F*ck Santa

Thank God it's over. Christmas that is. I'm not a big fan of the enforced jollility (is that a word), and being cooped up with the fam for more than two hours is often a recipe for argie-bargie. Too many Arians in the place (me, mum and sis). I invited everyone over, including cantankerous Dad, and did the cooking. It was okay, but I kinda missed my mum's food. I watched Dances With Wolves, the big film on Channel 5. Well I'd never seen it before, and as it was three hours long, felt that it would keep me out of harm's way as I tend to be at the centre of the rows. It worked. The day passed without incident, and we all kissed goodbye happily when everyone left.

I got Clarkie two presents. Yes, two. I am officially a bitch without money. Thank God my child is humble. Some Vans checkerboard skate shoes, and a Simpsons DVD. She loved them both, and the other 14 pairs of trainers in her wardrobe won't get a look in now. Her Dad came over to open presents with her before he went to work, showering her with lots of cool gifts, and also gave me one, a sweatshirt made by his designer friend Andrew Ibi which I love. If I didn't know better I'd swear that man was trying to get back into my...good books. But he's all loved up, so I guess not. Am so trying hard to remember why I finished with him...

The only thing I know she didn't get but would have wanted (besides a PSP which she's knows I ain't buying) was a brand new all-singing all-dancing mobile, but not even having more money would have made me buy it. It will only make her a target for crime. Muggings of schoolkids are rife as de pickney dem too bad mind inna London. She was happy with the recycled 3G one she got from her Dad. I received two texts from her today while she was out with Dad. "In the flicks, see you Saturday, love Clarke x", and "We are out of the cinema love lots x". Bless.

Christmas holds bittersweet memories for me. Mainly because I remember the ones spent with my brother's father. Not exactly the life and soul of the party shall we say. When I was nine my Dad went to Jamaica to work (I know, who does that). In the four years he was there, he never sent my mum any money, just some records (quite a few by Lou Rawls) to which her response was: "What 'im tink we fe do, eat de record dem?". By the time he came back my mum had a new man. Dad never fails to mention how heartbroken he was by this. Conveniently failing to mention the woman with four kids he was shacked up with.

Strangely, mum's new man was the brother of my best friend at primary school, which I discovered, early journalistic instincts kicking in, when I questioned him one morning as he lay in my mother's bed. I discovered they shared the same surname. For some reason, my friendship with her faltered soon after, as her family didn't think my mum was good enough for him, and discouraged our friendship. "What a facking liberty!" (copyright comedienne Catherine Tate, buy the DVD). My brother's father was not big on the whole Xmas vibe. I recall one particular Xmas when he ate dinner in his pyjamas. I recognise now that he was probably hung over from spending Christmas Eve in a shubeen, but still that's no excuse. The man was misery incarnate most of the time, and Christmas was no exception.

I liked the Christmases I spent at my Grandma's until she moved to Florida when I was 11. She lived in a house in north-west London, and had a colour TV in a cabinet. You had to slide back the front of the cabinet to turn on the TV. The room was filled with cabinets and ornaments. Hundreds of them. And she had a collection of Beatles albums, and reggae 45s, the one by Tapazuki sticks in my mind. I would stay up all night watching Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire musicals with her. Then go to sleep in her big round bed.

One year she gave me a Sindy ballet doll and a skateboard. Sindy was the bastard sister of Barbie, but as I wasn't really into dolls big-time I didn't care. She nicknamed the doll 'Spooks'. By the end of the night Spooks had no tights, was missing an arm, and I had taken off the head. Like I said, I wasn't really into dolls.

We would all sit round Grandma's big table which filled the whole room, dressed up in our Christmas clothes, hair did in some terrible 'only to be seen at Christmas' hair-don't, wearing black shiny patent shoes (I always remember the shoes). The table was filled from top to bottom, and we ate until we were stuffed like the big-ass turkey she'd cooked. My Gran would drive us home in her grey Vauxhall Viva. She wore leather driving gloves, and some driving shoes which she would put on in the car. And would always wipe the windscreen with her chamois leather. My gran, she's in her 70s now, is so cool, but boy was she cantankerous, yet somehow she always made the magic of Christmas happen.

It's Murder On The Dancefloor

Five days of intensive gym training led me to believe that I looked great in my floor length floaty chiffon, halternecked beaded under the bustline print dress from Ms Selfridge (forget ToSho it will be the store for 2006). A million bucks in fact. I turned up at the Etiquette Christmas 'Ball' unescorted, as my friends had gone elsewhere ( I was joining them later) and spent a couple of hours wafting as elegantly as I could on my spindly heeled Karen Millen sandals. I don't think the shoes were designed to be worn by heffers as they have an unstable heel. But hey, they look fucking good. The trick is to walk slowly - unfortunately it means you look like you think you're 'too' nice. Not a problem for me though.

It's taken me two months to get my ass back in the gym, and even then I had to be nagged and given a free gym pass as I no longer have a membership. M has been my coach for the last two weeks, as I attempted to make myself look halfway decent in time for his ball last Saturday.

When I don't exercise, I feel fat. Whereas when I do exercise, I'm still the same size, but feel slim. Does that make sense? Anyways, on my first day back at the gym, I decide to run for 30 minutes, just to see if I can. And I do. And it was, dare I say it, easy. Even after two months of hanging on the sofa eating all manner of things that would be rejected by anorexics and bulimics. I guess that's what happens when you don't smoke.

This is my fourth week as a ex-smoker, and I've finished attending my smoker's clinic (Obi - how are you doing? *raises eyebrow*). Patches are definitely the way to go. I have six more weeks of them, and that's it. It was funny giving up the evil nicotine. The first week I was depressed. By the second, I was missing me 'old mucker' (friend), the cigarette. It was like it was a real person who had blown me out just when I needed them most (and do I know what that feels like). By week three I was starting to feel like a born again human, real live clothes had replaced the pyjamas and long cardigan I was schlepping around in, and I felt able to venture outside. No wonder people stay addicted to crack, the withdrawals must be a motherfucker.

Now that I don't smoke, I feel more elegant, and...clean. Cos lordy, the first thing you notice when you've stopped smoking is the stench from those that do. It's like I'm a blind person and my sense of smell is compensating for the absence of vision. Having long dreads means anytime I'm out, in a bar, pub or club, by the time I get home, I smell like I've been bathing in ash. To think I smelt like that for 17 years. Boy I was one deluded bitch.

I left the ball after 2am and got a cab to Pikeytown aka Croydon to meet the girls at DJ TLC's birthday bashment. I had an Absolut Kurrant vodka tonic, to which TLC added pink champagne, and then someone sloshed in some brandy. New found demi-sobriety meant I threw half into a potted plant near the dancefloor. After I slurped what was left I knew I couldn't drink anymore on top of the champagne cocktails and V&Ts I'd had at the ball, so just drank water. Can't do high heels and drunkeness anymore.

A couple of guys tried to 'pull' me for a dance, but I weren't up for it. I don't care if it's Christmas, so I politely turned them down. It can be done you know. Then there was the guy who sent his friend to ask me out for dinner. Although he looked like a man he could have been an hermaphrodite, because he definitely lacked balls. And people have the cheek to ask me why I'm single.

M and I had planned to check out the broken beat/future jazz night Co-op the next day. However, the fact that I got in at 6am proved to be too much to overcome. It's official, I can't do two party nights in a row anymore. All day I was busted. I lay on the sofa and drifted in and out of sleep. I bought Sunday dinner, but was too knackered to cook it. Clarke said she was happy with the leftovers from the big pot of chicken I cooked on Friday. God that sounds absolutely terrible.

I could've pushed myself to go, but I would've needed some legal drugs to get me out the door, and I was out of coffee. I guess my years of being first on the dancefloor and last to leave may be about to draw to a dignified close.

Yeah right.

Grudge Dread

Some people say I like to hold a grudge. And you know what, I'ma have to agree with them. In the last week, I've seen two women that I used to go secondary school with. One of whom I had a fight with, and another who was a sheep and sided with the girls in my year who ganged up on me and my best friend. I saw one in the street, and I know she saw me. I had to laugh because she looked busted. Ok, not everyone goes out dressed to the nines, but you know somedays you ain't looking hot and you pray that you don't see peeps you know? That's how she looked. Meanwhile I was rocking my casual 'indie' look, reefer style navy wool jacket, striped pink and black Fred Perry scarf, and jeans, on my racer, looking lo-key f-ly. Got you bitch.

To this day, trust me, I would NEVER, speak to any of them bitches. The other, I saw at another friend's christening party recently. Ditto that. Me just look pon her. Why? Because these girls were part of a gang of girls at our school who bullied me and my best friend.

Bear in mind, all the drama happened about 20 years ago. But when I was hanging with my best friend and baby Mimi today, both of us all grown up and shit, we both realised that even now, we never talk to any of these people if we see them. The people that bullied us, the one's that egged them on, or the ones that just stayed silent in the background while we were being physically or verbally abused on a daily basis for a whole year of school.

Now, you may all know by now, that I'm no pushover. But we were up against practically a whole year of 15 year olds, some 14 year olds and they older sisters who jumped in now and then too. The whole thing was sparked by a feisty comment, surprisingly not made by me. But by my best friend. She said to the main bully while we were doing a trampolining lesson: "Move, 'Bully' you stink." It was typical of the throwaway disses we bandied around at that time. Like saying 'shut up you tramp'. Except this girl took offence, probably because she really did stink.

