28 Sep 2005: Baby Naomi, Stand Up!

After 16 hours of induced labour, gas and air (which she says did bugger all), an epidural, and a waiting room full of family, my best friend's baby girl made her long awaited entrance. As I suspected, she had a big head which meant (turn away if you are squeamish) "surgical incisions", and she weighed in at a heavyweight 8lbs. Lawd ah mercy.
Quite frankly Daddy needs to be kissing mummy's batty for some time after the trauma her body's undergone. After witnessing his wife endure 16 hours of the most pain you'll wilfully invite upon yourself, he said: "I have a new respect for women." And he's a doctor. Shazby said that at one point there were about nine doctors in the delivery room. And yes it was an NHS hospital. The fact that Shazby's father-in-law is a Professor of Obstetrics-Gynaelogical medicine in Nigeria may have had something to do with that.
My own labour was less of a cause celebre, but similarly arduous. The indignities endured while pregnant; strangers poking around in your vagina, students having a root around too, saw me disappear from my doctors surgery for years. I just couldn't face the cervical smear.
Clarke emerged into the world after 12 hours of contractions, breathing exercises, gas and air, and painkilling injections. Father of Clarke was very good at the breathing, although I don't know why he was doing it too! My sister (who has not actually given birth) told me I wasn't "pushing properly" But the sandwiches and drinks she brought were greatly appreciated by me - I was absolutely starving.
For once, someone, the midwife, accused me of being "too ladylike". Not something I hear too often. "Come on, it's time to get this baby out, you're being too ladylike, make some noise." To which I responded by screaming at the top of my voice "why won't it fucking come out!" I think that's the response she was looking for. Clarke's head crowns. Another couple of screams, and she's out. She looks remarkably good for something that's been holed up inside me for nine months. Ten fingers and toes, all present and correct. Can I have something to eat now?
As far as giving birth goes, I had a positive experience, but I always say to people it's the sleep deprivation that would put me off having another one. They've called the baby Naomi, which by coincidence is Clarke's middle name.
Just got a text from Shazby, she didn't sleep last night. Seems like she and Clarke have more in common than a name.

One Day My Prince Will Come

I have an extreme case of 'couple envy'. Everywhere I am I notice The Couples. With their mirroring styles of dress, bed-head hair, and a shopping bag of comforting food (plus booze) strolling louchely back to their home for an evening of food, drink and fucking. They're everywhere. In the supermarket, in restaurants and bars, on the bus, hanging out in Brixton, in the park and at train stations, I observe them silently, wondering about their lives, how they met, was it at work, are they childhood sweethearts, married or engaged, or just fuck buddies? Having had the driest summer ever (make that two) for meeting 'desirable' men. Note the distinction. I am at a loss as to where I can get me one of those.

People say, "You're going to the wrong places". What the fuck is this "right place" shit? Like I spend all my time in a darkened room, or rave where no one can see me, or me them. When you're young, there is no 'right place', you go out, have a dance, catch someone's eye, get talking and meet up. Now, you gotta go to the 'right places'. I'm a cosmopolitan type o' gal and I get about (not like that you dirty dogs), but I'll be buggered if I'm gonna start staking out places like a demented Bridget Jones type in the hope of meeting a man. And while I only have to consider my feelings, I'm gonna do what the hell I please, and go where I want to go. So there.

I went to see Pride and Prejudice on Sunday. I love to go to the cinema on my own. To some people this is the ultimate in sad singleton behaviour, but I say, fuck all y'all. I wear *adopts Liverpudlian accent* me trackie bottoms, something warm (air-con is a bitch), and choose a seat as far away from other people as possible. People in cinemas get on my last nerve with their talking, popcorn eating, and stage whispered comments. And that's just Clarke.
Not being a huge fan of the pouty Keira Knightley I wasn't planning to see P&P but decided to see a film where the likelihood of being disturbed by bad breed teenagers answering their mobiles and making up noise was least probable. I was also seduced by the prospect of being transported from gun crime central aka London, to the Constablesque backdrop of Jane Austen's rugged, windy, romanticised England.

I liked the character of Elizabeth very much. She is smart, intelligent, loyal and uncompromising. In fact aside from the porcelain pale complexion, and Hollywood lollipop-head figure, she reminded me a lot of myself. A principled, strong character, who wouldn't fall at a man's feet simply because he had money, and deigned to marry her. Which considering her cash strapped, fallen on hard times family, was a bit of a bold move. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind, but similarly wasn't afraid to express the tenderness of her feelings. When Darcy strode across the moor and told her how he felt, it was tear shedding time (the filmmakers intended affect).The film had worked it's magic, when I left the cinema I felt, to use that much maligned word, empowered. I felt like it was okay to be me, and to hell with going to the "right places".

Don't Mention The 'B' Word

London is h'expensive, when you have a job. If you don't have a job, the cost of living is prohibitive. Severe cutbacks have been made to my 'budget'. No new clothes, shoes, boots, bags, etc. But the place where I most resent the cutbacks, is the food budget. Not because I want to fill my trolley with all manner of mass produced cakes, and food items, but if you want good quality food, you have to pay for it. Free range chicken costs double that of the intensively reared variety, and the same goes for organic fish.

I have a good fishmongers I go to in Brixton, you know, a cockney family who've been there for donkeys years. A whole sea bass costs a fiver, and same for a bream. Cheap as it sounds, at the moment I can't always afford it. And that pisses me off. I've rediscovered the 'basics' range at Sainsbury's, much to Clarke's consternation. It's not because of the fact that it's cheap, it's more about the florid orange and white packaging which screams STRICTLY FOR PAUPERS!

She takes a packed lunch to school, and I bought the basics orange juice cartons, nine for 97p. Bargain. I suspected it might prompt some teasing at school which was the first thing Clarke said when she spotted them. Brands rule everything, even school packed lunches. But I told Clarke, only you can allow people to make you feel bad about having a cheap drink.
When you haven't got money, you have to be more creative. So we've being baking cakes. Lemon Syrup Loaf from Nigella Lawson's Domestic Goddess book (without all the finger licking and hair flicking) for our packed lunches. Transport is another expense, but I cycle everywhere praying that I don't get lick off my bike, or that I don't get a puncture - it costs a tenner to fix. I walk to Elephant and Castle, and get one bus to work instead of two, or if I take the train to work, I run or walk back.

The upside of having little money is it's helping Clarke to learn the value of it. It was her idea to take a packed lunch, as she said it would be cheaper for me. And I'm lucky, in that both mine and her Dad's family will do anything for her. My mum offered to pay for her lunches (she didn't want her granddaughter having 'free school dinners') but I said we'll see how it goes with the hope that I'll have a job soon. My sister bought her a new jacket for school, her Grandad gave her £20, and her Dad paid for her uniform and her stationery. Her paternal Aunty gave her £100 of Argos vouchers (Xmas then birthday) which bought her TV/DVD, and her Godmother bought her £175 BMX for her 10th birthday. She ain't doing bad at all.

Me? I grew up poor and proud, and making do is what I was raised on. In times of hardship, the training kicks in. Even if I don't buy another item of clothing or a pair of shoes for the next six months, I know I won't look like a tramp on road. Once I get a job, the budget will no doubt go out the window, and I'll be back to living the Lifestyles of the Rich and Not-So-Famous. Or maybe this time, I'll get the hang of budgeting once and for all.

