It comes but once a year...

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO EVERYONE!

Just thought I'd share my favourite Christmas song, which I only heard during my first year in England. It's a very happy Christmas song, and while it isn't a patch on the best soca parang tune to be heard, it's pretty awesome!

So here it is (you'll see why this is funny once you watch the video)...

We're only human after all

Tiger Woods has been boning down. Like, constantly. So what, I hear you cry? Well, problem is, he's married with two kids. Yessss... And he wasn't boning down with his wife.

Oh no!

As strong as my feelings are on adultery- my husband is very clear on this, and there is a 'bail' fund in case he ever gets caught in the act and I stab him and beat the crap out of her. But he isn't the cheating type, so I think I'll buy some Louboutins with the fund- but I digress. As strong as my feelings are on adultery, I'm finding it very hard to sum up any sort of emotion about this.

What is wrong with me??

I mean, am I so cold hearted that I cannot feel anything for the young, gorgeous woman, whose uber-rich semi-attractive husband had A LOT of sex with women who looked just like her? I mean, if she divorces him, she walks away with a cool $300 mil and will most likely be snapped up by some other self-absorbed rich dude. And he will be free to shag whomever he likes. Is that such a horrible thing?

Ok, so the man had some sex. And she is humiliated and hurt. But I find the whole situation so ludicrous that I'm really not arsed. I can understand how she must be feeling. I mean, I've been cheated on in the past. It was almost ten years ago, but finding out isn't at all a nice feeling. And it's probably a jillion times worse when it happens in public like this. So I do feel kind of bad for her. But I think that's where it stops.

I have no emotional investment in Tiger Woods. He doesn't factor into my life in any way. I mean, yes I remember watching that Masters tournament and the interview on Oprah afterwards. And even then I didn't watch the whole tournament. Just the final day, when it was clear that something special was going to happen. The thing is, golf is one of the dullest sports on the planet, a title also shared by snooker, curling, badminton and darts. So I am not really bothered by Tiger's achievements.

I think it also has something to do with the fact that I think he's full of shit. A fact that has only been compounded by his response to this whole malarkey. Instead of admitting right off the bat that he'd been caught with his trousers round his ankles and making the wrong sort of hole in one, he issued two completely lame-ass statements. Steups. I'm getting all riled up just thinking about it. It's taking me back to the 'cablinasian' bollocks he spouted on Oprah all those years ago. Yer man is mixed. Ok, yes. His mama's Thai and his dad is black. Instead of just saying that, he invents this ridiculous word and probably heard my eyes rolling all the way from my gran's living room in Trinidad.

So now I couldn't really care less what he gets up to. His wife and kids will be generously provided for, whatever the outcome of this so I don't think they need my sympathy. He wasn't beating the crap out of her or anything. Just being immensely stupid.

Steups. I'm over it.

More than a feeling...again!

Oh my. Looks like old feelings are bubbling up and up and up!


We Need a Resolution


I went to Spain for the first part of my year abroad. My lecturer arranged for me to work at the Camara de Comercio in a town called Soria, Spain which is two hours north of Madrid. I also worked at a languages academy, teaching English of course. I lived in a flat with a couple who were nice enough, I guess. He was wicked old and she was young and hot. I'm just glad I never heard them boning down. His name was Manuel, and I forget what she was called, but she made some deelishis empanadas. Anyway, my days were spent at the Camara, and my evenings at the languages school. I had a couple friends there and was mostly enjoying it (apart from being always mistaken for a prostitute. But that's for another day), but I really missed my black posse back in Preston.

So I arranged to fly back for a long weekend to get my Browns fix. Browns was an R&B/ Hip Hop club in Preston. It wasn't brilliant, but it succeeded because it was the ONLY R&B/ Hip Hop club in Preston. So chances are if you were black, you'd spend some portion of your weekend there. In my second and final year at uni, we fecking owned Browns. We had our own corner. There were girls who were actually afraid of us. Anyway, I was glad to be back, talking shit with my crew and all that. I hung out with my black posse and my mate G. Good times! It was also during this time that Aaliyah AND Michael Jackson released their new albums. I'd heard We Need A Resolution at some point, and really liked it so I bought it. And of course I bought the MJ. D'uh!

So after a weekend of throwing some serious shapes around Preston, and rocking the only weave I've ever worn, I flew back to Madrid and got on a bus to Soria, with my Aaliyah and MJ CDs. This is the first track on the album, and it just blew me away. I was always an Aaliyah fan. I love her voice. It's so pure and sweet and is just perfect, the way it just kind of floats over the melody and lyrics is just brilliant. It just moves effortlessly up and down the register and gives me goosebumps. The other song I love on the record is More Than A Woman. But Resolution is the song I played over and over again. I don't think I slept on the wrong side, but I felt like I most def needed a Resolution, especially as I fancied the arse of Alejandro at the Camara and was too much of a douche to make a move. I didn't speak my heart. I bit my tongue. Plus, he had a girlfriend.


I'd have this song on repeat, just singing it over and over and over and over. I'd take the CD down to Oui & Yes (the languages place) and put it on while I ate pizza and planned my lessons and made materials. I'd play it in the mornings while I was getting ready for work. I'd play it when I came in during siesta to get ready for my afternoon classes. I'd play it while I was laying on my bed devouring any English magazines or newspapers I'd gotten my hands on. I also read Spanish Cosmo, which is actually pretty good! I just played it damn near all the time. And when I saw the video? DAMN!! I just loved it. She looked SOOO gorgeous, it made me love the song even more. Sigh! Even seeing the video now makes my pores raise. She just looks stunning.

Aaliyah died later on that year I think. I remember I was back in Trinidad at the time, and my dad was all distraught because he thought it was Lil Kim that died. Don't ask.

It makes me sad that this amazing singer is no longer here. Timbaland lost his muse and to fill the void has resorted to working with Justin Timbertesticles and Nelly Furtado. I sometimes wonder if Aaliyah was still alive, if Rhianna would be as big as she is now. A bit random, I know, but my mind sometimes works that way.

Oh, and Alejandro and I did have a little thing in Seville the following year. Turned out he was quite taken with the black girl after all!

But it also turned out he had a tiny penis.

Oh my!

Those boots should be made for walking your own route!

I walk from the train station to the office every morning. It's about ten minutes' walk, so not too far. I walk fairly quickly, mostly because I'm tall but also because I'm usually starving and can't wait to get to work so I can have my porridge.

