I hate the term ‘career woman’. Someone used it in reference to me the other day, and I had to correct his ass. I never hear anyone say ‘career man’, so why the need to make a distinction? If I didn’t work, what would I be called? Certainly not a housewife, nor a stay-at-home mum. I’d be a parasitical single mother who is a burden on the hardworking people of Great Britain.
I come from a working-class background. My gran worked, she was a bit of hustler, she understood the value of buying property, then she was a seamstress and a cook. She had four daughters, no husband I ever saw, owned her own house in Alperton and was always very hard-working. Now she lives in Florida. My mum stayed home for a few years when we were young, my Dad didn’t want her to work – he was a bit of a career gambler, but when their relationship fell apart when I was around nine, she got a job. Always worked her finger to bone, worked the shit shifts for years 3-11pm all the way through my secondary school education.
I didn’t go off the rails, get high, bring boys round (couldn’t because Big Sis was there – so I went to their house) I was already pretty scared of The Wrath of Mum, so didn’t push the boundaries too far.
So working is not a new thing for the women in my family. Hence I do not see the need for the tag ‘career woman’. I have benefited from the labour and toil of my mother and grandmother. My grandmother came here for a better life for herself and kids, and she achieved that, my mother wanted me to have the education she never had, and she achieved that. Now I want my daughter to do better than me, I want her to be entrepreneurial, not just to work a job but to create jobs. To me, that’s not being a ‘career woman’, that’s being a brilliant woman.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Christmas starts here...
Christmas is coming, and the only thing getting fat is moi. At the moment my exercise regime consists mainly of lifting lots of edible objects to the cake-sized gap in my face. Yum. Even a bout of party dress shopping (one must get one’s priorities right) only made me temporarily stay the tendency to eat chocolate and apple crumble with cream, as I breathed a sigh of relief at ‘squozing’ myself into a size 14 Kazza Mill strapless dress. Oh well, I’m back to the weight/size I was in 1999 – so it’s not all bad. And the dresses that I had to avoid on the grounds of ‘too much booty, not enough fabric’ can come back into circulation. Maybe I’ll try for 1989’s size 10 next year.
First Christmas do was last week Thursday with my team at The Big Time Newspaper (website). Thankfully, there was no need to dress up. We had a meal, where I tried to drink as little as possible, and then once I had some food down me I felt more able to indulge. It’s not about getting lean with work people and embarrassing yourself. I know someone who got very drunk at her office party, and snogged her very married boss, in front of her workmates. Shortly afterwards she got six month’s salary and was asked to leave. Strangely she didn’t think the two incidents were connected. Either way I’d say that was a fucking result!
That would never happen to me. For a start my boss is female. And secondly, when I’ve had a few drinks I’m more likely to hit the dancefloor and dance in a rudely, suggestive manner rather than collar someone I wouldn’t give the time of day to when sober.
After the meal we walked to a pub in Notting Hill. Yes, The Notting Hill, but rest assured, there actually are black folk living in the real NH. We had a couple of drinks at a pub where some weird looking man decided I might find him wildly attractive if he stared at me long and hard enough. Forty-five minutes to be precise. Even after a voddie and tonic and a shot of sambuca, I felt in no way compelled to talk to him.
Like I said, I just wanted to dance. A guy gave us some free passes to a bar up the road, The Gate, so we trotted along there as I was desperate for a boogie. One debate with the doorman later (some people forgot their passes in the pub) we were descending the stairs to Montel Jordan’s ‘This Is How We Do It’.
We had a good little dance and managed to have a conversation that didn’t revolve around work for once. It’s quite cool when you get to know people you work with. What’s strange is that there are people I started off thinking were really nice, that I know now are not. And people I thought who were ‘wrong uns’ and now think they’re great.
Princess Pushy proceeded to get pretty hammered so I went into ‘watch over the drunk friend’ mode, and ended up bringing her home with me. She promptly stained my sofa and her stupidly expensive Reiss top with the extra chilli sauce on the kebab she’d bought. The kebab I waited for in the back of a black cab, while speeching the driver who wanted us to get out and find another cab, because he said we were stopping him from earning.