So Many Haters

Four weeks into secondary school and daughter already has beef. In time honoured fashion, her 'friend' tried to diss her in front of her classmates. She said to my perfectly groomed daughter who takes great pride in her appearance: "Your face looks like it hasn't seen cream for a hundred years". To which Clarke replied without a moment's pause, "At least I haven't got frog lips like you!". As everyone is now calling the girl frog lips it's round 1 to Clarke I think. It was cruel, but as any inner city kid knows, you've got to have the art of the comeback down pat in school or your ass, is theirs.
In primary school Clarke would come home upset because she hadn't quite mastered the 'dark dem up' art, and the bad breeds were kicking her ass, verbally. So mama had to teach her a few survival strategies until she got up to speed. Go for the obvious cuss, ashy legs, big nose, dry lips, but don't go for their mama. If they try to make a joke at your expense and you don't have a response, laugh out loud with them, because if they see that it hurts you, that joke will run for weeks. If they're your friend, later on tell them that you didn't like what they said, and they shouldn't say it again. If they do, then ignore them. Stop talking to them. When they're not getting any attention from you they'll soon be confused and wonder why you're not talking to them. We would discuss the strategies, she would try them out, and then we'd have a debrief when she came home. Gradually she grew more confident, and we didn't have to have the conversations anymore. I don't get involved with the beefs, unless there's a fight, then I speak to the teacher. Unlike my mum.

My mum always told me I mustn't let nobody 'tek no liberty' with me. If someone hit me, I was to hit them back, and if I didn't she would come down the school, and make me. And she weren't lying. A girl I used to laugh at because of her stilted style of reading aloud in class said she was going to beat me up after school (yes that was bad of me but you didn't hear her, and she was fifteen for gods sake!). I went home at lunchtime to put on my trainers (standard procedure) and told my mum.
The fifth year was my worse year in secondary school. It was a blur of arguments and fights with the girls in our year who decided they hated me and my best friend because we matched our leather boots to our cardigans, had heard of a distant place called university and spoke french.
A one on one fight was okay, but friends had a tendency to jump in, and her friends were three-quarters of the fifth year girls. So mum decided to come and 'referee' the fight. "If she tink she's gonna beat you up, and have all she friend jump in, she mek a sad mistake." So the fight went down, with mum watching the friends. As you can tell, these were the days of old when someone's mum actually commanded respect, and I stomped that illiterate bitch even though she was a foot taller than me. Hopefully I won't need to do that for Clarke, but if I do, well let's just say, I learned from the best, I learned from you Ma.

Just Say No!

I smoked my last cigarette at about 10.30pm on Thursday night. The consequences of smoking through the lergies means almost certainly prolonging it, and worsening it. So I managed to resist when I popped out to buy a newspaper yesterday, and the chesty cough I have today is a sure sign that I made the right decision.
So on a weekend when daughter dearest has skipped off with her Father to visit family and watch football, I am ill, unable to run, drink, smoke or party. Crap. I can't help but feel ever so slightly PISSED OFF at this!
Despite illness, my other unpaid job kicks in as soon as I wake. Motherhood has its compensations, but boy do you have to bust your ass. I get up, wash last night's dishes, load the washing machine, mop the kitchen floor, get the clothes off the line, put the newly washed clothes on the line, cycle to the post office to collect some packages, shout at Clarke to get her bag ready for when her Dad comes, discuss homework, all this before 12pm.
The day is bright and crisp. It's just one of those days... that I can't bear to waste inside, so I phone a friend who lives in Ladbroke Grove, and arrange to visit him. I'll take the train to Notting Hill, and have a trundle down the 'bello. Which despite mass tourism, commericalisation, and high prices, is still a great place to spend a few hours on a Saturday afternoon. I'll have a cup of tea, and a slice of cake somewhere, find a bargain for a tenner, and get some fruit. They say fresh air is good for the constitution. And maybe I won't feel the call of the cancer stick so much if I keep busy.

Doctor, Doctor

Am at home, off work sick. I seem to have an aversion to offices with air-conditioning, and the first of the seasonal lergie plagues has got me. Not quite sure what it is, but I feel shivery, have a headache 24-7, and am sneezing a lot. Never usually go to the doctor's when I feel like this. What they gonna do?
I get very short-tempered and irritable when I'm sick. Like yesterday, when talking to the Bobo Dread, I thought it would be a good time to let him know that I had wasted six years of my life with him, and that he had effectively messed up my chances of getting married, and having a second child. Thanks a lot!
There's just something about being sick which makes you feel like you have the right to act up. 'Its because I'm sick'!
Like today, when I was contacted by this waste of space who had seemed very keen on me. So keen that he tried to feel me up on our first date, and kept trying to invite himself to my house. Our second date never happened. I suggested the cinema, he didn't want to go to the cinema, but said whatever we did would 'need to be cheap and affordable'. Need I say more. Cheaper than the cinema? When I asked what did he have in mind, he didn't actually know. Duh!
So we speak a couple days before my final exam. He says he's looking forward to getting back the girl that he originally met. The fun-loving, carefree woman he met in Atlanta - I was on holiday for gods sake! Whatever man. Call me Thursday.
At midnight on Thursday night, I get a text, "R u up?". I don't even respond.
Today, almost a month later, I get an email: "Hey, I hope you've been well. How's trix?" Trix?!? My response?  "Oh wow, *name*. So nice to hear from you...finally. Good to know that I'm at the top of your list. Not. I've been great. You're a wanker. Don't contact me again." Suddenly feeling much better now.

"Your Mum's A Crackhead!"

It matters little that I've not posted for three days. There's only one story in town: CRACKHEAD KATE. Yes, Kate Moss has finally received the proverbial kick up the jacksy from the British press which has resulted in the loss of several of her lucrative modelling contracts (you know, the ones Naomi never got). As exposes go, this is about as surprising as the headline Dog Bites Man. A woman who earns her living from maintaining the frame of an undernourished child in order to sell clothes which only celebrities, dowagers, and the debt-ridden can afford, has been caught taking cocaine, the party drug known to be an appetite supressant, which helps you stay slim. Quelle horreurs! Oh, and she's descended into the depths of Beelzebub, as she's now also taking crack. I've not been so underwhelmed by a news story since I saw the Queen's breakfast table filled with Tupperware.
One of the most disgusting aspects has been the fashion worlds' rush to her defence. Vanessa Feltz said on BBC London that The Times fashion editor Lisa Armstrong said Kate had been "a bit naughty". But then, what do you expect from a culture which has been pushing the 'by any means necessary' beauty ideal, for centuries. Half of them are using it too. As Martha Daley pointed out, if it had been Naomi, the reaction would have been slightly different.
Should Moss lose her contracts? The hypocrisy of this world knows no bounds. The fashion houses present a facade of perfection to seduce consumers into buying their goods, but know they are building these ideals on foundations of sand. Don't tell me these people didn't know about Kate Moss's drug habit? I'm an addict. I'm addicted to cigarettes, and generally need to smoke one every 3 hours. If you do coke, chances are you're going to need a regular hit - all them trips to the toilet will hardly go unnoticed - but Kate Moss is one of the celebrity world's biggest icons, a licence to print money, so they chose to ignore it preferring instead to profit off the colt-thin 30-somethings continuing coolness.
But what really grates, is that it took so long for their response, and you knew that they didn't really want to drop her, but that they had no choice. Not even for Moss could they be seen to condone class A drug abuse. Personally I hope this serves as a wake-up call to the lost druggy bitch. She's caught up with that trampy, starvin' artist, Pete Doherty - a man that looks like he's got six types of dirt ground into him - and the loser in all this, is her accessory, sorry, child, Lila Grace. You wouldn't know from all the publicity she receives for her Glastonbury, and arguments with Pete antics, but she does indeed have a daughter. I wonder how Mossy will feel when one day Lila G comes home from her posh prep school and asks" "Mum, are you a crackhead?"

Bed's Too Big Without Me

As I cycled down Kennington Road, part of the treacherous ride back from Farringdon (effing white vans) a bronzed leaf fell from a tree and bounced off my chest. As if I needed a reminder that autumn was coming, with winter not far behind. The nip in the air is making morning wardrobe choices difficult, and a sweatshirt is needed for running and cycling. There's not a penny in the winter wardrobe war chest, and magazines are full of new season buys. What's a girl to do? Well, my solution is sleep. Sleep has become my autumn/winter must have. Early nights my newest accessory, and afternoon naps on the weekends are my luxury purchase.
In the Weekend Guardian, a trendhunter said that make-up was boring, and that bedrooms were cool. Making your bedroom a place of comfort, to retreat to, with luxury sheets, duvets etc., is the new black/brown or blue depending on what colour they're hyping this season. I guess that pretty much mirrors my life, as I don't bother with make-up much (what's the point when you're on a bike all the time) and me and my bed are the best of friends.
As the old cliche goes, the best things in life are free. One of them is waking up on a Saturday, with the whole day stretching out ahead of you with no supermarket sweep, and very little housework to do. Just newspapers to read, a comforting dinner to cook, and a bed to get back into after a good run.
Sometimes Clarke will get in the bed and we'll have a chat and laugh together, if it's early in the morning we may both fall back asleep, or she'll go and play safely in the garden while I Iuxuriate in the emptyness of my day, and the lack of demands made of me. It won't last forever, but I'll enjoy it while it does.

