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.

Ain't No Black in the Cricket Pack

The biggest sporting event in Britain this summer has been England's resurrection from the cricket graveyard. The sport which usually comes a poor third to football and rugby has gripped the nation with the thrilling Ashes series which England last won eighteen years ago, when Ian Botham was the team's star player. I will hazard a sexist opinion here and say that I'm sure a lot of women are really not that interested, even if there is some cricket eye-candy now, such as Michael Vaugh, and special mention to strawberry blonde Andrew Flintoff. But I have a special affection for cricket, as I was often to be found in the playground with the boys wielding a bat (no euphemism intended) or keeping wicket. I found it was a good way to avoid the dreaded kiss-chase. Samantha Wilson should've followed my lead. She never lived down getting 'feel up' by the boys on the grass. Especially as she was at least a foot taller than them, and was the fastest runner in the school.
My teacher in primary school was the PE teacher. He was a progressive sort and 'allowed' me to attend cricket practice, and play in matches. Mr. Aldridge and I got off to a bit of a bad start. I was a bit of a know-it-all, loudmouth, talking all the time over the teacher, 10 year-old. So he naturally hated me. When I got grassed up for smoking in the toilets, he gave me and my Somalian friend Muna, the hairdryer treatment while standing at the front of the class. I guess this didn't help matters. Funny, my mum never did get that letter from him...
But he took the time to discover the child underneath all the chat, and began to rein in my natural tendency for attention-seeking behaviour and channel the energy into my work and sports. I was on every sports team going, and I got top marks in my 11 plus and verbal reasoning tests. By the end of primary school we loved each other, and I was gutted to leave him. He hoped that I would find another teacher in secondary school willing to take the time with me that he did. That teacher was Mrs. Qureshi (nee Butt), my English teacher. A very slim, elegant, Asian woman. Mrs. Qureshi's was the only class worth turning up to school for, and it was like being at Oxford University for the afternoon being in her classroom when she teaching. She really was special, and we were lucky that a teacher of her quality turned up at a school like Hammersmith County/Christopher Wren, infamous for being one of the worst schools in London. A school where a female deputy head was once stabbed by a female pupil - but to her credit she didn't leave, and we were mored scared of her than the headteacher. I saw the male deputy head get beaten up in the playground once - but to be honest he was a lech, so I didn't feel sorry for him. Always touching up the busty white girls in my year - he never touched the black girls though, funny that!
But yeah, primary school, and living in a Caribbean household instilled an understanding of cricket, and many an afternoon was spent watching the once great Windies batter England. Hahaha. Now years later, I find myself sitting on the edge of my seat willing England to beat Shane 'the cocky, can't keep it in his pants' Warne's Aussies. But one little thought burrows into my consciousness...WHERE ARE THE BROTHERS? Where are the black folk, Asians, mixed-race, Chinese? Where are they? I know nuff brothers that played the game, and come on, brothers can run fast, bowl, and lash a ball cross-field - it ain't that hard? Where dem dey? England are fielding an all-white team. Absolutely no nigras. It ain't right. Look at the England football team, okay they ain't winners yet, but how can that be the case in 2005 that the England cricket team don't have one person of colour? It don't look right, and it don't smell right. I'll still cheer them, and support them, but questions need to be put to the appropriate people.
The last match in the series will be held at The Oval cricket ground, which is minutes from my house. I ran past it the other week. It really is magnificent, and it's in my backyard. I'll be able to hear the roars from my garden, and as long as they don't choke, I'm sure WHEN England win, the celebrations will last all night. And I'll be out there celebrating with them. It's not often England win something, so everyone should take time to enjoy that feeling. Even if brothers ain't yet got a look in.
p.s - Twenty-year old Isa Guha, an Asian woman is part of the England women's cricket team. England are playing Australia in the women's Ashes. They haven't won it for 42 years. Who knew they'd been playing that long?

"Every brother ain't a brotha"

