I am constantly battling with what or how I think things should be and then find it difficult to cope when the reality actually hits.
December 22nd, with a heavy luggage in hand, black boots that were made for walking (for five minutes) and a black beret on my head, I sat at Lyon airport. Everything had gone smoothly and I was more than excited to be flying home for Christmas, I had even managed to sneak some oversized perfume through security. Easyjet are known for their lateness so, at 9.50pm I wasn’t panicking that we hadn’t been called to board yet the 10.20 flight.
Humming along to John Legend, I heard some groans from other awaiting passengers, I took my earphones out and heard in plain English that our flight had been cancelled due to adverse weather conditions in the London. My worst fear realised, how could this be happening, I mean, I’m a good person, (most of the time) why me?
As I fought back the tears I thought of my dashed plans and all my excitement drained out of me. If my swearing vocabulary had expanded in French, I would have sworn like an English and French sailor. I bit my lip and text my sister, I was more than disappointed but not as disappointed as I was to learn that there were no flights going out the next day and I would have to wait until the 24th. I didn’t want to go back to the house, as everyone knows, I love the family, but I really wanted to be with my own family and friends.
As I lay my head down on the soft hotel sheets I felt irritated, next to me wasn’t the young tall dark and handsome guy of my dreams but a sweet Chinese girl who had decided like me, to fly from Grenoble to London in the morning. Easy jet had got us a free room, and get this breakfast too but they were unwilling to change my flight to fly from another city. I paid over 100eur for this ticket. By 12am 23rd I was nervous and stressed, was my flight going to take off later that day or would Easyjet cancel this flight too.
Funny thing is, I heard that the sun was shining in England………for once.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
I think we need some time apart.....
Ok so he's told me that he loves me, but that does not excuse his behaviour, anyway, he takes it back now and again so I don't know if I believe him, I think we need some time apart.
Frederic, Coralie, Louise and I definitely need some time apart, seeing them day in and day out is even becoming too much for their parents, I don't think anyone would think me rash if I called in supernanny. I'm sure there is an equivalent for the English word 'Discipline'in French oh yeah it's 'Discipline'and under the same Oxford Hatchette definition there appears a key word, which can work hand in hand if applied appropriately to help keep children in line, any guesses??? Here's a clue 'Punition'(punishment).
Coralie has a penpal in Burkina Faso, let me stress this now that this is a Francophone (French speaking) African country. I come from an old English colony.
J and Coralie were not sure the sex of the penpal and J wondered if I did. 'Do you know?' she asked me, to which I swiftly replied 'I don't think so' she proceeded to read out a name that sounded as foreign to my ears as hers. 'erm no', I repeated dryly (Just as you wouldn't know if Czeslaw was a boy or girl even though it is European I thought sarcastically).
People need to realise that even within my country languages vary greatly, I continued to explain that our languages are very different and that she would probably be closer to knowing the sex than me. I was offended and that couldn't be hidden.
I'm off to Geneva for the weekend and can't wait, it's the first of my travels that I have planned for myself. Off with two girls from Hungary. We celebrated one of their birthdays one night in Vieux Lyon. En route I was accosted by a drunk French boy, to whom I spoke not a word of French. He then proceeded to try to speak English ('You are very beautiful) Thanks I thought, I'll make sure that my parents and God know what you think of their creation but, I really don't think much of you in that state.
I think that France and I also need some time apart, I am fed up of the drunk men, dirty men, I would just say men.....but that's some way off. But at least it has been signed sealed and verified by the drunken male public of Lyon, I am beautiful.
Frederic, Coralie, Louise and I definitely need some time apart, seeing them day in and day out is even becoming too much for their parents, I don't think anyone would think me rash if I called in supernanny. I'm sure there is an equivalent for the English word 'Discipline'in French oh yeah it's 'Discipline'and under the same Oxford Hatchette definition there appears a key word, which can work hand in hand if applied appropriately to help keep children in line, any guesses??? Here's a clue 'Punition'(punishment).
Coralie has a penpal in Burkina Faso, let me stress this now that this is a Francophone (French speaking) African country. I come from an old English colony.
J and Coralie were not sure the sex of the penpal and J wondered if I did. 'Do you know?' she asked me, to which I swiftly replied 'I don't think so' she proceeded to read out a name that sounded as foreign to my ears as hers. 'erm no', I repeated dryly (Just as you wouldn't know if Czeslaw was a boy or girl even though it is European I thought sarcastically).
People need to realise that even within my country languages vary greatly, I continued to explain that our languages are very different and that she would probably be closer to knowing the sex than me. I was offended and that couldn't be hidden.
I'm off to Geneva for the weekend and can't wait, it's the first of my travels that I have planned for myself. Off with two girls from Hungary. We celebrated one of their birthdays one night in Vieux Lyon. En route I was accosted by a drunk French boy, to whom I spoke not a word of French. He then proceeded to try to speak English ('You are very beautiful) Thanks I thought, I'll make sure that my parents and God know what you think of their creation but, I really don't think much of you in that state.
I think that France and I also need some time apart, I am fed up of the drunk men, dirty men, I would just say men.....but that's some way off. But at least it has been signed sealed and verified by the drunken male public of Lyon, I am beautiful.
Lyon itself is beautiful, even more so during the Festival of Lights. Celebrated each year in December the Lyonais thank Mary (mother of Jesus) for saving them from some sort of plague or something (was only half listening when J explained to me) by alluminating the city. (I like to keep my blog very simple but for the purposes of illustrating the beauty of this please find below an appropriate picture)
I went out with my friend to a kebab shop before hitting the town. We treated ourselves to full fat coke (I only drink full fat, what's the point of diet?). She proceeded to drop the bomb 'You're my first black friend and this is the first time that I have been out with a black person', nothing shocks me anymore though, I gathered that they didn't have many 'Blacks' in Poland and was not in the least bit offended. It was nice to have someone so genuine and warm in my midst. She was fascinated by my hair and the different styles that I had on my facebook. She asked me my preference in men, which led me to think about the rubbish Man-o-Man show where ladies would get rid of the male contestants that they didn't want by pushing them into the swimming pool. I have recently pushed a few guys into the pool (figuratively speaking) and was wondering if I had a specific taste. My taste I would say is varied, I only want a few things, committment, respect, honesty, fun fun fun fun, aspirations and I love an intelligent man is that too much to ask...well all at once I guess. Numero uno is personality so yes my preference may not lie in looks but in a man knowing where he's been and where he wants to go. Ok he gotta be cute.
