A Kid Is For Life

Last night went to a party given by journo friends in Hackney. As I couldn't be arsed to take my child to my mum's, I decided to take her with me. It was in east London, Hackney, and I knew I wouldn't stay that long, because I didn't have my cab fare home, and if I stayed there longer than two hours, would no doubt get stupidly drunk, then horny, and then frustrated, as the average age of the men present is around 21!

Unsurprisingly, Clarke was the only child there, but she knew a few people, my former classmates, and found a spot near the tortillas. Devs, whose party it was, looked after her brilliantly, making her a toasted cheese sandwich, and H made sure she didn't touch the alcohol.

Taking children to an adult party probably doesn't happen much these days mainly because most people don't actually seem to be able to control their bad-ass kids. "Oh, oh, don't do that darling" Mummy says weakly as her kids charge through her poor friend's house wreaking some Hurricane Katrina type havoc. I don't play that. My kid knows better than to play up when we're out. I'm not in anyway saying I am the perfect mother, but, the mistake people make is thinking that you need to wait until a child is about five to start disciplining them. Bad behaviour, using inappropriate language is seen as cute and goes unchecked. By then, it's way too late. You're kids start acting like something out of The Exorcist and you're left playing catchup. Forever.

People always go on about the European lifestyle being more child-friendly. 'Oh, they love having children in their restaurants and they eat proper food, no turkey twizzlers' says Battersea yummy Mummy. Bitch please. There is no culture more child-friendly than African culture. Black kids go everywhere their parents go - lest we forget, even into the fields while cotton was being picked. Pay babysitter to look after your child? You white people have money to spend oh. Nev-er. The only time I've paid to look after Clarke were her nursery, while I was studying for my first degree.

When I was a kid, you went everywhere with your parents. And you ate what they ate. There's no 'oh, Butterfly doesn't like spicy food'. Butterfly eats what mummy and daddy eat. I rarely saw a fish finger, or a sausage, unless it was for my breakfast. Dinner, was fish and rice, dumpling and green banana. Steak and rice and peas. Mackerel rundown, with hard food. Cowfoot, pigs trotters, roast chicken, jerk pork, the usual. I used to think it was exotic when I got a Yorkshire pudding with my dinner! And it's the same for Clarke. I think, I've always had a good instinct for raising children, which personally I think I should exploit by having many more of the blighters. But that's another post. But for all of you that don't have them - here's my tip. If Clarke didn't want to eat her dinner, I would take it away. If she asked for anything else like biscuits, cakes, whatever. I would say to her but you said you weren't hungry, you didn't eat your dinner. And I wouldn't give her anything else. Nothing. Being my child, she love a food really, so she would always crack, and eat the food. I didn't try and find her something else she would eat, or cook two different meals. Fuck that - I'm not your personal chef, either you eat my food, or you eat nothing.

My neighbour said her kid would only eat chocolate, and crackers...! Obviously I'm looking at her like what kind of adult are you, if you allow that to happen? There is no black household that I know of, where that could run. That child would eat nothing until she decided to eat something, even if she ended up looking like something out of Biafra. Black mummies don't play dat.

Yummy mummy says 'In Europe, the whole family goes out together, sitting in cafes and restaurants, and walking around late at night.' Bitch please. My mum used to take me and Big Sis out late at night. We used to go to parties, or round to friends. All the kids would hang together and when we got tired, we would be put on a bed, invariably the one with coats on it. By the end of the night we'd be underneath a mountain of coats. Once, I was buried so deep, my mum actually couldn't find me. Obviously we weren't babies, because that would be dangerous no?

Times have changed, and if I have a sitter (my mum or Suzie Wong) I don't take Clarke to events which are more suitable for adults for a couple of reasons. I think it's important for children to maintain an innocence, and although I think the Rabbit incident may have blown that for me..., I don't think it's healthy for her to be the only child around adult company. Unless it's a family do. Time spent with friends will usually involve conversations which oughtn't to be heard by a child like, "X told me his brother's girl put him out, and threw his clothes into the street.' Why? 'He said, 'she's just going on 'garotty'." Garotty? Hahaha. Don't you just love street-slang. What does it mean? Off-key, crazy, evil, whatever. Apparently I'm so behind with that one, its already been battered (used a lot), and is dead on road, all without me being aware of it. I know there are some people that won't be surprised by that. (FU - S) Anyhow, Clarke doesn't really need to know about X's brother's girl going on 'garotty'. And what with her being the granddaughter of Antennae Annie (my mum), who suffers from an extreme case of 'flappy ear-sitis' I definitely have to be vigilant.

Last month I made an exception for her godmother's baby shower. I knew there wouldn't be any children there but now that Clarke is 11, it's time for her to learn how to conduct herself well socially among grown-ups. Home-training children doesn't end, it just changes. I mean who is going to teach her, if not I? I remember riding her about using her knife and fork properly when we were at home. Cutting food up and chewing nicely. I can't bear people that eat badly, it's a dealbreaker men. She couldn't understand why she had to be concerned when she was at home. 'It's really not about embarrassing yourself and me when we're eating in a restaurant or at someone else's house.' Then earlier this year I proudly showed her the news stories about schools having to teach children how to use a knife and fork properly. That's a special kind of parenting 'wotlessness' when you can't even teach your seed how to eat their food in a civilised manner. Words. Fail. Me.

I don't want Clarke to be the mute, sullen child kid in the corner, but rather the friendly, communicative, smart girl that she is. I want her to know how to act in different situations, and always encourage her to ask for things in shops, and buy train tickets and stuff herself, so that she learns how to do it and gains confidence doing it. She said, 'oh it's going to be boring. What am I going to do?'. 'You're going to make yourself useful, help serve the adults drinks, and food, and make conversation. Don't just be the monosyllabic child who can't string a sentence together sitting in the corner'. So she did. And she did really well. As usual I got lots of compliments for how well-behaved she is (come on that's standard- or should be), but I was really impressed with how she conversed with people. Every so often I would see her holding a conversation with someone, and at one point she was talking to three women who were all asking her questions. And she spoke very well, no 'ya get me's', and they were really impressed by her. Which made me feel really proud.

