Ashley

The Pessimist has anointed the cornflake Ashley, Ashley Cole (Sore). Groan.

Potholes On My Lip

My body doesn't like exercise. Less than an hour after my first run in weeks, I felt the dreaded tingle at the side of my mouth, and then began to check the mirror obssessively for the appearance of the little white spots which signal the beginning of a cold sore. Yep, there they were. Fuuuck. I hadn't been feeling 100 per cent, but dismissed the thoughts thinking myself a bit of a hypochondriac. But obviously that week in France, eating OPF (other people's food), working the night shift, and riding the slopes five hours a day had taken it's toll.

When he first realised I was a 'sufferer', the Bobo Dread said in characteristic non-diplomatic fashion: "I didn't realise black people got dem tings." I guess I have my mum to thank, as she's a sufferer too. And she's definitely black. Or even blick as the yout' dem say. Wrong.

Anyway, the cold sore usually makes an appearance at stressful times like last year at the end of my post-grad. Two days before I'm set to board a plane for Chocolate City, Atlanta, the Curse of the Cornflake Lip struck. And that Zovirax shit does not work. I was PISSED. OFF. I was so looking forward to working my Britishness and hooking up with some US beef. (Until I found out how large the gay population is over there and lowered my expectations). In desperation I scoured the internet for information on how I could make the sucker disappear. Frogs legs and eye of newt were not involved on this occasion.

So yesterday, the night before a belated birthday lunch with my Snow Camp peeps and a meeting with my Aspire network board members, the carbuncle had taken up residence on my face. Not to mention the health spa I'm going to on Friday. I mean who's gonna want to give the girl with the cornflake on her lip a facial?

I just don't feel good with a foreign body in residence on my face. When I went out today I wore my hair loose so I could use it strategically to hide the afflicted side of my face. I was so looking forward to getting my flirt on this week but who's gonna be impressed with a woman who's flirting with the herpes virus on her mouth? Can I at least dazzle the man with my sparkling wit, intelligent conversation, cute looks and big ass first?

I exed all plans today, and put my energy into Project Heal Thyself. This involved eating healthy, drinking an immune boosting raw juice and going shopping down the West End. Which was very healing because I heard The Yellow Magic Orchestra's 'Space Invaders' tune in American Apparel, which I fucking love. I found it very therapeutic to stay in there listening to it right to the very end. AA sell those seventies style shorts, you know the ones Willis used to wear in Different Strokes. I remember when my Stepdad brought some home he bought from someone on road. The next day it was like a scene from Coming to America as all the estate kids were walking around in a pair of the 'knock-off' red or blue satin disco shorts.

The Bank Holiday weekend approaches, and I need to have this bombaseed off my face by weekend. Standard. I guess the one thing in my favour is the fact that I'm still brown(er) from the trip, so it is kinda camouflaged. If you squint a bit. And stand at least a foot away. But seriously it's huge, I can't really smile, and its painful. I feel so sorry for myself, I feel violated, I feel like....Haagen Daz....ok maybe not.

The Bobo Dread used to name my spots when they were quite big. He'd definitely have a name for this sucker. How about Coco Pops?

*knock-off* - moody, hot, stolen

Butterfly V Caterpillar

Although I'm quite a driven, ambitious person. I've found that nothing motivates me quite as much as knowing that my girlfriends are doing something. And this doesn't mean that I follow them blindly into incidents that lead me to jump off a cliff.

Take snowboarding. Two of my girlfriends did it before I tried it. I'd long wanted to since first learning to ski as a teenager. Despite learning in minus 20 degree weather (the coldest in Canada for 40 years) I refused to give up. If they can do it, so can I. I was on that piste taking the illest drops for seven days. Battered and bruised after one particularly bad wipeout, I retired crying to the bar on the mountaintop. But I never gave up, and now I'm lovin' it. I am a woman, and as such have been socially programmed to compete with other women.

Was talking to Gina Ling last night about our impending girls holiday to Malaga. We have four months to get bikini fit, and the other members of the No Check Crew are already in training for the various beach and pool parties we will be attending. Gina is looking fabulous, she's already dropped some weight, and is bussin' the Kate Moss leggings how it should look, with a little junk in the trunk.