At one point in the last few weeks, I thought that I had become more forgiving, you can't really stay angry at a child for too long and I suppose my patience has grown, I am learning how to cook new foods and am trying things that I have never tried before. It's been a while but I have oh so much to say, christmas is here and I cannot wait to go home, the children are driving me up the wall and I am itching to see my friends and family again.
I went out with my friend to a kebab shop before hitting the town. We treated ourselves to full fat coke (I only drink full fat, what's the point of diet?). She proceeded to drop the bomb 'You're my first black friend and this is the first time that I have been out with a black person', nothing shocks me anymore though, I gathered that they didn't have many 'Blacks' in Poland and was not in the least bit offended. It was nice to have someone so genuine and warm in my midst. She was fascinated by my hair and the different styles that I had on my facebook. She asked me my preference in men, which led me to think about the rubbish Man-o-Man show where ladies would get rid of the male contestants that they didn't want by pushing them into the swimming pool. I have recently pushed a few guys into the pool (figuratively speaking) and was wondering if I had a specific taste. My taste I would say is varied, I only want a few things, committment, respect, honesty, fun fun fun fun, aspirations and I love an intelligent man is that too much to ask...well all at once I guess. Numero uno is personality so yes my preference may not lie in looks but in a man knowing where he's been and where he wants to go. Ok he gotta be cute.
At one point in the last few weeks, I thought that I had become more forgiving, you can't really stay angry at a child for too long and I suppose my patience has grown, I am learning how to cook new foods and am trying things that I have never tried before. It's been a while but I have oh so much to say, christmas is here and I cannot wait to go home, the children are driving me up the wall and I am itching to see my friends and family again.
Friday, December 4, 2009
The difference between me and you
It's the way you hold yourself, the way that you walk and it's your skin....
I wasn't surprised to hear this sentence come out of my brother's mouth, you see I had only been in Nigeria for a couple of days and I was getting accustomed to the curious stares. In my own country I was a freshy, my accent was different and so were my clothes, thank God, so was my smell.
So the driver had explained it all to my brother, we were clearly different from the rest of our countrymen in many ways but mostly externally.
This idea was reinforced by a visit to the dentist. We were seen within five minutes of entering the building and there was a long queue. My father's connections meant that we were in and out within 30 minutes.
"You don't look Nigerian and you definitely don't sound Nigerian" said the young dentist who's fingers had been delicately probing my mouth for the last five minutes.
He seemed excited yet slightly anxious as he informed me that this was his first time performing a cleaning. He tried to reassure me as he saw my facial expression become more strained. As I grabbed the chair he gabbled on about how important my father, brother and I must be to have been seen so quickly....he seemed nice enough but I have grown so skeptical of people that I half expected him to ask for my number and then a few weeks down the line a call for $500 dollars to be wired over for his sick mother. When did I grow so cynical?
I did feel sweet though having this attention, people stared as we left the building and said goodbye to the dentists. I always try to make sure that whereever I go I show my appreciation, I hate the idea of people seeing me as a snooty person but the fact is that many people here are, give them a little bit of money and they forget that we are all equals.
Nigeria, a country keen on respect obvious in the greetings of the young towards the old lacks major fundamental principals......
It is traditional to dance behind a loved ones coffin and as we paraded Big Mummy in the streets of Mokola, faces approached their windows and doors to watch the scene. The male grandchildren carried her down the street wearing matching waistcoats and shirts swaying to the sound of the talking drum beat. We followed the hearse, We watched her leave the home that she had created together with her husband for the very last time. She was to be buried on top of my grandfather, I couldn't help but think how poetic that was.
Even at the church they wouldn't stop harassing us, the paparazzi kept snapping, I don't know who told them but by the time we reached the open fields where the celebration of life was to continue, the paparazzi were there again, with all the pictures developed.....all of us, my father, mother, sister, brother and I.
The real fun began as they harrassed us to buy the photos, shooing them was out of the question, they were there to make some money from this and they had somehow figured out who had the deepest pockets.
While children are taught to respect their elders, elders don't really think to respect their children. We had servers helping with food but I still found myself attending to people. I had had enough when one man simple said 'excuse me...water' I looked at him in disbelief and probably swallowed a couple of mosquitos as my mouth laid wide open. No 'please', no, 'could you', just 'water' He was sitting at the table with my family so I could tell he was one of my parent's guest nevertheless I did look him up and down and ignored the fool. Dude didn't you know I'm English when it comes to manners. My brother had also heard and expressed his own surprise. Nigerians!! They say that you can't teach a dog new tricks, I'm a proud B even now as an au pair, and I don't allow anyone to look down at me even if it is an old dog.
That's the difference between me and you, I will respect the tramp on the street to the chief in the village if they are so deserving. So whoever thinks that they are a God amongst us............. please get rid of my scars from thos frikin mosquito bites. lol!
I wasn't surprised to hear this sentence come out of my brother's mouth, you see I had only been in Nigeria for a couple of days and I was getting accustomed to the curious stares. In my own country I was a freshy, my accent was different and so were my clothes, thank God, so was my smell.
So the driver had explained it all to my brother, we were clearly different from the rest of our countrymen in many ways but mostly externally.
This idea was reinforced by a visit to the dentist. We were seen within five minutes of entering the building and there was a long queue. My father's connections meant that we were in and out within 30 minutes.
"You don't look Nigerian and you definitely don't sound Nigerian" said the young dentist who's fingers had been delicately probing my mouth for the last five minutes.
He seemed excited yet slightly anxious as he informed me that this was his first time performing a cleaning. He tried to reassure me as he saw my facial expression become more strained. As I grabbed the chair he gabbled on about how important my father, brother and I must be to have been seen so quickly....he seemed nice enough but I have grown so skeptical of people that I half expected him to ask for my number and then a few weeks down the line a call for $500 dollars to be wired over for his sick mother. When did I grow so cynical?