Clarke was a bit bored at the house party. I did my social 'butterfly' thing. Talked to a few people, got a heads-up on a job, and had a few drinks. Not too much mind, not while in charge of a minor. We got home about 12.30, she was really tired, and admitted she's not quite ready for the late night socialising. At which point I put her to bed, got my second wind, and hit the second spot for the night. She's got plenty of time to catch me up.

The Food Is Free, But The Girl Is Not Ready

As much as I love watching television, I...let's be diplomatic here...despise TV people. I speak from a position of knowledge, as I once worked for a television channel for a few years. It is the ultimate career in which you need a degree in arse-kissing. Hence, my need to escape from it. It may be naive of me, but I find that less arse-kissing is more. I can't and won't do it, and if that means that I won't be the next Natasha Kaplinsky (TV's belle du jour) then I'm okay with that. Mainly because she dresses like a woman to whom this season still means shoulder pads and pastel suits, and has a hairstyle which was last seen in the window of a men's barbers. Miaow. I digress.


The reason for this renewed resurgence in my dislike of TV people is that I recently came into contact with some of them. I got an email looking for people to be part of the audience for Michelin starred chef Gordon Ramsay's new television. As well as his widely acclaimed cooking, he's famous for having a mouth like a navvy (sailor). The motherfucker swears like Snoop Dogg, and Eminem combined. So me being a lover of good food thinks, I'd like to taste his cooking. And me having no money to visit one of his high post restaurants thinks, 'free food' where do I sign. So I email them and send my details to be included. I get a questionnaire back, it's long. It takes me around half an hour to complete. I get a phone call from the TV person, who then asks me some more questions, and tells me when filming will take place. Then she asks me if I can come and 'meet' the producer. *sighs*. Okay I say, as it's on my way home. When I get to the production company, I'm seated where a man is waiting. The producer comes out and we're both called in to a room where a camera is set up to film us as they ask us stupid questions. No one told me there was going to be any camera.

They want me to perform, and because I know this, I don't want to. Bear in mind I've just done a full day's work, it's Friday, by which time my body is ready to quit, and I need a drink. I mean, yes, I would like to eat a Gordon Ramsay meal, but I don't see why I should have to shuck and jive for it. Fuck you.

The female TV cretin starts talking about what a 'privilege' it is to enjoy a free three course meal from one of Britain's top chefs. I look at her thinking to myself 'Why has this bitch made me feel like getting up and slapping her until she stops talking shit to me?' It just made me so mad. She was acting like she was going to do me a favour. There was no warmth, or friendliness, or even a smidgen of gratitude for the fact that I had gone out of my way to come and listen to her talking shit to me. She said 'why should we pick you?' Now, I didn't realise it was an audience member beauty contest, otherwise I would have told her to stick her free meal up her tight skinny ass. As my friend pointed out, I'm a serious soon-to-be journalist, not someone looking to be on fucking Big Brother. The arrogance of these people. It quickly reminded me of why I had to leave that vacuous, self-important world behind. You won't be surprised to hear, I haven't heard from the TV assholes since. But that's okay, I know how to cook quite well thank you.

A Face for TV

Think I may be over going to the cinema by myself. There was a man in the back row sucking his thumb. I saw him when the lights came up just before the film started. Those that know me well (shut it S), know that I'm partial to a bit of the old thumbsucking myself. A childhood habit my mum tried desperately to break me out of by doing the type of things that nowadays I could get her ass prosecuted for child cruelty. She tried putting pepper on it, bottle steriliser fluid, slapping it out my mouth, and shouting at me. None of it worked. I guess you could say I'm stubborn. I only do it now when I'm really tired. HONEST! But this big-old fool was in the back of the cinema doing it. Now that's just weird. And he was rustling around and making funny noises. I daren't look round again.

Then there was this other fool, whose mobile went off, and he proceeded to have a conversation on his phone. Some people sitting in his row came over to mine. Then the security guard came in and removed his sorry ass. Which is good because I was getting ready to go over there myself. All while I was trying to watch A History of Violence.

The film was interesting. Not as violent as I thought it might be. But ultimately forgettable. Viggo Mortensen is one skinny man. He has that Hollywood leading man figure. Check out Brad Pitt, Kevin Bacon and Tom Cruise. They is some skinny-ass men. But Brad Pitt did look wicked in the film Troy. 'Buffulous' as Shaggy would say. He wouldn't say it about Pitt though.


I bombed it to the cinema after doing an interview with BBC News. Yes people, like I said I'm ready for my close-up. Over the summer I volunteered to help with the campaign for a new secondary school, The Mandela School, to be built in Brixton. At the moment, the Liberal Democrat majority council in Brixton are blocking the parent-led bid, even though the government are willing to front £25million to build the school. Why? Because the council don't want to pay £4million for the land to build the school on. This is despite the fact that Lambeth council have earned millions from selling off ten secondary schools, and the land they were built on to private developers. No surprise that the money's gone and Brixton still pretty much resembles downtown Beirut. In fact, Beirut probably looks better. I came out of the cinema, and there were so many fricking drug-dealers hanging around, in the rain, it seemed almost rude not to buy any crack. The four glasses of wine I drank today saw me take five minutes too long to unchain my bike and get the fuck out of Dodge, but I think the sight of my ridiculously baggy trousers secured with fluorescent bike clips kept them at bay.


I met with some of the other mothers involved in the campaign at a house in Brixton. Made me feel all grown-up being in their company. Doing television things make me nervous, but, I feel a responsibility to represent on behalf of my community, because even though this campaign is for a school in Brixton, an area populated by a large African and Caribbean community, the campaign is mainly represented by white middle-class men and women. More power to them. But the council have used that as a stick to beat the campaigners with, because they say they don't represent the whole community. And in a way they are right. Black people also need to step up to the plate, because this affects our kids too, if not more.

