Vanilla.

The code word for inoffensive and bland, the beige of flavours, and yet it’s my favourite ice cream flavour.

And my least favourite reading material – vanilla writing.

 

I flirt with vanilla writing though.

Composing blog posts for maximum appeal, with beige content, that won’t offend.

Vanilla writing.

Except, I feel now, after events exactly one year ago, that I need to flavour my posts with a dash of rum and raisin, or to cause a ripple of raspberry after what happened to me, one year ago this week.

So what did happen, I hear you murmur?

Do you really want to know?

Switching from vanilla to blood-ridden retaliatory words (I don’t think Ben and Jerry’s will trademark that anytime soon) may be what I want to do.

Indeed it’s to be expected, given what occurred.

I could have a cathartic release, kissing and telling, revealing all, showing and telling, about what happened and what has happened since.

I’d feel great.

I know I would.

But would that great feeling last?

Or would it melt?

Am I better sticking to vanilla ice cream and vanilla writing and keeping what happened enclosed behind a metaphorical freezer door?

You tell me.