Meanwhile, the threat of being seen half-nekkid on a beach looms and what am I doing? Eating chips, rediscovering the joys of Twix (they taste so good), drinking to excess and consoling myself with that sedative in a tub, Haagen Daz. Ah hell fucking no. We're not going back down that flabby route again. It's time to rein in that fat creating behaviour in. So Sunday night I scheduled my new training programme on my electronic diary. A daily, run or walk for 30 minutes.

Monday morning: The sofa wouldn't let me get up.

Monday evening: Butterfly speaks to Gina, and discovers that she and Michie Wong are already running regularly three times a week. Damn, if they can do it so can I.

Monday night: Before I went to bed I laid out my running clothes, and dusted off the ugly running trainers.

Tuesday morning: Butterfly jumps into her running clothes, and heads to Kennington Park. She puffs and pants her way around five times, before retiring triumphantly. She gets a toot from a man in a Lambeth Refuse Truck.

Things are looking up.

Girlfight!

While mum was out getting drunk and disorderly. Mini-me was getting into a beef of her own. I blame the parents. She went on a day trip to France with school on Friday, and when she returned home solemn faced on Sunday evening after spending the weekend with her cousins, she spilled the beans about her eventful day in France.

As well as treating herself to some black, rainbow trim pumps from H&M, and me to a lookey-likey Faberge egg/jewellery box, she managed to be late back to the coach, and have a fight in full view of the teachers. Duh! First rule of school fights, wait until you leave the gates. Although I’ll admit I often couldn’t.

I shook my head, said she needed to do some damage limitation in the form of a written apology, and accept whatever punishment was coming her way gracefully. In her favour, the other girl struck the first blow, Clarkie said she was egged on by her peers "oi you got violated cuz", and responded. The old headlock and t’umps to the head manouevre. That's a good look.

Not sure I was supposed to laugh at that bit, or the news that she has been given two days in the ‘sin bin’ or ‘intensive support’ as they call it these days for lessons on anger management. LOL! I wonder if they can fit me in too....The other girl got excluded (again). This is Clarke’s first ever secondary school fight. It’s amazing how they grow up so quickly. Just thinking about it makes me crack up. First school trip and you have a fight on the coach. That's just madness cuz. Am glad I cancelled the week-long trip to Spain. After desperately trying to maintain serious Mother mode, and trying my best to show her that I didn't condone that sort of behaviour, I had to ask the question.

“Did you win?”.

Brothers and Sisters...

Birthday drinks at Blacktronica passed in a blur of spritzers, vodka tonics and champagne. Charlie was stressed because the sound was malfunctioning so we chatted about my blogging and writing. My wine-soaked mouth ran away with me as I spoke to Daddy Dark and James Yarde dropping broad hints about the present I really would've appreciated for my birthday. As Rakim Allah once famously rapped: "It's been a long time". And as my friend The Pessimist says, 'ALCOHOL IS EVIL'.

My little bruv CJ aka 'The Afterthought' came out with me for the first time. He's 18 years old, and he's cool. Contrary to what the media would have you believe about young black boys, my brother does not run with a gang, nor carry a weapon, he doesn't hang on street corners, rarely wears a hoodie (that's late man), and feels no way to shop at The Gap and Uniqlo while he's a strapped for cash student. He has his sister's eye for style, and in his own words says 'I make Primark look good'. Yes, he's definitely my brother.

I proudly introduced him to all the people I know, and he did well hanging out at one of the 'Niggarati's' (copyright BJ) main music nights. Despite the eighteen year age gap, we get on wicked. We don't have the same Dad, and I must admit, I wasn't overjoyed at first when I knew he was coming along. I watched him come into world, forced by a West Indian midwife who dragged me away from watching Prisoner Cell Block H in the waiting room. You know that was the programme back then. Bee baddin' up the gyal dem in the prison.