A thirty-three year old woman was shot dead while holding a baby at a family christening by youths who robbed the party's guests at gunpoint.
Zainab Kalokoh, a health worker from Sierra Leone, West Africa, was holding her uncle's six month old baby when the bad-breed youths rushed the party firing shots, and robbing guests of handbags and mobile phones at a community centre in Peckham. Two teenage boys, aged 14 and 16 have been charged with the murder.
Locals say the estate where the community centre is situated has been plagued by shootings, stabbings and rapes. Operation Trident are in there now, but what was being done beforehand? Locals are overrun with prostitutes and crackheads. Which means that crime is not far behind.
There's no need for me to express outrage, could you be anything but? We have a terrible problem here, what is going to be done about it? Children are out there killing people randomly, for what? Cash for drugs, trainers, weed, what is it?
Like most right-thinking people, I dislike the use of the phrase with reference to gun crime in the 'black community'. But the reality is, is that they are a part of my community, the bit that's gone horribly wrong.
As much as I'm a journalist working at places such as The Guardian, Times and Observer, come the weekends, I'm more likely to be found with my people, at an all night party, or club in south London. rather than West End clubs and bars. As a black person, because of the whole gun crime issue, I have to think, will I be safe if I go to a rave in east London? Is it going to kick off at that hip-hop concert in Brixton? If the party is crowded will mans start getting digi and start armshouse in the place?
So far, I've been lucky in that I've not been somewhere and people are waving guns. But a couple of years back on New Years Eve, my friends went to a rave, and someone started shooting up the place causing a stampede, and ending the night for everyone. No one was hurt thankfully. Then there was the Ja Rule afterparty. Some rude boys tried to rob him, and it all kicked off. Champagne bottles being thrown, the mirrored bar smashed up. I was waiting to hear gunshots as I crouched under a table. No gunshots this time. But that night scared me. I'm a mother I thought, imagine if I lost my life just because I went out one night? And is this what my daughter is going to have to deal with?
On Sunday at the party I wondered if something might kick off. People were tense, drinks were being sloshed on clothing, the bar and toilet queues were long and everyone was jostling for space. I got into an argument with a girl because she was leaning on me, and when I tried to tell her about it she started shouting at me. Sometimes, that all it takes for shit to go down. But for Ms Kalokoh, she never had those thoughts. She was at what is usually a really happy family occasion, a christening. The baby she was holding was covered in her blood. Ms Kalokoh and her family are the innocent victims of heartless, lost, youths whose idea of being the big man on road is to go rob and shoot up a christening. Now that's disrespect.

Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot

I should be, because it's Carnival Weekend. But I can't be bothered to go. All that walking around, dodging police and little bad boys just isn't for me anymore. I remember the halcyon days of Carnival, helping to man my Granny's stall on All Saints Road. Boy, my granny can cook. Her dumplings made with cornmeal were absolutely ridiculous. She used to have me eating things I would turn my nose up at if my mum had cooked it, like kidneys, and liver, which she dipped in flour before frying.
I remember meeting cute boys and being out with my friends till all time of night. Mastermind, Rappattack and Westwood. I know that there's original peeps still holding down on the frontline, but I'll leave that to my brother who said and I quote: "I'm going to grind some gyal, and get some numbers." The translation being, I'm going to dance with some ladies, and get their numbers. I just reminded him about practising safe sex. It's not about the teenage babyfather ting.
So what does a 30 something woman do on the bank holiday? I went to a BBQ for my friend's father's 60th. This was special, and because it was big people (as in elders), I knew it was gonna be old school, and things would be done properly. I wasn't wrong, because when me and DJ Sofine reached, we saw the Jerk Chicken drum firing up. Big tings. All the family were there, including his mother. Proceedings were opened with prayers, and speeches were said.
Dee & Jules father was in mint black man condition at 60. Bussing Air Max trainers, matching Air Max sports top, and a hands free ear piece. Dapper. He reminded me of how my Dad used to look before his stroke, bopping on road like a sweet boy.
His wife Bev was busy in the kitchen, serving up curry goat, rice and homemade coleslaw. Then patties came round (I put one in my bag for breakfast), and about an hour later the jerk chicken was ready. If I said I didn't roll out of there, I'd be lying. The sound was playing roots reggae, soul and then the dancehall started. I had two cup of punch and started feeling like I was in yard. That's why I love being round the elders, because they know how to throw a party. My mum showed me, that if you have a party, food or drink is not to run out, or else you can't call that a party. People must get fed, and must get drunk. Standard. I think Carnival can manage without me this year.

Why Are You Single?