I did feel sweet though having this attention, people stared as we left the building and said goodbye to the dentists. I always try to make sure that whereever I go I show my appreciation, I hate the idea of people seeing me as a snooty person but the fact is that many people here are, give them a little bit of money and they forget that we are all equals.
Nigeria, a country keen on respect obvious in the greetings of the young towards the old lacks major fundamental principals......
It is traditional to dance behind a loved ones coffin and as we paraded Big Mummy in the streets of Mokola, faces approached their windows and doors to watch the scene. The male grandchildren carried her down the street wearing matching waistcoats and shirts swaying to the sound of the talking drum beat. We followed the hearse, We watched her leave the home that she had created together with her husband for the very last time. She was to be buried on top of my grandfather, I couldn't help but think how poetic that was.
Even at the church they wouldn't stop harassing us, the paparazzi kept snapping, I don't know who told them but by the time we reached the open fields where the celebration of life was to continue, the paparazzi were there again, with all the pictures developed.....all of us, my father, mother, sister, brother and I.
The real fun began as they harrassed us to buy the photos, shooing them was out of the question, they were there to make some money from this and they had somehow figured out who had the deepest pockets.
While children are taught to respect their elders, elders don't really think to respect their children. We had servers helping with food but I still found myself attending to people. I had had enough when one man simple said 'excuse me...water' I looked at him in disbelief and probably swallowed a couple of mosquitos as my mouth laid wide open. No 'please', no, 'could you', just 'water' He was sitting at the table with my family so I could tell he was one of my parent's guest nevertheless I did look him up and down and ignored the fool. Dude didn't you know I'm English when it comes to manners. My brother had also heard and expressed his own surprise. Nigerians!! They say that you can't teach a dog new tricks, I'm a proud B even now as an au pair, and I don't allow anyone to look down at me even if it is an old dog.
That's the difference between me and you, I will respect the tramp on the street to the chief in the village if they are so deserving. So whoever thinks that they are a God amongst us............. please get rid of my scars from thos frikin mosquito bites. lol!
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Fishy
I think I'm a fish, no seriously, in the bigger scheme of things, I am a fish and I have to wait til I get caught right? I mean, others around me are getting caught and if I get the chance to bite that worm (lol) I get chucked back in......or do I let go?
I could pick the petals off a flower saying 'he loves me, he loves me not'and even if I arrived at 'he loves me' the flower doesn't decide, he does?
Countless relationships around me have occured as a result of the guy chasing the girl. So many of my friends have reluctantly said yes, or were not too keen at first, the ones that chased, well history tells me that they are doomed.
I dunno, I like a good chase now and again but my old age is making me lazy, should I just wait til I am caught....ok ok, I must be open and upon catching sight of the fisherman don't let go straightaway.
In all honesty, I'm just not interested in fishing so right now I'll leave the ocean and soar into the sky, single, sexy and free!
Watch out for the vultures
I could pick the petals off a flower saying 'he loves me, he loves me not'and even if I arrived at 'he loves me' the flower doesn't decide, he does?
Countless relationships around me have occured as a result of the guy chasing the girl. So many of my friends have reluctantly said yes, or were not too keen at first, the ones that chased, well history tells me that they are doomed.
I dunno, I like a good chase now and again but my old age is making me lazy, should I just wait til I am caught....ok ok, I must be open and upon catching sight of the fisherman don't let go straightaway.
In all honesty, I'm just not interested in fishing so right now I'll leave the ocean and soar into the sky, single, sexy and free!
Watch out for the vultures
Sunday, November 22, 2009
I am Britico, mistakenly born in Nigeria
I'm in love...... again......John Legend's Evolver album has some songs that have my head spinning in a fantasy, lyrics such as 'I know that we just met but could you love me quickly...'throw me into a realm of lust, I lust after love.
I bought the CD after perusing the shelves of HMV at Heathrow terminal 4, it was the second time within the last 24 hours that I was at Heathrow. The night before, the majority of my family (meaning without the boss lady-mum as I now call her after this trip) returned from Nigeria on a relatively pleasant flight with Arik Air.
The visit to Nigeria was a farewell to my grandmother who passed away on the 17th September, I was on holiday at the time celebrating a friends 25th when I received a 2-day old text from my sister announcing the news. I was shocked to say the least and although I knew she was old and had been threatening to leave us for a while, she was 'Big Mummy'who was always at the house in Mokola, who could still put me on her lap at the age of 90, who had come to London to look after us in the early 90s.
I vividly remember turning on my phone, I think it was the 19th (I always leave it off whilst on holiday but check for messages at times) and seeing the words, they seemed to dance across the screen of my Blackberry 8210. 'Big Mummy is dead'were the words my sister had sent, or all I could make out. The silence that ensued probably only lasted two seconds, but it was a sharp contrast to the laughter that had filled the room only seconds before. I screamed 'no' several times, threw my phone, ran into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. In fits of tears I started to slide down the wall as I loss all sense of how dirty that place actually was. Why did she have to go I thought selfishly.
Tears fill my eyes now as I think of Big mummy. I am one of 34 grandchildren, the middle child of her eight and last child. She lost two of them in her lifetime, so four of my cousins are orphans. My closest cousins have adopted my own parents as their own and I don't mind sharing because that's what family do. The funeral was like a reunion as we all met to celebrate the life of this brilliant woman who was still making money and providing an income at the age of 92.
The trip was short but invigorating in the sense that I had a renewed enthusiasm for life and what I could do with my own talents. I saw the opportunities that my parents had given me by leaving Nigeria in may 1991 for London. I also wondered what I would have been, would I be this same person, outspoken, bubbly and slightly crazy, would I be downtrodden by the challenges of life in Nigeria, or would I be the spoilt rich brat that I felt my cousins thought me to be?
Being one of the youngest out of the cousins meant that most of the others are married with children or engaged. I marvelled at the different relationships that I saw around me and was encouraged by the blatant show of love between these couples. I remember sitting outside, with my cousin who now lives in America with his wife and beautiful daughter. He told his memories of my parent's wedding day, of how instead for waiting for my pregnant mother who had just lost her father a few days earlier to walk down the aisle, my father went to meet her halfway. He joked that he had chosen his own bride because she was petite and he wanted to do the same and carry her up the aisle
As he continued to talk with his brother's baby sleeping in his arms I learned many other things that I had not known about my family, good and bad. There and then I made a promise to choose carefully who I love and to fiercely protect my children (not in the crazy mum way), I grew excited about the future and a little sad about the past, his and his brother's past. Knowing that you can't trust everybody even family to look after your children is a shame, but that doesn't mean all is lost.