So I try to make it there as quickly as possible, but I still like to make sure I walk enough of a distance to get the old heart rate pumping. Lately I've noticed this lady has been trying to outwalk me. She takes a different route, but we always converge at a point and walk the last few hundred feet 'together'. When we get off the train, she practically runs to get ahead of me and walks as fast as her little legs will carry her.

I noticed she was a little disappointed last week, when we came back out onto the main road, I was WELL ahead of her. I noticed this because I turned around to have a look. Admittedly, I walked that little bit faster, just because.

This morning, she bloody followed me. She took the route I always take. It vexed me so. I felt like turning around and going "What the fuck are you playing at bitch? You want some of the black girl?"

I don't know why I felt so strongly about it, or why I felt so competitive towards her. But all I knew is that I would have broken out into a sprint, if I felt like she was going to beat me.

I need help.

More than a feeling Pt 2

Today was a horrible day, weather wise. It rained this morning on my way to work (I work now. Did I forget to say?) and it rained on my way home. My feet are soaked and my hands are still kind of numb. But I had on my iPod on the train on my way back, and a song came on that made me smile.

Superman Lovers- Starlight


I had heard this song once before I went to France, somewhere in the background somewhere. I liked it but never really thought about it again. But one night everyone decided to go to the opening night of this club. It was me and the Irish and our French friend David. David drove and took me and my Irish dudes Des and Paul. We were going to meet everyone else there. There was this club called 'Pop Plage' that a lot of students went to and it had just been renovated. So as the Irish were students and I worked at a college, we thought it would be very appropriate for us to go there on its opening night. David had a job...a proper job. Not like me who was just a douchebag on placement.

Anyway, we go to Pop Plage, and it is TEEMING with people. I clock quite a few students from the college I worked at...the same students who hated me for being their age, but not having to go to class and having my own office. Plus I was black. Still am. Anyway, they were giving me evils because I rocked up there looking fucking awesome with my Irish posse, looking like I run tings. Obviously. They were playing some generic pop, you know, chart shit, but we danced and danced. And somehow we ended up on the podium.

There was a podium. There was a cage. Me and Des were in the cage. And then this song came on. The one part I remember of that night, is of me sandwiched between Paul and Des, laughing and dancing and grinding and jumping and screaming and just fucking OWNING Pop Plage and basically giving all them girls who were hating on me, the finger. It was awesome. I love the way the verses are lower down on the scale, then in the chorus, he kind of explodes into "Starlight!" It's just a great song.

I don't remember any other part of that night. But whenever I hear that song, I just feel happy and carefree again. And it makes me so very happy.

More than a feeling

I love music. I don't remember if I always loved it, but for at least the past sixteen years, I've LOVED it. I remember hating music when I was forced to take piano lessons and being very happy when I was allowed to quit (a decision I obviously regret now). But I have always enjoyed a nice song and I really enjoy singing.

And I have come to realise just how many of my memories are intrinsically tied in to songs. I hear a certain song, and the period of time in which that song took centre stage comes rushing back to mind. A lot of the time it makes me very happy and very rarely it makes me sad.

Girlfriend by Alicia Keys


When I hear this song, it reminds me of the time I lived in France. It was very early 2002 and I had gone to Annecy in France for the second part of my year abroad. I was living in Centre Residence d'Evires (Evires for short) and working at IPAC (IPAC Annecy, bonjour.) It was a fairly idyllic time. It took me a while to socialise, but eventually I became really good friends with the Irish colony living in my building. They were the only acceptable people to hang out with. All the French people who lived there all appeared to be societal rejects, but that's for another day.

Alicia Keys had just released her first album but I was still immune to her apparently sizeable charms, even though Fallin' had already become the song of choice for talent show auditionees across the world. I myself preferred India.Arie and was loving 'Brown Skin' in a big way. So Paul, one of the Irish, lent me his bootleg version of 'Songs in A minor'. Girlfriend was the first 'proper' song on the album since the first track was an Intro.

I would play this CD a lot, especially on a Saturday morning as I was getting ready to go into town to knock about. So the first piano chords of this song always reminds me of coming in from the shower and picking out my clothes. I'd then sing along while I was getting dressed and feel pretty happy. I liked the way the piano sounded so jazzy, then it suddenly switched to a thumping drum machine and her voice comes in and it sounds slightly out of time "Maybe silly, for me to feel this way about you and her." I loved the lyrics and the backing vocal, and I especially loved chiming in on the chorus "I think I'm jealous of your girlfriend, although she's just a girl that is your friend." I'm sure the girl in the room next to me was dead annoyed but I couldn't help it. The lyrics were simple yet they really made sense and even though I was single and had never before experienced the feelings she was talking about, I was often the girl-friend the girlfriends were jealous about.

I'd then fast forward to Butterflies.


This song has such a 'sing-a-long' quality to it, I simply couldn't resist. Sigh! I loved the simplicity of the production. Just her and the piano. Then the backing track comes in near the end. It's so melodic and so pretty. I hear it, and I'm taken back to night time in Evires. I'd play that song in the evening, mostly because I found it very soothing and I enjoyed hearing it as I lay in bed reading or just staring into space wishing that Cute French Guy (who did indeed give me butterflies) would stop being so nice to me and ravage me behind the ugly building that housed IPAC.

D'Angelo- Playa Playa


This song is from Voodoo, the only D'Angelo album I own but one of my absolute favourites. I also borrowed this from Irish Paul and simply fell in love with it. This is the first song on the album and I love how it starts with the ambient noise. Then the instruments kick in in a sort of disjointed fashion and it all sounds so old school. I loves it! I'd also play this on Saturday mornings, usually just after I woke up and before I went for a shower. I'd do what I imagined to be a super cool dance, looking as 'edgy' and hip as I could. And I just loved singing along to it. I like the way the vocal sounds a bit out of time with the music and the way he pronounces the words, not drawing out the syllables or anything. It just sounded cool. I particularly remember one morning when it was super-cloudy and I was wondering whether I should even bother going into town. I was standing by the window of my room looking out, and singing the song in a somewhat distracted way, when the chorus finally comes and I just about burst into song. Good times.


R. Kelly- Spendin' Money



We used to have parties in the basement of our halls. In my halls there were the Irish, a couple English, an American, two Belgian, an Uruguyan and loads of French. In the other halls up the road (Pre St Jean), there were Irish, other Belgians and other people whose existence I'm not that bothered about at this point. We mostly only socialised with the Irish. So anyway, we'd often organise these parties in our basement and Paul used to DJ. I'd heard this song somewhere before and never knew who sang it. But I knew that I liked it. And then one night, Paul played it and it made me so happy. I was dancing with my friend Des (Irish Justin Timberlake type) and we were just having so much fun and it was one of the best times of my life. I especially love the part near the end when he goes "I need you baby, to share this good life. I need you baby, it's true. All that I do, I do for you." I can't really explain why I love it so much, but of course I borrowed that bad boy from Paul and played that A LOT! My room wasn't massive and once you factored in the bed and the desk it didn't really leave a lot of room for dancing. But I think I made it work. When I hear this song now, it brings a smile to my face and makes me think of a simpler time, when life was super easy and we really didn't have any hassles.


