Month: April 2016

Bread

Today I’m going to get flour, yeast, sugar and
mix them together
add the eggs
stir
knead
sprinkle salt
and then a man is going to come up behind me
put his arms around me
lift me on the counter
push up my skirt
and while I wrap my legs around him
he’s going to fuck me
there will be flour everywhere
everywhere
eggs
sugar
us
we’re going to have sex in the kitchen
great fucking sex
on the counter
with the flour
his hands
my legs
my hands
sex
his cock…
oh god
god

where was I going with this, I meant to ask for a bread recipe?

bread

death – life

Today an email popped into my inbox, an obituary, sadly announcing the death of Marisa Allen from Vaughantown, Spain.

I’d never met Marisa, and in fact only chatted to her a few times, briefly, online. Even so, I was moved to tears.

Moved by the death of someone I never knew.

It was partly her photograph that got me. She looked vivacious, beautiful, kind and open.

But it was mostly the words.

Gone too soon.
Unexpected death.
Devastated family.
Shocked colleagues.
Tragedy.

Marisa Allen.

She died young. I felt the heartbreak of her family and friends.  It seemed she touched many peoples’ lives.

It made me think, not only of Marisa Allen, but of all of us. Our fragility.

We never know.

We never know what’s around the fucking corner.

Seize the moments.  Don’t worry if you spell seize wrong. Be present. Wear daisies behind your ear. Go barefoot. Eat that piece of cake. Have more sex. Love your people. Be kind. Make a difference.

Live life.

Love life.

RIP, Marisa Allen.  Condolences to all at Vaughantown.

vaugh

http://volunteers.grupovaughan.com

http://view.mail.grupovaughan.com/?qs=6d702e4f00daf76e024cefe30cbfa936fb4909916e85da66c0124ed5a8db6b600a401c4e82e30c82badde6f3442e8fd3777e04787de662feec3e7c8841755cfe8738c8f63eb673a0

I man, 82974202 women

Yesterday over lunch I joked with my girlfriend.

Your guy is so cool, I said. Pity we can’t share him.

He is really lovely. Apart from being gorgeous with great abs and a man bun, he has money, knows how to cry, wears flannel shirts and expensive cologne.

Sexy. Did I mention sexy?

She gave me a terrible stare and was silent for the next few minutes.

I thought I may have lost a friend forever.

And then, as if she’d suddenly seen the light, she snapped her fingers and ordered a bottle of champagne.

Apparently we were celebrating!

It’s a bloody good idea, she said. It would take all the pressure off me. He’s demanding, always wants sex, also food, and expects me to talk to him all the time. All the bloody time. I tell ya, it’s exhausting.

We plotted. We planned. We were brilliant. She got out her computer and made a spreadsheet.

She would have him on Monday and Friday, I would get him on Tuesday. Wednesday would be a day off and actually we would offer him to another friend on the Thursday.

Twice a week is good for her and I only need a man once a week.

He could do whatever he wanted on the weekend. We wouldn’t ask any questions.

He shouldn’t live with any of us, we decided. He could stay in a hotel. We’d go to him and have the benefits of room service and huge baths that no-one had to clean afterwards. We’d never have to change the linen and someone else would throw away the condoms.

Huge bonus; we’d never have to cook. Or talk much.

We decided to open up the offer. We invited other women in the restaurant to join our table and handed out the spreadsheet. Weekends were still free if anyone wanted him and maybe every second Monday.

We got a bit carried away and started working out times and rates and charges and then –

He walked in.

We all went very quiet. They kissed each other hello. He’d bought her flowers. And a little something in a box.

They moved to another table.

Jokes over, she said. Keep your hands off my man.

Apparently it’s not really okay to share boyfriends.

Or even to objectify men.

one man

Listen

What could possibly go wrong when a group of women go away for a weekend?

Nothing. If you plan well.

If you don’t plan well, it could be a disaster.

T arrived to fetch me. The weekend was a celebration for her birthday.

You got the directions, she asked?

Nope, I said. Thought you’d get them.

Ah, okay.  No problem, D will have them.

D didn’t have them. Neither did S or K or J or…

We googled the directions. It took a while.

As we were about to leave I remembered I hadn’t picked up the quiche. My lunch contribution.

Oh please just go via xxx so I can pick up the quiche, I asked.

Shit, T said. I also bought a quiche.

D said she too had a quiche.

Who has breakfast, I asked. Dinner? The second dinner?

Ooops.

Anyway. We finally arrived, albeit a little bit late. Seven women, seventeen bottles of champagne, three quiches, zero flashlights.

We had no idea there wouldn’t be electricity, said all of us.

Which was odd given it’s all over the website, but ANYWAY…

We opened the champagne. We went for a walk up the mountain. We left the kitchen door open. The monkeys got in. We semi sorted out the mess. We swam. We opened more champagne. One of us may have peed in the pool. All of us may have swum naked. We took pics and admired each other’s bodies and showed each other our perfect tits even though they’re not so perfect anymore.

And then we sat under the wild olive trees and sang Happy Birthday. We ate red velvet cake. We licked icing off our fingers.

And off the knife.

And somehow the knife, very very sharp and glinting in the sun, became the talking stick.

And we had one of those conversations where everything comes together. We stopped talking about eye cream and wrinkles and tummy tucks. We stopped talking over one another. We started on the real stuff. About us. Our fears. Our thoughts. Our dreams. And our loves.

We’ve been friends for years, all us girls. We talk. But there are things we leave out. Things that seem too scary to voice. Secrets we keep. Stories we don’t share.

We shared. Somehow the knife, the stick, made us courageous. We were honest. We bared our souls. We shed some tears.

We respected one another’s words. And we trusted.

As the sun went down the light changed. The sky turned a beautiful pink. The air smelled like vanilla. It was perfect.  We listened as the crickets started chirping. We listened as the baboon gave their final night calls.

And we listened to each other.

Without judgement, without advice and without agenda.

We just shared and listened.

And then the monkeys came back into the kitchen and there was a bit of pandemonium and it was pitch black and it was funny and we were laughing and we were crying and they  got away with the quiches and nobody really cared.

We still had champagne.

We lay on our backs and sipped and it grew quiet and we whispered a little and looked at the stars.

And knew we had love.

Tons of it.

Tons.

Advice for a girls’ weekend:

Get directions
Check who’s bringing the toothpaste
Zip up your tents
Buy fruit if it’s on your list
And milk, coffee, tea, sugar, eggs, bacon and chocolate
Talk. It helps.
Remember other people want to talk
And that some people are shy
Talk very quietly if you wake up early
Drink water in between champagne.
Use moisturiser.
Go naked.
And know that you’re all in it together.

Bitches.

knife

http://www.lindani.co.za

Lindani is in The Waterberg. We stayed in the Molope Tented Camp which is divine. It sleeps eight, is self catering although you can order meals, totally private, completely delicious and very well priced. Three and a bit hours out of Johannesburg.

Things I love

 

Hotel bars
Fresh out the oven croissants
Blue cheese
Lipstick
Dogs
Frocks
The full moon
And the internet
Autumn colours
Petit fours
Flying
Shoes
Kissing
Long walks in open spaces
Mountains
Stockings
Men who hold the door open
Champagne
Wine gums
And

Packing a small bag, taking off my bra, slipping a hip flask in my pocket and going away with  girlfriendsfor the weekend.

See ya next week dear Readers.

Watch out for our new improved glorious skin!

DIY-Exfoliating-Face-Mask-Recipe