Things we lost in the fire

1. the shed
2. the contents of the shed
3. the downstairs toilet
4. the downstairs toilet window
5. the green tub we were gonna have to bathe in
6. the gas
7. the electricity
8. the water
9. the bathroom
10. the bathroom window
11. my naivety

We really did have a fire and I really was scared shitless. There were hysterics (on my part) and lots and lots of men to help put it out, for now all I can think about is Ganbatte; there are too many useless relatives roaming about.

Stan Strikes!!!

It's like any other Friday, this summer, I wake up then have a bath and brush my teeth........make myself pretty (don't know if it works). I try to make the cheapest journey I can to station, cos I'm a student......cheapskate's my middle name. I leave the house around 9.10 am - I got side tracked watching E! news (guilty pleasure) - and top my oyster card off with 4 pounds. In England, no in London we pay extortionate travels fares. Before 9.30 am a 1-day travel card costs almost 10 pounds, for the rest of the day with my student discount I pay 5.80 pounds, it's a huge difference amidst the Credit Crisis. I get on the bus around 9.20 am, get to Stratford at 9.45ish. When I get to the station there's a problem.

As I try to exit, the barriers make that off-key beep.....the 'you don't have enough money' beep so I go over to the assitance counter, no one's there. I knock on the window but it's made out of that triple thick plastic so my knock is barely audible to me let alone the tickets operator. I conclude that my voice would be far more appropriate in this situation so I say 'Excuse me' - using my grown up voice - no answer, I wait 23 seconds (not that I was counting or anything) then I shout 'EXCUSE ME!'........it works. I yield and part with 2 pounds to top-up my oyster card, I don't need to ask the operator 'why the beep?'; the barriers gave me the 'you don't have enough money' beep because I was cutting corners. I storm out of the station onto Mile End road and head for the Lab, I'm running a tiny bit late.

The week prior the lift was broken, so as I enter the building I pray to the gods that it has been fixed. It hasn't, after cursing son of a bitch and the like I decide to make the herculean journey to the 5th floor. After the first two flights of stairs I'm already worn out, I admit it I'm very, very unfit.......but do I really deserve to be tortured for it. Note to self: make offering to gods so that the damn lift can be fixed. I get to the 4th floor gasping for air while resting all my weight on the railing, I proceed down the corridor towards another flight of stairs and then Fly Lab, Valhalla for the unfit. Eleanor calls wondering where I am at 10.02 am, she's looking for any reason not to be in the lab with him, Stanewsky, I tell her I'm on the 4th floor and we curse the school for not fixing the lift.

As I approach the lab doors, which we finally have access to after 4weeks of phone calls (on my supervisor's part) and waiting, Eleanor opens the door and tells me that Stan's there and he's grumpy. What the hell is he doing here, he's not supposed to be in on Fridays I say, she agrees. We decide it a safer bet to sit on the couch (the brown, old but surprisingly comfortable couch) than to sit in the lab all alone with him unable to speak. We have a chinwag about tennis and Wii, blah, blah....one of the scientists who makes the Drosophila feed (haven't learned her name yet) tells us that she'll stop our experiment for us so we go with her to do all that - pretty boring stuff really. She is really helpful so I kinda feel bad for not knowing her name. We go back to the couch because he's still there, then my supervisor comes up (always late) this time she has a smokers cough so we hear her before we see her - doesn't sound good. We do some more Biology stuff and she tells us to wait so we go back to the couch, this is all around the time he (that's how Stan will be referred to from here on out) decides to go back to the office. As he walks past I see a special glint in his eye, he can't resist: 'nice to see someone making good use of the couch' he says, he smiles so I smile (it's a bad habit, I smile stupidly like that all the time). I turn to look at Eleanor and we look out the window then back at each other, no words are necessary. He just made a 'sarcy' (sarcastic) comment!!! Was there any need? NO. He just couldn't help himself, from that we can tell that we are in his bad books and there's nothing we can do about it. We resign ourselves to not making eye contact with him to 'provoke' him.

After putting our flies into the fridge to make them sleep we head over to the office to analyze our data, get out as early as possible and stay out of his way - that's the plan. It works for a little while. The office is small and there are at least 6 people coming or going at a given time. We find ourselves a little corner and begin the analyses, all is going well when he walks in....we're on alert. He heads over to the corner they have set up as the canteen, which happens to be exactly where I'm set up and wastes no time in seizing the opportunity to remark. I don't mind what he says, it's how he says it; he tells us to move up so as not to obscure the canteen, that's fine. And then he shoos us away, the way you shoo a pet away from your food, as though we are beneath him and need to be shooed as opposed to being told. If you could see the way the professor scoffs up his food you would understand that the canteen means a lot to him (it's kind of surprising considering he's a thin, wiry specimen of a man). We move, what else are we supposed to do? A while later the office fills up, people are eating and talking, I might add, and he is oblivious......when it suits him; he doesn't tell them that this is a place of work and not chatting. Eleanor realises that we are not gonna leave before 3pm so it would be best to go get lunch, we tell our supervisor, take our money and we are on our way.

