Life in a Northern Town

Happy Ending...for me at least

2011-11-17T10:26:00.001Z

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!

2011-09-06T08:42:00.006+01:00

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

2011-06-03T09:42:00.001+01:00

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

2011-05-31T11:18:00.004+01:00

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!

2011-05-28T14:30:00.004+01:00

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

2011-05-25T09:17:00.002+01:00

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!

2011-05-17T15:40:00.012+01:00

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?

2011-04-03T12:31:00.006+01:00

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

2011-03-24T11:02:00.005Z

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!

2011-03-11T08:43:00.005Z

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

2011-02-01T11:59:00.003Z

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

2011-01-29T12:59:00.002Z

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

2011-01-14T19:48:00.001Z

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?

La petite pauvre

2010-12-30T11:18:00.003Z

I'm writing this from what might well turn out to be my death-bed. I have the flu, and I bloody hate it. I haven't had the flu in ages and I'm terrible at being sick. Even though I'm mad lazy, I still like to be able to get up and do whatever I need to do, without feeling like I'm literally falling apart.

Bah.

I slept for about thirteen hours yesterday evening, into this morning. And I've only gotten out of bed to hack up a lung and use the facilities. At least Mr Bunny is looking after me...sort of. He slept on the settee last night, so he wouldn't get sick, which is fair enough. But this morning he came up to check up on me, and he asked me if I wanted anything. So I said I'd like some tonic water and a cup of tea. He vanished downstairs and I've only just seen him, three hours later. So he's being dispatched to the shop to fetch me some Lucozade.

But he needs to hurry back, because our new washing machine comes today and I'm in no state to let anyone in. At least I have my new telly in my bedroom, so I'm here watching a Colombo marathon, in between bouts of conciousness. So, not all bad then...

Crackhead life, take two

2010-12-08T07:28:00.000Z

So we've just moved into our new house and it all feels a bit surreal. I mean, we've never had this sort of space before, so that's weird. But the estate is lovely and it's great to be back in Preston again. The only downside is that we're back to living like crackheads. It's not as bad as boiling water in a pan, but we have no sofa and up until last night we had no curtains. So the marish and the parish could see into our living room and the fact that we haven't hung the telly yet and are sitting on dining room chairs and a pouffe. We also didn't bring up our entertainment unit (couldn't be arsed packing it up) so the DVD player and DVR are on the floor next to the telly. Before we got curtains, Mr Bunny suggested we hang a blanket over the balcony door, seemingly oblivious to the fact that this would be the pinnacle of the crackhead lifestyle. And this was one achievement I felt it would be ok to let pass me by.

Getting the curtains was painful enough. It involved a lot of shouting (both of us, but mostly me), foot stamping (me), cursing (both of us) and name calling (me). It was so infuriating. I just wanted to punch Mr Bunny square in the middle of the face. He thinks he's decorating some cool bachelor pad in a city centre, while I'm obviously looking to decorate a family home. But once I unleash my secret weapons (a shrill voice and the opinions of others), he's powerless to resist. So now we have curtains and can at least hide our crackheadness from public view.

But we still have no sofa (left the old one in Crewe. Couldn't be arsed faffing about, getting it out of the flat and up these stairs), no landline or broadband, the vendors left a load of garbage in the back garden that I really don't want to touch and last night Mr Bunny was testing out paint samples on the wall, so there's now two blots of colour on an otherwise pristine, white wall. Sigh.

But at least I still live up North, so I don't have to change the name of this blog.

By the by

2010-11-25T07:42:00.005Z

Oh, I forgot to mention that I now see where the sister-in-law has discovered this hithertofore unknown love for brand of the douchebags, Jack Wills. All of her boyfriend's farmer/builder friends were sporting JW polos or rugby tops.

So once again, my sister-in-law basically changes who she is, because of a boy with terrible teeth. Par for the course. Out went the lesbo trainers, jeans and hoodies, in come the heels and skirts. She got her tattoo and wanted to get them things that stretch out your earlobes because of the last boyfriend (he was covered in tattoos and had in those things that stretch out your earlobes). He wanted to go to New Zealand, she wanted to go to New Zealand. She went bleached blonde and got a stupid haircut because of the one before that (he was bleached blonde and had a stupid haircut). So now the farmer likes Jack Wills, Mr Bunny has to drop fifty quid on Jack Wills' vouchers.

I've realised how lucky I am, that even though Mr Bunny isn't at all into designer labels (apart from his twenty-four pairs of Diesel jeans), he lets me indulge myself and he doesn't normally complain. Even though he sometimes annoys me to the point where I want nothing more than to punch him square in the middle of the face, he's always been happy to let me do my thing.

And I guess I'm also lucky because I sort of know who I am and I'm stubborn enough to stick to it. :P

What? More frigging Post Mortem?

2010-11-24T14:13:00.002Z

We sit down at the table, and my poor sister is stuck next to Fat Suuuu (ok, I'd just like to clarify that Fat Suuu is not morbidly obese or anything. She's just a little bit chubby. But since I am one for nicknames, this is how I always refer to her). Fat Suuu was next to The Bell, and The Bell's boyfriend. Fat Suuu's boyfriend was next to Mr Bunny. It was a very odd seating arrangement, but the gin was kicking in, so I didn't give a shit.

So I ordered the pate to start with, followed by the potted shrimps. Mr Bunny ordered the potted shrimps to start with, followed by the lamb's liver. My sister chose the potted shrimps followed by the duck. Fat Suuuu ordered everything. Ok no, she didn't. I honestly didn't pay attention to what she chose, because I was too busy wondering if I should have the lamb shank instead. Then the waitress got to The Bell. The Bell dithered for so long, the waitress actually said "I'm going to have to take the order from the next table and come back to you. Is that alright?" The Bell just tittered and said ok and began to think out loud. If you had ever heard The Bell's voice, you would know just how painful this is. It was all I could do to not cringe and shout out"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Instead, I just chatted a bit with Mr Bunny. The waitress came back, took The Bell's order and that was that.

Then Fat Suuu clocked my bag. She was like "Oh, is that a genuine Jimmy Choo?" And I just looked at her and was like, in this fake posh voice, "It is indeed madam. I don't do knock-offs darling." And I smiled so she'd think "Well, at least she's a funny bitch." So then she asks where I got it, and I said "Um, Jimmy Choo." I mean, like d'uh. Steups. I was just waiting for the follow up questions and she did not disappoint. "Oooh, which one? Was it expensive?" So I'm like "Jimmy Choo in Cannes. It wasn't cheap, but I really wanted it. So they saved it for me, I sent them the money and they posted it. It was pretty easy." Then she says "Wow. That's cool. Was it for your birthday or something?" And this is where I saw my chance to put the boot in. Rub her nose in it. Make her regret her past mistakes. "Nah. I just saw it and wanted it. Like I said, it wasn't cheap, but I was like whatevs. I love it, so I'm having it." She goes a bit red, and I want to laugh SO badly. But then she goes "Didn't Mr Bunny say anything?" and says to him "Mr Bunny, you didn't mind?" And God bless Mr Bunny for saying "Meh. She likes her handbags. Everyone has their thing." and shrugging while smiling.

It was right then that it became clear to me why I married him.

So then she starts to ask him how he's finding life back in England and all that. I tune them out and chat a bit to my sister, who whispers to me that she thinks The Bell has noticed that every time she speaks, I make this face. My sister had noticed that every time The Bell said something, she'd look over at me to see what my reaction was. It looks like I was doing it unconsciously. Oh my.

I fully expected them two to be all up in my shits, prying into my business and trying to find out exactly how we live and what not. And so said, so done. All the questions were there, nosiness in full swing. To be honest, I didn't really care. I mean, if they wanted to spend their evening talking about me, then whatevs. They both had boyfriends there, but they only factored into the equation occasionally. I also wondered if the boyfriends knew about the history of this little incestuous group- The Bell and Mark, The Bell and Mr Bunny, sister-in-law with The Han, sister-in-law with Mark, The Bell kind of with The Han. It's all very 'Friends' and all very disgusting.

Fat Suuu's boyfriend is bloody brilliant though. He got drunk very quickly and was soon talking loudly and making jokes. When someone whipped out a camera, he began doing Magnum and Blue Steel in which ever direction the lens was pointing. At one point, he had to ask Suuu for money because he didn't have any cash. Turns out he has a massive gambling problem and isn't particularly 'solvent'. Oh me, oh my. The Bell's boyfriend only comes up to my waist, bless his tiny little heart. I got a chance to have a little chat with them, when the two harpies did that annoying girlie thing and went to the loo together. They're both really nice guys and they both have my sympathy.

The food comes, it's deelishis and we all chow down and make small talk. They seemed very curious to know what we did on the weekends. This meant that I had to reciprocate and pretend I gave a shit about what they got up to on Saturdays and Sundays. The Bell then brings up some restaurant that I simply must get Mr Bunny to take me to. It's called Cock & Barrel or something like that. Suuu's boyfriend latched on to that and started shouting out "Cock! Cock! Cock!" She was obviously embarassed. I mean, let's be honest, Mr Bunny would have gotten the look by then. So she says "Oi, stop it! Please, just ignore him. He gets like this sometimes." And I genuinely felt sorry for her. Mr Bunny can be a bit of a douche when he's had a few too many, so I know how annoying it is.

However all this sympathy flew out of my arse a few moments later. Mr Bunny went to the bar to replenish my uncomfortably low drink. Suuu and The Bell decided to go get another bottle of wine. I turned around in my seat to try and get his attention to tell him I actually fancied a vodka instead of gin, when I saw a white hand on his lower back, touching him in a way that most def did not say "Yeah, we're just mates." In a split second, I thought about going over there and punching someone out, about shouting across the room to startle them and about pretending as if I'd seen nothing. I went with option three. When Mr Bunny came back, he whispered to me "Fucking Suuu keeps touching me. What's her problem?" and I just looked at him.

They tried to convince us to stay out and follow them into Nantwich so we could continue the festivities. Um, no. I'm good thanks. I didn't even want to be in the stupid pub! I'd extend the torture by willingly going to another pub with them? I may be a little weird, but I'm not totally insane. As soon as was polite, we made our excuses and looked to hit the road. That's when it started "Oh no, you mustn't leave so soon. Stay for one more drink. Mr Bunny, why are you dragging her home so early? Oh come on, stay out with us. We'll make sure she gets home ok." And I'm thinking "Are these heifers for real? Like seriously? At what point in the evening did I ever act as if I wanted to socialise with you beyond these enforced social parameters?"

We just swatted away all that bollocks, said our goodbyes, got our coats and left. And I do not think I have ever been more relieved to leave a social gathering in my entire life. Even though Mini Han didn't come in the end (turns out he has a life in London), the evening wasn't as terrible as I thought. It was a bit, but the excellent food sort of made up for it.

