Month: March 2016

Thinking, writing, dreaming.

Yesterday while walking in the park I came up with a whole lot of absolutely brilliant writing ideas. Like:-

A thriller about a woman who single handedly wipes out all the mosquitos in Johannesburg.

A memoir that includes burning down a neighbour’s house, not mistakenly killing the very noisy tenants.

A children’s book about a dog who loves the park so much she abandons her owner.

And  a movie where a girl  goes for a walk and it’s Autumn and so beautiful that she just keeps going.  Further.  And further.  And further.

And here’s the thing –

I wouldn’t have had any of these thoughts if I hadn’t been out walking.

Because walking does that to me.

I don’t know how but it helps me have my best thoughts.  It opens up a different space and somehow – well, as you can see above – I have these beyond brilliant brainwave moments.

Even if only I think they are brainwave!

For now I feel inspired and creative and whoa, I can’t wait to start on the mosquito story.

And when I get stuck – page three, I may have run out of DOOM – I’m going to grab my hat, shoes and sunblock and head out.


Should I go back to sleep?

I thought about writing this blog while I was out walking.

But while I was cosy in bed I dreamed of a very beautiful erotic story. The passion, the sex, oh god the sex, it’ll be a bestseller, I know.

This is getting hard.  What should I do? Walk / Think / Sleep / Write / Dream / Sex.

I’m going to get back into bed to think about it.

I think that’s the sensible thing to do.

Rolling over.



Click. Alt. Delete.

I got a text from BB today. Remember him?

I don’t really either.

But he’d clearly been reading my posts about dating and who pays and today he sent me a message.

BB: Are we ever going to have dinner again?

Violet: Nope.

BB: Is it because of the dick pics?

Violet: Yip.

Oh, he said. Thank goodness. I thought it might be because I didn’t pay.



Who pays?

Here you are, I say, reaching into my bag for my wallet. I’ll pay half.

No no Violet, it’s fine really, dinner is on me.

Are you sure, I don’t mind paying my share, I feel…

Nope, I’ve got this.

Thank you then, that was really lovely, delicious.

That is me, on a good first date. I always offer to pay my share.

I’m usually told no. And I’m usually relieved.

Not just because I don’t have a lot of money, which I don’t, but because – I donno – I grew up in that generation where men are supposed to pay.

They are meant to be strong, dominant, high earning, powerful and in charge.

I know that is all ridiculous.  That we are all strong, equal, etc.

But I still like the idea of it.

I’m old fashioned that way.

So when my son went on a first date the other night and asked for money, I gave him R200.

I don’t need so much Mom, he said, R100 will cut it.

I have a great kid. No other kids would say no to money.

But I insisted.

You should pay for her, I told him.  It’s just how it works.

He looked at me like I was mad.

Why? We’re both students, neither of us have money, it doesn’t make sense that I pay. We’ll split the bill.

I explained it was the gentlemanly thing to do. And I insisted he went off with R200 in his pocket.

When he came home I asked him how it went.

Great, he said. We had a really good time.

Got any change for me?

Not much. Sorry.

Thats okay. I’m glad you paid for her.

I didn’t.  I tried. We discussed it.  There was no way she would let me.  We split the bill. But afterwards we went bowling and I paid for that and bought us both ice-cream.

I love my son! And I like this girl already.

Good her for, for being strong and understanding equality and her own power.

But still – where did this leave me?

A very confused feminist.

Should I be paying for my dinner?

Yes. Apparently yes. In the name of feminism and womanhood and sisterhood and all that stuff, yes.

Oh dear. Really?


Fine. I’ll try. I will.

But not with anyone who insists on sharing my dessert.



Just dessert

Keep your fucking hands off my dessert, I yelled at the guy sitting across the table from me, OFF OFF.

Calm down, Violet, I just want to taste it.

Then order your own Please. I hate sharing my dessert, I seriously hate it.

He put his spoon down. And gave me the death stare.

Apparently if you don’t like sharing you are a very mean person.

I must be a mean person. I don’t like sharing.

Unless it’s on my terms.


‘Hey, John this is really delicious, mmm, yum, wanna taste?’

And when John says yes then I put a little bit on my spoon and pass it over.

But I do not want John leaning over me, digging HIS spoon into my dessert and helping himself.

Although that is better than him leaning over, taking MY spoon and helping himself.

It’s a bit like at yoga. My space is my space. And don’t you dare invade it.

I will share happily if the conditions are right. Like, if it’s in bed and we’re having great sex and there are strawberries or chocolate or champagne or all three and I’m naked and on top and it’s sexy and it’s fabulous and oh god yes more please yes oh oh god, yes!!!

Then I will share anything with you.

But. Hey.

If I don’t know you that well, and we’re new and we’re not even the slightest bit intimate and it’s a first date, like last night, and it’s not going very well at all, then:-

Have some boundaries.

You useless cunt

Keep your hands off my creme brûlée.

And don’t ever call me again.


Thanks. And Bon Appetite.


On the surface

On my walk this morning through Johannesburg’s beautiful northern suburbs I saw:-

White women power walking
White men cycling
Black women pushing white womens’ babies
And carrying them on their backs
Black men running white mens’ dogs
Black men sweeping white peoples’ pavements
Black men selling broomsticks
And potplants
And wirework
And anything to make a bit of money

And a white woman who opened her door in satin pyjamas and said to the gardener:-

“Cedrick, you’re ten minutes late.”

On the surface
in South Africa
Not much has changed.