The Foreign Palette
There was a time when the idea of going abroad was almost always accompanied by the thought of the culinary experience unique to the area, that you could not get in England. Those were the days when eating out in London meant Fish and Chips. Imagine getting on that ferry to France and smelling the coffee aroma as you entered their small cafes, and eating fresh baguettes, or a little croissant with your coffee, as you joined the French in their hobby of smoking their strong smelling cigarettes. So chic, and so much more appetising than eating greasy Fish and Chips. And of course, by eating this simple French fare you immediately felt that your holiday had begun, and you were indeed now on French soil, and the shores of Blighty were far away. What joy! But foreign travel, and the proliferation of so many restaurants in London, where you can experience the culinary delights of almost any culture in the world, has meant that such a journey of experiencing new tastes is almost routine.
Before my journey began, my mouth would start salivating at the thought of enjoying foods on my travels, that you cannot experience in London. You can enjoy Moroccan cuisine in any trendy city. But to enjoy the Moroccan round breads with all the texture associated with their freshness being baked on the day in local furnaces, you have to go to the country itself. And there is even more: every fruit, sweet to the taste, and the smoothest, and tastiest yoghurts, that no big commercial company has been able to replicate.
Apple tea in Turkey is absolutely delicious and refreshing. But try bringing that tea back, and making it with water from England; and the taste is completely lost. If only they could bottle the Turkish water, and sell it with the tea, what a delight it would be enjoying Turkish apple tea in England. Or would it still taste delightful? Is it the Turkish sunshine that adds to the flavour?
Some foods do travel well, but for some reason are impossible to get in this city of diversity. Guyanese shandy with its sweet flavours of sorrel, champagne, and lime, puts other shandies in the shade with its unique flavour, that many other Caribbean countries have tried to imitate; but only Guyanese shandy tastes as beautiful as when I enjoy it in its country of origin, once I get it out of my suitcase. Having tasted the imitations that have come close to the flavour, I have to surmise that the manufacturers of this wonderful drink know how to keep the recipe close to their chests, like a well-known soft drink conglomerate. I still find it is a mystery as to why I cannot get it in London. I have to satisfy myself with the coconut water from the fresh coconuts sold at the local market, and dream of my next trip to these exotic places to savour their unique tasty foods.
Marilyn Bond
The Mixing Bowl
The excitement in the air simmered like a pot of steamy patna rice, each grain on the verge of bursting. I knew it was Christmas Eve because Mom was in the kitchen preparing for the masterpiece that would be her Black Cake. There were many stars in this performance, but centre stage was the enormous glazed mixing bowl, fudge brown on the outside and creamy white on the inside. The bowl had been in the family for years and stayed in the cupboard until the festive ritual that was the making of the Christmas cake, on Christmas Eve. The supporting cast congregated in the shadow of the bowl – butter, Demerara sugar, eggs, burnt sugar, soaked fruits, spices and flour. First in were butter and sugar, beaten together with Mom’s wooden spoon, making a slopping sound against the sides of the bowl as they were blended and melded to form the smooth creamy base ready for the next act. Next in were the eggs, cracked in a separate bowl, with a generous dash of lime to “take away the fresh”. Mom’s wooden spoon went back to work, holding the bowl firmly on her lap, cradled in her arm, and slapping and wapping until those yolks and whites disintegrated in the slippery, sloppery batter. Once cool, burnt sugar, dark as night, was gently swirled, a stunning contrast against the creamy white of the bowl. Mom unscrewed the lid of the ‘klippon jar’ and spooned out generous heaps of mixed fruit that had been minced and soaked in dark rum and ruby wine for several months prior to the ‘big night’. The smell tantalised my nostrils, the closest I would get to alcohol for many years. Gently, ever so gently, Mom stirred the fruits to combine with the batter, turning it into a dark and mottled mix. The bowl was now placed on the worktop so that Mom could sift the flour, holding the sieve in one hand and tapping it with the other. As big as the mixing bowl was, drifts of flour always ended up on the worktop, but Mom was oblivious to this as she focused on folding in the flour and baking powder, very gently so as to keep in the air. The show was almost over, as Mom held the bowl and scraped its contents into a greased and floured cake tin. The mixing bowl had made its annual appearance, containing all the ingredients that a couple of hours later would transform into Mom’s dark, moist, deliciously pungent Black Cake. It would be meticulously washed and dried and carefully replaced in the cupboard, a special performer in many Christmases to come.
Enomwoyi Damali
Food of the Devil
“I’m vegetarian!” And what’s more, I’m a vegetarian who eats neither meat nor fish. But don’t worry! Don’t fret! Don’t wonder, “What on earth does she eat?”! There are loads of things that I can and do eat. And in fact I’m very easy to please. For example, one of my favourite dishes is sweetheart cabbage. A plate of that cooked with some onions, tomatoes and sweet pepper and I’m in heaven. Quite honestly I can drool at the sight of it just like you might do at the sight of a piece of steak sizzling in the pan, or a whole chicken, roasting golden brown in the oven. Well that’s what happens to me at the sight of sweetheart cabbage, or pak choi, or spinach. My salivary glands go into overdrive, stomach starts rumbling, brain starts imagining the first delicious crunch. Nearly all green vegetables have that “hmmm” effect on me….. except one.