Like Pandora's box, what's left is hope, hope in the good people of the world.
TBC
I bought the CD after perusing the shelves of HMV at Heathrow terminal 4, it was the second time within the last 24 hours that I was at Heathrow. The night before, the majority of my family (meaning without the boss lady-mum as I now call her after this trip) returned from Nigeria on a relatively pleasant flight with Arik Air.
The visit to Nigeria was a farewell to my grandmother who passed away on the 17th September, I was on holiday at the time celebrating a friends 25th when I received a 2-day old text from my sister announcing the news. I was shocked to say the least and although I knew she was old and had been threatening to leave us for a while, she was 'Big Mummy'who was always at the house in Mokola, who could still put me on her lap at the age of 90, who had come to London to look after us in the early 90s.
I vividly remember turning on my phone, I think it was the 19th (I always leave it off whilst on holiday but check for messages at times) and seeing the words, they seemed to dance across the screen of my Blackberry 8210. 'Big Mummy is dead'were the words my sister had sent, or all I could make out. The silence that ensued probably only lasted two seconds, but it was a sharp contrast to the laughter that had filled the room only seconds before. I screamed 'no' several times, threw my phone, ran into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. In fits of tears I started to slide down the wall as I loss all sense of how dirty that place actually was. Why did she have to go I thought selfishly.
Tears fill my eyes now as I think of Big mummy. I am one of 34 grandchildren, the middle child of her eight and last child. She lost two of them in her lifetime, so four of my cousins are orphans. My closest cousins have adopted my own parents as their own and I don't mind sharing because that's what family do. The funeral was like a reunion as we all met to celebrate the life of this brilliant woman who was still making money and providing an income at the age of 92.
The trip was short but invigorating in the sense that I had a renewed enthusiasm for life and what I could do with my own talents. I saw the opportunities that my parents had given me by leaving Nigeria in may 1991 for London. I also wondered what I would have been, would I be this same person, outspoken, bubbly and slightly crazy, would I be downtrodden by the challenges of life in Nigeria, or would I be the spoilt rich brat that I felt my cousins thought me to be?
Being one of the youngest out of the cousins meant that most of the others are married with children or engaged. I marvelled at the different relationships that I saw around me and was encouraged by the blatant show of love between these couples. I remember sitting outside, with my cousin who now lives in America with his wife and beautiful daughter. He told his memories of my parent's wedding day, of how instead for waiting for my pregnant mother who had just lost her father a few days earlier to walk down the aisle, my father went to meet her halfway. He joked that he had chosen his own bride because she was petite and he wanted to do the same and carry her up the aisle
As he continued to talk with his brother's baby sleeping in his arms I learned many other things that I had not known about my family, good and bad. There and then I made a promise to choose carefully who I love and to fiercely protect my children (not in the crazy mum way), I grew excited about the future and a little sad about the past, his and his brother's past. Knowing that you can't trust everybody even family to look after your children is a shame, but that doesn't mean all is lost.
Like Pandora's box, what's left is hope, hope in the good people of the world.
TBC
Monday, November 16, 2009
Chez Moi
Mum's birthday was literally round the corner, the big 5.0., there was no way that I would miss it and I had to look right too. So back to london I went and I did enjoy the party, when we finally got there....
The journey back to London was uneventful, but my throat constricted as I sat on the train to London Bridge, a strong feeling of nostalgia rose from my stomach as I remembered making that journey many a times. I leant back and thought of what the weekend would bring, little did I know what was instore.
My initial feeling of nostalgia was quickly replaced by regret, regret that I had bought a Gatwick Express ticket to London Bridge, the barriers were open and I could have walked straight through dagnamit! The salary of an au pair isn't a desirable renumeration and I am seriously penny pinching.
The next day, with an empty purse in tow, I proceeded to buy my extensions, apply the extensions at the salon at a bargain price, do my nails and buy an outfit...oh and mum's present too. By Friday 23rd 12pm all missions had been acomplished. The big day had arrived and all that was left was to pick up my brother and roll on out to the party.
We did roll...... slowly down the hill that constituted part of the roundabout in Canning Town, it turned out that all missions had not been completed and my brother still had to get his hair cut. It was a busy Friday afternoon in East London but as long as we were on the motorway by 4pm, we whould be fine.
It was 3pm, the P-reg Polo I was driving started jerking and stalled. Hmmm, perhaps it was me, I proceeded to turn on the engine and after several attempts, a lot of beeps from other drivers and a little persperation from me, it finally chugged to life, phew! Making our way barely 50 m along Barking Road the car stopped again. Hmmm not a good sign at 3.05pm and the fact that we were just pulling past a bus stop meant that we were in the way of an angry looking driver with a bus packed full of equally menancing looking passengers.I have obviously lived in London too long as that didn't phase me, I was more worried about getting to the party on time.
5 mins later the car still wouldn't start and well luckily we figured that the problem was simple, we were out of petrol. While my sister went to get flowers for the party, my friend and I started our walk to the petrol station, oh the shame.
Halfway there we decided that we had no time to lose, so she returned to the car and I hopped on a bus to Greeengate. I managed to get some petrol for double the price because I also had to buy the container (argh). I then had to top up my oyster. So by now I was 15 pounds down but I had learned to always check that there is petrol in the car that I am driving, even if it isn't mine.
Petrol can in hand I thought to myself, Ok, perhaps someone will offer me a lift. My new regime has me looking leaner, maybe someone will take pity on me (or find me really hot) and drive me back to my car......I guess not and I should have known better because I cannot remember the last time I was offered anything more than verbal harrassment from the male species. Just when I had lost hope, a rather dashing young brother looked me up and down, noticing the petrol he commented 'broken down'? 'Yes, ran out of petrol' I replied, he smiled and...........that was it. Yes, seriously. I jumped on the 115, direction broken down car. We were on the M11 by 4.15 and I still managed to look fan far king tastic in the 30 minutes it took me to get ready. Oh what a night.
