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!