I realised that I feel a bit sorry for the both of them. I'm also a bit baffled by all these feelings. I mean, yeah I married Mr Bunny and he is the homme de ma vie, but let's be honest- he's not the best looking guy I've ever seen. He does have his moments though, I must say. *wink wink*. Why are these chicks still toting feelings all these years later? He and I have been together for nearly five years and married for nearly three of those years. It's been nearly half a whole decade. Even longer for Suuu, since they broke up when Mr Bunny was like 22. I am just left to wonder why after all this time, they're still acting like this. I understand that they might feel that there's some unfinished business between them, when you think about the reasons why both relationships ended. Mr Bunny found out Suuu was cheating on him and dumped her. The Bell played a game and it backfired horribly on her. So neither of them really wanted things to end. I can also understand the resentment they may feel towards me. I mean, as far as they knew, Mr Bunny moved up to Preston for work. Nothing more. But he moves in to a flat where the awesome black girl just happened to live, and is married two years later. I'm an outsider to their little group, I'm a foreigner, I'm wicked clever, I have a degree, I'm the first black person they've ever really had any extended contact with and I don't conform to the stereotype and now they just don't know what to make of me. I come in and invade their little comfort zone and upset their equilibrium. If I wasn't the one who was so awesome, I'd hate me too!

I catch them sneaking glances at my engagment ring (the diamond's not as massive as I'd have liked, but it's still bigger than average). I see them checking Mr Bunny's ring finger. I remember before we even got married, Suuu asked him if he was planning to wear a ring. Sigh. When a bit of Mr Bunny's hair was sticking up and I smoothed it down, out of the corner of my eye I saw her looking at me. Fat Suuu especially finds any reason to touch him, which I can't say I mind. Since it really just rolls off his back.

What I can't hack is the fake friendliness. We're all sat around that table and they're acting like we're all best mates and do this on a regular basis. "Oh, you really must come round to Suuu's on a Friday and have some wine with us." "Oooooh, you really have to come out with us in Nantwich one night. It'll be brilliant!" "Ooooh, next time you're going to the pub give us a shout."

Yeah right bitches!

You don't like me, you don't like me. That's fine. I'm ok with that. I don't expect you to like me. But don't pretend to be my best mate. The Bell seems to have completely forgotten her rather bizarre behaviour just over a year ago, when I nearly ended up cussing her out on the phone. Instead, when Mr Bunny phoned his sister, I kindly gave her a carefully worded message that I know she passed on. Long story! I don't have time for white girls like you. I knew enough of you at uni and they irritated me no end! I can deal with the fact that you're the exes and that you will all at certain times, end up hanging out together. I don't mind that you and his sister are all dead tight. I don't mind that he might run into you at her house or in a pub or something. It's ok. I trust Mr Bunny implicitly. I don't really trust you, but hey, them's the breaks. But you are not my equal in any way, shape or form. So I'm good, ta. I'll be civil and polite when we see each other, but please stop with the bullshit. It just does my head in and in any case, I'm better at it than you.

I mean after all, I am the winner.

A further Post Mortem

2010-11-23T07:25:00.002Z

So dear reader, we left it with me deciding to look fairly casual, not wanting to waste any of my proper clothes on the world's worst guest list. I'd ordered a wicked playsuit from Topshop a few weeks ago, and it looked brilliant when I tried it on. But I didn't order it for this and I wasn't going to waste it on them.

We'd decided to drive to the pub and meet everyone there. And just so we wouldn't have to give anyone a lift back, we were going to go in the Alfa, since it only has two seats and we can say "Ah, sorry. Our car's only got two seats." But then my sister is staying with my for a couple days, and Mr Bunny practically BEGGED her to come along, so we ended up going in our boring car. So we're getting dressed and his sister texts him to say that we can all meet up at her place and we can follow them to the pub. We'd planned to follow the trusty sat-nav, since it hasn't failed us yet. But he told her we'd do it. So she said to be at hers for between half-six and seven. So I said we'd get there for seven, to minimise the awkwardness of just hanging around her house. Then she texts and says to get to hers for quarter to six. Twenty minutes later she texts again and says to get there for seven instead. At this point, I was ready to rip off my dress and climb into bed.

So I punched her postcode into the sat-nav and we set off. However, she neglected to give any information as to how to actually find her bloody house. She lives on a main road, in a place called Villa Farm. So the sat-nav says "You have reached your destination" of course, when we're on the main road. And we're there driving as slowly we could do without pissing off the drivers behind us, looking for the tiny sign that would say 'Villa Farm'. She could have said "Yeah, it's just past the village store, over the bridge on the right." But she just said "There's an electric gate." And we ended up driving up and down this road for about ten minutes, with Mr Bunny's blood pressure slowly rising and me wishing more and more that I was at home watching Harry Hill's TV Burp. Par for the course with her. So I had to end up ringing her and swallowing the urge to shout "You stupid bint! Give proper directions!!!"

Anyway, we finally make it to her house and she wants us to come inside. Right away I clock that she's wearing a dress and heels. At first I get pissed off, because I'm like "Wait a minute, she said no dresses, since it wasn't really a fancy 'do'." Then I'm surprised, because she never wears dresses and heels. Like, never. Seriously. She's always saying that she can't walk in heels and she loves her trainers and jeans. And of course that always makes me skin up my face and go "Oh, I don't wear jeans or trainers." I can't help it. So we go inside so she can show off her little love nest, then I realise that her car isn't there and I twig that she's actually coming with us! Yeah, thanks for checking that it was ok. What if we'd actually come in the Alfa? I mean, I would have happily strapped her to the roof, but I don't think she would have appreciated that. Steups. She finishes showing off, and we jump in the car and head off. I switched the sat-nav back on, but she was like "Oh no, you don't need it. I know how to get there."

Sigh.

Turns out the pub is fucking miles away and she is just as shit at giving directions in person. At one point, Mr Bunny had to do like an eight point turn in a country lane, because she didn't know her left from her right. But oddly enough, that wasn't the low point of the evening. So we're inside and I order a double G&T and a bottle of alcoholic ginger beer. And she's busy schmoozing and kissing her boyfriend, who really does look like a farmer. She then comes over to make the announcement that the two exes are going to be late, because The Bell is such a flake. Oh my God! Like totally! Yes, she and The Bell had made up a few weeks ago and she has been welcomed back into the fold as if she wasn't a class A fuckwit. Then again, they're all Class A fuckwits, so birds of a feather and all that.

Then the moment arrives. They arrive, all dresses and opaque tights and heels. If I was a paranoid person, I'd have thought that she said it wasn't dressy in an attempt to get me to turn up in jeans and slippers. But she clearly underestimated my powers. For in a simple black maxi dress, earrings and pashmina, I managed to look all classy and understated 'n' shit. While they looked like they were trying too hard. You can't polish a turd. Look, it's a fact. Deal with it.

So I'm standing next to Mr Bunny and my sister when Fatsooo makes a beeline over to us, abandoning her own boyfriend who just looked on, and kisses Mr Bunny on the cheek. And she stands there making small talk with me and trying to find out my business. However, all that ended up confirming, was the fact that the coven sit around talking about me. Because she brings up the Alfa and says "But isn't it your car?" To which I replied "Yeah, Mr Bunny bought it for me, but I think I fancy something else now." and also "So have you qualified yet? What are your languages again?". These are things neither myself nor Mr Bunny have told her. She knows nothing about the car situation from me and I have never told her I was doing my MA. She also sought out confirmation on certain aspects of our life "So does he just give you the card and let you go shopping?" and I answered loftily "No, we have a joint account and I have all his credit cards and access to his current account, so I just take as much as I want, whenever I want." She just looked at me and I smiled at her.

Then The Bell comes over and I am suddenly engrossed in the menu. But her shrill tones prove too hard to ignore and she touches me on the arm "Ooooh, nice to see you. You look lovely. That's a nice simple dress" And I just say "Yeah, didn't feel like dressing up just to come to the pub. Didn't see the point in it." And we all laugh like drains. I know I'm partly to blame for the continuing 'atmosphere' but I can't help it. I should be the bigger person and let these little comments and questions just roll off my back, but I just can't seem to do it. I know all I'm doing is throwing more fuel on to the fire, but is it really all my fault? Bah.

So I make a bit of small talk, get introduced to Fatsooo's boyfriend (who it turns out, is bloody hilarious and a very loud drunk) then we get told we can be seated. I go to the bar with my sister and tell Mr Bunny to get some seats. Another G&T and a pint for Mr Bunny. Mr Bunny then came to the bar with a fairly apologetic look on his face- we've ended up on a table with The Bell and Fatsooo. That, dear reader, was the low point of my evening. It could have been a billion times worse though. I could've ended up being sat next to the sister-in-law and the farmer.

...I guess.

I'm sayin' it loud...

2010-11-22T15:04:00.001Z

Our new kettle is fucking brilliant!

That is all.

Post Mortem

2010-11-22T10:21:00.004Z

So Saturday was the dreaded day and I have survived to tell the tale. Was it as horrific as I envisioned it would be? Only marginally so. Was it amusing enough to not be painful? Meh. Would I do it again? No, not so much.

This thing has been building up ever since she announced her intention to force us all to spend time in each other's company. This was done via the medium of Facebook. Facebook is apparently now a suitable tool for declaring such things. People will soon be announcing their divorces and death of loved ones on FB. Anyway, she created this event on Facebook and invited a load of people. But she was very crafty and made it super-private, so you couldn't even see who else was invited. Mr Bunny accepted the invite a couple days after she sent it out and I held out for as long as was decently possible, then caved to marital pressure and clicked 'attending'.

However, at one point earlier this month, Mr Bunny and I had a massive blowout (about his sister. Another long story in itself. Sigh!) and he shouted "Fuck it! I can't deal with this shit. We're not fucking going to that dinner." As if that was supposed to be some sort of punishment. A couple days afterwards, she texted him to ask why he wasn't coming, since he'd apparently changed his RSVP to 'not attending'. He made up some bullshit about not being able to see who was on the guestlist, so he just thought he'd do that in case it wasn't on anymore. Steups. So she said she wasn't aware she'd done that and she'd change it, so we could all see the guest list.

And just like that, we were going again.

When she did that, it was then that the full horror of the event was unleashed upon me. The Bell was going. This surprised me greatly, since she and The Bell had fallen out in a big way a few months ago, and she moaned about it at great length the last time we had a drink with her. So imagine the groan that arose from my throat when I saw that The Bell was meant to be in attendance. In addition, there was also Fatsooo, who is still obviously in love with Mr Bunny. But it was all going to be tolerable because Mini Han was meant to come up from London. Mini Han's good people and very lovely to hang around with. So at least I had that to hang on to. With Mini Han there, the evening would be bearable.

I obviously had no desire to go to this little soiree, but I knew if I didn't go, it would look bad on a couple fronts. But mostly to the two douchebag exes. You see, you have to play the game. They're already looking for any chink, any crack, any dent in the relationship, so my non-appearance will be fodder for gossip. Mr Bunny does not understand this. He has no idea that every single word coming out of their mouths is loaded. He thinks it is just my imagination. But my female friends totally get what I'm saying. "Where's Bunny? How come she didn't come? Is everything ok?" It'd be a lose/lose situation. I'd either be a bitch who hates her sister-in-law, worried about the exes and thus want to avoid them, or having marital problems. Plus if he didn't go, they would all think exactly the same and blame ME for it. So the path of least resistance was to just go to the bloody thing, grin and bear it.

So a couple weeks ago, or maybe last week, I texted the sister-in-law to ask her what the dress code was for this pub. I texted from Mr Bunny's phone, pretending to be him. She said it wouldn't be at all dressy, since it's just a country pub, so he could wear jeans and a shirt and I wouldn't need to wear a dress or anything. But I still wanted to buy something new, since I just wanted something new. I didn't find anything, but decided to wear a maxi dress I pulled out from my wardrobe. I just couldn't be arsed really. And I thought "Well, she did say no dresses, but this isn't too dressy. So it'll be cool."