And this goes back to school dinners which I must say, for the most part, I loved. But, terror filled my nostrils on those days when I went into that dining hall to find the air heavy with that awful, awful smell. The sort of malodorous stench that in any other situation you would rush to mask with non-environmentally friendly air freshener, like Haze or Glade. And, then, as I got closer to the food counter, the sight of them, submerged in lukewarm water, like eye balls wrapped in decomposing leaves. And not the fresh green leaves of spring either but the half dead, dirty green and yellow of trampled winter leaves. There they sat, mushy, disintegrating at the slightest touch. “No thank you”, I begged for them not to be transferred in their nefarious glory to contaminate the rest of my lunch. “They’re good for you”, with a look and a tone that stated, “You will have them. You will eat them. And, you will enjoy them”. The slotted ladle scooped out what seemed like a hundred of the greeny-browny stinking monster babies, though there probably weren’t more than half a dozen. And some of the putrid water transferred too, mixing with the gravy, making a gungy spiral pattern. I would pick up my plate and take the slow walk to the dining table, like the last desperate steps to the execution chamber. My usual excitement at sitting down to enjoy the gastronomic expertise of the school dinner replaced by an absolute dread and a desperate hope that I would, yet again, be able to scrape it into the pig bin without anyone noticing. Because of course I had never, ever, tasted one. I think once I might have got one within a couple of inches of my nose before deciding that really was a fate worse than death.
And of course they’re forever associated with the festive season. The time of peace and goodwill. Of giving and receiving. Of sharing plentiful celebratory fare. Festive fare ruined by the sight and smell of them. Co-habiting with delicacies that do have their rightful place on the Christmas platter. Oh, people have tried to persuade me of their culinary and nutritional excellence. “You’ve just had a bad experience!” “Try them lightly fried in butter with cashew nuts!” “They’re just like mini cabbages really … and you like cabbage don’t you!” “They only smell when they’re over-cooked!” Really? Well you stay there with your crunchy, non-smelly, lightly fried in butter served with cashew nut mini cabbage because I’m a long, long way off from seeing them for anythi
ng other than what they are … the food of the devil.
Enomwoyi Damali
Is Dis a Pattie?
Is dis a pattie which I see before me?
Come let me nyam thee
De answer to me belly
Come ‘ere nah man!
Me ‘ave de not, yet me crave de still
Why unno like to torment me so?
You treating me bad man
Me belly ah gripe me for true
Is you ah figment of I an’ I imagination?
But wait! Wha’ you ah say?
Me still see you
A you dat drag me ‘ere y’know
Me left me rice ‘n’peas….chicken….dumpling….plantain.…
Chah nah man, me gone!
Brenda Garrick
Cox’s Orange Pippin
I have a relationship with Pippin
Don’t ask me when did it begin
Time stops when I’m holding her
And we ‘ave been together forever.
I like to see her blushing red
With little cracks about her head.
I like her big and gorgeous
I like her firm to my touch.
When Orange Pippin brush my lips
I see images of swaying hips,
And nectar seeping down my throat
And I’m ecstatic, sipping it.
Leibert Kirby
Return to contents page
Relationships
Precious if courted
A gift of light shining through
Taken for granted
Marilyn Bond
I Release and let go
I release and I let go
I let the Spirit run my life
And my heart is open, wide.
Yes, I’m only here for God
No more struggles, no more strife
With my faith I see the light
I am free in my spirit.
Yes, I’m only here for God.
Jennifer Harris
Living With all the Silence
They were people I did not know and could not imagine,
Who walked into World War One, and came out, if they did,
altered beyond the scope of this piece.
And I never questioned, when I found in the family memorabilia
bits of old striped ribbons, bits of metal, odds of things.
I wonder now when there is no one to ask, who earned these,
for which World War? What action, what horrors had they seen?
Nobody spoke, post war, of these things, in my growing up in the
50s and 60s. I entered a changing society – life sucks you up and
sucks you in, whatever position you take.
When you get time, when working for Lewisham is over,
to sit again by the sidelines and think,
a wanting to know, supersedes living with a family history untold.
Do I forget, or do I take steps?
When discovered, the answer will have many applications.
Margaret Winstanley
Virtual Life and Real Life
What do we really need to know to succeed in life and to live a happy life? Of course we know that we need certain basics to start off with: food and shelter. Then, as we live in modern times we need money for bills and everything else.
But once we have these things then what do we need? Family, friends, something to do: either paid
work or voluntary work. But we need to do something or we’d just sleep in all day and eventually die of boredom.
We need love and friendship. How do we learn about love? Parents/friends/media/ school/ college/university? Spiritual Love- God, life after death, purpose in life / Romantic Love-husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend / Platonic Love-friends, colleagues.
Virtual Life
How many people have more than 100 friends/followers on Facebook or Twitter? Or even more than 1000? Out of all the friends you have, how many would you invite to stay at your house, and how many would invite you to stay at their house? How many of your friends would come to see you if you were very ill in hospital? You need to ask yourself hard questions about who are your real friends, and are they really showing you the path to success and happiness in your life? Are they helping you do better in life?
Expressing your feelings to loved ones and blogging or tweeting your thoughts are two different things. People often use Twitter/Facebook as a soap box to express their anger or resentment over things they cannot control. As much as we love living in the virtual world, a hug, a long chat over a glass of wine or a phone call to a loved one far away is more valuable than any social media valuation.
It is cool to keep in quick contact with friends, but real life is always best for those that matter. Pokes, Likes and Comments are not the same as lunches, beach trips and dinner parties...
True and real friends are the ones who will help you achieve something positive in your life.
Often, people who are dying have not truly realised the full benefits of old friends, until their dying weeks and it was not always possible to track them down. Many had become so caught up in their own lives that they had let golden friendships slip by over the years. There were many deep regrets about not giving friendships the time and effort that they deserved. We miss our friends when we are dying.
It is common for anyone in a busy lifestyle to let friendships slip. It all comes down to love and relationships in the end. That is all that remains in the final weeks: love and relationships.
Real Life
There was a nurse I heard about who worked in palliative care. Her patients were those who had gone home to die. She was with them for the last three to twelve weeks of their lives. Each patient experienced a variety of emotions, as expected: denial, fear, anger, remorse, more denial and eventually, acceptance.
The most common regret of all was that when people realize that their life is almost over, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled, and they die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made.