The journey back to London was uneventful, but my throat constricted as I sat on the train to London Bridge, a strong feeling of nostalgia rose from my stomach as I remembered making that journey many a times. I leant back and thought of what the weekend would bring, little did I know what was instore.
My initial feeling of nostalgia was quickly replaced by regret, regret that I had bought a Gatwick Express ticket to London Bridge, the barriers were open and I could have walked straight through dagnamit! The salary of an au pair isn't a desirable renumeration and I am seriously penny pinching.
The next day, with an empty purse in tow, I proceeded to buy my extensions, apply the extensions at the salon at a bargain price, do my nails and buy an outfit...oh and mum's present too. By Friday 23rd 12pm all missions had been acomplished. The big day had arrived and all that was left was to pick up my brother and roll on out to the party.
We did roll...... slowly down the hill that constituted part of the roundabout in Canning Town, it turned out that all missions had not been completed and my brother still had to get his hair cut. It was a busy Friday afternoon in East London but as long as we were on the motorway by 4pm, we whould be fine.
It was 3pm, the P-reg Polo I was driving started jerking and stalled. Hmmm, perhaps it was me, I proceeded to turn on the engine and after several attempts, a lot of beeps from other drivers and a little persperation from me, it finally chugged to life, phew! Making our way barely 50 m along Barking Road the car stopped again. Hmmm not a good sign at 3.05pm and the fact that we were just pulling past a bus stop meant that we were in the way of an angry looking driver with a bus packed full of equally menancing looking passengers.I have obviously lived in London too long as that didn't phase me, I was more worried about getting to the party on time.
5 mins later the car still wouldn't start and well luckily we figured that the problem was simple, we were out of petrol. While my sister went to get flowers for the party, my friend and I started our walk to the petrol station, oh the shame.
Halfway there we decided that we had no time to lose, so she returned to the car and I hopped on a bus to Greeengate. I managed to get some petrol for double the price because I also had to buy the container (argh). I then had to top up my oyster. So by now I was 15 pounds down but I had learned to always check that there is petrol in the car that I am driving, even if it isn't mine.
Petrol can in hand I thought to myself, Ok, perhaps someone will offer me a lift. My new regime has me looking leaner, maybe someone will take pity on me (or find me really hot) and drive me back to my car......I guess not and I should have known better because I cannot remember the last time I was offered anything more than verbal harrassment from the male species. Just when I had lost hope, a rather dashing young brother looked me up and down, noticing the petrol he commented 'broken down'? 'Yes, ran out of petrol' I replied, he smiled and...........that was it. Yes, seriously. I jumped on the 115, direction broken down car. We were on the M11 by 4.15 and I still managed to look fan far king tastic in the 30 minutes it took me to get ready. Oh what a night.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
You've got to roll with it
The cold concrete felt rough against my right hand and I could feel my skin react as it grazed the hard wall. I was trying to teach myself how to ride a bike, for the very second time in two weeks. 1, 2, 3, 4. I managed (with one hand on the wall) to balance…well that’s a start as I couldn’t really get on the last time. I didn’t much like this bike, it had this foothold thingamajig that made it even more difficult for a beginner to get on. So, I was now balancing, ok, can I roll? I applied pressure to my right foot, then to my left and so it continued…now did I have the courage to let go of the wall?
I didn’t that time but the second time round I did, I was surprised at how easy it was to roll with it (was it Blur or Oasis that sang that?).
I was inspired to make a second attempt at the bike riding thing after a trip to the tennis courts with Coraline, she insisted we take the bikes and their mother was very enthusiastic too, she is keen on Coraline getting as much exercise as possible and I seem to have become her personal trainer.
So off we went to fetch the bikes, I was filled with dread, wtf do I do? Maybe it will be easy. Quick try and get on while her back is turned….unsucessful…ok feign an injury…..no, how long would I have to carry that on for.
As Coraline hopped on, I rolled the bike towards the front gates. ‘Is the bike ok?’ She asked, ‘a little too high' I lied (why do adults hate humility, just tell her you can’t ride the damn thing). She showed me how to adjust it. Hmmm what to do now?
Coraline peddled smoothly down the country lane while I grabbed the handlebars and followed swiftly. There was no way that I was going to roll down that hill. Well not on the bike anyway.
Today, I had an audience, all the animals in the garden were looking at me, even that bloody donkey, they watched with amusement as I did a successful tour of the expansive garden. I felt relieved……I knew that I could do it.
I didn’t that time but the second time round I did, I was surprised at how easy it was to roll with it (was it Blur or Oasis that sang that?).
I was inspired to make a second attempt at the bike riding thing after a trip to the tennis courts with Coraline, she insisted we take the bikes and their mother was very enthusiastic too, she is keen on Coraline getting as much exercise as possible and I seem to have become her personal trainer.
So off we went to fetch the bikes, I was filled with dread, wtf do I do? Maybe it will be easy. Quick try and get on while her back is turned….unsucessful…ok feign an injury…..no, how long would I have to carry that on for.
As Coraline hopped on, I rolled the bike towards the front gates. ‘Is the bike ok?’ She asked, ‘a little too high' I lied (why do adults hate humility, just tell her you can’t ride the damn thing). She showed me how to adjust it. Hmmm what to do now?
Coraline peddled smoothly down the country lane while I grabbed the handlebars and followed swiftly. There was no way that I was going to roll down that hill. Well not on the bike anyway.
Today, I had an audience, all the animals in the garden were looking at me, even that bloody donkey, they watched with amusement as I did a successful tour of the expansive garden. I felt relieved……I knew that I could do it.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Le vieux Homme (the old man)
I was lucky to see her again, twice in one year, I fell in love all over again. 'France in all it's glory' The good, the bad and the children. 'These children are spoilt' said J. You're telling me I thought, but smiled tightly teeth clenched avoiding her eyes so that I did not give away too much of what I thought.
J looked harrassed, I was meant to be there to help them but that wasn't easy as the children always looked to her. The outsider of the family, literally the black sheep as I followed the herd around 'le jardin des plantes' that warm saturday morning in Paris.
That saturday I met him, I don't know why I had imagined a kind face, rosy cheeks. I was greeted by a greying man with a foul habit and a lack of manners.