A whole crew of them followed us to my house, to beat up my friend. Now my best friend was the most bookish person you could meet. She'd only ever had little foolish fights with me, not full on ones with the school bully. I told that girl: "If you want to fight, let's go to your house and do it, cos we ain't fighting outside mine." There was a whole massive of them, the dummies looked at each other, and then said how I shouldn't be sticking up for her because she was African?!? (err she's Nigerian). The 'stink' girl wasn't even Caribbean, she was fucking African too, but was Ja-fakin' it. No. Meaning. Dem gyal was eediot, you think that was gonna make me abandon my friend?

Admittedly, when I first met my best friend, she had a threaded African hairstyle, so I used to call her Spiderwoman. She spoke RP English, unlike me, and knew the answers to all the questions. So I didn't like her. But not because she was African, but because she was smarter than me. But by the second year of school, I bagged a desk next to her, and we became friends. If you've ever read the book The Friends by Rosa Guy, that is me, and my best friend's story in print. Fictionalised of course. She was the good girl, and I was the rebel. Teachers used to warn her about being friends with me. I was a 'distraction', and she should 'choose her friends carefully'. But she never listened to them.

Our friendship was too strong for any such nonsense to come between us. I fought them bitches toe-to-toe, for her and for me, so allow me my little digs at them. They tried and failed to come between something that they knew they could never have. True friendship. I didn't need people like that in my life then, so why would I need to speak to them now? If that's holding a grudge, guilty as charged motherfuckers.

As I sat with my best friend today, after changing my goddaughter's pooey nappy, chewing the fat, and watching the last episode of a cheesy show we're both addicted to (Our New Life in Everwood - 1st series on ITV) I thanked God we came through those tough times together, and that 25 years since we first met, just like old times, as my girl CC, I mean Jill Scott sang (on Beautifully Human), 'I'm Still Here'.

In The Company of Men

Usually my weekend shenanigans (now there's an underused word) involve me and Suzy Wong. But my girl's all blew me out for one reason or another, so I was rolling with my boy M.

I was celebrating on Friday night. No. Not just because it was Friday. But because I finally got the results of my masters. I PASSED. I GOT IT. I have the bit of paper that says and I quote: "This bitch gave up work full-time, slogged her guts out for nine months, drove herself and most of her peeps crazy, fed her child on junk food so she could finish assignments, and busted her ass to get a second degree." Okay it didn't say that, but damn near. Thank you Jesus.

So I was looking forward to an evening out at a new restaurant opened by a friend in Holborn called The Terrace. A nice little place in the middle of one of London's historic architectural landmarks, Lincoln's Inn Fields, which is an enclave for barristers. It's in a park area, which will be lovely in the summertime, as it's light and airy in decor.

My sister met me there and we sat on a table with some people I knew, including some lovely un-smug married couples I know. The food was dope, good portions which didn't leave me feeling like a beached whale. I even managed dessert. We then went to a bar pretending to be a club, Torts in Holborn. Yeah the same place where the gangster heffer threatened to glass me. In my corset dress and pink ballerina style satin Kurt Geiger heels, I wasn't exactly dressed to fight, but decided to assume a defensive position (focus please boys) and stand in one spot all night. Opposite the bar.

Some other guys I knew turned up, and we hung out in the bar area watching the people go by. They forgot I was there, and soon had me rolling up with their withering put downs of women and men (but sadly mainly women) dressed in ways they shouldn't have been, showing parts that didn't need to be seen. There was a woman with huge 'baps', wearing a cheap white halterneck top, and no bra. Her nipples were like headlamps. And she stood all proud and shit just illuminating the spot. Tramp. There were so many badly dressed people in there, they made me feel like I was wearing couture and not high street Karen Millen.

When I did move from my spot to the toilet, there were some hardfaced women in there. The conversation went. "I just pushed her out the way, why should we care about them if they don't care about us". Her friend said "I'm going to be sick." When she came out of the toilet her mate said to me. Let me rephrase that, she shouted at me did I want to use the toilet. No. Thanks.

Saturday night, M asked me to 'follow' him to a club. And before you ask. No, we're not fucking. He picked my up at 2am, or rather his friend Beemer Brother did. Is he trying to hook me up? So there's me, and two fine looking men, out on the town and I'm feeling like a pimp mama. We go to Yeungs. A chinese restaurant trying to be a club. Anyone that's been there hates it. Including me. It's just wrong.

So I'm thinking, what's the protocol when you're with a male friend, and his friend looks a bit 'tasty'? Bearing in mind, me and M are definitely not fucking. But I decided not to flirt. A tad tacky? I went against type (forward and flirty) and played it cool but friendly. BB and I got talking about music, he likes the broken beat/nu-soul scene so we arranged to go CO-OP on Dec 18th, the daddy of broken beat clubs for a proper dancefloor workout. Cos Yeungs be dry like crackers. Trust me, it's gonna be a roadblock. He asked me for my number to hook me up with some broken beat CDs. Cool. But you know, I have a feeling he's not single. I call it 'singlemandar'. It's like 'gaydar', I can just tell.

It was refreshing hanging with 'da man's dem'. Reminded me of my misspent hip-hop youth when often I would be the only girl rolling with a posse. When you're with guys, there's less trips to the toilet, no one's complaining their feet are hurting, and you don't get approached by skanky chancers. Or anyone for that matter. But contrary to popular opinion, judging from Friday night, they are way bitchier than girls. Dem man is 'arsh.

The Family Girl

I really hate being told what to do. Especially by my family. Despite having a child, a home, and a fledgling career in journalism, none of this ever matters once you pass through the threshold of your childhood abode. As soon as you're there, in their eyes you are Don-dons, aged 10 or whatever juvenile age has stuck in their mind.

In two weeks time, I have a party on the same night as my mum's friend's 60th which she's asked me to come to. Even though I planned to go to my party weeks ago. She said: 'It will be nice if we go as a family." In otherwords, if you don't come I will hold it against you for all eternity and constantly refer to your selfishness when we argue. My sister has already started applying the emotional pressure "I'm sure we can make excuses for you if you don't come". The two of them usually join forces against me. But my sister has totted up enough 'no shows' (including Christmas Day 2003) for her loaded comments to carry no weight with me.

If my mum ever 'asks' me to attend anything, I always make the mistake of thinking I actually have a choice. If I say I'm not coming, she gets vex, cusses me out and attempts to makes me feel like the worst daughter in the world. I know I don't go out that often with my mum (mainly because she rarely goes out, and will rarely make the effort to organise anything. What are children for?) but I just hate being made to feel obliged to do it. If I already have plans, why should I change them? Why can't they just accept that I have plans without trying to make me feel guilty about it? Don't get me wrong, I like doing family stuff. I take my mum out on her birthday, organise theatre or cinema trips, or invite her to stay, when she feels able to make the journey from west to south. My mum is only in her fifties, looks younger, but acts like a septugenarian. I attend the funerals, and weddings of her friends, and church occasionally. But the one time you don't attend something is the one time they always want to bring up.

Also, there seems to be a double standard that operates in my family. If my sister says she's going to something and doesn't turn up, it passes with little comment. But if I say in advance that I'm not going to come, all hell breaks loose, and I'm accused of being selfish. Go figure. Obviously, I need to learn to tell a white lie. But I don't see why I should have to do this? I mean, I'm grown, I have my own committments in life, why won't she understand this? It makes me so fucking crazy sometimes. Like today. *Breathe*.

Black Is Black

Yesterday, when I pointed out my daughter to a man at the christening (bear in mind this is someone I barely know) he looked shocked and said: "that's your daughter". Yes. "But how come she don't look like you?". Errr actually 99 per cent of people think she does. "Is her Dad dark? Like midnight dark?" "He's dark like you." I said to him: "What does it matter how dark or light she is?". In 2005 I am saying to black people. Can we please get over this shit already. It is tired and backward.

My daughter is dark-skinned, and I guess most black people would consider me 'light-skinned' or as Jamaicans would say 'browning'. It's not a term I would ever use to describe myself as, unless I was forced to give a detailed description and it couldn't be avoided. I don't accept 'browning' because it seeks to elevate lighter skinned women over their dark-skinned sisters. And ever since I developed an awareness of the politics of skin complexion, I would never describe myself as thus. I am black. That's it.

When I was in school, the black girl's used to love off the light-skin/mixed race brothers. I used to scorn them for being so narrowminded. Light skin boys were seen as more attractive, and let's face it 'less black looking', more European. African features were a long way off from being appreciated, so dark-skin brothers and sisters were routinely dissed. I just didn't understand that mentality.

Once, I was in a supermarket with a friends' light-skinned child and Clarke, and the woman on the till asked if she was my child. When I said no, and pointed to Clarke, she said no, that's not your child, and said the other child was mine. I wanted to knock her out. Yes, she could have been my child, but I had just told the dumb-ass bitch that she wasn't!

The sad thing is, children pick up on this form of discrimination from a very early age. As soon as Clarke was able to articulate how she was feeling, she asked why she didn't have the same colour as me? She'd noticed that black celebrities and pop stars didn't often share the same complexion as her. Kids at school teased her about her dark skin. When she spoke to me, upset by all this we talked about it. We sat down and went through magazines and made a collage of beautiful and smart dark-skinned celebrities. I pointed out the people she loved in her family that are dark-skinned, both my mother and her paternal grandmother. Her father, her cousin Jenine, and her godmother. Her godmother herself suffered abuse at school because she wasn't the revered lighter hue. She went through secondary school without a single boyfriend, while I was never short of a spotty teenage suitor ready to break my heart. Her goddie wrote her a beautiful letter, sharing her own experiences, and letting Clarke know that she is beautiful just as she is.