Seventy-five per cent of children who live in the borough of Lambeth, have to travel to school outside of the area they live. Including my child. This means, the money that we bust our guts for and pay in taxes, is not providing the services that we need for our children where we live. Do you think that situation would happen in an affluent part of London? The secondary school situation in Lambeth is the worst in the entire country.

The interview went okay I think. I'm sure will be painful for me to watch as I pick nine kinds of wrong out of my appearance ( I'm vain - sue me). I just hope I manage to get the message across, and it doesn't end up being manipulated into something which puts the campaign in a negative light. It'll be run on the day the government release their White Paper on schools and parental choice (the myth of parental choice rather). Which could be any day between Sunday evening and Tuesday of next week. On a more trivial note, I rode straight to to the interview from work and didn't have time to touch up the maquillage. I will no doubt look like hell on screen. Oh well. At least I won't be another in a long line of sisters on TV wearing a busted up weave too. Sorry June (Sarpong, pictured above).

Trouble and Strife*

The 'Race Swap' programme is playing in the background as I blog. But a comment by the narrator screeched through my ears like chalk on a blackboard. The narrator said "Linford Christie's girlfriend of twenty-three years." TWENTY-THREE YEARS! WHAT THE FUCK??? Shame on you Linford Christie. The woman has three kids for him. THREE. That's three pregnancies of nine months each, three lots of gaining an extra two plus stone (she ain't lose the last lot of baby-fat either), three average 12 hour labours, plus 23 years of long-suffering service as his woman, an' 'im cyaan put a ring pon she finger! Not that I was ever a big Christie fan, ever since he tried to deny paternity of his first pickney dem. Twins. I know their mother, her family lived in the block opposite mine in White City. Lovely girl.

What is this? How you gonna be calling the mother of your children, your 'girlfriend' or no doubt 'wifey' that other honorary term which when translated means 'bitch I'm never ever going to marry', after 23 years. I just don't get it? Me, I refuse to have another child with any man that's not ready to put a ring on my finger. You better recognise. What is this mentality that it is easier to breed a child, and be connected to them and the mother for the rest of your life, but that marriage is something that needs long-term consideration? Personally, if you ain't ready to marry, what you having a child or three for? This is some topsy-turvy business going on. Okay, I may be one to talk, single parent and all, but for the record, Father of Clarke did ask me to marry him and was ready to make that committment, before the baby came along. The rest of that story is my business thank you very much. But you done know, in the last eleven years, I have not considered pushing out a baby for no man, that ain't ready to be a husband. Obviously Linford Christie's 'girlfriend' is happy with the way things are, but I think it's sad and is symptomatic of the laissez faire attitude in the black community to CO-MITT-MENT.

As one of my friends pointed out on Saturday, she has three sisters, between them there is seven children. Not one wedding has their mother bought a hat for yet. The youngest is 30 (no kids). Although I hate to sound like a member of the moral majority, I think you only have to look at the chaos that is reigning among young black kids, in particular West Indian kids, the under-achieving, the rudeness, the criminal activity to see that they are being failed by their lack of a strong family unit. The common-law couple ting ain't working. Yes, we know that many marriages are failing, but many of us are not even giving the pickney dem a fighting chance. Mothers are having to be 'daddy' to boys and girls, and it's not working. When the relationships break up, it's all too easy to just walk away with what you came in with. Too many fathers don't pay maintenance, don't do homework, and are not there for the Xmas play or to support mummy when things get on top.

As soon as I knew, aged 24, that I was pregnant, my first thought was, this man is going to be a part of my life for ever. But I knew, that whatever happened, he would remain a father to his child. And thank God, I was right. We put our issues to one side, and made sure that Clarke was the priority. And so she remains. Clarke's Dad has a key to my house, which he uses to let himself in when he comes over twice a week. I know one man, has five kids, three different mothers, no rings for either of them, but he supports his kids, not just financially, but equally as important emotionally.

What is this fear of marriage? And I am putting the majority of the blame on men, because I know that many of my sister's do want to get married. When I was on one of my ski-trips, this brother was telling us he had just got engaged, we all cooed. "How lovely, congratulations. How long have you been together?" "Twelve years." We looked at him like he was the sorriest motherfucker that ever existed, and then he told us that he didn't spend a month's salary on the ring. It was too much money. At which point we turned our backs and ignored his ass.

Of course, women need to shoulder some of the blame for putting up with these sorry-ass men, and breeding for them. Me? You're crazy. My last relationship ended because my ex wasn't ready. Fair enough. But I ain't keeping house, cooking food, or pushing out no babies for a man that's not ready to get me some bling - and it doesn't even have to be a motherfucking diamond! As my Nigerian mother says: "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free."

Black people, we need to put our house in order. There are just some things you can't blame pon da white man.

*Trouble and Strife is cockney rhyming slang for wife

This Used To Be My Playground

I want you to think back to when you were a child, and recall your memories of playing outside...Do it right now......

I read an article in The Ecologist about how little children play outside, mainly because of the fear of their parents, and the lack of green spaces in urban areas. The article asked you to do the above exercise. It really brought back some memories.

It was the 70s. My sister and I used to go to the adventure playground on our estate.There was a playscheme, and in the summer they took us on trips to ice-rinks, museums, and the seaside. Or we played games on the concrete pitch, or rode the swings, being carried high into the telegraph posts the structures were built from, bruised and battered from bumping into them or other people. Snagging yourself on a nail was common, and or falling a few feet to the dusty ground when trying to 'border' someone. We just used to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves down, and climb back up.

During the holidays, as long as we weren't on punishment for some minor infraction, like not sweeping the passage, or breaking something, we were out from dawn till dusk. Off to the adventure playground, and then back in the block playing our own version of World Cup football. Then run-outs, or knock down ginger, upsetting the old people. Then we'd sit talking, bussing joke, trying to eke out the time until your Mum shouted you to come home clean from the next block.