His maths was obviously shit because him taking us from Kensington was at least a £20 fare, but he was saying he could pick up a couple more fares while he was sat waiting outside Ranoush. I really don’t know what’s got into cab drivers, but it always seems like you have to argue the toss with them. I mean, while we were sitting there, the meters running and he’s getting paid, what exactly is his problem. I just kept him talking, as he tried everything, short of telling to get the fuck out, to get out of the cab. There was no way I was getting out of that warm cab to stand on a street corner in High Street Ken, trying to flag down another.
Don’t these people have any compassion. I won’t even count the number of times black cabs with lights on have driven past me in the early hours of the morning. When I was working in Manchester, an Asian cab driver drover past me. That one really hurt. Two women, on their first day in a strange town and the fucker wouldn’t even stop.
I can drive, but I don’t know how that’s gonna work when I get a new set of wheels. No more boozy nights out for me. Just a tonic water and the thrill of the rave. So looking forward to that.
First Christmas do was last week Thursday with my team at The Big Time Newspaper (website). Thankfully, there was no need to dress up. We had a meal, where I tried to drink as little as possible, and then once I had some food down me I felt more able to indulge. It’s not about getting lean with work people and embarrassing yourself. I know someone who got very drunk at her office party, and snogged her very married boss, in front of her workmates. Shortly afterwards she got six month’s salary and was asked to leave. Strangely she didn’t think the two incidents were connected. Either way I’d say that was a fucking result!
That would never happen to me. For a start my boss is female. And secondly, when I’ve had a few drinks I’m more likely to hit the dancefloor and dance in a rudely, suggestive manner rather than collar someone I wouldn’t give the time of day to when sober.
After the meal we walked to a pub in Notting Hill. Yes, The Notting Hill, but rest assured, there actually are black folk living in the real NH. We had a couple of drinks at a pub where some weird looking man decided I might find him wildly attractive if he stared at me long and hard enough. Forty-five minutes to be precise. Even after a voddie and tonic and a shot of sambuca, I felt in no way compelled to talk to him.
Like I said, I just wanted to dance. A guy gave us some free passes to a bar up the road, The Gate, so we trotted along there as I was desperate for a boogie. One debate with the doorman later (some people forgot their passes in the pub) we were descending the stairs to Montel Jordan’s ‘This Is How We Do It’.
We had a good little dance and managed to have a conversation that didn’t revolve around work for once. It’s quite cool when you get to know people you work with. What’s strange is that there are people I started off thinking were really nice, that I know now are not. And people I thought who were ‘wrong uns’ and now think they’re great.
Princess Pushy proceeded to get pretty hammered so I went into ‘watch over the drunk friend’ mode, and ended up bringing her home with me. She promptly stained my sofa and her stupidly expensive Reiss top with the extra chilli sauce on the kebab she’d bought. The kebab I waited for in the back of a black cab, while speeching the driver who wanted us to get out and find another cab, because he said we were stopping him from earning.
His maths was obviously shit because him taking us from Kensington was at least a £20 fare, but he was saying he could pick up a couple more fares while he was sat waiting outside Ranoush. I really don’t know what’s got into cab drivers, but it always seems like you have to argue the toss with them. I mean, while we were sitting there, the meters running and he’s getting paid, what exactly is his problem. I just kept him talking, as he tried everything, short of telling to get the fuck out, to get out of the cab. There was no way I was getting out of that warm cab to stand on a street corner in High Street Ken, trying to flag down another.
Don’t these people have any compassion. I won’t even count the number of times black cabs with lights on have driven past me in the early hours of the morning. When I was working in Manchester, an Asian cab driver drover past me. That one really hurt. Two women, on their first day in a strange town and the fucker wouldn’t even stop.
I can drive, but I don’t know how that’s gonna work when I get a new set of wheels. No more boozy nights out for me. Just a tonic water and the thrill of the rave. So looking forward to that.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Why?
