28 Sep 2005: Baby Naomi, Stand Up!

After 16 hours of induced labour, gas and air (which she says did bugger all), an epidural, and a waiting room full of family, my best friend's baby girl made her long awaited entrance. As I suspected, she had a big head which meant (turn away if you are squeamish) "surgical incisions", and she weighed in at a heavyweight 8lbs. Lawd ah mercy.
Quite frankly Daddy needs to be kissing mummy's batty for some time after the trauma her body's undergone. After witnessing his wife endure 16 hours of the most pain you'll wilfully invite upon yourself, he said: "I have a new respect for women." And he's a doctor. Shazby said that at one point there were about nine doctors in the delivery room. And yes it was an NHS hospital. The fact that Shazby's father-in-law is a Professor of Obstetrics-Gynaelogical medicine in Nigeria may have had something to do with that.
My own labour was less of a cause celebre, but similarly arduous. The indignities endured while pregnant; strangers poking around in your vagina, students having a root around too, saw me disappear from my doctors surgery for years. I just couldn't face the cervical smear.
Clarke emerged into the world after 12 hours of contractions, breathing exercises, gas and air, and painkilling injections. Father of Clarke was very good at the breathing, although I don't know why he was doing it too! My sister (who has not actually given birth) told me I wasn't "pushing properly" But the sandwiches and drinks she brought were greatly appreciated by me - I was absolutely starving.
For once, someone, the midwife, accused me of being "too ladylike". Not something I hear too often. "Come on, it's time to get this baby out, you're being too ladylike, make some noise." To which I responded by screaming at the top of my voice "why won't it fucking come out!" I think that's the response she was looking for. Clarke's head crowns. Another couple of screams, and she's out. She looks remarkably good for something that's been holed up inside me for nine months. Ten fingers and toes, all present and correct. Can I have something to eat now?
As far as giving birth goes, I had a positive experience, but I always say to people it's the sleep deprivation that would put me off having another one. They've called the baby Naomi, which by coincidence is Clarke's middle name.
Just got a text from Shazby, she didn't sleep last night. Seems like she and Clarke have more in common than a name.

One Day My Prince Will Come

I have an extreme case of 'couple envy'. Everywhere I am I notice The Couples. With their mirroring styles of dress, bed-head hair, and a shopping bag of comforting food (plus booze) strolling louchely back to their home for an evening of food, drink and fucking. They're everywhere. In the supermarket, in restaurants and bars, on the bus, hanging out in Brixton, in the park and at train stations, I observe them silently, wondering about their lives, how they met, was it at work, are they childhood sweethearts, married or engaged, or just fuck buddies? Having had the driest summer ever (make that two) for meeting 'desirable' men. Note the distinction. I am at a loss as to where I can get me one of those.

People say, "You're going to the wrong places". What the fuck is this "right place" shit? Like I spend all my time in a darkened room, or rave where no one can see me, or me them. When you're young, there is no 'right place', you go out, have a dance, catch someone's eye, get talking and meet up. Now, you gotta go to the 'right places'. I'm a cosmopolitan type o' gal and I get about (not like that you dirty dogs), but I'll be buggered if I'm gonna start staking out places like a demented Bridget Jones type in the hope of meeting a man. And while I only have to consider my feelings, I'm gonna do what the hell I please, and go where I want to go. So there.

I went to see Pride and Prejudice on Sunday. I love to go to the cinema on my own. To some people this is the ultimate in sad singleton behaviour, but I say, fuck all y'all. I wear *adopts Liverpudlian accent* me trackie bottoms, something warm (air-con is a bitch), and choose a seat as far away from other people as possible. People in cinemas get on my last nerve with their talking, popcorn eating, and stage whispered comments. And that's just Clarke.
Not being a huge fan of the pouty Keira Knightley I wasn't planning to see P&P but decided to see a film where the likelihood of being disturbed by bad breed teenagers answering their mobiles and making up noise was least probable. I was also seduced by the prospect of being transported from gun crime central aka London, to the Constablesque backdrop of Jane Austen's rugged, windy, romanticised England.