We huddled in each other's houses to watch the brilliant brown Brazilians playing in the World Cups. They were our team now. "I'm Zico, I'm Falcao, I'm Socrates". The fact that my daughter loves football and wears her football kit 24-7 surprises some people, but not me. I played football every day, and climbed on the sheds in the block next to QPR on Saturdays to watch the game. And then when I was in secondary school, I used to go to games with my half-Greek, half-Scottish friend Pam who Dad owned the chip shop near the stadium.

We organised our own football tournaments, going to the other blocks to play matches. They would always end in some acrimony over a foul or a contested penalty, but by the time we walked to the chip shop, it would be all over. We rode each other's bikes, as we didn't all have one. Went to Starlight Roller Express, me in my blue and yellow skate boots, skateboarded down the subway, and built ramshackle ramps in the block.


Sitting inside in front of the TV was unheard of, and our parent's ferried us nowhere. We'd go swimming in Lime Grove pool, near the BBC in Shepherd's Bush. Thank god they taught us to swim at school, if it was up to my mum I might never have learnt. Like a lot of Jamaicans of her generation, despite coming from an island, she never learnt how. We would walk up to Shepherd's Bush, a gang of us, with our costumes rolled up in a towel. I must have been about seven or eight, my sister a year older. The changing cubicles were right at the poolside.

On a Saturday morning, you prayed that Mum was in a good mood so you could get the money to go to Saturday morning pictures at the Odeon. My mum never drove, so we walked or ran everywhere. If I went to visit my Aunty in Greenford, she put us on the bus, waving us off, with no mobile phone to check that we were okay.

The lack of play is having a negative effect on children's health contributing to the huge rise in childhood obesity. The fact that time spent on physical education in schools has fallen from something like six hours a week to just two, is definitely a major contribution. The governments response? Remove snack vending machines. I wonder how long it took them to think of that brilliant idea.

As a parent, I know first-hand how coddled children are these days. But you have to allow them to become independent. In fact Clarke let me know when she was in primary school that she was ready to travel solo to school. Because she likes to play football she is fairly active, but the outdoor playing lifestyle is difficult where we live. We don't live on estate, so she doesn't have a gang of kids to hang with. I take her out cycling, and push her out the door to kick ball when the sun's shining. Her Dad takes her football training in the park. She's going to start jogging with me soon, so she can increase her fitness levels for football.

But her generation are missing out on the innocence of childhood play, and it's not they're fault. It's the adults who've taken away the playing fields to build houses, the adults who are responsible for the conditions which have led to the increase of crime, the lack of police on the streets, and the molly coddling culture which sees many parents wrap their children in a security blanket of game consoles, and gadgets to keep them happy, and indoors.

A Big Butt And A Smile

Went to the local yokel raving spot last night, because a) we could get in free, and b) after a week at The Times, I was in need of a drink and a chance to get footloose. I got home around 9pm from seeing my new baby god-daughter, who's looking good and gaining weight. Parents look well too - not the usual post-baby train wrecked, shell of a human being. Spoke to Suzie Wong, who confirmed we were on the guest list, and some friends celebrating a hen night would be down there. As it wasn't a big pre-planned night out, I wasn't really too fussed about what I would be wearing, until I started looking and realised I didn't have anything to wear.

I have three dresses out of commission, last week's gum on the booty incident dress, the white strapless figure hugger that got trashed on the stag night, and the black pleated bodice prom dress I managed to wash the pleats out of. It said you could put it in the machine. It's okay, it only cost my Dad £135. I have a few other dresses which I've had to retire on the grounds of 'sending the wrong message', so it was clear it was time to get creative.

I pulled out the Chloe lookey-likey flared jeans from TopShop I bought two summers ago - and still have not worn. Reason being, I bought the exact same style in white needlecord, and wear that pair more. I paired it with the gold sequinned Primark vest, layered over a white vest, and the teal blue velvet military jacket, again from Primark. But, I thought the white ones would have looked more dressed up. Unfortunately they were in the laundry basket. I went and pulled them out, but realised they were in there for a reason so put them back. Then I remembered I had a pair of white hipster jeans I bought in a Gap sale for £10. Although they were a size 16, my size, they didn't fit at all when I bought them but progress has been made, I can actually do them up now. But realised I wouldn't be able to sit down in public without exposing my crack, and they may split if I tried to 'whine and go down'. Also, I felt like I was wearing one Primark item too many. One is a trend, two is a dependency. With it being the local yokel rave spot, I couldn't be certain I wouldn't bump into a fellow Primarkanista (copyright BJ). I just couldn't risk it.

My second pick was a black wrap top, with tiered cap sleeves that dips quite low in the front from ToSho, and a black 'essential this season' pencil skirt with a 'scandal split' in the front and the back. Although I bought the skirt four years ago from ToSho for Clarke's 8th fancy dress birthday party when all the adult helpers dressed as schoolgirls. I do love me some Britney Spears. The Bobo Dread has video footage of me falling on my back with my legs in the air in said skirt after spectactularly failing to do the limbo. The things you do for your kids. I tried the outfit on, and asked Clarkie what she thought. She said: "Your bum looks massive in that skirt mum." That'll do then.


I tried the pink suede round-toe shoes with a fat ribbon on the side from Poste Mistress, bought in Manchester last year - still haven't worn them. Clarke said they didn't go. So went for the Kurt Geiger courts again. The ones that hurt after an hour. But they look sooo good. Even the doorman said so. After applying several pieces of tit tape to secure the top, you can't wear a bra with it - well you can, but it'll be exposed and I wasn't doing that look - tonight. It was more of a Maggie Gyllenhaal in The Secretary meets Jennifer Lopez look. Sober and sexy, accessorised with a big butt and a smile.


So we get to the club, and make our entrance 'TA DAAAA'! My friend S always accuses me of liking to make an entrance when I go out. I think I must have been an old movie star in a past life. I grew up watching the films of Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Faye Dunaway and Audrey Hepburn, and love that old movie star glamour. You takes your pleasures where you finds 'em. And after a few weeks languishing in self-pity, receiving bills and bank charges I can't pay, and working for nada I was ready for my motherfucking close-up.

