Way too much time on my hands

The Ultimate Handsome Band

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

Anyone know a handsome bass player???

Random Rant no. 5,435,679

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

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

Random rant

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

That is all.

A sense of occasion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh!

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

Embrace your inner YOU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get in!!!

Common sense dictates

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Live long and prosper

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

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

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

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

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

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

I got a not so new attitude

Feminist. Feminism. Equality. Misogyny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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