The Birds

I missed the singing of the birds this morning as I didn't get home until well after the dawn chorus. It was 10am before I made it to my bed. My white strapless dress was trashed, and stained from I don't know what. No really, I don't know what, from the night on the tiles. But hey, that's the sign of a good time right? I had to get that sucker in a bucket of hot water and soap powder before I could lie my ass down. Signs are good that it will live to rave another day.
The night started badly because we couldn't find the bloody place because a) It was in Outer Mongolia otherwise known as Stratford, and b) Suzie Wong got into a major strop because it took so long. As soon as we got in the place, after 1.30am, she found a seat, and look so vex that two girl's went up to her and asked her if she was alright. The free drink loosened her up though, and she finally got on a proper vibe to enjoy herself.
The groom-to-be (GTB) was on good form, and treated us to a bottle of Laurent Perriers finest. The rose of course, and Jack D was holding it down for the rest of the night. And we got invites to the reception next week. But I'll miss out, I'ma be in ATL! Gees up A-Town.
Man action was slim as usual, so just got on with enjoying myself. Not like that fools. One guy worked up all his courage to attract my attention. His chosen method was grabbing my wrist. Although this is preferable to the arm slipped around the waist, it's not be encouraged. I shook him off, and shook my head. Another guy said to me "Alright love"! Alright love? Then he said babes. Moving swiftly on.
We tried to leave the party after 5, but GTB wasn't having it. So we stayed, and the djs played rare groove standards that had everyone singing along, and some Luther V (RIP), which went down a treat. We didn't leave until after 6am when it was daylight.
You woulda thought that was enough for us, but no. We decided to go check out a party close to home in south London. When we got there the police car was just leaving, and had given them 10 minutes to shut down the music. It was 8.30am after all. But we weren't that bothered at missing out when we saw the vampires that were leaving. There were some Hammer House of Horrors leaving that party! Damn!
I know Amerie is working the shorts look in her video, but caution to the ladies. Look in the mirror before you try it yourself. And then doublecheck with your friends. If you have them. Cos it nah fit everybody.
Five hours sleep, and I was up to meet Clarke to go eat, and catch the basketball down at Crystal Palace. So that's where the hotties are hiding. Check them out next weekend, Basketball on the Beach at Brighton if you can.
These all-nighters can take some recovering from, but if you don't mix the drinks, drink plenty of water the next day, and then bank a few early nights in a row, you'll be fine. Early night will have to wait though, because I'm off out. Again.

Saturday Night Fever

It's Saturday evening, which is my usual night for going out. I like to stay in with Clarke on a Friday and spend some quality time with her. But Saturday is mommy's night out. And there's no crying, or begging me to stay in. Well not anymore.
I hate the term single, or lone parent. The fact is, me and Father of Clarke do not live together anymore, but he is still her parent. She is fortunate that her Dad didn't do a bunk after we split, and has remained (as he should) an important part of her life. We get on really well, and both try to do what's best for Clarke. Clarke is, it seems, lucky that we have been able to work things out, where so many others can't seem to.
What is jarring though, is that people will blatantly ask you, "does she still see her Dad?". Why you all up in my business? I mean, what if she wasn't, and it was painful for me to discuss, because I was holding feelings? Am I being sensitive?
But it is difficult sometimes when it is just you and a child living together. You can't do everything you want, when you want to. But I have always tried to make Clarke understand that although she is my priority and my responsibility, I have a life too.
My lifesavers are my family, and my close friends, and just people that have been in our lives since Clarke was younger who have pitched in and helped out with baby-sitting when needed. My main lifesaver is Suzie Wong, who I'm going out with tonight. Me and Suzie Wong have known each other since we were teenagers. Had our children in the same year, they are exactly a month apart, and neither have siblings. Mine's a girl, her's a boy, but both into exactly the same stuff, Arsenal, Playstation, Gameboy, Hip-Hop and R n B and Sky TV.
Her house is Clarke's second home, and Wong will have her anytime. As I will have her son anytime she needs. It's relationships like this that you need when you are a 'single' parent. My heart goes out to those women alone with kids who are isolated, and don't have the support they need.
Me, Suzie Wong, and her sisters (3), plus Lou are off to a party in East London. £20 a ticket, and drinks included all night. Oh dear. We all know the guy who's throwing the party and his friend who's having his Stag do there. Sweet Boy C. We met on a weekender back in April where we had a four hour debate about relationships (as you do), while getting lean up on their champagne, brandy, and Baileys. I also had to keep running back to the chalet to check on the curry goat I was cooking! Guaranteed, there will be stupid amounts of champagne tonight. I will be lining my stomach with some mackerel and brown rice.
We always have a good time when we go out, because everybody get's on, and there's no bitching. The only complaints you'll hear is if someone's suffering from foot pressure (usually me) or if the DJs don't play tune. If they don't get the music right, guaranteed it spoils the night. Full report tomorrow.

