Happy Ending...for me at least

Well

You'll never bloody guess what's gone and happened, oh reader of mine. They've only gone and split up. Yes. Sister-in-law and Farmer Dan are no longer together. No longer an item. No longer making whoopie. It's a shame, really. I won't go into the details of their breakup here, but needless to say, it has not been painless. And he has turned out to be a little bit psycho. He'd been texting Mr Bunny, asking for advice and what not. Or at least that's what we assumed he was doing. It was hard to tell. I mean, his grasp of English appears to be worse than that of an illiterate immigrant. There is obviously a reason he's a farmer, and not say, a Captain of Industry or a taxi driver. Anyway, he turned all psycho, telling people all sorts of things about the sister-in-law, stealing her tickets for V Festival, and basically pretending to NOT be a giant twat. Luckily I always knew he was a giant twat, so it's all good.

And do you know what the kicker is? It's that he's gone and given away the bastard dogs, apparently in an attempt to get back at her. Awww, bless. And she's more pissed that he gave them away and didn't sell them, because they cost £900. Yes, you heard that right. They spent NINE HUNDRED POUNDS on dogs. And that was before they'd had a single shot or ate a single bowl of chow. The same dogs she couldn't bear to be apart from for a couple nights while she came to visit us, were the same dogs she left at Farmer Dan's when she moved out after they broke up. Steups.

So I feel particularly vindicated in the stance I took regarding having them dogs come to visit. Shame Mr Bunny doesn't feel the same way. Sister-in-law now lives with Fat Suuu, which is where she went when she and Farmer Dan called it quits. The Bell lives on a boat and visits from time to time. Don't ask. The Bell is an idiot and does shit like that.

And as for the dogs? I really don't give a shit. I'm just glad they were never in my house.

I'd rather my arm fell off!

I spent Bank Holiday weekend at the Manor, for the christening of my God-daughter, my very own mini-Diva. I went up there on the Friday, and on Saturday night, I was out on the town with my Nigerian posse. Twas a surprisingly good night, but then again I always have a good time with my Nigerian posse. Plus I got rip-roaringly drunk, which I haven't done in years and years, and with that, there was some serious throwing of shapes. Luckily I don't get hangovers, but the vigorous dance moves and then sleeping on the couch at the Manor clearly didn't do my back any good. One side-effect of going out with the Nigerian posse and then sleeping over at someone's house, is that you literally sleep where you fall. And I claimed the couch as my own, since there's always much fighting for beds and I just don't have the fight in me any more, since someone always comes and jumps in and fucks up my sleep. Things got even worse when my ex tipped up on Sunday night, and ended up sleeping on the couch with me. I woke up early Monday morning to find I had a pair of serious yam foot lodged in my back. I rolled over and went back to sleep, and woke up about half-an hour later to find the same pair of large feet poking me in the ribs. It was not a good night's sleep.

In the aftermath of Footgate, on my way home that day, I was in some serious pain. My back was just killing me. And over the course of the following two days, it didn't get any better. So last Thursday, I buckled and booked in for a massage. And it was lovely!! But it brought back some memories of what might well be the most bizarre massage I ever got.

We'd just gotten married and I'd gone to Munich to spend a couple months. Mr Bunny was working during the day, so I'd just knock about, having fun. Back then, I used to take really good care of myself. I used to get my nails done, facials, get my legs and underarms waxed and of course, regular massage. So I needed to find a decent spa to have all these things done. I don't remember exactly how I found this place, though I think it was on an ex-pat's forum. It was called Feel-good Salon, so no, not your typical German name. I emailed reception, got an appointment for an in-fill and a pedicure, and it was all systems go!

That first appointment went really well. The spa was in this lovely residential area, that was only about a half-an hour's ride on the U-bahn. My beauty therapist, Sabrina, was a really nice girl, who spoke pretty good English (as most Germans do). The whole place was pretty no nonsense, as you would expect a German place to be, but it was comfortable. You got offered a cup of tea while you waited, there were loads of magazines in the waiting area and the staff were lovely. So I was pleased with the place and decided that it would be my new spa, and booked in for a full-body massage. Now, I've had full-body massages before, and they are by far, my favourite treatment. I tend to get some wicked knots in my shoulders, so I love being pampered like that. So of course, I was so excited for this appointment.

The date of the appointment, I tipped up to the spa, had a cup of green tea and was ushered in to the massage room. Sabrina told me to get undressed and lie under the sheet on the massage table. So far, so good. She comes back in and is starting to work on my neck and back, and it was blissful. Tensions and stress were falling away and I was just getting lost in the feeling. She moved down to my legs, working her magic on my thighs, then my calves and then my feet. Loved it! When she was done, she asked me to flip over, which didn't strike me at all as odd. But what happened next will stay with me until the day I die.

I'm laying on my back, looking forward to her working on my arms and hands, when she rips off the sheet and starts massaging my boobs. As if there was nothing weird or horribly wrong about that. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, and not at all traumatic or scarring in any way, shape or form. With that one, simple action, all the tension that left my body came rushing back in. My eyes shot open and back stiffened up. I mean, this woman is massaging my boobs. This woman, who thus far had only seen my admittedly lovely hands and feet, was now basically feeling me up. And she clearly saw nothing wrong with it. She's carrying on massaging as if nothing's wrong, and all I can think is "She's massaging my boobs! She's massaging my boobs! SHE is massaging MY boobs! She's massaging my BOOBS!"

Needless to say the whole thing was ruined. Completely ruined. Like, forever. Look, I know the Germans are mad free 'n shit. They're always bloody naked and when you go on holiday, they're the ones in the speedos, with the women walking around in a thong and no top. You go down to the Englischgarten and people are laying around doing a bit of nude sunbathing, then getting up and walking to the water fountain or the ice cream truck, like nothing's wrong. They see the body as being very functional and in their typical no-nonsense attitude, why shouldn't you lay out in a public park on a sunny day, with your baps out? I mean, they're only baps, yeah? Every female's got baps. Big baps, little baps, saggy baps, fake baps, pert baps. Baps with pink nipples, brown nipples, baps with freaking huge nipples. Perfect baps, hideous baps. Like, they're baps, yeah? They're functional. They're there. And that's all well and good for them. But I like to keep my bosoms under wraps, many thanks. I'm sorry. That's just the way I roll. I don't even have sex with the light on, for fuck's sake!

After that massage, all I could tell people was "She massaged my boobs!" When I left, I called Mr Bunny and practically screamed down the phone at him "Fuckin' hell! She massaged my boobs! What the fuck?!" Needless to say, he found the whole thing hilarious. I sent my mate Marion an email, and of course I mentioned it. I went to bed that night, and all I could think of was that fateful moment when she literally ripped off the sheet and started kneading me like I was a potential loaf of sweetbread. The next day, all I could think was "I can't believe she massaged my boobs!"A couple weeks later, we met up with one of his workmates and his girlfriend. He's British, his girlfriend is German. Of course, the whole boob massaging thing came up. He was like "Nice. I wonder what other extras are on offer?" She saw nothing wrong with it. Apparently, it's all about circulation and lymph nodes and what not. :-S I went back to have my legs waxed after that, which I was understandably nervous about, as I worried that it would become 'more' than a leg wax. But my fears were unfounded. The wax was actually really good, and she even broke out the tweezers and magnifying glass, to get rid of any strays or ingrowns.

All I have to say though, is thank God for sexually repressed British masseuses. Yes the Brits are a bit slutty, always boning down and shagging around. But fortunately for prudes such as myself, this doesn't extend to beauty treatments, unless it's been specifically advertised or requested. Oh my.