Ah, if only!

Way too much time on my hands

The Ultimate Handsome Band

The handsome one from Take That
The guitarist from Cold Play
The drummer from Kaiser Chiefs
Chris Brown

Anyone know a handsome bass player???

Random Rant no. 5,435,679

Am I the only one who is completely fed up of Jennifer Aniston? I mean, yes it's sad that Brad Pitt left you. Lord knows I'd be bawling my eyes out. BUT it's not as if he left her for someone uglier. I mean, THAT would be depressing. But he left her for Angelina Jolie, and he seems genuinely happy with his ever growing brood.

So why is she STILL talking about it? People get dumped every day. But because she's Jennifer Aniston we're supposed to feel really sorry for her? What-the-fuck-evs Steups.

Random rant

There is a dickhead parked in my spot. He is not a resident, so I am irritated even further.

That is all.

A sense of occasion

I didn't go to mass today, and for that I know I am going to burn in hell. I have my own reasons for not going, but we won't pull at that thread today. But while I was driving to the supermarket to pick up some veg, I was struck by a thought. I was wearing a vest, linen trousers and purple crocs and I could probably tip up in church looking just like that, and no one would bat an eyelid. If I dared do that in Trinidad, not only would I be most likely scorned and whispered about, my mother would give me one of her looks and not speak to me for a considerable length of time.

So obviously this got me thinking about the way people dress over here, and in particular, white people. Now I am by no means making a racist statement. My husband is white, so obviously my extended family is as well. In addition, outside of my circle of black friends (who actually DO all know each other!), all of my friends are white. So I'm just making an observation, and one that has come from, not surprisingly, all of my black friends.

Black people just seem to know how to dress for an occasion. We know when to dress up and when to dress down. Case in point being my little trip to the shops this morning. If I was going to Manchester, I would have put on a decent top and proper shoes. When I'm going to mass, I wear actual trousers and wear lots of v-necked sweaters over polo shirts or long-sleeved shirts. If I'm wearing a skirt, I make sure to wear tights, because even though my gran is dead that doesn't mean I have to bring shame on her by going out bare-legged!

But white people just don't seem to realise that there are some occasions when a tracksuit and a pair of trainers just isn't the accepted dress code. When I graduated from uni, all my black friends looked ace. My friend, The Egan (obviously not her real name) had on this kick-ass red chinese style dress and a pair of gorgeous heels. My mate MJ (actually his real name) wore a suit. I wore a white shirt, black trousers and some black heels. I actually felt as though I'd be underdressed. Um, yeah. Right. When my parents and I got down to the auditorium, I went in to pick up my cap and gown and was just shocked at the mess that greeted me. I saw one girl in jeans and slippers. She was standing with someone I assumed to be a family member, who was wearing a denim mini-skirt and trainers. I saw another girls mother in what I can only describe as hippy/farmer chic, i.e. some sort of flowing gypsy skirt and Birkenstocks.

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine from work had the English reception for his wedding. My first thought was "Need to find the husband's suit and see if it needs dry cleaning." I was discussing it with my mate Skyler (who if you remember, we went to the football with) who was also going to the reception. And he said to me "What? Why're you getting dressed up?" to which I replied "Eh? What're you talking about? What the hell did you plan to wear?" Do you know what this boy had the heart to say to me? "A t-shirt and jeans." Sigh! May the saints in heaven preserve us. I practically had to beg him not to turn up to a wedding reception in the same outfit he planned to wear to the football. It was only when he asked a couple of other guys at the office, that he realised that he'd have to sharpen up his act. Turns out he doesn't even own any nice clothes. So when we went to pick him up, he came downstairs in a shirt I've seen him wear to work many a time. It is his dad's. My victory was sweet while it lasted.

I have luckily been able to beat this aspect of blackness into my husband, however. So at least he knows the drill now, even though he tries to protest. Hopefully, it'll rub off on my in-laws.

Before we got married, my soon to be sister-in-law asked me what she should wear to the wedding. I found this to be a very bizarre question, but I told her "Something dressy would be appropriate." I mean, oh gosh man, yes the wedding was going to be extra small, but you could at least make the effort! My soon to be father-in-law was annoyed that he had to buy new shoes. I found the whole thing baffling. My mother had something specially made and my dad knew he had to wear a suit, but couldn't be arsed to bring one, so I took him to the hire shop we got the groom's and best man's suits from. Odd that my friend who was like my maid of honour, The Princess (this is how she refers to herself. This is just how she is, but we love her anyway. She is Nigerian), never asked me what she should wear and turned up in a wicked bustier and skirt outfit with killer heels...obviously.

Easter Sunday. Big day in the Christian calendar. People get dressed up, churches are filled with heathens and everyone in England stuffs their faces with chocolate. So I put on some of my best and went to church, comme tojours. Imagine my horror, when I had a little look around, and saw someone sat across the aisle, in cargo capri pants and sandals. A lady walked past me in reef sandals and denim three-quarters. A family walked in, with the kids dressed in football shirts and trackie bottoms!! And that really angered me. I mean, you're coming to bloody church, and you can't make a bit of effort?? I understand it was a lovely spring day and you may have plans for after mass, but a little respect...PLEASE!!

Sigh!

Ah well... what can I do? The fact remains that I love getting dressed up. I don't get to do it often enough. Don't get me wrong. I'm no scruff-bag. I own four pairs of jeans, and wear one- one pair doesn't fit, I can't find two and one is dark blue and high-waisted so actually looks like trousers. I don't wear trainers. I like to look 'respectable'. But I LOVE stepping out in my finest. So I guess chances are I'll always be one of the 'fancier' dressed people wherever I go. This is my cross to bear. Oh, it's a hard life.

Embrace your inner YOU

Crewe is in Cheshire. Cheshire is apparently the poshest county in England (or at least one of the poshest), due to the high footballer population. So there is an abundance of tacky, mock Tudor and Georgian mansions, Range Rover Sports, BMW X5s and Bentlys and women caked in fake tan living in and driving the aforementioned things.

