Miscellaneous

The elections are looming, personally, I'm not going to vote. I never have but I actually have a reason this year. They're all the same and they're all crap, but not just any old crap... you know what I mean. All they do is steal and throw stones, and these are the people who a supposed to have had the most highest of education. The people who are supposed to lead us out of the Recession. If you ask me the problem with the politicians in the UK is that they have all been galvanised with a thick, glossy coat of shit. They look fine to the untrained eye, they even look like everyday professionals in suits... except for that extra glossy coat. It's a coat you gradually build up with experience, the older you are the thicker the coat. Having said that David Cameron's pretty young for a party leader, but he's got 'dodgy' written all over him; especially with the eerily smooth face of his, it has no character at all. Then the James Gordon Brown, he's got more than enough lines but then he's got the creepy jaw thing. I don't believe any of them and if there was a "none of thee above because you're all f**king liars" option I would get off my arse come election day to my old primary school and tick that option.

And on a plus note I made something, I made some scarves. They involved a lot of stress (not really), tears (definitely not) and pain (well that's actually true, crochet hurts). 

Me... an Officer... hhmmmm

I had to laugh. I'm not that fussed, anymore, about the things the jobcentre makes me do. I just tried to apply for a job as an Applicant Enquiries Officer at a university. Me. I had to do the standard registration thingy; the first question they asked was: Do you have A levels? So I answer YES, then they ask: Do you have any customer service experience in student applications? or something like that. It was one of those questions that everything hinges on, I could tell, and so I answered NO. 'I can not tell a lie'. It quickly takes me to another page with a message saying: 'Unfortunately you have not proceeded any further'... blah, blah, blah. Gee, I didn't see that one coming. I had to laugh. The job offered a £23,000-26,000 salary. Why would any employer in their right mind give me that much money, knowing that I have no customer service experience and that my last job was as a sales assistant in year 9 on my work experience. I had to laugh. Hehe.

Today's the Day

I'm not blonde and I don't have a ribbon adorned grey cat as a sidekick - my mother wouldn't let me - but it is my birthday. Another year has gone. I'm a bit older, at least that's what they tell me, but I don't feel like it. I'm 21 today, I still can't drive, I'm still gonna be in England and I'm still gonna be in school. Maybe I'll get my new laptop, maybe I'll get a job. I'll keep holding my breath ^_^.

Racist MF

So my mother and I went to sign the papers for our new kitchen, we're in dyer need. We have one of those seriously dated kitchens. I think it's the original kitchen from when she bought in the 80's and that's exactly what the kitchen is, 80's... seriously. It's got this worn, crappy, white gloss facade on MDF. I despise MDF. That's one. The hobs, as far back as I can remember have never worked at full capacity. Out of the four hobs only two have ever worked. And of those two only one emits a full flame. That's two. The grill hasn't worked in ten years and the oven burns anything facing it's parallel heating filaments. Imaging getting a sun tan only on your arms and legs, leaving a white strip of untanned skin. When that happens with your roast chicken you end up with raw chicken in the middle. That's three. I'm not gonna miss that kitchen, in fact, if I could, I would help the builders dismantle it.

We finished signing and paying; I say 'we' but it was really my mother, I was only there for the technical stuff. I wanted to go buy some wool because I'm obsessed with making my own socks right now, so I spilt up with my mum. I was waiting for a bus to take me to the shopping centre, all the while thinking 'It's fucking cold!'. The bus finally came but the bus driver wouldn't open the door, he could see me but he didn't care. Only opening the exit doors instead, it pissed me off. He was thin, like willowy thin. He had dark circles under his eyes, not from lack of sleep though, I think it just some hyper-pigmentation thing. His hair was shaved pretty low. I gave him a couple of seconds and then knocked on the door.

Me: "You gonna open the doors?"

He didn't say anything, but instead did a hand gesture I didn't understand. I looked ahead and noticed that the bus in front was changing drivers so I figured that was what he was waiting for. He started to move, getting ready to change shifts. I looked behind to see a female driver ready to take over. He opened the doors and stepped out.

Me: "You couldn't have opened the doors to tell me that?!" You're in public service, you're supposed to be courteous.