If that old B called me 'la jeune fille'again I swear I'd make him choke on his cigarette. He addressed me directly as 'vous' and seemed to struggle to make eye contact. He could cook a mean stew though but I felt ncomfortable, I thanked him for the meal and helped to clear the table on my day off, no thanks or kind words from him Mutha Far Car. I was overjoyed when J refused his invitation for me to stay in the room at his flat expressing her wish for me to be close to the family even if it did mean C and I would be on the couch. (she probably had the smae fear as me, he may kill me in my sleep).
He coughed often and brutally, the effects of smoking for decades. The cough was not the only effect that the fags had on him, his teeth could luminate a room and perhaps even the 'Lyon Festival of Lights' with the array of colours in his mouth predominatly being yellow, there were also aspects of brown in between and perhaps green (am I being mean, perhaps...it's my blog and I'll Bitch if I want to), it hurt my eyes like the coloured bulbs we used to use in Nigeria. With each violent cough, I grew concerened, not for his health because I frankly didn't give a damn, but I was convinced that the stew he had prepared would make a second appearance and I wasn't especially looking forward to that free spectacle.
J and JP, were probably finding out that their friends really aren't as nice as they themselves are. Some have been incredably welcoming and some give me a non comittal and weak smile. What do I do? I smile back and think FU or as the french would say NTM while they probably think Black profiteur.
J's sister in law told me one day how wonderful the family are and that I am lucky to have found such a family, I agree they are wonderful, especially the parents, but did she realise how lucky they were to have found me? Believe me, you don't know what you've got til it's gone, a few people are finding that out now.
J looked harrassed, I was meant to be there to help them but that wasn't easy as the children always looked to her. The outsider of the family, literally the black sheep as I followed the herd around 'le jardin des plantes' that warm saturday morning in Paris.
That saturday I met him, I don't know why I had imagined a kind face, rosy cheeks. I was greeted by a greying man with a foul habit and a lack of manners.
If that old B called me 'la jeune fille'again I swear I'd make him choke on his cigarette. He addressed me directly as 'vous' and seemed to struggle to make eye contact. He could cook a mean stew though but I felt ncomfortable, I thanked him for the meal and helped to clear the table on my day off, no thanks or kind words from him Mutha Far Car. I was overjoyed when J refused his invitation for me to stay in the room at his flat expressing her wish for me to be close to the family even if it did mean C and I would be on the couch. (she probably had the smae fear as me, he may kill me in my sleep).
He coughed often and brutally, the effects of smoking for decades. The cough was not the only effect that the fags had on him, his teeth could luminate a room and perhaps even the 'Lyon Festival of Lights' with the array of colours in his mouth predominatly being yellow, there were also aspects of brown in between and perhaps green (am I being mean, perhaps...it's my blog and I'll Bitch if I want to), it hurt my eyes like the coloured bulbs we used to use in Nigeria. With each violent cough, I grew concerened, not for his health because I frankly didn't give a damn, but I was convinced that the stew he had prepared would make a second appearance and I wasn't especially looking forward to that free spectacle.
J and JP, were probably finding out that their friends really aren't as nice as they themselves are. Some have been incredably welcoming and some give me a non comittal and weak smile. What do I do? I smile back and think FU or as the french would say NTM while they probably think Black profiteur.
J's sister in law told me one day how wonderful the family are and that I am lucky to have found such a family, I agree they are wonderful, especially the parents, but did she realise how lucky they were to have found me? Believe me, you don't know what you've got til it's gone, a few people are finding that out now.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Bozart
Yeah exactly, that’s what I first thought when I heard it in my French class. I in fact learned that what my teacher said was Beaux Arts (fine arts). What I heard was foreign (remind me, why do I want to learn French again?) Four and a half years later, when J and I were talking about museums, and she asked if I wanted to go to the fine arts museum, I understood what she meant.
Ok, I understood what she was talking about, well done me, but erm how did she arrive at the apparent fact that I liked museums, I mean I went to Paris and didn’t even visit the Louvre. I preferred the gardens of Versaille and I like architecture. How do I get out of this?
So come the Saturday we’re walking around Bellecour in search of the museum, the children are not interested and neither in fact am I, merde!
Lucky for me, the children’s insistence that they did not want to go and frequent stops along the way meant that we only went to a small museum cum wooden construction with a polystyrene tunnel. Yay kids.
Ok, I understood what she was talking about, well done me, but erm how did she arrive at the apparent fact that I liked museums, I mean I went to Paris and didn’t even visit the Louvre. I preferred the gardens of Versaille and I like architecture. How do I get out of this?
So come the Saturday we’re walking around Bellecour in search of the museum, the children are not interested and neither in fact am I, merde!
Lucky for me, the children’s insistence that they did not want to go and frequent stops along the way meant that we only went to a small museum cum wooden construction with a polystyrene tunnel. Yay kids.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Doctor’s Who?
It is a known fact that the French women are regarded as the most chic, and probably the thinnest in Europe, don’t know why because they are forever eating bread and cheese. One of the teacher’s at the Institut (where I take language classes) looks like death, literally, that thing veiled in a cloak that haunted scrooge in a Christmas Carol, that’s what she looks like. I feel bad because she always smiles at me while puffing on a cigarette, boy these people like to smoke. But frankly, she scares me.
Later that same Friday, I laughed nervously as Jean-Pierre gave me directions and I crunched into 5th gear on the motorway. En route to Lyon, my first time on the motorway in France, I pondered….who am I going to kill today? Probably a good thing that Jean- Pierre was with me as I am not a very good driver even when I am driving on the left. Except for go-carting, I excel at running my friends off the track to gain first place.
We were going to pick up two of his interns, one from Syria and the other from Cote D’ivoire (Ivory Coast) from the hospital and as I was going out that night, the parents thought it best for me to drive into town so that I can stay later as the last bus leaves at 9pm (yes I live in the bush)! This was the trial run.
Mohamed was a round man not much taller than my 5”6 but he was friendly and gave me a warm handshake. Bienvenu, my brutha from another mutha, whom I expected to have shared some type of camaraderie being black an all, gave me a frigid smile and a cool handshake, he may as well as nodded his head as my brother sometimes does to me.
I didn’t like his outfit anyway, what kind of doctor wears tracksuit bottoms, and why did I think that they would be cute, I don’t do skinny anymore. ER is a myth, people like George Clooney are a very very fictional.
