Category: relationships


Hey Violet, I’m collecting clothing for a sidewalk homeless event, won’t you drop stuff off at this address. Anything you don’t wear.

I have a ton I don’t wear.

The jeans that I try on every morning but then throw over the chair. The dress that’s just a teeny bit tight but I love so much and maybe one day I’ll get the zip up. And the red velvet bell-bottoms that I wore daily when I was sixteen. There’s no way I’m giving those away.

They’re me. They’re my hippieness.

My Janis Joplin Oh Lord Won’t You Buy Me A Mercedes Benz days.

I went through my cupboards anyway. Well, mostly I went through my chair. It felt like a good opportunity to clean up.

I found a lot.

I found the shirt that’s enormous, white and not mine. It has HIS smell. It is him.

It’s not going anywhere.

I found the fake fur jacket that I thought okay, this is really awful, it can go. But then I went through the pockets and there was a R 20 note and a half smoked joint and OH MY GOD I REMEMBER THAT CONCERT, and actually, let me wear the jacket. Even if just to the dog park.

It felt so good I wore it for three days in a row.

There are old t-shirts that are stretched and full of holes, but dammit they’re so soft and perfect for bed, also sometimes sex,  how can I ever give those up?

Shoes? I’ve had a few bad buys. The black leather high heeled boots that are stunning and sexy but make me look like a hooker. No homeless person would want them, and anyway, I may want to use them for role-play.  They’ll be useful if I become a Domanatrix.

They stay.

I decided to let go of the glitter tackies though. They were possibly not my best buy.

And then I found my wedding dress. It’s old, French lace, vintage, Gatsby style and incredibly beautiful. I’ve thought of giving it away for years. And I’ve thought of making it into a tunic or a skirt or even kitchen curtains. But I can’t.

Each time I find it I look at it, feel it, and then fold it away again.

It’s about memory.

It’s about emotion. My clothes are part of me.

So yeah. I’ll make soup for the homeless. But bury me in my red bell-bottoms. Place that old striped cosy blanket next to me.

My clothing tells a story.

And I’m very attached to my stories.


Maybe I was a little defensive

It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon, I’ve been playing Joni Mitchell, baking and chatting to my neighbour across the garden wall.

We spoke about the sunshine, recipes and the delicious smell of freshly baked cake wafting from my kitchen.

Gonna taste fantastic, he said.

Yip, I said proudly, I do make a fine chocolate cake.

And then he fucked it all up.

How come you’re still single?

What. Excuse me?

I found myself getting all defensive, like, I quite like being single and fuck you for even asking and goddammit, I said, you cannot ask questions like that. You cannot.

I went to check my cake.

When I came back he was still leaning over the wall.

It’s just, I haven’t seen you in a long term relationship. Men have come, men have gone, I think there was a woman, but – nothing permanent. What’s that about? Are you difficult?  Do you get lonely?

Jesus. Did this guy not know when to stop.

Next he would be telling me I looked tired and had gained weight.

There are some things you just don’t say to people.


Maybe I am difficult, I said. Maybe it’s also none of your fucking business.

I don’t know why I was so cross. I do like being single but dammit I also want to fall in love.

And I’m not lonely now, but I am a bit scared of being lonely when I’m older.

So yeah, he struck a chord.

Except – It is a choice. A for now choice.

I would never think of questioning his choices.  He was rude and presumptuous and then he kept sending me messages, feeling bad, saying sorry, but also asking for some cake.

No way. I replied, no fucking way. 

There are some things you just steer clear of. Failed relationships, for one.

I’m eating the cake alone.

All alone.

And don’t you dare ask me if I’ve gained a little weight.



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?


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.


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.



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.

Text me. Sext me.

Hey, you look goddam downright gorgeous.

Oh my gosh, you too, where did you get that dress, it’s divine.

It is hey, I feel so good in it, although mostly I just want to slip it off and show you my new panties.

Click Click. I sent a pic.

Also look no bra!

Hah, you are naughty. But you do have perfect breasts, perfect, anyone who gets to touch those, whoa, lucky. And that cleavage, sexy sexy sexy.

He he, thanks. You can touch if you want you know.

No thanks Violet.

Oh yeah, I forgot who I was talking to. Tell me what you think of my lipstick then? Kinda red hey?

Super bright, it’s fabulous, you look a bit like Marilyn Monroe.

Click Click. A selfie came through. Standing in front of the mirror.

What’ya think?

You look fabulous, I replied. I love your confidence.

Yeah, me too. Ive got to that point where it’s okay that I’m a bit round, even my stretch marks are okay, it’s all cool.


This was not me, texting or sexting, with a man.

This was me, friend texting. Texting with girlfriends.

And it is such fun. It’s safe, our pics aren’t gonna pitch up somewhere unexpected, we’re not going to be blackmailed or shamed, we make each other feel fabulous, it’s funny, hilarious, healthy, sexy and hey –

Wanna see my panties?

Frext me.



You know when you have a lightbulb moment, when you read something, spit out your coffee and suddenly go WHAT THE FUCK, WHAT, THIS IS EXACTLY LIKE READING ABOUT MYSELF!

Well, I just spat out my coffee as I read about Gaslighting.

And it made me wonder where I’ve been all this time.

How come I didn’t know what Gaslighting was?

How did I ever allow it to happen to me?

And also, that even though my experience happened a long time ago, the scars are still there.

The article took me back to a fairly long term relationship that I had. A not good one. And as I read, all the emotionally abusive things this guy used to say came flooding back to me.  The things that made me feel bad. Things that I knew were not true. But that I somehow started believing and that I allowed to eat away at me, break me up, bit by bit.

Until there was not that much more to break.

Things like:-

You’re selfish, Violet. You make everything about you.

You can’t do anything on our own can you Violet.

And you’re not very bright are you, Violet. Silly. Silly Silly Violet.

He would say these things, I would get upset, he would take them back. And even when he took them back, I was the one left feeling guilty. Ashamed. And stupid. Like I had done something wrong.

He would then make up for his words by saying:-

But you know I’m kidding, Violet.

You’ve done so well, Violet, I’m really proud of you.

You’re gorgeous, bright, sexy, I’m so lucky to have you.

But the damage had already been done. I felt bad. And I felt like I was going mad.

Seeds of self doubt. Planted in me by a master manipulator.

Years later I can see just how manipulated I was. And I think, thank goodness I got out of that relationship. And got help.

Except that as I type I realise I am not totally over it or okay and my self esteem and confidence took a huge knock.

So when I read the article on Gaslighting alarm bells started ringing.

I remembered that I still had a lot of work to do, on me.  And that my journey is far from over.

Also, that there are many women out there who suffer a similar type of emotional abuse.

And I wanted to say this:

Girlfriends. You are not crazy. You are not mad. You are most definitely not stupid.

Trust your feelings. Trust your emotions.

And get out. Now.

It is never too late.