Category: comedy

High times


‘Hey, come over tonight Violet. The guy who’s bought my house is stopping by, you should meet him.’

I’ve been dreading meeting my new neighbour, conjuring up all these stories in my head. What if he’s obnoxious, noisy, has loud sex or is ugly.

I didn’t want to go.

But in the spirit of being a good citizen, and also a little curious, I said yes.

‘Okay thanks. I won’t stay long though, I have a deadline.’

Deadlines are always my excuse to get out of something.

Mom, is there anything for dinner?
Oops I have a deadline.

Let’s go on a date.
Oops I have a deadline.

Are we ever gonna have sex again Violet.
Oops I have a deadline.

Anyway, I had a shower, threw on some clothes, a little lipstick and popped over with a bottle of wine in hand.

It was noisy inside. My soon to be neighbour had brought his friends with him.

‘Which one is he?’ I gestured to my current neighbour.

‘In the garden. He’s the one in pink.’

I went outside.

‘So we can plant here,’ I heard him saying.

‘If we take out these bushes we can have a large crop.’

‘Check the light, woohoo, bumper crop coming our way.’

‘Hiya,’ I said, in my neighbourly way. ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Violet.’

‘Oh hi Violet, heard so much about you, we’re going to be next door, well I am, I’ve bought the house, but hey, these are my friends, they spend a lot of time with me.’

I leaned in to shake everyone’s hands. Four guys. One girl. All gorgeous and beautifully dressed.

And very friendly.

And very gay.

No prospective lovers for me in this lot.

But they were really cool and I was glad I’d come over, cleaned up, made a bit of an effort.

We sat down. These things are always a little awkward in the beginning.

‘So you’re into gardening,’ I said, thinking of the conversation I’d overheard. ‘That’s cool. We can swap veggies over the wall.’

They were all super enthusiastic.

‘Yay fantastic brilliant excellent, darling.’

‘We have good soil,’ I carried on. ‘My vegetables kind of take care of themselves, like there are bodies buried in the garden or something.’

They all looked pleased as punch.

‘What do you grow Violet?’

‘Bit of everything. Tomatoes, spinach, strawberries. Giant aubergines. You?’

‘We grow marijuana. We farm it.’



You know when you make a total fool of yourself?

I made a total fool of myself.

I launched into every little dagga story I’ve ever had including cookies that I ate once by mistake, other cookies that my housekeeper had eaten by mistake, the joint I took on a hike and hid in my socks and then lost my socks, and oh god I called it dagga and nobody calls it dagga anymore, it’s weed, it’s cannabis, it’s marijuana, Violet why don’t you just shut up sometimes, they grow fucking marijuana they don’t need your silly stories from a hundred years ago.

‘Are you gonna have a meth lab too?’ I asked.

‘Maybe,’ they laughed.

I laughed too.


They asked me what I did.

‘I write about sex,’ I told them. ‘Sometimes I also have it.’

‘Like an escort agency? You’re a hooker? A sex worker?’

Oh god, this was not going well.

No no, but sex and sex toys and men and women and I was blabbering like crazy again.

They were looking at me.  Quizzically.

‘Oops I have a deadline,’ I said.

I left.

They grow marijuana.
They may have a meth lab.
They think I’m a hooker.
I used the words dagga.
I made a total fool of myself.

I’m gonna miss my old neighbours.

Still. It’s gonna be great.

New people in the hood.


Maybe a little meth.

We’re gonna get high.


Thank god I’ve met my deadlines.

Fan mail

Today I got this letter:

Dear Violet

I read about your show and decided to pluck up the courage and go on my own to watch it. I’m new in Johannesburg and don’t know many people.

Your show really made me think about how I need to break out a little, live on the edge, be a bit saucy. Thanks to you I’ve decided to commit myself to one wicked or edgy act daily.

I wasn’t sure how I’d pull it off, not being an experienced woman like you. But a girl has to start somewhere and I started the very next morning while standing in the Hypermarket queue at Sandton City. In front of me was this deliciously handsome man, well groomed, straight teeth and, most important, no wedding ring.

While pretending to search for a chocolate I accidentally knocked him with my trolley. Naturally I apologized while generating a deeply pained expression on my face. He was terribly polite, and I could hardly contain my excitement when I noticed my trolley had ripped his lovely rear pocket. He couldn’t see it, so I had to show him exactly where to find the tear. I insisted he let me pay for the damage and we exchanged numbers.

His name is Peter, and he suggested we meet around the corner from his apartment later this evening.

Here’s my problem. Peter now knows my name, my mobile number and Facebook ID. Okay I wanted to show him my Paris photos. As he said goodbye I managed to look into his trolley.

I was buying vegan sausage, salad and veggies, his trolley, however, held four items – latex gloves, antiseptic, a fungus cream and a bottle of wart ointment.

Violet, I think my ambitions were a bit over-sauced for a beginner. I’ve now got cold (fungus free) feet and a terrible fear that Peter could be an axe murderer. What do I do, he’s expecting me to show up tonight at the Hyde Park Southern Sun at seven.

Yours in utter distress



I replied immediately.

Dear Bearnaise,

Forget Peter. I know him. He’s mine.

With love, Violet.

N.B Who the fuck eats vegan sausage anyway.