I liked the character of Elizabeth very much. She is smart, intelligent, loyal and uncompromising. In fact aside from the porcelain pale complexion, and Hollywood lollipop-head figure, she reminded me a lot of myself. A principled, strong character, who wouldn't fall at a man's feet simply because he had money, and deigned to marry her. Which considering her cash strapped, fallen on hard times family, was a bit of a bold move. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind, but similarly wasn't afraid to express the tenderness of her feelings. When Darcy strode across the moor and told her how he felt, it was tear shedding time (the filmmakers intended affect).The film had worked it's magic, when I left the cinema I felt, to use that much maligned word, empowered. I felt like it was okay to be me, and to hell with going to the "right places".

Don't Mention The 'B' Word

London is h'expensive, when you have a job. If you don't have a job, the cost of living is prohibitive. Severe cutbacks have been made to my 'budget'. No new clothes, shoes, boots, bags, etc. But the place where I most resent the cutbacks, is the food budget. Not because I want to fill my trolley with all manner of mass produced cakes, and food items, but if you want good quality food, you have to pay for it. Free range chicken costs double that of the intensively reared variety, and the same goes for organic fish.

I have a good fishmongers I go to in Brixton, you know, a cockney family who've been there for donkeys years. A whole sea bass costs a fiver, and same for a bream. Cheap as it sounds, at the moment I can't always afford it. And that pisses me off. I've rediscovered the 'basics' range at Sainsbury's, much to Clarke's consternation. It's not because of the fact that it's cheap, it's more about the florid orange and white packaging which screams STRICTLY FOR PAUPERS!

She takes a packed lunch to school, and I bought the basics orange juice cartons, nine for 97p. Bargain. I suspected it might prompt some teasing at school which was the first thing Clarke said when she spotted them. Brands rule everything, even school packed lunches. But I told Clarke, only you can allow people to make you feel bad about having a cheap drink.
When you haven't got money, you have to be more creative. So we've being baking cakes. Lemon Syrup Loaf from Nigella Lawson's Domestic Goddess book (without all the finger licking and hair flicking) for our packed lunches. Transport is another expense, but I cycle everywhere praying that I don't get lick off my bike, or that I don't get a puncture - it costs a tenner to fix. I walk to Elephant and Castle, and get one bus to work instead of two, or if I take the train to work, I run or walk back.

The upside of having little money is it's helping Clarke to learn the value of it. It was her idea to take a packed lunch, as she said it would be cheaper for me. And I'm lucky, in that both mine and her Dad's family will do anything for her. My mum offered to pay for her lunches (she didn't want her granddaughter having 'free school dinners') but I said we'll see how it goes with the hope that I'll have a job soon. My sister bought her a new jacket for school, her Grandad gave her £20, and her Dad paid for her uniform and her stationery. Her paternal Aunty gave her £100 of Argos vouchers (Xmas then birthday) which bought her TV/DVD, and her Godmother bought her £175 BMX for her 10th birthday. She ain't doing bad at all.

Me? I grew up poor and proud, and making do is what I was raised on. In times of hardship, the training kicks in. Even if I don't buy another item of clothing or a pair of shoes for the next six months, I know I won't look like a tramp on road. Once I get a job, the budget will no doubt go out the window, and I'll be back to living the Lifestyles of the Rich and Not-So-Famous. Or maybe this time, I'll get the hang of budgeting once and for all.

