact.

I should’ve known something was up. He hadn’t tried to have phone sex, he hadn’t tried to persuade me to have anal sex and he hadn’t reminded me he was the best lover in the world.

He had been icy cold and Germanic.

Which he is anyway, nothing new here.

We met for a drink. Chatted about the heat, his health, stress at work, all that kind of making conversation and not getting down to the real thing stuff.

He never asked about me. Although he did tell me I looked gorgeous and that any man would be lucky to have me.

Well then, I said, it’s lucky you have me.

And he replied:-

I’m going to end things with you Violet. I’ve met someone. I didn’t know how to tell you. But I want to give this new person a chance; it may go somewhere.

I sat, seriously stunned. He’d always told me he couldn’t do commitment.

But we did have a kind of agreement.

That we would not be with anyone else at the same time. I had assured him I had no other man in my life. He had assured me there were no other women.

From what he was telling me, he had been seeing this woman for a few weeks.

At. The. Same. Time. As. Me.

I was upset. I didn’t want to give him the pleasure but my eyes filled with tears.

It felt like a betrayal.

And I was humiliated.

He leaned over and looked me in the eyes. My lovely blue warm inviting eyes. His cold cuntish unemotional eyes.

You are going to be okay, aren’t you Violet?

You’re not going to make a scene are you Violet?

Are we safe if we bump into you Violet?

We, already. We?

I’m not the kind of person to make a scene, I told him. You and your girlfriend are safe. But Jesus, you lied. You lied to me. 

He didn’t flinch. Or look remotely guilty. But he said this. This, dear reader, and I do not exaggerate; this is what he said.

Violet, if it doesn’t work out with her I’m going to call you.  We can start over. Let’s see what happens.  

The guy with the pink couch has an ego bigger than the entire fucking Nazi Party.

And a coldness to match.

And it was that that got me. The zero emotion.

He is incapable of feeling. Which is why, even though I found him bright and interesting and edgy, I had always been cautious.

I wont make a scene, I said. But I am going to leave now.  Please, don’t contact me again.


I walked away then deleted his numbers off my phone  (second time, third time) as I sat in my car. I had tears streaming down my cheeks. I think it was more the humiliation than anything else.

How dare he? How dare he suggest he contact me again IF IT DOESN’T WORK OUT!

I know I said I wouldn’t make a scene because I’m not that kind of person.

But I lied.

I look forward to meeting this new woman.

I look forward to making the biggest scene ever.

And then setting fire to the couch.



This morning I went for a walk, got showered in raindrops, was called a whore by the homeless Ethiopian man, learned that there are ten words in Arabic for whore, picked up a coffee, got distracted by the pastries for twenty four minutes, walked home, opened my computer and googled whore in different languages.

There are actually more than ten words for whore in Arabic.

There are fifteen in French, all exotic sounding.  Mudblut hure is the German word, Barbooqa in Iraqi is fabulously expressive, and if you google, you will see that the Brazilians go wild with the word.

Whore might sound good and feel good – try it, kussi, petite pute, jecajeca — but goddammit, it’s insulting.  I’ve never forgotten when I was a teen getting ready to go out.  I put on a short skirt, mesh top and brand new stilettos that my mom had bought for me.

My dad took one look and said:-

Violet.  You look like a whore.  Go and change now.

He broke the heel off my stiletto.

I know he was ‘looking out for me’, I was his little girl, but I’ve never forgotten that.

Words stick.

Boys that I grew up with used the word a lot.  If a girl ‘put out’, she was the neighborhood whore.

She’s such a whore, they would say.

The poor girl who may have kissed just three boys and let one of them put his hand up her shirt; she was the whore.

That poor girl could’ve been me.

I don’t know if kids today still do that. Probably.

Words hurt.

And things stick.

It carries on through life. Different standards for men and women. Men get away with pretty much everything. Women do not.

Women are the whores.

I know the homeless Ethiopian is a bit insane and I am tolerant and find him mostly sad. I also have enough confidence to be able to give him the finger and tell him to fuck off.

But still.

That whore brought back a whole lot of memories.

You’re a bit of a fuckboy, I told the Ethiopian.

How do you say that in Arabic, he asked me?

Same, I said. Same in every single language.