This is a question I have been asked many times in my two years of living single. It’s a weird one. Because it can imply incredulity at why a gorgeous, intelligent, humourous woman has no man, or it implies high-post diva like demanding behaviour blocking hordes of decent men beating a path to my coochie. I prefer to believe the latter. But being single is a path which many people travel in their lifetime, and this time it’s my turn.
My usual well-worn response is, “I’d like to meet someone I can have a conversation with outside of the bedroom.” But the plain boring truth is, I am picky. If you don’t eat nicely, don’t apply. Don’t know how to treat a woman on a first date, you fail at the first hurdle. If you are unambitious and unhappy with your life, misery does not need company. If you wear over-sized hip-hop clothing and don’t own a suit, I ain’t the girl.
I'd like to meet a man that inspires me to show all the good stuff that’s hiding beneath my shellac exterior. I can’t help it, but the fence is high around the soft tissue that beats inside my chest, and only the brave and fearless will have the tools capable of scaling it. Am I making it hard for myself? Maybe, yes. I like to think that I have the armour needed to screen out the fools, deceivers, and timewasters. Patience is not my strong point, and as I ain't desperate, I don't see why I should suffer the company of people that I don't enjoy being with.
But what to do about my neglected sexual needs in the meantime? I bought a Rabbit out of curiosity, and in the hope that I wouldn’t be whipped by the first dick that came along, on recommendation from other friends who said it was the best thing since oral sex. I beg to differ. The thing makes you go from point A to point Z in 10 seconds, hardly enough time to enjoy it. It buzzes so loudly, I’m sure my neighbours, let alone Mini-Me in the room next door can hear it. Unfortunately, my worst fear materialised when nosey kid found the damn thing while hanging about in my room. The conversation went something like this:
Nosey Kid says in a sing-song voice “Oh Mum, I found it. I didn’t know you needed one of these.”
Shamefaced mum tries to firm it and replies: “I don’t NEED, one of these, I just have one.”
The classic kid reply comes back: “Why?”
Think fast. “Because.”
Still thinking.
“Because some of my friends have them, and I just wanted to try it out myself.”
Bang goes the classic Mum response of do you have to jump over a cliff because your friends are doing it.
Nosey Kid looks at me with a smirk on her face.
“Look Clarke, sexually, women have needs, and I need to be able to look after them myself sometimes, because I don’t want to go out there and meet men just to have sex with them. Okay.” Too much information?
‘And please do not go labrishing this information to your friends at school.”
A smirking Clarke leaves the bedroom. The rabbit goes into a shoebox on a shelf in my bedroom. Shame guy.

A Change of Mind

One of my favourite records is Eddie Kendricks, 'Change of Mind'. Charlie Dark always drops it for me at Blacktronica (well I like to think he does). It kinda sums up for me how far I've come since I started my quest for fitness. Two months ago I had a million reasons why I couldn't go to the gym, and an unhealthy relationship with my sofa. Somehow, through the nagging and cajoling of friends, and then the resurrection of the fitness goddess within, exercising has become a natural part of my day again.
After my exam in Media Law on Friday, I decided I would run back from university in Islington, to Vauxhall. For me to even have that thought is 1) Amazing, ridiculous, and crazy! And then to actually do it is 2) Amazing, ridiculous and crazier!
I packed my running gear in my rucksack, and changed into it after the exam, which incidentally I think I nailed. I walked to warm up, past Sadlers Wells for about five minutes, and then started running just before Exmouth Market. It's really amazing how much people stare when they see someone running. 'Sky News' (names have been changed to protect the innocent) reckons it's because it's not a common sight to see a black woman with blonde dreads jogging. Well that's his theory. So I run towards Farringdon, and then hit Blackfriars bridge. I'm listening to Public Enemy's greatest hits, which triggers long forgotten memories of my teenage years as a hip-hop junkie. But that's another story.
I turn right along Victoria Embankment which is not so crowded, and the pavement is wide. I'm actually really enjoying it. I'm not sure if I can make it all the way home, but I just try to keep running.
I pass the Golden Jubilee, and Waterloo Bridge. I get to Westminster Bridge, and go up the stairs onto the crowded street. A female jogger ahead of me creates a path, and I fall in behind her as she carves through pedestrians, zips across the road in-between cars, and rounds the Palace of Westminster. She's faster than me, but acts as a pacemaker as I try to be a contender to her Paula Radcliffe like strides. Once we get past Parliament, I leave the main road and run through the park beside the Big House, it's a nice little detour, again by the river which takes me to Lambeth Bridge.
I walk for a little bit to catch my breath, and talk myself into finishing after crossing Vauxhall Bridge. Just one more bridge, and then I'm home. I choose some music to take me to that point, I go for Amerie's Not The Only One, an electronic headbanger which sparks up the internal engines to drive me towards and over the bridge. As I cross the bridge the knowledge that I'm nearly home makes me speed up, I'm practically sprinting. I feel like leaping in the air like Rocky, I can't believe I've made it. It's the most amazing feeling. I've hit the runner's high. I feel such a sense of achievement, and in that moment, I realise that I can do anything that I want. What the mind can concieve, it can achieve. This girl has had a change of mind.
p.s - Apologies to all those I will proceed to bore with the retelling of this epic tale!