Racist MotherFucker: "$%?£?$!!!" 

Me: "$%£^&%!!!" What the fuck's wrong with you? Psycho!!!

We carried on like that swearing back and forth for a few more seconds then an older black gentleman came and told the Racist MF not to talk to me like that, but the Racist MF just directed his attention and misguided anger at him instead. Then as he walked away he said:

Racist MF: "You're like the colour of my shit."

Now if that isn't racist I don't know what is. If he'd just said 'you're shit', that would have been different because only he would know what he truly meant by that. But he said the colour of my shit. The funny thing is that the Racist MF was Asian, ie. Indian, Pakistani etc. I am very aware of the country I live in. I am very aware that I'm a minority and that's the first time I've ever seen overt racism. What he doesn't realise is that together we make up 7.9% of the total population. This isn't his country. He's viewed with the same contempt I am. What a piece of shit. No fucking respect. I filled out a complaints form and I hope his racist arse gets what's coming to him.

Oh Fanny!!!

I'm watching Oprah, I feel it's necessary right here and now to state that I'm not a fan of the show. It's boring and stupid and boring most importantly. It's basically Oprah talking to middle aged housewives who hang on her every word, thus spending the duration of the show oohing and ahhing and clapping like puppets. It's gross, repetitive and monotonous. Unfortunately I don't have control of the remote. She's interviewing Martha Stewart pre prison sentence (we get lots of re-runs) and that got me thinking about the home cook goddesses we have in England: Nigella Lawson; who oozes sex, Delia Smith Queen of Patronisation; she actually did a show about how to boil an egg and the original Fanny Cradock. Now she was something.

We get to watch her shows around the Christmas holiday because of  the nostalgia, the first of her kind. She had those old school eyebrows drawn in after shaving her original ones off, giving them a manufactured hooked shape. And then there was her roller set overnight pale blonde (sometimes reddish brown) hair framing her powder pale face. She spoke the Queen's English. She was definitely a lady of her time. She was no nonsense. She was spectacular but I wouldn't recreate any of her recipes.

The first time I watched her show I was taken aback, she did this segment because apparently no one in England during the 1970's could carve their chicken properly at Christmas and she was on a mission to fix that. It scared the shit out of me, not enough to make me hate chicken (nothing could do that) but... maybe I was more grossed out than scared. Watching it again I think my reaction was due to the insipid, anaemic appearance of the chicken.

Something Funny

In between being Pissed Off

I was waiting to be probed about not applying for that crappy job... no wait, those crappy jobs.

Guy at Jobcentre: Are you Muslim?

Me: No. What?Huh?Why?

Guy: Then why is your head covered.

Me: I'm a black girl. I have a hairstyle I don't want to expose the general public to. (reference I Am Not My Hair) You're black too, should I be explaining this to you?

Guy: Oh. Understanding nod, he's been around a lot of black girls

Me: I'm not religious.

Guy: Why? You don't believe in God?

Me: I don't believe God is all-loving. I don't think about God in my everyday life... I don't believe anything will happen because I faith in God like they say I should... and I don't believe things happen because of God.

Guy: Oh, okay. Uh oh, went overboard

Guy: I have a theory about that: there is no original thought/idea, everything is based on the previous. And at the previous there is God. He's definitely been waiting a while to tell someone this.

Our conversation was interrupted by my case worker who told me I could go home. I do believe in God, I just don't believe the pretty omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent and all-loving God. Not when things like The Tsunami and Haiti happens. Yes, I believe that there is a God, but I believe it cares about me as much as I care about it. Negligible.

I didn't see that one comin'

I went to the jobcentre again today for my weekly appointment. I was almost late because I'd just engulfed the porkball soup my mother made with the cheddar scone my sister made. You know how you get all sleepy after a good meal. I think it's because of the heat released when you're breaking it down in your stomach. Anyway I couldn't help it, I wanted to have a nap, a siesta. I had been re-reading Frank Herbert's Dune, but my lids were heavy, really heavy; the type of heavy that would make you read the same sentence at least 3 times. I decided to give it a rest and instead concentrate on the Judge Judy episode, it was just getting good when the shutters came down, DRAT. It was around 11.15 when I fell asleep and my jobcentre appointment was at 11.50, this had to be a quickie. I vaguely remember Judge Judy going off on some idiot teenager accused of harassing another teenager. I woke up at 11.45 which gave me just enough time to walk over to that place. I had to hustle but I got out of the house in time.

