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.
