More Marrakech pics

Les Dossiers de Marrakech - Day 1

Marrakech beckons

I almost missed my flight, you know.

Well, i technically almost missed my flight. I actually almost missed my train, because i almost missed my cab to the train station, because my alarm clock did not go off. But i won't bore you with the details. All i will say is "the devil is a liar". This holiday that i've been looking forward to for months, i will now come and miss my flight? Iro ni, it's a lie.

The flight was the usual humdrum. The in-fligth movie was Ocean's Thirteen. I read a book instead. As we approach Marrakech, we've almost touched down, when all of a sudden the plane gathers speed and takes off again. After 5 minutes the Pilot announces that its too windy to land from the east so were going round to the west runway to land. On arrival, we have to fill out a form which is basically a visa for EU citizens. You don't have to get one beforehand.

The Hotel
I arrive at the Hotel and check in, but not before filling out yet another form *yawn*. The Hotel's 'public relations' lady comes over and introduces herself to me. I ask about day trips and she informs me of/tries to sell me what they have on offer. I decide to go for a day in the Ourika Valley, between the first foothills of the Atlas Mountains and about 1hr30mins outside Marrakech; and a trip to Essaouira, a seaside town about an 1hr outside Marrakech for Saturday and Sunday respectively. I haven't got any money on me so i tell her i will pop out later, once i've settled in. After unpacking and a short rest, and much psyching up of self, i venture out on to the mean (rather clean, actually) streets of Marrakech.

The Hotel is located in Gueliz, which is Marrakech's new town and was built by the French during their occupation from 1912 to 1956. The new town is as different as can be from the old town, the Medina (see below for a movie clip of my trip into the Medina). Gueliz is home to the business district i.e. banks, hotels, restaurants serving western type food, a McDonalds, bars and nightclubs.

The streets are very wide and as i stand at the zebra crossing trying to get to the other side for 5 minutes hoping someone will stop and let me cross, it suddenly hits me that that just ain't gon' happen. Taking a deep breath, i step out and manage to make it to the centre of the road amidst angry horn tooting from the oncoming scooters and cars. Heart pounding, i realise i'm going to have to be assertive here, so i take a step forward. More angry tooting occurs, but i give the scooter driver a look that says 'ok. You're either going to let me pass, or you're going to run me over'. Thankfully, he lets me pass.

I follow my nose and stumble onto a busy road with aforementioned McDonald's and several banks. Yippee. I withdraw the cash for my day trips and return to l'hotel.

Venturing out - again...

"You take the blue pill and the story ends. You wake in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill and you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes".
Morpheus to Neo (The Matrix)

I'm one of those people who enjoys watching local television stations when abroad, so i shun BBC News 24 and flick through the other channels. There's a German one, Spanish one, French one, Al-Jazeera and a local Moroccan one. My highlights so far have been watching the Spanish version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire and German The Weakest Link. Great fun!

Later in the evening i literally have to drag myself away from the TV, but somehow, i manage it. I step out again, intending to find the Place Jemaa al Fna, the main square of Marrakech. At night, it's meant to come to life with food stalls, dancers, musicians, story-tellers, henna tattooists, and lots more. Definitely worth seeing, so i retrace my steps from my earlier trip out. At the busy road, i notice all the non-Moroccans heading in a particular direction, so i make like i know where i'm going and i follow. I'm like a man in that respect - i never ask for directions unless i have to, which usually turns out to be when i have become hopelessly lost.

Hardly anyone is out and about on the streets as it's the middle of Ramadan and everyone is at home, breaking their fasts. I stop to take a picture of something that's caught my attention, and that one simple act changes the course of my holiday. I reserve judgement as to whether for better or for worse.

A scooter swoops down on me and the driver rattles something off in rapid fire french-arabic. I reply with something to the effect of "me no speakie frenchie". Hey, Mr Oguchi my JSS french teacher was narcoleptic and spent 45 minutes of our 1 hour lessons asleep on his feet! He asks if i'm going to the Medina and i make the mistake of saying yes. He offers to take me. I say no, because i'm sensible. I do not know this man from Adam. There's no way i'm going to get on the back of his scooter and allow him to cart me off to goodness knows where in a strange, unfamiliar land. I remember that i was actually heading towards Place Jemaa El-Fna and i say so (turns out he speaks Anglais). He says there'll be no one there at this time (it was around 7pm). He's very persuasive and my resolve starts to crumble as i ask myself the point of coming to Marrakech on my own in search of adventure if i refuse to take any risks. "Oh, ok", i say. "Let's go".