The thing that bugs me about the jobcentre is that everything related is just as fucked up as the jobcentre itself. Even the route to the jobcentre is littered with shit, literally, there's dog shit all along the pathway, like breadcrumbs leading the way. Not any old dog shit mind you, it was the kind others, less conscious than I, had stepped into and smeared along the path in an attempt to remove the shit. So to recap, I have to walk under the underpass which is littered with shit, chicken bones and every piece of crap you can think of to get to the jobcentre. And thanks to the diligently crappy English weather, it was too dark to see were I was going. Not to mention my really shitty eyesight, even with my glasses. If you saw me from afar you'd think I was playing hop scotch with all the side stepping I had to do.

I got to the jobcentre and went upstairs to wait for my case worker. That changes pretty regularly but I recognised this guy, I'd had him before (not in the creepy way it sounds). He was bald, no vestiges of the hair follicles he rocked during the 60's. He had a goatee though, stubbled with grey hairs and glasses. I think they were one of those frameless ones, but to tell you the truth I wasn't paying that much attention. I try to go in and out as quickly as possible, if I'm too attentive I have to stay there longer. I still wanted to make it back for the rest of Judge Judy.  

Him: So how are your job searches going?

Me: Fine.  Keep the answers short

Him: Mmm...aahhhhh...hh  Doing that annoying mumbling thing again 

Him: Did you apply for these jobs?

Me: No, I forgot.  Hurry up

Him: So... aahhmmmhh... you didn't apply?

Me: No. I forgot.  Redundant

Him: Mmmmhhhhh...aaaaaaahhhh  Uh oh, that's an extra long 'mmh'

Him: Excuse me.

So he left for a while, I thought he was printing off some job searches for me, but to my surprise he comes back with a form. An official form for me to fill in and sign explaining why I didn't apply. It's not like I didn't do any job searches, I just didn't do those ones. I'm very much a fan of the expression 'beggars can't be choosers', I'm not at the stage in my life where I'm a beggar so I ain't gonna do some crappy job just cause they shove it in my face. He made me wait for some guy to interview me about why I didn't apply. I'm really pissed off. I missed Judge Judy.

Music's My Business

I can't sing and I can't dance but I like my music. My mum went halfsies with me for my birthday present. I got an Ipod, the last one I had was a mini which broke down shortly after I gave it to my sister ^_^.

I Am Not My Hair pt.2

I was happy with the result, no more running out of the rain like a cat. My hair was now permanently straight (at least until the afro hair roots started to grow again, we in the community call this re-growth, lol). They told me that I was eligible for another relaxer after 8 weeks minimum. Then the relaxer could only be applied to the roots of the hair; the new, tough afro hair in dire need of taming. The only downside, at the time, was that you had to fork out 40 to 50 quid every 2 months. Which prompted you to buy a damn good blow dryer and take the best care of your hair possible just to make that 40 quid worth it's while. I could go up to 4 months without a relaxer because my hair was surprisingly easy; it stayed moist, it grew easily and it didn't get split ends.

I also found out that the burning was subjective; my sister told me that she didn't feel a thing when the relaxer was in her hair. What the hell? Her scalp was like concrete while mine was silk chiffon. I wasted My mother wasted a few more hundred pounds in the next 2 years on me so I could sit in the salon and burn the shit out of my scalp on a regular basis.

I think it was Christmas of 2008 when I decided that relaxing was full of shit. I mean before that I had been dabbling with the idea but it was a lot of effort to get rid of the relaxed hair. Effort involving cutting most of it off, I didn't want to think too much about that. I went to the hair salon as usual and the relaxer burned the shit out of my scalp as usual... it was f**king painful, it left f**king scabs. And I thought 'why should I ever have to put myself through that shit?', that was it, my decision was made. I just wish I made it before I went in. I could've saved my self 50 quid and some hair, lol.