Or that's what I thought.

In memoriam

2010-11-19T10:01:00.002Z

Our new kettle has just arrived, so I'd just like to have a moment of silence for our crackhead lifestyle. The saucepan used to boil water will now be relegated to the cupboard. Unfortunately, I've not been able to try out the new kettle yet, because I'd just boiled the crackhead pan for some fresh tea. So once I've guzzled this pot, I'll be plugging in and switching on.

On a more sombre note, I cracked my cafetiere on an empty jar of pasta sauce. Don't ask. So now I need a new one, or a nice posh teapot that has a press for looseleaf tea.

The Lord giveth with one hand, and taketh away with the other.

Hurts doughnut?

2010-11-18T10:54:00.003Z

My mom phoned me this morning, just to check in and say hello. She does this a couple times a week, and usually it goes well. And it was going well this morning, as per. Y'know, just chatting about our imminent move, my sister, Mr Bunny, the weather, the usual bollocks. But then it all went straight to hell. You see, I mentioned the upcoming dinner from hell and my profound desire to pass the evening tucked up in bed, watching Golden Girls and eating smoked salmon. My problems with the sister-in-law and the two exes are well known to my mother.

Anyway, I told her that I really couldn't be arsed to go, based on the guest list. And her advice to me? "Well, just make sure you don't do anything...just handle the situation in a, you know, dignified manner. Don't be difficult, eh?" And that just pissed me off. I mean, what the hell does she think I'll do? So I said to her "Eh? Who do you take me for? What do you think I'm going to do? Cuss them out and spit in their food? Yeah I'd bloody love to, but I'm not going to do that. Steups." Then she had a go at me for not inviting that chick to my wedding, telling me I behaved badly and I was in the wrong. And I wanted to release a barrage of F-bombs down the phone. But she's still my mother and she can still lay down some slaps on me if she wanted. So I just let out a long steups.

Look, I have NO regrets about not inviting that girl to my wedding. There were 10 people at my wedding, including me and Mr Bunny and the priest. Same for the meal. The problem arose when Mr Bunny, in a drunken haze decided to invite his mate, The Han. The Han's brother, Mini Han was best man. It was really a toss up a to who would get the gig. Mini Han won. Anyway, after the ceremony, we're back at the hotel having some drinks and Mr Bunny decides he wants to invite The Han to the meal, which I had zero issue with. I like The Han. He's a good laugh and he's always been very nice to me. My only stipulation was that he couldn't bring his girlfriend, since it wasn't a 'plus one' situation. My mate The Princess didn't bring her boyfriend, even though I knew him really well and she'd invited both of us to her wedding later on that year. Mini Han didn't bring his boyfriend, even though we also knew him and I quite like him. The Han's girlfriend on the other hand, I'd met her only once and she was a complete sour faced cow. PLUS The Han was thinking of breaking up with her! AND there were loads of close friends I hadn't invited because we were having a small, intimate wedding.

Why the hell would I want her at my wedding? In my pictures? Why should my dad pay for a meal for some girl I barely even know? I mean, if there were going to be hundreds at my wedding, yeah come in, sit down, get lashed. But I'd booked a table at this fab little restaurant for a nice quiet meal with our nearest and dearest. And that did not include her. Steups. In the end, I had to phone The Han myself, and tell him that 'plus ones' weren't invited. I did feel a little bad, but whatevs. But the way my parents reacted, you'd swear I just called up and cursed out my gran! Steups.

So anyway, homie is still toting feelings. Almost three years later. Bah. I maintain that I was in the right, and there is no one on this earth, who can tell me any different.

What really aggravates me even though, is that not only does my mother still think I was in the wrong with this whole wedding malarkey, but she obviously thinks so little of me that she feels I'm going to be a twat at the Meal from Hell TM. It's like this- I know I'm better than all of them. I'm better looking, better educated, a better dresser, classier and have cooler hair. In short, I'm just awesome. But I'm ace enough that my aceness just shines through. So there's no need for me to cuss up anyone or make sarcastic remarks or be a bitch. I can just sit there, being fab and smiling serenely and they won't have any choice but to sit there and take it.

And I guess it's just a little hurtful that my own mother doesn't see me like that. Instead she felt the need to make stupid remarks and piss me off, as is her wont these days. Steups.

Instead of wallowing though, I had smoked salmon, cream cheese and Ryvita, for it is the breakfast of the awesome!

I don't think he'd be too flattered...

2010-11-17T06:59:00.003Z

So on Saturday, we went to Chester ostensibly to get a present for my sister-in-law's birthday, but also just to get out and enjoy the sunshine. It's that time of year when you have to run out and bask in the sun whenever you get the chance, what with the constant rain and barely six hours of daylight. Sigh. I personally prefer to sit in and keep warm and watch the tits who think wearing four layers of clothes is better than staying inside, wearing some fuzzy slippers and drinking a hot chocolate.

Anyway, we got the train and it looked like everyone else had the same idea. The train was surprisingly full and Chester city centre was a bit manic. A lot of the mania was thanks to tourists, since Chester is a historical city, full of Tudor buildings and Roman ruins. Admittedly, it is a lovely place and the buildings are listed, so you have all these shops in the original tudor construction, complete with uneven floors, bumpy walls and super-low ceilings. It's kind of cool, methinks.

I'm woefully off-track here so I'll try to rein it in a bit.

The reason why we ended up in Chester and not say, Manchester or Liverpool was because the sister-in-law (I really must think up a suitable nickname for her) wanted either iTunes vouchers or a gift voucher from this shop, Jack Wills. Now, when she first requested this, I was like "What the hell is Jack Wills? Sod it, just get her twenty-five quid in iTunes vouchers and leave it." Turns out that Jack Wills is a fashion chain, and their nearest branch is in Chester. I'd never in my life heard of this store so not only did Mr Bunny have to ask her what the hell she was talking about, I had to google it. Well, let me tell you I was not impressed in the least. Firstly their prices are ridiculous- I saw a dress for £730! And it wasn't even a nice dress! So we decided to actually go to Chester, kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

After the obligatory stop in Primark, Marks and Spencer's, Topshop and French Connection we found Jack Wills and went inside. And it was shit.

Jack Wills appears to want to be the British Ralph Lauren or Tommy Hilfiger, complete with exorbitant prices but with none of the brand recognition. I consider myself to be pretty au fait with well-known international brands. Mr Bunny would say I'm a brand whore, but that's just semantics in my opinion. I've always liked to wear 'name' products, ever since I became aware of the concept. So we used to wear LA Gear or Nike or Reebok or British Knights. Then I went through my phase of being 'understated' so I would only wear Keds. You had to have a 'genuine' rasta bag (though I don't really know what made one bag more genuine than the other. The length of the salesman's dreadlocks, perhaps?). Folders had to be Trapper Keeper. Then there was the whole 'choonky bag' phenomenon but some memories are best left repressed.

Now, I'm a grown-up and I still like to make sure my clothes and shoes are from reputable stores. I mean, yeah I shop at Primark and I rock the hell out of my five pound jumper or eight pound pinafore, and I worship at the altar of Topshop. But I'm awesome. I can get away with it. When I do want something classy and well made, I head for a place people have heard of. A lot of my winter wear is Ralph Lauren and I have a few Tommy Hilfiger polo shirts. When I worked, I had a couple of lovely Burberry shirts. The combined worth of the four handbags I use the most work out to about thirty-five hundred pounds. I bought two pairs of shoes from Russell & Bromley and nearly passed out when I got to the till and the girl told me the total, and Kurt Geiger has a fair amount of Mr Bunny's money. While I don't own any clothing from a major designer like Prada or Versace, I do know who they are. They've earned the right to charge ridiculously high prices. Their clothes are quality and amazing... a bit like me. *wink wink*

So what was this ill-thought out rant really about? The fact that Jack Wills thinks that by putting leather labels on some ugly plaid shorts or a tartan duffel bag, he has automatically earned the right to charge eighty-five quid for said items, I think says a lot more about the douchebags I saw in the surprisingly lengthy queue, than about Mr Wills himself. But why do I think he's imitating Ralph? Well, you know how Ralph has the polo ponies? Jack Wills has some sort of bird in a top hat and carrying a cane. You know how Ralph likes stripes in bold, contrasting colours? Jack Wills has stripes in bold contrasting colours. You know when you walk into a Ralph Lauren store, and it's instantly 'horsey'? There might be a saddle, some polo sticks or riding crops, and the mannequins will be in jodhpurs and riding boots. Well, in Jack Wills there was a pair of ice skates, a lacrosse stick and other assorted tat too dull to even remember.

But what shocked me the most, is the sheer number of people in the wretched place. When we first walked in, it was buzzing. But hey, everyone likes a browse, n'est-ce pas? It was only when we went to the join the queue to pay, I realised just how many knobheads there are in Chester. After three minutes of waiting, I was like "Fuck this. Just buy her some sodding iTunes vouchers so we can get the hell out of here." In an odd display of patience, Mr Bunny suggested we go to Starbucks, wait it out then come back. He is very cunning, because he knows that promising me a Hazlenut hot chocolate with whipped cream on top, will get me to agree to many things. So I had my hot chocolate, watched an obese barista throw out some croissants and pain aux raisins, imagined her going back to the bins after everyone had left and fishing them out so she could hoover them up, while Mr Bunny had a filter coffee and read the paper.

We walked back to Jack Wills, only to discover that even more tits had been suckered in, and the queue was even longer. I wanted to shout out "If you want clothes that look like Ralph Lauren's SHOP AT RALPH LAUREN!! The Big Pony Collection is ACE!!!!" But I felt that that would have been frowned upon by the shop staff who forget that they're earning minimum wage selling rip-off clothes and clearly feel that the only reason they haven't been recognised by the Nobel Prize committee is due to a mere oversight. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but I wonder what Mr Lauren would make of the wholesale theft of his 'look'.

Anyway, we waited for what seemed like the rest of my natural life, and Mr Bunny swiped his card for a fifty quid voucher. As we were leaving however, I made my peace with the whole thing, by realising that my sister-in-law would fit in perfectly with the clientele there. The downside, is that this gift will be handed over during the dinner from hell.

But on the way home, we stopped at a chippy and I had what can only be described as a tower of chips. Saturated fats make everything better.

Tis a different kettle of fish

2010-11-16T09:52:00.003Z

Yesterday I returned our kettle. It was the third time I've had to take it back and it pissed me off. I mean, it was a brilliant kettle. It was called a Hot Cup and it was by Breville. It boiled one cup at a time and it just looked cool. But the lid on the first one we had kept jamming, so I exchanged it for a new one. That lid stopped working as well so I took that one back. The lid on the third one started jamming as well, but I couldn't be arsed to return it so we soldiered on. But then it started cutting out for no apparent reason. This started a few weeks ago, but once again I couldn't be arsed to return it so we kept it. Then I nearly snapped one day and almost threw it through the window at three-legged cat, who just happened to be opening his bowels in my flowerbed at that moment.