However, Crewe is nothing like the rest of Cheshire. It is nasty and common and I hate it ("...but tell us how you REALLY feel" I hear you cry). It is full of chavs and fat people, who have the nerve to watch me up and down, as if I owe them money...which is technically true since my and my husband's taxes pay their benefits. Anyway, I believe Crewe to be the most depressing town in Cheshire. The bus station alone is enough to make anyone suicidal, so there's no need to discuss the covered market and the fact that people's entire wardrobes seem to come from the boot of someone's shitty 1997 Ford Mondeo.

So living in Crewe isn't really good for my inner me. You see, my inner me is HUGE snob. My outer me is black, so a lot of people over here just assume things about me. But whatevs. My inner me makes my outer me shop at Selfridges and wear Ralph Lauren and Cavalli and walk around with D&G handbags. My inner me is the reason why my outer me gets this super-scornful look on her face whenever I even drive past Crewe bus station. My inner me is the reason why I roll my eyes at the thought of going to Asda or Morrison's. You get my drift.

So today I went out to Cheshire Oaks, which is this big outlet mall about forty-five minutes' drive from where I live. It's where I go when I have nothing else to do, if the weather's good and if I'm looking for something in particular. There are enough shops there to keep my inner me happy- Burberry, Kurt Geiger, Mulberry and the like. I was also able to pick up my tea- Green Tea and Earl Grey. Yummy! Anyway, I'm preparing to work on my Carnival body. T-five! As such, I obviously needed to get some new work out clothes. Surprisingly enough, maintaining this flabby temple does not require a sports bra and running shorts.

I didn't think there'd be a problem. I mean, sure they closed down the Puma store (which was MAD cheap), but there's an Adidas store, Nike store and a Reebok store. No sweat. Well, problem numero uno, they closed down the Adidas store. Normally I wouldn't go in there. I stopped going in when my husband picked up a shit-brown velour tracksuit top with every intention of buying. The only colour that would have been more revolting, would be the colour of the vomit that would spew forth from me if he brought that thing anywhere near to our flat. BUT I thought I'd pop in, pick up a few things, then pop back out. But, 'twas not to be.

So I went to the Reebok store. They seemed to have received a shipment meant for the Barbie store. I do not recall seeing that much pink in one place meant for the bodies of grown women. It was awful. And what wasn't pink, was grey and diaphonous. Yes. Size 26 running tights. Oh my! Sigh.

No problem I thought. Nike won't let me down. I mean, c'mon, they're Nike. I've been wearing Nike and Reebok all my life (punctuated by a brief stint with the LA Gear crew and before, in my later teens, I was seduced by the simplicty of Keds) so I was like "Hell yeah, Nike!" Turns out it was "Fuck me! Nike?" Black velour trackie bottoms, white paper-type three-quarter length trousers and a whole rack of XS things that I would have actually bought, if they were my size. Steups.

Oh no! Whatever was I to do? All three sports shops turned out to be as useful as tits on a fish. Looks like apart from my tea, it was a wasted trip. Well, not exactly. There was one more shop. But my inner me began to break out in a cold sweat at the mere thought of going in there. My inner me was begging my outer me to just call it a day, jump in the little Focus and get the hell out of there. But what my inner me seems to lack, is a bit of foresight. You see, my outer me would be absolutely mortified to play mas looking the way I do now. So she won out in the end.
I decided to go into Sports Direct.

Sports Direct is best described as cheap as fuck. Everything there is heavily discounted already. This is so those who live on the margins of society can afford the sportswear they need to go about their daily lives- smoking, not working and watching Jeremy Kyle.

As I was walking in, a man with tattoos on his neck and wearing a Man Utd t-shirt was walking out, pushing a fat toddler in a stroller. It did not fill me with confidence. I actually took a deep breath and submerged myself in their world.

I went over to the womens' section and started sifting through the racks. While I was doing that, I notied a little girl, who could be considered obese for her age, following my every move. I didn't mind actually. And I minded even less when I realised that her mother was equally overweight and commanding some spotty-faced youth to fish down a swimuit from the rafters (they put them so high so the commoners don't steal them. They know their clientele!). The poor boy. Perched atop a ladder being barked at by a fat, middle-aged woman on benefits. That surely isn't worth the minimum wage.

Anyway, I found a couple things that passed the Bunny test, so I picked them up and started to head to the till. But I got distracted by some more things that were only four pounds, so stopped to have a look. It was then that I found myself trapped by a rack of clothes. They'd just been pushed into place by one of the employees. She was obviously hired by someone who either had a whopping great sense of humour, or was completely blind in both eyes. I turned around just in time to catch said employee lift up her t-shirt to scratch her back. It was not a pretty sight. Why, you ask? Well, the only way I could get you to imagine what she looked like is to describe her as such "Fat as fuck." How fat is fuck? Well, as fat as she is. A woman the size of a mini-van, working in a sporting goods store. Oh, how we laughed. After she finished scratching her great rolls of back flab, I managed to squeeze past her without being sucked into her gravitational pull and went to the cashier.

I paid as fast as was humanly possible and got the hell out of there. Job's a good 'un!

So I came home, to the sanctuary of the world's tiniest flat, put on my new jogging tights and scarfed down my lunch of chicken and vegetables. All is right with the world again. My inner me is slightly traumatised, but she'll thank me when she's looking fabulous on the road come Carnival Monday.

Get in!!!

Common sense dictates

I'm getting my daily dose of Judge Judy at the moment. I love her...most of the time. Whenever I'm in a situation or an argument, I always think "Will Judge Judy take my side?" and usually, she will. But in reality, I wish I was Judge Judy. Mostly because she gets to tell people exactly what she thinks of them, and they have to take it, not just because she's a judge, but also because they're on telly and a lot of people will do or take anything just to be on telly.

Anyway, this case today, had a guy suing his tattoo artist because he doesn't like the tattoo of his girlfriend. He wants to tattoo guy to give him his money back, pay to have it removed and pay for the cost of the new tattoo. Brilliant! Granted, the tattoo looks pretty shit (and not just because the girlfriend is as rough as fuck), I don't feel sorry for the guy. Why?

Well, the tattoo guy has a lazy eye. It's that simple. I have three tattoos, and not one of them was done by a fat man with a lazy eye. My first tattoo was done a man out in Lostock Hall, which is a small village near to where I went to uni. I had it done during my first year at uni, one month after I had my navel pierced. The tattoo was a swirly thing I had done around my navel. He did it in his lounge with me leaning back on his pouff. Tidy. Still love it today...ten years later.