The Do's and Don'ts of Dating

Have I mentioned my dislike of dating before? I find it the most alien of situations, which most people don't even know how to do properly. What is so difficult about arranging a place to meet, and getting there on time that most people can't seem to manage. If I'm excited about going out with someone, and they can't even spend a bit of time putting some thought into where they would like to take me, it's usually a non-starter.
Dating creates expectations which the date never seems to live up to. All the men I've ever loved, I didn't meet on a date. And I kinda prefer it that way. So I've declared a moratorium on dating for myself, but for those of a more optimistic nature, and who plan to stick with it, I've compiled a helpful list of do's and don'ts. These are mined from my own experiences and those of my friends who have suffered the misfortune of spending time in the company of men, and women who don't have a fucking clue. In no particular order.

DON'T take someone to a fast food chain restaurant on the first date. Aside from giving her an early heads up to your cheapness, a lack of table manners will ensure there is no second date.
DON'T take someone to a wedding reception on a first date where neither you, nor your date knows anyone. Unless you are Mr or Ms. Personality, it will be extremely boring.
DON'T wear a belt with an electronic display which reads: "If you like what you see, let me know." This will ensure that forever after you will be known as 'Belt', will be a joke among her friends, and your phone calls will go unreturned.
DO shower, wear deodorant, and brush your teeth for longer than a second. Or you can be sure that phone lines will be burning up with tales of your stankness. And no further dates.
DON'T be late. Black People Time is not a good enough excuse, and tardiness on a first date is unimpressive.
DO have a plan of action. Most women would like a man that is capable of arranging something as simple as a nice evening out. We all know that women can do this standing on their heads.
DON'T ask your date if they want you to pay for their ticket, when you are at the front of the queue at the cinema kiosk. If you asked the person out, this goes for ladies too, you should pay.
DON'T ever mention the words 'cheap' and 'affordable' in relation to dating. If you have money issues be creative, but don't make your date feel like a financial burden.
DON'T keep asking to be invited in for 'coffee'. Wait to be asked. No one likes a pushy brother. I don't know how men feel on this issue.
DON'T 'forget' that you have a date, forget to call, and then not be able to go on said date because you are going out to dinner... with someone else. (Yes, that one hurt).
DO clear up any 'situations' you are still involved in BEFORE you start dating.
DON'T reach for her crotch on the first date (K said: "I would've gone for the breast")...unless she reaches for yours first. If you're desperate for the coochie, this is a dead giveaway.
DON'T pull out your roll of bills and say: "I think I've got enough money" before you have even ordered. It makes you look like a crazy-ass drug dealer.
DON'T take mobile calls, or texts while you're dining. What are you a teenager? And the call that can't be ignored is usually from the 'husband/or wife'.
DON'T cancel a few hours before the date. It's rude, and if you don't know someone well enough to know that they will understand, it will let them know that you're just not that interested. Unless that was your intention.
DON'T whinge on about your ex, or mine your date for information about past relationships. First dates are all about new beginnings, not bad endings.

Be careful out there.

That's A Good Look II

KanYe West on CD:UK. I love the way he dresses. And you know he loves it too, cos homeboy ain't the most modest of people.
He's right on the button for autumn/winter men's fashions. Tailoring and suits are big this season. Like you care. I know men seem to be attached to comfortable clothes, but y'all need to embrace your inner Dapper Dan. A man in a suit, and a nice shirt will get more attention from ladies, projects authority, and maturity. Don't just save them for weddings and christenings. I love to see men smartly dressed, wearing shirts, trousers, and nice shoes. Women always look at men's shoes, and a lot of men get dissed because they're shoes are not up too much. I wouldn't rule someone out because they're wearing wack shoes, but if things got serious, I would politely encourage them to try something new. For some men, it's about confidence, but others never got out of their teenage hip-hop mindset, and will only be separated from their Air Force 1s when the Grim Reaper comes a calling.
These days you can't tell the difference between a man aged 25, and one aged 35. They'll both be wearing trainers, baggy jeans, and some branded sweatshirt. Unless they're gay or into fashion. No, it ain't the same thing!
Seeing a man in a suit has an affect on me which I can only compare to a man seeing a woman wearing not very much. But I admit a fit man in a 'wifebeater' also has that affect. Hey, I'm only human!
When I go raving, most women are usually really up-to-date and fashionable, but the men for the most part look ten years out of date, in some ugly printed shirt, and shiny pleated trousers. As Dizzee Rascal said: "Fix Up, Look Sharp." Those that can, do.

On Top O' The World Ma

I've had such a 'butters' week. I felt ug-lee. Every day I got up and looked in the mirror, I frowned at the reflection staring back at me. Everything I was feeling showed in my face, and I looked and felt every one of my thirty-five years. And it felt tiring.
What's happened to the summer glow, the bright eyes, and dewy skin? The wind, and the motherfucking rain, that's what. My skin's dry and patchy, and the Neal's Yard Rose Facial Oil cyaan work no more. Now, I'm putting cocoa butter on my cheeks. The tan's fading, and the winter deathly pale pallor is threatening to take over. No more quick top-ups in the garden in my bikini and shorts. Just running out there to pick up the clothes getting soaked on the line (I fucking hate when that happens).
Was really looking forward to going to The Observer this week, but the butters vibe had me in full grip by Sunday, and by Monday morning I had to admit defeat. Didn't bother with make-up, or a cute outfit, because I knew neither would help. The vodka didn't help either later that evening, but boy I had to try.
When you're feeling butters, taking dressed takes twice as long as you pause to catalogue the perceived imperfections, and nothing looks right. It didn't help that I was cycling to work, as my cold weather cycling attire was butters too, and the ride sweated out my locks. That dragged through a hedge backway and frontway look is not cool.
Planned my running schedule for the week, and dragged my ass out Monday and Tuesday, but blew out Wednesday. Couldn't face it. By Wednesday night I decided enough was enough. I needed to shake the butters monkey off my back and fix up, look sharp. So I dug out a suitably sparkly outfit (I love me some sequins), some cute shoes, and dumped the bike. A bit of slap, and Bob's your mother's brother (lol). Finally, the cloud started to lift. Good thing too as I bumped into a couple of people and sod's law dictates that you always see people you know when you look busted.
Friday came, and almost back to normal. I packed my running gear to run back from Farringdon. Not having done such a long run for a while I wasn't sure I could make it, but I know I can walk it, so just planned to do what I could. I put on the running tights, t-shirt, and tracksuit top. As I walked out of the office I caught sight of my bum in the reflection of the glass, the butters vibe was still there as I thought: "My bum looks MASSIVE!". But I just tried to forget about it. Put on my running playlist, and got going. It's a nice run from Farringdon, past Smithfield Market, along Victoria Embankment, and across Waterloo Bridge. On the bridge I stop to take in the view. It's breathtaking. I run past the South Bank, some good al-fresco dining spots there now. Must visit. Then zipped through the crowds at the London Eye.
Other runners breeze past me, but I keep going. Jamiroquai's perfect summer song, 7 Days in Sunny June is playing, I keep bobbing along, trying to speed up, and nodding my head to the beat as I run. As I approach Vauxhall, The Roots 'Everybody Is A Star' strikes up, I get a spring in my step which brings me home. And I've made it, in just 30 minutes. Butters vibe well and truly dispersed. Look out now, on top of the world ma!