Although I don't recognised myself as being light-skinned, I have been judged because that's how other people see me. There's a stereotype that light-skin women think they're all that, so people expect you to be a bitch. And when you're actually friendly and pleasant (hey I can be on rare occasions) they seem almost shocked. Once a guy accused me of only dating light-skin men. The fact that he was dark, and I didn't like him brought him to the conclusion that I was not interested in all dark men. If only he knew.

When you look at the average black family, there are people of all shades within it. And even if there isn't, what's the big fucking deal? It's only motherfucking melanin! I love the fact that my daughter is not an exact replica of me. She has her own individual beauty. I know I may be sensitive to these comments, because they're referring to my child. But I don't want her hearing this shit from people. I don't want her developing a complex because of other people's archaic prejudices. Grown ass people should not still be comparing skintone. Don't we have more important things to worry about?

Living My Life Like It's Golden

All week I have been stressing because I didn't have an 'outfit' to wear to my friend's christening today. I bought a Zara winter white coat off ebay, it has a wide neck, which looks quite Audrey Hepburn-ish, but didn't have a dress or a frock short enough to wear underneath it that wouldn't peek out and fuck up the look. This is the kind of thing that matters to me (prob too much) and to very few other people.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON - We looked around, and even though usually clothes fly into my hands like iron pilings to magnets, nothing took my fancy. So I decided to 'llow it.

STILL SATURDAY AFTERNOON - I tried to buy a book called 'Rastamouse and the Crucial Plan' for baby Oscar Golden Brown, but Index, the black bookshop in Brixton was closed. Like, boarded up closed, and builders working on it. Please not another fucking weave shop. I was soooo vex. Of course Books Etc, had never heard of it and as I had a stress headache, no doubt due to nicotine withdrawal, I was not in the mood to trek to Borders in the West End. I rushed to a children's clothes store. It was closed. So not only did I not have an outfit, more importantly, I had nothing for the baby. Crap.

SATURDAY NIGHT - Searching for a default outfit. I scrap the white coat. It'll keep. I pull out the white cord flares, and a black wrap top with frilly cap sleeves from TopShop.

EARLY SUNDAY MORNING - I'm looking at the cords, and thinking, batty hugging = unwanted attention. So not feeling that today. Black top, skimpy and cold. That's blanked.

STILL SUNDAY MORNING - Pull out my old faithful gold sequinned full print Day Birger & Mikklesen skirt (store just opened on Sloane Street). Bought last year. In fact I bought two in different colours as I couldn't choose, even though I had never spent that much on one skirt before, let alone two. How much? More expensive than Karen Millen, but much less than Prada. Fling on a black ToSho v-neck (worn nuff), added a brown plaited belt around the waist, black Kurt Geiger boots (four seasons old), and my wool French Connection trenchcoat (three seasons strong) on top. Sorted. Clarke said: "Don't worry about how you look, it's not about you, it's about the baby." She can bloody talk, in her all new cream Edwardian style short-sleeved shirt, wool military shorts and bronze ballet pumps. She looked wicked!

SUNDAY AFTERNOON - After the church service with an excellent female pastor, the same one who'd married the new parents, we went straight to the reception. I saw women in skimpy dresses (which I'd ruled out as not appropriate), laced up open-toe sandals (in sub-zero temperatures), and all manner of bashment raving gear. WTF had I been getting so worked up about.

STILL SUNDAY AFTERNOON - Unfortunately, the caterer was running on BPT (black people time), and instead of arriving at 10am, turned up five hours later. Shame and grace. Thankfully, because black people don't like to run out of food at a christening (that would be big shame) they'd some of their own, which they served to keep the natives from getting restless. J was so vex, she couldn't even talk.

My sister came too. A rare occurence as we don't go out much together. We got chatting to some of J's relatives. I'd met one of her cousins before and his other male cousin was basically trying to set us up. This guy doesn't live in London, but near the seaside on the south coast. So I said I'd go visit him there. In the summer. His cousin was incredulous at my lack of keeness. Well what the hell am I gonna do in the winter by the seaside? I don't even want to travel to east London at the moment, let alone outside it.

There were plenty of kids in attendance. And although Clarke aka 'The Heathen' had to be talked into going to the church, not like she really had a choice, but as the comedians who entertained us said, our generation allow their kids to 'express themselves' and she 'expressed' that she didn't want to go. And I 'expressed' that I wanted her to. Once at the reception she disappeared and played with the other kids. But for once, no complaints about badly behaved kids. All of them were gorgeous, and behaved brilliantly.

SUNDAY EVENING - The moment of the night was when they played Cameo's song Candy. Now, most black people know the deal when Candy is played. Everyone does the Electric Slide, a formation dance from the 70s. I was on a hen night once, in Spain, where the wedding was taking place. And taught everyone to do it, including a couple of white women in the party. I mention this only because it highlights my expertise at The Slide, as one of them said she had absolutely no rhythm, and had never managed to even master aerobics. Seems that the problem was really, that she had no black friends to show her where she was going wrong.

When I heard the intro strike up, I went into the main room, and saw my daughter dancing to Candy next to a boy about her age (she later told me his name was Alex and he was 13). Is it that time already? Clarke, come and dance with mummy.... Kids and adults were dancing side by side, everyone smiling and laughing like a Black Hollywood popcorn movie. Clarke has a trip to Canterbury tomorrow morning so I had to drag her away after 9pm. But catering slackness, and clothes trauma aside, it really was a fantastic day. Bless up Oscar Golden Brown, long awaited, much loved, you have arrived.

Barefaced Is Not Chic

Have you ever hid your face when the lights went on in a club? Because your make-up was no longer runway fresh, and your hair wasn't still in the style you arrived in because of the heat inside the club? I remember this ritual from my younger clubbing days, the girls would rush outside as soon as the lights came up. Men would be left standing alone on the dancefloor as the woman they were holding onto made a sudden urgent dash for the bathroom. It works both ways though, as some of the men, let's just say, we're no oil painting under the harsh glare of a 100 watt bulb.

I've had the 'make-up' debate with so many of my boyfriends, and male friends. They say: "You don't need to wear it" I say: "I know. But I like to". Never mind that the women they fantasise about wear enough slap to keep Mac going for years, when it comes to their women, less is nothing. But let me explain for those that don't understand.

To me, make-up is like clean panties, a bra, or a freshly waxed top-lip. Es-sen-tial to the final look. Not in a ridiculous way, like the woman who used to attend my step aerobics class wearing a tube of pillar box red Constance Carroll (see cheap) lipstick lacquered onto her marshmallow fat lips. Unless I've just come back from a country where the temperature was in the 90s every day for a week, and my face is burnt creme caramel with a J-Lo 'Glow', I'm wearing make-up when I go out. Even with a tan, I would still wear mascara, and sheer lipgloss. I usually wear make-up when I go out, or in a business setting like a job interview, but on a daily basis, less so.

Why do I wear it? Because make up = polish. As a woman, you're raised to take grooming very seriously, and to me make-up is a part of that. It is a cosmetic enhancement which does not involve cutting yourself, or paying through the nose for a new nose. A little mascara to open up the eyes, some lipgloss, and blusher, TA DAAA. A fresh-faced look is yours.

I know I look different with make-up. I look BETTER. But I wouldn't say that without it I look hideous, or that I'm falsely representing myself. Women of all cultures, ancient and present have worn something which is recognised as make-up. It is not a European thing that black women have adopted, but it is something which has been a part of African culture for centuries.

When I'm going out, make-up adds a sheen and a polish which completes the look. It's not worn to cover up, conceal (ok - sometimes the dark circles) or to fool anyone (see man). Make-up is fun, and it's a big part of fashion. New looks come in and out, and if you're fashion conscious you want to try them out. I particularly like smoky eyes, and black eyeliner, which I believe is the look men like least because the make-up is so obvious. But, hey, they're entitled to their opinion. If a man decides he doesn't want to approach me because I'm wearing black kohl, it's not a problem for me. I would hope that someone wouldn't just like me because of how I look, but also, amazingly, because of what's going on inside my head.

Obviously there are women who are guilty of crimes against make-up, tarring those of us who indulge with the same lipbrush. Those that just wear the pillar box red lipstick. And line the lips with a black pencil. I would love to know who started this non-trend. Sadly it can still be spotted in parts of south London. And the women who wear the Tango orange Fashion Fair foundation. An inch thick. It get's on men's shirts and NEVER comes out. Not a good look if that man ain't yours. And finally, there are the women that draw in the eyebrows they no longer have. Jamaican and Nigerian women particularly partial to this one. Overplucking is an illness, get help.

But I reckon, the majority of us, use just enough to add that sheen which gives you a sleek, polished look, and a bounce in your step when you're heading out the door. The litmus test for me is, if the shoes I'm wearing are 3 inches or over, the lippy comes out.

Dress Update: Disappointment

Like I said in my original post: "This is one dress where the high street copy won't do." And I was right.

Travelled to Kingston (Eng-er-land) to pick up the dresses I tracked down . First of all, the trains were buggered, due to a fire at Clapham Junction. None were coming when I was at the station at 10am, so I went home, and came back later after lunch.

When I arrived at the store, the dresses I'd put on hold were nowhere to be found. Someone had put them back on the shopfloor, even though I had impressed on the sales assistant I'd spoken that she should store the dresses in a secure place so this would not happen. She was very apologetic. Stop apologising bitch and go find de dress dem!

While waiting for them to locate the dresses, I came across one in my size on the shopfloor which I grabbed. I felt the other shopper's eyes on me as I wandered around the store so went to the changing room to escape them and try it on.

The Verdict?