The midwife scolded me in that manner that has long since died out as older people are now afraid of admonishing young people for fear of abuse or a bus-stop beatdown. "Come on! It's not every day you get to see a baby being born." CJ wriggled and practically flew into the midwife's hands, my mum gave birth 'Katie Holmes' style, silently, and in the end I was glad I saw it as it made me fear giving birth much less when my turn came. My 12-hour labour was pretty uneventful until the midwife said I was being, and I quote, 'too ladylike' and that I should make some more noise. Not sure if me screaming 'WHY WON'T IT FUCKING COME OUT!' was what she had in mind.

On Saturday, after CJ slept most of the day away, I asked him if he'd like to register with the African Caribbean Leukaemia Trust to be a bone marrow donor. He said yes, so we went to the clinic at Southwark Fire Station. It was funny, because when I walked through the door I saw people that were at Blacktronica the night before. Thankfully they were not as hung over as I was.

My brother was cool about signing up to the register, and happy to give a blood sample. "CJ are you afraid of needles?", "Nah sis, dat's simple tings to give blood." In that moment I couldn't have loved my little brother any more.

When Things Fall Apart

Celebrating your 37th birthday is as pointless as it sounds. It's not a landmark birthday, it's an odd number, and I dislike odd numbers (I like things to be easily divisible by 2), and if you're single you have to do it all yourself. "Whoo-hoo people, look how much fun I can organise for myself". Long.

On Sunday Michie Wong was celebrating her birthday, and it was a pre-birthday celebration for me too. She hired a limo, we had three parties lined up, and buckets of champagne. First stop Bar HQ, or should that be Bar Ho-Q because it's always full of gyal. After an hour or so we moved on to Buppy C's birthday bash. He looks how he sounds, small, marga, and deeply unattractive. This is when things started to unravel. We had to meet a DJ to get the complimentary tickets. But when we got there around 1.30am, there was a massive queue leading up to the entrance of Brixton Rec's bar Slammers. As Suzie Wong says 'try know' it weren't about queuing. We had a fucking limo! So me and Gina Ling (the two bad breeds) 'excused' our way through the four-deep wide Brixton queue, until we got to the top. People were screwing but we just pushed our luck and got through. Obviously the champagne had taken effect already, as we had no fear from the mampies in their bashment finery.

About 15 minutes later we were all inside, raving in a leisure centre. Black people will rave anywhere. Except maybe fields, which is more white people’s style. We must have been in there half an hour at the most, and suddenly we were on the move again. After a stop at the jerk chicken drum downstairs. Jerk and champagne, a winning combination. And you know it tasted good at that time of night. Some man tried to jump the queue. Who told him to do that? Gina Ling blazed him so badly, I started to fear for my life. We were in Brixton after all, aka The Wild Wild South.

By the time we got back to the limo, Michie Wong was vex (cos we took so long getting food), so was Suzie (cos she didn't want to leave the dance), meanwhile me and Gina were oblivious, and just trying to avoid getting jerk chicken stains on the garms. Pass the champagne please.

We arrived at the next dance in east London with bare vibes, and attitude. It was Wong's friend's 40th, and an incident had already put a dampener on the situation. One of the guy’s friends phoned Wong and asked her why should she come to the dance without paying, and that when we see his friend we hug and kiss him up like we’re all ‘grin'in’ (fucking) him. That's fighting talk. Wong told him to ‘go clean out your foreskin, it’s dutty’. He brought the street out in her. Click, dial tone. My man was baffled. You know he got a stiff blank from all of us when we saw him.

Suzie Wong was obviously was not feelin’ it. The place was full of ‘cobwebbers’ (another Wong-ism). People who look like they just dusted off the cobwebs off their old garms to come out for the night. LOL. Bare oldfoot people in the dance. You know when you walk in the room you come like ‘puppy show' because you stand out so much. Michie still had a smile on her face then, and was up for it. Suzie went and sat down. Bad move bredrin. I raved for a bit, but the 20 hour coach journey from France the day before, the tiredness and now the champagne was doing me in. So I sat down. Sorry Michie. I don't remember how long we stayed there, but the ride back in the limo ended in a classic Wong sisters argument (violent but not physical, last witnessed a year ago in Great Yarmouth). It's best not to get involved. Once they all stopped, I assumed the position and fell asleep.