Not going for a career that is one that you really love, and just going into something for money. By simplifying your lifestyle, you can find that you don’t need as much money as you may think you do.
Many people suppressed their feelings in order to keep peace with others. As a result, they settled for a mediocre existence and never became who they were truly capable of becoming. Many developed illnesses relating to the bitterness and resentment they carried as a result. We cannot control the reactions of others, but by speaking honestly, in the end it raises the relationship to a whole new and healthier level. Either that or it releases the unhealthy relationship from your life. Either way, you win.
Many did not realise until the end that happiness is a choice. They had stayed stuck in old patterns and habits. Fear of change had them pretending to others, and to themselves, that they were content, when deep within, they longed to laugh properly and have silliness in their life again.
When you are on your deathbed, what others think of you is a long way from your mind. A genuine smile will make a difference to someone’s life, long before you are dying. It’s crucial to remember our dreams for our lives. If you lose your health, it is too late. With health we have a freedom we can easily forget about, until it’s gone.
Edozie Ameke
Friendship
I get really passionate when I think of my friends. I have more female friends than men. But here I am speaking in a loud voice about my wonderful, marvellous, supportive girlfriends. This was tested when I had a terrible accident and ended up in hospital. I live by myself, so getting ill unexpectedly/suddenly, leaves you in the verbal diarrhoea.
My friends supported me. They came in droves whilst I was in the hospital. I counted ninety in nine days, but I think there was more because I was in a druggy state and even now people still come up to me in the street and tell me they visited me.
When I arrived home – friends, including
my family were there for me. Bringing me food, newspapers and my favourite sweets, wine gums. My nephew bought me the wrong brand that costs six times more than the Aldi’s version of 31 pence.
My girlfriend whom I’ve known for 25 years has always been there for me. When she learnt of my illness she burst into tears. I love her so much and discovered that we may be distant cousins – you know how sometimes in Jamaica they say ‘everybody mixed up’. She is always there for me, phones me and protects me.
My friends are loyal – sometimes there may be one or two that show their true colours. They are quickly erased from my address book. The advantage is that they can easily be erased, unlike some family members who need to be literally kicked to the curb . But the saying, “blood is thicker than water” really does work. So your family is there as your foundation.
I did not take up my father’s mantra: the good friend is the dead friend. Daddy, I love you, but you are so wrong. So wrong…
Gloria Brown
Mother’s Milk
Pope Francis is different. He has a way of making you sit up and take notice. He seems to make a virtue of unconventionality. On Sunday, 12th January, the Pontiff was baptizing 32 babies in the Sistine Chapel. I gather this is an annual ritual. It is reported that the Pontiff told the mothers “If they are hungry, mothers, feed them tranquilly. Because they are the protagonists here.” On the face of it, inviting mothers to feed their hungry babies is a very reasonable thing to do.
Back in December, Pope Francis said women should not be uncomfortable about breast-feeding during his ceremonies. It is therefore clear that on Sunday, the Pope was telling the mothers that it was all right to breastfeed their babies in the awesome splendour of the Sistine Chapel; underneath Michelangelo’s famous fresco of the Creation of Man.
I get the impression that some women in Great Britain view childbearing as something alien, requiring study at university. As for breast-feeding, well, a bottle is so much more convenient, and less embarrassing. Having been born in Antigua, I see breast-feeding from a different perspective. I think it is fair to say that Caribbean women view childbearing, and all that goes with it, as the most natural thing in the world. I spent my first 13 years in a village where there were always babies about, and I cannot remember a baby being fed from a bottle. Mothers unblushingly unbuttoned their blouses, and fed their babies with natural milk, with no thought of Nestle.
I trust I am not giving the impression that I want to see women breast-feeding all over London. I have no such wish. The honest truth is that breast-feeding in the U.K. is as much a problem for men as it is for women. The dual function of the mammary gland is very confusing for men. A gland which signals “there is a woman in front of you” also doubles as a feeding post. How confusing is that! Judging from the television adverts, men in this country already have a virility problem. We cannot risk making this situation worse.
All babies should be breastfed. My understanding is that this has health benefits for both baby and mother. We should make breast-feeding a human right for babies, and everybody should accept this. More provision should be made to facilitate breast-feeding in public places. But are we ready to have sexy Italian women breast-feeding in the Sistine Chapel? I am not sure. The Holy Father should spare a thought for tourists, particularly the prudish ones from the U.K.
Leibert Kirby
It’s a Wonder!
I love red
You love black
I love patterned
You love plain
I love theatre
You love film
It’s a wonder we get on at all!
I love cats
You love dogs
I love latte
You love herbal
I love peaches
You love plums
It’s a wonder we get on at all!
I love hot
You love cool
I love day
You love night
I love saving
You love spending
It’s a wonder we get on at all!
I love Scrabble
You love Chess
I love Zumba
You love sport
I love veggies
You love meat
It’s a wonder we get on at all!
I love cool
You love spicy
I love English
You love maths
I love baking
You love woodwork
It’s a wonder we get on at all!
But...
I love you
You love me
I love our children
You do too
You are my soul mate
I am yours
It’s no wonder we get on so well!
Enomwoyi Damali
Wild about Harry!
No, no, no, no, NO!
What do you mean Harry didn’t end up with Hermione!?!
Who is this Cho Chang, Chang Cho anyway? An interloper, that’s what! I know nothing about her, don’t care for her; JK Rowling made an unforgivable mistake - why give her Harry’s first kiss?
The signs are peppered throughout the books, Hermione loves Harry! I may not be Britain’s greatest detective but I wasn’t born yesterday!!! JK is having a laugh!
JK is going to have to rewrite the last 3 books and the films are going to have to be reshot! End of!
Why-oh-why did Harry marry Ginny - the gormless family if ever there was one!
