Tag: champagne


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.



Sweet sixteen

This year let’s:-

Talk to strangers, eat more chocolate, feed ducks, kiss under lamp posts, kiss anyway, be kind, be wonderful, make pancakes, wear sequins, use condoms, listen well, drink champagne, swim naked, fall in love, wear red, use spell check, eat vegetables, be indulgent, be lovely,  ban fireworks, use neck cream, throw confetti and most importantly, put flowers in our hair!

Happy 2016 everyone.  May it be sweet for all.


A crush

I’ve developed a crush on a blogger.

Not a blogger. A commentator.

And it’s kinda fun and lovely and okay, we’ve only ever exchanged a few comments and he has no idea that I’m crushing on him at all, but it’s making me feel quite excited!

Because there is that thing of words.

My words, of which there have been thousands, make him smile. I know, because he’s told me.

His words, of which there may have only been a hundred (okay, I counted, eighty-eight) have made me smile too.

They’re funny, witty, clever and a little bit sexy.

Not too sexy. There’s no innuendo and there’s nothing overt.

They’re just lovely.

In this case, it isn’t about words being a turn on. Although I do have that little feeling in the pit of my stomach when I read him.

It’s about words that imply a connection – an understanding.

A ‘we get each other’ thing.

Really, I know nothing about this man. I don’t know where he lives, what he does or even what he looks like. From his words, though, I can imagine.

I imagine a man who is older, a little hurt, a little fragile, very bright, self-sufficient, independent, wary.

He doesn’t know anything about me. I write under a pseudonym and I could be totally different from the persona that I put out there.

He can only imagine what I’m really like.

Maybe he knows, though, that this is the unreal but real me.

Because of that connection thing.

I have no idea if he is even reading this.

And if he is, well, I hope he chooses to fly down to Johannesburg and meet me and sweep me off my feet and buy me champagne and roses and talk to me, have wild sex with me, then marry me.

Or at the very least, before the sex and the wedding, I hope he comments here.

Because I can’t help but crush on his comments.