My second tattoo was done when I lived in France. There was a guy who had a studio about twenty minutes from where I was living. When I'd first gone to see him to tell him I wanted a tattoo, he was like "Mais, tu es black!" and I said "Non! Vraiment? Je suis black?" and he went "Oui! Tu es black!" I don't think the French get sarcasm. But anyway, I went one day after work and had it done and I loves it still.

Fast forward six years, and I was in Sheffield staying with a friend, who is also a tattoo fiend, took me to his tattoo place. I'd been wanting a new tattoo for ages and I thought that as it was my birthday soon, I'd have one done. So we went in one day and I had something in mind, but I saw something else, and ended up having that one done the next day. The girl who did is was the cutest little thing. She was fast and she was good, and it's wicked!

So, what do all these people have in common? A guy who tattoos in his lounge, a French man who didn't get my sarcasm and a cute tattooed chick from Sheffield? Not ONE of them had a lazy eye. To me, that's like letting someone with a twitch in your hand do the same tattoo or pierce your eyebrow. I know having a lazy eye isn't anything serious (my husband insists I have a lazy eye. Divorce is surely round the corner.) but I just don't want to take the risk. I may be a bit weird, but I'm not stupid.

In the end, Judge Judy dismissed his case, while managing to call him an idiot and telling him his arms are going to get saggy so the tattoos were a bad idea in any case. I love Judge Judy. When I finally grow up, I want to BE Judge Judy!

Live long and prosper

I went to the funeral of a friend's dad on Thursday. He'd been ill for a while so it wasn't a complete shock, but it was terrible all the same. This friend and I aren't particularly close, but she and her sister are in our little circle of 'madams' (everyone wants to be in our circle of madams), so of course we closed ranks. I found out about the funeral on Wednesday afternoon, and since I didn't have anything else to do, I decided I would make the trip up to Preston.

I'd been to a couple funerals of friends' parents when I was younger, but thankfully not in recent times. I'm trying to remember, but I think the last funeral I went to was that of my friend in 2005. I don't do well at funerals...obviously. I mean, I don't know of a single person who enjoys funerals. But what hit me on Thursday is that we're beginning to get to the age where our parents may not have that much longer. And it's that stark reminder of the mortality of those around us.

As I was getting dressed, I started thinking of the circumstances under which I'd be pulling on my funeral clothes and remembering to pack tissues. Thinking of having to do it for my own parents, or God forbid, one of my siblings or friends, filled me with such a feeling of dread, I felt my heart drop down to my feet.

My gran is 92, so logic states that hers will be the next funeral I need to go to. However, my gran is also a bit evil and will outlive us all so I shudder to think who will be next.

While I didn't know my friends' dad, it was so sad being at the crematorium. Seeing my friend kiss the coffin and perform some of the Hindu rites really got to me. This was her DAD. And he was in a little box.

It is a day I hope is many years away for me.

I got a not so new attitude

Feminist. Feminism. Equality. Misogyny.

These are words that really annoy me. I can't pinpoint exactly why, but I bristle whenever someone bandies about these words. For a start, they usually get the context wrong, as in "I'm a feminist" to express the fact that they read Germaine Greer. Or "He's such a misogynist" when a guy shows some sort of appreciation for the female form. It pisses me off in such a violent manner, I find myself shaking. Tres weird!

I guess I'd better clarify something here. I am not a feminist and I do not believe women will, can or should ever be equal. Oooh! Incindiery statements, I know. But it's just the way I feel.

First off, I have no problem with the man going out to work while the wife stays home. At the moment, I am lucky enough to be able to not work. My husband earns decent money and we have no debt and no children. So I was able to leave my job to go back to university. And if we're lucky enough to be in this position when we start having children, I would happily stay home with them. Part of this feeling comes from my own childhood. My mother worked when she didn't need to and I know my dad resented it. It was part of the reason for the deterioration in my parents' marriage. My mom worked long hours and was always tired. She wasn't very 'motherly'. We had a maid. We had a lady who came to iron. We had a gardener. I would have loved if my mom baked more and made us elaborate lunches for school and could pick us up in the afternoons. But she couldn't so she didn't.

And I don't want that for my children. I mean, don't get me wrong. My childhood was still pretty cool in lots of ways. But I'm very maternal, where my mother isn't really. So I'm quite happy to be barefoot and pregnant. I would love nothing more than to drop my kids off in the mornings, with a lunch kit filled with sandwiches made from homemade bread and my special muffins or something equally fantastical. I want to pick them up from school, and make sure they have a brilliant dinner waiting for them. I obviously plan to raise my family as a white woman in the 1950s.

So, all of this means that if my husband is out earning the money, the least I can do is keep a clean house, do his laundry and make sure he's happy at home. I've done this in the past. Just after we got married, I'd left my job and went to Munich (where he worked) for two months. It was brilliant. Munich is a gorgeous city and I was lucky enough to have two months to explore and appreciate it. I got an allowance every week, and I used it for whatever I wanted. I had facials, got my nails done, my legs waxed and had one very bizarre massage (there was boob touching, but that's for another day). I also looked after my husband. He didn't expect me to, which is why I did it.

I did all the food shopping, did his laundry, ironed his shirts and made sure there was a nice hot meal waiting for him when he got in from work. And because I didn't have to, I was more than happy to do it. And it made him appreciate it even more. But looking after him made me happy, and he was happy to have me there. So it was all good.

Then I came back to England and went back to work. And I enjoyed that as well. Don't get me wrong. I'm not some gold-digger looking for an easy life. I've always worked. I like working. I like the freedom it gives me. I like the social aspect of it, going to lunch with friends from my office, the Friday afternoon drinks, bitching about the office bitch (who may have been me, but not when I was bitching!). I like feeling like I belong and feeling like I'm contributing to something. I'm not working now, and I miss it. I spend the majority of my days alone, with my telly and internet for company. I miss the commute. I used to get the early morning train, and we had a little 'commute community'. We all shook our heads in disgust, as one, when the train was late. We all moaned about the weather, as a unit. We all bitched about our jobs, all together. We all effing loved it. And I developed an inappropriate crush on one of the gentlemen in our little 'circle'. Oh my! It's ok though. I told my husband. He laughed.

Anyway, I'm quite happy to work and pay my way. But I think my family is more important. And if I don't need to work, why should I stress out about it? Various people have tried to talk me out of this and make me feel bad. But I honestly don't give a shit. Why should I? Like I said to my husband (when he was still my boyfriend), people always blame the mothers. Anything goes wrong with a child, it always comes back to the mother. The mother's failed, the mother isn't doing a good job, why isn't the mother paying attention? The only time the father gets blamed is if he isn't on the scene. He took this to mean that he could knock me up and scarper. Yes. I know. But I married him anyway.