So Many Haters

Four weeks into secondary school and daughter already has beef. In time honoured fashion, her 'friend' tried to diss her in front of her classmates. She said to my perfectly groomed daughter who takes great pride in her appearance: "Your face looks like it hasn't seen cream for a hundred years". To which Clarke replied without a moment's pause, "At least I haven't got frog lips like you!". As everyone is now calling the girl frog lips it's round 1 to Clarke I think. It was cruel, but as any inner city kid knows, you've got to have the art of the comeback down pat in school or your ass, is theirs.
In primary school Clarke would come home upset because she hadn't quite mastered the 'dark dem up' art, and the bad breeds were kicking her ass, verbally. So mama had to teach her a few survival strategies until she got up to speed. Go for the obvious cuss, ashy legs, big nose, dry lips, but don't go for their mama. If they try to make a joke at your expense and you don't have a response, laugh out loud with them, because if they see that it hurts you, that joke will run for weeks. If they're your friend, later on tell them that you didn't like what they said, and they shouldn't say it again. If they do, then ignore them. Stop talking to them. When they're not getting any attention from you they'll soon be confused and wonder why you're not talking to them. We would discuss the strategies, she would try them out, and then we'd have a debrief when she came home. Gradually she grew more confident, and we didn't have to have the conversations anymore. I don't get involved with the beefs, unless there's a fight, then I speak to the teacher. Unlike my mum.

My mum always told me I mustn't let nobody 'tek no liberty' with me. If someone hit me, I was to hit them back, and if I didn't she would come down the school, and make me. And she weren't lying. A girl I used to laugh at because of her stilted style of reading aloud in class said she was going to beat me up after school (yes that was bad of me but you didn't hear her, and she was fifteen for gods sake!). I went home at lunchtime to put on my trainers (standard procedure) and told my mum.
The fifth year was my worse year in secondary school. It was a blur of arguments and fights with the girls in our year who decided they hated me and my best friend because we matched our leather boots to our cardigans, had heard of a distant place called university and spoke french.
A one on one fight was okay, but friends had a tendency to jump in, and her friends were three-quarters of the fifth year girls. So mum decided to come and 'referee' the fight. "If she tink she's gonna beat you up, and have all she friend jump in, she mek a sad mistake." So the fight went down, with mum watching the friends. As you can tell, these were the days of old when someone's mum actually commanded respect, and I stomped that illiterate bitch even though she was a foot taller than me. Hopefully I won't need to do that for Clarke, but if I do, well let's just say, I learned from the best, I learned from you Ma.

Just Say No!

I smoked my last cigarette at about 10.30pm on Thursday night. The consequences of smoking through the lergies means almost certainly prolonging it, and worsening it. So I managed to resist when I popped out to buy a newspaper yesterday, and the chesty cough I have today is a sure sign that I made the right decision.
So on a weekend when daughter dearest has skipped off with her Father to visit family and watch football, I am ill, unable to run, drink, smoke or party. Crap. I can't help but feel ever so slightly PISSED OFF at this!
Despite illness, my other unpaid job kicks in as soon as I wake. Motherhood has its compensations, but boy do you have to bust your ass. I get up, wash last night's dishes, load the washing machine, mop the kitchen floor, get the clothes off the line, put the newly washed clothes on the line, cycle to the post office to collect some packages, shout at Clarke to get her bag ready for when her Dad comes, discuss homework, all this before 12pm.
The day is bright and crisp. It's just one of those days... that I can't bear to waste inside, so I phone a friend who lives in Ladbroke Grove, and arrange to visit him. I'll take the train to Notting Hill, and have a trundle down the 'bello. Which despite mass tourism, commericalisation, and high prices, is still a great place to spend a few hours on a Saturday afternoon. I'll have a cup of tea, and a slice of cake somewhere, find a bargain for a tenner, and get some fruit. They say fresh air is good for the constitution. And maybe I won't feel the call of the cancer stick so much if I keep busy.