So I went onto John Lewis' site to see what else they had to offer me and I found a wicked cool black and stainless steel kettle by Bosch. So yesterday I made the trip up to Preston with Mr Bunny and took the car while he was busy earning the money to keep me in Mulberry bags. After sitting in traffic caused by some terrible fog, I returned the kettle to the branch we originally bought it from, got my refund and just browsed for a bit. When I went to buy the new kettle, turns out they were out of stock, but the nice chap told me they should be getting some pretty soon. I decided to go to the Trafford Centre and try the branch there. After standing in a queue that could have easily been mistaken for the queue to draw one's pension, turns out that branch was out of stock too. But this even nicer man told me he could take my name, address and card details, and when the shipment came in, it would automatically ship the kettle to me.

So now we have no kettle and have been reduced to living like crackheads, boiling water in a saucepan. And seeing as I drink about seven or eight cups of tea in the morning, and the only liquids Mr Bunny drinks are tea and beer, we need a kettle and we need it fast. This gives the phrase 'a pot of tea' a whole new meaning.

This is my life and sometimes it's shit.

Give me strength

2010-11-12T09:22:00.005Z

Exactly one week tomorrow, I will be attending the dinner from hell, with the guest list from hell. My sister-in-law's birthday is this month and as such, she wants to go for a meal next Saturday. I do not care very much for my sister-in-law. When we first met all those years ago, she was not very nice to me. It was as if she felt the need to make some sort of statement about control or whatever (LONG story). The fact that she did this in my own home was what I took umbrage at. It was so bad, even my future father-in-law (who was visiting us) was like "What the fuck's she playing at?" But no one said anything to curb her behaviour. I continued to make the effort, but after a while I was like "Wait, why the hell am I being a knobhead? Fuck it!" So I stopped. But now, she wants to make nice and I can't be fucking arsed. My feeling now is- I already have sisters and friends and I need more of neither.

Am I being harsh? Maybe. Am I being petty? Possibly. Do I give a shit? Not really. Mr Bunny cares though, but he can suck my plums. My feeling is that when he had the chance to nip the shit in the bud, he wimped out. He wanted to avoid confrontation, like he avoids his sister. So now he's trying to guilt me into making amends. But I'm still like "Fuck it."

But I digress.

So it's her birthday soon, and we have to go to this meal. So why is it going to be so hellish? Well in attendance will be both of Mr Bunny's long-term exes; or as I like to refer to them "The Losers." Oh did I not mention that my sister-in-law is best mates with them? Sigh.

Both of these exes hate me, for obvious reasons. In particular, the one who was with him months before we met despises me. I call her The Bell. I don't blame her though. For hating me I mean. It was her own stupid fault that they broke up. You see, they'd been together for two years, off and on. They lived together for most of that time. Then she broke up with him and vanished for like four months. When she reappeared, they got back together ad all was well. But then she broke up with him again. He then moved to Preston and met the awesome black girl and the rest is history, as they say. From what I was told, they were supposed to get back together and settle down. And up until a few weeks before we met, she and Mr Bunny were doing that typical ex thing, of hanging out together and boning down. So she thought they were on track for a reconciliation and the happy ending. And to some extent, so did he.

But then in swooped the black girl to jumbie her scene. Diddums.

The hilarious thing is that she so blatantly still fancied Mr Bunny and he was so horrifyingly oblivious. It all came o a head the night I went out with his friends. Yes, The Bell is part of his circle. She tried all sorts of tricks to catch his attention, including sexy dancing and a sexy walk. But on her best day, she's not as ace as me on my worst day. Added to this, Mr Bunny is the most unobservant man I have met in my entire life, so this all went over his head. Anyway, we got back to another friend's house and all went inside. I went up to use the loo, while Mr Bunny's dad phoned and he stayed outside talking to him. When I came back from using the 'facilities', The Bell was sat on his lap, speaking to his dad "Oh Gerry, I miss you so much. Can't wait to see you again! Miss you loads, love you lots." When Mr Bunny clocked me stood in the doorway, he kind of looked at me as if to say "What could I do?". I went back inside and sat on the sofa, watching a bit of telly. The Bell then came inside and sat next to me and was like "Look, you mustn't be angry. Just so you know Mr Bunny and I have been best mates for ten years, so you know, we're just close. It's just that we've been best mates for ten years, y'know. So we have a lot of history. It's been ten years, y'know?" She just kept on saying ten years, like some sort of mad old woman. When she was finished, I just looked at her, smiled a little and said "It's cool you know. But just so you know, I don't play games and I don't do bullshit. I'll just tell you like it is. Anyone who knows me knows that they shouldn't fuck with me. Just so you know." *little smile* She just gave a little laugh and went back outside to have a fag. By the by, I later found out that Gerry could not stand The Bell. He used to call her 'Einstein' behind her back. She is a bit of an idiot, to be fair.

Mr Bunny had no idea all this was going on inside. He was outside having a beer with the lads. But when we were leaving, The Bell walks up to him and whispers in his ear. Later, I learned that she told him that she was still in love with him. His response? "Um, nice one."

When we've met subsequently, she's been nice to me and I've been pleasant to her. She's always been one for the underhanded compliment though. One Christmas, we all went out again (including Fatsooo, the other ex he lived with) and she was like "Oh, I love your shoes. You're looking a bit thin though, is everything ok?" And I just laughed said "Yeah. Sorry, still married." She just looked at me with some nervous smile and went to the bar.

I won't even go into Fatsooo and her constant questions to Mr Bunny "Are you happy? Are you sure? You always said you'd never get married. Are you travelling, like you always wanted to?"

So needless to say, I'm in no way looking forward to wasting a whole Saturday night, sat next to any of these three. I've already told Mr Bunny that he is the designated driver, since I will need to consume copious amounts of alcohol just so I don't end up slitting my own wrists and trying to drown myself in the ladies' loo. This isn't even taking into consideration Mr Bunny's best mate's ex, who is STILL pissed off at me because I didn't invite her to my wedding.

Garcon! I'll start with the quadruple gin and tonic please, followed by a triple vodka and cranberry. No, no food for me. But do you by chance have a bottle of Scotch? Many thanks.

New Kid on the Block

2010-10-31T09:15:00.003Z

This morning I was standing at the kitchen window again, waiting for my kettle to boil again and keeping my eye out for mad cat...again. When I noticed an addition to the feline menagerie plaguing the estate. Reader, I give thee fat cat. I have never seen fat cat before. But goodness me, is it fat. Like all the other cats (apart from mad cat), fat cat is black and white. But he has a fair bit of white on his coat, unlike blind cat, three-legged cat and broken-legged cat. Mad cat looks like he's mixed with leopard or tiger or something. His coat's a bit stripy and mixed up. I sometimes wonder if that's what contributing to his madness.

Anyway, I clocked fat cat while he was waddling past the same spot that mad cat always hangs out. It's almost as if he was marking the path as his own. He even heaved himself up on to the massive boulder John used to put tuna for mad cat on. I have no idea where the hell fat cat wobbled in from, but I think he's too fat to be a stray. I mean, a fat stray animal is as much an oxymoron as a fat vagrant. Hmmm.

So now we have fat cat thrown into the mix. Steups. What's next? Well-read cat? Handsome cat? Foolish cat? Sigh. I just hate them all. Haven't seen mad cat since Friday afternoon though. In my head, he's in some evil lair throwing darts at a picture of me and making notes about my daily routine.

Friday is my Flyday

2010-10-29T07:40:00.005+01:00

I've just been standing at my kitchen window, waiting on my kettle to boil and just basically staring into space, when I spotted this cat staring at me from under my neighbour's car. I hate cats. Cats are evil. You never know what a cat is thinking. I mean, dogs are fairly open with their emotions. If a dog hates you, it will growl and snarl and snap at you. If it likes you, it'll wag its tail and bark joyfully and jump up on you. If it's horny, it'll hump your leg. So dogs don't really hide their feelings very well. But cats are a different issue. A cat will look at you, and you'll have no idea whether it's thinking "Oooh, that man is fit! I hope he bends down and strokes me." Or "God I hate you. I'm going to wait until you're asleep then scratch the fuck out of your face."

There are rather a lot of cats on our estate, and a disproportionate number of them are disabled. There's the three-legged cat who likes to shit in my flowerbed, the cat with the broken leg who actually really resembles the three-legged cat, the blind cat and the mad cat. Queens Park Gardens appears to be some sort of cat convalescent home.

The cat that was staring, or rather he was glaring, at me was mad cat. Mad cat has been so named, because it went mad and just started howling and hissing at this fence one day. It also keeps on digging up the bit of grass near to the walkway that leads to our building. Digging for what? I had no idea that cats were diggers. Anyway, my neighbour has taken to feeding mad cat and I had to have words with him about it. Cats like to hang around close to their food supply and mad cat freaks me out so I really don't want it outside my building.

The odd thing is, I think mad cat understood what I was saying, because the same day I told John to stop putting tuna out for it, I went to get into my car and mad cat actually stood on the path and hissed at me, as if to say "Listen bitch, I've got a good thing going here. Don't you dare fuck it up for me or I'll fucking 'ave you!" Yes, in my mind mad cat sounds like an East End gangster. And now John has stopped leaving tuna out for it, I think it hates me, hence the glare from under John's car.

So that got me thinking about animals and how aware are they of what's going on around them. I mean, is mad cat really aware that it's my fault that he doesn't get tuna anymore? Is mad cat plotting my demise? When I shout at three-legged cat to get out of my flowerbed, and he just stares at me, is he thinking "Look lady, I'm not done yet, so take it easy" ? Is blind cat going "I wish I could claim benefits, like half the losers in this town. I mean, I've got one bloody eye!" Who knows? All I know is that mad cat seems to be literally stalking this building, pacing up and down, digging up the path and checking the flat stone John used to leave the tuna on, while throwing me dirty looks. I daren't tell Mr Bunny about this though. He thinks I'm weird enough as it is.

I wish I could kick mad cat. He has grey whiskers.

Living the dream?

2010-09-09T13:58:00.003+01:00

I had to go do my Life in the UK Test today. I was not happy about having to do that for a number of reasons. First off, my husband is back working in England, so he is driving my car, since our other car is just a weekend car and isn't for a daily commute. This meant I had to get the train. This then meant that I had to walk to the train station, since the bus that goes to the station from outside our flat, wouldn't come in time for me to catch my train. So I had to make the forty minute walk.

Secondly, I had to pay to do this bloody test. It costs £34 and it's non-refundable if you fail or have to cancel for any reason. This means that if you were to drop down dead and therefore missed your appointment, in addition to having to fork out for your funeral, your family will have to make sure the UK Border Agency got their £34.

But the main reason why it pissed me off, is the sheer stupidity and banality of the bloody questions. I've been here for eleven years. I've done two degrees here and I'm from a former colony. I know more about life in the UK than a lot of people who were born here! Not only that though, the questions are just absolutely pointless. How is me knowing the distance from John O' Groats to Land's End going to make me a better citizen? Why should I have to pay to take a test with questions like "If you are renting a property from a private landlord, you will normally be required to pay a deposit which is equivalent to one month's rent. TRUE or FALSE" Quantum mechanics this is not.

So I get there, and there's a few other people there, looking around nervously. They were all sat down, furiously revising before the test started (you need to read the Life in the UK Test book, £20 from The Stationery Store. I downloaded it off t'internet) and taking deep breaths. I was BBMing a friend and checking my email. The American guy sat next to me was busy scrolling through his iPhone. He looked just as annoyed as I felt.