I know my parents love us and did the best that they could, given their situations. My father, who grew up without a father after his own dad fucked off to Germany when he was four, thought that being a good dad meant providing. And provide he did. He provided the hell out of it! Anything we needed and a lot of what we wanted, we got. We took ballet, piano, gymnastics, played sports, had extra school lessons. He was a cheque writing machine. Even now, I'm bloody near thirty and married, and if I called him up and said "Dad, I need to talk to you", he'd say "How much do you want?". The downside of this is that he wasn't there emotionally and he didn't pitch in with the chauffering or attending. My mom was the one who did it. And when us older ones learned to drive, we got roped in to sort out the younger two. My mom was the one who would go and sit poolside while my brother was training. She was the one who'd sit in the bleachers watching my sister master a back handspring. She was the one who sat out in the car while my Maths tutor tried in vain to get me to understand trigonometry and while my Chemistry tutor despaired of me. She did all of this, after having had a stressful day, trying to instill some sort of appreciation for English Literature in the heads of little bastards who would have preferred beating each other senseless. Happy days!

And I don't want that for myself. It's that simple. My mom put herself through that, when she didn't have to. I'm not going to.

In next week's episode (or when I can be arsed to write about it) we shall look at the whole equality double standard!

The Write Stuff

I don't consider myself to be a writer, mostly because no one reads this blog, but also because I don't do it often enough for me to take myself seriously. I do enjoy writing and like to think I have my own style, which isn't completely terrible. But if someone offered me the chance to write for a living, I'm not sure I'd take it. I mean, I'm pretty undisciplined so working to such tight deadlines that require such a high standard would show me up to be the fraud I know I am.

One thing I do do to keep my toe in the water, so to speak, is comment on a website I read every so often. However I KNOW I'm not a writer and that there is a very good reason as to why I do not write for a living. I do realise though, that someone has failed to make some other posters aware of this. A lot of them respond to articles, with mini-articles of their own as if to show the moderators what they're missing out on. Steups.

And that really irritates me.

Losing my religion

I've just this minute come back from mass. It's five to ten on a Sunday and I still have that feeling of goodness. But Lord knows how long it's going to last. And I do mean that. Only the Lord knows.

I've been Catholic all my life. My mother is a very active Catholic, my father a very lapsed Catholic. It's nice that in their adult years they are opposite to their childhood years. My mother wasn't very active in her youth, while my father was an acolyte and used to have afternoon tea with his parish priest. So anyway, we were raised like good Catholic children- we went to single sex Catholic schools, went to mass every Sunday, made our First Communion were Confirmed and did our bit in the parish. That hasn't quite carried over into our adult lives. My elder sister doesn't go to church any more (though she's incredibly pious and holier than thou sometimes), my brother hasn't seen the inside of a church since his confirmation (oh, and I forget, the baptism of his illegitmate son. But that's for another day). I think my younger sister goes but I wouldn't swear that on a stack of bibles.

After a long absence, I started going back to church when I still lived in Preston (originally called Priest Town. Coincidence?) and became heavily involved in the parish. I joined the church choir and felt like I'd found my niche. I was never happier than when I was singing and especially when I got to sing songs from my Trini hymn book. I volunteered to help serve tea after mass, was involved in organising our parish summer barbecue. I also became very good friends with my priest. I felt like I belonged and it was brilliant.

Thing is, my life wasn't great but when I was in that church or in the presbytry, everything felt like it was going to be ok. Some of my happiest memories of recent years are of sitting in my priest's library, chatting or listenting to music or of singing the Hail Mary during communion or hanging around having tea with everyone in St Thomas' room after mass on a Sunday. Those were times when I felt like no harm could or would ever come to me.

I kind of fell off the wagon when I moved down to Crewe. I felt like I was being unfaithful to my old parish by going to church here. But last year, I found my way back and now I go whenever I can. I've been away for a few Sundays, but once I'm in Crewe, I'll go. I feel great during mass, responding in the right way, saying the doxology taking bread and wine. I feel calm, happy, like I could be the best possible person I could be. I pray for forgiveness, pray for my family and friends, pray for strength, pray for the world.

Then I leave and come home and it literally all goes to hell, with me cursing my neighbours for having a Husky dog in the world's tiniest flat or imagining myself fucking (and I do really mean to use that word) someone who isn't my husband. If I was really a good Catholic, wouldn't I be all magnanimous and shit and let them enjoy their pet and be able to banish all thoughts of adultery (even if it is with a celebrity) from my mind?

I believe in God. I know I do. I believe in the foundations of Catholicism, and I think I'm basically a kind and caring person. If I do all this, then why am I still so selfish and petty and bitchy? Sigh! So now I'm worried as to WHY I'm going to mass. I mean, I'm trying to live my life like a good Catholic, but I'm failing miserably. I've been a not very nice or good person recently and I feel like a hypocrite when I go to mass. But then I ask myself, if I didn't go to mass at all, wouldn't that be a whole lot worse?

I pity the fool!

Sigh!

I was in Starbucks with my husband a couple weeks ago. I'd come home from uni early and decided I wanted to go to Hanley to return a couple things I was having serious buyer's remorse over. So of course, returning things is strenuous work so we went to Starbucks so I could replenish my depleted reserves with a Hazelnut hot chocolate...obviously.

So we're sitting, having drinks and chatting. When I notice we seemed to be surrounded by babies. It looked like everyone who was boning down in early 2008 had dropped their sprogs and a new army of spring babies was taking hold. This of course does not help the insane broodiness I have been feeling of late. I use the term insane because I am actually resentful of some of these women who feel no shame in showing off their fecundity to the world. I am bitter and twisted and jealous as hell.

But amidst all the new life, I spotted someone who deserved my pity. He was the son of two of the most unattractive people I have ever seen in my entire life. I felt sorry for the poor little thing, saddled with them two as parents forever more. Sigh! Saddlebags, blackened teeth, thinning hair and both of them wearing glasses. Things did not look promising. Then there was the sartorial horror. Unintentional high-waisted jeans, white socks, dirty old trainers. Oh my!

I mean, I know I'm no specimen of perfection, what with my own dental horrors going on and my penchant for black jumpers. And yes I do too wear white socks. But I'm foreign. And I have cool hair. So when I do it, I'm being exotic and daring. When some chav from Stoke-on-Trent busts that out, there is obviously cause for concern.

Bah!

But I shouldn't bitch like this though. It's going to come back and bite me in the arse. I just know it!