I was so traumatised by that massage, it was about a year until my next one. It was in Trinidad, a couple years ago. A masseuse comes to our house once or twice a month, since all of a sudden, my dad is on some sort of holistic kick. He had one and my mom had one, and I was like "Well what about me? I doh want a massage too?" So she came back to next day and I had one, it was really good. And the best part of it? She never asked me to roll over. I also had one when we went to Turkey on holiday in 2009. And you know what? There was also no touching of boobs. Quite the opposite. The masseuse was extremely careful to NOT rub me the wrong way (if you'll pardon the pun). And it was an amazing massage. I went back up to our room ready to spend the rest of the day laying on the balcony, watching cheesy American made-for-tv movies. Win!

I have another one booked in for this coming Thursday and I'm mad excited. But three years later, whenever I think of having a massage, all I can think of is the time an outwardly nice, pleasant German girl, threw me into a panic by a simple act designed to actually make my body feel better. Good grief. At least now I know to never have a massage done at a German spa, unless I memorise the German for "Please don't touch my boobs. Many thanks."

The plot thickens

So Mr Bunny decided to take another stab at convincing me of this dog thing. Turns out, dogs are like babies and you can't leave them home alone. Riiiight. So having a dog is just like having a baby. I mean, yes you have to clean up after them both, and yes their poos and farts stink like nobody's business, and yes you have no idea what they want most of the time, since they don't use words. But seriously? Having a dog is just like having a baby? Is he kidding me?

Obviously I just steupsed and was like "For fuck's sake. The bloody dogs aren't coming, so get over it. Why do you care so much anyway? You don't even like your sister!" And it's true. He doesn't like his sister. He never rings her, he never texts her, he never even sends her an FB message or anything. I am the one who texts her from his phone every so often, just so it looks as though he cares. I am the one who's always getting on his back to meet up with her (which he refuses to do). So I had to call him out on his hypocrisy.

The issue apparently, is that he's ready for us to get along now. And my feelings on that? Bollocks to them both. He let her bad behaviour go unchecked for nearly three years. He'd be like "Yeah, she's a dickhead. That's just how she is." So why is it that now that SHE wants to get on and HE thinks it's time, I must suddenly run to her with arms wide open? Evs. In my fantasies, he tells her "Yeah, she's a bitch. That's just how she is."

In any event, dogs are just like babies apparently. Who knew? I guess my family was guilty of gross child endangerment and neglect, whenever we went on holiday and left our dogs at home. Maybe our dogs should have been taken into care, because we left them outside at night and only fed them once a day and bathed them only when they stank so much we couldn't take the stench. And it seems the pound is basically a fancy name for a dog orphanage. Steups.

It all boils down to this- I like babies. I do not like dogs. And Mr Bunny is full of shit.

The Bitch is back...apparently

So there's a new 'situation' in the offing. My sister-in-law would like to come and spend some time with us and see our new house. "Noooo!" I hear you cry. "Don't let that girl anywhere near your nice new sheets." Look, I have no problem with her coming up to see us. I am always civil to her when we meet (which thankfully isn't very often). I have never forbade Mr Bunny from seeing his sister or spending any time with her. I have however, forbidden him from ever giving her any money, but that's for another day.

Anyway, she wants to come and visit with her boyfriend for a couple days, which I'm not happy about (more on that in a bit). The problem is, it won't just be the two of them. She wants to bring their dogs. Yes. Dogs. Plural. As in not one, but TWO dogs. Two black labrador retrievers. In my house. Which is carpeted. In cream carpet. Yes. Right.

Of course I was like "Hell to the no!" when Mr Bunny informed me of this. If she wants to come and stay for a couple days, fine. No worries. But when she decides that she wants to bring her two not small dogs with her, then we have a problem. She never even used to like dogs anyway. But now she's boning the farmer with the hideous teeth, suddenly she's freaking Earth Mother, loving all animals. I mean, I could just about tolerate him being in my house, since he's already on my shit list. Why?

Well, on New Year's Eve last year, I was flat out in bed with a killer flu, so Mr Bunny was on his own downstairs, partaking of our not inconsiderable alcohol stash. He texted his sister to wish her Happy New Year, and she replied with some sort of apology for all the chaos she caused re: the Alfa...in 2009! He chose that precise moment to have a go at her, and she was replying and what not. I vaguely remember him coming and waking me up to tell me he was finally telling her off (still haven't come up with a name for her). So the next day, he is suitably hungover and I end up going through his phone, when I see a text from her boyfriend. This text tells Mr Bunny that he knows his sister worships him, so why is he having a go at her and ruining her night, and if I have anything to say to her, then I should do it myself, instead of making him send her nasty texts on New Year's Eve. Well I get stink one time, and start to cuss the place down. I mean, who the FUCK does he think he is? This WHOLE car nonsense happened before she even DREAM to pick up with him and his bad teeth and shit haircut. And he playing he want to be calling MY name in his mouth? He damn lie!

So I replied (pretending to be Mr Bunny), saying that he needs to not say anything about situations that are nothing to do with him, and that he doesn't know me, so he should keep his mouth shut, especially since I was sick in bed and had nothing to do with any texting going on. I then sent sister a long FB message, telling her that she and Mr Bunny need to speak to each other properly, instead of holding shit in and having it all unleash via text message when they're both pissed and highly emotional. I told her I am not getting between the two of them, but that they seriously had to sort out their issues, because it's not doing anybody any good. I also told her that boyfriend needs to keep his fucking nose out of this, because it is absolutely nothing to do with him, but if he want to run his mouth, he needs to get his facts straight and if he wants to call my name in his mouth again, then he better fucking do it to my face. I gave her our landline number, and told her what our movements were that day, and that I hope she called him. I also told her she is welcome up here any time and that we hoped to see her soon.

She never called. She replied saying that everything's fine and that they were both drunk, but it's all good now. Steups. I left it at that.

So now it's bad enough that Mr Man wants to come up in my house for a weekend, and have me feed him and make conversation. But for them to want to bring freaking dogs too? Nah. Not in this house pal-o. My logic is, if I wanted dogs in my house, I would have a dog. It's that simple. Our back garden is not animal friendly and there is no kennel. British weather is shit, so chances are the dogs will have to sleep inside because it will be too cold, wet or windy for them to sleep on the cobbles out back. And we all know that dogs do not sleep well in new surroundings, so there will most likely be much whining and howling. My neighbours would love that. I told Mr Bunny that I will just about tolerate having the boyfriend cross this threshold. But there is no chance in hell, that these dogs are coming into this house unless a) I am dead, b) we are divorced and he gets the house or c) I am away for the weekend and she sneaks the dogs in after I leave and is gone before I return. I did warn him though, that in the event of me ever finding out about scenario C, scenario B would soon follow.

He thinks I am being unreasonable. His solution? The dogs can sleep in the kitchen. Eh? Has he lost his damned mind? The kitchen is more or less my domain in the house. I spend a lot of time down in it, watching telly, listening to my iPods, cooking, washing up or reading. Why the hell would I want two dogs to have the run of it? Doesn't matter if it's for two days, two weeks or two hours. There will be no dogs in my kitchen. But what do I find he has told her? "Don't worry. I'll sort the dog situation." He didn't realise how stupid it was of him to say that, because I put my foot down even harder. He's lucky I didn't put it up his arse, but that's by the by.

I told my mom, and she actually agrees with me, which she never does. She thinks I'm too highly strung and have a vendetta against sister. Which I don't think I do. I just can't be arsed with her anymore. My friend V also agrees with me. She was like "No, you damn right! Is your fricking house. Who she think she is at all? Steups. An' yuh know what? Tell that fricking boyfriend he not welcome either! He too fas' an' outta place wid heself." Pure jokes.