Eleanor takes me to this secluded restaurant called The Jasmine Kitchen, the place is great because it's like a secret - only known to a select few. The staff are friendly and the food is good, I forget the name of what I ordered but I know it's chicken with rice and broccoli (I love broccoli because they look like little trees) and carrots and crispy fried golden shallots and Coke. After we lick the bowls clean (not really) we head back with heavy feet. When we get back to the office everyone's back to work, thank god, and so we get back to our work.

The hours drag on, Eleanor goes to pee and I carry on creating PDF's of my analyses. He walks in again and he's getting something at the canteen, again, and I try to honour the promise I made with Eleanor when he shooed us away: 'don't make any eye contact whatsoever'. I try to keep my eyes on the computer whilst I am urging, willing the Adobe to get it over and done with. I can feel his eyes borrowing a hole into my head, he's wondering why I'm not typing....ehh 'because I'm waiting for Adobe to make the PDF file!!!!!' I resist the urge to shout, no bark that at him, instead I avert my eyes trying to look interested at anything else in the room. It works and he leaves when his food/drink is ready......phew. We work until 7 pm doing little bits and pieces.

As we walk to the station it feels like we're 7 year olds, just let out of school for home-time. We talk about the day and how funny our supervisor can be consciously and unconsciously, how much worse he's gotten. We head home not to think about the professor ever again.............until Monday that is.

Girls do the funniest things

I went to an all-girl Catholic school for 5 years of my life, within that situation I met I range of girls. Some were ghetto in a dangerous way; a classmate once actually set fire to the school toilet, which promptly resulted in her exclusion from the school; some couldn't be further from the word ghetto and some were ghetto only in humour. This was the majority because St. Angela's was a school sustained by African and Carribean students; in Newham, London you wouldn't expect anything else. There was a small minority composed of the remnants of Cockney East-End London, those girls were what you would envisage when you think of England. I probably didn't fit into any category because my first 6 years of life were spent in Ghana with Ghanaian peers and the Ghanaian school system (basically you get caned if you disobey a teacher, caned if you don't learn quickly enough, caned just because.......cane, cane, cane). I wasn't an outcast but I wasn't in the in-group either.

Out of all the girls I encountered in secondary school one person explicitly stands out, purely because she was a contrast..........she was ghetto (at times), she was an atheist (all of the time), she was a theologian, she was well read and she knew it. Some would call her a snob because of it. For me intimidating springs to mind, I imagine that her name was synonymous with bitch because she did have a chip on her shoulder. If I hadn't been in the same class as her for 5 years I would have been indifferent in regards to Chontel, and that would mean that I would quickly put her out of my mind - she would be negligible. When you actually got beneath her veneer she was really easy to talk to, she could take a joke, she could be sweet....but she marched to the beat of her own drum; mainly because she was, I suspect, just as unfit as I was.......still am.

In university there are more people and less confined spaces, you don't have to talk to people you don't want to or simply make nice anymore. For the first time however, I've met snobs.......they're annoying, pretentious and mostly girls. In the university subculture you find most people diverge according to their race: the South Asians (Indian, Bangladeshi, Pakistani) who are given the option of Doctor, Engineer, Lawyer while they were in the womb by their parents. Followed on by the Asians mostly Chinese and finally you have the English country girls, by country I mean there's lots of greenery.

Of the South Asian girls there are those who are insanely loud and chatty and often given the evil eye as a result.......but what do they care, they sit in the back of the lecture theater (like me), ignore the lecturer (like me) but they like school (unlike me) - it's like a playground for them. They are okay to talk to, for a short time, because they are actually willing hold a conversation; you'll quickly get bored and they'll quickly get distracted. When you see them you acknowledge them then go about your business. The studious, sensible subgroup of them know you only when convenient, case in point Meera: I met her at the beginning of my university life, I don't think we hit it off but I made sure to acknowledge her when I saw her because I still remembered those early days when we walked around like headless chickens grabbing onto any and every friendly face we saw (it was a lawless time). I'm not worth recognition anymore, according to her.........but when she needs a slide of drosophila embryo she suddenly knows me again. They're interesting like that...........they are opportunists to the core....ugh, nothing disgusts me more. These subgroups are distinguished by their make-up, the chatty girls with the attention span of fruit flies wear bucket-loads of eye make-up, Kajal, Kohl etc. They don't seem to mix, the chatty and the studious.