The T'ickness

My sister sent me and Clarke some Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirts she found going for a song. This is a US clothing label that were sued in the States for a hiring policy which discriminated against visible minorities. Relegating them to the stock room, and overnight jobs, and last year had to withdraw a t-shirt which depicted "two slant-eyed men in conical hats and the slogan "Wong Brothers Laundry Service — Two Wongs Can Make it White." Fo' real. Apart from that, they and plenty other clothing companies should be sued for having a discriminatory sizing policy, and making women, particularly women of colour feel excluded. Why? The t-shirt I have is an x-large! Now I don't mind wearing a pair of trousers or a dress a size bigger than my usual 14/16 if it is a better fit. But this t-shirt is tight, and quite frankly does not fit. There is NO WAY it is an XL. This is ridiculous. It's more like a size 10, or an XS. I have a size 10 tee-shirt, which I bought for exercise, and it fits better than this one. What is this about? It's the same story when I go into The Gap. Their jean sizes are ridiculous. If you're a typical black woman, or even a typical white woman in these days of increasing curves, and you have an ass, and some thighs, you will struggle to fit into most of their jeans. Forget ultra-low rise, unless they have lycra, and you will need a size larger, even then you'll have the 'muffin-top' belly roll of flab hanging over the ultra-low waistband. And girlfriends, it's NOT a good look. Let me agree with Liz Hurley there, and beg my sisters to wear their size, or wear something else, because this over-exposure of flab just makes you look crackish.
Levi's upset me greatly when I went to investigate their new Patty-Anne drainpipes. "Oh, I'm sorry, they only go up to a size 14". A size 14??? This is fashion fascism at it's worse. What is wrong with being a size 16??? Is it the end of life as we know it? Should I slit my wrists, or force myself to lose weight to conform to what they believe is the beauty ideal. I'll admit that on the high street that things are better than they were 10 years ago, I could not have stayed fashion fabulous without TopShop, but like my school report used to say, all y'all clothing companies must try harder.

Anthony Walker RIP

I break from my revision to watch the news coverage of the funeral of Anthony Walker, the 18 year-old schoolboy murdered in a racist attack. His friends are asked to come in football or basketball shirts, as Anthony was always wearing his. The funeral is held in Liverpool Cathedral, thousands of people attend. Many who don't know Anthony or his family, but want to pay their respects. Footage of the murder scene show many young white men placing floral tributes for the teenager. I think a lot of white people in Liverpool are feeling shame about this crime, in a way that they have not felt shame about being white before. That shame at a crime committed by someone who shares your skin colour is something that most black people experience from an early age. When Anthony's mum speaks at a vigil about putting basketballs in his coffin, grown white men weep openly. Anthony's best friend is a young white man, who gives a very moving speech about how honoured he was to be his friend.
There are so many news stories which stick in your mind. Murders, shootings, rape and child abuse. And then there are the stories about Stephen, Holly & Jessica, and now Anthony. Just like at the time of the murder of Stephen Lawrence, as soon as I heard of the murder of Anthony Walker, and the manner in which he was killed I felt anger, and then fear. The anger is self-explanatory. But the fear comes from the fact that I too have an 18 year-old brother. Just a normal music, clothes loving kid training to be a performance car mechanic. We celebrated his birthday with a surprise party a few months back. His friends, a mixture of white, black, and mixed-race, all came together to welcome him to adulthood. When I saw the news report on Anthony, an aspiring lawyer, basketball loving teenager, I could only think of how I would feel if that were my brother, murdered simply for being black while walking.
It reminds me of a time when I found myself in Surbiton with my sister and friends. We had tried to go to Chessington Zoo, but it was packed so we were wandering around trying to find something else to do. Some white teenagers began to racially abuse us, and picked a fight with my sister's boyfriend. We had to get out real quick.
A while ago my brother's friend was in Bow, east London, and was hospitalised after being beaten up for being black and out of his manor. Yes, this shit is still happening even in London.
There are eighteen years between me and my brother Courtney, but we are tight. I was at his birth, and spent many a day looking after him, or taking him places (studio) when my mum was at work. I bought him his first pair of trainers from New York, clothes from Benetton, and original kiddie-sized Moon Boots when I went skiing in Austria. I showed him a Chucky film when he was about 5 (yes I was completely irresponsible), and took him cinema. Sometimes he felt like my kid. Now, he takes my daughter (his niece) out shopping down the West End, to the cinema, or to hang out with his friends. He is truly such a decent young man, much like it seems Anthony was.
In eighteen years we have amassed a mountain of memories together, with, god-willing many more to come. At his birthday party, I was speaking to one of his friends who was preparing to be a father at eighteen. He was facing up to his responsibilities, but had had to quit college to work full-time. Silently, I gave thanks that my brother wasn't the one having to face that test of character.
We know there are many traps which are all too easy to fall into for young black men. But like my brother, Anthony, with the guidance of a strong, supportive family seemed to have taken care to avoid them. Only to be murdered in such a random, violent manner by a hateful, cowardly racist. Gone but not forgotten Anthony Walker.