Did the cab-driver ask me not to make a mess in his car when I was eating a packet of crisps?
Did the website I’m working for crash for five hours and start working an hour before I was due to go home?
Did roller-skating on Thursday get cancelled?
Don’t I fancy my personal trainer?
Do women wear shoes they can’t walk in, to work?
Do I always like the most expensive item in the damn magazine?
Can I never afford it, but usually find the money?
Does the guy that does pictures for the website never buy anyone tea?
Do I feel its my duty to tell him about it?
Is my child hard of hearing?
Does she think my purse has an everlasting supply of money?
Do I think Beyonce is cheesy?
Do I like the Pussycat Dolls?
Do I bite the skin around my fingernails?
Am I a size 16 in jeans, when I wear a 12 in a dress?
Are there so many fat people in Kensington?
Does work drain me of creativity?
Do I think nothing of dropping £160 on a dress but stress about spending £5 a day on lunch?
Can't I be bothered to exercise yet get fed up when clothes don't fit how I want them to?
Am I not bothered about Christmas?
Haven't I started Xmas shopping yet?
Do I fancy the wrong people?
Am I not bothered about sex anymore?
Do I love cakes so much?
Aren't I doing any work today?!?
Did the website I’m working for crash for five hours and start working an hour before I was due to go home?
Did roller-skating on Thursday get cancelled?
Don’t I fancy my personal trainer?
Do women wear shoes they can’t walk in, to work?
Do I always like the most expensive item in the damn magazine?
Can I never afford it, but usually find the money?
Does the guy that does pictures for the website never buy anyone tea?
Do I feel its my duty to tell him about it?
Is my child hard of hearing?
Does she think my purse has an everlasting supply of money?
Do I think Beyonce is cheesy?
Do I like the Pussycat Dolls?
Do I bite the skin around my fingernails?
Am I a size 16 in jeans, when I wear a 12 in a dress?
Are there so many fat people in Kensington?
Does work drain me of creativity?
Do I think nothing of dropping £160 on a dress but stress about spending £5 a day on lunch?
Can't I be bothered to exercise yet get fed up when clothes don't fit how I want them to?
Am I not bothered about Christmas?
Haven't I started Xmas shopping yet?
Do I fancy the wrong people?
Am I not bothered about sex anymore?
Do I love cakes so much?
Aren't I doing any work today?!?
Where Everybody Knows Your Name
Started work at 8.30am this morning and got chirpsed by one of the minimum wagers in the lift at 8.31am. He asked me if I like salsa music - I guess he could tell from my generous hips that I like to shake what my mama gave me from time to time, so I said yes. And he said he would bring me some. It's rare that things make me smile that early in the morning but as chirpses go, it's a bit different isn't it? There was no 'bwoy, what ah way you bottom look big eh?' , 'you well 'tick' innit'. I thought that was quite cool. Don't think the man knows where I sit, but hey it was still cool anyway.
Met my friend 'Ox' for our weekly naughty kebab lunch at Ranoush. It's a chain of Lebanese restaurants, there are three on Edgware road in central London alone, and one opposite where I work. I've ended many a drunken night queuing up for a chicken shawarma . This is not your average 'bab dripping with fat and oil either trus' me. It's the real shit. Think about the difference between your Mum's jerk chicken, and that thing they call 'jerked chicken' and serve it up at the staff canteen at work. You see the brownness and the seasoning and pick it up praying that maybe this time, they'll get it right. But...no. They never do. Trade descriptions would have a field day.
Ox is an online editor here and the person I have to thank for getting me through the door at The Big Time Newspaper. We first met when I worked for the Financial Times website back in 1999, and have been friends since then. He was the only boy (well the only one we liked on the editorial team - so he got lots of attention and special treatment). We're quite similar, in that we're working class kids who've pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps, and seem to have a similar love of naughty things: booze, fags and food. We've both tackled fags, and are working on the other two. Well I only drink on the weekends now.....He is the type of white man that makes you forget he is white - you know like some white people say they don't see colour, and you think to yourself? Yeah right. But when I'm with Ox, there's never those awkward moments where you have to start explaining what 'ackee and saltfish' is, or why you need to 'cream' (moisturise) your skin. Or the 'Why do black people do this' question? You know dem way dere. We're just cool together and have a laugh.