The red pill...
I clamber on to the back of the scooter and away we go. My driver's name is Mustafa. Occupation - okada driver and part-time tourist guide (so says he).
"Take me", he says suddenly.
"Erm, what"?
"Take me".
It turns out he means i should grab hold of him. Now, if he was Josh Holloway on a Harley Davidson, he wouldn't have had to say it twice. Alas he is not, so i choke back my laughter and politely decline. "I'm fine, thanks".

We make idle chit chat and somewhere along the line, i invent a Fiance back home in London in response to his question, 'Are you married'? Some of the material i read beforehand actually suggested wearing a ring on your ring finger if you're a woman travelling alone. Suddenly, i realise the enormity of what i've done and i begin to speak in diverse tongues. "Father, your word says...".
Mustafa: You ok?
Me: Perfectamundo, mate! Just perfect! Never better.....Yea though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil...

First stop, the Koutoubia Mosque, the biggest mosque in Marrakech. It turns out that that day is the only day in the week on which non-muslims are allowed within the courtyard. I manage to get some good pictures, and then we resume our journey into the Medina. At this point, my apprehension that i might have hooked up with an axe-murderer has begun to dwindle and i somehow have the presence of mind to take out my camera and film part the journey. Please click here to share the experience with me.

Destination, Sahid's shop, a veritable Aladdin's cave nestled within a building in the labyrinth of dusty streets that make up the Medina. We go in and i'm invited downstairs to sit down. Sahid is a Berber Artisan who comes into Marrakech on a monthly basis to sell his silverware and other goods. He leads me down the stairs, warning me to mind my head on the door frame, but i still manage to knock my forehead. Aah well.

I ask if i can take pictures. He says fine. I take a couple. I've read that people might demand money for their pictures to be taken by tourists, and sometimes it gets ugly. I ask again and Sahid tells me they are Berber, not Arab. They don't mind. Hmm. Good to see North African tribalism at work!

No sooner have i sat down, than Mustafa swoops down with 2 bowls of soup. Oh no! I've always been squeamish about eating things whose origins i am unsure of, but do not wish to appear rude.

"What is this"? I ask.
"Vegetable soup", they reply. "Try it. It's good"
No spoons are provided so i mimic Mustafa and slurp the soup out of the side of the bowl, whilst noting to myself how surreal this whole experience is.

Vegetable soup is promply followed by mint tea, an accompaniment to every meal. "Do i want sugar"? "No", i reply, but they don't seem to be able to get their heads around the fact that i don't want sugar and proceed to cajole me. "Ok, already. Just a little". Sahid goes off and comes back with the tea. I take my first sip and it takes every ounce of self control i possess not to spit it out. Do you not understand the concept of little? The thing tastes as if it's one part mint tea, one part sugar! Disgusting!!! I manage a few more sips, but then i give up. If its a toss up between offending them and taking another sip of that goo, then sorry dudes...

Pleasantries out of the way, we begin to transact some business. What? You thought the vegetable soup and mint tea came without strings attached? Sahid begins to pull out some hand woven rugs and show me the intricate desgins, explaining how they've been hand woven with silk by Berber women in the Mountains. He whips out a cigarette lighter and holds it to one of them. I'm halfway up from my seat and about to knock it out of his hand, when he explains that pure silk does not burn. He demonstrates it and is proven right. Phew! Ok.

As you can see from the pictures, there are numerous rugs, of various designs and colours. Sahid pulls out a number and lays them on the floor, inviting me to take my shoes off and walk on them. I comply and then sit back down. They tell me the words for 'yes' and 'no', which i have now forgotten. He raises them up one by one and asks me to tell him if i like it or not. We finally settle on one rug, but i change my mind because i'm not quite sure how to fit it into my luggage. Also, the total price he gives me for the rug, a silver bracelet and another item is just too ridiculous for words. They actually have this fun system for bargaining. He takes out a little notebook and divides a page into two columns - one with my name and one with his. He then writes down his total price (which was 4,700 dirhams. At an exchange rate of approx. 15.6 dh to the £). I'm like, 'Yeah, right'! He says to not worry, just write down what i'm willing to pay. I write 500 Dh. He shakes his head in a mixture of shock and incredulity and is rendered partially speechless for a while.