Barefoot and Not Pregnant in the Kitchen

The big story on BBC Breakfast news today was based on a report from the British Medical Journal aimed at highlighting the "epidemic" of 'Prima Gravidas'. Loosely translated as old birds having babies.
The report warns that women who delay childbearing until their late thirties, are putting themselves at increased risk of fertility problems, miscarriage, problem pregnancies or birth ‘defects’. Men don’t escape either as fertility problems can be linked to low sperm counts. But the problem is that if you only start trying in your thirties, you won’t have found any of this out until it may be too late. Basically, they're warning potential parents not to rely on IVF treatment, because A it's expensive, and B it don't usually work for most people first time.
This seems to be an issue that affects white women more than black women. Having grown up in a culture where scorn is reserved for women who 'dash weh belly' (abort their babies) and hearing that women who didn't have babies were called 'barren'. The problem for black women is to stop having babies for wotless men who refuse to take care of them. I digress.
What I want to know is how do people get paid for coming up with stuff that is basically commonsense? Can I please get a job where I can do that too. I mean, I don’t have a medical degree but I think even basic biology would inform you that a healthy woman of 25, is gonna have a better chance of having a child than a woman that’s lived ten years longer. Especially with the type of lifestyle most women lead these days. And why is all the talk about women leaving it too late? As if women can have babies all by they damn selves.
And what the hell do they expect, when society is set up for people to work like dogs, and then as soon as you want to have a child you lose your salary (have you seen maternity pay rates), and more often than not your position at work if you want to work part-time.
Bobo Dread (as he shall be known henceforth as I can't keep calling him my ex forever can I?) works at a top design company. During the 14 years I've known him he's told me about countless female designers who have had no choice but to leave once they've had their children. They don't allow women to work part-time, and because they work everyone like field nigras on the plantation, you can't clock off at six everyday. No concessions are made whatsoever. Their policy is like it or getdafuck out.
The doctors suggest the optimum time to have your children is between 25 and 35. But If you spent your early twenties grafting at university, or building a career elsewhere, why would you want to start poppin' pickney when it's time to start really enjoying the fruits of your labour. The stock phrase "women can’t have it all" was rolled out, with women being blamed for putting careers before having children. Unsurprisingly, there was little talk about what you should do if you don't actually happen to have a man to have children with - *cue violins*.
My best friend is due to have her first child at 36 in a few days time. She's been married two years, and before she met her husband she was single for five years. So what was she supposed to do? Go to a bar and say to the first man she sighted with a fat bulge indicating a child-bearing dick, "Will you breed me?" I think not.
In case these people are unaware, there’s a lack of available, decent, willing to marry and have kids, men out there. And making these kinds of loud pronouncements about how we should all stop worrying about our careers and start breeding like heffers just kind of rubs salt into the wound.

Why White People Shouldn't Say The 'N' Word

I don't remember anyone calling me a nigger until after the first episode of Roots was screened when I was in primary school. Then some snotty nosed, hole in the jumper and knees of his trousers, with dirt on his face first thing in the morning, white kid, decided that then would be a good time. With all the emotion, and feelings of injustice that the programme had stirred within, I slapped him up and sent him crying to momma.
Seems over twenty years later nothings changed. Clarke relayed the days news from school. A game of playfighting turned serious when a misguided white kid called an asian kid a 'nigger'. Clarke, all wide-eyed and incredulous said: "Who told him to say that?".
Now I don't know whether the kid had been listening to too much 50 Cent, or any other commericially available 'rap' music, but someone in his family shoulda told him that it wasn't a good idea in the second week of school to call your brown playmate a nigger. Then again, that's probably where he heard it.
The asian kid said: "What did you just call me?". By then undercover non-brother was backtracking knowing that he had put himself in mortal danger. "Nothing." Too late. The timeless school chant of 'Fight! Fight! Fight!' echoed round the playground. Faster than you could say 'Chicken George' kids came running from its farthest corners. The loose-lipped kid got slapped up, and in future will probably just think nigger, instead of actually coming out with it.
Oprah did a programme once where she discussed black people calling each other 'nigga', and some of the white-bread, stay-at-home mom (doing the hardest job ladies) types were asking, seriously, why it wasn't okay for them to say it? If J-Lo can't say it, you definitely can't beeyatch!
In a way, I feel sorry for the kid. Because he's just a kid. I don't know what kind of situation he's growing him up in. What his parents are like. Are they brainwashing him with their racist banter in the home? Or is he being raised to believe he is superior to people of colour, and is in a position to abuse them with no comeback? Society has a lot to answer for the racism that continues to be passed down through generations, and it cuts across all classes. Some of us may call each other nigga, but a white person calling a black person a nigger is not okay, and never will be. The boy learnt his lesson the hard way. I'm just glad it wasn't Clarke who had to deal with it. But I do think it's time for her to watch Roots.

Jeans Genie

One of the big trends this season, and last season if you were fashion forward, is skinny jeans as seen on Mossy (Kate Moss to you). These are drainpipe tight jeans with no flare, worn low on the hips, of course, and tight. Basically the antithesis of the type of jean style that would suit me. But I LOVE THEM. Well, how they look. Levi's do a style call the Patty Ann. When I went on a reccy to the store, the sales assistant, or associate depending on how poncy the store is, said they only do them in a size 14. A SIZE 14??? Heffers need not apply, nor buy.
Now we know with fashion there are some styles that do not suit everyone, but I really despise the attitude that prevails in fashion circles that, if you're over a size 14 you shouldn't wear mini-skirts, or you should only wear bootcut jeans. What the hell was lycra invented for?
I saw two women today wearing the jeans, and quite frankly their legs looked like Twiglets. I wondered what they look like naked? I'm sorry, but stick-thin legs, with no meat on they bones, looking like a malnourished child is just not attractive. A woman needs some curves. I'm not hating on my naturally slim sisters, but rather women who maintain a ridiculously low weight because they believe that to be above a size 10 is a fate worse than death. How can you think that your hips, thighs and calves being the same width looks good? The fashion industry must take some of the blame for encouraging this destructive stereotype, but women also need to stop starving themselves to fit a flawed beauty ideal. All of the men I've ever known prefer a woman to have some curvage, something to hold onto. But more importantly, I prefer it. The other week a man called out to me while I was on my bike to tell me he liked my "love handles". Although he was being dyam feisty, I knew it was intended as a compliment, and could only laugh.
As for the skinny jeans, I plan to take in the legs of a pair of a bootcuts, which of course I can get in the shameful size 16. I'll let you know if they look good. Or maybe a man on road will.