Brenda Garrick
My Date
We have animated conversations - he can be enthusiastic
Last time I even got online and bought a ticket to ride the train all the way to the Midlands.
When I got back to messaging him again, he was already absent
I felt abandoned, uncared for, somehow diminished.
At other times I recall our wish to meet.
I believe it's mutual. One day soon, in my busy life, I will stop again and try..
But the brush-offs are accumulating.
So, ask me if I care.
Hey J, I am coming to stay, I have an event in October
But, brace yourself, it may be sooner.
I might get creative next weekend.
Family if ever there was one!
Margaret Winstanley
Pens
When I first attended Judges Hill School in Antigua, aged 6, I was given a slate to write on. There was a nail-like tool to write on the slate, and I always ensured that it had a sharp point. You could say that was my first pen. I have been intrigued by pens ever since.
One of my teachers at Judges Hill School was Miss Geraldine Joseph, and my chief memory of Teacher Geraldine is her pen. She had a maroon fountain pen. It was the best pen in the primary school, and I greatly admired it. When I returned to Antigua for the first time in 1976, with a wife and a two-year-old son, I visited Teacher Geraldine. She had actually given up teaching, and was secretary to a Member of Parliament. Needless to say, I mentioned her 1950s pen.
Some of my pens cost me nothing: they were handed out by salesmen to advertise their goods. My wife, Delacy, used to be a good source of pens which she got from medical reps. Nowadays I am more fussy, and tend to choose free pens which have Parker compatible refills. In fact, I notice that a lot of promotional pens now have Parker compatible refills. This is useful, as I can use one refill for a number of pens.
Where do my pens come from? Well, they come from a number of places. I was awarded some good quality Parker pens when working for an insurance company in the 1980s. I must admit that I have managed to lose most of them, but I keep on getting new ones. About 15 years ago, when we lived in Streatham, I spent £21.00 on two pens from H. Samuel, the jewellers. I still have the fountain pen, but I have not seen its ballpoint companion for several months. I still expect to find it. I am remarkably positive when it comes to pens.
Roughly eighteen months ago, I went to the Filofax shop in central London to check out the pens. I was
impressed by the pens on display, but did not want to spend more than £20. My £20 could only get me a miniature pen. It is really small; but the good thing is that although I had not used the pen for months, I was able to write with it today. The ink in most ball point pens dries up if the pen is left unused for several months. This suggests that my Filofax pen uses ink of real quality; which is just as well, as I could have bought twenty promotional pens for the £20.00 I spent on a single Filofax ballpoint.
You may be surprised to hear that most weeks I go to a local car boot sale, looking for pens. I am much more discriminating now than I used to be. At first I did not buy fountain pens, as I did not use them. Now, I do include fountain pens in my collection, and I make an effort to use them. I have a few fountain pens which I am pleased with, and I try not to think of those which I did not bother with in the past. I find that I do like the feel of an elegant stainless steel pen in my hand.
I guess nearly half my pens are Parkers, but I also have Sheaffer, Cross and Papermate. My most expensive pen is probably a large gold plated Sheaffer. I do not know how much was paid for it, as it was a present; but I guess it cost about £100.00, and that was a few years ago. But the Sheaffer is not my favourite pen. I value some of my pens because of how I acquired them. I was given a stainless steel Parker and a gold plated Parker about 12 years ago by an antique dealer. I still have those two pens, and I would be really upset if they were lost. I also have some pens which I picked up for a song, which I am very fond of.
There are 50 to 60 pens in my collection at present. What are they worth? That is not a question which interests me. Pens, like roses, have beauty and elegance, and it is great to be surrounded by beautiful things. I aim to grow my pen collection, and to improve its quality.
Leibert Kirby
The Telegram
A piece of paper, just one line, a young life has gone, in a moment of time.
Someone’s child or someone’s brother, someone’s dad or someone’s lover.
Sudden heartbreak, sudden pain, now life will never be the same.
So many shared dreams that are no more, ended by this brutal war.
Now war is over, poppies fall.
The effects of war affect us all.
A falling poppy like a falling leaf.
We stand together but in private grief.
Alison Nwakwu
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Nostalgia
Looking back with joy
reliving every moment
Going back today.
Leibert Kirby
Perhaps
Perhaps in those years gone by we shared so much as children,
We talked, we laughed, we cried in those meadows of ferns and roses,
Although you were younger than I, you had wisdom beyond your years,
You taught me to love, to share and enjoy life without fears.
When I left you behind to join our parents, I left a part of myself behind,
How I yearned for you, to see your handsome face and longed to hear your gentle voice, Because you were one of a kind.
Now you are gone that longing never seems to cease,
I hope and pray you are resting in a place where ferns and roses grow,
Perhaps, I’ll never know, but I will continue to pray that you are at a place
Of perfect peace and tranquillity.
"Which only our God knows".
Dezrene Martin
Names
It is patently obvious that Caribbean parents put much thought into naming their offspring. My wife, Delacy, and I decided, before we got married, that we wanted two sons. But when we were expecting our first child, we tried to pick a girl’s name, just in case! Well, we started with 21 names, and whittled them down to two: Ophelia and Michelle.
Now, Delacy has three names, the last of which is Delacy; and her names have caused lots of problems with Officialdom. We therefore agreed to give our children one name each. The only time I use my second name is when it is required on official documents. So I have a name which is just for official documents! Now, what is the point of that?
Naming a child is one of the privileges of parenthood. Parenthood is such a demanding business that I am loath to deny parents the indulgence of naming their children. You will understand why I disapprove of people jettisoning the names given to them by their parents.
My father used to say that when he calls his child, he does not want somebody else’s child to respond. That is why we were given names which are in no way common. I know of two other Leiberts, and one of them is a cousin, who may have been named after me. Theron, Morville, Ermal, Stennett and Lynrose are all rare names. My father had a friend called Arthur George, who also delighted in unusual names: Amerilis and Evangeline are two of his daughters.