Float Like a Butterfly

In my many attempts at gaining and maintaining fitness, I have accumulated a virtual arsenal of fitness kit and accessories. I have a step aerobics box and video which I used to drop the 20 plus pounds of baby fat I was carrying after having Clarke. I have video's including Tae-Bo, a kickboxing workout, Elle 'the Body' McPherson's video, which annoyed me intensely, and a couple Karen Voights, which had bad music. And the Hip-Hop dance video, which must be for geriatrics cos those moves would not make anyone under 50 buss a sweat. I have pink boxing gloves for the boxing class I want to attend, but due to time constraints just can't seem to make it. And I have a skipping rope.
Having last skipped when at school, believe me, it is no easy option. Inspired by footage of Ali training in the gym I bought a leather skipping rope, tried it, and was exhausted after less than five minutes. The rope then sat forlorn on a shelf for about two years, until I picked it up after my boxing class a few months back. Part of the workout was skipping and I was crap. You know black people don't like to take shame, so I decided to practise at home for the next class. I found it impossible to get all the way through Beyonce's Crazy in Love without tripping on the rope, and Ciara's Goodies was even worse. But a couple of months later, it's much better. Though it might look a bit weird to the people walking past my curtain-less living room.

Step Away from the Coco Pops

Revising for exams always seems to be accompanied by an intense desire to clean out the cupboards. With my mouth. Clarke had a friend sleepover, and I felt it wasn't fair for her to be confronted by the sugar-free lifestyle we tend to lead (between these four walls anyhow), so I caved and bought some biccies, Coco Pops, and ice-cream. Which of course being 'chief-taster' (as christened by Father of Clarke), meant I had to have some.
In between trying to imprint the various reasons journalists can be held in contempt of court on my sieve-like brain, I made umpteen trips to the cupboard for biscuits. I had grilled fish, rice and spinach for dinner. After dinner I had a bowl of ice-cream. The kids managed to wrestle the biscuits away from me. After a few more hours revision I was beat, and ready for bed. I picked up my copy of Ekow Eshun's book Black Gold of the Sun, and contemplated a bowl of pre-slumber Coco Pops. The revision was making me crazy, but did I want to start slipping down the abyss of comfort eating only to emerge in two weeks time as Coco Pop dependant? I backed out of the kitchen, turned off the light, and walked up the stairs to my bed. A small, and (not so) sweet victory.

I'm Really Fit and Don't I Know It

My lower regions are aching after running (focus people) on both Saturday and Sunday morning. Despite the mild hangover making it's presence felt after attending a wedding the night before, the Nurofen I took when I woke did the trick, and I put on my gear and got out the house to run Kennington Park.
The last time I ran Kennington Park, I was with M, one of the people who helped me get my 44" hips off the sofa, and into the gym again. He told me to run faster, I refused. He said one more lap, I stopped running. I also said I would never run in Kennington Park again because it was boring. Difficult is not the word. But here I am a couple of months later, on my own, running the full circuit of the park, pushed on by the music on my daughter's ipod shuffle and the stares from the people chilling out on the terrace of the park's cafe (decent coffee there).
Kennington Park is a curious mix of south London chatterati, gay mafia, jamaicans, and south americans. Football teams are training, others play tennis, men sunbathe in speedos (seriously). A fellow runner laps me every time I come up to the cafe. This slightly irritates me, but I hope that one day I'll be irritating someone else in the same manner.
I do five laps, a distance of approx. 5 miles. Amazing. Check out runlondon.com for training routes around London.
Running outside is addictive, especially living as close to town as I do. Last week I ran past the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament, crossed the Golden Jubilee and Hungerford Bridges, took Clarke's picture with the Queen's horseguard, and eyeballed the policemen at Downing Street who were staring at me as if I were carrying a black rucksack. I suppose the shorts I was running in might have had something to do with that. As the saying goes, make hay while the sun shines, or in my case, run before the rain comes.

Man Monday

I was discussing the dearth of sexy pictures of men whilst debating the question of the existence and necessity of page 3. Being a learned woman, I obviously see absolutely no need for a national newspaper to dedicate one of it's daily pages to topless chav types, and the odd exotic stunna. But I do understand the male desire to look at pictures of woman blessed with an abundance of T & A. Particularly when you know that many of them don't stand a cat's chance in hell of pulling such a 'bird'. They can dream can't they?
Less debated is women's desire to similarly look at pictures of de-robed men, with similarly unrealistically attainable physical features, such as the 50 cent six-pack, a tight-ass booty, and strong legs. That could just be me, but considering the conversation on Saturday afternoon, I doubt that. So in the interests of the equality for all, I will endeavour to bring a picture a week for the pleasure of my sister's who rarely see such sights in the flesh.
The model's name is Ngo, and I would say that he looks truly blessed in all areas!