Meet The Parents

I have a bit of a split personality. I'm an extrovert, like to have fun, and do stuff. Did someone say part-ay? And yes, I like to rave. But when it comes to my kid, we may have fun, but I am S-T-R-I-C-T. I takes it back to the old school for my parenting style. I call it Home Training. It's "yes, mum", not "yeah". Please and thank you at all times. No, I ain't your friend, I am your Mum. If rules are not followed there are sanctions. I don't need to beat my kid, because when I start shouting she runs for cover. There is room for discussion, but I have the final say. If you get in trouble and it's serious, I tell Dad, and the whole family so when they see you, you get in trouble from them too, even if it is weeks later!
Me and Father Of Clarke are on the same page where discipline is concerned. Our main tactic is Denial of Privileges. No TV, no Playstation, no treats, early bedtimes.
But as y'all know Home Training has largely gone out the window when it comes to 'our' kids. The only thing they fear is that they may not get the hot trainers on road.
When you meet other kids parents, it's easy to understand why their kids don't have any manners. Like the mother of a girl Clarke's travelling to school with. She wasn't able to take her daughter to school on the first day so I said the child could come with us. We planned to leave at 7.30am as we wanted to be early. Clarke and I always aim not to be the Late Black People (LBP)- you've seen them, they're the people that walk in the cinema laden down with popcorn and food, half an hour after the film has started.
This woman, who I have never met before said to ME, who was doing HER, a favour, that it was "too early"! That immediately made me dislike her. How you gonna tell someone who's doing you a favour, that it's too early?!? Anyway we met at eight and got there as everyone was sat down in assembly, and just missed being shut out which was the fate of the LBPs that came after us.
The next day, the child came at 8.10am, even though I saw her Mum at the station before eight buying the child's travelcard. No meaning. So Clarke was late for school on her second day. So I called her and said, we had to meet at 7.45am.
UP 'TIL NOW (phrase borrowed from my Mum) the woman has not had the decency to call me and say "t'anks dawg" for taking her child to school! How do people expect their children to have manners, if they don't have any.
Every day since last week Clarke has been complaining about the child. She's loud, she stopped in the sweet shop on the way to school and made them miss the bus, she wanted to get off the bus a stop early before they had reached school, she plays her loud ringtone on the train, she laughs out loud and there's no joke. Clarke is now planning to duck the girl by getting an earlier train.
I know she's young, and Clarke is quite mature for her age, but they are travelling quite a distance. I don't want Clarke to get caught up in foolishness because of someone else's bad breed pickney all the way in Putney where she don't know no one, or none of my friend's are likely to see her.
I went to school on my doorstep, where I was surrounded by 'h'informers'. My mum's friends didn't hesitate to tell on us if they saw us doing something they thought wasn't right. Even if they were wrong. Like the time I was in the park with one of my girlfriends. She was with a boy she wasn't supposed to be with ( a bit bad breed, but you know he was fine), and I was playing tennis (fo' real) with his friend. It was the afternoon, and not late. Her mum comes stomping into the tennis court, and guess who gets beats right in front of us all, all the way home. Because her mum was mad at her for being with the bad breed boy (and I've never forgiven her for this) she then run and told my mum that I was there and I was put under curfew for the WHOLE SUMMER. I had to be in at 8pm. And when you lived on an estate that was EAR-LY, cos you could hear everyone outside playing run-outs. VEX!
But it ain't like that no more. So 'our' kids NEED to be mature, and need to pick their friends wisely. I think Clarke's on her way to learning that lesson. Week two of school and at playtime she's already trying to duck the girl.

Mental Health Monday

Damn I felt lazy today. I have no idea why, because I did 'jack' all weekend. Daughter off school due to 'flooding' from torrential rain on Friday. I was meant to start my work experience (see working for no cash) today, but forgot I hadn't confirmed it. But they said it was okay to come tomorrow. That gives me another 24 hours to work up some ideas to blow them away and get a J.O.B out of them. We live in hope. So what did I do? After a morning run, which was short and fast, I showered, and packed off daughter with Father of Clarke for the day, and then I got reacquainted with my sofa. One nap later, I caught some cricket. Wickets falling fast and furiously, not looking good for Eng-er-land. Had some breakfast. Then moved upstairs to daughter's room where she has a new tv. Got in her bed, the cricket watched me.
A couple hours later. Moved back downstairs, more cricket. I just couldn't move from it. People (see men) keep asking me if I 'understand it'. I don't know about you, but I tend not to spend hours watching sport I can't understand. Pietersen made a century (that's a 100 runs for those that don't understand cricket) things were looking up.
Popped to the shop to buy the new-look 'Berliner' Guardian. No longer a broadsheet, but not a tabloid either. Colour pics on every page. Not sure about the lowercase, 'bell hooks' style title, but I shall reserve judgement until I've read it throughly, still it's a big event in the newspaper world.
I was on the sofa sucking my thumb when daughter and Father Of returned. We watched as Australia left the field due to 'poor light'. I knew that was it. Poor show by the Aussies I thought, not declaring while still on the field. I guess they were gutted, and like American teams, are poor losers - Ryder Cup anyone.
It was England wot won it.

Is That Your Doorbitch?

One of the reasons I don't like going to West End clubs and bars is because I hate being scrutinized by some overmade-up, bottle blonde doorbitch, tripping on the power of being able to select who is cool or trendy enough to socialize with the Z-list celebrities these bars usually attract. Plus, they're usually teeming with bad, 'do you know who I am' drunks. Been there, done that.
Living close to Brixton and Clapham offers a wide selection of bars to hang out in locally, without the hassle of the West End's selective door policies. Or so it would seem. The exception to that rule is the bar Sand.
Sand is owned by Leslie 'Lips Gone Wrong' Ash, and husband Lee 'I Didn't Touch Her Guv. Honest' Chapman. It's a chi-chi bar at the top of Acre Lane, or the beginning of Clapham, depending on your level of postcode snobbery. I've had a couple of nights out there, always spoiled by the effort it takes to get in. Anyways, it'd been some time since my last visit, so I'd obviously forgotten their ability to make you feel like the person that got picked last for the school team.
Last night some friends and I met up to go for a few drinks to celebrate the end of my year of studying. Just as we got to Sand, we saw a group of white people, hand over their cash, and enter. I'd looked at the website, and it said £5 to get in after 9pm. When myself and Lyn approached the doorman, he asked if we were on the guestlist. Cue puzzled faces. "It's a private party. I'll see if you can come in, but it depends on the..." You guessed it, doorbitch. She checked out on the overmade up hag appearance, but bucked the stereotype on the blonde part. She came out the bar, didn't even spit on us, then unbelievably, applied some more make-up to her obviously botoxed lips, and went back inside. How. Rude.
Looking through the window, like the field nigger who can't go into the Big House, it was obvious from the people sitting around at tables, that there was no fucking private party.
Sand, is notorious for not admitting 'too many blacks'. Martha Daley's cousin told her before she got there, that we wouldn't get in. Lo and behold.
Doorbitch came back outside again. I asked her if she was responsible for admitting people and that we had been waiting for her to decide if she would admit us. "Sorry, I thought he'd already told you that it was guestlist only." "Yes, but he said it was up to you whether you would let us in or not. Which is why we've been standing out here for ten minutes. I just would have appreciated it if you had had the decency to actually come and speak to us yourself. Goodnight."
How dare these people operate like this in Brixton unchecked? It is common knowledge that they are blatantly racist. They don't even try to hide it. I'm mad as hell and I ain't gonna take it anymore. This isn't the end of the story.

Lifestyles of the Rich and Not-So-Famous

I have lots of trainer boxes in my room which were moved there when I was whacking up some Ikea flatpack furniture for daughter dearest. I like's a challenge. I knew Clarke had a few pairs of trainers, but this takes the biscuit. She has:

1 pair of Vans
2 pairs of Converse
2 pairs of G-Unit Reeboks
3 pairs of Timberlands, 1 original, two newer styles
and 5 pairs of Nikes, including Dunks, Air 1s, Air Max, Total 90s etc.

Despite all this, she would still like pink and white Nike Huaraches, and a pair of Total 90s (to play football she explains) to replace the ones she has which are too small, and busted up. In my defence at this excess of juvenile footwear, I only bought the Vans (2 years ago), a pair of Nikes I just got in Atlanta and the Total 90s (last year). The rest were bought by Father of Clarke, half of the above when he took her to New York for her birthday (yes me dear) in February.
When I was Clarke's age (cue the music and visual images of Hovis boy wheeling his bike down a country lane) I got one pair of trainers each summer, until I could buy my own. When I was a working teenager, I built up a good collection of trainers, mainly adidas, some bought here, and others in NYC. My mum said she asked me once if I thought I had enough trainers, and my response, aged 18 was "why? is it bothering you?" Or something cheeky like that. Surprised I didn't get the usual cuff in the back for that.
Clarke loves Nike, whereas I'm old school and love MY A-DIDAS. My first pair of adidas were Bermuda. Navy and light blue suede which rubbed off on your socks. I made sure to teach her the essentials of sportswear dress code, in my house anyway, which is, DON'T. MIX. THE BRANDS. No wearing Nike trainers, with adidas clothing. Nay, nay and thrice nay. I won't have it. You're either, or you're either.
Did someone say I'm anal?