Long story short, i select some smaller items as gifts for my family, and a bedspread for myself. Sahid gives me a ceramic bowl as a gift and i'm happy with the other stuff i got 'cos i know they'll make good gifts, but i still leave there feeling like i've been Punk'd! Well, i tell myself, that's my souvenir/gift budget blown on my first day.

I know Mustafa's was going to demand some sort of remuneration at some stage. As we leave, he lays it on me - 500 Dh. I laugh and say 'thou art not serious'! I beat him down eventually to 350 Dh, which i'm still not happy about but by now i'm tired and have had enough excitement for one night and wish to retire to my supposedly 4 star, but in actual fact 2.5 star hotel room, and just crash for the night.

He drives me to the cashpoint, where i find out i've exceeded the daily limit for withdrawals (£125 a day). Just great! I persuade Mustafa to come by the Hotel the following evening. He drops me off and i go to bed.

End of Day 1.

Overheard in Camden

Interesting Conversation
On my way to Sainsbury's yesterday, I turned off the High Street, taking a short cut to get to the Supermarket. About 100 yards in front of me, at the top of the side street i've turned onto, there is a couple - the woman sitting on the edge of the pavement and the man crouching beside her. Both are clutching beer cans. Both seem to be drunk and/or slightly spaced out. Both are black. The following conversation ensues.

Woman: People always treat me as if i'm ---- (i missed the last bit)
Man: It's because you're white, because you're white, because you're white.....

At this point, i had walked past them. But being the nosey so and so that i am, i had to do a double take, just to be sure my eyes hadn't deceived me.

They hadn't. She was black.


Marrakech trip update
I don't know why, but i can't seem to make myself blog about my trip. Perhaps i'm selfishly hanging on to the memories, savouring them for as long as i possibly can before sharing them with the world. Or maybe i'm just lazy. Your guess is as good as mine...

Outrage on the Southeastern Railway

I was on the train this afternoon, on the way to see my Mother. Nothing too untoward happened apart from the rain. I board the train and sit down and take out my magazine. The train pulls out of the station and we are on our way.

About half way through the journey, the man sitting across the aisle from me's umbrella, which he has propped against the seat, gets dislodged by the motion of the train, and it falls across the aisle, hits my thigh and lands at my feet, within my side of the carriage.

The man grabs a hold of the end of the umbrella and pulls it towards himself. He picks it up and stows it on his other side, thus securing it, and he returns to reading his newspaper.


I look at him and he pretends not to see me. "Excuse me", i say.

Man: ( with raised eyebrows): Yes?
Me:Your umbrella hit me when it fell.
Man (sarcastically): Injured, are you?
Me (with an equal amount of sarcasm): Of course not. But it's only polite to say sorry when something like that happens.
Man (in a subdued voice): Well, i'm sorry then.
"Whatever", i think to myself.

What is wrong with people? According to the British, it's Americans who are not supposed to understand irony, not black people (sorry to any Americans who might read this). What did he expect? That i would be so intimidated by his sarcasm, i'd have no response? Even if he hadn't realised the umbrella hit me, it had clearly landed in my space and he hadn't had the courtesy or gumption to say sorry. And when i point this out to him, he resorts to sarcasm. Blooming cheek!!!

I'm not really bothered actually, cos i'm happy with the response i gave, but i just felt like getting this off my chest...

Morocco was a dream!

Pinch me.....

Hi people. I got back yesterday evening. I had the time of my life! I'll be blogging very soon about what i got up to, the people i met, the sounds, the sights, the smells (not all pleasant!) etc etc.

Morocco is an amazing country. So far removed from what you can imagine if you havent been there. I would whole heartedly recommend it.

The highlight of my trip was hiking in the High Atlas mountains. Words to describe the experience fail me.....!!! But it's still great to be home

Here are some pictures....

Laters

Save the Cheerleader, save the world

Can i just say, before i begin, that the title of this post has no bearing whatsoever on the content thereof. I am, however, a serious Heroes nut and believe this to be like the coolest catchphrase ever, like.