Is it a lost emotion??

Last night saw the return of 'Embarassing Bodies', from the makers of 'Embarassing Illnesses', on Channel 4. 'Twould seem that a lot of my musings are about tv shows these days, but hey, write about what you know, right? Channel 4 is one of my favourite channels and they are prone to showing such insightful programmes as this.

Of course, as the title promises, it features people with embarassing medical conditions. I haven't yet watched it (but it's taking up space on my recorder's hard drive!), but after having read a review of it, I need to get the popcorn ready. What baffles me, is the extent people are willing to go to, just to be on telly... even if it means flaunting your oversized labia or your grossly mis-matched boobies. Is embarassment a dying emotion? Do people have no more shame?

Why the bafflement? Well, unlike a lot of the world, medical care in the UK is free. Yes, completely free. Whether it's for the common cold or that hip replacement, it's all funded by the taxpayer. You book an appointment with your GP, see them and leave. No money changes hands. So being offered free treatment for your disgusting scalp fungus if you appear on this show shouldn't be enticement. Would it not be better for you to go down to your GP, and sit in private and whip out your oozing penis so he can sort it out? Why would you drive down to a set-up clinic and do it in front of two cameras and an entire production team?

I know I'm a prude. My family have teased me enough about it. I would hang towels to cover our already opaque shower screen...just for extra protection. I put on my bra OVER my towel, when getting changed, just to be on the safe side. I don't even look in the mirror unless I'm dressed. So maybe I just don't understand this 'free spirit' mentality. But I'm just imagining displaying your heavily infected toenail (which is the colour of and has the smell and texture of a very mature cheddar) on tv, then popping into work the day after it was broadcast. Could you imagine the office banter then? Lovely!

During the first season of this show, back when it was called 'Embarassing Illnesses', one particular case stood out. A lady came in, with a rather embarassing problem. I'm sure the producers shit themselves when she wandered in (you'll see why this is funny in a bit). Her problem was that she suffered from rectal incontinence. So yes, she poos on herself without realising it. She'd only notice when she 'felt' it and smelt it. Nice. Oh no, you say. How did this happen? Well, when she gave birth to her son, the midwife cut her a little bit too enthusiastically and it was never repaire. Oh no, you say. How horrible! How embarassing! But...when did this both magical and tragic (not to mention life-altering in good and bad ways) day occur? Twenty-one years ago! Yes. She sat at home, shitting herself for twenty-one years. The poor lamb/ daft cow (depending on your point of view). But why did she never get it seen to? Turns out she was too embarassed to tell anyone about it.

Right.

Let's get this straight. For twenty-one years, you stayed indoors, wearing adult diapers and what not, because you were too embarassed to pop down to your GP's and sit in a nice private room and speak to someone you might actually know, about this...for free. So of course, the only way to get it sorted is to answer an ad on the internet, go to a screening to make sure you're actually embarassing enough to see the telly doctors, then return for the actual filming. Which is then broadcast on a terrestrial channel and attracts fairly healthy ratings of six million. I'm sure her son really appreciated that. I'm sure her husband loved it. I'm sure her mother was so proud.

I had a coil put in last March. It was not a pleasant experience. I had to lay there with my legs in stirrups and my skirt gathered around my waist (I always wear skirts when having things done 'down there', because I hate the thought of standing around with no bottoms on. I mean, no knickers is bad enough, but no trousers too? NOOOOOO!), while the lovely Obs and Gynae doctor rooted around in my cervix. It was embarassing enough finding out about my small and tilted cervix, with one other person in there (the nurse who was really nice and held my hand). I cannot begin to imagine how much worse it would have been if it was revealed in front of an audience of four million.

The only way I would have done that, is if they were also offering reconstructive surgery, so I could begin my new life under an assumed identity!

Show them the way

I'm watching a show called 'The Hospital'. It's a series on Channel 4 about the NHS and it features a different department every week. This week, it's looking at the maternity department and the alarmingly high rate of teenage pregnancy.

I am too angry to think straight. But let's just say that I have never been more convinced of the benefits of a good beating. Sigh!

Odds and ends

I've found myself oddly obsessed with Riverdance and cinnamon of late. There's this channel that shows a lot of Riverdance documentaries and performances for some reason and I've watched most of them. The finale of their performances, where the entire line comes out and they do their thing and they're all going for it, has made me burst into tears...on two seperate occasions. Sigh! Why, you ask? Who the hell knows? I bloody don't!

And I have been watching these shows while chowing down on cinnamon men I buy from this supermarket called Waitrose. They're 12 for £1 and they're effing deelishis! I have eaten close to forty in the past couple weeks...not to mention the cinnamon bun/ swirl I hoovered up yesterday. Then there's the hot cross bun fiasco. Of course I only eat the apple and cinnamon ones. I had been on the hunt for the perfect hot cross bun (similar to my hunt for the perfect apple- but that's another story). So of course this meant me trawling various bakeries and supermarkets 'testing' them out. Of course, that is what I called it, as if it were some fancy science experiment, and not just me stuffing my face with crap. And after two weeks, I've found a winner- Marks and Spencer's were FAR superior to any others I'd tried. So of course on Good Frdiay, I went and bought four packs. They come in packs of four. So yes, I bought 16 buns in one go. I have had to put them in the freezer, so as not to yam them down all in one sitting. Yes, things are that bad.

But the day before yesterday, I opened a pack and put two buns in the oven, slathered them with butter and tore those bad boys up!

I need help.

Head and Shoulders above the rest

Last night I watched an interesting documentary called 'World's Tallest Children'. I do seem to have some sort of prediliction for 'freakshow' docs like this. Last week I recorded and watched 'The World's Fattest Man gets Married'. The title was of course, self-explanatory. It wasn't as good as 'The Tree-Man' or 'The Twins who share a Body' though.

Anyway, 'World's Tallest Children' was pretty good. Of course, it featured the tallest young 'uns on the planet- a Jamaican 15 year old who was 6ft 9, a Thai girl who was 6ft 10, an American boy who was pushing 8ft and the tallest family in Britian, where every member is over 5ft 10 (dad 6ft 9, 15 year old son 6ft 8, 13 year old 6ft 7, etc) and their specially designed and built house. Pretty amazing stuff. It was also surprisingly uplifting. All the kids seemed fairly well-balanced and happy...even the 8 year old girl who was 4ft 7 and whose dad was panicky that she would grow up to be as tall as he was (6ft 5). She wasn't at all bothered and said she'd like to be as tall as her dad. He hoped she'd be average.