Doctor, Doctor

Am at home, off work sick. I seem to have an aversion to offices with air-conditioning, and the first of the seasonal lergie plagues has got me. Not quite sure what it is, but I feel shivery, have a headache 24-7, and am sneezing a lot. Never usually go to the doctor's when I feel like this. What they gonna do?
I get very short-tempered and irritable when I'm sick. Like yesterday, when talking to the Bobo Dread, I thought it would be a good time to let him know that I had wasted six years of my life with him, and that he had effectively messed up my chances of getting married, and having a second child. Thanks a lot!
There's just something about being sick which makes you feel like you have the right to act up. 'Its because I'm sick'!
Like today, when I was contacted by this waste of space who had seemed very keen on me. So keen that he tried to feel me up on our first date, and kept trying to invite himself to my house. Our second date never happened. I suggested the cinema, he didn't want to go to the cinema, but said whatever we did would 'need to be cheap and affordable'. Need I say more. Cheaper than the cinema? When I asked what did he have in mind, he didn't actually know. Duh!
So we speak a couple days before my final exam. He says he's looking forward to getting back the girl that he originally met. The fun-loving, carefree woman he met in Atlanta - I was on holiday for gods sake! Whatever man. Call me Thursday.
At midnight on Thursday night, I get a text, "R u up?". I don't even respond.
Today, almost a month later, I get an email: "Hey, I hope you've been well. How's trix?" Trix?!? My response?  "Oh wow, *name*. So nice to hear from you...finally. Good to know that I'm at the top of your list. Not. I've been great. You're a wanker. Don't contact me again." Suddenly feeling much better now.

"Your Mum's A Crackhead!"

It matters little that I've not posted for three days. There's only one story in town: CRACKHEAD KATE. Yes, Kate Moss has finally received the proverbial kick up the jacksy from the British press which has resulted in the loss of several of her lucrative modelling contracts (you know, the ones Naomi never got). As exposes go, this is about as surprising as the headline Dog Bites Man. A woman who earns her living from maintaining the frame of an undernourished child in order to sell clothes which only celebrities, dowagers, and the debt-ridden can afford, has been caught taking cocaine, the party drug known to be an appetite supressant, which helps you stay slim. Quelle horreurs! Oh, and she's descended into the depths of Beelzebub, as she's now also taking crack. I've not been so underwhelmed by a news story since I saw the Queen's breakfast table filled with Tupperware.
One of the most disgusting aspects has been the fashion worlds' rush to her defence. Vanessa Feltz said on BBC London that The Times fashion editor Lisa Armstrong said Kate had been "a bit naughty". But then, what do you expect from a culture which has been pushing the 'by any means necessary' beauty ideal, for centuries. Half of them are using it too. As Martha Daley pointed out, if it had been Naomi, the reaction would have been slightly different.
Should Moss lose her contracts? The hypocrisy of this world knows no bounds. The fashion houses present a facade of perfection to seduce consumers into buying their goods, but know they are building these ideals on foundations of sand. Don't tell me these people didn't know about Kate Moss's drug habit? I'm an addict. I'm addicted to cigarettes, and generally need to smoke one every 3 hours. If you do coke, chances are you're going to need a regular hit - all them trips to the toilet will hardly go unnoticed - but Kate Moss is one of the celebrity world's biggest icons, a licence to print money, so they chose to ignore it preferring instead to profit off the colt-thin 30-somethings continuing coolness.
But what really grates, is that it took so long for their response, and you knew that they didn't really want to drop her, but that they had no choice. Not even for Moss could they be seen to condone class A drug abuse. Personally I hope this serves as a wake-up call to the lost druggy bitch. She's caught up with that trampy, starvin' artist, Pete Doherty - a man that looks like he's got six types of dirt ground into him - and the loser in all this, is her accessory, sorry, child, Lila Grace. You wouldn't know from all the publicity she receives for her Glastonbury, and arguments with Pete antics, but she does indeed have a daughter. I wonder how Mossy will feel when one day Lila G comes home from her posh prep school and asks" "Mum, are you a crackhead?"

Bed's Too Big Without Me

As I cycled down Kennington Road, part of the treacherous ride back from Farringdon (effing white vans) a bronzed leaf fell from a tree and bounced off my chest. As if I needed a reminder that autumn was coming, with winter not far behind. The nip in the air is making morning wardrobe choices difficult, and a sweatshirt is needed for running and cycling. There's not a penny in the winter wardrobe war chest, and magazines are full of new season buys. What's a girl to do? Well, my solution is sleep. Sleep has become my autumn/winter must have. Early nights my newest accessory, and afternoon naps on the weekends are my luxury purchase.
In the Weekend Guardian, a trendhunter said that make-up was boring, and that bedrooms were cool. Making your bedroom a place of comfort, to retreat to, with luxury sheets, duvets etc., is the new black/brown or blue depending on what colour they're hyping this season. I guess that pretty much mirrors my life, as I don't bother with make-up much (what's the point when you're on a bike all the time) and me and my bed are the best of friends.
As the old cliche goes, the best things in life are free. One of them is waking up on a Saturday, with the whole day stretching out ahead of you with no supermarket sweep, and very little housework to do. Just newspapers to read, a comforting dinner to cook, and a bed to get back into after a good run.
Sometimes Clarke will get in the bed and we'll have a chat and laugh together, if it's early in the morning we may both fall back asleep, or she'll go and play safely in the garden while I Iuxuriate in the emptyness of my day, and the lack of demands made of me. It won't last forever, but I'll enjoy it while it does.

