Pink is the new Grey

I'm a freelance writer, caffeine addict and cake whore. This is my blog, where I unleash my inner witch from her gingerbread latte cottage in the woods. Some people just can't play nicely online.


December 2015

30th December – It’s time to bash plastic …

Tonight, twenty-three years, almost to the hour, after we first met we were slouching on the sofa in the semi-conscious comfort of utter familiarity. One character in the TV drama we were watching was a haggard, drug-addled prostitute.

“Her face is like the one I see staring back at me whenever I look in the mirror,” I remarked.

“Oh no,” said Tim, “she’s been made up to look like that, she doesn’t really look that rough.”

I intend to show no response whatsoever to this: I intend to fill my face so full of Botox that facial expression of any kind becomes impossible. Not because I think I need it, but because Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned … Unless it’s a woman scorned who also has access to your credit card.


13th December

Forget about the gifts, just leave me the Santa! 

Move over, little girlies: he’s too old for you. But just right for me. He can sneak into my room anytime and … you know the rest of that joke.

At last – some age appropriate eye-candy for the mature woman. Because there is something desperately sad (or should that be sadly desperate) about a woman drooling all down her wobbly crepe-paper cleavage over a man young enough to be her son (imagine the sex – the phrase “reverse birth” comes to mind).

The view from the mid-life window just got interesting. But now that it’s ok to admit that I’m not dead from the neck down yet I have a dilemma – do I hang my stockings up this Christmas Eve, or wear them?

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