I mentioned earlier about the Asians, we have (as far as I can tell) Chinese and Japanese students in our university. They have their own distinctive wardrobes and love of the peroxide, the Chinese girls favour kitten heels and bejewelled denim. The Japanese girls are a rarity, I don't know why and of the few I have seen, Keds are a big hit........girls after my own heart.

Finally, we have the English country girls, unfortunately the girl in question shares my name....yes, she's an Annabelle (don't know how she spells it though, I'm fussy abut stuff like that). I've gone through most of my life being the only Annabelle so I was curious when I found out there were 2 of us. She's autistic, not really, but isn't that what you call a person who lacks 'theory of mind'. A person who speaks sooo (extra o's) loudly you know - even if you don't want to - that over the holidays at, get this, MUMMY and DADDY's she drank a whole bottle of wine to herself, I'll let you take that in...........a) who gives a shit!!!, b) she's an alcoholic - who drinks a whole bottle of anything by themselves and c) who gives a shit!!!!!!!!! I soon awarded her the title of 'the Real Uggs'; over in England there has been this phenomenon over some thick Australian Farmer looking boots called Uggs. I've never donned on a pair because I think boots are the devil (I like them on other people but not on me). They're pretty expensive to buy over here but they're damn cheap in Australia, and because of that most students buy the cheap equivalents here, she wears the real ones so to me she's a 'Real Uggs'. Along with the Uggs they (the Real Uggs, there are more than one) dress like they're ready for action, I don't mean for sex, I mean action........like they could climb up Mt. Snowdon at a drop of a hat.

SayJapanese goes Loco

I took a personality test on Facebook a while back, which told me what I already knew...I'm very, very agreeable. The problem I find with the agreeable label is that people think that your a meek or dull because of it (at least that's my impression), and that is something I am not. I think I scored so highly on agreeableness because I view it as bad manners and often offensive to scoff or disagree with another's cultural point of view. This is limited however to new people, people whose boundaries have yet to be tested. I'm not one of those extroverted people who tells anybody and everybody about my whole life story over a cup of tea/coffee (I hate both so you would probably be doing the drinking). But I'm mostly okay with that, I think it's one facet of my personality but not something you could pin me down as.

Recently I started reading the works of another blogger by the name of LOCO (not his real name apparently but I like it), a New Yorker; I had previously been particularly loyal to Wandering in Miyazaki (another New Yorker) who's situation was similar to what mine would be in Japan and had a killa 'fro I could only aspire to. He's pretty interesting, having lived in Japan for about 6 years and being a man, he gives me a completely different and sometimes not so nice perspective. His actions are interpreted with acute eyes, he is far more aggressive and 'dangerous' when he walks, when he talks, when he gestures emphatically all because he represents the unknown to a very homogeneous, insular population. Loco often gets the 'I'm scared shitless of you' stares (on public transport), which I would guess gets very boring very fast. I think it's mostly to do with the fact that he's a man, in general humans are more afraid of the unknown man than the unknown woman. How dangerous can a 5'3'' girl be compared to a 6' plus, broad shouldered man.........I'll have you know that within my armoury are some very sharp teeth, which could cause unspeakable damage.

I assume that anyone who lives or has lived in New York is very ballsy and not one to mince words, so the contrasting environment in Japan makes for a sometimes explosive meeting in LocoWorld. My suspicion, no, my belief is that New Yorkers and the Japanese are like chalk and cheese; one practices Honne and Tatamae while the other says what they think or feel in whatever situation; no New Yorker worries about how a sudden efflux of emotions would affect others. I'm not saying New Yorkers are impetuous, capricious loud-mouths or anything like that, they just don't use the same restraint over their emotions that the Japanese do, like most people in the western world. Mainly, because in their culture it's perfectly normal to express their distaste, joy, apathy, glee over life in general.

My thoughts about Loco......he's an articulate, smart, middle-aged man with a quick wit and a general love a ladies, ladies, ladies. I highly recommend. As I read through Loco's posts I realised that though I could sympathise with his trials I could not, at this point in time, empathise; it is because of that that I can say his reactions are the polar opposites of mine. I have this ability to be completely fine with whatever another person's perception is because I can accept that is just the way it is. I don't attempt to understand why, often because I feel it would be disrespectful to them to question. Having said that I do realise that you can genuinely ask questions and debate out of curiosity and not the desire to prove someone else's practices wrong. I think I come across as uncaring, don't get me wrong there are times when I couldn't careless but that is restricted snobs - I've met a lot of them. I don't think Loco is wrong for the way he handles some situations because everyone has their limits. It just made me realise that not every Gaijin in Japan instantaneously embarks on a love affair with it, most have a love/hate relationship. My only hesitation is that my agreeableness doesn't render me Japan's doormat lover, who nods accordingly and loses the ability to have independent thought.