There are some kennels we drive past on our way to the supermarket, and I always say "Look, that's where Sister can leave the dogs if she ever does want to come up to visit." And he just goes "Mmhmmm." But now it looks like I'm the one who's being awkward and difficult, when in fact I think I'm being quite reasonable. I mean, if I had a dog (or any other pet), I would never go to the Manor, for example, and take it with me. I'd make arrangements for it to be fed and watered in my absence. But noooo. I name bitch, and I'm just being so mean to poor, little sister. Steups. Not my fecking problem, yes. The fact of the matter is, the dogs aren't coming. And if she wants to push the issue, Farmer Dan will find he is not welcomed here either. I'm holding my ground here. I don't care if I come off looking like a bitch. I'll be a bitch with an ace house, a wicked car and cool hair. Fuck 'em.

If I wanted my house to smell like shit and piss, I'd have had the toilets ripped out when we moved in.

El Puente del horror!

So I've been loving driving around in my new (to me) car, LOVING playing my tapes. I've been loving it so much, I completely forgot or failed to realise that there was a six-CD changer. But seeing as I think the bulk of my homemade CDs are in Trinidad or lost forever (the two might be the same thing though), and even though I still buy CDs, I very rarely listen to them all the way through. I'm all about the playlist and the mix.

Every day I keep finding more and more tapes, including a treasure trove of 120-minute tapes; four in total. There is a tape labelled "Bunny, Spain, December 13 2001" and it's got a little car sticker on it. Do you know why? Because it was a tape I made for a road trip I took with some girls, for the December puente in 2001. Road trip? Girls? Puente?

Well you see, once upon a time, when I was a lot more fun than I am now, I was on my way back to Soria from spending the weekend in England, seeing friends, going out, dancing. I was sat at the coach station in Madrid, listening to my walkman, waiting on my coach up to Soria when this black girl comes up to me and she's like "Inglesa?" So say "Yeah." Turns out she's from the Bahamas and she's in Spain, obviously to learn Spanish. We ended up chatting for a bit, and I thought she was really nice. She gave me her number and said that she was going down to the Costa Blanca for the puente with some friends, and I should come with them. FYI, puente means bridge and it's the term given to a long weekend, when the holiday falls on a Thursday or Tuesday. When that happens, the Friday or Monday is also given as a holiday, just to avoid having to go out to work just before or after we weekend, only to be off again. It is the best invention in the history of man and I loved it. We get our love of holidays from our Spanish ancestors, obviously. During the six-month period I was in Spain, there were two puentes and Soria's fiesta de santos, which is a week of celebrations devoted to the patron saint of whatever town or city you're in. The French have the pont, which you guessed it, means bridge.

But I digress. She gave me her number and I promised to ring her to sort out the details. And I did. We arranged to meet up on the Wednesday night (my boss was mad excited for me and insisted I leave work early to get the coach to Madrid) at Madrid coach station, and get the overnight coach down to Malaga. We'd stay at the flat of a friend of theirs, go out, then hire a car and drive along the coast and just play it by ear. I'm not one for 'playing it by ear', since those things always end in disaster, but I thought "Hey, I'm 21, I'm in Spain and hot Spanish dude is still with his girlfriend. So why not, eh?" Turns out I should ALWAYS trust my instincts.

The coach ride down to Malaga was alright. It took seven hours. But they showed some films and I was able to get some sleep and had a nice chat with one of the black girl's mates. For the life of me, I cannot remember anyone's name! I do remember that she was Irish and had a crazy lazy eye. Like seriously. It had a life of its own! And they all spoke very basic Spanish. So I ended up being interpreter-in-chief. AND it also transpired that none of the fuckers knew how to drive. SO I ENDED UP BEING THE CHAUFFEUR. Now, I love driving and I'm more than happy to do it. But that goodwill evaporates when driving duties are just dumped on me with the expectation that I'll be happy to do it. That pisses me off.

Anyway, got to Malaga, got a cab to her friend's place. We had a good sleep in an actual bed, then woke up and went to get some food. Ended up in this raging club, drinking and dancing and generally having a good time. Shakira's Servicio Lavanderia had just come out, and Suerte was a huge hit. So they played that a few times, along with some Enrique Iglesias, Rosario and whoever else was popular at the time. Out with us that night, was a dude named Lucas who was great fun and a tiny bit cute. We all ended up back at their friend's place and hung out some more with everyone, playing The Score, by The Fugees, chatting drinking and having a fairly decent time. We slept, woke up then got a cab to the car rental place. This is when I discovered that none of the little shits had a licence or knew how to drive. Big, fat steups. At that point, I hadn't driven a manual car since I did my test in 1997, and I wasn't about to start back, in a country where they drive on the wrong side of the road and speak a foreign language. So we had to get an automatic, and that cost more, which pissed off the other girls. They were spared a tongue lashing from me, by me speaking to the guy behind the counter, who realised that I was on the verge of letting loose a barrage of curse words. So in the end he only charged us 1500ptas extra.

We got a green Renault Scenic, which we then had to fill up with petrol. I decided that since I had had driving duties foisted upon me, I wasn't fucking paying for any petrol and basically said that. Surprisingly, they accepted that but I still had to go in and physically hand over the money, since I was the only one who didn't sound like a complete tosser when they spoke Spanish.

So we hit the autocarrera and headed for Torremelinos and beyond. We drove for about four hours. Well, when I say we, I mean I drove for about four hours. We ended up in Gibraltar, which I didn't mind so much, because I'd always heard about it and was very curious to actually see it for myself. I mean, it's a British territory on Spanish soil. That made me very excited because I knew I'd see all my British shops there. And so said, so done- Topshop, Safeway, Miss Selfridge and the like. I was able to go and buy some Jordan's Country Crisp, have a nosey around M&S and speak a bit of English with some strangers. We also took some photos in front of the Rock of Gibraltar. It was altogether a not unpleasant sojourn. However, as easy as it was getting IN, it was a nightmare getting out. You see, Gibraltar is on the coast of Spain. And so lots of immigrants arrive there by boat, from Africa, then either get smuggled out or stow away in car boots to get into Spain. So every single car has to be searched, to make sure you're not carrying any extra passengers. It took us about ten minutes to get into Gibraltar, and well over an hour to get out. Bah.

That night, we ended up in Algeciras which is an industrial port town. From there, the girls had planned to get a ferry to Mellia and Ceuta, (quite possibly they only planning they did for this sodding trip) two Spanish territories on the Moroccan mainland. I had no desire to end up there with them, so I told them I'd happily pick them up from the port, but I wasn't going to be joining them. What was even more ridiculous, was that they'd planned to sleep in the car in the port car park overnight, then jump on the ferry in the morning. I put the kibosh on that one time, and went and found myself a hotel room for the night. I told them I wasn't leaving the car at the port, because at the end of the day, it was my name on the rental documents. So they could sleep in the hotel car park or shell out for their own room. They chose the car park. This is when I fully realised what I'd got myself in to. I mean, what the fuck? Sleeping in cars in a strange town? Mental or what??? In the mean time, in my lovely hotel room, I ordered a pizza from Telepizza (one of the BEST pizzas I have ever had. When I first got to Soria, and was living out of a suitcase, I LIVED on their pizza barbacoa), watched telly and had a soak in the tub. The next morning when I went down, they were already on their ferry and I had the whole day to myself. ACES!