So I walked for forty minutes, spent seven quid on a train ticket, rode the train for ten minutes, walked to the test centre, signed in, and took a total of six minutes to complete a test they give you forty-five minutes to do. That works out at just five pound something per minute. Not exactly value for money. The good thing is, you get your results straight away. You click 'Finish' and it automatically sends your results to a printer. A nice lady then calls you over, tries to make a bit of banter, stamps the printout and signs it. And that's it.

I passed. I will take this to mean that I now know all there is to know about Life in the UK. I mean, I just paid £34 for the pleasure.

You can never go back again

2010-08-10T09:15:00.004+01:00

This morning I decided I was going to clear out my hotmail inbox. I have close to forty pages of emails, and I thought that half of them were probably shitty forwards so a clean up was in order. And I was actually shocked at what I found. Emails I hadn't read in years, from as far back as 2002. Emails I'd forgotten I'd sent and received, situations I'd long consigned to the history books; memories both happy and sad.

One of the first emails I read, was one from my friend Des. Des was one of the Irish, who lived in my halls in Annecy. I spent nearly six months in Annecy, France, working in a business college. I lived in halls of residence, which appeared to be the dumping ground for foreign students and society's rejects. I was there for about two weeks, before I realised there were other English-speakers living there. And it made me so happy! I remember I'd just come in from work, and was having a word with Vince, one of the residents who also worked in the admin office, when I heard a girl shouting something in English, up the stairwell. So I said "Oh my God! Are you English?" and she said "No, I'm Irish. Are you English?" And that was how it began. Her name was Sarah, and she was one of four Irish people there. And through them, I met Reynaldo who was from Uruguay, Henry who was actually English and the eight other Irish and the Yank who lived in Pre St Jean, the other halls of res up the road.

But out of all the Irish, Des and I hit it off the best. We just clicked. We became quite tight and hung out together all the time. We'd go into town and knockabout, sit in the residence computer room and talk a load of shit, or go down to the the lake and lay around on paquier all day, eating Quick and drinking. One day we just got on the bus and just rode different routes just so we could see where they led to. And then there were the parties in the basement. Des was easily the best dancer out of all the Irish, so we always had a blast. I even dragged him to the cinema a couple times. And when I got my bonus at work, just before I left, he was the one I celebrated with. But the best part of it all? There was never anything sexual or romantic about it. He was like my twin or something. We made each other laugh and told each other nearly everything. I think it remains my best male friendship...ever.

So I ended up reading some of those emails and I'd completely forgotten the sort of things we spoke about. He was the one who comforted me after the whole Cute French Guy debacle, who listened to my whingeing about work and the bitch students at the college who hated me because I was their age and had my own office instead of classes. He was the one who realised that I had a thing for Henry...even before I did! And when Brian and I hooked up, he scoped him out for me and didn't give him the seal of approval. Ha ha ha!

After reading the emails, I went and dug out my album and flipped through it. I named it "Adventures in Foreign Lands" and it's got pictures from my time in Spain, France and odd nights out in Preston. And there's a 'page of Des' with just pictures of me and Des hanging out. It brought back so many memories- me and Des eating a Munich burger (which remains the best burger I've ever had in my life!) in le Munich down by the river, me and Des at the bus stop, waiting for our connecting bus to come home one night, me and Des hugging up at one of our basement parties (we were both sweaty as fook, glistening in the night. Twas ace!) And then there's that classic memory I have of me being in a cage in a club, sandwiched between Des and Paul, dancing to Starlight by Supermen Lovers.

One decision basically led to me having a fabulous walk down memory lane. It's like looking back on a completely different life, which is actually pretty cool. It's good to have these memories stashed away, so I can remind myself that I wasn't always this dull, going to bed at eight-thirty and spending my days knitting. These memories remind me that I once flew to Paris for a weekend of dirty sex and ended up fracturing my foot shagging in a shower. They remind me that I got a tattoo one afternoon after work in Annecy, just because I fancied it. They remind me that one weekend I hopped the Swiss/French border with the guy I was doing a bit of the ol' horizontal jogging with, and went to the Geneva motor show on a whim. They remind me of a much simpler time, when all I had to do was worry about keeping my office door shut while I played my D'Angelo and worked on the college prospectus.

So, while they say you can never go back again, it's very nice to pay a visit once in a while.

HAPPY 50TH POST TO ME!!!

Anniversaire, cumpleanos, old-age

2010-07-12T09:53:00.002+01:00

Happy Birthday to me.

Today's the big day, and I'm not sure how I'm feeling. Well, actually I am pretty sure. I feel old and a little bit worthless. I'm thirty years old today. Thirty. Three, zero. Just seeing it here in black and white is slightly distressing. I am thirty years old, and I don't really have anything to show for it. What have I achieved in my thirty years on this planet? Fuck all. Sweet fuck all.

Sigh!

Y'know, as children, we all have these visions as to what our lives would be like when we hit this age. I mean, when I was nine, thirty seemed SOOOO far away. Hell, when I was seven, twelve seemed like it would never come. But I thought I'd be at a different place by now and the painful realisation is that I am indeed in a different place. Just not the place I'd envisioned.

It all hit me a few months ago, that the sum total of my achievments is being married. I don't work, I don't have kids, I don't even own my own car. What have I got to show for my time on this earth? Some really expensive handbags, ninety-seven pairs of shoes and cool hair. Hmmmm. I did own a car once. Little green car. It was an M-reg Ford Fiesta, and it cost me £700. I loved that car. It was mine. Yeah, Mr Bunny hated it, but I didn't care. Little green car was ace. I had to sell it though, when I decided to head back to Trinidad for an extended period. And oh, it was so hard to let it go. Now I drive a nice, silver Ford Focus. It's all reliable and safe and economical, and we have a black Alfa Romeo Spider for sunny weekends. But the less said about that car at the moment, the better.

What's my point, I hear you roll your eyes? My point is, those things don't belong to me. My husband paid for them. He pays for everything. He bought both cars, he owns this flat. And the really depressing thing, is that I have allowed this to happen. I've made poor decisions and that is what angers and upsets and saddens me more than anything else. I've done this to myself.

So what am I going to do about it? Well, I've decided to go back to work. Going back to do anything (except clean loos). But I need to regain some self-respect. So maybe this mini-mid-life crisis happened for a reason. Silver lining and all that, I guess. I'm extremely grateful that I'm able to have the lifestyle that I do since I know there are those much less fortunate than we are. But trust, it isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's lonely and a trifle boring. So I'm going to look for some part-time work to tide me over, until the baby Bunnies come. And when I made that decision, I felt a bit better. It's all about taking action baby!

Shall I break out the cake and ice cream?

Football's coming home

2010-06-29T11:43:00.000+01:00

I'm not crazy about football. I think I've mentioned this previously. So the World Cup and other assorted tournaments, are torture for me. Yes, I go see my friends play in their League matches, but that's different. Even when Trinidad qualified, I couldn't bring myself to watch their games, I was so nervous. But I did proudly sport my Soca Warrior t-shirt.

However, living in England, it's hard to escape football. The English have this sense of superiority when it comes to football. I mean, yes they invented the game, and yes they won the World Cup. But that was once...44 bloody years ago. And they still won't stop going on about it. They haven't won a major tournament since, or even reached the final round! Yet, to hear them talk, the only reason they haven't won is because the rest of the world is against them. It's the refs, the linesmen, the press, the fans. The ball is too light, the pitch is too poor, the altitude is too high. Our shorts were too short, the shorts were too long, the t-shirts were too tight. Blah, blah, blah! The truth is, the team just isn't good enough. They aren't good enough to beat Argentina (the fucking Hand of God gets trotted out EVERY World Cup campaign, as if THAT was the reason why they didn't win in 1986. Steups!), they aren't good enough to beat France, they aren't good enough to beat Spain. I mean, FFS, they could only muster a 2-0 win over Trinidad...and that was after a goalless first half! What the hell makes them think they can overpower Brazil, Germany or Argentina?

Anyway, they stumbled through the group stages, much to their embarassment. It was funny to watch, because I remember they were so cocky after the draw. The husband and I were in Ireland and The Sun had on it's front page the day after the draw-

England
Algeria
Slovenia
Yanks

They thought they'd piss the group stages, storm through the knockouts and quarter-finals and arrive at the semis, where the real work would begin. But sadly (or happily if you're not an England fan), twas not to be. They could only muster a 1-1 draw with said Yanks, a 0-0 draw with Algeria and a 1-0 win over Slovenia. Yes, quite the footballing powerhouse. So they limped through to the knockout stages, not even as winners of their group. Yes, the Yanks who they derided so early on, managed to beat them. So, it was on to Germany; their footballing nemesis.

I read my Saturday paper yesterday. I like to leave it a couple days, for when the boredom truly kicks in. It made for hilarious reading though. The Sport section had the headline "We are a better team than Germany and we will beat them". This little prediction came from the goalkeeper, David James, who is actually one of the better-looking men on the team. Oh, how we laughed. Why?

Well, on Sunday, they were thrashed 4-1 by said German side. Despite all the jingoism in the press, harking back to fecking WW2 (two twats even turned up at the game dressed as RAF officers) and England's last victory on a world stage (bloody 1966), England lost and they lost badly. So they were out, and out in a most humiliating fashion. But I'm a bit sad that they're out. I can almost see your double take, dear reader. Why the hell am I sad, that a bunch of cocky, overpaid and overrated footballers have lost?

Well, it means that life has gone back to normal here in Merrie Olde England. On Sunday, I went to the Trafford Centre to exchange our kettle. I live life on the edge. But I thought Sunday would be an ideal time, since the rest of the country would be glued to their tellies. My need to go out was further encouraged by the sight of my neighbours erecting a gazebo in their front garden, and hanging a large England flag out of a window on the top floor of their house. Apparently, the eight flags on his car weren't enough. When I saw him dragging the bbq out of his shed, I mentally planned what I was going to wear and hit the showers.

Oh, and what a magical afternoon it turned out to be. The roads were clear, I had my pick of parking spots right outside the entrance and there were no queues in the shops. The only downside, was that all the staff in John Lewis were glued to the tv screens. I was able to wander around without being touched by some sweaty man in an ugly shirt and trackie bottoms. It took me two minutes to get a green tea in Starbucks, and there were loads of seats if I'd wanted to stay. I didn't have to push my way through any crowds in Marks and Spencer's to get a decent look at the food.

In short, it was bliss.

But because of the general shittiness of the England team, I shall never have another afternoon like that again. Well, at least not for another four years...provided England even bloody qualify for Brazil!

So I shall remember Sunday 27th of June with great fondness and nostalgia. You shall always be in my heart. Football's coming home, a trifle too early and not in the way they meant when they sang that song (which is so catchy, I'm humming it as I type).

Bless the little losers.

...and I would've gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for those pesky kids!

2010-06-22T08:44:00.004+01:00

I'm old.

I'm not even thirty yet, but I'm old. How have I come to this conclusion? Well, Friday night, "Ferris Beuller's Day Off" was on. I remember when I first saw that movie and how much I loved it. I loved it so much, I even watched the mega-lame series (that actually starred a pre-friends Jennifer Aniston). I mean, this guy managed to trick all the adults in his life, and his annoying sister always lost out. But she ended up hooking up with Charlie Sheen, when he was still hot and before he, um, lost his way.

So I left it on Film4 and decided to watch it. I shouldn't have done that.