The hen party was in full swing, and the brandy was flowing. Saw a few people I knew, including 'stone the crows' Martha Daley. I was shocked to see her because she hates ghetto nightclubs. But she was there celebrating her cousin's birthday. Her fine-ass Jamaican cousin was there too. He seemed pleased to see me. As I was to see him. Shame the motherfucker went and got himself married with children. No one can dance like a man from 'Jamrock' so we paired up and whined for JA to the bashment music. Thankfully the skirt had lycra in it, otherwise I woulda buss out of it like the She-Hulk. He said: "For an English gyal, you know all de tune dem." Little did he know I had to be taught how to whine my waist by my sister (the tune was Bandolero) when I was in my early twenties and had spent too many years listening and dancing to hip-hop.


While I was 'gettin' on bad' with 'Jamrock', my sometime dancing partner (and no that is not a euphemism for a bit of the other) turned up and was watching me which led to a slightly awkward moment. For him. After I ain't got no ring on my finger. He was alright after a few conciliatory 'crubs' (dances). As DJ Mistri says: "USE DEM". In between playing records and buying Martha Daley a drink Mistri also found time to compliment me on the perkiness of my breasts. Cheeky sod. But shamefully, I admit I loved it really. I have a bit of a complex about my Outspans - and if enlargements didn't involved anaesthetic, scalpels, two pouches of whatever they use these days, and 10 grand, I might consider boosting them up a size or two.

All in all, it was an unexpectedly good night at da club. Two dancing partners, four drinks, or was it five, and a lift home. I'm all set for another week of indentured labour on The Times. Hollaaaa!

If They Could See Me Now

It's been four months since I finished my postgraduate degree in Newspaper Journalism. It gives me great satisfaction that I have completed a second degree, as I can now use it as a stick to beat my daughter with. Anytime she argues with me over a misspelt word (the youth of today) I loudly say I HAVE TWO DEGREES, I know what I'm talking about!

Since finishing my studies, I've been doing work experience at The Observer, and this week I started at The Times. It really tickles me that I'm working at The Times, one of the world's oldest, most respected, and famous newspapers. Sometimes I fancy that people are thinking, "Who is she? What is she doing here?". Lil' ol me, Butterfly Jones from White City Estate, in previously unfashionable Shepherd's Bush. Obviously we acquired the mantle of coolness once anointed by the presence cooking queen Nigella Lawson.

As you would expect, it's very intense at The Times. Work is being thrown at me left, right and centre. Serves me right for bigging myself up on the profile of myself the editorial assistant sent round. I'm doing a feature on Ghost hunter walks, and lots of research for the section editors.

Apart from trying to get through my workload, I'm soaking up the atmosphere at Times House. I take a trundle around the newsroom to see one of my friends, and just to be nosy. For some people, work experience is all about the name on the CV, and of course that helps, but I also look at it as an opportunity to see if this is a place that I'd really like to work. So far I like the fact that it's not far from my house, and I can cycle there in 30 minutes, as long as I don't get lost (which I did on the way home yesterday). There's a Fitness Exchange gym five minutes away, the corporate gym membership is very necessary for keeping the lard at bay. Although judging from this week's workload, not sure if I'd be able to leave my desk to go. The people are cool, if a little busy. I'm working on the health section Body and Soul, my favourite part of the Saturday Times. The commissioning editor is very thorough, gives good feedback, and the space to do the work.

I've now worked at The FT, The Sunday Mirror, The Observer and The Times. Achieving a long held ambition to work as a newspaper journalist. Despite knowing this was what I wanted to do from a young age, not once did I receive any encouragement from my school to attend University, instead, they sent me to a nursery for work experience. If they could see me now.

I may not have a permanent job just yet, but I enjoy going into these places, and showing what I can do. Succeeding in journalism is a combination of a modicum of talent, and luck. So far, the luck parts eluding me. But I hope that talent will out in the end. If not there's always pole-dancing (do you know how much dem gyal get paid?).

As I cycled to work this morning, a beautiful one at that, I approached Tower Bridge (Death Ride No. 2 in a series of hundreds), but the traffic was backed up because the bridge was being raised to let a boat through. I've not been on the bridge when thats happened before. This is what people come to London for. It was the most amazing sight. Some people looked pissed off at having to wait. But I just enjoyed the spectacle. As the bridge lowered itself, Cassidy's "I'm A Hustler" began to play on the Ipod shuffle I've stolen from daughter dearest, reminding me that at this moment this is what life is about for me.

Earthquake? What Earthquake?

Damn. Pakistan is getting treated like a step-child. I guess it's not the most popular of holiday destinations. For a country which has suffered a loss of life, estimated at 20,000 people, many of them children, the newspaper coverage has been strangely low key. Even at the watercooler, Sienna Miller and Daniel Craig's one-night stand (I would have given him two) is the gossip of choice.

BBC News is holding it up with its news coverage (Breakfast News). Although I did think it was a bit weird when the woman who's usually smiling inanely on the sofa was reporting live from Muzzafarabad. It was like seeing Anne Diamond on the spot. Jon Snow did his usual sterling work - as soon as I heard his voice, I ran from the kitchen to hear his report. Although was slightly dismayed when his hair looked decidedly thin. I digress. Nothing but love for JS ever since he said (BE = Before Eminem) that he loved hippity-hop.

On Tuesday Vanessa Feltz did a phone-in about the disaster. Bear in mind it happened on Sunday. It was prompted by people contacting her to ask why it wasn't being talked about. This is terrible. Just when you thought you'd seen the mother of all disasters in New Orleans, this shit comes along. "Brothers and Sisters, I don't know what this world is coming to." Some people were emailing Vanessa saying they weren't prepared to donate money to the country that's been a training ground for terrorists. Holding feelings. Many of those killed were children, can't see how this viewpoint relates to them.

Tony Blair pledged £100,000, and Bush $100,000. As the Jamaicans would say: "That cyaan mash ants." Translation: It's just a drop in the ocean. I think Blair's now pledged £10m. Lest we forget, the Empire was built on the labour of workers from countries like Pakistan.