Ummmmm. There was no 'TA DAAAA' moment. No, 'THIS DRESS LOOKS BANGIN. ON ME!' moment. No, 'ME AH DE MAN DEM GIZZARDA' dancin' in the changing room moment. Just me looking at my reflection and wishing I had all those feelings, and knowing I didn't. I went onto the shopfloor and tried on a pair of stilettoes with it. The extra inches helped (don't they always) but the dress is a couple of inches shorter than I would like. Probably due to fact that a lot of the fabric is used up covering my ass. It's on the knee, and due to the tightness of the fit rides higher when you walk. The fabric is very thin, and basically screams 'CHEAP KNOCKOFF'.

Even though as I was examining my rear in the mirror on the shopfloor, I got the double look of 'damn your ass is phat' approval from a homeboy walking through the store, for me, the TopShop dress nah mek it.

My Smoking Life

'Bout time I wrote something sensible, instead of this dress and hair obsessing I've been doing of late. And they say blondes are dumb. I'm a brunette now!

Yes, today is the day I made a committment to give up the evil weed. A half a lifetime addiction, which never should have started. I mean, what person in their right mind does something that they know can lead to life-threatening illness, and death. Aside from Mossy's paramour, Pete 'The White Flava Flav - Crackhead' Doherty. Yeah me, that's who.

I smoked my first cigarette aged 10 in the 'bogs' at primary school. Me and my friends were 'grassed' up by some big mout' girl, and my teacher (the PE teacher no less) stood us in front of class and gave us the Alex Ferguson hairdryer treatment (stay with me my US cousins). I had to intercept the letter he sent home to my mum, as beatings were still in full effect back then, and I wasn't trying to feel the tennis racket, badminton racket, or a shoe in my head.After that, I was vehemently anti-smoking for a few years.

What was it that made me start to smoke, and continue until now?

I was around 17 when I started going to clubs regularly and people were always offering me 'erbs. I had never tried it - but thought 'lightbulb moment', 'I know I'll try a cigarette, and if I like that, I'll try the weed'. Not one of my better ideas. I was moving into the hip-hop scene at that time. And even though I'd been clubbing for a couple of years. Hip-hop was a more intimidating scene. Everyone, seemed so confident and acted like they belonged. I was new to it, and I guess I just wanted to fit in. A guy I started seeing was a dancer and actor, he smoked. He was friends with Rodney P of the London Posse, we all hung together, and went to parties. They all smoked weed. I puffed on it like I knew what I was doing. Of course the choking gave me away.

It wasn't a massive surprise that I started smoking. My mum and dad smoked cigarettes. I grew up around weed smokers - my mum, until she gave up years ago, her friends, and my stepdad. My mum said she always knew I would smoke, because I used to enjoy inhaling the aroma created when she and her friends were partaking in the 'erbs. My mum tried to put up a fight, but knew she was losing the battle when I got my step-dad to roll my spliffs for me before I went out. He said it was better that he did it than someone else, and I wouldn't know what they'd put it in. Logical I thought.

I was welcomed into the hip-hop world with a spliff and a smile, and cigarettes soon became my default smoke of choice. All the guys I went out with smoked, weed and cigarettes, up until the Bobo Dread. He hated me smoking, but I wouldn't be told by him.

From 16 until 26, I hadn't had a serious relationship with a non-smoker. Smoking in our teenage, young adult world was cool. All the cool bad boys smoked. You had a cigarette after sex. Shared one at the nightbus stop. On the bus. On the tube on the way to my Saturday job (who remembers that). Smoking and drinking in the studio during all-night recording sessions. Newport Lights in NYC. Philly blunts and Rum and Raisin Haagen Daz in Harlem. Smoking a spliff with Todd Terry in the studio and then driving from Queens to Coney Island head hanging out the car feeling green. Sharing a joint on the night I hung out for the first time with the man that would become the father of my child.

I quit smoking weed regularly around 10 years ago, when I begun studying for my first degree. It just didn't agree with me anymore. Too many responsibilities, I was driving, and the two don't mix when you have a child in the back. But the cigarettes have been harder to kick. They became my stress crutch, and there's plenty of stress in life for them to be a crutch for. But for three weeks I've been attending a Smoker's Quit Clinic. Today is my Quit Day, and since 10.45am, I've been wearing a nicotine patch, and I haven't had a cigarette.

I'm done with the Eau de Ashtray fragrance, smelly hair, clothes and breath, and dry skin. I'm shake this monkeyfucker off my back, and take back my lungs from the nicotine demon. One day at a time. Wish me luck.

"Girl You Know It's True"

brownbfly
Originally uploaded by Butterfly Jones.

On a totally frivolous note. What else. Here's a pic of the transformation. Ta Daaaa! I have two boxes of blonde hair dye sitting in the bathroom, please cast your votes, to decide if I should return to blonde by the weekend.
Also if I look half-crazed in this photo, it's because today is the day that I quit smoking. For ever.

Dress Update: Obsession

Fashion Butterfly has been busy. Was browsing on ebay (as you do) and saw the dress I want being auctioned for over double its original price. Called TopShop straight away. The one they've ordered for me hasn't arrived. Fuck this for a game of soldiers, I cannot miss out on this dress. I start calling TopShop branches all over London. No joy. Then I call a branch in Kingston, my default shopping zone when things are sold out in the city. They have two, in black satin. YES.YES.YES. I'll take them both. Ebay here I come.

Praying the satin won't be cheap and nasty or reveal 'dimples' on bottom. Ok it's cellulite, I'm a woman ain't I? We all have it, even the 'skinny bitches' (copyright Monique).

Oh the excitement. In the absence of copulating (or is that copulation Galatea), this is the next best thing. If that dress looks good, I'll be feeling myself, with no need for a member of the opposite sex for assistance. Rrrrrrrr.

Super Model

Supermodels
Originally uploaded by Butterfly Jones.

Naomi don't get much good press. But have to big her up for her part in organising Fashion Relief (hopefully no assistants were injured during the staging of the event). They raised a $1million dollars for the survivors of New Orleans.

Loving the re-appearance of the fabulous Veronica Webb. She shoulda been Mrs Russell Simmons, not that wannabe ghetto trashulous he-she Kimora Lee. Me hate she. Glad I got that off my chest.


p.s - That's Beyonce holding her own on the left.

Blonde Transition: Update

Oh.My.GOD! My first thought on seeing my newly coloured locks is I look like one of Milli Vanilli. I need a drink.

Blonde Transition

I have blonde dreadlocks. I've been dying my locks blonde for around eight years now. I've dyed my hair blonde when it was permed straight and natural. And was heavily influenced by Queen Mary of Blige, and my girl Suzie Wong who first rocked it back in the 80s. But lately, I've begun to think about trying something different. Hence I am typing this while sitting with a headful of dye developing.

Vanity being my default mode, I've stuck with it for so long because someone said to me once that my natural hair colour made me look older. It's okay, it was my sister. Sister's can say those things to each other without causing offence. But that one little comment stuck in my mind, and has had me reaching for the Nice n Easy to hold back the years ever since. Of course, if I was being rational, it can't just be due to a box of dye why people almost faint when I tell them my real age? Can it?

But as the years fly by, I've been wondering, how long am I going to keep my hair this colour exactly, and how will I look with my natural hair colour after eight years of Nice n Easy Golden Lightest Blonde (extra lightening)? So I picked up a box of something different this month when it was time for the touch up. As I look at the colour sitting on my head, I feel a sense of dread. It looks very dark. I'm not sure I'm going to like it. I'm not sure if it will suit me. WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE???

Calm down Butterfly. *Lights cigarette and hopes head doesn't go Michael Jackson on me*. The dye has stained my forehead and the side of my face. A dreg of a memory forms which prompts me to use my cigarette ash (not the hot stuff) to rub it off, I'm sure I read that somewhere. Anyway it seems to work. I usually smell like an ashtray anyway, so no change there. I feel like a contestant on Stars in Their Eyes: "Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be...I don't know." Well, I guess I'll still be me. But I won't be the girl with the blonde dreadlocks anymore. Until it's dry, I won't really know how it looks.

Gotta go rinse. Crumbs.

Hunting Season: The Dress

Sorry, no tales of all night drinking and dancing, fabulous frocks and killer heels. I decided to keep my ass quiet this weekend due to a combination of a cold, and fedupness with the whole raving ting. Why? Well last Friday I was in yet another over-filled club (see bar), heaving with badly dressed women, and men drinking the bar dry of champagne (who are they trying to impress). I sat down most of the evening, and on one of the two occasions I graced the dancefloor got into an argument with a heffa trying to grind on me while I was waiting to go through the crowd.

She seemed to find my objection offensive. Sorry bitch, I ain't that way inclined. Meanwhile her BFF (Big Fat Friend) threatened to 'glass me'. Obviously I'd been watching too much of the Mitchell's return to Eastenders and screamed at her Phil Mitchell style: " Come on you slag, don't talk abaht it, DO IT!". A flicker of fear betrayed itself in her rum soaked eyes, and she just stood there, all six foot tall and 14 stone wide of her. Looking at me. I escaped from that one, unscathed, but it seems like trouble with feisty women be following my ass. See in a situation like this, someone's got to give way. When the girl was grinding on me, I could have let her continue and said nothing. But quite frankly, I didn't really enjoy feeling her bony vagina pressed into my bottom, so let her know. But why do people have to be wrong and strong? She knew that she was out of order, so just apologise and let it drop. But no, she has to start shouting at ME, like I'm the one assaulting her with my punnany. Focus men please.

So on Friday while the girls went to New Nations 100 Batchelors Party (how could I resist), I was at home with Clarkie and Suzie Wong's son watching Jonathan Ross.