Porridge

Back on the fitness trail today. It's been a week, since I did anything. Where did that week go? Walked Clarkie to the station just after 7.30am to meet a couple of her schoolmates. And then ran the bridges, Vauxhall to Lambeth. Despite the layoff, I felt okay, and was running at a good pace. New music from Little Brother, Raheem Devaughn, and some Missy helped propel me round in no time. Did sit-ups, squats, lunges etc in the garden. Considering the lack of action in the last week (not that kinda action - well actually yes, that kinda action too), it made me feel real good, like Billy Bob Thornton LOL! But naughty Butterfly, must stick to a routine, seven days is too long to go without a workout.
My eating has been slightly erratic, see undisciplined, so I decided to start the day with porridge because it's good at keeping you going for a while. Basically, it means I won't cave in at 11am and start shoveling everything in sight into my cakehole.
I read somewhere that you should add a teaspoon of peanut butter to porridge. Can't remember where, maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. Anyway I tried it, because it's important to eat some protein at every meal to keep your blood suger level. If I don't eat well in the morning, the rest of the day usually goes pearshaped, like my lower-body. And that is what we is trying to get away from. I added some almonds, and a teaspoon of peanut butter to the porridge. It tasted alright, but then, I like peanut butter.
I'll be working in Farringdon at The Observer Magazine next week, so the plan is to run home alternate days, and walk or cycle home on non-running days. Watch this (cyber)space.

That's A Good Look

Brother running while his daughter paced him on her bike.

One for One

I had to school Clarkie in the dark art of the 'soundclash'. As someone who grew up attending christenings which were 'dances' in disguise, I was well acquainted with the dj and speaker box set up. And like most West Indian children, I loved to play my mum's records. Aside from this, and my immediate family, my links with Jamaica were pretty tenuous. Me and sis never went 'back home' to see where my parents came from. The first time I went to 'yard' I was 33 years old, and some feisty 'bwoy' was calling me 'English girl' because he didn't hear me speak patois. He was trying to 'boops' my girlfriend, but knew that I could see that his game was weak. But I did love JA, and although I felt comfortable, I knew it wasn't home for me. How could it be, I had no one there.
I didn't have any family meeting me at the airport, crawling over my luggage to see 'what me did bring fe dem'. My maternal grandma lives in Florida, and I never met my paternal grandmother before she died (RIP). Forgetabout granddad, because as my Dad likes to tell me everytime I see him, "I never met my fardah until I was h'eighteen, and h'all he gave me was a fowl (chicken)". As sad as it is, Clarke and I almost wet ourselves with laughter everytime we hear it. *Wipes tears away*.
Anyway, I was playing Raheem Devaughn (new shit, new shit) on my iTunes and Clarke asked me to play a track called Believe. Good track. I told her that his song 'You' would kill her track. Which is when we started playing 'One for One'.
My ex-BF is a big reggae head, and I went soundclashes with him, and he would have to explain to me what was going on. Basically, one set of djs 'a sound' challenges another to become the 'Champion Sound'. One for One, is part of the clash where each dj selects one tune, and they go head to head until the crowd decides who the winner is. I explained this essential part of her Jamaican heritage to her, and then we proceeded to try and 'kill' each other with tunes. It was like a dance up in here for real, we were making a whole heap of noise as we played our selections. And when Clarke dropped Missy Elliot's 'Lose Control', I was trying to 'krump' like Ciara in the video. More like rump the way the booty was shaking. We were laughing so hard, it's funny the things you get up to with your kid. Or that could just be me.

Here's a few of our selections, you decide:
BJ: Raheem Devaughn - The Love Experience
Clarke: Raheem Devaughn - Believe
BJ: Devaughn - You
Clarke: Ice Cube - Today Was a Good Day
BJ: Sizzla - No Apologize
Clarke: Kanye West - Crack Music
BJ: Public Enemy - Fight the Power
Clarke: Tony Yayo - So Seductive
BJ: Timbaland - Indian Flute
Clarke: Usher - Seduction
BJ: Kanye West - We Major
Clarke: Kanye West - Diamonds Are Forever
BJ: Little Brother - Lovin' It
Clarke: Missy Elliot - Lose Control

Baby Hunger PG

Spent a great day with the Pregnant One yesterday. After dropping Clarkie to school, I cycled up to Sloane Street to meet bezzie mate in Gucci. Ooh-la-la. That's how she rolls. On the way to Gucci, I was stopped in my tracks by a pair of shoes in the window of Prada. Gold trimmed, black suede peep-toes, with a 'stack' heel. Ladies and gentlemen please get to grips with heel terminology. A 'stack' heel, is a thick high heel, not stiletto, not kitten (low), or wedge, it's like a 40s style shoe. Still don't understand? Think Busby Berkeley, Ginger Rogers. Oh forgettaboutit!
The shoes are absolutely beautiful. I went in to inquire after the price and availability. I guess it's true what they say, if you have to ask... you done know I can't afford the £240 they want for them. I started to think about ways to raise the money. Sell my Prada stilletoes on ebay, throw in the Marc Jacobs peep-toes? Nah, I'll just try and get a good lookey-likey from the high street.
We had lunch at Wagamama's, and due to exercise slackness I forced myself to have a chicken salad which although filling, was like eating sawdust, but managed to get two spoonfuls of BFs fried rice.
As baby is due in two weeks, I wanted to spend some quality time hanging out with Shazby who's on maternity leave. Unfortunately when we got back to her comfortable Ladbroke Grove home, I promptly fell asleep on the leather sofa. She then kept shouting at me to wake up. Managed to wake up for her ante natal appointment. We went to the GPs, a nice little place in Holland Park. Well it was nice until some bredda came in the place with a cloud of stink like Pig Pen from Charlie Brown. It was so bad, I had to go outside...for a fag.
We went in to see the doctor. Nice young Asian lady. Chanel glasses, and Mulberry Roxy bag under the desk. I heard the baby's heartbeat - nice and strong. Shazby was weighed - was so not impressed that she weighed less than me!
After that we felt the call of the cake, and I directed her to the Hummingbird Bakery on Portobello Road, which sells lovely iced cupcakes. Expensive and dear. She bought a few for Clarkie to celebrate starting school. Nicely presented in a cardboard box. And I'm under orders from Clarke not to go near them. She knows what a cake Hoover I am.
Did you know the hummingbird is the national bird of Jamaica - when I went to JA, I saw one. It really made my day.
I digress.
I do tend to get excited when my close friends have babies. With Shazby it's worse because we have been friends since we were children, aged 11. It's more than a baby, it's a coming of age for her, and for me. It wasn't the same when I had Clarke, because although I was 24, I wasn't really a woman yet. That took a few more years. But she is, and so am I now. We're like proper grown ups, and everythings happening in a grown up way. It's kinda unbelievable as it only seems like yesterday that we were teenagers reporting for the school magazine. We wrote a feature on her sister's all girl band. I thought they were so cool. Especially Shazby's sis in her fringed and beaded cowboy boots. They did a gig at school singing a cover version of Gary Numan's 'Cars' (it's a classic). Shazby and I had our picture at the top of the page. Technology not so good then, all you could see was our teeth.
Shazby said: "Are you broody? Don't worry you'll have another one." She must know I'm researching turkey basters.
My baby hunger started when Soph had a beautiful little boy called Omari. He was the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. As soon as I saw him I thought, I want one of those. My breasts started aching, and it felt like the milk was gonna start flowing again.
Now everytime I see someone with a baby I stare, almost in the same way that I was looking at those Prada shoes, with intense longing. Friends kids are great, but no one lets you look after their babies anymore (and after reading the content of this post, I don't think there'll be a great stampede either).
I looked after my godson when he was younger and loved having him around, he took his first steps in my house, mainly because I forced him too. But the problem, for me, is that you have to give them back.
I just can't wait to see Shazby's baby. But I fear that my breasts will ache so much at the sight of it that she may walk into the nursery and find me breastfeeding it like that crazy woman in Hand That Rocks The Cradle! What are friends for eh?

Note to self: must go back to Sloane Street more often to check out the buff man dem working in the designer stores.