So, anyway as you have probably deduced from my last post and this one too, i have nothing to blog about! I gat naathin' *in bad italian accent*. I'm on the brink of :




So it's just as well i leave for my holiday in Morocco next week!


Yes, God be praised!!!!

I know i'll come back revived....


Yee hah!!!

...and probably go into blogging overdrive



But here's a little story to tide you all over till then.

NB
Depending on your sex, you'll either laugh your head off



... or cross your legs and go "OUCH" or even "YEEPA"



Enjoy...

*****************************************
Football fight ends in near castration
TEXAS-OKLAHOMA | Fan wore wrong T-shirt in bar

September 12, 2007
BY SEAN MURPHY
OKLAHOMA CITY -- To some Oklahoma football fans, there are things that just aren't done in the heart of Sooner Nation, and one of them is to walk into a bar wearing a Texas Longhorns T-shirt.
That's exactly what touched off a bloody skirmish that left a Texas-shirt-wearing fan nearly castrated and an Oklahoma fan facing aggravated assault charges.

The shocking case has set off a raging debate in this football-crazed region about the extreme passions behind a bitter rivalry.

''I've actually heard callers on talk radio say that this guy deserved what he got for wearing a Texas T-shirt into a bar in the middle of Sooner country,'' said Irven Box, an attorney.

According to police, 32-year-old Texas fan Brian Christopher Thomas walked into Henry Hudson's Pub on June 17 wearing a Longhorns T-shirt and quickly became the focus of football ''trash talk'' from another regular, 53-year-old Oklahoma fan Allen Michael Beckett.

Thomas told police that when he went to the bar to pay his tab, Beckett grabbed him in the crotch, pulled him to the ground and wouldn't let go, even as bar patrons tried to break it up.

When the two men were separated, Thomas looked down and realized the extent of his injuries.

''He could see both of his testicles hanging on the outside of his body,'' said Thomas' attorney, Carl Hughes. ''He was wearing a pair of white shorts, which made it that much worse.''

It took more than 60 stitches to close the wound.

Beckett's attorney, Billy Bock, said it was just good-natured ribbing and that his client apologized to Thomas. Later, Bock said Thomas approached his client and threatened him.

''My guy was defending himself and just took control of the situation," the lawyer said.

On both Texas and Oklahoma fan Web sites, boosters trade tales of having their tires slashed or windshields smashed for sporting the opposing team's sticker in enemy territory.

Assistant District Attorney Scott Rowland said the rivalry will have no bearing on the way the case is prosecuted.

AP

Girls are like apples on trees

Girls are like
apples on trees. The best
ones are at the top of the tree.
The boys don't want to reach for
the good ones because they are afraid
of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they
just get the rotten apples from the ground
that aren't as good, but easy. So the apples
at the top think something is wrong with
them, when in reality, they're amazing.
They just have to wait for the right
boy to come along, the one
who's brave enough
to climb
all the way
to the top
of the tree.

borrowed from megan (whom i'm guessing is very young. Young, but profoundly wise :oD ).

Alright boys and girls, what say you?

Of itchy feet, bacteria, and hair

Went to get my hair done today and i was just thinking, on the list of my worst things in the world to do EVER, getting my hair done ranks very high. Unfortunately, it's one of those things that have to be done because (1) bad hair days suck like a vacuum, and (2) i have to keep perpetuating the myth amongst my non-black work colleagues, that i do indeed have naturally long and luscious locks growing out of my head....the suckers!!!

So, i take myself off to the salon because i failed to make an appointment with my favourite home-based underground economy-enjoying, hairdresser. As i step in , i'm greeted by a cacophony of chatter in an African language which i can't quite place. However, within seconds, they have me pegged as a Nigerian. They even manage to pinpoint my tribe (or ethnic group, if one is to be PC) as i pick out the word 'Yoruba' from one woman's otherwise unintelligible sentence after she looks me up and down. This prompts more up and down looks from the others as they check me out as if to confirm or refute their colleague's claim. Me, i'm like, yeah whatever, just come and plait my hair so i can get out of here and do some more exciting things with the rest of my Saturday.