I'm going to a Christening in two weeks, and 'need' something to wear. Well that's what we women say when want to 'buy' something new. So on Saturday, I went to buy a frock I saw on TopShop's website, a copy of the Roland Mouret 'Galaxy' dress on the last post. Well, it couldn't hurt to see if the copy was any good could it?

It was a beautifully crisp and sunny day, perfect for some shop-trawling. I'm in TopShop in Oxford Circus for just five minutes when Britney Spear's younger and uglier sister (how is that possible) pushes me out of the way. I coulda left it. I said: "An excuse me would suffice." She said something back which included the f-word. I left it. I was with my child, and it's not about rolling around on the floor of TopShop trying to bitch slap a feisty teenager. I guess it doesn't matter where you are, rude people are fucking everywhere. And boy do they love me.

The Oxford Circus ToSho were sold out of The Dress. So we jumped on a bus to the Kensington branch. Had to treat Clarke to lunch at noodle spot Wagamama's as the face was getting long due to the search for The Dress. I almost choked on the first spoonful of ther lemongass, chili and coconut noodles I'd ordered. Damn, the chefs use pepper like my mum. Without measuring. Clarke ate her noodles very nicely, and we chewed the fat like two old friends. I almost forget her age sometimes.

Kensington had two dresses left, but the size 16 was too big. Don't you love it when that happens? So two shops later the perverse thing kicks in that happens when I can't find something that I like. I begin to want it more. So it becomes a matter of fashion pride to locate the dress. It's not the label, or how much it costs, but it's the thrill of the chase. I guess like men who bug women for their phone numbers. The more a woman says no, the more they want the number. Although unlike these men, I will actually use the dress. Y'all know who you are, triflin ass niggas!

Stopped in Kazza Mill (Karen Millen). Saw a beautiful black, halterneck, satin, fishtail gown. Fit for Beyonce or a drag queen, completely over the top. So I tried it on. I fit the size 14 (US 12 - I think they should rename anything under an 8 Size NE - Not Eating). It looked fantastic. I know this because Clarke told me. My ass looked hella big. Excellent. If you squinted, I almost looked like Beyonce. If you stood fifty paces away. And looked at me from behind. Cheap at £250. I'll wait for the sale.

Then we went to M&S for some cakes (best supermarket cakes in London), and a free range chicken. Fuck me they're expensive! I could eat the whole bird in two gulps. But better safe than sorry.

Pushed Clarke onto a bus to Victoria kicking and screaming to check one final TopShop. They also were sold out of The Dress. Fuck. But said they could order me a size 14 from the warehouse. RESULT. I felt so good I almost started that post-orgasmic shivering on the shopfloor. Yessssss! There are no 12s left at all in the warehouse. Note to self: Must be strategic about where I wear said dress over the Christmas party season.

Let's just hope that after all this effort the dress looks bloody good.

Girl Talk

Beyonce in the Galaxy Dress
Originally uploaded by Butterfly Jones.

B is wearing the hell out of the hottest dress of the A/W fashion season. Roland Mouret's 'Galaxy' dress. Go head with your bad self. It's perfect for her curvaceous figure. Not sure about the earrings though.
If I had a spare £800, you done know I would be squeezing my phat ass into one. This is one frock, where the high street copy just won't do.

It's been said that women don't actually dress up for men, but rather for other women. Well, judging by the nightmares before Xmas I saw at the bar last Friday, I would disagree. Cos none of them women were dressing for me.
The popular look of the night was a corset, with a 'greyhound' mini-skirt. You know, a skirt so short you can see the hair. Boom, boom. Never tire of that one. Unfortunately most of these women don't seem to understand the concept of a corset. Dem tings are supposed to hold you in and create a waist. They never said they could create MIRACLES. If your waist is like a darts player, girlfriend, please step away from the corset. It ain't right.

The great thing about Beyonce's dress is that it is sexy without having the chest and batty spilling out all over the place. Now I ain't gone lie, I've worn my fair share of 'slutty' clothes, chest revealing dresses, and mini-skirts. But there comes a time when you've got to be real with yourself. Or your friends (if you have them - which I don't think these women do) will be.

No one's saying you have to be pencil thin to wear a short skirt, but there is a simple rule, if you're wearing the mini, don't have the chest out of doors. And vice-versa. Try to have a lil decorum. I'm sure the brothers will disagree with me on this one! But from the amount of women that I saw leaving on their own, the corset-mini look wasn't working it's magic.

For some women, there is a distinct gap between how they dress and they're actual personality. I know women, with great figures, so yes, they can wear the shorts and the chest-baring tops and look good, but they are actually really shy, and would never approach a guy, and guys hesistate to approach them. I figure it's because the guys think twice about approaching someone who looks really sexy, as men can be pussies when it comes to stepping to women. Rejection is a dish served cold.

It's good to wear clothes that make you feel sexually confident, but how about trying something that just makes you feel confident, and serve the sexuality as a side dish. Just a thought.

The Kid's Alright

Had an academic review at school for Clarke, which gave an indication of the effort she was putting into her studies. I was glad they were doing this just two months after she started school, because quite frankly I was getting worried after hearing too many times how much she 'loved' school. My mum's words ringing in my ears, "yuh nuh go ah school fe socialize, you go fe learn yuh school book".

As we turn into the school, we pass the bad-breed child that was starting beef with Clarke. She's with her screw-face mother. Our eyes lock, but I ain't opening my mouth, and neither does she. So she gets the insincere smile, meanwhile, her daughter walks with head looking down at her feet, she won't make eye contact. I'm guessing from the vex look on her mum's face, that her grades were nothing to talk about.

I collected the achievement grades just before I sat down with Mr. Turner, assistant head of year. Mainly As and Bs, a few Cs, and one D. She got the higher grades for effort in the subjects that really matter like English, Maths, History, French, Geography, and IT.

The D was for Spanish. I tried not to zero in on that poor result (as my mum would have done), and Mr Turner said that he would be speaking with the Spanish teacher to re-do the seating plan as there was a problem with students distracting each other in the class. So all in all, I was pleased with the results, its not even been a full-term yet, she's happy at the school, even wanting to go in despite being off sick all week, and she's keen to learn. I let her Dad know, and of course he was really pleased too.

I recently had a beef with a blogger who calls her blog "No Bastard Kidz". I had to take issue with that, even though I do agree with her personal choice of not having any kids before being married. However, women do fall pregnant and once you find yourself pregnant, what you gonna say, no wedding planner, no baby? Her neo-conservative stance blamed all the ills of the world on 'minority' women who have babies outside of marriage, and her whole attitude when I raised the issue with her was hostile and offensive. It's quite funny to read (email me and I'll give you the link).

She said I was lessening my daughter's chances in life, and exposing her to poverty, and the ills of the world, because I chose to have her while unmarried. What did she want me to do, push her back in when she'd enlightened me? I'm glad women have the choice of abortions, but I chose not to, and I don't regret it. My daughter is fantastic, and what me and her father can't do, our families will.

Everybody's proud of their children of course, but I am really proud of my daughter because of the way she's handled growing up and living with only one of her parents. She enjoys a very close positive relationship with her Dad. We split up when she was 2, but when they're together, it's like they've never been apart. Once she told me that she was going to go and live with him - is it really? "I carried you for nine months, and until you've finished studying for your degree your ass is mine!"

It's unfortunate, but a lot of families that have split don't maintain good enough relations, and yes the children do suffer because of it. All children need both their parents. And parents need to make more effort to keep the lines of communication open if they are not living together. But I know from some of my friends experiences, that some partners are ignorant, there is nothing they can do.

My daughter is not a bastard, a stereotype, and she is going to be nobody's statistic. As for the rest of the much pilloried unmarried parents accused of bringing down our race, if there's anything you can do to improve your relations with your babymama, babyfather, please do it. Do it for your kids. As Jill Scott sang, they need you.

As we left the school, we passed a girl who said: "Mum, that's the girl I was telling you about." Her mum explained that her daughter said she had met a nice girl on the bus. That would be Clarke. I guess that's another A, for social relations.

Plantation Mistress

I watched open-mouthed at Madonna's recent video transformation into a Studio 54 slash Farrah Fawcett diva. How could I fail to, when she's prancing around flexing her muscular coochie for all it's worth in a high-cut leotard revealing her buns of steel. Frying pan bottom aside, no doubt, the bitch looks amazing. For 47. And for a minute, my superficial side took over and applauded that. But then the cerebral fought back.

I was discussing the video with a group of black women last night, and it was clear that Madonna would never occupy the same pedestal of privilege within the black community as she does within the mainstream. But why? Well for a start, the bitch can't sing. And I don't care what anyone says, she can't dance either. That is some choreographed nonsense she rehearses over and over again and thinks looks funky. But you know, funky don't mean what it used too. Ask her black child (she ain't white) Lourdes.

The video is the same old cultural appropriating nonsense that Madonna has been doing since she started her career, and brings to mind one of cultural thinker 'bell hooks' essays, 'Plantation Mistress or Soul Sister'. Hooks wrote of Madonna in the seminal work 'Black Looks: Race and Representation' (1996): 'White women "stars" like Madonna, Sandra Bernhard, and many others publicly name their interest in, and appropriation of, black culture as yet another sign of their radical chic. Intimacy with that "nasty" blackness good white girls stay away from is what they seek. To white and other nonblack consumers, this gives them a special flavor, an added spice. After all it is a very recent historical phenomenon for any white girl to be able to get some mileage out of flaunting her fascination and envy of blackness. The thing about envy is that it is always ready to destroy, erase, take over, and consume the desired object. That's exactly what Madonna attempts to do when she appropriates and commodifies aspects of black culture.'

Obviously this essay is slightly out of date cos we know that lots of good white girls is loving it up with some of that nasty blackness ah night time, hence the reason many black girls is loving it up with the Rabbit. But I digress.