The Do's and Don'ts of Dating

Have I mentioned my dislike of dating before? I find it the most alien of situations, which most people don't even know how to do properly. What is so difficult about arranging a place to meet, and getting there on time that most people can't seem to manage. If I'm excited about going out with someone, and they can't even spend a bit of time putting some thought into where they would like to take me, it's usually a non-starter.
Dating creates expectations which the date never seems to live up to. All the men I've ever loved, I didn't meet on a date. And I kinda prefer it that way. So I've declared a moratorium on dating for myself, but for those of a more optimistic nature, and who plan to stick with it, I've compiled a helpful list of do's and don'ts. These are mined from my own experiences and those of my friends who have suffered the misfortune of spending time in the company of men, and women who don't have a fucking clue. In no particular order.

DON'T take someone to a fast food chain restaurant on the first date. Aside from giving her an early heads up to your cheapness, a lack of table manners will ensure there is no second date.
DON'T take someone to a wedding reception on a first date where neither you, nor your date knows anyone. Unless you are Mr or Ms. Personality, it will be extremely boring.
DON'T wear a belt with an electronic display which reads: "If you like what you see, let me know." This will ensure that forever after you will be known as 'Belt', will be a joke among her friends, and your phone calls will go unreturned.
DO shower, wear deodorant, and brush your teeth for longer than a second. Or you can be sure that phone lines will be burning up with tales of your stankness. And no further dates.
DON'T be late. Black People Time is not a good enough excuse, and tardiness on a first date is unimpressive.
DO have a plan of action. Most women would like a man that is capable of arranging something as simple as a nice evening out. We all know that women can do this standing on their heads.
DON'T ask your date if they want you to pay for their ticket, when you are at the front of the queue at the cinema kiosk. If you asked the person out, this goes for ladies too, you should pay.
DON'T ever mention the words 'cheap' and 'affordable' in relation to dating. If you have money issues be creative, but don't make your date feel like a financial burden.
DON'T keep asking to be invited in for 'coffee'. Wait to be asked. No one likes a pushy brother. I don't know how men feel on this issue.
DON'T 'forget' that you have a date, forget to call, and then not be able to go on said date because you are going out to dinner... with someone else. (Yes, that one hurt).
DO clear up any 'situations' you are still involved in BEFORE you start dating.
DON'T reach for her crotch on the first date (K said: "I would've gone for the breast")...unless she reaches for yours first. If you're desperate for the coochie, this is a dead giveaway.
DON'T pull out your roll of bills and say: "I think I've got enough money" before you have even ordered. It makes you look like a crazy-ass drug dealer.
DON'T take mobile calls, or texts while you're dining. What are you a teenager? And the call that can't be ignored is usually from the 'husband/or wife'.
DON'T cancel a few hours before the date. It's rude, and if you don't know someone well enough to know that they will understand, it will let them know that you're just not that interested. Unless that was your intention.
DON'T whinge on about your ex, or mine your date for information about past relationships. First dates are all about new beginnings, not bad endings.

Be careful out there.