Next year I'm going away.

Calamity Butterfly

This relationship stuff is mad tricky these days. In fact, forget relationships, because if you mention the ‘R’ word you can be guaranteed that most men will think you’re getting too heavy. I have absolutely no idea what I should be doing where men are concerned. It used to be so simple. Girl meets boy, likes boy, and tells him. You hook up and start going out, until you break up and it all starts all over again. This worked all through my teens, and my twenties. Except this time round, in my third decade it nah work no more.

Girl meets boy, boy seems interested, tries to hit the coochie without so much as an alcoholic beverage, then disappears when it doesn’t happen. Trust me, my coochie don't get popped without the proper courtships rules being observed.

Recently I met someone who I find very attractive, and is great to talk to, a killer combination in my book. But I just can’t bring myself to do anything about it. I just don’t think I can take the knockback right now, and I’m not sure enough about whether he is interested in me. In fact, I’m almost sure that he’s not. Then again, since when was I an expert on men who like me. I almost never notice the ones that want more than friendship, and they rarely make themselves noticed. It’s only years later when a friendship has blossomed, and they are practically hitched to some other bitch do I hear the words: “I used have your picture on my wall back in the day.” Or as the line I shall forever treasure spoken by the legend that is Big Ted goes: “There was you, and Monie.”

More recently someone felt the need to take me to task for going out with The Bobo Dread. He felt it necessary to share with me how I had dropped a notch in his estimation by going out with The Bobo Dread. Sometimes I wonder why exactly some people feel it is necessary to share their opinions with me concerning my love life which is none of their 'raatid' (not a word that can be used in Scrabble) business. I mean how do you get from hello to "why did you go out with that loser" who incidentally I broke up with almost three years ago. This is a nigga whose phone number I do not have, whose email I never use and in all the years I've known him I speak to for a period of around un minute. Why is he all in my grill about my ex?

Some men just can't handle the fact that you were never interested in their tired ass. Being that we were at a funeral, I decided not to curse out his BC and just said 'The Bobo Dread is someone that I still consider a good friend. It is inappropriate for you to talk about him or me in that way, and quite frankly none of your damn business.' It was only because of where we were, that I held it down. The next time I see that motherfucker he will be talking to Butterfly: The Ice Queen. He'll get served the Butterfly Jones 'shiver your timbers' glare, and not a word will pass my lips. Revenge is a dish best served cold.

Anyway, as for the object of my affections, for now, I’m opting for the pussy's way out. I’ll be doing absolutely fuck all. As one of my movie heroines once sang: “Once I had a secret love” and "Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be."

Next Year I'll Be Doing This

Oops! I Did It Again

It's official I am a crap mother. Not as bad as Britney 'driving with baby in my lap' Spears, or as I recently read on a celeb gossip blog mother of baby with 'fractured skull' Britney WTF?!? (don't quote me on that). But I wasn't sure if school started again today, but sent Clarkie anyway. Half an hour after she left I found the school newsletter with important dates. It says school starts tomorrow. Funnily enough, Clarke has not bothered to return home. The crafty scoundrel. Her Dad said not to worry. That's a bit hard because the child is like my arm, when she's not there I feel a dull ache like that experienced by amputees. Methinks someone is trying to run game on mommy dearest. Boy is she in for a surprise when she turns up. And I ain't talking birthday cake either!

UPDATE: Clarke returned home safely after stopping at the shops (and waiting outside HMV for 45mins) to buy her mother a birthday card and a Sean Paul CD. 'Skillartee!'. So I guess I can put the 'beats' on hold.

Happy Birth Day!