Sashay, Chante!

Whatever possessed this fine looking man, who undoubtedly has a fine, gym-honed body, to wear this...this... blouse? The words faux, and pas spring to mind. This is fashion homicide in the first degree! If he is not trying to come out of the closet, he has no business being seen in public in this abomination.
Other than that, he's hot!

This Little Piggy Went To Wimpy...

Just got back from dinner with my best-friend, and her husband in Notting Hill. Once the spiritual home and battleground of the Windrush generation and Teddy Boys, now gentrified enclave of media whores, trust-fund babes, and people who think they are trendy but all shop in the same ten shops in Portobello Market.
Went to an Italian restaurant, Osteria de something, which was very nice. Only slightly marred by two brothas talking very loudly despite the fact that they were just inches from each other. I glanced over at them eating, and they reminded me of two 11 year-olds in the school canteen shovelling down their lunch.
Bezzie Mate (BM) and I talked about how off-putting we found it when men had poor table manners, and husband said he had no idea that when he was on his first few dates with BM that he was being scrutinised.
It's definitely in my top three pet hates, which is why I have no problem if the first date is not dinner. Cos if homeboy starts eating his food like a pig at a trough, I can guarantee there won't be a second. Sorry, I can't handle it, especially if there's noise involved too.
BM retold the story of the solicitor who took her on a date to Nandos. NANDOs!!! I know there are guys out there right now going: "What's wrong with that?". If you have to ask, there's no hope for you either.
Cheap Date said 'he' isn't fussy about where he eats. Who cares about what you like? If you like someone enough to ask them out, shouldn't you be concerned with where they'd like to eat? I mean, you're with your black ass all the time, you may not get another chance with that girl.
It gets worse. Homeboy picks all the meat clean off the bone, then starts sucking on it like it came from his mother's dutchpot. And the piece de resistance was when he crunched his bones into a fine paste, and got a doggy bag, for HER leftovers. We were rolling up about that story.
I hate dating. I think it's unnatural and another thing that has been co-opted from American to British culture. But hasn't travelled well. Husband said, men do not feel it is worth paying to take a woman out, if you're not going to get something at the end of it, that's how his friends feel. And most women generally don't want to 'let off' (fuck/shag/bone) on the first date. Because they think that a man will think badly of them. Which they will. Catch 22?
All the dates I've ever been on, which totals maybe five, have been cr-rap. Some men don't even want to call it a date. One said, let's "hang out".
One guy asked me out for a drink, turned up late to pick me up (and didn't phone), then decided we were going to the cinema, in Streatham. I don't like Streatham Odeon. It is the type of place where bad-breed youts answer their mobiles, hands-free, and hold a conversation during the film. More than once. Note to mo-tential hangers out - I'd rather go to the Ritzy in Brixton.
As my date was about to buy the tickets, right in front of the ticket booth, this fool asked me if I wanted him to pay for my ticket? I said yes, and get me some popcorn! Then that fool said he was hungry, and had I eaten. Yes I have eaten you cheap fool because you told me we were going for a drink. I said there's a McDonald's up the road. But no, he wanted to go the the Wimpy across the road. He beat Nando Man. That man had me sitting all up in Wimpy on Streatham High Street in my Prada shoes, on a date. He ate some disgusting burger and stuffed chips in his mouth, while trying to converse with me as I stared at him as if he had grown a snout.
Yeah. l hate dating.

I Bike, Therefore I Am

This healthy lifestyle stuff becomes addictive. I'm so attached to my bike that I'm even prepared to cycle in the rain. Yes, the beautiful London acid rain. Told you I wasn't high-maintenance!
I had a meeting with the board of the black journalists group I'm a member of up at Borders in the West End. I dug out my Desert Storm Goretex parka (my snowboarding jacket) and got on the bike. The rain wasn't too bad. I was cycling up the mall, nice view of the House of Lazy, over-privileged, never done a hard day's work in their life bloodsuckers (Buckingham Palace to you). As I turned onto Piccadilly I could feel the bumps in the road more. I stopped and looked at the wheels. Flat tyre. Fuck. So I had to walk up Regent Street with the bike and leave it locked up outside Hamleys.
I got the bus home from the meeting. Boy did that feel weird. I felt like the mermaid who'd traded in her fishtail for legs! At the moment, really can't bring myself to use the tube unless absolutely necessary.