The running joke back in the FT days was 'how come you know everyone'? Whenever we went out to lunch, I always bumped into a random acquaintance or got stopped by someone who recognised me from back in the day. To my work colleagues this was simply unbelievable, but to anyone who has grown up in inner-city London, it's standard. That's why you must behave with 'decorum, decorum, decorum' at all times. I know, I don't always mek it. But I try. So when he met me today and I was talking to one of the brothers who works in sales, he thought we knew each other. 'No', I explained, it's just that everybody wants to know who you are when a new black face comes into the plantation.'
Well the ones that are not stoosh do (stuck up Uncle Toms who think we don't need to chat ). I have a couple who do the 'I'm not going to make eye contact with you just because you're black' vibe. But my thing is, it doesn't matter why we connect, it's just cool that we do. There's an Asian guy here that I've become friendly with, and he buys me a cuppa and some chocloate when we're working nights and the African with the French accent at Starbucks who gives me free coffee sometimes, and other people that I just nod my head to in acknowledgement.
Sighted a fit brother in the newsroom today. The first I've seen since working here. Tall, black and handsome, just how I likes 'em. He was wearing his jeans a little too high for my liking, but dem tings easily sorted. We passed each other earlier in the day and he gave me the 'nod' straightaway. Niiice. I asked the online picture editor 'who's dat?'. He said he's a freelance picture editor. So now he's going to book him to work with us, just for me. Watch dis ya space now.
Met my friend 'Ox' for our weekly naughty kebab lunch at Ranoush. It's a chain of Lebanese restaurants, there are three on Edgware road in central London alone, and one opposite where I work. I've ended many a drunken night queuing up for a chicken shawarma . This is not your average 'bab dripping with fat and oil either trus' me. It's the real shit. Think about the difference between your Mum's jerk chicken, and that thing they call 'jerked chicken' and serve it up at the staff canteen at work. You see the brownness and the seasoning and pick it up praying that maybe this time, they'll get it right. But...no. They never do. Trade descriptions would have a field day.
Ox is an online editor here and the person I have to thank for getting me through the door at The Big Time Newspaper. We first met when I worked for the Financial Times website back in 1999, and have been friends since then. He was the only boy (well the only one we liked on the editorial team - so he got lots of attention and special treatment). We're quite similar, in that we're working class kids who've pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps, and seem to have a similar love of naughty things: booze, fags and food. We've both tackled fags, and are working on the other two. Well I only drink on the weekends now.....He is the type of white man that makes you forget he is white - you know like some white people say they don't see colour, and you think to yourself? Yeah right. But when I'm with Ox, there's never those awkward moments where you have to start explaining what 'ackee and saltfish' is, or why you need to 'cream' (moisturise) your skin. Or the 'Why do black people do this' question? You know dem way dere. We're just cool together and have a laugh.
The running joke back in the FT days was 'how come you know everyone'? Whenever we went out to lunch, I always bumped into a random acquaintance or got stopped by someone who recognised me from back in the day. To my work colleagues this was simply unbelievable, but to anyone who has grown up in inner-city London, it's standard. That's why you must behave with 'decorum, decorum, decorum' at all times. I know, I don't always mek it. But I try. So when he met me today and I was talking to one of the brothers who works in sales, he thought we knew each other. 'No', I explained, it's just that everybody wants to know who you are when a new black face comes into the plantation.'
