Category: writing

Sweet joy

Someone asked me today how I am and without thinking or analysing or overthinking I replied that I’m good. That I’m busy at work which is fantastic. And busy with life and a bit of love and also with dogs and kids and friends and the sweetest ripest granadillas and fresh food and fruit and very good wine and I realised something.

Something big.

I’m Happy.

Even with our political turmoil, I’m happy.

Even with a love life that is sometimes in turmoil, I’m happy.

Maybe it’s the weather; these glorious autumn days with glorious autumn colours.
Maybe it’s the possibility of love.
Of new kisses.
And skin.
Or sex.

Maybe it’s the dope I smoked.

Or all the dancing I’ve done.

I don’t know.

It could be because I finally learned how to use semi-colons which make me feel so good, like I  love using them and I think I need to use one immediately; would this be right?

I don’t know why, I just feel happy.

Perhaps I’ve become less difficult to please. More comfortable with me. And you.

And with life.


I just want to shout it out.


It’s a good feeling.

Insert semi-colon.

Right here.



I find it tricky when people ask me questions about myself. I never have straightforward answers. I’m terrible at small talk, I say. I’m not very good at parties. I quite like being outdoors. I’m a coffee addict, a mother, dog lover, traveller, wanna be … Continue reading Me


‘Tell me your fantasies Violet?’

I thought for a while. I thought about a fantasy I used to have when I was younger. Being kidnapped, held for ransom, falling semi in love with my hostage taker, a dramatic rescue by a dark and handsome stranger, riding off on horseback, clothes shredded, dishevelled, a mess but oh god he saved me and kissed me and I looked so skinny and sexy on that horse.

Don’t judge me, it was a fantasy.

Those are the kind of things that women fantasise about. Having wild sex with a stranger, being dominated, ravaged, men on horseback, horses…

So when he asked me, it was easy

‘Okay,’ I said.  ‘I have this amazing fantasy, this dream, this…’

I hesitated.

Because I didn’t see ransom notes or horses riding off into the sunset. I didn’t see a muscular man with long hair and a perfect six pack.

I saw me, wearing an oversized sweater in a cosy cabin on the beach, a roaring fire, dogs at my feet, a typewriter, tons of paper, red wine, cigarettes and someone, old and lovely, delivering my food.

The only part of this dream that will never happen is the cigarette bit.

I hate smoking.

The rest…

Ah, I’m just going to carry on fantasising…