What has been impressive is the response of the Pakistan and Islamic community in the UK, who have mobilised resources, and organised a relief effort to help their people. Allah helps those that help themselves. The pictures of the boy plucked from the rubble by a French rescue and search team four days after the quake can't have failed to soften the hearts of those who would visit the sins of the fathers on the children of Pakistan. The people need help, and regardless of where they are from, or what they're countrymen have done, we must help them.

Late Night Blues

My brain has been dead since the weekend. Why? Because I went to a 'blues' dance and didn't make it home until 8am. (Don't look at me like that!) What can I say, I was enjoying myself. Despite the fact that I wore the Gwen Stefani toe-cleavage, cone-heeled shoes which started hurting after just an hour. I couldn't resist them, they look sooo good. But when you're not the driver, all you can do it grin and bear it. And drink to numb the pain. Not too much mind, just enough to take the edge off the burning sensation in the sole of your foot.

The rave was in Canning Town, east London, otherwise known as 'foreign'. All the usual DJ suspects were there, Mistri (how old are you now?), Desi G, Barry White, and TLC playing soul music from back in the day, and some newer stuff. The ground floor was the hyper room, playing hip-hop and reggae. Elephant Man's tune 'Willie Bounce' fired up the danceflo'. And everyone was bussin' the dance that goes with it. Except me that is. For a minute I felt like a white person in Jamaica observing the locals. But then I realised it was the same dance me and Suzie Wong had been trying to copy from Sean Paul's newest video, so started doing it like it was simple tings. When in Rome. Everyone was laughing and having a go, it's so wicked when a new reggae dance drops, and everyone is bussin' it, people are tipsy, and there's pure vibes in the dance. Fuck all y'all who don't rave, you don't know what you're missing. Well you do now.

Upstairs was the rare groove room. Usually if someone says come to a rare groove dance, I start flicking through my TV Guide and ready my spot on the couch. Some of the tunes they play just get on my bloody nerves. They play the same ones over and over again, like Barbara Streisand and Barry Gibb's Guilty which always gets a rewind. Enough already. But on Saturday they played TUNE. Tunes which, if you don't go to raves like these, you will not hear anywhere else.

People sing along to the popular tunes. For those three minutes, it's like we almost believe we can sing the tune as good as Mary or Faith. Even the guys. If you're nursing a broken heart, you sing it with feeling, hug your friend, and smile that knowing smile. There's a tune for every form of heartbreak, "I Can Love You Better Than She Can", "You Said He Was Your Boyfriend, But He Wasn't Last Night", "You Don't Have To Cry No More", "You're The One", "Cos We Have Nothing To Be Guilty Of" - and on the list goes.

Going to a 'blues' dance is a part of a black teenagers' rite of passage. And judging from the handful of white girls up in the place, it's fast becoming theirs too. What a contribution we've made to society, who knew white people would be able to reverse the lack of rhythm they were blighted by for centuries. Morris dancing doesn't count (thanks S).

I went to my first blues dance with Suzie Wong 13 years ago. I'd come from the hip-hop scene, and going to a blues dance was like 'foreign' to me. Back then, any social celebration, wedding, christening, funeral, was followed by a blues dance. You had to dress up. Trash and ready. You know, proper clothes, dress, skirt, shoes. Men in suits. The girl's still dress up, as for the men.....

Despite the fact that they're not held in the best of venues, with people usually crammed in cheek to jowl which results in beef (between the girls), and it always too hot, hence the constant fanning with a flyer, they're a little piece of black history. A tradition passed from mother to daughter, father to son. I rave the way my mum used to. You don't leave your house until 2am, you drink brandy and champagne, and don't come home til' mornin'.

I used to watch my mum getting dressed up to go to Q Club, and Embassy. Putting on her frock, shoes and Mary Quant black cherry lipstick. When she came in she would put on the rice and peas and go to sleep for a bit. No matter what, the chicken, rice and peas was on the table. And now I do the same. Except for the rice and peas bit, what can I say I'm English! On Sunday after six hours sleep, I was up at 2pm, washed the school uniform, cleaned the house, put on the dinner, did Clarke's hair, and supervised the homework. *Karen White plays Superwoman in the background*

At the dance I heard a record that I really love , I have no idea who it's by. It's called "All For Your Love". "If I had a million dollars, I would give it all to you, I would cross a million mountains for your love baby it's true, honey... I do it all, baby, all for your love, all for l-ove.." Big. Tune. For me, hearing that record was worth the long-ass drive, five hours of foot pressure, minor girl beef (bigger-assed bitch trying to bounce me out my space), and getting a blob of chewing gum stuck on the backside of my favourite TopShop, exposed back, black wrap dress. Yes, the tune's that good.

First Priority

Woke up to the sound of a drum kit being put through seven kinds of Hades coming from the £1m house two doors down from mine. At 9.20am. It is Saturday. My neighbour's son (I use that term descriptively as we're not even on nodding terms) likes to practise his drumming with the windows wide open. But I guess if your daddy's that rich, you just don't give a fuck.
I contemplated writing a note saying: "Your drumming's crap, just stop it. NOW!" But decided to 'llow it. When I have my BBQ next year, with five DJs and full sound system going on 'til mornin', talk to the hand.

I planned to get up early anyhow, to go register for the African-Caribbean Leukaemia Trust's Bone Marrow Register at Kings College Hospital. Prompted by a campaign to find a bone marrow donor for much loved DJ Swing, who's suffering from a rare form of blood cancer Multiple Myeloma. Unless Swing receives a bone marrow transplant from a donor of a similar racial background, he will die.

Unfortunately, a combination of apathy, ignorance or cultural myths, has stopped many black people (because in this instance only a black, mixed-race or asian people will do) from registering. But the determination of Swing's friends, and the ACLT has helped raise the profile of the campaign, through a TV documentary, and by taking the campaign to club nights, Carnival, or anywhere they think they can get the message to the people that can help.