Meat Is Murder?

Like most black folk, I love me some chicken. Fried, stewed, and best of all roasted. But lately there have been so many reports about how chickens are reared and treated badly, that quite frankly, it's putting me off the feathered delicacy. I hate the thought that I am eating something that suffered during it's short lifetime.
I have bought free range, and corn-fed but even those have come under fire, and as for organic, £7 for a chicken? That bird would have to last all week!
I flirted with vegetarianism some years ago, but cracked when I moved into a hostel and my roomie cooked rice and peas and chicken one Sunday. But now, I'm thinking it might be time to go back there. A diet low in animal protein is said to offer better protection from cancers and heart disease, not to mention effortless weight loss.
Fish is said to be similarly diseased and polluted. Food is now a class issue. If you have the money, and the time to shop at Farmer's Markets, you can buy the healthy stuff which won't slowly poison your family. If you don't, it's a chicken that's lived a traumatic, miserable life, served up with a side of antibiotics. Anyone for nut roast?

Fighting Fit

10 Reasons to Get Fit

1. Look and feel better about myself (at least I'm honest)
2. Get within a healthy range for my weight (trust me I'm heavier than I look)
3. Increase chances of fertility (no, there's nothing I want to share with you)
4. Reduce chances of developing diabetes (my Dad has it)
5. Be a fit person (not that kind of fitness)
6. Wear size 12 jeans (ok, now it's that kind of fitness)
7. Be at a healthy weight pre-conception (a girl can dream can't she)
8. Look more attractive (I know, how will it be possible)
9. Set good example to daughter of leading healthy lifestyle (who whispered 'stop smoking')
10. Look younger (so I'm vain, sue me)

p.s - for those who don't know the pic is of Laila Ali, daughter of the great Muhammad Ali.

Beauty School Dropout

I sometimes wonder if the reason I don’t get approached a lot is because men consider me to be ‘high maintenance’. Which I take as code to mean: "A sista who won’t take yo' shit, and ain't looking to you to finance her expensive shoe habit'.
I look after my skin, my hair, and my body. I rarely visit beauty salons, or ’hair-messers’. The most I do is the odd pedicure, cos I like my stils, and it’s not about the orange rind skin on the feet. I tried high-maintenance once, when I went to have a bikini wax. Now, it wasn't just a fashion ting, it's a necessity if you want to look good in your silk panties (see Love Kylie on Figleaves.com). Even if no one special ain't seeing them.
I went to a woman who owns two salons locally. It wasn’t too bad pain wise. But she managed to scald a patch of skin on my thigh with the hot wax. Anyway, I must have forgot about that because I went back for another dose. Well this time was even worse. That woman had me in positions I ain’t even let a man bend me into. She had my leg on her shoulder, and was ripping five kinds of hell out of my bikini line! More embarassingly, her hands were touching parts not ever touched by a woman, except maybe my mother, when I was a baby. I know we’re both women but I didn’t realise that by entering her beauty salon I was sanctioning her to get quite so intimate with my privates. I left that salon walking like a porn actress.
Other women I've spoken to have complained of similar treatment at the hands of their waxer. If this is being high-maintenance you can stick it where the wax don't reach - unless you're David Beckham that is. Fuck dat. I be keeping my privates, PRI-VATE!