I HATED it this time around. I hated it so much, I switched over about half-an hour into it, to watch an episode of "Mock the Week" I must have seen about fifty bajillion times (thanks Dave). But why did I hate it so much? Well, in the ten years or so since I last properly watched the movie, Ferris turned into a bit of a little shit! Why do his parents believe him, and not Jeannie? Jeannie is a bit mean, yes. But she seems to be fairly honest with the people around her. Why is Ferris so mean to Cameron? He's a bit of a bully and a narcissist. The Dean of Students is a bit of a penis, I'll admit. But he's just trying to do his job, which is ten times harder, because of twats like Ferris, who think it's their right to skip school and steal classic cars. And what irked me more than anything, was that he never got his comeuppance. He just got away with it! Life isn't like that.

So that got me thinking, have I skipped my thirties, forties, fifties, sixties and seventies and jumped straight to my eighties and my curmodgeonly years? Why am I so crotchety? I mean, Ferris is just a fictional character. Then it hit me. I'm no longer that movie's target audience. I've outgrown it, as I've outgrown a lot of other things. But even more worrying, was the realisation that I'm turning into my mother! This is the kind of show my mother would roll her eyes and steups at, refusing to believe the antics on screen. And now I find myself doing the same.

Sigh! Who knew growing up would mean you lose part of your sense of humour? Luckily for me, I still find fart and poo jokes funny, so I won't lose all hope just yet!

Make me somewhere...

2010-05-23T13:25:00.002+01:00

Today is Sunday and the weather is absofuckinglutely fabulous! Yet I am indoors, listening to music and reading the paper. But I've got all the windows open so it's not all bad.

Unlike most Brits, I don't jizz myself at the sight of sunshine. I mean, I grew up in the bloody Caribbean. So I actually dodge the sun as much as the Brits embrace it. It doesn't help that I'm married to a complete sun whore, who, once we're in Trinidad, would happily spend eight hours on the beach...every single day! My response when people see the sun and get all excited is "No, it's ok thanks. I saw the sun once."

Anyway, I'm here today, iPod in the docking station/ speaker, soca blasting, sipping on various alcholic tipples and feeling particularly homesick. Mr Bunny is still in Libya, all my friends had previous commitments with other halves and what not this weekend, so I'm on my own, and it feels a bit rubbish. I've put on on my favourite playlist, which is of course packed with soca. And with the sunshine and me wearing not very much (but still enough to be seen in public in and not make anyone sick), I'm still feeling a bit down.

I get this way from time to time, not knowing where I belong, not having any 'roots' anywhere. I mean, I'm West Indian (which is what I tell people where they ask where I'm from. I sense disappointment when the answer isn't Nigeria or Ghana) and of course narrowed down to Trinidadian. But I've lived here for so long now and all but two of my friends are British. One of those friends has lived here since she was 11, so I don't always consider her West Indian (she's Jamaican), but she'd scratch my eyes out if she knew I'd said that.

A while ago, I had a slight panic attack when I realised that my future child/ children would not be fully Trini. It actually freaked me out. I mean, I knew they'd be mixed race, but it hadn't properly occurred to me that they wouldn't actually be 100% Trinidadian. My husband is half-Irish and half-Polish, and unless I have them in Ireland (the thought has crossed my mind), they'll be British. So it's fair to say that my kids will have a very diverse heritage. It worried me a bit. Are they going to feel at home anywhere? I mean, I know where I'm from, but will they feel the same way? I mean, what if they don't love soca or Carnival or pelau and macaroni pie and callalloo? What if they don't get how hilarious a meggie is and salivate at the mere mention of the word 'doubles'? And here comes the panic attack again!

One of my favourite songs is by a duo called Zero 7. It's called Home, and it is one of the most melodically pure and sweet songs I have ever heard in my life. And the chorus goes "Take me somewhere we can be alone. Make me somewhere I can call a home." And I guess in my semi-pissed, mega-maudlin state, it's resonating more than ever.

What's the solution? Well, right now, it would be to crack open that bottle of Cosmopolitan mix and get glugging. I mean, it's not as if I have to work tomorrow... ;)

Well sober me up!

2010-05-18T08:26:00.002+01:00

I was watching 'Grand Designs' last night. It's this show where people build their dream homes while a smug presenter makes snide remarks and hopes it all goes tits up. So, this couple in London were gutting their Victorian terrace and completely remodeling it. They were doing the inside, but couldn't touch the exterior because of planning permission laws that say the exterior of these properties have to maintain their traditional look. They'd put in this metallic guttering so Mr Smug was like "Are there going to be problems with this, seeing as this is a conservation area? Is it going to have to be painted black?" and the equally smug homeowner replied "Well I don't think so. Our previous guttering was painted black only because our door was."

I then realised that if I lived on that street, and these tits were putting in silver guttering, I'd be straight on the phone to the local council to complain. And I guess that makes me a bit of a tit as well. Who knew I was so cantankerous? Am I acting out my old-age before I even hit thirty?

Twas a sobering thought indeed!

Today

2010-04-15T11:14:00.002+01:00

I'm sitting here, in the midst of the most awesome green tea high and pondering certain things. I am mostly in a pensive mood because I have a lot of work to do, and according to the law, I must become distracted as soon as possible for as long as possible, until I lose the will to live.

I know I've been gone for a very long time. Well, first off, I spent five weeks in Trinidad, chilling out. I was meant to stay for only three weeks, but realised that I had nothing waiting for me here so I stayed. Good thing I did, because my evil granny popped her clogs. I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but she was very difficult, to put it kindly. The odd thing is, I had a dream about her last night and I actually had a very good conversation with her. But she's at peace now, and my dad has one less thing to worry about, so it's all good.

So I came back, the husband came back, we spent two weeks together then he left. We went to view a house that we were both quite excited about. It turned out to be a massive disappointment. It was a gorgeous four-bedroom detached and it looked so good on the internet- ensuite, conservatory, garden, double garage. But the bedrooms were surprisingly small and the lounge was just awful! So it looks like it's a pass. Ah well...

What else has there been? Well my laptop seems to have retired from its earthly toil. Ok, it isn't really mine. It belongs to Mr Mjsbunny, but I had commandeered it. And it took its last breath yesterday. So I'm bashing this out on his other shitty laptop, which crashes all the time and is insanely slow. Much patience required, but little at my disposal.

I did have the misfortune to have to go into town on Tuesday though. I had to go to the Post Office to post off a package. I'd ordered some tights from Topshop, and they bloody laddered on the first day I wore them, so I was returning them. Let me just say that there cannot be many more depressing places on this earth, than Crewe town centre. I believe the bus station and the post office are the places where chavs are born and return to die. There are enough muffin tops, Croydon facelifts and tracksuits to last a lifetime. I actually feel a little part of me die whenever I have to go to the Post Office or pass through the bus station. Sigh! And to top it all off, the weather has been unseasonably warm, so there is now an abundance of flabby, white arms, legs shoulders and backs at every turn. These people haven't seen proper sun since their last trip to Tenerife in June of 2008 and the fake tan is always poorly applied and shit. So in between all the orange dimples, are stretches of pure whiteness. It scares me a little bit.

Then I had to go out to Hanley to pick up the dying laptop. I like the drive out to Hanley. And with the weather being nice, I was able to have the windows down and enjoy some 3Suns, Machel and Blaxx. But then that SWV song came on- the one remixed with Human Nature, and I actually burst into tears. It was so bad, I had to change the song. Sigh! Oh Mike!

I haven't left the tiny flat since Tuesday. It feels safe and secure. Plus I've been distracted by my new phone. Yes, I caved. I've jumped on the Blackberry bandwagon. I know I'm late to the party but it was there, so I took it. I mean, I'm paying Orange £30 a month, even more over the past couple months because I was roaming. My contract was due for renewal and I was eligible for a Blackberry, so of course I went for the newest one. It's been a bumpy ride thus far. I don't like change. I mean, I had a Samsung Tocco, which is a touch screen. I also have an iPod touch which I can get wi-fi on. So I've grown used to my touch screens. My fingers now feel uber-fat and it's taking me ages to tap out a simple text. It also takes great strength of will to ignore that little flashing red light. I don't want to turn into one of those people who sees the light flashing, and the rest of the world ceases to exist. They are the Pavolv's dogs of the 21st Century! But it is excellent being able to chat to my mates, especially my two best friends. I've known them since primary school and they live in the States and Canada. So chatting to them for free does kind of makeup for my terror.

So that's where I am today. Judge Judy is on, and I'm drinking my seventh or eighth mug of tea. I'm currently doing a taste test on different brands of green tea with Lemon. These are things that I do to fill my time. I am also excited because Waitrose will begin to restock my favourite apples in one week. So I have that to look forward to. Tis a simple life I lead.

The weather is nice, I have some nice soca on my iPod and school will be re-opening soon so I can go to the shops during the day without having to deal with shrieking teens. Plus Mr Bunny is back in four weeks and hopefully we'll be in a new place by July. So life could be better, but it could also be a lot worse. Here's to optimisim and contentment. Today.

'Tis a harsh reality

2010-02-01T09:25:00.003Z

This morning during the first Judge Judy, an advert came on that got me thinking. It was for Rice Krispie Squares. They have three flavours- Marshmallow, Caramel and Chocolate. I think I've only ever had the marshmallow but that was probably years ago.

Anyway, the advert was one where it tried to humanise the rice krispies. It started off with a rice krispie in a shirt and spectacles and name-tag that said 'Joe' talking about another rice krispie who'd left the office. He was all baffled because this rice krispie could have had a nice future at the firm but left to follow his dream. They then cut to the krispie who followed his dream slashing his way through a forest until he comes across this waterfall where rice krispies are swimming and laughing and having a gay old time. So he jumps in this waterfall, which is made of caramel by the way, and swims about, all the other rice krispies look so happy to see him, there are squeals of delight and everyone seems to be enjoying freedom. It's like utopia for rice krispies. The next shot shows him climbing some sort of tower or pyramid and everyone's egging him on until he gets to the top.

But oh no! What's that? A giant wrapper. Looks like they're ending up in a rice krispie's bar. Oh my!

So instead of staying in a nice, secure job in Accounts Receivable, going home to his family and getting the occasional blowjob from his wife, he decides to follow his destiny and goes to find this rice krispie paradise, and ends up in the bowels of an obese teenager.

This irritated me rather a lot for some unknown reason. I think it may be one of many signs of the madness I have been fighting off.

The little men in white coats are on their way.

MJ and me

2010-01-21T10:10:00.003Z

I'm sure the reader of this blog hasn't failed to notice that my 'pseudonymn' is about Michael Jackson. I'm a huge fan. Have been for about fifteen years now. Before that, I was just a fan. But when I was fifteen, my dad gave me HIStory for Christmas, and that was the trigger. That was also the year he gave me Prince's 3-disc epic, but that didn't have the same effect. Hmmm.

Anyway, I love Michael Jackson, and for a while was slightly obsessed. I remember downloading his autobiagraphy from the internet one afternoon. This was in the days of dial-up, so it took about four hours. I then stayed up until half-two the following morning reading it. I would record any little snippet of news or telly to do with Michael Jackson- three minute reports on Inside Edition, a mention of him on Hard Copy, a clip of an interview on regional news. Usually, I'd just program the VCR, but I didn't trust it when it came to MJ, so I'd actually set my alarm to wake up so I could go downstairs and press 'record' myself, if something was on late at night. I also used to set my alarm to wake up to watch porn, but that's by the by. Hey, I was a fourteen-year old virgn, going to a convent school. Gimme a break!