To me. This age thing is one thing that's got me trippin'. It's like those old movies where you see the years flying by on a paper calendar. The sheets flying off quicker and quicker. As much as I hate to see the numbers going up and up (37 and counting), I like to revel in what I can do, still. I snowboard, and I only started in my thirties, and it is (apart from rapping) the coolest thing I have ever learnt to do. Period. I run the bridges, cycle in London (many people won't consider it) and can still dance till dawn (just not every week). I've increased my learning, attained a postgraduate degree, studied journalism, written for national newspapers, and I reckon at 37, I'm sharper mentally than I've ever been.

I'm also calmer, more introverted, at ease with my own company. I've taken a few hits on this journey called life, but I always get back up. One thing the trip to France taught me is that for some people, getting up is not that easy. Changing patterns, and how you react to setbacks is something that is so necessary to progressing in life that not to learn is to create greater hardship for yourself. I don't want to be alone for ever, but I'm content to be alone for now. I love children, but am happy to have just the one. I love being a mother, a parent. I enjoy cooking for my daughter, baking cakes, doing nice things for her, and just generally ensuring her mental and physical well-being. I'm happy that I realised a long time ago that nothing was more important than her, and have arranged my life accordingly.

So today, I acknowledge my 37th birthday with thanks to the Lord for allowing me to see another year. This year, I plan to do nothing much, I have a piece to finish for Pride, and Suzie Wong's popping over for tea and cake (if I can be arsed to go buy one). It's what I want to do, and believe me I'll be happy doing it.

P.S. Happy Birthday to Sarah Jessica Parker

Awesome!

I'm so mashed, I can barely keep my eyes open. A week in the French Alps with 48 children has taken its toll. Nights spent watching them until 3am, playing cards and (ultra competitive) Scrabble with the youthworkers, then up at 8am for breakfast and practise on the piste. The weather was brilliant, most of the white kids got sunburnt, and the black ones have tan lines from the goggles (which I tried desperately to avoid).

There are stories of success, triumph, and then stories which made your blood run cold. The BAP (Brixton African Princess) who almost glassed another girl at dinner on the first day, the 15 year old boy (and father to be) so distressed by the loss of his mobile that he got a kitchen knife and planned to 'approach' the other young people until he located it and the bad breed girl who cursed out one of my colleagues so badly she was afraid that she was gonna get 'banged' and had to leave the hostel for the night. The revelation for me was that the 'young women' were the worst behaved, created the most drama, and needed the most surveillance.

But then there is Max, who looks like a snowboarder but decided to ski. He's smart, funny, polite and happy go lucky. Roti, who was articulate, super intelligent and never gave up, and Jefferson who looked like he was born to snowboard. Florence who always had a smile and a joke handy, and sweet boy Jurvaine who was wicked on ice skates. Not forgetting Ishmael (aka Nyam Food) who cracked us up all week with his jokes. The majority of the young people were fantastic, but as I said to Queen Bad Breed, when she was good, she was really, really good, but when she was bad she was horrid.

To be continued.

Give Blood To Save A 'Blood'

Clarke and I have 45 minutes before I get a coach with 40 teenagers to the French Alps for a snowboarding/ski trip. Just wanted to squeeze in a quick blog about DJ Swing's funeral yesterday.

The whole day was like a mass spiritual experience. I've not been to an African funeral, or an Asian one, or even a white person's funeral, but West Indian people's funerals are fantastic, and this was no exception. From Beverly Knight's gospel turn in the church, to Omar and Victor Romero Evans live PA by the set, the whole day was a fitting tribute to the music loving, people loving DJ, Brian Daley aka Swing.

At times, when addressed by Orin Lewis (of the African Caribbean Leukaemia Trust) we were reminded of the reasons why we were here, it resembled a political rally. Stirring speeches were made by Orin and family members to rally the troops to keep the message alive, even though Swing no longer is. As one of his fellow DJs said in ghetto eloquent fashion "Give Blood, To Save A Blood". Sounds like a campaign in the making.

As we stood by the graveside, the young people not knowing the hymns, and not confident enough to sing anything else, all we could do was watch morosely as Brian's friends and contemporaries, many wearing white suits or adidas tracksuits, grappled with the mound of thick earth they were shovelling to fill the grave. As Orin de Gale said, it is not acceptable to not register to donate what amounts to half of a plastic cup of liquid called bone marrow. If you are black, asian or mixed-race, make it your business to register, and then register someone else. Not being registered should become a shameful thing. Consult your GP if you have any concerns regarding your health or call the ACLT they can answer any questions you may have. I have done it, and it took maybe 30 mins of my time, and most of that was spent listening to information.