Food, Glorious Food

In these days of Tesco Metro, Sainsbury's Local, and Asda. It's easy to bypass the local market for the convenience of a smash and grab at the nearest supermarket. But eating healthy isn't cheap, and after being left constantly feeling like I'd been mugged after nipping into Sainsbury's, I decided to make more use of Brixton market.
Having spent years as a child having to meet my mum at Shepherd's Bush market, whilst trying to avoid my friends as I pulled the shopping basket behind me, market shopping was top of my To Don't list. It takes some getting used to at first, the jostling in the meat shop. People pushing in. Knowing what cuts to buy, how to buy fresh fish, and then how to cook it. But encouraged by two of my clued-up girlfriends, I soon got to know the ropes.
My mother never harassed me or my sister to be in the kitchen (wrong move Mum), but when I was pregnant, I craved West Indian food so would be on the phone to mum getting instructions on how to cook Ackee and Saltfish, Curry Goat and Saturday soup.
I know everyone says this about their mum, but my mum is a wicked cook. There is no curry goat ANYWHERE that can touch hers. This is one arena, I know that I will never excel in. I can cook, but my mum is Michelin starred Gordon Ramsay to my Jamie Oliver.
I used to love going home after school and seeing what was in the dutchpot. Apart from, on occasion, the dreaded bully beef (corned beef) and rice. Wednesday we always had fish. Sometimes I used to ask my mum to cook English food, like Toad in the Hole. She tried it, but it really wasn't that good.
It's funny because we used to take the piss out of the English kids. "What did you have for your tea last night? Egg and chips?". Cue hysterical laughter. Now you have Jamie Oliver railing against the state of school dinners. We ate a proper dinner every day. Whereas for a lot of poorer English kids I went to school with, the Sunday Roast was the big meal of the week.
I wanted to give my daughter the same feeling that my mum's cooking gave me, a warm fuzzy feeling like the one illuminated in the Ready Brek ad. But at times I've found it difficult. It's got better though and nothing gives me more pleasure than hearing her say, "thanks Mum that was really nice" or "can you make MFC" - Mum's Fried Chicken. Even my brother will travel from west London to eat my chicken, and asks my mum to cook it like me! A small victory.
In the market yesterday I bought fish from a Chinese fishmonger. Sweet potatoes, and fried tofu from the Chinese supermarket. Feta cheese, houmous, tinned pulses and salad vegetables from the Portuguese deli. A box of mangoes from the Asian stall, and did a dash around Iceland. It didn't take that long, and unlike a Sainsbury's shop didn't leave me feeling like I'd been robbed.

They Want Muscles

There's a certain breed of man that shouldn't be allowed in a public gym. It's the type that treats it as if it were his own personal space, screaming and grunting like a warthog as he pushes a stack of weights that threaten to make his biceps explode. Another reason to hate the Fitness First in Brixton. I was at the other end of the gym, listening to my ipod on full blast, yet this man and his compadres grunts could be heard over the music. Just to increase the annoyance factor, they also felt it necessary to drop the weights after each set.
Now, I ain't gonna lie, a man with some well-placed muscular definition can be attractive. But I wouldn't want them to go to all that trouble on my behalf. I don't actually mind a skinny man. My last boyfriend had no muscle tone whatsoever, but he had a great personality, and he could lift me up, which is always a plus in my book. Such selfish behaviour is rude in a public space, and I demand that they be stopped immediately. The manager was lurking at one point, but you could tell that he was too afraid to approach the gang of brothers that had commandeered the weights corner. It did cross my mind to approach them myself, but I decided that an evil look would do instead. I think I'll go to Victoria tomorrow.

Postcript to this post: Went back to FF Brixton, and saw a couple of the grunting men in FF uniform. Some of them are actually staff!

The Youth of Today

Are quite unfit. Rode with my daughter to a friend's house in Brixton Hill in the rain. However, the downside to owning a shiny BMX is that it has no gears, and the ride uphill can be a bit of a strain. By the time we got up the hill, daughter dearest was struggling for breath. Clarke is a keen footballer, and I have been telling her she needs to improve her cardiovascular fitness is order to be a better footballer. Let's hope she now takes some notice. As a parent, you have to take responsibility for all aspects of your child's life, and I realise that my sedentary lifestyle, prior to my fitness drive, was not really helping her. Although we have a nice big garden, which we share with our neighbours, it doesn't really tax her physically running around after the little kids that live here.
When I was a kid, in the summer holidays we lived in White City's adventure playground. Youthworkers organised trips, we played on the swings which we would routinely fall from, or smash into wooden posts when the swings went out of control and jerked you skywards. Injury was a common hazard, but no one's parents sued.
From dawn till dusk, we had free rein to roam the estate, go swimming at Lime Grove swimming baths, play football against the other blocks on the estate. We roamed like a pack of wild puppies, going where we pleased, but making sure we got home in time for dinner.
By contrast, we live among a middle-class community, their kids play with kids like them. Clarke has no reason to hang out on the estates, so her only friends are the one's who live next door to us, or my friend's kids in other areas. And with the threat of today's teefing youts, it's not safe for her to ride around on her own on her bike. So we go riding together, play football in the garden, and her Dad takes her to play in the park ("Your son's really good." "Actually, she's my daughter." Cue shocked expression) and when I get a swimming cap that can contain my dreads, we'll go swimming a bit more regularly. I just hope she's up for the ride home.