Small Ones Are More Juicy

Remember the ad for Outspan oranges? Years later I still remember the ad, and the brand because of the 'small one's are more juicy' song. Don't think I realised at the time there was a double entendre contained in the message, but I do now. I hope it's true, because as usual the weight's coming off the area I would least like it to.
On Saturday, after deciding at the last minute to attend a wedding. It was 12.23pm precisely, the wedding was in Notting Hill at 2.00pm. But this being black folk (come on, we need to own our shit) I knew there was time built in for the usual late arrivals. I estimated that if I left the house at 1.30-1.45pm, I would still be there in good time. So mirroring the scene in Four Weddings when Charlotte Coleman is rushing to get ready to attend a wedding, I run around my house naked post-shower, asking Clarke to get ready and go to her friend's house, 'creaming' my skin, picking an outfit which up until five minutes previously I hadn't given a second thought, and finding the shoes to match which have disappeared from my bedroom.
As I apply the slap, I heed the advice of a friend, "You don't need make-up" (you know it's a man), and try hard to restrain the trowel, and go as barefaced as I can. Touch of foundation (with a brush), mascara, touch of pink shadow (to open the eyes), a little blusher (why do you need blusher???), and lipgloss. Still sounds like I trowelled it on.
Clarke's out the door. I put on the cream pill-box hat at a jaunty angle, the 3" pink satin ballet style round-toes, and the polka-dot prom dress. As I zip it up without having to hold stomach or breath in, I realise, there is rather a lot of room up top. Thankfully, it's gently corseted so it didn't deflate completely. God forbid I get asked to slowdance at this wedding, the dress might just cave in at the slightest bit of pressure. The ridiculous thing is, as much as I run, and eat sensibly, I know, I'll always have a big ole butt. Where is the justice in that?
p.s - The bride didn't turn up until an hour after I arrived at 2.30pm!

Fit Mummy

My scales are being unreliable again. I thought I'd done quite well with food and exercise while in Fat Town, USA (ATL), but it seems I gained some. As I said to my friend Driven Journalist, this happens in the US because they try to 'ambush' you with hidden fats. Like adding bacon, and cheese to salads. Or big fat fried croutons. At one restaurant I order a dish which the menu said contained fresh crabmeat. What it didn't say was that it was smothered with mayonnaise. This is why you get the When Harry Met Sally situation. "I'd like a salad, with chicken, not fried, avocado, and extra cherry tomatoes, no dressing please, and a teaspoon of mayo on the side. Absolutely NO croutons, and NO cheese. And can you make sure that the lettuce is the dark green variety. Thanks."
Of course the Oreo cookie milkshake was an obvious ambush, but one that quite frankly had to be tasted to be believed. Awesome.
Anyway, you don't need scales when you can see the changes to your body just by looking in the mirror, and seeing how your clothes fit. My arms - which my ex- boyfriend (no prizes for guessing why) used to say were like 'Mummy Arms' - the definition being fat with wings - no longer flap when I wave, and are beginning to look nice and toned. My arms are one of the primary indicators for weight gain on my body. I've always had slim arms, and a slim upper body, so if I have weight on those areas, there's no denying I'm on the fast-track to Lardsville.
My stomach muscles are starting to re-form, and the 'paunch' beginning to dissipate. Oh, and Clarke says the cellulite on 'one' of my legs is getting better. She thinks I worry about my weight too much, and that I look alright as I am. "I'd rather you were a fit mummy, than a skinny mummy."
Raising a girl-child, you have to be careful about the messages you send to them about weight, and food. My issue with food, is that I tend to use it as a comfort, and reward. Crap day at the coalface? Big, tasty, dinner. At home alone on Friday night, cakes and ice-cream. Now my focus is on healthy eating, and taking regular exercise, not silly diets which don't work. Yes I mean you Atkins!
Signs are it's filtering through because Clarke hates oily food, loves fruit and vegetables, and is happy to accompany me on her bike when I go for a run, cheering me on whilst pretending I am Paula Radcliffe.
I got a leaflet for the Nike 10k. I may enter that, as it's in a couple of months. Training runs start soon, but the question is, am I ready to embarrass myself by running in public alongside the superfit?

It's Been A Long Time

Post Atlanta, life resumes it's usual melange of pain and pleasure. The pain of computer problems, and having to deal with the so-called customer service of the Apple store in Regent Street. I find a little armshouse goes a long way when you're dealing with a system which requires you to queue for half an hour only to be told to come back five hours later. I guess in their haste to get me out of the store, they decide it would be better to see me straightaway instead of having to deal with the 'street' version of Butterfly Jones.
Pleasure is being back home with my daughter, and realising that in just seven days she has had an epiphany, discovered the joys of girlie clothes, which results in a small spree in TK Maxx picking up fitted tops and Rocawear straight jeans. Prior to this tracksuit bottoms and baggy Gap jeans being the only items she would consider. She has new earrings courtesy of Aunty, and the hair has been hooked up in Omarion style criss-cross cornrows by her teenage cousin. She looks fly, and I wipe a tear from my eye as I realise it won't be long until I'm having to get her Dad to scare off hoodrats wanting her to ride pillion on their 'peds.
I pick up the running again, after being inspired by a new friend who's training for the New York marathon in November. I run my favourite route up to the London Eye, over the Golden Jubilee Bridge and back. A distance of four miles. Watch me! I'm on a high, as I didn't think I'd make it there, let alone back.
My new goal is to hit 10k, and take part in some races, and then next year complete the London Triathlon. If I can just get over the fact that the swimming cap I'll need for building up to the race distance will make me look like one of the aliens from the film Alien Nation, and the fact that I'll have to run and cycle through London in a swimsuit, nothing's impossible right?

