This post was created on the 20th of September 2019

My lovely is a professional writer, in fact it was his writing that made me fall in love with him.

Me on the other hand, I’m not, but I love the idea that I could be – it’s just another form of art after all. So here I am writing my very first blog post. “I have so much that I feel I need to write down babe!”…I said. “You have to write it down baby, doesn’t matter what it sounds like, just write it down. Otherwise it is going to drive you mad,” he replied.
So I navigated to the back-office of my website and found that I created a blog page already with the title written down and everything, all I needed to do was begin to type.
There has been a few “first-cuts” in my 49-year life, but I don’t want to write a memoir of it, I would much rather just tell you some short stories conjured up by my imagination, which by the way is the only thing, other than love, that I believe in.


The light was colouring everything in that magic golden glow. The rains were months late and the gathered clouds seem to have forgotten how to push the water out and down on to the scorching, eager earth.
She was alone, except for her furry companions that almost always surrounded her. They gathered close as the thunder and the lightning seemed to rehearse how this was supposed to play out. And then there was the wind, the one thing that made her feel more alive than anything else. She loved the way you could tell that it was coming by the sound it sent out before it came, the way it touched her skin. Today the wind was too gentle and soon the smell of imminent rain was gone and only the soft grey clouds hung around all forlorn; no rain yet again.

The rains use to come every summer, the clouds would gather gigantically around, the thunder big and loud and the lightning often way to close, so alive and so much bigger than the stuff that took up most of the space in her mind. The stuff that crowded even the drawers set aside, the ones for keeping her most precious treasures safe.

This rain was needed, mostly for the physical survival of the hordes of humans around her, taking up all the space. She would have loved for you to think she was nestled somewhere in the mountains with all her animal friends and family but that was just a fantasy because, like most of the humans out there, she lived caged up behind walls and alarms and gates. In her mind, though, she was free: free to be that wild woman-child that would run barefoot down the mountain with dogs and wolves in tow, sprinting into the river at full tilt with wild, crazy abandon, because she knew the river well, the exact spots where they would be safe to simply laugh and play and be naked.

She would have loved for you to believe all this so vividly that you would get up and protect this wild nature with all your might, so that we could all choose to live this fantasy if we wanted to.

The rains had to come soon, see, because the stuff filling her mind was busy trampling her precious fantasies to death. It was needed to wash the thick, stifling layer of dust off, and storm away the shit that threatened her imagination. It was needed to keep her dreams alive; to keep everyone’s dreams alive.