First Priority

Woke up to the sound of a drum kit being put through seven kinds of Hades coming from the £1m house two doors down from mine. At 9.20am. It is Saturday. My neighbour's son (I use that term descriptively as we're not even on nodding terms) likes to practise his drumming with the windows wide open. But I guess if your daddy's that rich, you just don't give a fuck.
I contemplated writing a note saying: "Your drumming's crap, just stop it. NOW!" But decided to 'llow it. When I have my BBQ next year, with five DJs and full sound system going on 'til mornin', talk to the hand.

I planned to get up early anyhow, to go register for the African-Caribbean Leukaemia Trust's Bone Marrow Register at Kings College Hospital. Prompted by a campaign to find a bone marrow donor for much loved DJ Swing, who's suffering from a rare form of blood cancer Multiple Myeloma. Unless Swing receives a bone marrow transplant from a donor of a similar racial background, he will die.

Unfortunately, a combination of apathy, ignorance or cultural myths, has stopped many black people (because in this instance only a black, mixed-race or asian people will do) from registering. But the determination of Swing's friends, and the ACLT has helped raise the profile of the campaign, through a TV documentary, and by taking the campaign to club nights, Carnival, or anywhere they think they can get the message to the people that can help.

So I get washed, jump on my bike, and aim to get there as the clinic opens at 10am. I think smugly to myself, I'll be the first person there. As I ride up to the hospital, it's just approaching ten o' clock. I pass busy barbers, and full beautyshops. There's even a long queue at a nailshop. Black folk. How come we can get to those places early, but always arriving at the wedding, surprise party, or cinema late? As for those money sucking nail shops, I only ever heard of one black woman that owns one. Richina in Old Kent Road - show her some love. We love dash weh money, but don't invest in what we spend in. Stup-id.

As I roll up in the clinic all pleased with myself, there's about eight people already sitting down. At 10.15. My faith in black people restored. The people at the clinic went through the whole procedure, how the bone marrow would be extracted if you were a match, and if you were a match for someone else on the register, if you agreed, you would be asked to donate to them. Spoke to a brother that was there before me. Came clean from West London. Wasn't bad looking either. Focus Donna.

After that, I'd organised for Clarke to go cinema with Suzie Wong's son to see Goal!, and was off to meet a friend for the afternoon. So I put the child on the bus, and the other child was supposed to meet her at the bus stop near his house. I then do the Cycle of Death from my house in Vauxhall to Forest Hill. The Hill part should have been a clue. It was at this point that I wished I had done some exercise in two weeks, and weighed half by bodyweight. Pure hills I was hitting. Tulse Hill, and then the hill into Forest Hill. It took all my black pride to stay on the bike, and not wheel it up the hill, even though I could have been overtaken by a snail at that point.

I get a phonecall an hour later. "Where's Clarke?" JJ came home, he never saw her up the bus stop. I phone Clarke on the mobile I convinced her to take with her.
"Where are you?".
"I'm in the cinema."
"On your own?"
"Yes. I didn't see JJ outside the cinema."
"So why didn't you call me?"
"I haven't got any credit."
"Oh."
"I'm alright, the film's good."

She went back inside, and because she was talking to me, missed the last five minutes, only saw the guy score a goal, and it was done. Shame. Best laid plans go to waste and all that. Later she said she enjoyed watching the film on her own. Like mother, like daughter.