"Gyal In Ya Battyrider"

Went back to Fitness First in Brixton today. I was a little worried as I hadn't done anything for four days. But was pleasantly surprised as I effortlessly stepped my way to thinner thighs along to the soundtrack of 4Hero's Two Pages. It's made for workouts at over 120bpms (if not more - I ain't no DJ!).
Going to the gym is like sitting in a cafe near a window. What else can you do except people-watch. There was a thirty-something white man on the running machine who looked like he was trying to undo a decade of living foul in a single workout. His face was as grey as his shirt, and he looked close to collapse as he held onto the display to steady himself as the machine practically ran away from him.
Then there was the girl with the knee stocking on, running with an awkward gait, which I'm sure was doing more harm than good. But then, she was wearing hotpants, and no doubt, continuing to look good in them was a priority.
I've always wanted to wear hotpants, but I fear the world's not quite ready to see my big ass in some Daisy Dukes! I've always admired and envied the immodesty of the dancehall girls. Apparently Kylie's stylist did too. But wearing hotpants is the ultimate in body confidence or self-delusion, and I guess I haven't ever been that confident or deluded about my body.
Even when I was the magic 9.5st (aged 18-23), I wore the androgynous hip-hop uniform of baggy jeans, sweatshirt, and trainers. You could not get me in a skirt except for christenings, weddings or funerals. My daughter is exactly the same. But unlike my mum who would dress me and my sister up in matching ghetto fabulous outfits, I'm more relaxed and I've even committed the black folk's cardinal sin of allowing her to attend a christening in jeans. Quelle horreur.
Me and Mum have argued about the fact that Clarke doesn't dress like she's going to a wedding every time she visits her.
But for my mum, it's a point of pride. Dressing up has always been black folks way of showing society, nee White Folk, that we are as good as them. When you went out with your parents, you wore your Sunday best. Clarke's Sunday best is council estate chic as copied from her 18-year old uncle, who lives on the estate I grew up on. Basically, the hot trainers on road, Nike tracksuit bottoms, and an Akademiks down jacket.
My Mum would buy some of our going out dresses from a shop in Shepherd's Bush called Green's. She and her friends would 'pay down', because they couldn't afford to pay in one go. The dresses were fancy, and I loved them. I remember a chocolate brown chiffon, and gold ribbon-trimmed frothy concoction, paired with black patent shoes from Clarkes. In the picture taken at the wedding my grin was a mile long. I remember feeling really special.
It was such a struggle for my mum when she was raising us at times, but she always made the effort to make sure we were well-turned out. I loved the way she dressed me, and even today, my favourite party outfit is a showstopping frock, and killer heels. Now if I could just get Clarke to like it.

Grandma's Girl

I often wondered where I got my love of fashion and style from. Then I looked at pictures of my family. Look no further than Grandma Mavis. My maternal grandmother, from Kingston, Jamaica, now aged 70, was a seamstress in a sweatshop in Old Bond Street making couture clothes, and a very stylish woman. I've seen pictures of her taken in the 60s dressed in a fabulous dress with pointed shoes, and a shiny Supremes style wig.
I remember her showing me her Kurt Geiger (she pronounced Yay-ger) shoes, a brand which I love now. She had an extensive wardrobe from which I pilfered a black pencil skirt and trilby for my mod look when I was 12, and she made me a 50s style printed skirt, which I wore to Saturday morning pictures in Shepherd's Bush. After they showed black and white films from the Children's Film Foundation, they used to play rock 'n' roll music, and we all used to run to the front and do the bop.
Even my Dad said recently that my Gran was very stylish. He said she wore clothes that no one else used to wear, in particular printed skirts (check), and she rode a white bike (check). My Dad said it was called a Rudge Ladie's Wheel.
I also remember the shoes my mum wore when she was younger, and where she got them from. Which is amazing because I have a memory which might be better served as a sieve. I grew up on White City Estate in Shepherd's Bush. Telling people you lived on White City was like admitting you had a sexually transmitted infection, their face would curl up like they had smelt something bad. But like most 'ghetto' areas, it was a place where street style was created, and the icons in my 'hood were not found on the pages of fashion magazines.
Roll Call: Bruce Da Silva in the US Top jeans, Victor Chinsammy, leader of the west London casuals. Sandra and Carlotta, the soul girls in their spray-on jeans/leggings and black boots. Adil (RIP) and Chukri Chaouri, for the Moroccan flavour, and the Islamic knowledge they brought into my life. Jimmy McClure with his wicked afro and Francis Detterville, the trainer don. Each summer for a few years my mum and her friends made a trip to Bally in Kensington High Street to buy a pair of thong-style gold mules. I really wish she had kept them. I also remember her tan and dark brown platform shoes, and her black suede, and gold-trimmed stilettos from Russell and Bromley. I loved those shoes. When I asked about them recently, she said she had sold them to one of my sister's friends.
I'm keeping my good shoes for my daughter. With this whole vintage thing, even if they don't fit her when she's older (she's a size 6 aged 11, I wear a 7), she can always sell them on ebay. But I hope she doesn't.
My mum visited my grandmother in Florida in February. When she saw a picture of me with my blonde dreads (I haven't seen her since I was 11), she said. "That's Donna, she always wanted to be different". I don't think she realises that it had a lot to do her.