The funny thing about afro hair is how much it shrinks when you wash it, literally. The hair shrinks as a reaction to water, a bit similar to they way caucasian hair curls when wet but this is more extreme for black people. When I wash my hair it shrinks so much it reminds me of primary school haircut, the one I had when I was 'fresh off the boat' from Ghana and hardly spoke any English. It's really short, lol. Nowadays we have the godsend that is the blow dryer, I can go from freakishly short hair to cute short hair ^_^. But before that, when I was in primary school my mother would braid my hair.

She used to section my hair into 6 then apply a generous amount of blue magic to my hair. It's very greasy and very heavy but it works. As she applied the magic (lol) to my hair she would comb out all the knots with a Matador; the only comb that didn't break or bend in my hair. The thing that gets me about my hair is that even after conditioning it still has knots. It hurt then and it still hurts now, but I'm getting used to it all over again. She would do this to all 6 sections then the real work began. I would get black thread ready with a knot at the end; something thick and strong enough, something that wouldn't break easily. I would give it to my mother and she would wrap it around my hair. She used as much thread as needed until the whole section of hair, from the root to the tip, was wrapped in the thread. 

The best way I can describe the end result is that it looks like six sticks glued onto my head. It's really tight and I feel like I've had an instant facelift. Literally, I feel like my eyebrows are touching my hairline. Luckily I only have to wear it for a couple of days.

So, this is how I grow my hair now. Utilising the wisdom of my ancestors ^_^. The idea makes sense when you think about it. By pulling the hair and creating that tension it forces the root to grow to relieve the stress. You get used to it, although having said that I had to take an ibruprofen the last time my mother did my hair; one side of my face was throbbing like a son of a bitch, lol. The things a girl is willing to go through for her hair.

I Am Not My Hair pt.1

India Arie, Testimony: Vol 1 Life & Relationship. It's a great album, truly. I very rarely listen to the actual words of a song, mainly because they're all the same and sometimes because I get distracted by all the hoopla. But not with this, no, I Am Not My Hair made perfect sense, it was clear, she was clear. I even like Akon on it and I DON'T LIKE AKON; it's nothing personal, I just dislike his voice. She describes the numerous processes her hair went through, all because society decided that afro hair wasn't attractive. She starts off with a presser curl, then a Jheri Curl and finally a relaxer before her hair breaks off. Not a pretty sight, trust me. There's nothing worse than the day you realise that there's a whole chunk of your hair missing all because you liked you hairband a bit too much.

Having lived with an afro all my life because I'm black (applause), I know that there are just some things you can't do to it. It may look tough because it's so bushy but it's actually very brittle. DON'T put too much heat into it, DON'T apply more than one chemical process to it at a time and DO condition like your life depended on it.

Each generation has their own schtick, we don't know when my grandmother was born because for Ghanaians, in those days, there wasn't a need to know. I suspect they were busy trying to live past the age if 5. When we went back for her funeral I saw some pictures of her in her hay-day, she had thick, lush hair and because she was having a special picture taken she wore her hair straight. I asked my mum about it and she said that she had pressed her hair with one of those old school hot combs, probably the ones that you have to heat on the stove, then she curled it with metal rollers.

My mother was born in the late 40's. I found some baby pictures of her when we went to the funeral too, but she didn't think much of her hair back then. She remarked about how tough her hair was (has always been) and how her scalp was chronically sore for one reason or the other. By her late teens she'd started relaxing it because it was an easier way of maintain the highly sort after straight hair. She had few hairstyles in the coming decades, but they revolved around faux afro wigs like the lady in the black and white photo.

She started braiding my hair for me in '95 when my sister and I first came to live with her in England. I had a boys hair cut back then. A 1cm long No.1 haircut, because in Ghana, school girls have boy's hair cuts. Don't ask me why, it's one of those unanswered questions, like why Mariah Carey decided to get a boob job. I think I first relaxed my hair the summer before Sixth Form (College), I was tired of walking around with my afro hair. I didn't know what to do with it and I stood out, mainly because of the way I wore it but partly because I was the only student in my year group that had afro hair that long.

