Month: August 2016

How to plan a murder

So the guy that I quite like told me he’s kinda busy for a while and I said no problem see you in 2018, and he said okay.



How shall I murder him?

Cut off his head.
Strangle him with stockings.
Poison the almonds.
Handcuff him to the bed.
Slap him with suspenders.
Stab him with stilettos.
Kiss him in public.
Steal food off his place.
Call him babe.
Fuck him to death.


I could just propose.

Hey babe, wanna get married.



A different direction

I would like to apologise
for the delay
in any kind of sexual
or erotica
on this here sensual platform
it has all been about
I’m sorry
inspirational too
I will get back to normal
I hope
there has been a break
in sexual
there is this lovely poetry


Give that girl a Bells

I’ve written about my dog Scarlet before, the mad one who likes to swim. Yesterday we had another drama.

I was with her for a run and a swim at 9 am.  Around 5 pm  I wrote this post on a community Facebook page.

At the park today my dog Scarlet went swimming. She’s done it before, goes in for an hour, gets into a zone, doesn’t hear anyone or anything and won’t come out. Today she swam and swam, went into the reeds and disappeared. I looked everywhere. No Scarlet. After a few hours I came home, frantic, sunburned, exhausted, told my kids the bad news, dropped off my other dogs, and went back. And there I found a woman, Karin VDL, covered in mud and gunk, with my dog. She had found her. RESCUED HER. Karin had gone into the water. Other people helped. Hippies, parents, children, picnickers, dog lovers, grannies and grandpas. And other dogs. Everyone was rooting for her. I cannot say thank you enough, thank you thank you thank you.’

The response from the community was astonishing. Everyone so glad my dog was okay, everyone supportive. She’d been found, brilliantly camouflaged, stuck in the reeds on an island in the middle of the dam.  Exhausted.  Hot.  Alive.

Karin is getting a bottle of whisky from me tomorrow, as well as a huge bunch of flowers and the biggest hug. The community pulled together in the most extraordinary way, and I just gotta say, I felt overwhelmed.  Some stripped down and tried to swim to her.  It’s a tricky dam to swim in. Others had tried to coax her back. Karin eventually reached her.

And one man had managed to photograph her and put her pic on social media.

Astonishing group effort and people are so kind.

BUT NONE OF THAT IS WHY I AM WRITING, although I will be forever grateful to all these people.

My dog is a celebrity. Her Facebook post has had thousands of likes. Her photograph and her story have been shared so many times.

My dog is more popular than me.

That is it.

My dog is more popular than me.

And I am very very happy about it.

We’re on the bed and she’s asleep at my feet and now the only thing I want is to fall in love with one of the gorgeous men who shared her picture.

There were quite a few.

Thanks Karen.  Thanks Guys.

Vote for Scarlet.  She’s entering a beauty pageant next week.






I’m sitting on my bed surrounded by gifts and it’s all a terrible mess. I realise that there are skills involved to gift wrapping and I don’t know what they are.

Maybe I’m lazy. It takes patience to cut and fold, line everything up then still manage to snip off a piece of sellotape and stick it on the right spot.

The thing is, I do l love giving presents. I love the thought that goes into them, the time taken to choose them and the pleasure of surprise.

So although I’m bad at it, I always gift wrap. I use layers of tissue paper, gift paper, then ribbons and glitter and glitz and ja, it’s a big mess.

I love it when people really take their time and open gifts slowly. I do that. I think it shows a kind of appreciation for the gift, no matter how small. I like to slowly unwrap it, feeling, feeling as I go along.

Each tear of the paper reveals something special and hidden, each layer means a little bit more love.

I remember giving a present once to someone whose husband needed a kidney transplant and she shook the box so hard and tore it open so maniacally that I think she thought I had given her a kidney.

It was one of those terrible letdown presents, I’d given her chocolates.

But now I’m wrapping presents. It’s my sons birthday. He’s still fast asleep. But I know he’s going to wake up soon.

Unlike me he’s going to RIP the presents to shreds. Paper is going to fly, glitter will be snorted at, bows may be ridiculed.

He may well roll his eyes at some of the gifts and I’m not quite sure he’ll appreciate the fried egg socks.

But he will read the hand made and hand written card very carefully.

For him, it’s in the words.

And yeah, forget the wrapping.

For me it’s all about the words too.


Keep it short

So I sat at my dining room table yesterday, chair in, back straight, legs crossed, phone in hand, and I sexted.

100 sexts.

All very short. Easy writing.