RIP Jean Charles de Menezes

The man shot dead on a train in Stockwell was a Brazilian electrician called Jean Charles de Menezes. He had no connection with the bombings whatsoever. This is a tragedy for his family, and for a so-called civilised society. May his soul rest in peace, and I pray that his family can find a way to forgive those who so brutally executed a much-loved member of their family.
I don't believe that it would have been right to kill someone in this way even if he were a bomber, just like I don't believe in capital punishment. I've noticed that the story has already moved from the lead item on television news, and the latest is that he had an expired visa. How convenient for the authorities.
The people that died in the bombs, I have every sympathy for their families, but a shoot-to-kill policy is madness. Shoot first, ask no questions later? I'm sorry, no matter how many people died, I cannot in all conscience agree with that. You need to hang on to your beliefs even when severely tested. And if we as a society believe that a man is innocent until proven guilty, then how can we support such a policy in pursuit of terrorists? This is something that will affect people of colour, as sanctioned by the government and the police, in whom my faith in both is similarly fragile. I have a female friend that is a police officer. After being racially abused by a man, who then physically assaulted her, the police were called. Who do you think they arrested? Tell her what she's won Bob! Nah blood, they don't get my vote on that issue.

The Guardian wrote a very moving piece. See link on the right.

Off The Wagon

BUTTERFLY JONES DIARY:
Alcohol Consumption:
1 White Wine Spritzer
1 Champagne Cocktail
5 Jack Daniels & Diet Coke
Cigarettes:10
Exercise: Nil
Weight: Down

I went to drinks for one of my journo compadres who has a job on the Daily Bile trainee scheme. He'll be relocating to Yorkshire for six months. My resolve was gone as soon as I walked into the pub in London Bridge and I immediately broke my no drinking embargo, ordering a white wine spritzer. No excuses, no apologies.
Then I went on to a club for a friend's birthday. I bought her a champagne cocktail, a raspberry bellini. Well, I had to try it too. It was delicious. Then she bought me a couple of Jack Daniels, I didn't know she had ordered the double until she gave it to me, honest. I didn't have the final two JDs until I was back at Lyn's and I didn't leave there until 7am.
Clubbing in London is enough to turn a women bisexual. Most club nights are "hen parties" full of women, and last night's Etiquette was no exception. Now, I ain't looking for love in a crowded club, but a bit of eye candy, something to put a smile on your face would be nice. The only thing putting a smile on my face last night was the Bellini I was drinking. Where are all the men? Practically the whole dancefloor was swarming with sexy, denim-clad women and their girlfriends.There was so such much booty up in that house you could have made a triple volume of Hip Hop Honeys.
The dress code was denim for once. Now, I rarely wear jeans to go out in. Mainly because I'm pear-shaped, with the thighs that Beyonce worked hard to get rid of, I don't own many pairs (see what I did there).
I chose some Chloe style white needlecord flares I bought from TopShop. I was deliberating between a denim mini and the white cords. I decided against the skirt because a) I thought most girl's would take that route (which most did), and b) it looked dry. I was a bit worried about how big my bum and thighs were looking in the cords, as white is pretty unforgiving, but together with the gold sequinned vest from Marks of Prime (big up Jules and Jen for that one, jokes!), and the beige cotton Reiss vest, it worked. So my bum looked big - I'm working on it motherf*ckers! Special mention to Dee who rocked the denim shorts, she looked wicked (*sighs* maybe one day).