Out of curiosity, I ask one of the ladies what language they're speaking. 'Igala', she says, 'from Congo'. Not very much else happens really. The 10 minute wait i was promised stretches out into half an hour, so i pull out my copy of Atonement by Ian McEwan and get stuck in. I must finish it before the film adaptation of the book opens in cinemas across the nation, come next weekend.

They eventually begin my hair, and i subsequently lose track of the number of people who actually take part in the process. It's all good, sha. The sooner i can get out of there the better. Maybe not so good actually, as one of them has a cold and keeps sneezing. To her credit she turns away when she does it. However, i'm a bit obsessive compulsive about things like that (i.e. what i choose to call human emissions). I have therefore developed strategies e.g when a person sneezes/coughs near you without covering their mouths, do not under any circumstances hold your breath immediately. It takes a few seconds, you see, for the bacteria laden mist to travel to you, and as such, you are not in any immediate danger of inhaling. Instead of holding your breath, take a deep breath of the air while it is still clean, and then by the time the horrible snotty mist hits your air space seconds later, you can effectively hold your breath until it passes. Try it. It works.

But still on the issue of turning away versus covering the mouth with a hand, at least since she turned away, the worst case scenario is that my clothes, the fine hairs on the back of my neck and on my arms get coated in a fine mist of snot. The alternative would be that she sneezes into her hand (as good manners dictate), and then continues to plait my hair, thus leaving a permanent deposit on my person. I think i got the lesser of the two evils, don't you?

Anyway, that was that, sha. Hair finished, paid up the salon inflated price with great resentment. Note to self, next time you will contribute to the underground economy and you will like it too!

I'm already picturing the scene at work on Monday morning.

Colleagues - Aah UndaCova, you've changed your hairstyle again

UndaCova (with narrowed eyes and through gritted teeth) - It's called getting your hair done, not changing your hairstyle (in my mind, 'how many times to i have to repeat that'!!!!)

I don't know, but to me the whole concept of 'changing your hairstyle' on a frequent basis speaks of some airheaded Bimbo who's is unable to make up their mind about how to wear their hair. Totally different kettle of fish. We (most black women) have no choice!

Also, speaking of bacteria, my feet are getting severely itchy (in the metaphorical sense, mind you! Besides, a foot infection would be fungal, wouldn't it? Oh, never mind...). I'm starting to feel that it's time for me to move on after 12 years of living in the city of London. I'm beginning to crave a new challenge. You know, the initial buzz you get when you visit a new place, perhaps on holiday. Except i wouldn't return from this particular holiday. I think London is a lovely city, especially by night. However, i think i've exhausted its unlimited resources. Theatreland, museums and art galleries, concerts and festivals, Oxford Street, the Royal Parks, my local parks, restaurants, cafes, walks along the river. I've even done a few london walks mixing in with the tourists. Great fun and you discover aspects of the city you had no clue existed even though you pass right by them everyday. On the downside, you must wear comfortable shoes. Fashion faux pas extraordinaire!!

My feet are itchy. I need a new challenge, although it might just be that i haven't had a proper holiday in two years. Which is why i promptly cancelled my scheduled trip to Naija next month (cos that would just not be a break in the true sense of the word, you get me?) and booked myself a break to Marrakech, Morocco. My first ever solo holiday, because, did i mention, i love a good old challenge. I'm looking forward to it loads and what i do next depends on how i feel when i get back.

It's a great feeling to know that i have options! That i can just up and go, and build a life in a new city (New York is looking very good at the moment). I have an 'impressive' (don't mean to sound cocky) CV and work history that means that i can work almost anywhere in the world. And to think that at the time i was racking up that history and going through hell and highwater, being underpaid and over worked and countless times in my mind jacking it all in, i thought i was suffering. But now, several years later, here i stand with doors of opportunity open to me! All i can say to that is that persistence pays off in the end.

Well, that was my Saturday for you. I'm also quite annoyed with myself because i failed to save the second draft of another post i've been working on and now have to start all over. Anyhoo, watch this space.

Over and out.

When does a 'Miss' become a 'Ms'?

I ask this question because i feel i am at a crossroads. I look at my name in print sometimes and i wonder if the title 'Miss' is still appropriate for me.

I did some research and there does not appear to be any general consensus. To one person, 'Miss' refers to an unmarried woman aged under 25. To another, it refers to an unmarried woman, full stop.