I want Japan to be my means of metamorphosis, I don't need to be a butterfly.....I'm happy being a moth as long as I'm better than I was before. As long as I have grown.

Any comments are welcomed........

The problem with Ghana

I am Ghanaian who doesn't want to live in Ghana, ever. It's not due to any deep trauma I experienced during my childhood living there, it's due to the culture itself. Don't get me wrong I greatly appreciate the fact that there are no civil wars like most other African countries, but there's this mentality of 'I'll get to it when I get to it'. People do things in their own time when they want and when it benefits them, there's no sense of urgency.

There has always been this myth perpetuated about 'coloured people time', which is supposedly the clock that black people run on; it's generally 2-3 hours behind normal time. I'm black and I run on normal time, it's not that hard and nothing irritates me more than arriving late using that as an excuse. I don't mind when you arrive as long as it's the time that you told me you would arrive. A general piece of advice I'd give to anyone dealing with a chronically late person is to tell them to arrive before the actual gathering begins, tell them the party starts at 1pm when it starts at 3pm. I remember attending the reception for one of my many cousins' wedding ceremony, it started officially at 5pm but people only arrived at 7pm apparently they got lost during their 10 minute journey from the church to the reception venue. It's as if they want to make an entrance by arriving late like supermodels and celebrities do, but after you've seen these people on a dance floor you realize that they are anything but models or celebrities.

The wedding ceremony itself is drawn out as long as possible, why???...I have no idea but it's a waste of time. Church in Ghana generally is long, laborious and many a time involves receiving the spirits/Holy Ghost. I haven't been to church in a long time so I'm not too clear on the mechanics of it but I do know that they often fall down and speak in tongues when they receive the spirit. It's quite a sight.

Heaven forbid you don't have enough food at the reception, Ghanaians riot over things like that. The most well-known tribe in Ghana is the Akan which has several subdivisions within it, the one thing that holds them together is meat. Yes, I said MEAT.....beef, goat, chicken you name it they eat it; I think they associate it with wealth and good health so they gorge themselves on food in general but especially MEAT. At big Ghanaian events not a spot of green can be seen at the buffet table, who needs vegetables when you have: chicken wings, KFC style chicken, chicken kebabs - do you see a trend? - , beef kebabs, goat kebabs, fried fish, Jollof (a traditional rice dish), Waatche (rice and beans) etc. I should give credit to the side dishes that very faintly resemble salads but have had all vestiges associated with the healthy benefits of vegetables removed. The Neo-Ghanaian salad includes potato salad and coleslaw; containing extravagant amounts of mayonnaise and salad cream and as little vegetable as possible. You end up with this heap of cream coloured food, and there isn't a speck of green in sight unless you count the green pepper which is one of three vegetables. Don't get me wrong it is tasty but needs to be eaten in moderation, a word that is not utilized in Ghana.

The other problem with Ghana is the constant pay-offs, haggling and double talk. I'm used to saying what I mean and meaning what I say, anything else is annoying and futile. You can't get through customs without having to pay a little more attention to the customs officer; that means switching on your charm gene, smiling and batting your eye lashes all the while thinking what a f**kin' idiot the customs officer is. This is all in aid of getting them to process you quickly and thoroughly like they should already be doing as part of their sad little job in sad little Kotoka airport. In some cases the customs officer may even take some of the food your carrying; I know what your thinking 'that's not unreasonable, countries need to protect their environment', but do they need to protect it from canned food. My cousin experienced the hunger of a customs officer (a stupid, power saturated customs officer at that) who confiscated some of his food. Well he didn't even give a legitimate excuse so it wasn't a confiscation, it just happened that a can of kidney beans took his fancy for no other reason than it being exotic and free. I remember a couple of years ago when we missed our flight back from Accra, in any normal situation we would have waited for the next flight with free seats. In Ghana however, we paid someone off (a hefty sum I might add) and that was it we were on the next flight home.

My sister recently revealed to me that in her old age she would like to retire to Ghana, I was shocked because she felt the same way as I did about Ghana and was very vocal about it. I don't know were I'm gonna live in the future but Ghana definitely is not an option.