In Antigua, people seem to play games with their names. Registering names in Antigua used to be problematic. Apparently, parents used to ask the village midwife to register their child’s birth with the authorities, in the capital, St. John’s. We can assume that the midwife took her time to do the registration; and the name registered was often different from the one given by the parents. Years later, when a copy of the birth certificate is requested, it was often discovered that the official name was not the name entrusted to the midwife. Our family had no such problem; because our father would have proudly registered the name himself. Daddy was a proud parent.
Another thing about Antigua is nicknames. These are very common. Some people seem to embrace their nicknames. Others apparently do not. I have a friend called Delroy. He is a baker, and he is nicknamed Mumble. Well, he actually has Mumble printed on his t-shirt, and he uses the name on his voice-mail. My neighbour’s name is Franklin Farrell. Most people call him “Mellow”. However, when he telephones me, he always says “This is Mr. Farrell.” So I call him Mr. Farrell, but refer to him as Mellow. There is a Wilson family in the village of Swetes. I know three brothers of this family. The carpenter is called “Reg”, but he is actually John. The mason is called John, but that is not his name. The third brother, Lionel, used to do some work for me on the farm. He answers to the name of “Ginger”.
The problems with name registration have resulted in some Antiguans having two names: one for the village, and one for work. Many Antiguans work in the public sector; and I assume they have to produce a birth certificate when starting work. The name on the birth certificate becomes the work name, and their village name is the name given to them by their parents. Sometimes these names are similar: Doreen and Dereen. But they can be quite different: Albert and Conrad. A year or so ago, my wife Delacy went into the office of the Ministry of Finance, in St. John’s, Antigua; looking for her nephew, Albert. She had just seen him enter the building. The lady at reception had not seen any Albert. With Delacy insisting that he had just entered the building, the receptionist eventually realized that she was talking about “Conrad”; which is the name on Albert’s birth certificate. All very confusing!
If you want to be cynical, you could say that many people in Antigua, of a certain age, are named by the midwife, and not by their parents. There may be human rights implications here.
Leibert Kirby
Sensational Script
What’s yours like? Curly, spiky, spidery? Big and bold, or, tiny and tentative? As a child born in the 1960s, handwriting practice was a daily feature of our primary curriculum. We traced over lines and circles, zig-zags and curls, before progressing on to proper handwriting by copying over important words, mostly animal words like cat, dog, and fox. The seeds of my passion for good handwriting were sown very early with Mum and Dad reinforcing the absolute necessity for good penmanship. They bought Ladybird handwriting books from Woolworths and I remember spending contented afternoons diligently making my determined marks on tracing paper as they told me tales of raps on the knuckles if they didn’t mark their letter correctly at school in Trinidad in the 1940s. Luckily, by the time I came along, they didn’t feel the need to help me perf
ect my handwriting with raps on my knuckles.
Forty odd years later, I remain in awe of a sensational script. That unique balance that captures the writer’s individuality whilst being perfectly legible. I’ve never seen the point of beautiful, stylish handwriting that you can’t read. No, each letter should hold its own, and be in perfect harmony with all its neighbours. Add a curl or a flourish if you must, but never to detract from the pride and the strength inherent in each individual letter.
One of my biggest bugbears is the circle at the top of the lower case “I” – a redundant symbol if ever there was one. I’ve argued with one of my children who insists on adding this extraneous symbol, suggesting that it takes more time to mark a circle than it does to mark a dot, so that in an exam, precious milliseconds are wasted. Also, I read somewhere that the circle on the top of the “I” is a sign of lower intelligence. I don’t buy that argument myself and neither did my daughter, so I resorted to “but it doesn’t look good” and, “it’s so childish.” At age 19, she continues to mark circles at the top of her lower case “I”.
So what’s my script like? “Beautiful” has been used to describe my handwriting. I wouldn’t go that far, but it is definitely neat and tidy and, most importantly, legible. I’ve experimented with italic and other calligraphic forms over the years, influenced by teachers with artistic or dramatic persuasions, but I always come back to the script that I’ve perfected over many years, plain and simple, neat and tidy. As with all things in life it’s come with practice, and a determination to resist the unimaginative, impersonal ‘script’ of the word processor, email, text, and instant messenger. Typeface has its place in books, magazines and newspapers but does not compare with the art and the skill embodied in a sensational script. And that is why I continue to handwrite letters to friends and family. Which gets me on to another passion of mine – accurate spelling – but I’ll leave that for another time!
Enomwoyi Damali
Passion for Granny
Isn’t it a wonderful thing when you are the recipient of someone else’s passion that makes no demands on you, other than to enjoy the moment? Such can be the rewards that some people go to great lengths to experience the sweetness of this moment; and it is for this moment that I found myself caught in the excitement and anticipation in travelling a great distance to see a grand old lady.
Now, some might well ask, how could an old lady be associated with passion? Isn’t passion mainly a young person’s domain? The lady in question, had no name. I only knew her as “ Granny”, and only knew that it would not be a quick journey to go and see her. It would require a little planning, if the spontaneity wasn’t to cost me. Yet to be spontaneous was the key to grasping the prize.
From the plan I decided that the best way, and the most beneficial way, was to take the train rather than drive from London to Liverpool to experience a few hours in Granny’s presence. And so I found myself arriving at Liverpool Lime Street Station, standing at the steps, and looking for a sign of where I might find her.
Eventually I found her. She was just returning to the Dock Front to have her afternoon nap. Surrounded by a multitude of people, curious to see her as she slept. And I waited. As those around her also waited, I got to be a spectator, watching those who were also waiting. Groups of people dressed for summer ambled in front of me. Looking cool and casual; relaxed interaction is the name of the game. Unlike the big cities like London, absent is the hand of stress, self-absorption, and rush to satisfy the ego. Everyone is happy to talk to each other or a stranger for that matter.