The warm afternoon sun stroked my back as we all sat gathered around the table in the expansive garden, I could get very used to this way of life I thought as Jeanne served up the grub. Bienvenu ate like a beast refusing to try the cheese and sniffed at the wine opting for the beer instead. An African like that, I cannot take.
Clearing the table with Janette, Bienvenu surprised me by taking some of the plates off me, he has a heart I thought, somewhere encased in ice at home perhaps. Either way, I was glad that he had not totally let me down and showed some appreciation for the hospitality.
The journey into Lyon was silent for the most part, I had opted to drop the interns into town and as we pulled into the parking lot we all started to loosen up, as if getting out of the car had given us some freedom of speech. The train ride was a lot better and Bienvenu even mocked me saying that French was easy, his thick accent made it hard for me to understand him at times but he didn’t tire of repeating himself. As we parted ways, we did the bise (kiss) as the French do and promised to all see each other again, but we all knew it was out of politeness.
Now, I had my hair did, heels on, leggings with a loose top cinched at the waist by a belt, tell me heads won’t turn tonight……………even if it is to say, what is she wearing?
Later that same Friday, I laughed nervously as Jean-Pierre gave me directions and I crunched into 5th gear on the motorway. En route to Lyon, my first time on the motorway in France, I pondered….who am I going to kill today? Probably a good thing that Jean- Pierre was with me as I am not a very good driver even when I am driving on the left. Except for go-carting, I excel at running my friends off the track to gain first place.
We were going to pick up two of his interns, one from Syria and the other from Cote D’ivoire (Ivory Coast) from the hospital and as I was going out that night, the parents thought it best for me to drive into town so that I can stay later as the last bus leaves at 9pm (yes I live in the bush)! This was the trial run.
Mohamed was a round man not much taller than my 5”6 but he was friendly and gave me a warm handshake. Bienvenu, my brutha from another mutha, whom I expected to have shared some type of camaraderie being black an all, gave me a frigid smile and a cool handshake, he may as well as nodded his head as my brother sometimes does to me.
I didn’t like his outfit anyway, what kind of doctor wears tracksuit bottoms, and why did I think that they would be cute, I don’t do skinny anymore. ER is a myth, people like George Clooney are a very very fictional.
The warm afternoon sun stroked my back as we all sat gathered around the table in the expansive garden, I could get very used to this way of life I thought as Jeanne served up the grub. Bienvenu ate like a beast refusing to try the cheese and sniffed at the wine opting for the beer instead. An African like that, I cannot take.
Clearing the table with Janette, Bienvenu surprised me by taking some of the plates off me, he has a heart I thought, somewhere encased in ice at home perhaps. Either way, I was glad that he had not totally let me down and showed some appreciation for the hospitality.
The journey into Lyon was silent for the most part, I had opted to drop the interns into town and as we pulled into the parking lot we all started to loosen up, as if getting out of the car had given us some freedom of speech. The train ride was a lot better and Bienvenu even mocked me saying that French was easy, his thick accent made it hard for me to understand him at times but he didn’t tire of repeating himself. As we parted ways, we did the bise (kiss) as the French do and promised to all see each other again, but we all knew it was out of politeness.
Now, I had my hair did, heels on, leggings with a loose top cinched at the waist by a belt, tell me heads won’t turn tonight……………even if it is to say, what is she wearing?
Boulangerie
I can still feel the sting of the dirty slap that Frederic gave me today, he likes to play rough and I still think it was unintentional unlike his attack earlier on today.
It all started well, I picked the children up from school and decided as I spend absolutely no money whatsoever to buy the typical French family some bread.
We seem to be forever munching on this and the children don’t seem to tire of eating it with every meal.
Parking the car/van was a task in itself but trying to coerce a 4-year old out of it was another. His sister said we could lock him in as we could see him. Louise and I stepped into the shop and could see Fred in the drivers seat turning on the light and we could hear him pressing the horn, all fun and games for him but humph, not for me.
At home we played, which we don’t normally do, Fred normally waits while I help Coralie with her homework. She seems to crave attention and her parents have decided that she must work alone. She didn’t, she could not focus and continued to disturb us every two minutes
Then Fred threw a tantrum as I started to help Coralie with her work, Annabel had already parted for her swimming lesson, she leads a very active life, even more so that I did when I had a life and she is 8.
A broken chair and a bruised ego was the scene that Jeanne interrupted. The chair, bien sur, hers and the ego of Fred's. That child tries to push me every day but I am not having it. Whoever said children are innocent doesn’t remember their own childhood as they are as crafty as they come.
Perhaps I could slip away and sleep. Erm No, for the third night this week, the parents were going out. Lucky me, no sleeps until 11 for the third night running….but I love my sleep I thought.
It all started well, I picked the children up from school and decided as I spend absolutely no money whatsoever to buy the typical French family some bread.
We seem to be forever munching on this and the children don’t seem to tire of eating it with every meal.
Parking the car/van was a task in itself but trying to coerce a 4-year old out of it was another. His sister said we could lock him in as we could see him. Louise and I stepped into the shop and could see Fred in the drivers seat turning on the light and we could hear him pressing the horn, all fun and games for him but humph, not for me.
At home we played, which we don’t normally do, Fred normally waits while I help Coralie with her homework. She seems to crave attention and her parents have decided that she must work alone. She didn’t, she could not focus and continued to disturb us every two minutes
Then Fred threw a tantrum as I started to help Coralie with her work, Annabel had already parted for her swimming lesson, she leads a very active life, even more so that I did when I had a life and she is 8.
A broken chair and a bruised ego was the scene that Jeanne interrupted. The chair, bien sur, hers and the ego of Fred's. That child tries to push me every day but I am not having it. Whoever said children are innocent doesn’t remember their own childhood as they are as crafty as they come.
Perhaps I could slip away and sleep. Erm No, for the third night this week, the parents were going out. Lucky me, no sleeps until 11 for the third night running….but I love my sleep I thought.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Beatles
Beatles
‘I say yes….’ sang Coralie ‘you say no’ she continued..... erm no J I don’t know it, sorry erm. Yeah!
Ben it’s the Beatles. she shrieked.