So I get washed, jump on my bike, and aim to get there as the clinic opens at 10am. I think smugly to myself, I'll be the first person there. As I ride up to the hospital, it's just approaching ten o' clock. I pass busy barbers, and full beautyshops. There's even a long queue at a nailshop. Black folk. How come we can get to those places early, but always arriving at the wedding, surprise party, or cinema late? As for those money sucking nail shops, I only ever heard of one black woman that owns one. Richina in Old Kent Road - show her some love. We love dash weh money, but don't invest in what we spend in. Stup-id.

As I roll up in the clinic all pleased with myself, there's about eight people already sitting down. At 10.15. My faith in black people restored. The people at the clinic went through the whole procedure, how the bone marrow would be extracted if you were a match, and if you were a match for someone else on the register, if you agreed, you would be asked to donate to them. Spoke to a brother that was there before me. Came clean from West London. Wasn't bad looking either. Focus Donna.

After that, I'd organised for Clarke to go cinema with Suzie Wong's son to see Goal!, and was off to meet a friend for the afternoon. So I put the child on the bus, and the other child was supposed to meet her at the bus stop near his house. I then do the Cycle of Death from my house in Vauxhall to Forest Hill. The Hill part should have been a clue. It was at this point that I wished I had done some exercise in two weeks, and weighed half by bodyweight. Pure hills I was hitting. Tulse Hill, and then the hill into Forest Hill. It took all my black pride to stay on the bike, and not wheel it up the hill, even though I could have been overtaken by a snail at that point.

I get a phonecall an hour later. "Where's Clarke?" JJ came home, he never saw her up the bus stop. I phone Clarke on the mobile I convinced her to take with her.
"Where are you?".
"I'm in the cinema."
"On your own?"
"Yes. I didn't see JJ outside the cinema."
"So why didn't you call me?"
"I haven't got any credit."
"Oh."
"I'm alright, the film's good."

She went back inside, and because she was talking to me, missed the last five minutes, only saw the guy score a goal, and it was done. Shame. Best laid plans go to waste and all that. Later she said she enjoyed watching the film on her own. Like mother, like daughter.

Phenomenal Women

Although like most women, I am sometimes influenced by my inner bitch. I love the company of women. But they don't always love me. Men will naturally compete to be the Alpha Male, and similarly women do the same. But it's more overt, and is usually decided by a look, and the classic comment: "She thinks she's too nice." Bitch I am nice. As Suzie Wong says "I ain't got no tree in my face."

I've always got on well with guys, and often have been completely oblivious to ones hanging around because they're looking something. Usually it's because I'm too busy looking at something else. A recent survey said that a person needs a network of 18 friends in life to fulfil their needs, that can include family too. Now I can count eighteen people I could potentially hang with, but I wouldn't call all of them 'friends'. When your backs against the wall, it's the people that rally around you that you can call friend. That usually ain't 18 people. But like I said, I love women, but they have to be a certain type of woman.



Women you never feel are competing with you for the attention of men - Never understood that mentality, among friends? I don't play that.

Women that don't see EVERY night out as an opportunity to 'check' man - Can't we just enjoy ourselves. This is a dealbreaker on my birthday.

Women who have your back like Cleo in Set It Off - When the shit goes down, you need to know, preferably beforehand.

Women who know how to act when they're out, in a dance, or meeting people for the first time - Be discreet, don't draw negative attention to yourself, and definitely don't do the running man.

Women who know that you don't ask for the spliff - Don't you know the road code? Wait to be offered bitch.

Women you don't have to escort home because they are too drunk to remember where they live - We is adults now, but will make an exception for birthdays. But not Christmas. It's a pagan festival.

Women who don't bite your style, pretend it theirs, and then try to act like they showed you - You ain't fooling no one cos we all remember your no style having ass before you started rolling with me

Women you converse with and all the conversations don't revolve around how 'wotless' brothers are - Dump the motherfucker already, we're bored now. (Okay I am guilty of that one - I ain't perfect)



Women who are ambitious, and want to achieve something in life - Not just looking a man to boops (sugar daddy).

Women who try to be good mothers - They help you out, and always have a pot on the stove

Women who can talk politics and lipsticks - A mind is a terrible thing to waste, knowledge is power sisters.




PHENOMENAL WOMEN by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.


I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Weave It Out!

As a frustrated fashion designer (in my own mind), I believe stylishness to be next to godliness, and pour pity those who fall short. That includes myself on occasion. But the one area that really gets me going is people who inflict their bad taste on their children. Note to mothers: matching your outfit to your 2-year old kids' is not cool. More like fool. Especially if it's head to toe pink and involves fake fur.



Today I saw a woman and her young child, about 6 yrs old wearing hair extensions. Both with several rows of a reddy/plum colour. At Clarke's primary school, girls as young as five, were wearing weave. Yes you read me right. WEAVE. One of her classmates turned up with a head of RED and BLUE weave. Do their parents have rocks in their heads? What is going on in your mind when you put weave, not even their natural hair colour, but RED, BLONDE or BLUE WEAVE, in a young black child's head? *Cue Public Enemy* "And some of us by the way that we act, we even lost our minds".

Then you got the kid's who can't count, but are weighed down by gold medallions, and bracelets. Head to toe in namebrand and can't spell Timberland. And the kids dressed like hoochie mama's by their parents. In my day, it was cute when little girls wore shorts. But when the girl is wearing a crop top, and the shorts are coochie skimming Christina Aguilera style, it looks slutty. How you gonna have your five year old looking slutty? What with all the paedophiles out there, surely you don't wanna be dressing your kid up to look like the most tempting morsel on the fucking table. Hey Mr. Paedophile, PICK HER!!!

But I really despair at what has happened to black children. Other cultures have hung onto to their ways and traditions. Not us. We so quick to disregard the old ways. Unnatural hair, bad ass kids with no respect or fear of their parents, home training gone out the window, and the children have more expensive mobiles and clothes than working people.