I'd visit all these fan sites and download and print off photos of him. I'd print off the black and white ones at home, and the colour ones at my dad's office. And because I chose to spend my allowance on other things, I'd do a sort of homemade laminating with scotch tape and lots of patience. I'd put these pictures up in my MJ corner, which was up by the head of my bed. I'd go to second-hand book stores and look for magazines or books that had his photo on the cover or his name in the title. I'd post in fan forums. And when we went to St Thomas on holiday in 1997, I found the most perfect video called Michael Jackson: The Legend Continues. I also ended up snogging the salesdude from the record store I bought it in. Go me! I ordered a Jackson 5 Anthology, which was effing awesome and which I listened to constantly. I made mix-tapes...about fifteen if memory serves. And my parents got me a walkman one year, because they were sick of me begging them to play my tapes in the car when we were on holiday. I'd make my dad bring me CDs or tapes whenever he went on a business trip. And for a few years, I signed all my emails and letters "Peace, Love and Michael Jackson". I think this lost me a few friends and a lot of respect, but I wasn't running for public office so it was cool.

I could go on, and on and on. I did it all. The only thing I didn't do was see him perform and I'd planned to do that when he finally returned to the stage in London. My Nigerian posse over here are huge fans as well, so we were all hoping to get tickets. But the fates were against us. I was even considering buying one of the VIP tickets at £730 a pop.

And then the news broke.

I was having trouble sleeping that night, because my husband was getting on my nerves...as per. And just as I was dozing off, he shook me to tell me that Michael Jackson was being taken to hospital. I was like, "Oh, ok. As long as he isn't dead." Then my mate The Princess texted me to say that Michael Jackson was dead, and I replied "Well, BBC News says he isn't, so I'm going with that. Talk to you tomorrow!" Then my ex (who is also The Princess's brother) phoned me to tell me that Michael Jackson was dead, and I was like "BBC News says he isn't, so I don't know. Can I ring you tomorrow?" This is all hazy because I was at that halfway point between sleep and wake. I was actually more annoyed that people were texting and calling me at that hour of the night, when anyone who knows me properly, knows that I don't like being disturbed after nine o'clock!

But then the next morning, when I switched on BBC Breakfast, I realised it was true. And I couldn't believe it. I didn't cry though, but I was just incredibly sad. Let's get one thing straight. I may be a bitch, but I do have a heart. However, I do not cry for celebrities. The only people that are worth my tears are my friends and family, or ordinary people who are going through extreme hardship. So as sad as I was, my eyes remained dry. When I went to the dentist that morning, the shop opposite was blasting a radio station that was obviously paying tribute to him, and taking calls from listeners. Good music all morning. When I came home, I knew that the music channels would be showing interviews and what not, so I kept the telly on them.

And then I became angry.

All these celebrities being interviewed, talking about how great he was and how sad they all are now that he's dead, and I just thought "Fuck you. Fuck ALL of you! Where the hell were you when he was going through hard times and all he wanted was a kind word and some support? Fucking bastards! Now all of you 'can't stop crying' and are 'devastated'. Fuck off and die, the lot of you!" And that feeling continued throught the day. But I still didn't shed a tear. My husband went back to work the following morning, and I was heading off to the Manor (which is where The Princess lives...obviously) for her anniversary party. As I was getting ready to go and packing my suitcase, You Are Not Alone came on the telly. And THAT was when I shed a tear.

All Michael Jackson did was love and he wanted love in return, and the world just shat all over him. And as cheesy as it was, You are Not Alone was very apt, because he was sort of alone. It just made me so sad. Sad is the only word I can think to describe how I felt. I have never in my life cried over a celebrity death. Never. But I think MJ was worth it. That Saturday in June, at the Manor, the Madams and our Nigerian posse paid tribute in our own way. We danced all day and all night to Mike, stopping to shake our heads in shock. But it was a brilliant day.

His memorial service was another issue entirely. I cried like a baby for most of it, and I even bought a copy of it in Trinidad. But I haven't had the stones to watch it yet. It's even on my DVR, but also can't watch it again. Sigh!

This post became even more relevant, because last night his 30th Anniversary Special was on telly. It was like a car crash. I wanted to watch, but I couldn't. So I kept flicking back and forth. And in the end I couldn't sleep. I stayed up way past my bedtime, just laying in bed willing him back to life. Let's see if it works...

In the mean time, here are some of my favourite MJ songs, from different stages in his career. I haven't chosen well-known songs, so hopefully dear reader, you will appreciate them.

He recorded this early on his career with the Jackson 5, so was between 11 and 13, and his voice is just amazing. I love the haunting quality of the first lines and remember when I first heard it. I couldn't believe that this song existed. I fell in love with it immediately, and was like "YES MIKE!!! YOU CAN SEE ME IN THE MORNING!!!" Oh my.

This song reminds me of nighttime in Spain. I'd have this song on loop overnight, to help me sleep. so when I hear this, I'm just reminded of me laying in bed in the dark, dreaming about the guy I fancied at work and MJ in alternate fantasies. I love his voice on this track. So smooth, so perfect. The tonal quality is excellent and when he gets to the end and is singing in the higher key, almost like he's pleading, it just kills me. Even listening to it now is a bit much. It makes me shake inside.

I first heard this song on that video I bought in St Thomas. I loved that it was a live performance as well, since until that point the only live video I could think of was 'Another Part of Me'. I'd never heard this song before, but I LOVE it and I love his perfomance of it and the irony is that this video is from the same tour as 'Another Part of Me'. It looks like he's somewhere in Asia and everyone's just bloody loving it. And the fact that he's enjoying this performance so much, even though it's an older song just shows that he was simply born to do this. I love that outfit he wore on the Bad tour. I think it's my favourite.

My favourite song from Invincible. I honestly can't describe how it makes me feel. I remember putting this on when I went to the Academia on Saturdays to work on lessons and materials. I'd sit there, eating pizza, drawing out clocks on sheets of bristol board, and singing along to this. He is voice on this track gave me butterflies. I think it's right up there with Don't Stop Til You Get Enough as my all time favourite MJ song.

I think Micheal Jackson's is the only celebrity death I've ever really cared about before and it'll probably be the last. I mean, I don't think I'll be that bothered when Justin Timbertesticles goes over to the other side or when Madonna finally does the respectable thing and surrenders what's left of her soul.

Michael Jackson was special and even though I've never met him and most like never would have, I honestly miss him.

About two feet tall

2010-01-13T09:29:00.002Z

Haiti. When I was at school, we learned about Haiti's history and about Toussaint L'Ouverture. This was all explained in David Rudder's brilliantly sad song Haiti I'm Sorry. And these words are no more relevant than today.

Haiti seems to be a country blighted by everything known to man. Rampant poverty and illiteracy, crime, corruption (Papa Doc and Baby Doc ruled for for years, draining any wealth out of the system) and now natural disasters. They've been hit by hurricanes, floods, mudslides and now an earthquake.

I feel particularly small today, as I've been so wrapped up in that blanket of myself lately. And here these people are trying to yet again, come out from a dark period. It's things like these that do make me question the existence of God. But I have to keep my sanity by telling myself that all things happen for a reason. And maybe this time it's to help the rest of the world put things in perspective. We seem to be not learning any lessons. There's a train of thought in Trinidad that goes "Some people need a tap on the shoulder, and others need a cuff in the face!" and it seems that we need that cuff in the face to wake up to the reality of our lives.

I just hope they catch a break soon. How much more can these people take? Haiti, I truly am sorry.

Doh hol meh back, ah feelin' RHELLL slack!

2010-01-12T18:20:00.003Z

I am currently in love with 3 Suns' new song, Wine Low. I have ALWAYS liked 3 Suns and have been baffled by their lack of commercial success for Carnival. They have great songs and I luurrrve them! This year they come REAL good. RHELLLLLLL good. I don't know if it's as good as We Eh Leavin', but it's at least as good as Levitate, Elevate.

I downloaded it on to my iPod this morning for my journey into uni, and had quite a nice time listening to it on the train. It made me so happy, I was there wining in my seat. As far as I'm aware, Virgin Trains do not have a policy on people bussing a small wine in their seat, so I did so with reckless abandon. Luckily I was in the Quiet Coach and it was fairly empty. This, and the fact tha Thunder was on my playlist just before this song, made me so happy, even though it was all grey and cold and depressing. All I could see was me in my costume, Wining lowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlowlow!!!

So, take this and enjoy. :)

Oh gad-oh!!!

The weather outside is frightful, but I find it so delightful!!

2010-01-11T14:00:00.002Z

Today is day 412 of the Big Freeze TM... or so they'd have you believe they way they're carrying on.

A few inches of snow have fallen in the UK over the past few weeks. It's caused some inconvenience across the country, but according to all the 24 hour news channels, we're losing billions in lost hours and people are dropping like flies. We've been encouraged to stay indoors for fear of freezing to death in our cars. People haven't been going in to work, airports have been closed, entire towns have been cut off from the rest of the world. There was a report about some New Year's Eve (Ol' Year's Night, to thee and me) partygoers who were stranded in their hilltop pub for three days. Talk about the party that would never end! Not surprisingly, that pub landlord is now selling up. Bless him!

People have put the cost to the economy in the billions of pounds. A&Es around the country have been swamped with little old ladies with broken wrists sustained while taking their terriers for walkies, students with shattered ankles sustained after falling off of homemade snowboards and middle aged-men with torn tendons sustained while running through the snow to get make sure they really did lock the car before they came inside. Cost to the NHS? Who knows? All we know is that it's been an absolute TRAGEDY for the country. Disaster! Anarchy! Catastrophe!! Or so they'd have us believe. 24 Hour news channels (Sky, I'm looking at you!) are the bane of our modern-day existence. They take any little event and blow it up. So a few inches of snow have somehow morphed into "The Big Freeze".

It started snowing a few days before Christmas. It was interesting at first, nay even a bit exciting. I mean it very rarely snows in the UK. And when it does, it doesn't stick. So the fact that it was sticking made the place look all lovely and Christmassy. People were making snowmen, familes went sledding together, and every twat with a mobile phone camera became a wildlife photographer- as evidenced by the pictures being sent in to various news programmes.

Yeah, the roads were a bit icy, but you just drove more carefully. Yes the sidewalks were more slippery, but you just put on some sensible shoes and watched your step. Yes your car was covered in frost and snow in the mornings, but you factored that in and took the extra five minutes scraping it off and spraying on the de-icer. No big whup. But there is a tendency for people to go beserk and act like the four horsemen of the apocalypse are saddling up and punching co-ordinates into the sat-nav!

Schools were closed because teachers couldn't get in to teach the little darlings. This meant that parents had to be off work to stay home with their kids. This then meant that wherever the parents worked, had to do without them for a few days. Twas a vicious cycle. Sigh.

I myself had a snow-related adventure last week, when my car skidded into a curb when I turned the corner into my estate. Then I almost died when I went into town to go to the market and the butcher's. I swore my limbs were going to fall off. But I survived. Made it home to catch an episode of Judge Judy, slip into my Crocs and guzzle some tea.