For those who don't know, a relaxer is a chemical treatment used to straighten obstinately curly hair. The first time at the salon was an eye-opener, the hairstylist distributed the relaxer from the root right to the ends because my hair was all afro (virgin hair). I think she took about 15 minutes to get the relaxer in, I don't know the right amount of time but I know now that it's best not to dilly-dally. I hadn't washed my hair for 2 weeks in anticipation; that's not as abnormal as it may seem, not washing afro hair for that long I mean. It began to tingle as soon as she was done applying the relaxer. Several minutes passed and that tingle started to spread enough that it become an itch I wanted to scratch, desperately. I resisted the urge because the hairstylist used gloves as she applied the relaxer and I'll be damned if I was gonna stick my, unprotected, hand in my itchy head. While I was busy thinking about not scratching, the itch started to burn ever so slightly. And then it grew, the burn I mean. It brought heat on top of heat. It spread like a wildfire on my scalp, increase in coverage and intensity simultaneously. It burned like hell.

Learn Japanese, it's Easy

NO. It is bloody-well not easy. It's hard to keep motivated because even when you don't have a job and you've been kicked out of school (temporarily), you can get easily detracted. i.e. We just got the Food Network over here in England, and TV in general's kinda crap so my sister put it on the Food Network just so it's not too quiet. We're watching Grill It! with Bobby Flay: Chef Extraordinaire or so he thinks. Why is he so obsessed with chillis? Even though I don't care for food adorned with cilantro, it's still better the taking those two steps to my Japan Centre Kanji Book. I'm rambling aren't I?

p.s. Why do all American cooking shows revolve around a 'battle of culinary masters'? Ever heard of Rick Stein?

Bikram Yoga... Break my back more like

So, I started Bikram Yoga. They were doing a New Year's deal because everyone's put on some pounds since the holidays and made all those crapy resolutions. It was a 20 quid for 14 days thing, which is pretty worth it considering a drop-in session cost 15 pounds alone. I went with my sister to to one of they're many sites in London to register and feel out the place. Bikram yoga is no more strenuous than Ashtanga yoga, which is what I normally do, except you don't have some guy telling you to relax your anus, ^_^. The postures are different and in the 40 degree celsius heat it's particularly hard; not only are you stretching and tensing all the muscles in your body, you're also trying to do it all while breathing through your nose AND sucking your stomach in. You go in looking like this...

...but you come out feeling like this, lol.

You sweat bucket loads even if your technique isn't that good.

The picture says it all.

My year in exile's taking it's toll on me. I just went to the job centre, I despise the job centre. I really do. They give me 50 quid a week, but it's not like I need it, I'm luckier than most because I have a lovely mother. I only go because I don't want to burden her too much. But... it's taking it's toll on me. I feel like I'm ready to go but... I'm stuck. And frustrated... and I can't breathe. Today's not so good.

Ice Age... that's what they tell me

We had some bad weather after Christmas. Seeing as I'm a bit of a recluse I didn't notice. They were droning on and on about it on BBC and SKY though. There were stories, lots of stories about the injuries and disruptions associated with the snow. Stories about the villages cut off, but surprisingly none about the abundance of the supposedly scarce grit on Oxford Circus and the Kensington area. We can't have the rich slipping and spraining an ankle or worse yet cracking a skull. Oh no, the working class, without which the city would not run, would fair better doing the slip-slide all the way to work... in the city.

Personally, the funniest moment for me was when they realised that public transport would be shittier than usual as a result. This from a city who's trains can't function during Autumn because of leaves on the tracks. Oh yes, London's that far ahead. London's the city of the future, didn't you know? There's always this crap about attracting international businesses to London because it's this and it's that. Well I'm here to tell you that it's overpriced... normally you'd have more than one critique of whatever you're hating on, but for me this is it. It's overpriced. It's bollocks. And it's on it's way to worse, why? Because the recession hurt the UK more than the US, because the US manufacture and there's always gonna be a demand and because our un-elected Prime Minister is a ditherer. James Brown (the name he keeps secret from anyone with a sense of humour) can't make decisions, so why is he in politics? I don't know either.

My whole point is forget about the snow, there's a huge economic storm to weather and we (in London) are gonna feel it in full force after the 2012 Olympics. Maybe that's why I'm so eager to get out of here.

Q. Does anyone like the Logo?