Man Shot Dead On Train By Police

by Donna McConnell

Police shot dead a suspected terrorist on a packed train at Stockwell Underground station.
Eyewitnesses said a man of Asian appearance was chased onto the train by armed, plainclothes police officers, and shot him five times in front of terrified passengers.
It is standard police procedure to shoot terrorist suspects in the head. Reports from witnesses said the man was wearing what looked like a bomb belt with 'wires' sticking out of it under a heavy coat.
South London is again at the centre of a massive police operation, and media frenzy following the shooting.
News and television journalists jostled to hear eyewitness reports from fruit and vegetable stallholder Gillian Breen, 39, who saw the police rush into the busy tube station chasing a man.
"We had just finished setting up the stall, when we saw a man being chased by 12 police officers, most of them plainclothes. I saw about six guns. I think they were machine guns, they were very big. This woman came out soon after, and said a man had been shot dead on the train.
"I will be back tomorrow to open the stall, but I don't think I'll be using the train for some time. I'm too scared", said Breen.
Police cordoned off the area, and buses and traffic have been diverted away from the scene at the request of the police.
Concerned residents such as Alan, a herbal practitioner gathered at the scene, to watch the surreal events unfolding. Alan blamed 'media insensitivity', and their reporting of clampdowns on the imams for inflaming the situation following the events of 7th July.
"Statements made by Tony Blair, and the media coverage talking about what they're going to do the Imams have not helped matters. The media have lacked sensitivity when reporting on this issue. They're so eager to get some news, that they forget that they need to handle things with any kind of sensitivity."
Balham resident Adil, was upset by the mass presence of the media, and spoke out loudly, chastising reporters. The Muslim, who has lived in Britain for sixteen years, blamed the war in Iraq for the suicide bombings.
Adil said:"Tony Blair and Bush, they killed Saddam's two sons. They have Saddam in jail. Now they should pack up and leave Iraq. Why are they still there, and every day children, and people are still being killed? They should leave."
The police have not confirmed whether the suspect was armed, or their reasons for shooting him five times.

Fashion, Turn To The Left

Summer fashion has been disappointing this year. But to be honest, as I've been a student, and funds have been tight - well when I say tight, there was always money for a few drinks - I haven't been able to go out there and amass garms on my usual level.
However, where there's a will there's a way. Everyone has been writing about 'Pree-mark' over the last week, as its increased sales by 12 per cent, and has managed to win the approval of the fash hacks. Writers such as The Observer's Polly Vernon have been championing the thrill of 'thrift luxe' or 'cheap chic'. Basically letting us know that it's okay to admit that you bought a copy of the Marc Jacobs gold sequinned shrug in Primark. Hello? When wasn't it ok?!?
Summer fashion has been dominated by the ubiquitous prairie/gyspy boho look - see Sienna Miller. And the resurgence of Africa as a fashion influence. Now I love African clothing, and prints, and wooden bangles. But no amount of proselytising by Vogue, or Elle will persuade me to buy an 'African influenced' cotton dress or wooden bangle from ToSho. Likewise if it's Bollywood chic, or Peruvian chic. I'd rather get it from the source.
If you want to work a look that you know will be dead by Labour Day, Primark is yo' store. And it's nice for once to shop in a place where a size 18 or 20 isn't a swearword.
When all else fails, and the drainpipes still don't come in a 16, I return to my first love. Shoes. My top summer purchase are my ToSho jewelled wedges, anointed 'the shoe of the season' by the Guardian, or alternatively as a shoe for 'fashion victims' in an ad for Nescafe! These are 4 inch high bad boys, strappy brown leather, and heels embellished with an assortment of candy coloured glass jewels. Eat your heart out Liz T.
Now that Primark is an open secret, I think the time has come to pass on the guilty fashion pleasure baton. My tip is to check out Ms Selfridge. Stay with me. I bought a dress there a few months back after seeing it on This Morning. I rang the store while the dress was still on the TV, and the lazy-ass assistant said they didn't have it in stock. Now, I have fashion sense, like journalists have news sense. It's something innate which tells you when a shop assistant is lying because she just can't be bothered to look. So I jumped on the tube, and as soon as I walked in the store I saw it. A full-length, patterned, floaty, chiffon halter-neck, with a bronzed beaded band under the bust .Obviously not as cheap as Primark, but still good value for money at £60, and girl's they cut generously, as a size 14 is falling off me. Or could that be because of my rapidly shrinking cleavage? Plus, it's a look which, unlike prairie geek, will not be condemned to fashion Siberia next Summer. Get browsing.