'Mrs' clearly refers to a married woman, or a married woman who has chosen to take on her husband's surname and relinquish her maiden name.

'Ms', apparently was introduced at the height of the feminist movement, in order to level the playing field between men and women, under the premise that the title 'Mr' was used to refer to all men, regardless of their marital status, and hence woman should be afforded the same right. Some believe it is used when you do not want people to know your marital status. Others believe it is used for the more mature unmarried woman.

I think i would instinctively go with the last definition for 'Ms'. To me, the use of the title 'Miss' after a certain age conjures images of an old spinster who probably works in a Library and lives alone with her cats (forgive the stereotype).


However, the title 'Ms' at the same stage in life would be more likely to convey the image of a so-called strong, independent career woman.



Hmm, I was just wondering...........

Psst, they're on to me..........

6.00pm and the paranoia is rising. I can taste the bile in my mouth. My mouth is dry. I'm laughing hysterically and can't seem to stop myself. I'm having hallucinations. Hold on a minute...I think it's a hallucination. If it's not, then my imaginary friend named Shaneequa has just rolled up a joint, lit it, and is now offering me a drag while bouncing a baby gorilla on her knee. Did i mention the snow white Unicorn galloping across my living room?

They're on to me. No, SHE!!! She is on to me. What should i do? WHAT SHOULD I DOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ok, calm down, calm down. CALM DOWN! *slaps self upside the head a couple of times*. Ok, i'm calm, i'm calm, and here's what happened...

I had the day off work yesterday, and my sister came round to visit with my nieces and nephew. Noticing my laptop cranked up and running, she decides to check her email. It appears she has an email account with every web-based email provider, therefore, inevitably, she clicks on the iGoogle page, which just so happens to be logged on to my account *strangled sob*.

Big sis (with one eyebrow raised inquisitively) - "Undacovasista?"
Me (nonchalantly) - Yeah.

She says no more. But i know her. She is razor-sharp. It runs in the family, you see *flicks imaginary speck of dust off each shoulder in turn*. FOCUS!! Ok, as i was saying, she is sharp. I have on a few occasions forwarded Blogsville posts that have tickled me to her. I have no way to tell if she has since discovered Blogsville for herself, but if she has, then it's only a matter of time before she discovers my blog. Aaaaaaaaargh!!!

Casting my mind back, there is nothing on here that's incendiary, egregious or unconscionable in anyway, but this assumed identity thing is half the fun of blogging, isn't it?

So, i have contacted the authorities and i have been offered protection if i need it. Going on the Witness Protection Programme is a big step. I'll have to give up everything i hold dear, and say goodbye to my identity as Undacovasista. Am i ready to do that? I don't know. But if i do have to go away suddenly, i'll make sure i leave coded messages at strategic locations around Blogsville, so you all will know that i'm still alive *sobs*. Adieu, my virtual friends. Adieu. I'll never forget you or the the times we've shared....

NSPCC (National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children ) petition

With a new Prime Minister taking residence in 10 Downing Street, a newly re-elected First Minister in Wales and new leaders for the Northern Ireland Executive, now is a great opportunity for the NSPCC to influence these governments to benefit children.

Children have the fundamental right to be safe wherever they are, in school, on the streets and at home. This right is not respected and I have just taken action to ask my new leader to make children a priority for their first hundred days in power.

Please join me in supporting this call to make children a political priority where you live.

Click here for the PETITION

You really can make a difference. Even if you cannot commit to fundraising or campaigning, a regular monthly donation goes a long way to providing the following services for children, amongst others:
- Services directly for children and families
- Child protection helplines and websites
- Public awareness, education and motivation to take action
- Partnership with other child protection organisations
- Professional training on safeguarding and child protection
- Research on the causes of, and effects of child abuse

Thank you.

Grand gesture? Pass me the sick bucket!

Romantic farmer's son wins girlfriend's hand with 50-metre high proposal cut in cornfield | the Daily Mail

By the way, what is a sick bucket? Do they have a special aisle in supermarkets for them and labels saying 'These buckets are to be used for nothing else but projectile vomit.....'

And while we're on the topic, what is a toe-rag? A rag made specially for wiping your toes? Me no gerrit!!!