That's A Good Look II

KanYe West on CD:UK. I love the way he dresses. And you know he loves it too, cos homeboy ain't the most modest of people.
He's right on the button for autumn/winter men's fashions. Tailoring and suits are big this season. Like you care. I know men seem to be attached to comfortable clothes, but y'all need to embrace your inner Dapper Dan. A man in a suit, and a nice shirt will get more attention from ladies, projects authority, and maturity. Don't just save them for weddings and christenings. I love to see men smartly dressed, wearing shirts, trousers, and nice shoes. Women always look at men's shoes, and a lot of men get dissed because they're shoes are not up too much. I wouldn't rule someone out because they're wearing wack shoes, but if things got serious, I would politely encourage them to try something new. For some men, it's about confidence, but others never got out of their teenage hip-hop mindset, and will only be separated from their Air Force 1s when the Grim Reaper comes a calling.
These days you can't tell the difference between a man aged 25, and one aged 35. They'll both be wearing trainers, baggy jeans, and some branded sweatshirt. Unless they're gay or into fashion. No, it ain't the same thing!
Seeing a man in a suit has an affect on me which I can only compare to a man seeing a woman wearing not very much. But I admit a fit man in a 'wifebeater' also has that affect. Hey, I'm only human!
When I go raving, most women are usually really up-to-date and fashionable, but the men for the most part look ten years out of date, in some ugly printed shirt, and shiny pleated trousers. As Dizzee Rascal said: "Fix Up, Look Sharp." Those that can, do.

On Top O' The World Ma

I've had such a 'butters' week. I felt ug-lee. Every day I got up and looked in the mirror, I frowned at the reflection staring back at me. Everything I was feeling showed in my face, and I looked and felt every one of my thirty-five years. And it felt tiring.
What's happened to the summer glow, the bright eyes, and dewy skin? The wind, and the motherfucking rain, that's what. My skin's dry and patchy, and the Neal's Yard Rose Facial Oil cyaan work no more. Now, I'm putting cocoa butter on my cheeks. The tan's fading, and the winter deathly pale pallor is threatening to take over. No more quick top-ups in the garden in my bikini and shorts. Just running out there to pick up the clothes getting soaked on the line (I fucking hate when that happens).
Was really looking forward to going to The Observer this week, but the butters vibe had me in full grip by Sunday, and by Monday morning I had to admit defeat. Didn't bother with make-up, or a cute outfit, because I knew neither would help. The vodka didn't help either later that evening, but boy I had to try.
When you're feeling butters, taking dressed takes twice as long as you pause to catalogue the perceived imperfections, and nothing looks right. It didn't help that I was cycling to work, as my cold weather cycling attire was butters too, and the ride sweated out my locks. That dragged through a hedge backway and frontway look is not cool.
Planned my running schedule for the week, and dragged my ass out Monday and Tuesday, but blew out Wednesday. Couldn't face it. By Wednesday night I decided enough was enough. I needed to shake the butters monkey off my back and fix up, look sharp. So I dug out a suitably sparkly outfit (I love me some sequins), some cute shoes, and dumped the bike. A bit of slap, and Bob's your mother's brother (lol). Finally, the cloud started to lift. Good thing too as I bumped into a couple of people and sod's law dictates that you always see people you know when you look busted.
Friday came, and almost back to normal. I packed my running gear to run back from Farringdon. Not having done such a long run for a while I wasn't sure I could make it, but I know I can walk it, so just planned to do what I could. I put on the running tights, t-shirt, and tracksuit top. As I walked out of the office I caught sight of my bum in the reflection of the glass, the butters vibe was still there as I thought: "My bum looks MASSIVE!". But I just tried to forget about it. Put on my running playlist, and got going. It's a nice run from Farringdon, past Smithfield Market, along Victoria Embankment, and across Waterloo Bridge. On the bridge I stop to take in the view. It's breathtaking. I run past the South Bank, some good al-fresco dining spots there now. Must visit. Then zipped through the crowds at the London Eye.
Other runners breeze past me, but I keep going. Jamiroquai's perfect summer song, 7 Days in Sunny June is playing, I keep bobbing along, trying to speed up, and nodding my head to the beat as I run. As I approach Vauxhall, The Roots 'Everybody Is A Star' strikes up, I get a spring in my step which brings me home. And I've made it, in just 30 minutes. Butters vibe well and truly dispersed. Look out now, on top of the world ma!

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.