Month: November 2016

Violet and The Calendar Girls

Once a week I go out with girlfriends. We choose bars that have great cocktails and a groovy atmosphere.

We talk over each other, we laugh, we usually drink too much, we have great fun and it’s  all about us, the world, life, love, eyelashes and whatever stuff has been going on.

We never look at the men.

So it was with great surprise when this morning I walked past last night’s bar and the owner stopped me.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘we were talking about you last night. You girls are fantastic, amazing, vibrant, beautiful. You’re just like The Calendar Girls.’

I loved the amazing vibrant bit.


The Calendar Girls were those brilliant women, those brilliant older women, who posed naked to raise funds, albeit with some very strategically placed teapots, cupcakes and violins.

I immediately messaged my girlfriends to tell them we are the new Calendar Girls.

We all found it hilarious, except for the older bit, but hey, we’ll just let that bit go.

We were also united in our thinking.

We’re never hanging out over tea, cake and pianos.

We have no interest in  being those kind of Calendar Girls.

We’re going to hang out in bars for as long as we can.  And we are very happy to pose naked over the bar stools.

Send us the money. We’ll do it immediately.

Just take note, we’re not covering anything!


The Calendar Girls, the movie.


Today I have a hangover of massive proportion. And so while wandering slowly down the road to pick up an extra large coffee, I by mistake wandered into the very hip barber shop.

‘Come in,’ the barber beckoned.

I went in.

This is not a traditional barber shop. The stylists have the most marvellous beards, fabulous tattoos and hair that is brilliant blonde or electric blue. The decor is wild.

Hard to resist, even with a hangover.

I lay back in a quirky retro barber chair while my hair was washed and my scalp massaged.

Very good for a hangover.

And then I was persuaded to have a trim and to do my colour.

My five minutes to get a coffee became a whole morning of fabulous pampering.

There were a few tricky moments.

The stylist told me he’d just had a terrible break up.

‘Oh man, I’m sorry, you must miss her?’ I said.

‘I miss him,’ he replied. ‘Him.’

Oh god cringe and come on Violet, you can do better than that.

But then he told me ‘all of his older clients quite like the pixie style…’

I spluttered at the older bit.

Anyway he laughed, I kinda laughed, and then he cut my hair.

It started off quite long.

It came out pretty short.

It started off blonde.

It came out gun metal grey.

They didn’t serve coffee but they did serve hellfire whisky.

I don’t have a headache anymore.

But I do have a migraine.

I also have a great haircut.

I think, I can’t really, see, where’s the coffee shop.

barberFreedom Hair, Melville.  They do make brilliant coffee!

Poly whatever…

‘Maybe this is the time to experiment with drugs,’ I suggested to my difficult friend while talking about the whole awful cunt Trump thing.

The problem with difficult men is that they have no sense of humour.

‘What do you mean Violet, this is not a time for drugs, this is a time for deep reflection, for looking inward, for…’

‘Oh for fucks sake, I’m kidding, I’m trying to find ways to deal with the world, a bit of LSD…’

‘Reflection, Violet, reflection. Lets see why people voted this way, what they…’

Jesus. I just want to talk about something light. Fun. Quirky.

Anything that is not Trump.

‘No drugs then. Fine. What else can we do?’

Deathly silence.

I made a few more suggestions…

Write a play together?
Rob a bank?
Join a cult.
Become scientologists…

He looked at me like I was mad.

‘The thing about Trump,’ he went on…

‘Polygamy,’ I tried.

He was very quiet for a while.

‘You know I don’t believe in marriage Violet, I’m never going to have one wife, why on earth would I have two…’



He has no fucking sense of humour.

He is not funny.

He doesn’t want to do drugs.

And I meant polyamory not polygamy but everyone gets them mixed up and who cares.

It’s very hard to like a man without a sense of humour.

But I do love him a little bit.

And that does make it tricky.



So there is this thing of hatred, prejudice, racism, bigotry, misogyny, sexism and xenophobia.

We cannot let it win.

Drink all the wine.
Eat all the food.
Have all the sex.
Be all the kindness.

Keep fighting for everything that is right.

And go for hope and humanity.



Forget stockings and suspenders
Forget fishnets
And lipstick
Forget little black dresses
And French underwear
Forget them all.

Bring on the apron
The black over the neck apron
The tied around your waist no frills apron
The old apron
The one that smells of butter
and chocolate
of caramel
and vanilla
The baking apron
The killer apron

The look at me now apron

Add a rolling pin
A wooden spoon
A bit of frosting

And a bottle of champagne.

It’s the best kind of apron.

The fuck me now apron.




Early this morning
I got woken by an owl
walked and stepped
on all the crunchy Jacarandas
watched on old man
slow dancing
by himself
on the sidewalk
bought some coffee
sat on a bench
came home
going to nap
good morning!



‘How’s your hotel, Vi?’

‘Oh, it’s a pleasant surprise, huge room, enormous full length mirror, I love the mirror, hold on…’

I send him a pic of me in the mirror. Fully clothed.

‘Looks good’ he said. ‘Now if you just lay down on that big bed behind you, maybe take off some of that clothing…’

‘Great idea,’ I typed.  ‘Gimme a few minutes.’

I took a few minutes. The texts flew through.

Violet, you ready?
Violet, what are you wearing?
Violet, I’m dying here, come on, I need you.

I needed him too. I really did.

My clothes were off, my underwear on the floor, I was under the covers. Fabulous sheets, king size bed, so cosy.

I picked up the phone.

‘If you want me, you’re going to have to fly to Cape Town.’

And I switched the phone off. Went to sleep with the sound of the waves crashing outside my window.

When I woke I used the giant bathtub, added tons of bubbles, tried out all the hotel body creams, ordered room service and checked my messages.

‘Flight FA 202, arrives at 10 am tomorrow morning.  Meet me at the airport.’

My heart!

Reader. Maybe this is going to go somewhere after all.

Except they say communication is the key to any good relationship.

I leave Cape Town tonight.