But back to the article. Me i don't dig these so-called grand gestures. For me to be tripped, it would have to be something that hasnt been done before. Forget about proposals on national tv on Jerry Springer type shows, or flashing names up during the trailers at a movie (sooooo last century), or writing stuff on the ground, flying banners in the sky etc etc.

Male sex appeal lies in face shape - Telegraph

Male sex appeal lies in face shape - Telegraph

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. But how do i get them to keep still while i whip out my tape measure to take their measurements?

This one goes out to all speakers of Christianese - Delay is Not Denial!!!

And so it begins again. Someone i'm not interested in is interested in me - AGAIN! People (number 1 on the list: my mother) say i'm picky. I say i just know what i want. I'm particular. I have discerning taste, therefore it's hard to accept second best. I'd rather keep striving, that's what makes me particular. I know that sounds as if i'm looking for perfection. I truly am not. Perfection does not exist. I'm mature enought to understand that. But i still know what i want, and i'm afraid this guy isn't it.

I'm one of life's 'nice' people. How i hate that word! It's a four letter word to me. One that lazy people use in order to neatly lump people into those little boxes they have pre-prepared in their little minds. Yes, i have values that won't allow me to treat my fellow humans with anything less than respect and kindness (until they prove themselves unworthy. Then, boy do i turn!). But please, do not stick labels on me. I refuse to be labeled. I also digress. Where was i?

Ok, i'll use the four lettered 'n' word for the purposes of this post. Being one of life's 'nice' people, people tend to be drawn to me. It's just a fact of life. And men who are in the place of wanting to settle down tend to be drawn to me also because they feel i'll make them a goody, goody two-shoes little wife. 'What's the problem with that', i hear you say. It pisses me off, big time! A lot of people don't understand it. I just thank God for the level of self-awarenesss he's blessed me with. Otherwise, i could have been married at least 4 times over by now i.e. 4 good men have been ready to marry me and all i ever had to do was say 'yes', but i said 'no'.

Friends never pass up opportunities to remind me of this. After one of said men's wives gave birth to a gorgeous set of twins, one friend even 'joked' that those would have been my twins, and everything within me rejected that. It was almost like a physical thing. Jeremiah 1:5 says:

" Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
before you were born I set you apart;
I appointed you as a prophet to the nations."

Thank you friend. I know you were only joking, or half-serious, but my children haven't been formed yet, however, God knows them...... Delay is not denial (sorry, i had to get the title in somehow, even tho' i'm the most anti-christianese person i know!)

Yeah, so there's this dude on the scene. And props to him, he's got game. He's played it really subtle - you know, lots of group hangs, very non-threatening. I guess, i'm just too sharp for my own good. But now he's looking to take things to the next level i.e. one on one invites. Still very subtle-like. But i'm on to him.

It's at this point that people begin to say 'give him a chance, give him a chance'. Heck, i think that to myself sometimes, but back to the issue of being particular. I do know what i want. Different people want and need different things out of a relationship. Me, i want a deep connection. For some it might be quiet stability, or steady comfort, or flexible independence or connection and partnership. Some women just want a nice home and a husband and children to look after and nourish. This is equally as valid as anything else. But me, i'm not willing to compromise on my need for a deep connection, however, can this connection be 'created'? To me, that's like trying to beat a square peg into a round hole. I believe that there has to be even the smallest spark of connectedness in order to begin to build on it and fan it into a flame. If there's nothing there to begin with, why deceive yourself by trying, or giving 'chances'.
Here's an interesting post by Ugo Daniels on Soul mates

Back to the 'christianese' in the title. All around me, i see relationships breaking up. Even good christian folk are getting divorced, some of them friends of mine. This gives me pause. I mean, i was there during the courtship period. The men were epitomes of sincerity, love, honour and respect for their intendeds. I was happy for my friends. They were finally getting what they deserved. Unfortunately, after the lavish ceremonies, when all the guests went home, true colours began to emerge. Of course it takes two to Tango, and both parties must assume some responsibility, in these cases, the men turned, and then some! I don't need to go into detail, but that's another thing that bugs me. I mean, short of strapping men down to lie detector machines as part of the pre-marital counselling process, how do you know when a person is being real?