But why does everyone think that just because I am English that I am going to like the group, I know about three songs of theirs and don’t much care for them. How many black people do you hear singing follow the yellow brick road….was that them? Whatever. I followed M. J (RIP). If I really want to get African, we listened to Sina Peters, King Suny Ade when I was young. In fact, I know more Abba songs than Beatles and they don’t even come from England.
So as I sat in the driving seat, J looked at me in disbelief although I hadn’t beaten any of her kids, it was unheard of not to know the song. I won’t tell her that I don’t think I even like the group, I don’t want to cause anymore alarm. Oh la la
‘I say yes….’ sang Coralie ‘you say no’ she continued..... erm no J I don’t know it, sorry erm. Yeah!
Ben it’s the Beatles. she shrieked.
But why does everyone think that just because I am English that I am going to like the group, I know about three songs of theirs and don’t much care for them. How many black people do you hear singing follow the yellow brick road….was that them? Whatever. I followed M. J (RIP). If I really want to get African, we listened to Sina Peters, King Suny Ade when I was young. In fact, I know more Abba songs than Beatles and they don’t even come from England.
So as I sat in the driving seat, J looked at me in disbelief although I hadn’t beaten any of her kids, it was unheard of not to know the song. I won’t tell her that I don’t think I even like the group, I don’t want to cause anymore alarm. Oh la la
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Where am I?
Oh no, mon dieu! My third day here and truly the first day of work and the blond lady sitting across from me was telling me that I had missed my stop. But what? Huh? How? For goodness sake, what is wrong with the French, why can’t they just speak English, where am I? Forget learning this French ish, where T F am I?
As she told me where I was and explained that I had took the wrong bus I grimaced, oh crap, now I have to call Janette embarrassing first, expensive second as I still didn’t have a French sim….oh and merde, les enfants.
It was 4.20 and I had to be at the school by 4.30.
But, the day before went Ok, I arrived on time, turned down the wrong road at first but I got there, now I wasn’t going to be able to do my job. Ah, why me?!
Janette came to get me and I explained that I had taken the 161 this morning and the other day, she repeated what she told me upon my arrival the first day. Faites attention the buses do not always stop at Morancé and that I had to take the 164. Now you tell me……again! Oops.
We went to get the children, half an hour later than usual and I was well and truly embarrassed, head bowed for most of the night! Janette later told me that it wasn’t too serious as it wasn’t as if I had left them in the street…..I wouldn’t manage to do that, would I?
As she told me where I was and explained that I had took the wrong bus I grimaced, oh crap, now I have to call Janette embarrassing first, expensive second as I still didn’t have a French sim….oh and merde, les enfants.
It was 4.20 and I had to be at the school by 4.30.
But, the day before went Ok, I arrived on time, turned down the wrong road at first but I got there, now I wasn’t going to be able to do my job. Ah, why me?!
Janette came to get me and I explained that I had taken the 161 this morning and the other day, she repeated what she told me upon my arrival the first day. Faites attention the buses do not always stop at Morancé and that I had to take the 164. Now you tell me……again! Oops.
We went to get the children, half an hour later than usual and I was well and truly embarrassed, head bowed for most of the night! Janette later told me that it wasn’t too serious as it wasn’t as if I had left them in the street…..I wouldn’t manage to do that, would I?
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
From C to C
After mummy, yes mummy dropped me off and went on her way the day after we arrived at this rustic country house, I have since sorted out my travel card, ‘Rhone Pass’, signed up to my language class, 'toute seule' but failed to sort out a sim card. I guess I find it a bit too ridiculous to pay 30euros for a sim card. Do we really have it that good in England?
Upon wiping Frederic's tusch, I figured the real work had begun the third day after my arrival, he said something about kaka. At four years old Fred tries to speak but I do not always understand, he is a sweet and a very cheeky little boy, whose smile enables you to forgive all. I soon understood what he meant when he pointed at his trousers, once he had finished he called me, bent over bum in air to allow me to wipe. Hmmm.
The family have been great, Janette (the mum) especially, welcoming me into the bosom of the family. Coralie, the eldest quickly befriended me the first day. As we sat in the sun doing her English homework, I found that she really loved the English language. The children gave me a tour of the house (I did not tell them that their father already had) and I marveled at the balconies, in fact the inside was almost as spectacular as the outside with the large windows and real fireplace, tiled floors and high ceiling in the corridor. The family reside on perhaps one acre of land with a stream running beside it and the garden (if it can be called that) has swings, hammocks, a pond.
Upon arrival we were greeted by a Labrador and a very large dog, which much ressembled a St Bernard. Jean-Pierre (the dad) told me the name but I can’t much remember, he said something in french and I nodded. The large swimming pool I was told was out of bounds for Frederic but that he much liked playing on the swing. Up in one of the many trees lived an incomplete but impressive treehouse. Jean-Pierre blushed as he told me that he had not had the time to complete it and that he was more of an intellect than a labourer.
So that’s how I went from city girl to country girl.
Upon wiping Frederic's tusch, I figured the real work had begun the third day after my arrival, he said something about kaka. At four years old Fred tries to speak but I do not always understand, he is a sweet and a very cheeky little boy, whose smile enables you to forgive all. I soon understood what he meant when he pointed at his trousers, once he had finished he called me, bent over bum in air to allow me to wipe. Hmmm.
The family have been great, Janette (the mum) especially, welcoming me into the bosom of the family. Coralie, the eldest quickly befriended me the first day. As we sat in the sun doing her English homework, I found that she really loved the English language. The children gave me a tour of the house (I did not tell them that their father already had) and I marveled at the balconies, in fact the inside was almost as spectacular as the outside with the large windows and real fireplace, tiled floors and high ceiling in the corridor. The family reside on perhaps one acre of land with a stream running beside it and the garden (if it can be called that) has swings, hammocks, a pond.
Upon arrival we were greeted by a Labrador and a very large dog, which much ressembled a St Bernard. Jean-Pierre (the dad) told me the name but I can’t much remember, he said something in french and I nodded. The large swimming pool I was told was out of bounds for Frederic but that he much liked playing on the swing. Up in one of the many trees lived an incomplete but impressive treehouse. Jean-Pierre blushed as he told me that he had not had the time to complete it and that he was more of an intellect than a labourer.
So that’s how I went from city girl to country girl.
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