The Girl With The Panda In Her Eyes

So tired after a night spent on a Delta Airways plane. Delta have yet to discover the innovation of individual inflight entertainment, and still expect it's passengers to crane their neck or risk death by drinks trolley to watch the crap films they have on offer. Sahara? I ask you. I always enjoy watching Matthew McConnaughey prostitute his fine body for a few bucks in a B-movie, but Penelope dry-ass Cruz, that beeyatch makes hardboard look mobile.The Perfect Catch, aka How The Geek Gets The Girl, with Drew 'rom-com Queen' Barrymore, was marginally better. It's the US version of Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch, which I've never read, but I think I saw the Brit version. Now that's a film designed to give the average man hope.
I don't know whether it was the air-con, or the underlying fear of flying that kept me awake during the overnight flight, but I could not shut my baby browns all night. The result being my eye's are twitching like a crack ho, and I'm rocking the Ming-Ming dark circled panda look instead of my usual slap. I was looking at all these people knocked out on the plane, wondering, why can't I too sleep the sleep of the dead.
I'm still jet-lagged, so am way too tired to exercise ('llow me man), so Candice (da bike) is sulking in the corner, while I spend what little cash I have left hopping on and off buses back in this godforsaken expensive-ass town. But it's good to be home, right?

Whup Dat Trick!

Hustle and Flow is this year's Eight Mile. Terence Dashon Howard gives a credible performance as a pimp with mad flow who decides to pimp hip-hop instead of bitches. And even if you're not a fan of the dirty south's crunk hip-hop, I challenge you to sit through the movie without tapping your toes to the beat. It'll be like trying to hold a fruit pastille in your mouth, and not chew.
Best of all, I had two hours screen time with Terence, who I have a crush of seismic proportions, the kind of which I have not had since I was a teenager and had David Bowie posters on my wall (what?!?)
It more than made up for being stuck in a hotel in the middle of no-fucking-where, and getting soaked in the rain walking back from the supermarket. Make that hypermarket.
I moved to a different (see cheaper) hotel in Atlanta, where I am on my own. I've never done the backpacking thing, but I would imagine that this is somewhat similar. Following the "fucking nigga" incident, I am kinda worried at the fact that I'm in what seems to be a predominantly white area. I feel mad homesick, as all my peeps have gone home, and I miss my daughter. Cue tears. I need an early night.

Six Degrees of Separation

I have a new crush. His name is Terence. Terence Howard. Just before I got to ATL, I watched a film called Crash which he's in. Check it out, it'll give you food for thought. Some of you may remember him from Ashanti's video for Foolish. He played the gangster in her video version of Goodfellas. He's going to be huge. He reminds me of Benicio Del Toro, as he has the ability to morph into different characters and shrug off the roles he's played previously. He has a film out here called Hustle and Flow. I'm rushing out to see it after I post. I love you Tee-T (that's my pet name for him *cue Psycho music*). I mentioned Terence to Driven Journalist, and it just so happens that her husband knows him and his family. Watch this space, I'm a track that brother down!
After the jobs fair yesterday, I roped in a friend to go track down a vintage shop to pick up some one-offs. Poor guy. We decided to walk, and you know in the US, no one walks anywhere. We were walking for ages to find this shop. We stopped for lunch in Mick's Diner, where as usual we were feted because of our accents. And then suddenly, a CD started playing Kylie and Robbie Williams, I kid you not.
One thing that is always noticeable in the US, and the racial segregation. We walked 20 minutes from downtown, and suddenly, there were plenty more white people about.
I stopped at an Army Surplus store, and found the Dickie's shorts my daughter wanted. And was looking at some military style shirts (big for autumn/winter ladies). Meanwhile my companion was becoming slightly unnerved by the huge confederate flag that was hanging up, and the tone of the conversation he was having with one of the shop workers. The three feet swords, and array of knives and weapons did little to allay the rising sense of wrongness he was feeling, which was only quelled when we left the store.
I found the vintage shop, aptly named Lucky's, and bought a couple of clutch bags, a gold one I had needed for a while, and a Malaysian embroidered cotton jacket. Unique, and pretty.
On the way back, my companion's worst fears were confirmed. Some good old boys screamed at the top of their voice from their 4x4, "Fucking niggers" (note the difference between niggas and niggers). I looked at him and said what did he say? He said, he said what you thought he said.
I was vex. But then I remembered where I was. I guess I can be glad that they didn't roll out the full Klan welcome, burning crosses, comedy outfits and all.