I ended up just driving all around, playing -of course- a tape I'd made for the occasion. I'd actually made it in November, and it contained all sorts of songs- some soca, some dancehall, a lot of Michael Jackson, Aaliyah and a few others here and there. It was blissful. I went to the Carrefour, where I bought Shakira's and the new All Saint's album, browsed, bought a top and just had a great time. I drove some more, and ended up in Estepona. Estepona is mad posh, as posh as Marbella (which is where a lot of people like gangsters and footballers have lavish villas). I parked up somewhere and just walked along the boardwalk for a bit. Then I found a little cafe and ordered some chopitos and gaz con limon. They didn't have chopitos like they do in Soria, but it was deelishis nonetheless. By the way, chopitos is squid (sort of) and gaz con limon is fizzy lemonade like 7Up or Sprite. I sat there with my magazine, read, had a little chat with the owner/cook/waiter about Trinidad, life in Soria and life in England, what I was doing down on the coast. When I was done, I walked around some more, then headed back to Algeciras to pick up the douchebags.

They'd had a great time in Ceuta and were saying that they felt sorry for me that I didn't come. I just laughed and said I'd had an amazing day anyway. But to be fair, Ceuta would be an interesting place to visit. Just not with them. It was starting to get dark, but they wanted to go to Sevilla. Seville. BLOODY SEVILLE! Seville was like five hours' drive from Algeciras, so I shot that down straight away. Plus it was away from the coast so I wasn't too confident about getting there safely. So we settled on going to Cadiz.

We get to Cadiz, only to get stuck in the most horrific traffic jam, because there's some sort of Carnival going on. I'm telling you, the Spanish influence on Trinidad is just so blatant, it's amazing. Freaking great. People are dancing outside of bars, honking horns, one guy had parked up his car and was playing music out of it. It was like being in St James. Finally, we find somewhere to park, around midnight and decide to walk back into town. They were going to join in the festivities (and of course sleep in the car afterwards), I was going to find a hotel room and have some room service and get some proper sleep. They thought I was being a diva, but I had to point out to them that driving a car four three and a half hours non-stop is brutal on your neck and back, and since the drive back to Malaga the next day would be pushing six hours, I'd need a bit more than a thirty-minute kip in the backseat. So I went in search of a room, they trundled off to get wasted. I ended up in a bar for about half-an hour, chatting with some people and getting the scoop on hotels. Found this gorgeous hotel, with lovely red velvet curtains in the lobby. That was enough for me. Didn't have room service in the end, but the bed was fabulous and the tub was amazing!

The next morning, I went back to the car at the agreed time, to find them sleeping in it. I just jumped in and got going. It was just starting to get light, so the roads were clear and I was able to get back onto the motorway easily. Luckily the douchebags were still sleeping, so in the tape went again and my smile came back. Eventually they woke up and we chatted for a bit. They dozed off again and I carried on singing along. Then it really went to hell.

Lazy-eye girl was in the front seat, and she was telling to drive slowly. Not asking. Telling. Bearing in mind I'm on a Spanish highway, people whizzing past me at a hundred miles per hour and the little Scenic could only manage about ninety. So I'm like "Look, we need to get back to hand in the car, because I'm not paying for another day's rental on it. Plus this is not fast. PLUS I actually do know how to drive. So just take it easy." She sits there in silence for a while, and the lazy eye is probably whizzing around in her head, like that dude from Harry Potter. Then she says "Will you fucking slow down!" And I tell her to shut the fuck up, unless she is legally able to take over driving responsibilities from me. Then the bitch does the unthinkable. She ejects my tape from the player and pulls out the strip. And I go fucking beserk. I pull over to the side of the road, jump out the car, and I'm like "Get the fuck out of my car! I'm not fucking driving anywhere with this fucking whore in my car! GET HER OUT!!!" The black girl is trying to calm me down, lazy-eye girl is looking at me (or behind me. Who can tell?) and I'm trying hard not to cuff her down. Black girl is like "She's sorry. She's really sorry. Look, she'll sit in the back and I'll come in the front. Let's just get back to Malaga, yeah?" So I turn around and walk back to the car and start it up. I don't even wait for them. They run and jump in, and I floor it all the way back to Malaga, with a Spanish talk-radio station on full blast.

So we get back to the rental place, and I'm handing in the keys. They chap's asking me how things went, how were the roads, etc. I just say "Joder!" and roll my eyes, and he laughs. I say a few more bad words in Spanish, we talk for a couple minutes about the coño and the puta and he laughs some more, tells me to go and find a boyfriend and have a drink. So I walk out of the office, right past them and walk past all these high-rise hotels. They're scurrying behind me, but I didn't give a shit. I ended up in this cafe/restaurant where I order a full English. Malaga is basically England on the Costa. You can get chips and beans, egg and chips, a Sunday roast and other such assorted food that kind of defeats the whole purpose of you being in a foreign country. Anyway, they sit a couple tables away. The breakfast was nice, but when I went to pay, the waitress (who was English) says "Oh, your bill's already been paid, luv."

Lazy-eye girl's paid for my food. "Should've fucking ordered the lobster then", I say to the waitress and we laugh.

I get up, walk past them and go and sit on a bench on the boardwalk. I am distraught because I have a walkman and no tape. How dare this pasty, unattractive bitch, with K-foot and no sense of style destroy what I had taken such care to make. To me, it was unforgivable. But she comes and sits next to me and is like "I'm sorry you know. It's just that I was in a bad accident when I was ten and I just don't like going fast on the motorway." I turn to her and say "This has been one of the worst trips I've ever taken. You have not helped. I will most likely not see any of you after this, so I don't really care what you have to say. You can't drive, yet you want to tell me how to drive. You wanted to get back to Malaga early, but you want me to go under the speed limit. You think I'm a bitch because I don't want to be some sort of vagrant and sleep in a car in a strange town. That's not how I roll. You don't know me that well, so don't you ever again in your life, touch my shit or I will box you down, eh." Then I get up and walk away.

The kicker was, our bus wasn't until midnight that night, so we ended up back at their friends' flat. But guess what? Lucas was there! And he actually seemed happy to see me. I realised it was because his English wasn't that great and all of their Spanish was pretty shit, so he was happy to be able to converse with someone in language an adult would use. So we're talking about the trip, when he says "Let's go for a walk." So we ended up walking around Malaga city centre, which wasn't so bad actually. We went to McDonald's, because I had to pee and he wanted a beer so we stayed there for a bit. I forget most things about him, but I remember he had grey eyes and a lovely smile, but he was just about the same height as me. We left McDonald's, walked around a bit more then started to head back to the flat. He said he was going to head back to his place, because it was getting near the time for us to head to the coach station anyway. I dreaded going back to the flat, and I was like "No! No me dejas!!" He just laughed and said don't worry, it'd be alright, and he wrote his number on the back of a tube map. Then we had a lovely little snog in the middle of the pavement and parted ways. I still have that tube map.

Got back to the flat and made our way to the coach station. They hugged their mates goodbye, I thanked them for having me and we got on the coach. I tried to sleep, watched bits of the films and basically prayed for it all to be over. When we got back to Madrid, I was the happiest I'd been in days (well, apart from exchanging saliva with a cute Spanish dude). I sort of told the black girl goodbye, and went to look for the platform my coach back to Soria was leaving from. I had a bit of a wait, and of course I had no music. Luckily, Madrid coach station isn't a total wasteland, so I walked around for a bit, bought a sandwich for breakfast, had a browse in a couple shops and checked my emails in the internet cafe.

In Soria, my boss met me at the coach station and took me back to my flat. She asked me how the trip was, and I told her it was una mierda. She said "Oh no!" and that was that. The black girl (I want to call her Stacey, but I really can't be sure if that's her name) called the Academia for me a couple times, but I always told Ana to tell her I was busy...which I was anyway. And I never called her back.