However, in some parts, there have been reports of supermarkets running out of bread and milk as people stockpile supplies. Some stores have sold out of duvets, which begs the question, what were people sleeping with before? A nice thin cotton sheet? And when I did my shopping last week, I noticed that the shelves were completely bare of salt and all its derivatives- rock salt, sea salt, table salt. One store even reported running out of condoms! Well, if you're stuck indoors, might as well shag the hours away, eh? Generate heat and all that...

I guess I should count myself among the lucky ones though. I don't work and don't have any kids so I could afford to just sit on my window seat and watch the flakes fall. My sister wasn't so lucky last week though. She flew back from Trinidad for the start of the new term. She was supposed to land at Gatwick then fly up to Manchester, where I'd pick her up and drop her off at her place. But The Big Freeze showed no mercy. Gatwick airport was closed, so they were diverted to Stanstead, from where they were bussed to Gatwick. Of course there were no flights leaving there and there was no guarantee of a flight the next day or the day after, and nary a hotel room to be had. So she took a taxi to London Euston (cost £125!) and a train to Liverpool (cost £43!) and finally arrived at her flat nearly twelve hours after landing in London that morning. The poor lamb.

But at least it meant I didn't have to go out and pick her up. ;) Someone did ask the very important question though- is the NHS going to be able to cope with the inevitable increase in births nine months from now? I know I am waiting with bated breath. For now though, I shall sit here in fuzzy socks and dressing gown, sipping on tea and feeling smug.

It comes but once a year...

2009-12-25T15:36:00.002Z

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

2009-12-13T10:31:00.003Z

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!

2009-12-12T20:07:00.004Z

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!

2009-11-16T17:52:00.002Z

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

2009-11-04T18:46:00.003Z

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

2009-11-03T10:47:00.004Z

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

2009-09-25T12:28:00.001+01:00

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

2009-09-25T12:22:00.000+01:00

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

2009-09-14T13:37:00.000+01:00

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

2009-09-13T11:41:00.000+01:00

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

2009-09-12T15:49:00.001+01:00

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

2009-09-11T10:50:00.000+01:00

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

2009-09-06T15:56:00.000+01:00

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

2009-09-06T09:10:00.000+01:00

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

2009-08-31T08:48:00.001+01:00

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

2009-08-02T09:52:00.000+01:00

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!

2009-05-09T20:05:00.000+01:00

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??

2009-04-16T11:14:00.000+01:00

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

2009-04-15T11:20:00.000+01:00

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

2009-04-15T10:00:00.000+01:00

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

2009-04-15T09:48:00.000+01:00

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

2009-03-22T10:49:00.000Z

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

2009-03-22T10:44:00.000Z

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

2009-01-03T12:13:00.000Z

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?

You've got a friend...

2008-10-25T21:26:00.000+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, no, no, no, no

2008-10-16T18:36:00.000+01:00

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

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

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

You were always on my mind...

2008-10-14T12:32:00.001+01:00

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

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

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

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

2kWhine, we ready!

C'mon county!

2008-09-07T10:18:00.000+01:00

In England, football rules.

I mean, it completely rules. It dominates some peoples' lives. It dictates to them, orders them. I personally never understood it. I mean, I do have passions and loves, don't get me wrong. I'm well known to be one of the biggest Michael Jackson fans in existence (though I've never seen him live) and with Carnival coming up, people in my office are sick of hearing me go on about it all the time. But these are things I can take part in and feel a part of. Football though, I just don't see it.

Don't get me wrong. I like sports. I have a great respect for people who have that talent and are able to display it and earn a living from it. I don't think I could handle that pressure to perform all the time, knowing that my livelihood depended on it. So I tip my hat to all athletes. But this national obsession with football baffles me. And for a country that is so taken in with the sport, they're pretty rubbish. England haven't won the World Cup in over forty years. They didn't even qualify for Euro 2008!

People cry when their team loses. They get upset, they get emotionial. There are statistcs that prove that domestic violence goes up when England perform badly during the World Cup...to the point that some police forces go as far as setting up Domestic Abuse task forces specifically to deal with this increase. Wow!

But I still don't get it. Maybe it's because I don't like football. In the West Indies, cricket used to be the more traditional sport...at least in my house anyway. So that's what I follow, that's what I like, that's what I understand. But I don't cry when West Indies lose. That might be because it happens so much these days I might get dehydrated if I did! ;)

I do like watching football live though. I remember going to InterCol when I was in school. Admittedly, this was mostly for social reasons; you had to be 'seen' at all the 'right' games. Games between certain schools were deemed to be more desireable than others. So you got dressed in your most appealing casual clothes (at that time, usually short denim shorts, the shorter the better, and a cool t-shirt or nice top and pair of trainers) and you'd stand near the pitch or sit in the stands scoping out the crowd. That was the fun. I'm sure the matches were pretty good and we all cheered when goals were scored, but I didn't understand the rules of football- besides the obvious ones pertaining to goals and winning.

I know a couple professional footballers over here, and I must admit that seeing them live puts it into better perspective. I understand it a bit better now and my appreciation has grown. It helps having people you're friends with, out there. It gives it a personal touch. So you cheer harder, you want it more for them. You feel it more strongly. But I know these players. We hang out, we go out dancing. They're friends. Many football supporters don't have that. So why do they care so much?

A couple weeks ago, I went with my husband and a couple of my friends from work to watch Stockport County FC. My friend, let's call him Skyler (for no reason other than I think he'd hate being called Skyler) is a supporter. He has a season ticket. The thought of sitting in the stands at a tiny ground, eating pie and mash and drinking a pint appealed to me somewhat. Especially as my previous football match experiences in this country have involved me drinking vodka and cranberry juice and nibbling on free hors d'oeuvres in the comfort of the players' lounge. So I invited myself along to a match and convinced my friend Martha (once again, not her name) to come along. She is a MASSIVE football fan and supports her local team as well. She's the kind of supporter who comes in to work the next day all bubbly and excited if her team have won the night before. She jizzes herself when she sees her team have bought a new, good player. And yes, she cries when they lose.

Anyway, we decided to go and see SCFC play Scunthorpe Utd. Now, to be honest, these teams are in the lower divisions, so I wasn't expecting quality football. I really went for the craic and the atmosphere, and my word, it was there in droves! There were babies dressed in the team kit, little boys wearing the team socks (which I must admit, are quite cool), adults who looked otherwise normal and sane, wearing County colours and t-shirts. I myself decided to get into the spirit of things and did not wear my usual black, opting for jeans and a halter top...in County colours.

Walking in to the stands was an experience. I was nervous and excited at the same time. Someone was banging a drum and people were chanting. Chants on footbal terraces are legendary in England and it was nice to see that this didn't disappoint. It's amazing as well, that everyone knows what to sing and all join in lustily. I felt like some sort of anthropological observer, sitting there with my mouth open. I probably looked like a simpleton though.

We sat down and the match started. Then a chap walked in and went to sit in the seats in front of us. Martha said he looked like he'd come from a night in the cells, which was the most appropriate description. Fresh number 1 haircut, freshly polished Rockports, requisite track suit. Sigh! He waltzed in, singing a chant set to the tune of 'Chim Chiminee' from that much loved Disney film, Mary Poppins. Of course his version was less um, Disneyfied. Someone sat in our row shouted at him "Oi, shut up ya bastard." Luckily they knew each other, so my fears of pre-match violence didn't materialise.

Things started going downhill (at least for County supporters), about twenty minute from half-time. Someone from Scunthorpe managed to score a goal during one of the brief moments the ball actually touched the turf. One of the chaps in front of us put his head in his hands like his world had just come to an end. I laughed.

At half-time, we went down to the bar where I had a pint of cider and got stared at. It would seem that County doesn't have a lot of black supporters. Ah well... I've heard that there's racism on the football terraces, but to be honest, I experienced none of it. My feeling is black people are too smart to go and sit on a plastic seat in the middle of winter, shouting support for some people they barely know, when they could watch the same match at home, having a nice hot drink and wearing fuzzy slippers. There were also an inordinate amount of people with bruises and broken arms and fingers. Chim Chiminee guy had a mate who came to 'greet' him (and I use the term in the loosest possible context). His arm was in plaster, he had a black eye and one of his front teeth were missing. Birds of a feather and all that.

By the time we went back upstairs, about one minute into the second half, County were 2-0 down and the mood was noticeably grim. The lad with the drum and the obviously super-human lungs and larynx (or a sponsorship deal with Fisherman's Friend) still tried to get things going, but when they scored the third goal, the dream was well and truly lost. People started filing out in disgust and despair. The chaps sat behind us were giving coaching tips from the back of the stands and I was absolutely loving it!

Afterwards, people met at the pub to dissect the match as well as drown their sorrows. Then they trudged home to wallow in misery and maybe even beat their wives.

I didn't have any alleigance to either team but really enjoyed the macth nonetheless. So while I'm probably not the newest convert to the followers of the 'Ball', I'm definitely going back to give my all for the County. Allez le Stockport!

It's coming up to that time of year....

2008-08-26T15:01:00.000+01:00

So

Carnival is in the air once more, and even though I no longer live in Trindad, I can feel it all the way over here. I signed up for my costume two weeks ago but the excitement began well before that.

Carnival is something alien to most non-Trinis. My husband isn't Trinidadian and he just does not 'get' Carnival. He doesn't understand why I want to put on, what is basically a bathing suit, and run around town behind some lorries with a cup of vodka in my hands. He would prefer to sit on the beach with a bottle of Stag and a bake and shark. Sigh!

But I am just overflowing with emotion right now. I'm looking at different options for my boots, and let me tell you, just looking at pictures has me trembling with anticipation. People at work must think I'm crazy because I'm sitting here clapping my hands and grinning like I just won the lottery.

They don't get that it takes a massive amount of co-ordination between friends, months in advance, to work out who's playing in what section (the band was decided years ago!). The don't get that registration is serious business and that you have to be quick on the draw or you'll lose out. They don't get that accessorising is almost as important as the costume you'll be wearing. So the fact that I'm basically jizzing my pants because I think I've found someone who can make me a pair of fab boots, is totally lost on them. Sigh!

It'll all be worth it in the end though. This evening, I'm going to go home and trace the outline of my feet on a bit of cardboard and send it home to my sister. These are the things we do for Carnival.

Version 2.0

2008-08-25T16:37:00.000+01:00

Well

I'm taking a second stab at this. I had a blog once. A long, long time ago. Before I lived in Crewe, before I worked in Manchester, before I got married. I found it oh, so therapeutic. But also oh, so time consuming. And true to form, my short attention span won out in the end and I sort of gave up.

So here I am trying again. The odd thing is, my life isn't so terrible these days so I don't really have any inspiration. But what I do have is boredom. A lot of it. So I might as well try to sate it enforcing my views upon the world.

I decided to name this blog Life in a Northern Town because I live in a Northern town, somewhat against my will, and it's the name of a very catchy 80s song. I live here against my will because my husband owns a flat here. Funny thing though, he's hardly ever lived here since he bought it. And now he gets to live in fabulous Munich, and I'm stuck in the land o' the Chavs. But he'll be home soon...and will be able to share in my misery.

This is the second northern town I've lived in since I came to England in 1999. I went to uni in Preston and spent three years there after I graduated. Preston's not the greatest place on earth, but it was my first home in England and it will always hold a special place in my heart. And in any case, compared to Crewe, it's bloody Paris!

So I live here and have to deal with it as best I can. Here's to life in my northern town!