In the video for 'Hung Up', Madonna wholesale jacks the style of David La Chapelle, and the 'Krumpin' dance scene he documented in his film 'Rize'. Maddie's video takes a group of dancers from the streets of LA, and transports them to London where they achieve their dream of dancing alongside Missy Madonna. Blink and you miss 'em, they serve as the props she needs to make herself seem relevant to a new generation. No one can shine brighter in Madonna's ray of celebrity light, and the dancers serve only to beef up her rep as an 'innovative' artist. Don't worry homies, the streets will be waiting to welcome you back with open arms when she's done with your asses.

The camera focuses gratuitously on her derriere, almost like a challenge to the Queens of Phat Booty, Beyonce and J-Lo. White girls with small bottoms all across the land rejoice, and vow to continue with their borderline eating disorder diets to maintain the slightness of frame still so ridiculously desired by European women.

Madonna is filmed in the streets of London, confidently striding like a woman who is not received as a visitor, but as a resident. Whether in LA, New York or England, she fits in, in her uniform of black leather jacket, jeans, and boots. Whereas when the black dancers turn up from LA in their garishly coloured outfits, they look like brothers and sisters from another planet, aliens out of place in a new environment.

As much as I like listening to some of her tunes, I can't ever give Madonna the props she gets from the mainstream, because she's ridden the backs of many a trend that once she's rinsed, she remains the only one getting paid from it. She has a talent for spotting trends that the mainstream miss, mainly because for so long the mainstream weren't trying to see black or gay creativity that flew under the radar. But nowadays its different. Faster than you can say Grime, there's an article in a national newspaper. And why considering all the plaudits, awards, and platinum albums do you feel that you have to get your coochie out to make the front pages, at the ripe old age of 47. Toni Braxton this is relevant to you too. This is no longer innovation, what it is, is tired. So, the jig is up Missy Madonna, we sees you.

Brenda Had A Baby

A mother abandoned her baby in a black bin bag in a block of flats in Brixton. They ran a picture of baby in The Guardian. She is so beautiful. The tears started flowing and I was gripped by a sudden urge to call the police and beg to be allowed to bring her home.

It's not so difficult to understand what compels young women to dispose of their babies in this manner. The obvious scenario is that of a young woman who hasn't told her parents, and is extremely afraid. If her mum is anything like mine, I would be too. The young women don't see the baby as real, and are just intent on hiding any evidence that they have given birth. Even if it means dumping a baby naked in a bin bag.

On the one hand it makes me angry, but I don't want to judge what I know nothing of, and I just think it's so sad. But if you are going to abandon a baby, why not wrap the poor mite up properly, and leave it somewhere like a church, or outside a hospital? This is becoming such a problem, not just in the UK that countries in Europe are putting systems in place for women to drop off their babies. 'The systems have names like “babyklappe” (baby slot) in Austria and Germany; “babyfenster” (baby window) in Switzerland; “babybox” in the Czech Republic; “culle per vite” (cradles for life) in Italy.' Two cases of babies being abandoned in rubbish (trash) bins, so outraged Italy that ministers are pushing for greater attention to the problem. I'd like to know, what is being done here?

When I was 24 and found myself 'up the duff', in typical blunt Jamaican fashion my mum said: "Couldn't you have waited a bit longer." I understood though, as it wasn't exactly in my plans, but I'm so glad that Clarke's here now. My daughter is so brilliant, and as hard as I've found it sometimes, I'd like more kids. We have fun together doing the simplest things, she has a wicked sense of humour (not sure where she got that from), and has me rolling up with her tales of the kids in school. She teases a white boy she said smokes 'weed', imitating him drawing hard on a spliff. When he was away for a few days, she asked him "how was rehab". The things kids say. Raising a child is a huge responsibility, one that may seem impossible to a young mind. We are doing something wrong in our society when women think the best way is throw a life into the trash.

In Jamaica, one of the greatest sins you can commit is to 'dash weh belly' - have an abortion. And although some Jamaicans do seem to have a laissez faire attitude to having lots of children despite many living below the poverty line, culturally, having children young was the norm among my mother's generation, and among the working classes was not seen as shameful. Despite the oppportunities and education that exist for young women in England, so many seem intent or fall pregnant at a young age. We have the highest teen pregnancy birth rate in Europe, and women are abandoning their newborns on a 'regs'. Something is going very wrong here.

My daughter says we're more like sisters. Obviously I discourage those thoughts. And when she's upset and says: "I'm not your friend", I say: "That's right, we're not friends. I'm your Mum." But I do encourage honesty and debate between us. Sometimes. Unlike my generation, she is allowed an opinion at home. I truly hope that if she were foolish enough to get pregnant, despite her ongoing education on relationships and birth control which started age six, that she would talk to me about it first, and not endure that kind of stress alone.

The beautiful abandoned baby is now in the custody of social services, unless her mother comes forward. I really hope that she does come and claim her baby. Even then she will have to prove that she is fit to look after her. Having a child young doesn't have to ruin your life. But if she doesn't, I hope that Baby X gets the parents or parent she deserves.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

A track by British producers The Kray Twinz featuring US rapper Twista, UK grime artist Lethal B, and dancehall DJ Gappy Ranks plays on my mobile phone. Even with the tinny, no bass sound emitted by my phone, the record has hit written all over it. It's not strictly hip-hop or grime, but it's definitely a British underground sound, excellent rhythm, and lots of bounceability. What really struck me about this tune was how well the three MCs rode the tune. That's probably due to the fact that Twista's style of super-fast rapping is a direct derivative of Jamaican reggae DJs toasting, and the same for Lethal B. Each MC is doing their rhymes in the accent from the country where they were born or settled, but it is all a style which drew its inspiration from reggae.

By naming themselves after the notorious East end gangsters, The Kray Twinz (how did I know that they would have a 'z' instead of an 's') follow in the tradition of Jamaican reggae DJs such as The Outlaw Josey Wales, and Dillinger. Man's fascination with gangsters and violent reputations continues. But these artists are not Jamaican, they are Asian.

Following the riots between blacks and asians in Birmingham a few weeks back when a black man returning home from the cinema was murdered on his doorstep, there has been a lot of talk about relations between blacks and asians. The one comment that really stuck in my craw, heard on television and read in newspapers is: "Caribbeans have not really prospered since they have been here." Well, in my experience it's not for want of trying.

I found this to be such an offensive statement, although in essence if you are talking in strictly economic terms, then there is some truth in it. No, we don't have a shop on every corner. Yes, I buy my hair grease and the cocoa butter moisturiser from an asian man in Brixton market. But I would dispute that we have not prospered since we have been here. For some reason, mainstream media have been reluctant to report our successes preferring to report our failings. Journalism 101, a shooting in Brixton is more important than a story on a successful black restauranteur.

We have made a contribution to the societies that we have lived in which has resulted in a billion pound hip-hop industry worldwide, and our collective failure is that we haven't managed to keep hold of that which we create, and prosper from it. We routinely create new music and fashion trends. Our sportsmen reach the highest levels, and there is a thriving business if not so visible business community across the country, but we are also quick to share what we create, and involve other races. Asians tend to keep their businesses strictly family-run operations, no outsiders. This tends not to be the case with black businesses or entrepreneurs.

The recent riots were all the more sad, because we are two minority ethnic groups who took a lot of a shit back in the day. When I was at school, my best friend was routinely abused by skinheads on a daily basis walking back from school. This was in the 80s. But the West Indian boys stood up to the skinheads, at a time when Asians were routinely getting beaten up, and didn't fight back. The take no shit attitude we projected and backed up began to be adopted by them and everyone else. Along with anti-racism groups West Indians fought for equality, an equality which was for all minorities, not just for one race.

As a youngster, I remember the treatment I received at the hands of Asian shopkeepers, who wouldn't put change in my hands, preferring to dash it on the counter, such was the lack of respect for black people. Following me around the little shop expecting me to steal the overpriced goods. The same thing used to happen in the west end shops, always being followed by store detectives. Things have got much better, but the people of Birmingham say not much.

So because we don't own businesses, does this mean that we have not prospered or contributed to this society in some way? Tell that to the fashion designers who sell in America and Japan. Or the producers and songwriters whose songs are in the Top 40. Or the people that are working in media, law, design, IT. They may not own their own companies yet, but like me, many of them were the first in their family to attend University, or to work as something other than an indentured labourer like their parents doing the work white people long decided they were too good to do any more.

This kind of criticism must motivate black people to prove their critics wrong. We have have prospered, but instead allow our prosperity to feed our hunger for material goods, rather than investing in the necessary items which we consume. What would black women be without weave, or hair extensions. We don't sell our own food anymore, the food which we have grown up eating. Our biggest passion is clothes - here is an area which of late has seen more progress with black people opening stores in Brixton, Peckham, Islington and the West End. But we need more. It's not about racial economic segregration, but it's about progression. For ourselves and our families. Let this be the generation that makes the commentators eat their negative words.

I'm not jealous of Asians because they have prospered, or because the white establishment lauds them more than they laud my people. But I am jealous of the fact that they have a level of respect in this country, that is not accorded us collectively despite our many achievements. It's a kick in the teeth for people that are trying to make something of their lives, and for their parents on whose blood, sweat and tears this empire prospered. "Know what I mean 'arry."