But what was one of the first things I did when I got back to my flat? Make a tape to replace the one Lazy-eye had destroyed. And on it, I put a couple new tracks on it. And that tape? I labelled it "Bunny, December 13 2001, Spain." And this is the tape I found in the shed and popped into my car stereo last week.

And that simple act brought back all these memories of a long-forgotten, ill-fated trip along the Costa Blanca. A little label on a piece of plastic and magnetic strip (with a red sticker of a sports car) reminded me of the weekend I nearly punched an annoying Irish girl but still had a nice time driving along tiny Spanish coastal hamlets on my own. None of my iPod playlists do that. And I don't have the same attachment to CDs. So methinks I'll keep my tape player going, thanks. CD changer? Nein danke. iPod auxiliary cable? Negatory. Tapes rock!

There are rumblings in the Bunny household about a replacement stereo, complete with DVD player and touch screen sat nav though. Such talk has made my blood run cold.

Mr Bunny must be stopped!!

It's as if He Knew

A black cat has taken to coming into our back garden. It's been doing it since we moved in last year. For a while, I was worried it was nesting behind the shed, but I went and had a little nosey just to make sure there wasn't a batch of kittens waiting to be fed. The thing about this cat, is that it's wicked boldfaced! It scales the garden fence and pads across the cobbles, as though it owns the joint, then goes behind the shed and jumps over into the garden next door.

But what irks me even more about this cat, is that it doesn't seem at all afraid of me. Say what you like about Mad Cat and his band of ragamuffin friends, at least they all had the decency to scram when I opened my kitchen window and shouted at them. This cat, I think I'll call it Cheeky Cat, doesn't even pretend to move any faster when I open the back door and shout. I've even thrown stuff at it, and it just keeps on strolling to the shed. It's as if he's saying "Listen bitch, I've been doing this since long before you bought this joint. So get used to it or jog on." I have not yet figured out what accent Cheeky Cat speaks in.

The thing is though, I feel somewhat comforted by this continuing of the cat tradition that seems destined to remain a part of my life, wherever we move to. Weird cats seem to follow me, so I guess that is part of my lot in life. Ah well.

Even so, Cheeky Cat must die.

Talk about your Big Bangs!

We have our new car and it's completely awesome. I love it, even though it guzzles petrol like nobody's business. It's just brilliant. I say new, in the sense that it's new to us. It obviously is not brand new, because we are not psychopaths or idiots and were not about to fork out many tens thousands of pounds for a brand new car, that would lose twenty percent of its value the minute you shake the slimy salesman's hand. So the car is used. And it's old enough that it came with a tape deck. It surprised me that so many cars came with tape deck as standard, well into the mid -noughties. Even the little work-house Focus came with a tape deck, and Mr Bunny bought that in 2006.

At first that really irritated me. I just thought the previous owner must have been one lazy bitch, if she couldn't even be bothered to install a proper stereo, Merc or not. But then I cursed my own folly and became v happy. You see, back in the day I was a most prolific maker of tapes. I remember making my first tape when I was about nine or ten. I lay on the floor, next to my parents' bed (which is where the unit was that they kept the radio on in our old house) and would wait for a song to come on and hope that the bloody DJ wouldn't ruin it by blabbing during the intro or just as it was ending. The first song I remember recording was a song called Fallen, by Lauren Wood. I don't know why I recorded that song, but I remember I liked it a whole lot. Of course there were other songs on this tape, but this is the one I remember most. In any event, and so it began.

I'd guess that over the course of my tape-making career, I've made close to a hundred tapes. Of course when tapes began to become obseolete, I moved on to CDs. This wasn't the same, since it required a lot less skill than pressing pause at precisely right moment. I could look at a tape and know exactly how much space was left and know exactly which song I could use to fill it...if there was room for a song at all. However, I became a master of mixing different types of songs. And please note, when I say mixing, I do not mean in the way a DJ would do. I'd just mix genres, speeds, artistes. Or I'd mix songs from one artists many albums. My favourite of these was my MJ mixes. This was when I truly flourished as a tape-maestro, and it also helped me get a new walkman quickly, since I would insist on my tapes being played in the car on any journey. Things came to a head in 1997, when we went to St Thomas on holiday, and my dad finally snapped and bought me a walkman so he wouldn't be subjected to constatnt replays of Human Nature and Don't Stop Til You Get Enough. It was around then that I also received my Jackson 5 Anthology, so I Want You Back, Dancing Machine, People Make the World Go 'Round and Can I See You (In the Morning) got thrown into the mix. Things got even worse (from their point of view) when I discovered that you could buy 120 minute tapes. Until then, I'd been stuck with lame 60 minute ones. But to be able to DOUBLE the pleasure and thus double the fun? Oh me, oh my! Anyway, my tapes became legendary as did my CDs. Friends would ask me to make them tapes and CDs for them to play at home or in their cars or whatever. The modern-day equivalent of this is the iPod playlist. And I am also a master at that. I have a playlist just for parties at the Manor, that ALWAYS goes down a treat.

But I digress. So this car has a tape deck. At first I thought "Hmmm. I think I'll just play my Adrian Mole" but in rooting around in the loft for those well-worn tapes, I stumbled across a tape rack. I pulled out a couple tapes- a soca mix from 1999- that I bought either on Independence Sq or in the Croissee-, and a greyish, brownish tape with no label. I'd been playing Adrian Mole for at least a couple journeys, and yesterday while I was on my way to the supermarket, it finally finished. Luckily, I'd put the grey tape into my cardie pocket, so I popped it in and off we went.

IT WAS FREAKING AWESOME!!!! Side A was a Cranberries session, with all my favourites- Ode to My Family, Empty, Daffodil Lament, Dreams, Linger, Not Sorry, Put Me Down. Side B, however was a complete and total revelation. Songs I hadn't even thought about in about ten years; Big Bang Baby, by the Stone Temple Pilots, All Mixed Up by 311, Swallowed by Bush and even a couple tracks by No Doubt (but my current aversion to Ms Stefani forbade me from listening to them).

Hearing Big Bang Baby took me right back to driving around in my mom's car, just after I got my licence. Some of my happiest driving experiences have been when I've been on my own, and am not hampered by the tastes of others. My friends would never have let it rest, if I'd popped on a bit of STP while they were in the car. But I digress. That opening little guitar riff just brough it all flooding back- the cheesy video, Scott Weiland obviously smacked out of his mind, me dancing around my room singing "Life is for freeeeee! Nothing's for freeeeeeeee. Take it away booooys!" I was at some traffic lights and I couldn't help myself. I got so into it, the woman in the car next to me looked, smiled and gave me the thumbs up. The woman in the car on the opposite side of the road, waved. Meh. Whatevs.

But nothing compared to the track that followed- Naked Eye by Luscious Jackson. I had TOTALLY forgotten about them as a group, which I feel thoroughly ashamed of now. I forget exactly which year it was I fell in love with them, but I remember it was the year I worked for Claudia during the July/August holidays. I say worked, but all I really did was try on clothes and sit in the back, trying to figure out her ancient computer. I'd grown weary of hearing Enya's Paint the Sky With Stars album, so suggested to Natasha that we play something cool. Everyone loved it, and Naked Eye could probably be heard throughout Colsort Mall. I remember I loved that entire, freaking album. EVERY SONG was just brilliant. I played it at home, I played it in the car (of course I made a tape of it) and when I finally got an adapter for my discman, it was on continuous loop whenever I was allowed to drive somewhere.