Bang, Bang In Da Manor

Oval Tube, which is five minutes from my house, is evacuated. A man detonated a device on the train and escaped from the station. The area around the station is cordoned off by the police, and the media, (including some of my former classmates) cross the North/South divide to get the story. There are no fatalities, and only a few injured, mainly due to people fleeing the station. It's one of four incidents across London, the others are on a train at Warren Street, and on buses in Shepherd's Bush (where I grew up and my mum still lives), and Hackney.
A text from a friend signals the first sign of trouble as I lunch with a friend who works at The Times. Two of my other journo friends haven't turned up. Now I know why. I bump into one of them as I stop to scan the scene with the media scrum behind the cordon at Oval.
Part of me feels frightened, but the timing of my quest for fitness couldn't be more perfect, as I am inseparable from my bike. I've just cycled back from News International in Wapping, near Tower Bridge, and I call my mum and friends to reassure them, I wasn't on the tube. Again.
But another part of me is excited, and completely envious of my former classmates already ensconced with newspapers, and out working the story. Some people ask if I'm going to go and do my own story. But by the time I get there it's almost 3.30pm, eyewitnesses have left the scene, no ones being interviewed.
And I'm rushing to collect Clarke from school, who up until about three weeks before the first bomb attacks, rode the train to Clapham Common from Oval every day to her primary school. But weirdly, (I say weirdly because I am the biggest spendthift in Southern England), in an attempt to save a paltry 50p a day (or £2.50 a week) I made her switch to the bus, as she can still get away without paying the fare! (Who just said that's illegal?)
I leave the scene, morbidly excited that all this drama is happening on my doorstep, and relieved that this time, nobody has been seriously hurt. Forget carry on as normal, now I am definitely afraid to use the tube. What are the Government doing about it? They need to do something, and sharpish.
I make it to the school, and Clarke is blissfully ignorant of the drama being played out in da the manor. She's at football practice shouting at her teammates from between the goalposts. It's fitting, as we adults are now left to contemplate how the goalposts in our world have been moved, yet again.

The Mean Streets of London

Having cycled in London since my teen years, when I used to ride to the recording studio (helmetless), I have no qualms about cycling in Central London. But there is no doubt it is not without its risks. On a quiet residential road, a van just couldn't wait while I rounded a speed bump and almost knocked me off my bike, and then had the cheek to give me the finger when I protested. And I got stuck in traffic near Waterloo Bridge, and my flip-flop flipped off in the middle of the road. But the quickness of getting around compensates for the hazards you have to negotiate. For example, today I had to collect my camera from a friend at the FT in Southwark Bridge, despite a few difficulties locating it, it took me just 30mins from Vauxhall. Then I went to a gym just up the road for a workout.
After that back to Vauxhall, negotiating quite heavy traffic around Waterloo, a pitstop for lunch at home, and then back on Candice (the bike) to Clapham for Clarke's Leavers Assembly (she's going to secondary school in September).
PT (public transport to you) is all well and good, but if I had to make those journeys on foot, it would have taken up half the day at least, not to mention almost a fiver for a travelcard.
As much as I'm enjoying my newfound bike freedom, I am nervous about continuing through the winter. Forgive my superficiality but as ever my first thoughts are, what will I wear. Obviously floaty TopShop blouses and denim minis ain't gonna cut it in minus 5, and I will have to find suitable waterproofs for our usual climate. If anyone has any tips on how to maintain a stylish demeanour during winter on the road - please do share.

Sobriety

Its Day Four of my self-imposed alcohol ban and I'm already wavering. I knew it wasn't going to be easy, but the thought of three upcoming birthday/leaving do's with no alcohol is definitely testing my 'resolve'. How did I get here? Ever since I sold my car (Faith - Convertible 1986 VW Karmann Ghia Golf), I've been free to drink to my heart's content, and boy have I. But my committment to losing weight and getting healthy means I need a break from the d*mon drink. Why you say? Two words, Michelle McManus. I know that my alcohol fuelled lifestyle is contributing to weight gain, and is a barrier to weightloss.
I have gone through periods, especially post-Xmas where I've avoided it for a couple of months. And I found that I wouldn't suffer bad raves so easily, I was more reflective, and less impulsive. And it actually wasn't that bad, I still enjoyed myself, and I think, was still fun to be around. So what am I worrying about?