Mad, Sick, Head Noh Good

The reason for the lethargy that has afflicted for the past few days has become clear. I am getting a cold. At first I thought it was mild depression. No job, no funds, no sex, it's a recipe for wanting to sleep your days away. But the lethargy came over me so suddenly that I suspected the lergies were trying to penetrate my defences (about the only thing that is right now).
I cancel a visit to see my newborn god-daughter, and get in the kitchen to make some soup, sweet potato, carrot, spinach, laced with garlic, onions, and chili powder. It's not as good as my mum's fish tea, or Grandma Oseh's pepper soup (pure fire), but it will have to do.

There's never a good time to be sick, but this sure as hell ain't it. I have job applications to do, and a full social schedule come Friday. I know it wouldn't kill me to keep my ass quiet for one weekend, but there's nothing I hate more than lying around looking awful, coughing up phelgm, and blowing my nose until it's red raw. It fucks with your exercise routine, your social life, and means I can't kiss my daughter until it's gone. So I'm relying on the soup, and a handful of vitamins, water and fruit to keep the sucker at bay. The only plus side of being sick, is the hope that you lose your appetite and in the process some weight. Food poisoning is the best for that one. Not saying I actually look food to being poisoned by food, but hey, I'd say a few pounds weight loss is adequate compensation for a night spent hugging the toilet bowl.

Last night daughter ran into my bed after a nightmare. I'm not exaggerating either. Who told her to watch the documentary about The Omen last week. And at five in the morning the weather was positively apocalyptic. No surprise considering the Indian summer temperatures of last week. Rain and wind were lashing the street, and for a minute I feared the end were nigh. As the wind raged outside my window, I kept looking at the trees in the front garden fearful that one would fall on us as a few years back a storm upended a tree which fell across the pathway at the front of the houses where we live.

I have absolutely no incentive or necessity to leave the warmth of my house today. So I'm gonna eat my soup, turn off my computer, and go back to bed.

N.B - The pic is of the charismatic dancehall DJ, Elephant Man.

Halloween in Da Hood

Pester power will get you every time. Despite raising daughter dearest on a strict non-Halloween celebrating policy, every year the promotions get bigger, and the pestering gets louder. When her friend came over for the evening, she asked if they could go trick or treating. How could I say no? Sometimes you have to choose your battles, and this was one that I thought was not worth the headache. So I'm weak, sue me! Of course I couldn't let them go by themselves, which meant the well-earned rest I'd been promising myself after a day of painting, and organising stuff, was not going to happen.

So I got on Candice (my bike), and still in my painting overalls followed the two 11 year-olds from house-to-house, looking a damn sight scarier than them with my morning-turned-evening face, with dark shadows under my eyes. Staying in on the weekend hasn't helped them much. So I'm doing the last thing I would choose to on a Monday night, following these kids to collect sweeties for looking scary. Ish. Daughter has a scary mask, paired with adidas trackie bottoms, and a gap sweatshirt. Just sounds wrong doesn't it. Her friend was in black, and had a little mask.

Lots of groups of kiddies were on the road, so it was quite busy. Our street has become a bit of a middle-class ghetto. The older residents are dying off, and their houses are being bought up by people who ten years ago would not have attended a dinner party in SW WHERE? Lots of media types, and MPs, and more singles and couples have moved in the area.

I've lived here for nine years, and people I see every day barely acknowledge me. One of the families who lives across the road, the husband says hello, but the wife doesn't. I went to a party at one of the other neighbours homes once, her husband is a bigwig at Saatchi & Saatchi, the woman who blanks me, armed with large glass of wine, came over and started a conversation. Typical drunken talk. The next day, normal mute relations resumed.

The homes further up the road, are huge Georgian semi-detached houses. Market price from around £750,000 upwards. It's crazy, the disparity in living standards across this borough, one of the poorest in London. As the kids walk from house to house, I look through the curtainless windows at the opulent living rooms, huge mirrors, ambient lighting and chandeliers. Some people have pumpkins in their windows, a cue for the kids to knock for sweets. I talk to some of the other parents, along the way, their kids all dressed up in proper costumes, with fluorescent lights hanging around their necks. A mum is waiting for her three kids across the road. They don't actually seem to be wearing any form of costume or mask. Ghe-tto.

I never went trick or treating, you know dem tings weren't up for discussion in our house. "Trick or what? Unnuh gwaan ah yuh bed and stop chat 'tupidness in me ears!". Carol singing was slightly more acceptable. I just hope Clarke decides she's grown out of it by next year or I'll have to bring out my Mean Mommy Halloween mask.

Butterfly Jones Inc.

The pagan festival is coming and the goose is looking anorexic. Although, I'm not big on Xmas, I have a kid who may be expecting a lil' sumptin' sumptin'. She doesn't go over the top though, as she knows I ain't keen on materialistic celebrations of the birth of Jesus. If it was indeed even at this time. But she's already compiling a mental (occasionally verbal) list of must-haves. Last year I got away with buying just two computer games. This year, black and white Converse have been mentioned, and new Vans trainers. Xmas is also big time for parties and raving, and I'd like at least four new frocks. But if I have to do without, I'll still 'drop it like it's hot'.

Half-term is over and Clarke is back at school tomorrow. Thank the Lord. All her feet-dragging when I wanted to go out was clean getting on my nerves. I haven't seen her since Thursday evening though, and am missing her terribly. Especially when I need something I left upstairs. It's a feeling akin to splitting up with your man, and come the weekend you're not quite sure what to do with yourself. Children give a structure and a routine to your life, that sometimes you resent, but for the most part you welcome.

After a busy week of visiting folk, entertaining Clarkie, and socialising, the theme for the coming week is application. Application to finding paid work. Application to finding jobs. Application to hitting up contacts that can link me to jobs. It's tough, but I'm the only one that can do it. I'm done with working for free, it's time to work for me.

Talking Loud and Saying Something

So I'm in a members bar in Kensington with M on Thursday night. It's his friend's 40th, we've drunk three bottles of champagne between him, his wife, myself and M. I'm staring at a row of tequila slammers...and you all know how the story goes.

The next day is spent is a post-tequila haze, as I try to remember why I let myself be pressed into drinking three shots of tequila to celebrate the birthday of a man I'd never met before? Go figure.

Big Sis calls to invite me to a party later to celebrate the end of Africa 'O5, an arts programme she was involved in, at the Arts Council. Fortified by lots of water, dinner and a couple of Co-Codamol (legal drugs for the inebriated), I make my way to the northside. Walking ten minutes in the wrong direction in the red cone-heeled vintage Kurt Geiger peep-toes, did not help my humour, but I soon forgot my pain when I reached the party.

Ta daaaa! My tweed trilby enters the room before I do. I see an old colleague from Channel 4 first. "You wasn't this pretty when you worked at Channel 4." J don't change, what a bitch. Funny though, he had no chat for me when I told him it was good to see he'd managed to keep the weight off. Man blushed harder than a virgin at a 'roast'.

My sis introduced me to all her arts people, bigging me up as a journalist. I felt like the embarrassed little sister. Met Jonah's friend, a creative director for promo's at the BBC, and Gus Casely-Hayford, Africa '05's curator, now director for a multi-million pound art space opening in Hoxton in 2007. Also a lovely Jamaican curator of the memorial to Marcus Garvey in Kingston, she shared my name, and had such a nice vibe about her she felt like family. Made a few new contacts, including a journalist who'd worked for the Standard, Metro and Time Out.

Spoke to Kofi, lovely eyes, with those long curling eyelashes, which I don't have naturally but will be buying for Christmas. He manages the website for the Notting Hill Carnival. I got his contact details for my black journalist's group as we really need a website built. Before I could even think 'ulterior motives', a woman came up to him and asked how 'Eva' was. I guessed from his body language Eva was his diva.

I was about to jet when this other brother came up to me. His opening line was: "I met you last night." I said: "Really? Where?". Thinking maybe it was at the members bar, scene of the tequila/champagne carnage. So I look at him. Not a flicker of recognition. He thinks I'm joking. "No seriously, I don't remember." The tequila had gripped the memory portion of my brain, and squeezed it into numbness. "Last night, outside the Ritzy cinema." Recognition dawns. Just 24 hours previously I had been introduced to him, by a girl I vaguely know. I remember him standing apart from her, looking at the ground, and the black jumper (he says cardigan) he was wearing. Shame. If he hadn't spoken to me, I wouldn't have walked past him. He thought I remembered him and was being 'stush' (stuck-up). Never heard that before. No wonder they call it the demon drink. Alcohol is evil (shut it S).

K does press and marketing for the Horniman Museum. No pun intended. We swapped details, and I was heading down to Stratford to check out Charlie Dark's spoken word night. (Happy Birthday Charlie - I was coming to give you a birthday kiss x) As he lives in east we decided to roll together. By the time we ambled to the station, I realised Stratford was 'long', and my feet were hurting. K was up for staying out so we decided to go to DJ Norman Jay's session at Amplified at the Medicine Bar in Old Street. I led him a merry dance around Shoreditch, taking him to the wrong bar. As we walked in the right direction we bumped into Rapscallion (DJ) and his missus. Hopped in his ride (praise Jesus cos the feet were talking loud) to go to the bar, I thought his woman looked familiar. "Have we met before?" "No, I don't think so." I'm looking at the face, thinking but I know this girl, why is she lying? Walking behind her to the bar, I notice her substantial badonkadonk (so many words for the bottom) and the penny dropped. We hadn't met before. But I had seen her posing in underwear for a massive Dove advertising campaign. Looking at her bottom somehow triggered the memory.

We get to the bar, I see a few heads I haven't seen for a while (wassup Big M - what a way yuh locks get long eh) and find a spot to sit down. He notes the amount of people I greet. He doesn't rave, smoke or drink. I know he goes to church before asking him. He's passionate about his work, loves history, sociology and the arts. He's confident, smart, cheeky, and an excellent conversationalist. He's seven years younger than me. He's a gentleman. We sit and talk all night, venturing onto the dancefloor once for ten minutes to watch Norman Jay in action. We move on totally different 'scenes', but this being black London, we invariably meet someone we're both on nodding acquaintance with.