And all too soon, music begins to play, waking Granny from her slumber. All eyes turn in her direction, as the increasing mass of people, stand on their toes or anything that would elevate them a little bit more, in joyful anticipation as Granny starts to look around, bestowing a smile to everyone.
As the volume of the music increases, and the band following Granny strum away, one becomes a child again, transported into a magical world, where this tall imposing woman in her blue homely dress, her hair pulled back over her face, radiates the warmness of childhood securities as she looks around in wonder at the people gazing at her with such joy on their faces- waving, applauding her as she strolls past them. For this was no ordinary Granny. A giant woman, standing eye level to a three storey building. Her comfortable brown slippers the size of a huge suitcase, surrounded by liveried red suits of her controllers, her movement controlled as they jump up and pull down ropes to create the magic. In a moment they are part of her, yet in your moment of suspension, they become invisible.
In the midst of this adulation I stand transfixed, cast under her spell. Could this get any better? Yes, yes, it could dwell with Granny a little longer.
So all too soon the spell had to be broken, as I could not miss my train back home. For those lucky enough to be in Granny’s company and her two other compatriots with her for those magical three days, must surely have felt special. In my one day of seeing Granny and living the fairy tale, I became that carefree child again, with nothing to think about, except to set eyes on Granny.
The people of this great city showed how much more relaxed it was to connect with others than in most other big cities. This must only be because of the vision and the passion of their local government to do something for the people, without asking for anything in return. How wonderful is that? And would it not be lovely if many others share that passion too?
Marilyn Bond
Flying a Kite
Children growing up in 1950s Antigua had to find ways of amusing themselves, and usually made their own toys. Boys made catapults, using the tongue from an old shoe; a discarded bicycle tube and a suitable Y-shaped stem from a cedar tree. We also made our own kites.
The basic materials for making a kite in 1950s Antigua were:
1. A sliver from a date palm branch
2. String, also known as “bag twine”, which tied up flour bags
3. Paper
4. Clammy cherry
5. Rags for the tail.
The sliver of date palm branch was cut into two, and shaped like a cross, and a piece of string was tied around the edges of the cross to form the frame of the kite. A piece of paper was stuck onto the frame, using the fruit of the clammy cherry tree for glue. Thin strips of cotton rags were tied together and attached to the end of the kite to form a tail. The string or “bag twine” was attached to the kite, and it was ready for flight.
When the Kirby family visited Antigua in the year 2000, for our 40th anniversary celebrations, I tried and failed to make a 1950s kite. For one thing, the technology had moved on, and it was 40 years or more since I had made my last kite.
During the last few weeks, our granddaughter, Angelica, has been singing the song about flying a kite from Mary Poppins. My wife, Delacy, and I decided that we would both try to make our granddaughter a 1950s Antigua kite. Delacy made her kite first, and I doubted whether it would leave the ground. I went to the library, and managed to locate a model shop in Bromley Common. I went to the model shop the following day, and spent £4.10 on kite making materials, and took them home.
A few days later I saw kites for sale in a newsagent’s window near the Beckenham War Memorial. I decided that designing and making my own kite would add nothing to the sum of human happiness. I walked into the shop, and bought a Delta kite for the princely sum of £2.50. Depending on your political perspective, buying a kite for £2.50 in the U.K. in 2014 is either a triumph for modern technology or evidence of the wickedness of globalization. As I take a cynical view of politics and politicians, I was very pleased with my little transaction.
Angelica and I took a 54 bus to Blackheath, where we assembled and flew our kite. Blackheath is famous for kite-flying. I emailed a picture of Angelica flying the kite to those of my siblings who I thought would appreciate it. I suspect that some members of my family who escaped the deprivations of being born in the Third World would turn up their English noses at such primitive pursuits as flying a ki
te. For the record, our granddaughter enjoyed the experience of flying a kite on Blackheath.
Leibert Kirby
Eight Stages of Sexual Frisson
I
Pre-school – a gentle stroll
Holding hands with my friend Mark
Superficial awareness
Of our biological uniqueness
Play times together
Happy, carefree
II
Primary School – Trotting along
Growing awareness
Of our biological uniqueness
Kiss chase in the playground
Never got caught
What if I had?
Boys lifting skirts
Then fleeing, laughing
How dare they
I thought
Knowing it was wrong
But secretly excited
Then..
Sex education
Watched THE film
And teacher said
“Now you know…”
Mind blowing
Mom and Dad do it?
Aunt and Uncle do it?
The vicar and his wife... do it?
Looked at all these adults
In an entirely different light
III
Teenager – Picking up the pace
Now it’s all about
Who’s going out with who?
No boyfriend for me
“education first”, said Mom and Dad
“Plenty of time for all that later”
And I respected their decision
Except… I knew my studies would end
At age 25
So no boyfriend till then?
I made one up
Told people I was going out with Andrew
Didn’t know that one of them knew him
Oh dear...
Observed my peers
Scratching initials on their arms
Boys pinging girls bras
When would someone ping mine?
Doodling initials and hearts in exercise books
Dreaming of romance, Mills and Boons style
Then we heard that Mandy and John had actually done it
They took on a new status
Bottom set but suddenly top of the class
John strutting around like a conquering lion
I watched … and I wondered … and I fantasised
Still no boyfriend for me
IV
Late Teens/Early Twenties - Sprinting
Phone call to best friend
I’ve done it!
Done what?
You know!
No, I don’t
Yes you do! You know ... IT!
Silence
You mean?
Yes!
Silence
What was it like?
I lied…
It was wonderful!
I was in heaven!