Independence Day

Today, I will be the mother of a child that attends secondary school. As if it wasn't bad enough having to endure the incredulous faces of people who think I am not old enough to have an 11 year old daughter, I now have a child that's in secondary school. I wonder if they'll be able to open their mouths any wider? Maybe someone will just keel over in shock and I'll have to give them mouth to mouth (you know that would never happen). Not that I'm complaining about the fact that I look younger than I am, I'm not, it's just that I hate it when I can see people mentally trying to compute at what age I had my child. So what if I was a teenager when I had her (although I wasn't), what matters is I'm older now, I'm addiction free (unless you count my addiction to updating my wardrobe, and plugging the gaps in my shoe collection - platform soles are this season's No.1 on the look good chart) and I have a purpose in life. Oh and my child is very well-behaved. How's that for a single mum!
I digress. But this is a milestone for her, and for me, and I'm confused about how I feel. She's getting older, I'm not getting any younger. She's gaining independence, but my worries for her safety increase. How will she cope with the workload? Will the demands of my career allow me to be there enough for her?
I was 24 when I had Clarkie, and we've grown up together. I was absolutely clueless and adapting my previously selfish life to motherhood was, quite frankly, torturous. Single friends fell off, I had zero social life, and I was fat. My own personal hell. But slowly I came back, adapted, and chose the style of motherhood which suits us both. Basically it's do I say, not as I do, and mummy needs to have a life too.
My mum calls her my 'handbag', because everywhere I turn she's there calling me 'Mum' for the umpteenth time, and asking me some question that my hangover doesn't want to answer. I took her to Best Friend's baby shower on Saturday. She said: "It's going to be boring." "Well you'll just have to be helpful, and try and make conversation with people." And she did. She also gets bonus points for forming sentences which didn't end in 'ya get me'.
Well, every occasion deserves a special outfit. So in honour of Clarke - and the fact that I need to get as much wear out of it before it gets rinsed on road- I'll wear the velvet pirate jacket from Primark/Marks of Prime (yes that velvet jacket Martha), the white grandad collar shirt, with jeans, and metallic blue Poste Mistress pumps, which I must reheel (trashed heels are so slutty).
Not forgetting the Aviator style Raybans to cover the puffy eyes.

It's All Gone Pete Tong

Training has gone slightly pearshaped this weekend due to excessive socialising, celebrating, and yes, alcohol. I lied to my trainer today and said I hadn't trained since Friday. It's actually been since Thursday...You lazy cow! So I'ma hit the gym later, after I go get the last bits for daughter's school uniform.
Big transition to secondary school tomorrow. I'm starting to feel a bit emotional, which is a bad sign, as I'd rather the tears didn't start flowing at the school gate. She's looking forward to it though, so that's good. I'm going to take her tomorrow, and her Dad's going to collect her. I think it will be good for the boys (and the bad breed girls) to see her 6ft 2", 14 st father at the school gates from time to time. Papa don't take no mess.

Police Officer Noh Give Me Producer

I think I had a few too many at the barbecue. The combination of an Evian bottle filled with blackcurrant Absolut vodka and tonic, then cups of wine and rum, led me to take the decision to be dropped at Oval so I could ride back home on my bike, a mere five minutes up the road. I got on the bike, with bags strapped to the back, and carrying my sunbathing mat - please don't act like you don't know that some black folk sunbathe - and it ain't acting 'white' - Vitamin D is essential for healthy hair, nails and skin. The nails part need work.
So it's midnight and I'm riding renegade style on the pavement, with no lights. I make a split second decision not to take the shortcut, it being late, and the shortcut being dark, and take the main route to my house. I see the PC Community Support Plod, and WPC Plodette, and try to pass them. But them being quite rotund, aka Lardy, they are blocking my path, and as I cycle up to them, Plodette turns around, and instead of moving out of the way puts her hand up and asks me to stop. I have to brake sharply to avoid riding into the fat beeyatch. She tells me to get off the bike. What "Moi" ?!? There must be some mistake. I stumble as I dismount, and giggle. All that was missing was the hiccup.
"Do you know I could fine you £30 for riding on the pavement, and for having no lights?". I do have lights, and generally don't ride on pavements, but on this occasion the bitch has got me bang to rights. I'm gonna have to play incredulous. I'm wide-eyed as I say: "Realllly? Nooo, I didn't know that."
"As you've got no lights, I won't fine you this time because it would be dangerous for you to be on the road, but I'm just going to run a namecheck." NAMECHECK? What the fuck for? Of course I don't say this. That would be stup-id. "Have you got any ID?" Namecheck. ID. The part of my brain that's not sozzed by alcohol decided to pull the journalist card. I show her my university ID. "Oh" she says, "what are you studying?". I explain speaking as slowly as possible so as not to slur, that I just finished my postgrad in newspaper journalism. She looks vaguely impressed...then calls through for the namecheck.
Meanwhile PC Plod pulls out the Stop and Search form. I remember we discussed stop and search policy in a lecture at uni where the guest speaker was the Borough Commander for Islington Police, aka Top Cop. How could I forget? The HPIC (Head Pig In Charge) made a blunder of epic proportions when trying to justify the reason why more black people are stopped than whites. It went something like this. "Black boys do more street crime, muggings etc. They are more violent. It's the culture they come from, you know, that 'black thing'." After being called a 'racist' by several of my classmates in the news story we had to write following the lecture, the man had to come back and explain himself, although I heard him okay the first time. He ate a big-ass portion of humble pie.
The form describes the procedure, and the police officer takes down your details. Name, age, address, height, weight (I didn't tell), reason for stop, and a description of me. Plod misspelt 'sandels', described my hair as 'brown dreadlock' (HEL-LO they're BLONDE), and described my vintage black strapless jumpsuit (Oasis 2002) as 'vest top and trousers'. Must try harder Plodski.
The namecheck came back clean (phew), and after telling me to walk my bike home (have you seen the darkness of my road) they let me go on my way. But being a true rebel, I walked until I couldn't see them no more, and then jumped back on the bike and cycled down my road which is a bit of a muggers paradise once darkness falls.
If it's a choice between the plodski's and the muggers, I know which one I'd rather take my chances with.
p.s - Big up Smiley Culture for the title.

A Glorious Day Out in London

It felt like groundhog day when I was woken by a phone call for the second morning running. But it was the type of phonecall that made you realise, that today was going to be a good day. Barby-Lou had called to see if Clarke wanted to go to the park. Which was funny, because I had intended to do the very same thing. I wanted to go to a barbeque In E17, and was going to hook Clarkie up with Barby's daughter for the day. The plan was to meet up in Brockwell Park first for fun and games, and then I would go on the east London.
So after haranguing Clarke for her untidiness, and harassing her to get dressed I walked her to the bus stop so she could get to Barby's.
I cycled back, had a shower, grilled some lamb chops to make lamb and salad pittas (don't forget the salad cream), and then jumped on my bike to Oval, and caught the sweltering bus to Brockwell Park.
Walking through the park brought back memories, as I lived on the road by the park when I first moved to south London 12 years ago. I could see it through my kitchen window. It's a brilliant space, and I spent many an evening in the park with Father of Clarke, smoking a spliff as the sun went down. We used to take Clarke there a lot too, and when I was trying to shift the baby fat, I used to run around the park and swim in the Lido as Clarke slept in her pushchair.
The sun was beating down as I walked uphill to the spot where we were to meet. Clarke ate her pitta hungrily, and scarfed some plums I'd brought too. We played frisbee, the kids played football, and then we played the usual competitive game of rounders. I managed to appoint myself team captain, and after two games, we were thrashing the opposition. Then we left for the east London barbie.
After quite a long drive, we parked up, and you could hear the music from the street. It was after 8pm, and people were dancing in the garden, drink flowing, nice atmosphere. Saw some familiar faces, had two joke, and quite frankly, got lean on wine, vodka, and rum. Food wasn't flowing as we would have liked, but somehow that didn't seem to matter. I was wondering what black folk did before we started having bbq's? Nowadays, you rarely get an invite to a house party, but everyone is having bbq's. And our bbq's usually go on late, keep up the whole street, or get shut down by the police. Shabby. The weekend has been one long party, and after the exam stress, I'm loving every minute of it.