So the tape was rewound and the little machiney-type opening riff played at full volume. And I was the happiest I'd been in a few days.

This then made me wonder about all the other tapes I'm sure I had lurking around somewhere. So today I went out into the shed and had a root through the boxes out there, and goodness gracious me! The secrets they unfurled! I found tapes labelled "Bunny, Spain, October 15 2001" or "Bunny, Favourites, Spain, 2001" and "Bunny, Favourites, England." Who knew my anal labelling would come in so handy, ten years later, eh? Some of the tapes had no label, and a couple had labels that had been smeared with oil or something greasy, so the writing had faded. But I managed to make out one of them, and it said simply "Rock no. 2" And you know what? I know that once I put it on, I'll remember exactly how and when I made it.

All I need now is a road trip. Happy days.

Before my time?

I was speaking to one of my best mates last night. I've known her since primary school and she is one of two people who are in the running to be Godmother. So we're just chatting about our lives, catching up properly since we only seem to be able to communicate by BBM due to the time difference and all that. So we're just talking the usual load of shit, laughing at how gay we were back in the day. I mentioned an ex that recently found me on Facebook and we had a good laugh about how he and I met and that led to talking about when we all went to a concert and a guy pissed on her hand and said ex and I got into a massive fight and he stormed off, only to return drunk, high or both, and full of love for everyone around, especially me. We guffawed at his name (he's half-Spanish) and how different his hair looks now and how he and her own ex were best mates and were almost obsessed with each other. It was weird. But good time was had by all.

Even when we 'kept it real' and talked about the hardships we're both kind of facing now. She's single, living in a foreign country (even though she was born there, she was raised in Trinidad and has no real ties to where she lives now) and has a stressful job. I on the other hand, am finding marriage to a comedian more annoying than not, have no career to speak of and am struggling to accept my new role as housewife extraordinaire. It is this last one that caused my friend the most concern.

You see, I've learned how to knit, I've started back baking and I'm going to start making jam. These are things I'm doing because I want to. I've always wanted to learn how to knit, since I never learned how to crochet. I remember during that term in between our Common Entrance exam and entering secondary school, which coincidentally was probably one of the best periods of my life, everyone would sit around talking, playing games, liming and crocheting. Since I couldn't do the latter, I was restricted to doing the former. And it pained me greatly that I couldn't crochet. My mother knew how to, both my grans knew how to. Even my elder sister could whack out a doily if she needed to. I was stuck crocheting the world's thinnest scarves. I asked to be taught but no one bothered. Ever since then, I've always said I wanted to learn to knit. This is a desire also borne out of necessity. You see, I have a big head and it gets cold during winter. And the store-bought hats are all a standard size, made for dainty heads with straight hair. I saw knitting as a way I could wear all sorts of brilliant hats, but also a way to express my limited creativity. So I made a promise that once I finished my masters, I would learn. I've made a start too, and a very admirable one at that. So promise kept.

I also promised myself that once we moved and I had a bigger kitchen, I'd go back to my previous baking ways. I used to bake all the time, mostly bread though. And I loved it. I cooked a lot, back in the day- fish stew, Irish stew, fish pie, all sorts of chicken. I even made my own pasta from scratch once. I don't think I'll be repeating that, since rolling out the dough was very trying on my weak forearms. So now that we're in the bigger house and I have a bigger kitchen, I've reverted to type. What's wrong with that? I've always loved to cook. I even used to want to be a chef! And there we have another promise kept.

Finally, I've always wanted to make my own jam. My gran used to make a brilliant guava jam and I just thought it was the best skill in the world. Then again, my gran made everything brilliantly. Her bhagi and saltfish was superior to anyone else's. Even her boiled rice tasted different. I guess that's just how grans are. So I've been checking it out online, and with my next batch of allowance, I'm going to invest in some jam equipment- jars, a jam pot, parchment lids, a couple kilos of jam sugar, a jam funnel etc- and get going. I've even found the first recipe I want to try out. Raspberry. Yummings! Of course I didn't explain this all to my friend. She was just horrified beyond belief that I even mentioned these things. She was like "Jeez, are you sure you're thirty? What the hell's wrong with you?" I did feel a slight pang of worry, like I was rushing the ageing process.

But then I realised "Hey, my gran didn't start doing all these ace things when she was fifty. She'd had to start some time and get the practice in. And that's what made her fucking brill." I'm not sure my friend bought my rationing though. She thinks I'm mental. Ah well... So I no longer see these things as me acting all old 'n shit before my time, or being boring. I'm just doing the trial runs for the future, so my grandkids can say "Ooooh, my gran makes the best cookies." Or "Oh thanks. Yeah, my gran made it for me." I mean, we all have to start somewhere, right?

I still can't believe you can buy sugar manufactured especially for making jam though.

I Put On My Happy Face

It's Thursday today, and I'm meeting a friend for lunch. It's a lovely spring day and I'm in the mood for glamour, so I'm donning my new maxi dress (again), some huge sunnies, fab earrings and my MAC shimmer. Why the hell not, eh? I mean, yesterday was Budget Day and the Chancellor has fucked us in the arse, while stroking our shoulders, and people have totally fallen for it. I mean, people celebrating because he knocked 1p off a litre of petrol? Steups. All the retailers have done is put up their prices by 1p on Tuesday, so they can put them back down today. Some douchebags fail to realise that Unleaded is still £1.36 a litre and Diesel is £1.40. But whatevs. These nice days don't come along very often here, and my need to enjoy them comes along even less often. But just to be on the safe side, I'm stuffing my blazer into my Picadilly, for when the clouds inevitably roll in. But until then, I'll put on my happy face.

Oh, woe is me!

I posted this on another blog I used to have in another life. It's something I wrote all the way back in 2005 or even in 2004, before I became all embittered and hateful. I only posted it on my blog in 2006 though. I missed Carnival at home this year, for the first time since 2007, and I was surprised at how hard it was. I really thought I was ready to stop playing mas and be a grown up. But it turns out that I know fuck all. I was ok at first, happy at how mature I was being and what not. But that was the calm before the storm. Things came to a head when I put on my Carnival DVDs, while I was down in the kitchen sorting out our lunch (kitchen telly ROCKS!). I'm clearly a masochist, but I thought I could handle it, like some sort of aversion therapy or something. Bad move. I ended up standing in my kitchen, knife in my hand, weeping at the fact that I wasn't going to be a part of the best thing in the world. Mr Bunny came in, and was like "What the fuck's happened? What's wrong with you?" Ah, his caring ways are why I married him. Anyway, down below is a decent explanation of why I feel the way I feel about Carnival. But instead of 2007, I'm aiming for 2012...finances and health permitting. There was a sort of happy ending to that though; I did play mas in 2007 and it was BRILLIANT! I came home feeling like I'd been through the wars, wearing one shoe and greasy as hell. But it was then that I knew playing mas was for me.

It's in my blood, it's in my veins. Cyah wash it off, I'm forever stained.


I wrote this ages ago, while I was still at home. Laziness has prevented me from posting it until now, but seeing as today is Carnival Monday in my country, and I’ve been listening to soca all day while feeling mighty homesick, I decided that today was an appropriate day to put it up. I’m back from home (ages ago!), but I’ve been otherwise engaged. Ah well… Here’s hoping I get back into my flow!