I just can’t tell you how good it was
Not true of course…
Disappointing with a capital D
Was that it?
What about Mills and Boon?
What about what I saw on TV?
Long lingering embraces
Tumblings and turnings
Simultaneous journey to
Climactic moanings and groaning
Well... none of it
Sigh....
V
Mid to late 20s – Marching on
At it like rabbits
Maybe not Geoffrey Archer’s ‘five times a night’
But not far off
Couldn’t keep hands off each other
Those early fumblings
Marching into complete awareness of self and the other
Confidence and sassiness
Dressing up..
Chocolate..
Cream…
Recreating scenes from films like
9 ½ Weeks
Miracle we ever passed exams
Wicked weekends
Partying till dawn
Slow sensual dancing
Precursor to what lay ahead
Cloud 9 was mine
Daily, hourly..
VI
30s – sure and steady
Easing into a comfortable routine
Fear of children bursting in
Made us nervous
Urgent “shhhh!!” in the darkness
Followed by girly giggles
No more spontaneous activity…
In the living room..
The kitchen..
The bathroom..
Gentle predictability
When little ones fast asleep
Feeling as one
Like a hand in a glove
Perfectly suited
Bodies and minds as one
VII
40s – jogging along
Children growing
Less dependent
More time for us
The two of us alone
Reminiscing when this is all it was
But kids could return at any time
With dirty washing
Or pleas for help (usually money)
Holding hands in the cinema
Footsie under the dinner table
Watching films together
Cuddling up on the settee
Passion gently fizzing
Tender, quiet
Expressing eternal love
VIII
50s – slowing down
The baton of frenzied passion
Passing on to
More meaningful couplings
Knowing what pleases
For self and him
Two truly becoming one
That intoxicating place
Where bodies, minds and souls
Join in complete harmony
Beautiful expression
When it happens
Frequency not important
Quality that counts
IX
60s – Last Lap?
Passion may continue
For some
Same excitement
Same energy
No change in amorous activity
For others
Passion, distant memories
Aging process
Ill health
May take their toll
Or simply replaced
By passion for other things
Hobbies, religion, grandchildren
Light kiss at night
And to greet the morning
Stroking a hand
Smoothing the hair
These tender demonstrations
Of affection and care
Tell a story
Of a journey of loving togetherness
Of a journey of passion
From innocent beginnings
To a perfect symbolic climax
Enomwoyi Damali
Lovers’ Rock Congress
Covered in the darkness of the dance
He squeezes my elbow and
Caresses the small of my back
I turn to meet his hips and size…
We become one
With meaning… With feeling…
With intentional grinds, submerged dips and rubs…
Hips now conjoined…
In rhyme of our dance
Too intense to fail…or stop
He holds me tight like a life buoy
In a sudden subtle movement.
His longing becomes longer
Now, nearly to the floor…
We dip again and surface from this dancing ocean.
Hips rolling to our personal harmony
Only we can hear
Slowed breaths…
Bodies in synergy and fluid piston like motion.
Our eyes closed in tantric meditation, in the moment and present,
Energy channels connected and moving as one
To this evolving Jamaican Slow Jam.
Why am I so t
hirsty?
Whilst we have become so wet…
In the darkness we hide… He’s holding me tighter
With gentle guiding taps and rubs on the spine
A slow sensual rub in to his side…left…right…dip… rub to his middle
His breathing is shallow as finger tips slide and intertwine…
Oh, Ooh Feels so Good…fades to a distant crescendo
This Lovers’ meeting is now finished…
And the ‘dance’ is now done!
Jennifer Harris
Return to contents page
Life
A leaf falls from tree,
then it flies back up again.
It's a butterfly.
Edozie Ameke
If Summer be the Season ah Carnival
If summer be de season ah Carnival. Play Mas!
I done ready to whine up me waist behind some
pretty gal inner ‘er bikini, me no fussy
Me nah know how dem gal dem does get away wid
dancing ‘alf naked
But me no care, Christmas come h’early!
Sometimes me does get carried away, jumping
up and whining
And somebaddy mash me foot
And me ‘ave fi say sorry!
What kinda liberation is dat? It fair, hm!
You tink if me wear white or red shoes, dey’ll see me
toes dem? Nah! Me neider
You know the best ting about Carnival; it not de
calypso music, nor de sweet smelling food
It’s de after-party! Me jus ah loves freeness
And when me ah get in dere and me start to sweat –
It ‘ot, ‘ot, ‘ot fi true!
Brenda Garrick
Don’t Talk to Strangers
I was sitting in the BFI foyer
Waiting for my film to start,
A lady tried the handle of the disabled toilet.
It was occupied.
She looked around in hope,
And it was obvious what she hoped for,
But was disappointed.
I watched her, dressed in my invisible suit.
She could have said
“Excuse me! Is there another toilet?”
But she did not.
She just looked around, and walked away.
She was middle age and middle class, and English
And she could not say “toilet”,
Or “loo”, or “ladies”,
To a stranger.
Especially to a man,
And a black man.
But I was wearing invisible clothes.
I hope she was O.K.
Leibert Kirby
Compassion
In this world of European freedoms, rights and so called equality
We lack something, surely!
There is something we need to explore
Without coming over as a bore…
But, where is our passion for compassion?
Are we just about the cash…?
And, the things we hoard and stash…
Or has the theme of this poem, lost you all already
Or are these words rocking you somehow, subconsciously.
So, let me define ‘compassion’ and what it means to me.
Compassion … is being aware of others.
Reflecting on their realities.
Not yours.
Compassion …makes you pause to think.
Seeing evil and wrongdoing should not make you blinkered
Or keep walking - without talking.
Compassion …causes a pull deep inside
It’s the rocket fuel of the soul that moves you to action
Demonstrated as drive, persistence and passion.
But this world is established on untruths and greed
The need for power, property and fleshly things to feed.