The whole day was a great tribute to a special man and Swing would have loved it so much. It is such a shame that we had to have it without him.

CLINICS - (http://www.aclt.org/)

The following information highlights the forthcoming ACLT registration clinic date and location:

Saturday 22nd April, Time 10am to 6pm at the London Fire Brigade Southwark Training Centre, (Sir Frederick Delve Suite), 94 Southwark Bridge Road, London, SE1 OSD.

Wednesday 26th April, Time 2pm to 9pm at the Waverley School - Homestall Road, London, SE22 0NR

Sunday 29th May and Bank Holiday Monday 30th May, Afro Hair & Beauty Show - Alexandra Palace, North London, N22 7AY. Time: 10:00am till 7:00pm

New dates are constantly being added to the 2006 list of registration clinics. So please keep checking the registration clinics page.

So Have A Nice Day

I am so busy at the moment finishing off job applications, following up contacts, ignoring Clarke while on half-term holiday and preparing for a trip to France on Friday that I have no time to dress myself properly, it's just fling on the nearest outfit and pray to God I see no one I know while out. Of course I always do see someone I know.

I bumped into 'cute man with dreads' who is also coming on the trip to France. With teenage daughter. Not that I'm interested but I'm getting that 'not married but attached' vibe from him. Not to worry, I was wearing huge Mekon head cycle helmet, and my baggiest jeans which make my bottom look ten miles wide. There is no danger of him giving me a second look. Maybe I can wow him with the 'damn she scrubs up well' look on Friday. Like I said, not that I'm interested.

Clarke is also coming on this ski/snowboarding trip to the French Alps which means mummy cannot act like a ho while she is in the vicinity. HA! Chance would be a fine thing. This will be the first trip I've ever been on which will be completely 'dry'. No alcohol can pass my lips as I'm going as a volunteer with a youth group, along with 40 teenagers. Happy days.

Since I have stopped smoking and as a result drink less, I've noticed how much I talk. My gums will run a mile a minute if I don't check myself. It's like some sort of nervous tic. Why has no one alerted me to this fact? I thought y'all we're my friends? It's only after I've been running my gums for five minutes straight that I realise, um, maybe I coulda taken a breath and not revealed the knickers I'm wearing today are to' up, or some other such nonsense.

My wardrobe seems to have shrunk drastically. That's the ebay effect as I've sold loads of my stuff, but haven't really replaced it. I have actually lost the will to shop at the moment. I guess it will return when my pay packet does. On Sunday I dragged myself up West to return a dress I'd bought while under the influence of hormones. Beautiful red and black strapless, tulip skirt floral number. The style was so lovely, but so wrong for someone who has enough booty for two people. It was the monthly hormone overload that made me do it. They're also responsible for making me buy a dress twice. I returned a lovely teal blue military style dress to TopShop on Sunday that had been hanging in the wardrobe for a couple of weeks. By today I was frantically calling my nearest ToSho to see if they had the dress in stock.

Of course the lazy-ass sales assistant said they didn't, but my refined 'fashion sense' told me she was talking out of her frying pan ass. I spoke to the lovely Esther who knew what I was talking about and she held the dress for me. Clueless sales assistant then served me with way too much attitude. She was American too, and I'm afraid I just expect better from the country that coined the phrase 'Have a nice day'. Maybe she was expecting a tip. She was getting feisty because I handled her on the phone. She couldn't be bothered to look for the dress and said 'I should come down and have a look'. "That's why I'm talking to you" idiot so I don't have to! "I-M B-U-S-Y!". Lucky for that bitch I was not in a fighting or complaining mood (rare I know) I just ignored her slightly above minimum wage ass, and thanked the lovely British Esther for her excellent customer service. And fuck-a have a nice day.