I'm a sucker for romance, and i want to be wooed. Heck, i deserve to be wooed!!! But what is to say that my Prince Charming doesnt turn into a troll the moment he slips that ring on my finger. When i voice these sentiments, people say 'have faith', 'trust God', 'think/confess positive' etc, etc, you fill in the gaps with all those other 'christianese' type phrases. I don't do that any more. Why? Because it doesnt address the problem.

My feelings are valid. Every single one of them, good or bad. So rather than sweep them under the rug of positive confessions, i hold them up before God and we examine them together. I think we sometimes think that God's feelings will be hurt if we dare question him. But what kind of relationship precludes open and honest dialogue? There are even times when i (shock, horror) question the existence of God! Sometimes, it's hard not to. However, i'm blessed in that i've been through enough with him, so many situations and circumstances where he has come through for me, where i've experienced his hand and his intervention. So all i need to do is remind myself of these. There is no logical explanation for God and i struggle with this because i am a logical person. But i have faith and i believe and that has nothing to do with logic.

Ok, i better try and bring these ramblings to a conclusion. Is there a possibility that if i keep holding out for my 'deep connection', i might get left on the proverbial shelf? Isn't the alternative to that lowering my standards? Why does it sound really hollow and unbelievable even to my own ears when i say things like 'there are other things i'd like to focus on right now e.g. my career, hobbies and interests, travel, self-development, rather than obsessing about my marital status?

Peace out.........................

How I Connect

My connection type is The In-depth Conversationalist


How Do You Connect?

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The Landlord video

Very funny!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Landlord video

I works hard for me money

Crappy jobs. We've all had them, haven't we? I was musing recently on what i consider to be the worst job i've ever done. And before i go on, i'm not ashamed to admit i've done early momo cleaning in this town. But this job i speak of sure did take the (cabin) biscuit.

Anyway, not having the good fortune to have been born with a silver spoon in my gob, i had to work my way through University. I got a job as a Market Research Telephone Interviewer, which is the height of soul destroying toil, and i challenge anyone to say otherwise. The only redeeming factor about the job was you could choose which days and times (i.e. day or evening) you worked each week. Talk about drudgery. This was it! I would look forward to the break times with everything within me 'cos i did meet and make friends with some really cool people along the way. Nothing is more binding than a shared hatred of a crappy job, let me tell you. And by the way, this isn't said 'crappiest job'. I'm getting to that.

So sha, i finally realised that i had the power to take my destiny into my own hands and actually find another job. The only problem was i would need to find something equally as flexible. After days of scouring the newspapers, followed by some inner struggles which i eventually overcame, i decided to answer an ad in the papers for a .............

To be continued

Bizarre English Metaphors (and Similes)

Some of these are laugh out loud funny!!! Infact, i can't choose any favourites, they are all incredibly inventive, not to mention, stupid!!!

*Every year, English teachers from across the USA can submit their collections of actual analogies, similies, and metaphors found in high school essays. These excerpts are published each year to the amusement of teachers across the country. Here are last year's winners . . .

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.
5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever. (Ok,this one's good)

7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup. (Eww, gross...)

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze. (gotta give props for this one)

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River. (morbid..)
18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do. (you don't say...)

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work. (Nice one)
21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something. (yeah, maybe!)

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant. (is nothing sacred?!)

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools. (hunh?)

25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

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Please feel free to post your own efforts!!!

It was only a matter of time, Beyonce

Tehehehe!!!

Sour grapes? Me? Nooooooooooo

Naija men, please help a sister out.....

I hope my title has been snappy enough to catch people's attention! Anyway, i just need help on a topic that's been preying on my mind.

I was at a wedding the other day, and a thought occured to me. People say weddings are a good place to meet single guys/girls, but in my experience of naija weddings (in GB), this is not true at all. As i mentioned this to a friend sitting beside me in the Church service that day, we mused as to why nigerian men tend to 'bone' a lot at weddings in particular. For example, your eyes meet (totally innocently, as you cannot walk around the whole day with your eyes glued to the ground) and they immediately look affronted, as if to say 'what you looking at'? And i just don't get it, hence my question. Why, oh, why do you guys like to 'bone', 'frank' your faces, or whatever else you want to call it?

Please help. Closure needed, fast!!!!!!!!