*sings* Kanye, "Go Off, Go Off"

I've been meaning to write about Kanye for some time now, ever since getting my hands on a copy of the new joint Late Registration. Which is a headsnapping masterpiece. But I have a better reason to talk about him now, other than the fact that I love him, and want to have some Lil' Kanye's.
Some footage of Kanye speaking (thanks S) on a live appeal for donations for hurricane relief shows him go 'off' on national tv in an unscripted broadside at the lack of help, and the media's depiction of 'his people' being portrayed on tv as looters, while white people with stolen stuff are said to be 'looking' for food and water.
Kanye begs for help on behalf of people who have yet to receive the help they need FIVE days after the hurricane hit alongside co-host Mike Myers aka Austin Powers. Myers tries hard not to betray his astonishment at Kanye's departure from the autocue script. West, voice breaking with emotion, explains how he understands that the people that could help are in Iraq, and that now they've given permission for them to go down there and shoot 'us'. Lord have mercy. I swear I saw MLK and Malcolm X flanking that nigga as he disregarded the autocue and made the speech of his life in order to ask for help for the people of New Orleans, otherwise known as the 'City That Care Forgot'. He ends his part of the broadcast by saying: "George Bush doesn't care about black people." How could you not love this nigga.

Houston We Have a Problem

For some reason, I can't upload pictures at the moment, so please bear with me for my blog's decidedly plain appearance at present.

Free At Last, Free At Last

It's been a year since I started studying for a postgraduate degree in Newspaper Journalism, and I had my final exam yesterday. I had to revise for two weeks solid, which has been almost as painful as giving birth. While talking to my bezzie mate, I realised I hadn't sat an exam for 18 years. When I last sat an exam, we did O' Levels (passed five), and then A' Levels (failed two). The proper ones. My studying habits were never really that great, as I found it a bit hard to keep my ass in one place. Write an essay, fine. Do a project, no problem. Revise? I can't do it! Well, this time I had to, and I'm praying I won't have to do it no more. Please Lord!
So tonight I'm celebrating, and it's gonna be a large one. But not too large as I have to get myself to Ladbroke Grove tomorrow for bezzie mate's Baby Shower.
When I had my daughter eleven years ago, baby showers were something only Americans did. How the landscape changes. But it's a chance to celebrate the coming of a new baby, and make Mum-to-be feel special, when she may be feeling big, and heavy. Cos let's face it, being 8 months pregnant ain't always a bundle of laughs. You can't sleep at night, maybe you have piles (I did), or thrush (had that too), and as for sex (nah - I kept that bit up right to the end).
I'm so happy for my best friend, having her first child at 36. She's married to a good man, and they have a nice house. We've been friends since we were 11, and went to the same failing secondary school. Total opposites. Her: quiet(ish), studious, intelligent, disciplined. Me: Loud, not studious, intelligent, undisciplined. It's amazing we ever became friends at all, as I used to abuse her, calling her 'Spiderwoman', because of the threaded hairstyle she used to wear to school. Mainly because I hated the fact that she was always answering the teacher's questions, and was so bright. You know how it goes. She went on to University, I went on to the University of Life - no, not prison! But somehow, our friendship managed to survive new friends, me being successful with music, her being a successful barrister, and me having a child at 24. Our friendship has endured through so much of the crap of life, and now she is just part of the family. Her husband is like the big brother I never had. The man is 6ft 6in tall. So he really is big. When I first met him, I thought, 'he's the one, she's going to marry him'. We go out to dinner together, or to parties, the three of us, and husband tries to force me to drink water (he's a doctor) when he thinks I've had too much to drink. God forbid he gets drunk when we're out, because we sure can't carry him. Last year when I had a BBQ, he brought over their BBQ, and cooked for over eight hours. She's got a good one there. I feel sorry for her though, cos her bump looks big, and from the size of her man, I think the labour's gonna be L.O.N.G...! (copyright Gee Wong)

I'll Take Your Man

I thought I'd dig into the archives for a special post to my girl 'Martha Daley' (you know who you are), who's celebrating another year on the planet today.
We've known each other since we were teenagers, acting all hard being b-girls as we used to call ourselves (well I did). I had my little rap group, and Martha was on the 'scene'. She was about 14 when I met her, and I must have been 17 (don't try work out my age). But she was 'mature' looking if you understand. You don't? I mean she had breast, and batty. Plus she had a Salt 'n' Pepa hairstyle, which was mad cool back then. Because she was kinda serious looking, I was a bit 'fraid of her, so I thought it was best to have her on my side if you know what I mean. So friendship was duly cultivated.
Martha was friends with a real rude boy. He really was rude, and I didn't like him at all. As my mum says, "me spirit didn't tek to him". But his Mum was running tings with the fresh hip-hop gear (s'how we used to talk back then). Goose down jackets and Patrick Ewing Adidas - my leather 'goose' was purple, and the Ewings white with purple stripes. With the Naf Naf jeans, baggy of course, and the hair done by Ebony of Mayfair (yes, Mayfair, £50 a pop, aged 17) I thought I was sooo fly. And I was. I was a teenager, I was into hip-hop, and I was about to make a record. What could be flyer than that?
Now this friend of Martha's used to be tight with one of the girl's in my group. He was her boyfriend in fact. Couldn't see what she saw in him, man had some busted up teet', piggy eyes, and bow legs, but give him his due, he was confident, and thought he was hot. But I think he had a bit of an inferiority complex. He once accused me of only going out with light-skinned brothers (how wrong could he be). This on the evidence of one or two, light-skinned brothers I had dealings with. No they weren't brothers!!! I'd never heard anything more ridiculous in my life, which was another reason to dislike him, accusing moi of 'shadism'!
So one evening, we're at Astoria, sitting upstairs, I think it was Delirium or something. Me, Martha, Betty Boo, Aurra. I'm rattling on to Martha about something and mention Dupe, the other girl that was in the group.
Martha says: "Who?"
I say: "Dupe (Doo-pea)".
She says: "What? Doobie"
"No!" I say, "Dooo-pea, you know, Chris's Dupe".
"Chris's Dupe!"
"Yeah, Chris's girlfriend".
"What do you mean, Chris's girlfriend? I'm Chris's girlfriend!".
Cue me sliding into my chair, trying to wrench foot out of mouth. Martha looked stunned, and I think unsurprisingly the evening went a bit pear-shaped after that. He tried to have me up for that one - but I weren't taking that 'check' (copyright Suzie Wong). I asked him was he seeing Martha, he lied, and he got caught out. Bang to rights. Thankfully Martha never held it against me, shame I can't say the same about Chris.

Poor in the USA

Am watching reports of the 'American Tsunami' openmouthed. Eighty per cent of the above area of New Orleans is underwater, people have lost everything. The area affected is the size of the UK. A state of emergency has been declared, and looters are armed, and dangerous. Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse in this world, this shit happens.
Many of those affected are poor, and black. People have not eaten for three days, and are begging for help via televised new reports. What the heck is going on? A city that is six feet below sea level, surrounded by a lake, and the Gulf of Mexico, had defences built to withstand a category 3 hurricane. Hurricane Katrina was a category 4.
President George Bush is acting the fool, just like he did when 9/11 happened, taking his goddamn time to find his redneck ass to New Orleans. People are taking refuge in the most squalid conditions, and the relief effort has yet to get under way. There was a car of elderly people on the news that said they were very hungry, hadn't eaten for a few days. Unbelievable. Don't tell me if this shit had happened in Hollywood, that they wouldn't have been airlifting in some pre-packed low-fat meals for those rich celebrities.
The National Guard, what's left of it as most of them are in Iraq, have been called in to deal with the looters. Looters who are armed, some because they looted gun shops. Chickens coming home to roost? Shouldn't someone be dealing with getting these people some food, and clothing? Stable. Door. Horse. Bolted.