He chides me on my poor performance tonight, the memory loss, addressing people by the wrong name, sorry Zak (or Gus as I called him). I also have no money because I forgot to go to the cashpoint. But he's sure I would be better on a first date. I'm impressed he can use those words in a sentence. I tell him how square he looked in his jumper and trousers (designer apparently). He remembers I was wearing bicycle clips on my trousers when we were introduced. We go back and forth, but it's all good-humoured, and lots of bashful looks are exchanged.

I'm out much longer than I intend, due to the fact that I'm enjoying talking to K, but realise if I want to keep the youthful age-defying look, a girl needs to get some beauty sleep. I cadge a lift with a group of people I know heading back to south London, and thank K for a lovely, unexpectedly decent evening. Although we talked for nearly five hours, I didn't ask him if he has a girlfriend. And I didn't have a drink.

*sings* 'T'ank You Mama For De 9 Months Yuh Carry Me'

As soon as we woke, Clarke and I readied ourselves for a VIP visitor. The usual panic set in, and nooks and crannies which hadn't been dusted for months were attended to, Clarke gave her room a special once-over. I reacquainted myself with the mop, and gave the menu for dinner special consideration. Yes, my mum was coming over for the day.

I knew all this would be too no avail, because like a super-hero with super-eyesight, my mum can spot dirt in the kitchen as soon as she walks through the front door. She has a wealth of interior design tips, and ways in which I can organise my disorganised home, all stored up for her visits and imparted sporadically throughout the course of the day. "Why don't you put some shelf pon dat wall...why you nuh paint the room a brighter colour.." Or there was the time when she pointed out that my white clothes, weren't white. Looking at Clarke's clothes, lovingly washed and unironed for a sleepover at Grandma's she said: "Dese clothes nuh white, dem is yellow!" Sparking a frenzied hunt for the perfect washing powder for whites.

Having grown up with this kind of 'honesty' all my life, it rarely upsets you. Even my mum's friends would often greet me saying: "Bwoy Donna, dat is some big batty you have dere." You don't run off crying, or work yourself into a bulimic frenzy. When you're younger, you stay silent. When you're grown, you just give back the talk. "Yes, aunty, ah so de man dem like it." Cue hysterical laughter from my mum and her friends.

Thankfully, the sun was shining, so I dragged both an unwilling Clarke and Grandma out for a long walk. I put the courgette (zucchini) and mushroom lasagne in the oven before we left, and we walked towards the London Eye on the Embankment. My mum is a fairly fit 55 year old, who looks ten years younger, but acts ten years older. While she nags me about my home-making shortcomings, I nag her about her lack of exercise, and the fact that she spends too much time on the sofa (now you know where I get it from). She loved the walk though. Mum enjoyed seeing the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, wanted to go on a river cruise next time she comes, and marvelled at the size of the London Eye. Even though she lives in London, she's not seen some of these buildings for years. And she'd not been up close to the Eye. We sat and had a coffee, right next to it. Acting like tourists in our own town.

When we got back the food was okay, she loved it, and asked for seconds. We sat and chatted until I persuaded mum to stay over, not just because I wanted to pop out to meet a friend for a birthday drink, but because what was the rush? She slept over in Clarke's room, and in the morning sat quietly on the sofa while I did my morning workout, looking up from her paper every now and then as if to say, "ah wha do she?"

Like many mothers and daughters, we haven't had the easiest of relationships. She still has the power to make me lose control, and fling myself on the ground like a two-year old. We're both way too alike, stubborn women, with bad tempers and big mouths. But yesterday, mother, daughter and granddaughter shared a lovely, stress-free day together. I entertained her, fed her, and she enjoyed the company of her only grandchild, and for once there wasn't a word about my yellowy whites.

NB: The title is taken from the song, Thank You Mama, by reggae artist Sizzla,

She Nuh Have It

Now that I'm at an age where I can realistically indulge in casual sexual relationships without being branded a 'ho', why is it so difficult to meet a man I want to have sex with? Although I've been a lifelong serial monogamist, I'm open to having relations with a man that I neither want to marry nor bear children for. I don't mean one-night stand stuff, and if that's your flavour I ain't dissin' but I haven't met a man that can get me open in a week, let alone a night! No matter how drunk I get.

The last time I had a 'date' was back in August. I didn't sleep with him because quite frankly, he didn't get the juices flowing. Man was too short, too fast and had no class. Week after week, I go out, I'm working, I'm shopping, I'm at the cinema, meet friends, go running, and meet, no one. No one single. No one who makes me laugh, no one who wants to take me out for a drink. No one who makes me want to wear my favourite turquoise satin and black lace Love Kylie undewear in the hope it will be revealed later. No one who makes me want to look seductively at them and silently communicate across the dinner table, "Let's get out of here. Now." Damn bro's, ya slippin'. I mean, here I am, I'm ready for ya, but y'all can't see me though.

The night's are long, winter's coming, and the hormones are a jangling, making me feel all crackish and shit. But I'm just not meeting any fit, down for whatever, SINGLE men.
Brothers who already have women pop up on my radar now and then. And hey, I can't lie, I'll flirt with the motherfuckers for a minute, but then I'll tell 'em to move on and stop 'cockblocking'. I ain't your woman, so why you 'blockin' with me tryin' to look like my man? Keep it moving bruh. They can't help me, and I sure as hades can't help their ball and chain ass.

I've been single for two years. Two fucking, or should that be non-fucking, years. Y'all feeling sorry for me now? And quite frankly this shit is getting old. I'm attractive (damn I'm 36 and I'm owning that shit now), I'm confident, I'm intelligent, and I have a good sense of humour. All this has been independently verified, and ratified by friends, and associates. And I ain't looking for a man with a BMW (so unimaginative), or a fat paycheck to support my shoes jones. I work (when employed), and I look after me and mines. I mean, I can't believe I'm even complaining about this. I thought that's what men wanted, sex, and lots of it. But I can't even get a motherfucker to talk to me, let alone put me in some positions my rusty-ass may not be able to sustain for long without screaming 'when'. Anyone got any ideas about how I can change this situation? Cos I tell you, I'm clean out of ideas. And horny.

Man, I Feel Like A Woman

Restarted fitness regime in earnest. I've started bikini boot camp, trying to give myself a headstart for the girl's holiday next year. September. Look, I like to be prepared! I'm doing an indoor circuit, alternating skipping with strength exercises like lunges, squats, bicep curls, and weights. It's great because I don't have to go anywhere, which means no excuse, I can do it watching TV, and listening to my own tunes on the laptop. The music in the gym is always crap. I mean who listens to that euro-house shit anyway?

Have you tried skipping for three minutes? The amount of sweat that pours off you, would be too embarrassing in public. And if you've ever been to a boxing gym, you'll know the smell is pretty unpleasant too. I also turn the heating up to encourage the sweat loss - it's like my version on Bikram yoga. Except I'm not doing yoga. I think my skipping rope is too short, because it's forever getting caught under my feet, and my skipping is interspersed with 'fuck', 'shit' and 'bollocks' everytime it happens. But once you get a rhythm going, it's wicked. I start doing the boxers skip like Muhammad Ali, and try to keep going for the length of whatever record's playing. Then do twenty push-ups or dips. To think that when I started I struggled to reach five.

The other good thing about working out at home is that I can wear any old crap. Usually the lycra shorts I can't be seen dead wearing in public. Cycling shorts are the biggest waste of money ever, they always ride up, which quite frankly is embarrassing in public, and is why I won't wear them in the gym anymore, but it's okay at home. It's not like Clarke's going to be bothered seeing mummy's fat thighs trying to escape them.

Although my fitness regime is going better, the food ting is my weakness. One day good, another day bad. Poor planning, or rushing about means I'm grabbing food on the run, and healthy options are not always available. Also doesn't help that when I drink, I get weak for something greasy. I met my blogpal Obi the other day for the first time. He got talking about the whole fitness thing, and he said 'don't lose too much weight'. Ha! Roughly translated means, 'don't lose dat t'ickness'. Brothers. If a woman's got 'batty' and big thighs, you're in business. Although from the dearth of suitors beating a path to my door, I'd say that ain't really working for me at the moment. I hear you bro, but a woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do. I know I'll never have the body I had at 21 again (damn it was good and I never really appreciated it then), but with a little work, okay a lot of work, and some patience, I'm getting closer to the body that I'm happy with.

One of Suzie Wong's sisters said I should wear more figure hugging clothes after she saw me in a pencil skirt recently. I'd shied away from tight clothes for some time, except for jeans, because I didn't feel comfortable in them. Some of my dresses were just too tight, and I had to retire them, so they've been gathering dust at the back of the clothes rail. After Suzie's sister's comments, I dug in the rail to look for that figure hugging stuff that had been relegated for so long and pulled out a little 'stunna' I hadn't worn for some time. A calf-length damson coloured satin sheath with a slash front (very Alexander McQueen), high-necked, and cap-sleeved (from French Con). I hadn't worn it for about two years. It fit like a condom (too crass? I thought so). I'd made a conscious decision not to wear too-tight clothing for a while now, preferring clothes that skimmed and concealed, the big-ass booty. But wearing that dress was a milestone for me. I felt mad sexy in that dress. Sexier than I've felt for a long time. It was almost scary how powerful I felt. Like I could have had anyone, but wanted no one. I don't believe you need to wear tight clothes to look sexy, but as they say a change is as good as a rest.