While on my flight home, I listened to about six hours worth of music. This was very lucky, as I thought my battery would only last for about thirty minutes. Anyway, it got me thinking about the part music plays in my life. I’ve loved music for as long as I can remember. I don’t know a single Trinidadian who doesn’t like music. It’s such an integral part of our culture and our being. We’re raised with music practically from the time we’re born. I was doing my hair yesterday, and my hair girl just had a baby. By the way, he is absolutely beautiful! Anyway, her mom was looking after him while she did my hair, and she kept dancing around with him, or bouncing him on her knee in time to the music. And I realised that this goes on in practically every home. I’ve seen pregnant women in parties, jumping up and carrying on, passing on the music to their babies. From Carnival to Christmas, people write a song about everything. All the proper calypsonians write social commentary about the state of the country. We took part in music festival every two years, and had school concerts. Music is as innate in us as breathing, or walking down the street. We even walk down the street to a rhythm!

But I digress. I was listening to all the songs I had on my mp3 player, and I realised that nearly every single song on there, brought back some memory or the other. When Girlfriend by Alicia Keys came on, my mind instantly went back to the time I spent living in France. I’d borrowed that CD off one of the guys living in my halls, and listened to it quite a lot. I liked it so much, I went out and bought a copy. Then there’s Africa, by D’Angelo. Once again, another song from my time in France. I played that a lot on a Saturday morning, before I went into town. It’s such an amazing and beautiful song. I listen to it, and I’m instantly transported back to Saturday mornings in Evires. Evires was the halls I lived in. I’m coming out of those horrible communal showers, back to my room, fearing I’ve picked up some horrible infection from one of the societal rejects that lived there. I’ve just washed my hair, and I’m drying it, while dancing to D’Angelo. We Need a Resolution by Aaliyah came on, and right away, I was back in my room in Spain, getting ready for work on a morning, or killing time in between classes. I bought that CD on one of my weekends back to England, and listened to that song over and over again. Whenever I hear Butterflies by Michael Jackson, I think of early morning or late at night, since I usually kept that song on loop overnight, to help me sleep. And when any soca song comes on, my pores begin to raise and I get all homesick and nostalgic.

I’m back in town on Carnival Monday or Tuesday. My band is crossing the savannah stage. My section is waiting to go on, and we’re all pumped up and rearing to go. The security men are holding us back, waiting until they get the all clear from the stage managers. The music band on the truck next to us is getting us really worked up, and we’re practically going mad. I’m with my friends, Delise, Nikki (even though they were playing in another section, they crashed ours), Solo, and Christianne. Then, suddenly the security men break links, and let us on stage. They were singing Stampede, and it really was like a stampede. Those ten minutes we were on stage were like nothing I’d ever experienced in my life, before or since. The feeling is totally indescribable. Saying it was amazing is not nearly enough. You feel euphoric. You’re running and dancing and jumping and wining across that stage. You’re laughing and shouting at your friends and singing along to the song. You know you look good in your costume, and you feel like some sort of goddess. Some man has come behind you, and is wining and grinding on you like there is no tomorrow. You don’t know who he is, but you wine back on him. Another man might come from the front, and suddenly you’re in a “you” sandwich. But you don’t care. You might even raise up your leg and throw your head back, and get totally lost in the moment, because you never know how long it will last. They could stay there wining with you for a few minutes, or get bored after ten seconds and move on to someone else. Either way, you love it. You might lose a piece of your costume in all the melee, but that’s inconsequential. The entire year has led up to this point. You’re on the savannah stage for fuck’s sake!! I swear to God, I am playing mas in 2007, if I have to sell my body on street corners to pay for it. That may take some doing, as I don’t think anyone will really pay for my body, but if needs must… All I have to do is hear that bull horn and the opening bars of “Toro Toro” and I know I have to be there, come what may.

Like I said, I also find it very hard to sleep in silence, so I always have a radio on, keeping me company. While I was growing up, it was Music Radio 97, which plays adult contemporary and older music. Of course, growing up black in the Caribbean, this wasn’t appreciated by my sisters or brother or most of my friends. They were all heavily into dub (dancehall) and hip-hop. It was all you hear out in the clubs and stuff, and people might mock you or look at you strangely if you mentioned that you liked Al Green or knew the words to Midnight at the Oasis. I rather liked hip-hop myself, but didn’t feel the need to be bound into listening to only one kind of music. So I listened to all sorts, and I still do now. It makes me feel free, which I guess is a bit cheesy. But it’s true. Music is probably the only thing I really and truly enjoy. One of my most favourite things to do in the world is drive around in my shitty little car, listening to music. It’s great. Sigh!

So now I download my music from the internet, legally of course. I love it because I’ve been able to find all the songs that no one here has ever heard of, and freak them out by playing it really loud in my car. My latest additions have been Les Fleur by Minnie Ripperton and This Woman’s Work by Kate Bush. Two absolutely beautiful songs, that bring back amazing memories. Let the good times roll!!

My life in foreign lands

I'm feeling all nostaligic 'n shit today, sat around staring through my balcony doors. I feel this way several times a day, so I just sit back and let it wash over me. It can be quite enjoyable actually. Earlier this morning, and even up to a couple days ago, I was thinking about my time in Munich.

Mr Bunny worked in Munich for eighteen months, and about halfway through that time, we got married. So a while after the wedding, I took some unpaid leave from work and went over there for a couple months. And I must say I bloody loved it. Munich is the way Trinidad could be, if we were a lawful society and people saw the bigger picture and didn't have their heads up their own asses so much. The culture itself is very West Indian, which struck me as odd, as we really have had no German influence in our history. I mean, Spanish culture is basically West Indian culture (and it's ace there too) but the Spanish had a huge presence back in the day. So to see such similarities in Germany was a bit strange.

I mean, the Germans have a reputation for being dull and humourless, but in Munich they love a good party. They're very big on socialising and spending time with friends and family. But the difference is, they know when it's time to work and when it's time to play. There are laws, and they follow them to the letter. Take something as simple as crossing the street- I'm guilty of gross impatience and not always waiting for the little green man to light up. If the red man is showing and there're no cars coming, I'll dart across the road, because I mean, why wait? The road's clear, so I'm not going to get hit. So I take the chance. Pas les Allemagnes! They will wait until that green man lights up and then, and ONLY then, will they cross the road. It doesn't matter what time of the day it is, whether it's raining or snowing, or even if a car stops to wave them across (it won't but let's say it did for argument's sake); they will not cross against a red light. And it's admirable. It's the little things like that, that make a big difference. Because if they have no problem obeying such a tiny law, they have no problem following the big ones.

Life in Munich was almost idyllic. It was actually slightly insane how much I loved it. There was a bar about ten minutes from where we lived, called Egger in der Au, and it was one of our favourite places. They served wicked cocktails and awesome food. So one of our little routines was to go there at least once a week for a Munchner Schnitzel and some drinkies. On a Sunday, we'd go down to a biergarten for lunch and just to spend the afternoon. And this is where I really think the Germans (and to an extent other Europeans) have got it sussed. The beer garden is run by or linked to a brewery, so it serves that brewery's beer, much like the pub system over here. But the layout and rules are so much better. For example, you're allowed to bring your own food into the biergarten, but you have to buy their drinks. There aren't any individual tables, but long picnic benches, where you end up sitting next to people you may not know. If you don't fancy bringing your own food, you can obviously buy food there- pommes (chips), currywurst (sausage in curry sauce. The Germans love their currywurst. It is disgusting.), plain bratwurst, schweinhaxle mit kartofflen (pork joint with potato dumplings, which was actually pretty nice) or you could go inside and have access to the full menu.