Well the ones that are not stoosh do (stuck up Uncle Toms who think we don't need to chat ). I have a couple who do the 'I'm not going to make eye contact with you just because you're black' vibe. But my thing is, it doesn't matter why we connect, it's just cool that we do. There's an Asian guy here that I've become friendly with, and he buys me a cuppa and some chocloate when we're working nights and the African with the French accent at Starbucks who gives me free coffee sometimes, and other people that I just nod my head to in acknowledgement.
Sighted a fit brother in the newsroom today. The first I've seen since working here. Tall, black and handsome, just how I likes 'em. He was wearing his jeans a little too high for my liking, but dem tings easily sorted. We passed each other earlier in the day and he gave me the 'nod' straightaway. Niiice. I asked the online picture editor 'who's dat?'. He said he's a freelance picture editor. So now he's going to book him to work with us, just for me. Watch dis ya space now.
The Wild, Wild, South-West
Sometimes I feel like I’m cursed. Trouble seems to find me wherever I go. I'm sure you've noticed the shit that happens to me rarely happens to other people.
Take Saturday night for instance. A work colleague asked me to come out for a drink. Cute Asian girl I’ve nicknamed ‘Princess’ because of her princess-like tendencies. She is an arch mainpulator and usually manages to wrap everyone around her little finger. Including me. To be honest I disliked the little minx at first, especially after she took a two-hour ‘break’ in the pub the first night I was leading the shift. After that, she was on my shit list.
But her persistent chatter wore me down, and hateship turned to friendship, hence why I entertained meeting her 1.30am in Brixton on a Saturday night to go to a club playing house music.
Princess and her friends, who mainly live in Brighton, had been to a Primal Scream gig at Brixton Academy, and needed to hang out ‘til the early hours of the morning to catch their train back, so I suggested Plan B, as I knew it opened until 5am. I rolled up around 1.30am to meet them. It was pretty packed as a lot of people had the same idea, but once in there, it was like a time machine had transported you back to the 1990s Summer of Love.
A DJ from New York was playing, and the brother was on point. It reminded me of the 90s Chicago and New York house I used to like.
I drank quickly and recklessly at Plan B because I was a few hours behind the others. Half a bottle of wine before I left home, double vodka, glass of white wine, a brandy shot, and then another vodka. Yep, I think that just about did it. Everyone was pretty high on some other stuff, and the vibe was really good.
Even though I recognised very few tunes, I danced all night. I remembered going to raves and taking Ecstasy. We went to one with Suzie Wong once, and me and Lou dropped half an 'E' and Wong wouldn't do it, then she 'screwed' all night. Every time we looked at her, her face was push-up, and it was so funny. I was almost wetting myself at how vex she was. Me and Lou danced til' 7am, but Wong was swellin', bored and wanted to go but couldn't. Thing is, I don't touch illegal drugs any more. I don't need them to rave until 7am, or even 9am, I just need a couple of drinks and some good music. But I understand why people do, most of my experiences were fun.
Princess was attracting some attention from the local yokels which led to a few sticky situations as her boyfriend wasn’t taking no checks. When he spoke to one weirdo who was stalking her in the club, the guy lunged at him and bit him on the neck. What the fuck? I tried to talk to the bro’ and then he started talking about ‘no white boy can come to Brickie and tell me nothing.’ This seemed to be a popular theme for the evening.
One of the girls wanted to go to the chicken shop afterwards. So we headed to Morley’s. Wrong move. As I walked through the door some bredda tried to feel me up. I told him ‘don’t do that’, so then his friend says ‘can I touch you’. So my loose drunken mouth said: "Do I look like your babymother?’. Ohhhhh…ego dented and bruised.
His friends kept repeating it and before long he started getting abusive. I said to him ‘ah big woman sumptin’ dis you know'. You can tell I was lean can't you. 'Have some respect, I’m a big woman for you.’ He said: ‘How do you know I’m a pickney’ ‘I don’t', I said , but I know I'm older than you. so have some respect'. Next thing I know Princess’ boyfriend is next to me, and mans is saying who you telling to shut up. Fight bruk out. I try to keep them apart but it just ends up turning into this mass brawl, with one of their friends talking about ‘the white man and 400 years of slavery’. The relevance of that is at this particular moment what exactly?
