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Wondrous writing from a wandering woman
I am a well-travelled business woman and young-ish single mum (i.e. super hero). I have an overactive imagination. I love going on adventures and write about them. Big trips, small observations, I pour them all into my writing machine.
I write children’s books, journalistic articles, novels, and short stories. My articles have been published (The Independent, paper version and online), and I am currently working with a famous Argentinian illustrator to publish my stories for the little ones.
On a personal level: I am a vibrant, gifted, highly sensitive person, full of love and compassion, and I think that there is one yummy ingredient I would not like to live without, and that is humour.
There once was a princess, in a land far away Who wasn’t the youngest, she’d started going grey Her name was beautiful, though the rest of her less so Aurelia wasn’t married- had never had a beau Her features weren’t aweful, it was just her attitude Her face had grown sour, from being arrogant and rude Like other royal ladies, she had to wait for a prince Unfortunately, seeing her, made handsome princes wince The old king spent years trying to convince Posh princes such as John and Vince That his daughter was lovely and smelled of mints Petrified princes galloped off, yet the king took no hints The king couldn’t wait to see Aurelia hitched In every town he visited, he made sure she was pitched As any young man’s dreamy wife With whom they’d have a fabulous life He needed her to marry off well So he could live in luxury and dwell His old days in the castle, swimming in dough Thus he needed Aurelia to score a rich beau She was shown many a pretty polaroid Though no one seemed to fill the void The princess felt deep inside her heart Scrap that, in her every body part Despite the king’s best efforts, nothing really paid off To every prince she met, she said “Do YOU know what I love? Horrible words, like ‘blast!’, ‘poo’, and ‘bum’” The princes ran and cried, “That’s not why I’ve come I want a fair lady!” They stamped their feet and screamed That this mean princess Aurelia was not one they deemed A lady they’d take for tea along with their precious Mums “She looks as though she lives in the dirty slums,” One disgruntled prince yelled Want to know how Aurelia felt? Smiling, she shook her hair out over the balustrade And demanded the king arrange a date With the bum who lived out in the street She said, “That bum doesn’t mind my smelly feet He doesn’t care about wrinkles or grey strands He doesn’t need Prim and Proper, or manicured hands This man likes me for who I am inside, Unlike those arrogant princes, for whom I have to hide My flaws and the profanities I daily use One broken fingernail and those princes would pop a fuse!” And so Aurelia married, the homeless guy next door The king was forced to move into their shack, all poor For there was a strict rule in their land A princess who doesn’t accept a prince’s hand From the castle, the royal family is banned A rule is a rule, no point taking a stand But for the very first time in his life He saw a smile on the bum’s wife He’d never seen his daughter not look grim The light in her eyes was no longer dim! She was happy; she’d come alive Even though they now drank - not from crystal -in a dive They all lived happily ever after On tins of beans and laughter
Dear men, According to my Kurdisch-Swedish friend, a woman is like a friendly volcano. “She really is,” he stresses. “I’m not,” I huff, “but I see your point.” Indeed. A woman is beautiful and serene: one truly amazing sight that stands out. Like a volcano. Until she errupts. Her volcanic ash, along with her conveniently aligned pyroclastic and mentstrual flow, can and will destroy everything dear to you. Including your upcoming dudes-trip, tickets to the match of the century, or your precious porn mags. Especially those. I’d like to say I’m the exception. That I am, although womanly and girly at the best of times, more like ‘one of the guys’. I can burp for Britain, fart for France. I nod and say I understand perfectly well how men drool over a gorgeous woman’s body, without a hint of jealousy on my part, knowing “it means nothing”. I claim to find women annoying, how I detest nagging, how women never really seem to know or say what they want. And when they do, they change their minds. I state that I don’t get them either. I say that I am this serene and beautiful volcano too, though a dormant one. One you can easily take on your man-cation. While you try to drink me under the table, I will banter until you’re totally tongue-tied. The exception. Me. Sure. I burp, fart, and banter. But the exception? Nah. Don’t tell porkies. For I am like all the others, just as all the others are like me. Women are NOT docile little creatures that agree with you eternally; who scrub your floors; cook; raise your gaggle of kids; wriggle a soft, manicured hand down your trousers to warm and tickle your yearning third leg. Even the most devout of nuns, calm and chock-full of self-restraint as she usually is, has her boiling points. At times she grows so angry and frustrated that simple gardening won’t suffice to diffuse the situation: a radish will perish from her ferocious and terrifying screams, cucumbers will curl up in fear. She too encounters moments when she’s so pent up, she’ll lock the monastery door, shut the curtains, stick her Bible in the fridge and sinfully masturbate for six solid hours until she gives herself carpal tunnel syndrome, just to find some form of relief. So, yes. That thing about women being like volcanoes? It’s true. For all of them. Be warned. Best wishes, Volcanic Female.