Too many women take the weave/extension option. They grow up not knowing how to manage their own hair. "Oh, I can't go natural, it's not me, it doesn't suit my glamorous style" one woman said to me. The cheek of the over-permed, heifer. If 'greyhound' miniskirts (so short you can see the hair), and breast out of door tops are glamorous I'm a 'locks sporting bag lady.



How is using hair extensions encouraging your child's hair to grow, or encouraging a respect for their natural hair? When are we gonna get over the fact that we didn't get the hair that can 'Wash and Go'! One of Clarke's classmates came to school without her extensions and her hair was short and picky like a boys'. She was ridiculed all day, and must have felt ashamed of her natural hair which has been ruined by extensions. Surely doing this only encourages a black girl to think of her hair as a problem, something to be covered up, and hidden under wefts of European style hair.



I cornrow my daughter's hair every week. I only learnt after I had her (thanks to encouragement from my girl Suzie Wong), and although it's a pain in the arse sometimes, mostly I enjoy making her hair look nice, myself. I do it on a Sunday, while we watch a cheesy family movie on Channel 5. My mum couldn't cornrow, so me and my sis used to have some big 'do-do' plaits, or I would persuade my mum (if she wasn't tired) to do it really small, which looked nice. Doing Clarke's hair is a ritual that we share as mother and daughter. Which I think is more important than sharing a head of harvested, dyed and chemically treated human hair.

Jill Scott *sings* "I Need You"

I have nothing to write about. Well I do, but I can't. I don't want to write about being bothered about the fact that I haven't got a job yet, unlike three-quarters of my postgrad classmates (if not all by now). Nor do I want to write, again, about the fact that that I don't have a man, and would quite like someone to go watch films with, get drunk with, and then fuck his brains out until we're spent. And do it again and again and again. And again (does such a man exist?). Nor do I want to write about the fact that my winter wardrobe is bare, and I'm still wearing last season's played out looks.
So instead, I'm just going to post a picture of Terrence Howard, and fantasise that he is my man, we are married, and are gonna practise making some fine looking babies together...dang this Rabbit is loud....

Freaky Friday

There seems to be a bit of a role reversal situation going on in my house. Daughter dearest looks at me disapprovingly as I break the news to her that I am going out. Tonight. It is a Sunday. She gives me the evil eye, lectures me on why it's not a good idea to go out on a Sunday night, and when she sees I'm not moving from my stubborn teenager stance her face goes into ‘bent out of shape’ mode. She tries her utmost to make me feel guilty for pulling this on her, but I refuse to, because I’ve spent the previous three weekends at home (yes I do count them) and rarely venture out to party on a Sunday night because it is so inconvenient, what with not having the other unpaid babysitter available (aka Dad) to do a shift she has to go sleepover at a friend's house.

Apart from not wanting to disturb Clarke’s routine, another reason why I rarely do Sunday night raving is it makes me feel a bit weird. As a lapsed Catholic, the teachings of the nuns - who said my sister and I had the devil in us (think my sister got a raw deal) - still exerts some influence. I feel positively heathenish flinging up foot, and slurping the devil’s brew while dressed fashion slut style on the Lords' designated day of rest. Add sex into the equation (lawd god please do) and you have the recipe for a week of repentance for the weekend's sinning.

But I did have a good reason, we were out to celebrate Suzie Wong’s birthday. Admittedly we had already celebrated on Friday, but the ‘shubeen’ we chose was not up to par. Firstly, it was (as usual) devoid of men, deserted, and host to a hen night. A few Absolut Cosmopolitans, chased with some wine numbed the pain, and we raved it out until the music began to jar us.

It was the same story on Sunday night. The damn place was empty with maybe thirty people dotted around. Suzie Wong's sister Gee, and her friend Lou, were with us, they'd just got back from a ravers holiday in Antigua, two weeks of sun, sea, and bashment on the beach. The problem is, there were as usual more women than men. And as we know, most women do not really like other women. Women are more 'ganged up' than men these days. Everyone's got a crew, and as soon as you step foot in the dance, each crew is vying to be centrestage and attract the attention of a few crusty men in ugly shirts and name brand DJs. So it was a case of 'weave-ons at dawn'. Grown women (some as old as 40 something) waging bitchy wars, and going on stup-id.

We went to a weekender a few years back for my birthday. We were in a dance and this fat beeyatch pushes me out of the way to get past, not like accidentally, she shoved me. I don't know whether it was the fact that she looked like the back of the No.88, and I didn't, that upset her. So I'm like 'can't you say excuse me?'. She dashes her drink all over me. I kicked off like Cleo in Set It Off. My friends held me back and stopped it turning into a fight. I was so VEX. Why do these women go out of they're way to make trouble with other women? And think that they can get away with it?

Some of the women are DJ-fuckers, so they get territorial, and because they're connected to certain DJs, have been going to the raves for years (get a life) they act like they own the place. Turns out she was connected to namebrand DJs, she was 'family'. But my girls are also connected, and are seen as family, so the DJs apologised to me. The fat bitch didn't. So we all went back to the chalet, I changed my clothes, and we put on flats (just in case) and went back to the dance and continued raving. The 'disrespect' culture that is the cause of violence among young black men, is similarly exhibited among some black women (and the token white girls that attend these events who sometimes feel they have more to prove - being a minority and all). I haven't seen any fights, but if a dance is crowded with women, bitching breaks out and the toilet turns in a war cabinet.

Gee said similar stuff was going on in Antigua, a 'girl' pushed her out the way when she was getting off the coach. Where is the love? Gee set her straight, in the nicest possible way. Not. But by the end of the holiday all the 'girls' that had been 'trying it' with them, were asking to take their picture. No meaning. We're all going to the next trip to Malaga next year, so let's hope the women stop drinking that 'Haterade' before then. I ain't looking to break my Marc Jacobs heels on no weave.

I finally rolled in at 2am smelling not so fragrantly of Jack D and duty-free cigarettes, I picked Clarke up on the way back and as I put her to bed she sleepily hugged and kissed me, and told me she loved me. I guess the roles have returned to normal.

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.