What was so amazing to me, was that they actually used real cutlery there. Like actual, genuine steaknives. I mean, you try cutting a schweinhaxle with a butter or plastic knife! So this knife is porper dangerous. And it's being used by people who have been sitting around drinking for the better part of the day. And drinking ein masse of bier at a time. A masse is about a litre, by the way. AND NO ONE GETS HURT. There are no fights, no stabbings, no 'incidents'. Families come to the biergarten after church on a Sunday. Munich is very Catholic. So much so, Catholics pay an extra tax, on top of normal taxes, and this goes to the church and helps with maintenance and what not. The only way this tax is collected, is if you inform the state that you're Catholic (which you're not under any obligation to do), but it speaks to German character, that I think it's something like 52% of the population there pay this tax. But to get back on track, families come down with a basket of food (the German equivalent of a pot of pelau), sit in the biergarten all day, and just have a good time. They meet up with friends, have some drinks, have a laugh, watch their children play in the play area, and when it's time to go, they hop on their bicycles and wait for the little green man to show, before they cross the street. I would sit there with Mr Bunny (he with his iPod and a book, me with a magazine of some sort and maybe my iPod) and just watch in amazement. You'd see teens happy to be with their parents, laughing and joking, grandparents playing with young children, or just couples sitting together. I'd have to make up in my head what they were saying, because my German is atrocious. But it was all just brilliant, and it made me wish SOOO hard that Trinis would get their act together, because this is how it could be. No one was afraid that someone was going to come by and rob them, or that their car would get nicked while it was parked outside or that a fight was going to break out. It was as if everyone was on the same page and they just knew that one stupid action, would ruin the day for everyone else around. Sigh!

We'd walk home from the biergarten, maybe have an ice cream on the way back, and go home to watch a DVD or Ein Shot at Love mit Teila Tequila or other assorted non-dubbed garbage on MTV. And Mr Bunny would sort his stuff out for work that week.

Sometimes on Saturdays, we'd go up to Riem, which is a shopping centre that was built on the site of the old airport. It wasn't a great shopping centre, but the food court was excellent and there was a Mango. For some reason continental Zara and Mango stores have MUCH better lines than the ones here. Hmmmm. Plus it was about a half an hour away on the U-bahn, so it gave us something to do. I used to go myself, during the day, just to get some pizza from this place, whose name escapes me now. But I remember they did the most deelishis four cheese pizza I've ever had in my life. And I'd be all nervous in the queue waiting to be served, practising my numbers and pronunciations, so I wouldn't be the one douchebag holding up the line while the servers struggled to understand me.

Ah, sweet memories. Tune in next week for the tale of the time I went for a wax and the masseusse ended up massaging my boobs.

Plus ca change

The reader of this blog may have realised that I no longer live in nasty Crewe, but in slightly less nasty Preston. Actually, I now live in a lovely village just outside slightly less nasty Preston, called Walmer Bridge. The land my estate is on, used to belong to a farmer, until he decided that the hefty chunk of cash the developers were waving in his face, was preferable to waking up at three in the morning to milk his cows and feed his chickens. I mean, who doesn't dream of a life free from financial constraints, even if that means getting rid of the land that's been in your family for generations?

Anyway, we moved up here because I went to uni in Preston. I came here in 1999 to do my degree, and developed a soft spot for it. Preston was my first home in England, so it holds a special place in my heart. Even though it was a thoroughly depressing little town and it rained basically all day, every day during my first year. It was where I met The Princess, The Egan, my mate V and my G. It was where I lost my virginity and first lived with a man. It's where I came out of my shell. I guess I would have felt the same if I'd gone to a similar shit hole, such as Scunthorpe, Skegness or London.

Preston is also where I met Mr Bunny. In a not altogether unplanned coincidence, we actually live on the same estate we met, when he became my new flatmate and then my boyfriend. We only lived in Crewe, because that is where his flat was. He owned it, so when I came back from Trinidad, that is where we lived (apart from my two month stint in Munich).

But I hated Crewe (as is well documented in this blog) and couldn't wait to get out. It was only a matter of time, as we couldn't spend the rest of our lives in the World's Tiniest Flat TM, so it was just a matter of picking a place. Mr Bunny seemed to forget that he was a married man, and was very keen on all these city centre flats, cool they were, but practical they were not. We discussed living in Manchester (and I even viewed a few flats there, including one in the Hilton which had spectacular views), Leeds, Sheffield, Gloucester and I even went to look at a couple houses in a place called Glossop. But my heart was always back in Preston- more specifically, Walmer Bridge.

In the end, I won. As I always knew I would. And I'm fairly happy here. I love our house, I'm closer to some of my friends and Mr Bunny is only ten minutes' drive from work. I can go back to my old church and we're in the catchment area for two 'Outstanding' primary schools (according to Ofsted anyway) and one of them is even Catholic!

So there's been lot's of change, least of which is in Preston city centre. Yes, it's now a city. The uni has expanded almost to the point of silliness. The halls I used to be in charge of, no longer exist and are going to house a new building for the Faculty of Health. They bought a row of council houses that were behind another set of halls, and turned them into a carpark. That makes sense, because they built another Student Services building on one of the other carparks. Good grief.

And don't even talk for the high street! Tokyo Joe's, where we spent many a cheesy Wednesday night, drinking Smirnoff Ice for £1 and throwing some serious shapes, is now called something a lot less fun to remember. The Pizza Hut we used to go to whenever it was someone's birthday, has closed down. The Gap (which used to be a George @ Asda, which used to be a Tesco Metro) is now a JD Sports. Martin Dawes is now a Costa Coffee, Principles has closed down, and the old Woolies is now a giant Next. This has perplexed me, since I think Next is shit. But I guess that's happening to Woolworth's stores across the land. Faith, where The Princess and I spent so much of our free time trying on shoes and stalking the sales, went into administration and so the shop it was in, is now a front for some money laundering operation. Miss Selfridge's has moved into St George's shopping Centre, which is now called 'The Mall'. Eh? Mood, which was a fun place to go on a Friday night, to observe the 'grab a granny' proceedings, has closed down and is now empty. And Bar Censa, where we spent many an afternoon eating chilli cheese fries and drinking hot chocolate, after a hectic day's shopping, and planning our nights out, is now a Chinese Buffet! What the fuck?! Have they no respect for our memories? I mean, a Chinese Buffet, for fuck's sake!

I can't handle all this change. I like routine, the familiar, knowing where you stand. Y'know? I mean, I understand that a lot of stores have gone bust- Principles, Woolworth's, Faith, Zavvi- but even so, I'm going to be all petulant and unrealistic and demand that things stay the same forever. Sigh.

But it's not all bad, because the Topshop was renovated and expanded, and is now over two floors, and is MASSIVE!!

So, swings and roundabouts, eh?

Requiem for a friend

I miss Mad Cat and all his handicapped and freaky friends. As much as I hated and feared him (in equal measure), he was a focal point of day. Mad Cat gave me something to channel my hatred and anger towards. I think I hated him about as much as he did me, and that sort of equilibrium is hard to come by these days.

My new estate is all quiet and posh, and there isn't a disabled animal in sight! The most I've seen is some bloody ugly stripy cat, waiting to be let in outside one of the houses we viewed when we were still on the market for a new house. So now there's no need for me to keep my camera to hand, so I could try to get photographic evidence of three-legged cat pissing in my flowerbed (I'd become a sort of deranged paparazzo, stalking disgusting animals instead of being a functioning member of society). Instead, I look out of my balcony doors and yearn for a stran animal to hobble past, so I can feel normal again. I mean, yes I can walk out to my car without fear of being hissed at and attacked by an insane and possibly feral feline, but is that what life is really about? Who knows the secrets, eh? Sigh.

Mr Bunny does not read this blog, so this is something I can say freely here, without fear of being served with divorce papers. It's the little things, innit?