The Jamaican girl said it best. She said that she loves her height and would hate to be shorter. She loves the attention she gets and she thinks being average is just boring. As someone who's quite tall myself (and hated it for a very long time), this sort of attitude was so refreshing and I thought she was fabulous...even though her name was Marvadene! ;)

Make me somewhere I can call a home

I wrote this months ago, and only just realised that I never posted it. Oh my!

I came back from Trinidad a couple weeks ago. I went for Carnival, which was bloody effing awesome and of course to see my family and friends, who I haven't seen for a year.


I always have mixed feelings about going home now, which makes me a bit sad. I mean, Trinidad is home. It's where I was born, it's where I grew up, it's where my family live. I like to think it's where my heart is and to some extent that's true. I do get excited about going back home and all that it entails. I look forward to walking into my house and seeing what's changed, watching cable telly, sleeping in my own bed, just being at home. I love waking up in the morning in my old bed and the familarity it entails; going downstairs and making a cup of tea, listening to the radio when my dad switches it on. If my husband's with me, we have breakfast out on the porch. If I'm on my own, I'm happy to switch on the telly and watch syndicated sitcoms with my tea and crix. For lack of a better word, it's nice.


But then I leave the shelter of the valley and I get so angry. Life in Trinidad has changed so much, it's almost unrecognisable. People have become more selfish, more ignorant and more ridiculous. Customer service are two words which seem to have no meaning in Trinidad. People act as if they're doing you some massive favour by allowing you to pay them money for whatever it is they're selling. And it irritates me. I've become very abrasive in my old age and especially since I've been living over here, I've learned to demand certain things as a paying customer. But I digress.

Money has totally corrupted Trinidadian society. People are no longer satisfied with their lot. Maybe I'm looking back on my childhood with rose-tinted spectacles, but I remember things were different. There wasn't as much traffic, for one thing and there wasn't cell-phones. Cell-phones have also helped in the deterioration of Trini life. It has taken such an important place in some people's lives that human beings become almost secondary. But that too is for another day.

However, certain things happen that restore my faith in Trinidadians. I was in a supermarket, standing in the queue behind this old woman. I mean, she was old, about seventy-odd, maybe older. She was initially behind me, but she had less stuff than me, so I asked her if she wanted to go ahead of me. She was so sweet about it, it really touched me. So we're stood there, waiting (the queue was so long!), when this man came up to her and said "Tantie, yuh goin' home after here? When yuh done wait fuh me outside and I will drop yuh. Doh go eh. I will drop yuh." She said "Oh, ok. I'll wait. Thanks eh!" And my heart just soared. That to me, was a massive symbol of what Trini society used to be made of. It made me feel so good, that all my hatred towards those in the "Ten Items or Fewer" queue with blatantly more than fifteen items, dissipated somewhat.

I carried that feeling with me for at least an hour...until some dickhead ran a red-light and almost smashed into me and had the nerve to tell me to mind my business. Sigh!

The thing is that I don't feel like I can live in Trinidad any time soon. And that makes me so sad. I don't consider England to be my home. The other day I realised that any kids I might have in the future probably won't have the same attachment to Trinidad that I have and that depressed me in a big way. I mean, I always knew my kids would be British but it never really occurred to me that they'd see England as their home.

I've lived in three European countries- France, Spain and Germany and my husband is half-Irish, so we go to Ireland a lot to visit his dad and gran. And I love it all. Spain is very West Indian and I can most definitely see the influence they had on us, and in a moment of madness I wished that they were the last colonial power to rule over us. Ah well...

So right now I'm feeling a bit rootless. I don't feel as if I belong anywhere. But maybe one day I'll stop being so precious and go back home. Or maybe one day I'll feel at home within the British system and stop whingeing so much.

Chance would be a fine thing...

A turn up for the books

I'm sitting here, in my dressing gown, drinking Green Tea with Mango, watching Numbers and I feel particularly content. I don't know if it's the green tea high, or the fact that since my husband is away, I can watch Numbers in peace. Who knows?

But for now, I feel as if all is right with my life, if not the world. And it feels pretty good.

Ramblings of a mad woman

Well

It's a new year. 2009. Hmmm. And I'm sitting here today in a strange mood. I'm beset by negative thoughts and feelings and I'm not really sure why. I mean, my life is pretty good, comparatively speaking. I have a good husband, we live pretty well. I was able to leave my job to go back to university and I got some pretty good presents for Christmas. We have no major worries at the moment (touch wood). So I should be happy. But I'm not. Why?

Well, first off I keep thinking about all the things I DON'T have. Like the friends I've lost. One I lost to death, and one I've lost to... well, I'm not really sure.

I had this friend. Someone I considered to be one of my best friends. We met about seven years ago and quickly became inseperable. We were so similar and got on so well. I thought we'd be friends forever. I thought the feeling was mutual. I thought we had the kind of friendship where we could be honest and share our problems. To be fair, I had quite a lot of problems and issues, but she was always there for me, and I always knew that if she needed me for anything I'd be there for her. I missed her whenever I went home and made the effort to keep in touch. It was a great frienship...or so I thought.

Now it's over, and I'm not entirely sure why. I mean, she's given me a reason, but I don't know what to make of it. Apparently I'm too negative a person to be around. This of course, has made me super paranoid. But not only that, I'm now questioning our entire friendship. Was it all a lie? How long did she feel this way? And why did she not say anything to me, instead of letting it fester inside for all that time?

I can't begin to describe the emotions I went through and am still feeling. First I was confused. Then I was angry, then sad. But now I'm mostly hurt. And angry. I just don't know. I never thought I was an overly-negative person, but now I find myself changing my behaviour to make sure I don't put anyone off. I worry about how I'm perceived, whereas before, I wouldn't say I didn't care, but around people I thought were close to me, I didn't think I needed to.

Which sort of brings me back to my original feelings. If someone is meant to be a best friend, aren't they supposed to take you as you are? Aren't they supposed to be able to talk to you about anything, even if it might be unpleasant? The more I think about it, the angrier I get. And I get even angrier when I remember that one of my good friends is now good mates with her...thanks to me. It's like the 'black friend' quota stands at one.

And the thing is, I've tried to make amends. I've apologised for my behaviour and asked if we can start from scratch. I've more or less grovelled. And I've been ignored. So why do I keep on doing it? I don't know. I really valued our friendship. Ninety percent of my memories of the past eight years include her and things we did together. I'm just not able to shut her out and forget everything.

So now I've heard that she's coming home next year. What do I do? Do I just let it go? Or do I double my efforts? Who knows? But who cares? I mean, in the big scheme of things, it isn't that important. Right?