Coming To America

I'm writing this in between trying to convince US newspaper's to give me a job. I think it would be easier to get someone to marry me. Watch this space. You know how when you know you can't have something it makes you want it more, well now I'm just going to try and get a job, just so I can say that I had to turn it down!
Can I just say, that for a jobs fair, there is way too much booty and strong legs on show. Or maybe that is the point.
The Wall Street Journal told me I need to come back when I have three years experience. My arse. But Time Inc were more positive, if I can get myself to NYC, and get on the internship programme, once you're in the house, you're in the hiz-ouse!
What's really interesting, is just how different people are over here. I mean, initially, it's a headfuck, please excuse my language.
Example No.1: the guy that picked me up from the airport, the taxi-driver, decided, without asking either myself or my homegirl Driven Journalist, that he would drive us 30 minutes in the opposite direction to where we were staying, so that we could meet his wife...! I ask you? That man must have rocks in his head. I had come off a 9 hour flight. Had to get ghetto on the customs people because they were taking long to process people, so long, that another plane came down, and they started seeing those people before me. Uh-Uh, Momma don't play that. My head started going back and forth, and the mouth started moving independently of the brain. Thankfully, my mouth didn't write a cheque my ass couldn't cash, and they let me in.
Example No. 2: Customs man, looked at my pasport, then gave me his number.
Example No. 3: 50-year old man asking me to dance at the evening's party.I can't do it, that two-step with a male partner. It looks middle-aged, and wrong.
People are not that chatty at the convention, and as I've been feeling like Whitney going through detox, thanks to the lack of sleep before-hand, and the killer air-conditioning which is threatening to make my nose redundant for breathing purposes, I haven't been either. But I'm feeling on better form today. Look out! I see the CNN booth. Me gone.
P.S - Word of the day is 'Crack-ish'. LOL! Don't be acting all crack-ish round me girl!

Deuce Up, A-Town!

So I'm like, in Atlanta for a few days, at a convention for black journalists. There are workshops, and seminars, and a jobs fair. I don't actually want a job in the states right now, but hey, you never know.
Former President Bill Clinton gave the keynote speech yesterday, he looked well, and there was a lot of love in the house for the 42nd President.
I saw Jesse Jackson this morning as I was having a filthy fag outside the front of the hotel. But I didn't have the film in my camera yet so I missed the photo op.
Atlanta is big, and so far I've only really seen the country (more about that later), Evander Holyfield's house (the outside), and the hotel.
The hotel gym is basic, but I still got a good workout, as I have my own workout programme (thanks S).
The black folk in the restaurant are like our new best friends, and have been letting have full access to the buffet, as well as taking stuff back to our room. I'm talking salad and fruit, so don't get worried now. I'm keeping up my regime while I'm away, and if I even think about slipping, you can be guaranteed that some fat-ass man or woman walks past me just to remind me about where I am, and what can happen if you take your eye off the prize. Some of the people are so big here - I am in admiration that they are even on their feet. Worrying.
I am with possibly the most driven woman in journalism, who is up with the larks (while I'm out with the birds), and on 24-7. The fact that I had a cold meant my ass was dragging, but a straight whiskey helped no end, and plenty of vitamins.
I'm gonna go get me a job now. Holla!

Like Meat Falling Off The Bone

Progress is being made at last. I stepped on the scales that have up until now been the bane of my life. Well, since I bought them last year! I thought, as you do, that they were broken, because the bloody dial never seemed to shift from the point of YOU ARE AN OVERWEIGHT MAMPY. But today I hopped on, just to check, and 10 lovely pounds or 5kgs I think, have melted from my body *cue Cheshire Cat grin*. Yay. Just in time for my trip to Hotlanta. Unfortunately, this being my life, things aren't quite as perfect as I would like. I have a nice big cold sore on my bottom lip. No I don't think it has anything to do with the fact that I was out all hours on the weekend. I think it was the killer bike ride I did on Friday from south London to Labroke Grove. Boyyy, the things you'll do for a free meal. I was busted when I got home, and Saturday too. The fact that I have been looking at the damn thing every half hour has not helped it to go away any faster. And the sucker hurts too. Oh, the shame.
Never mind, you can't have it all. I shall just have to dazzle them with my faaabulous British style and panache, and hope they won't notice the cornflake on my liz-zle (see what I did there).
As usual, my packing leaves plenty to be desired. Just take it all, and cry when they say the case is overweight and I have to take stuff out. Oh, and clever me checked the weather report after I had packed all the floaty fabrics, and lightweight summer frocks. The forecast is showers, thunderstorms, and showers. All week. What the? And here's me thinking I would be escaping the disaster zone we call summer here in Britain. Think I'll have to dig out the so last year cowboy boots. They look vintage anyway, and what's a girl to do? Gees up A-Town!