One of the guys was brandishing an Alize bottle threatening to lick the boyfriend with it, but thank God he didn't, and just thumps were thrown. The chicken shop workers called the police, who had to escort us to the police station across the road to get the fuck out of there.
Everyone was shook, including me. Especially as I had to go home without my fucking chicken.
But still, looking back, that was one hell of a fucking good night.
Take Saturday night for instance. A work colleague asked me to come out for a drink. Cute Asian girl I’ve nicknamed ‘Princess’ because of her princess-like tendencies. She is an arch mainpulator and usually manages to wrap everyone around her little finger. Including me. To be honest I disliked the little minx at first, especially after she took a two-hour ‘break’ in the pub the first night I was leading the shift. After that, she was on my shit list.
But her persistent chatter wore me down, and hateship turned to friendship, hence why I entertained meeting her 1.30am in Brixton on a Saturday night to go to a club playing house music.
Princess and her friends, who mainly live in Brighton, had been to a Primal Scream gig at Brixton Academy, and needed to hang out ‘til the early hours of the morning to catch their train back, so I suggested Plan B, as I knew it opened until 5am. I rolled up around 1.30am to meet them. It was pretty packed as a lot of people had the same idea, but once in there, it was like a time machine had transported you back to the 1990s Summer of Love.
A DJ from New York was playing, and the brother was on point. It reminded me of the 90s Chicago and New York house I used to like.
I drank quickly and recklessly at Plan B because I was a few hours behind the others. Half a bottle of wine before I left home, double vodka, glass of white wine, a brandy shot, and then another vodka. Yep, I think that just about did it. Everyone was pretty high on some other stuff, and the vibe was really good.
Even though I recognised very few tunes, I danced all night. I remembered going to raves and taking Ecstasy. We went to one with Suzie Wong once, and me and Lou dropped half an 'E' and Wong wouldn't do it, then she 'screwed' all night. Every time we looked at her, her face was push-up, and it was so funny. I was almost wetting myself at how vex she was. Me and Lou danced til' 7am, but Wong was swellin', bored and wanted to go but couldn't. Thing is, I don't touch illegal drugs any more. I don't need them to rave until 7am, or even 9am, I just need a couple of drinks and some good music. But I understand why people do, most of my experiences were fun.
Princess was attracting some attention from the local yokels which led to a few sticky situations as her boyfriend wasn’t taking no checks. When he spoke to one weirdo who was stalking her in the club, the guy lunged at him and bit him on the neck. What the fuck? I tried to talk to the bro’ and then he started talking about ‘no white boy can come to Brickie and tell me nothing.’ This seemed to be a popular theme for the evening.
One of the girls wanted to go to the chicken shop afterwards. So we headed to Morley’s. Wrong move. As I walked through the door some bredda tried to feel me up. I told him ‘don’t do that’, so then his friend says ‘can I touch you’. So my loose drunken mouth said: "Do I look like your babymother?’. Ohhhhh…ego dented and bruised.
His friends kept repeating it and before long he started getting abusive. I said to him ‘ah big woman sumptin’ dis you know'. You can tell I was lean can't you. 'Have some respect, I’m a big woman for you.’ He said: ‘How do you know I’m a pickney’ ‘I don’t', I said , but I know I'm older than you. so have some respect'. Next thing I know Princess’ boyfriend is next to me, and mans is saying who you telling to shut up. Fight bruk out. I try to keep them apart but it just ends up turning into this mass brawl, with one of their friends talking about ‘the white man and 400 years of slavery’. The relevance of that is at this particular moment what exactly?
One of the guys was brandishing an Alize bottle threatening to lick the boyfriend with it, but thank God he didn't, and just thumps were thrown. The chicken shop workers called the police, who had to escort us to the police station across the road to get the fuck out of there.
Everyone was shook, including me. Especially as I had to go home without my fucking chicken.
But still, looking back, that was one hell of a fucking good night.
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