You've got a friend...

I was never someone who was incredibly popular. I was never one of the 'cool' people, a trendsetter. But I had a close group of friends who meant the world to me and who made my school days pretty fun.

That didn't change when I came to university. Though being the foreigner allowed me the opportunity to be the exotic and sort of mysterious girl, with my piercings, tattoos, accent and cool hair. I loved it. And I made new friends.

Now, I'm pretty loyal, whether it's to friends or a brand of cereal. Once I'm happy with something, or someone, I stick with it. I also have a very strong sense of duty. People who are important to me and treat me well, will have my undying loyalty to the very end. Case in point being my friend M.

M and I met in my first year of university, at a photoshoot for our school prospectus. I hated him on sight, for being a pompous ass. I went home and told all my flatmates that I'd met the most annoying person that day and that I was so glad that I would never have to see him again. So of course I saw him again a few weeks later, when I was giving campus tours...and he was as well. And we became close friends. We hung out, we laughed, we fought we just had fun. One year, his dad gave him his old Volvo and some of my best memories of the early noughties are of the two of us driving around in that massive, silver Volvo singing along to the Barbarella soundtrack. When I went through a terrible break-up in my second year, he was the only person who came to see me and make sure I was ok. He made sure I ate, he kept me company, he indulged my maudlin sentiments. And I truly loved him for it.

But then the downward spiral began. In the space of two years, he went from the life and soul of the party, to not even being invited to the party. And while I felt annoyed at him for letting himself get that way, I couldn't forget all the good times we had and how he was there for me when I needed someone most. So I returned the favour. We had lunch, we went for drives, we had coffee. I spent hours with him in his room when he didn't feel like going out. I took mutual friends to go and see him. We sat on his sofa watching telly, until we fell asleep together. I took him to get his prescriptions. His mother tried to re-pay me for coming out to see him, giving me petrol money, but I didn't want it. We still fought, but that wasn't anything new.

I knew he wasn't happy at all. He'd tried to kill himself a couple times and it wasn't pretty. But he was taking his medication and he started going to group therapy. I even spent New Year's eve with him and his family and he seemed happy. We made plans to see each other after. But then, I got ill, got tied up with work and we kept missing each other.

And one day I got the telephone call I'd been dreading.

They found him in a hotel in the city centre, with a bag over his head.

The only other time I cried like that was when my gran died. I howled and bawled and screamed. I was in shock. I was sad. I was angry. How could he leave me? How could he do this to his family? Didn't he know what this would do to them? Didn't he know how much we loved him. I went straight to his parents' house, praying I'd misheard his dad's message. But the police car parked outside told me otherwise. I went inside and cried with them. I'm crying as I'm typing this.

His funeral was so surreal. I didn't want to go, but I knew I had to. I miss him so much, even now. He was the one person who knew all my secrets. He never judged me. He understood me. A few months after he died, Barbarella was on telly and when the credits rolled, the tears did too.

I still think of him every day. Every single day.

No, no, no, no, no

A little bit random, I know, but important all the same.

Black socks look nothing like black tights. Therefore, they look stupid when worn with a pair of heels. The look is even worse when the black socks are no longer in their 'prime' and are a bit faded and washed out.

I cannot tell you the amount of women I see every day, roaming the streets of Manchester, looking like this. They obviously think it's ok. And I want nothing more than to chop off their feet and kick them in the face with them. Bah!

You were always on my mind...

I'm sitting here in the Language Resource Centre, trying to do some extra interpreting practice, but all I can think about is chipping down the road in my costume, and those boots I saw at the weekend.

Sigh! This is the burden of being a Trini. Carnival is too much 'in' us to ever forget it. Even people who don't play mas, tend to like to watch it, on telly or in person. My mother is the only person I actually know, who has never played mas, nor expressed a desire to do so. I'm sure there are others, but they're probably in the minority.

I do know that a new thing is Carnival trips, where people plan to leave the country, specifically for those two days as a mark of protest or what have you. Fine by me! Just means more space on the road for my effing massive and fabulous costume!

I need to do some work, but can't stop singing "Tell dem we Phea-sant!"

2kWhine, we ready!