Today I sat down to work on my book. Same book I’ve been working on for years. I used to write a few pages a day. Then, a page a day. That became a paragraph. Now, a couple of sentences.

These days I write short.

A few words and I’m done.

It’s the times we live in. It’s not that I don’t want to write lots anymore. I can’t. I am so distracted and I know it’s because of this digital age.

It’s the same as reading. I used to get through four books a month Now, if I get through one I think it’s fabulous and I tell everyone I know, hey hey, I read a book.

We have all become used to short.

And we’re all distracted. Apparently it’s something about our brains and dopamine and we see one thing but there’s something else to look at and our brains get excited and unfocused and let me just check my emails and look at twitter and one more tweet and oh let me see that article and that video and….


I am not in a panic. It is what it is.

And I have decided that I don’t need to write books. Or stories. Or even blogs.

I can just stick to titles.

Here are some that I did today.

Other peoples shoes.                                       Fashion.
This chocolate ice cream.                               A love story.
I want him, now.                                             Erotica.
Get yourself that frock.                                   Inspirational.
I dropped my last valium.                             Horror.
I got dressed for gym.                                     Memoir.
I also want to climb the Trump Tower.     Fitness.
The whisky bottle is empty.                           Disaster.

Much better. Easy to write, easy for you to read, everyone’s happy, go check Facebook, look at Instagram, and hey, look at that tweet, cool, thanks, see ya, oh man, is this my blog, where am I, what was I even writing…


Oh yes, please, more more

So yesterday I got a job offer to write a whole bunch of sexts.

‘Send me an example,’ the guy said.

Damn cheek, I thought, how can anyone doubt my sexting abilities.

Anyway, I typed…

I would like you here, now, my bed, your hand, my panties, oh god, god…

He interrupted my sexting.

‘That is perfect,’ he said. ‘You have the job. I need fifty by the end of day.’

We agreed on a price, and I quickly hammered out fifty sexts. I’ve learned that when you write for this site you don’t ask questions. It’s pretty badly paid, I wasn’t going to waste too much time.

It’s also quite interesting sexting without emotion. Because it’s a bit like writing about the weather.

Oh that feels good. Ooooh, yes. Hot. Steamy. More. More. One more time. Please. Oh oh, yawn.


It did nothing for me but hey, dollars…

I sent off my sexts.

He replied almost immediately.

I did not ask you to write pornography Violet. I wanted quality sexts.’

I was outraged.

Excuse me. Excuse me. We are talking sexting here. What is a quality sext? ‘

Well you know, your punctuation, your grammar, you need to work on them…’

I blew up. For my few USD, I thought my sexts were brilliant.

‘We’re not writing a piece of literature here, Mister. This is sexting you asked for. Not Mills and Boon. Not a declaration of love.  These are sexts for gods sake. No-one mentioned we’re aiming for a Nobel prize’

He went very quiet.

‘Fine,’ he typed. ‘Do me another fifty’.

And that’s the thing about men.  It’s sexting.

They don’t really care what you say.




Where’s my pen?

Last night I lay in bed tossing and turning, dreaming of my damn table. It’s been on three legs for close to a year.

I have to fix it.

When I woke this morning the first thing I did was write a huge note to myself.


I scribbled it in capital letters and in thick blood red pen.

To be honest, I’ve written it before. There are notes stuck on the fridge, on the front door, in my diary, on my arm and taped to my underwear drawer.


I don’t know why I can’t do it; I become immobile.

Anyway, today I had to do it. I have things coming up, dates and dinners and parties and I need a table that isn’t going to collapse.

With new determination and red pen all over my fingers, I showered and washed my hair. I put on my oldest jeans, the ones that are perfect for fixing tables, faded and full of holes.

They’re very nice, actually.

I wandered down to my coffee shop for a bit of sustenance. And to show off my jeans.  I sipped a cappuccino, read the paper and ate a croissant while chatting to the man next to me.

We spoke about everything except tables.

I came home, looked at the table, looked at the tools, looked at the couch and went to lie down for a bit.

I napped.

Woke up, did the laundry, did a bit of work, played some scrabble, flipped a few channels then went for a manicure because I have no fucking idea why I went for a manicure and what was I even thinking but my nails look great and I came home and now it’s evening and the table still has three legs.

I’m typing on it by the way.

In fact, every single blog I have ever written has been written on this three legged table.

I’ve even had sex on this table.

I’m not sure what the problem was, why I was so anxious.

It’s not important.

Nothing urgent.

I’ll think about it tomorrow.

Where’s my red pen?