Somehow we have forgotten that our road to love and happiness
Is a journey going within…?
Not man made religion, foolish rules, rejections and sin
Its truth, spiritual, loving and peace.
A way of life that the preachers refuse to preach.
So, now what?
What do you think?
Is ‘real’ compassion something too late to teach?
And, still out of our reach?!
Jennifer Harris
Invisible Women
Birmingham Metropolitan College recently lifted its ban on the wearing of niqabs and burkas; and during the past week a judge ordered a witness to remove her veil when giving evidence in court. These two events have reopened the debate on the dress of Muslim women living in this country. There are three forms of head covering worn by Muslim women: the hijab, which is a headscarf; the niqab, which covers the face apart from the eyes; and the burka, which is effectively a niqab with mesh covering the slot for the eyes.
Western Europe is a very open society, and the sight of anyone with his or her face covered seems out of place. To me the hijab merely identifies the wearer as a Muslim, and I have absolutely no problem with that. But both the niqab and the burka make their wearers invisible, and that is a problem in our open Western society. We cannot have a set of rules for Muslims and another set of rules for the rest of us. Muslim men have jumped to the defence of their women; but I wonder how they would view the prospect of men wearing balaclavas being allowed to freely walk the streets.
The “freedom” argument has been put forward by Liberal Democrat M.P., Jeremy Browne. He appears to imply that Muslim girls are being pressured into covering their faces; but he produces no evidence to support his case. The freedom argument is a tricky one, as it threatens to interfere in the delicate matter of parent/child relationship. I applaud the British authorities for their efforts to stop British born schoolgirls being shipped to Pakistan to marry strangers. However, I do understand Muslim parents wanting to protect their children from what they view as undesirable in Western society.
I am in favour of religious freedom. My objection to the niqab and the burka is not an anti-Muslim stance. My understanding is that the wearing of veils by Muslim women is optional. There are all sorts of divisions in Islam, and some imams have made the wearing of veils a big issue. France banned the wearing of burkas in public in 2011, and Belgium quickly followed. I gather that Italy, the Netherlands and Switzerland are likely to go the French way.
There is an increase in the number of Muslims wearing veils. This appears to be linked to the rise in Western feminism. The supporters of SlutWalks, which originated in Toronto in 2011, make the point that women in the West can wear as little as they choose, and men cannot cite their nakedness as an excuse for sexual assault. I can understand why people coming from Pakistan, a society where chastity is held in high esteem, would rush to cover up, as a reaction to what they see as Western decadence.
In a recent YouGov poll, 67% of respondents favour banning the wearing of the burka in public. The Government should show leadership, and express its disapproval of the wearing, in a public space, of anything to obscure the wearer’s face. I believe the majority of British citizens would go along with such a measure.
Leibert Kirby
The Triumphant Life
Some say that joy and some say pain, are like the sunshine and the rain.
Now down to earth from skies above, what is this thing that we call love,
A pain that grips, akin to fear, or something that is just as near?
From darkest times, to light in life, all we can see seems filled with strife,
So let us now go forward then, over the hills and high on glen,
And what is it that lifts us high, something that is in the sky?
Or something that is deep within, to be shared with kith and kin?
Not flesh and bone, but words and deeds, actions inspired from belief.
Who is right and who is wrong, like singing to your favourite song,
And dancing feet with head held high, you lo
ok to find the reason why.
If you’re not happy with your life, change it, choose happiness.
Live a life true to yourself, not the life others expect of you.
This is living Life Triumphant.
Edozie Ameke
Perhaps
Perhaps today is the day
I put past chaos behind
I put losing things to bed.
Perhaps today I will clear my rooms
To see my way to making choices
To free my mind to do or not to do.
Perhaps today I will unclench my fist
From holding tight to all that is
'Cos from letting go, seeps in the new.
Perhaps today I will celebrate simply
That today I woke up
And God granted me the grace to be present
Here with all of you.
Perhaps tomorrow will be full of love
And light and order
Schedules met and things will get done
Not all at once by any means.
Let it suffice to do one by one.
Perhaps from today
Each step will be in the right direction.
Margaret Winstanley
Perhaps Again
Perhaps I will live
Perhaps I will die
When shall I make
That cherry pie?
Perhaps I will stay
Or maybe I will roam
Unfettered I am
Quite the free soul
But an anchor I lack
An aim to strive for.
Margaret Winstanley
Holding This Space
The current world stage creeps me out.
The hands of the murderers loose in the world
Bring the deepest sorrow.
What is done to another is done to me, to each of us.
Do we die a thousand suffocative deaths with
The women and children on the mountain in Syria?
Do they dig the next hole, in their wrath for you ?
Do you feel it potently as I do, what they want to do to all of us?
Even if you are psychopath, there are laws...
Robustly to be swung into action.
Margaret Winstanley
A Verbal Pruning
Marriage is not all a bed of roses you know. Mmnn… from time to time a cantankerous thorn takes hold and threatens to strangle those beautiful blooms that you have nurtured and cherished for the last goodness knows how many years.
Imagine you left home at 8:30 in the morning to go to work. You got back home at 8:30 in the night because you had a very late meeting. You walk in the bedroom to change and you see him sprawled all over the bed. You try really hard not to make any noise but he stirs. “Hi darlin'. You ok?”, you greet him as you stroke his cheek. Notice the loving words, the endearment, the tenderness? Good. All of it like fertiliser feeding the marriage so the blooms will flourish. And what do you get back? “I’m fine. I was just waiting for you to come home to cook dinner.”
You don’t even get to finish unbuttoning your coat. You look him full in the face, like he couldn't really have said “you” and “cook” in the same sentence. You check that you heard right. “You’re waiting for me to come home and cook? And you were here all day and didn’t go in that kitchen and prepare something? Are you mad? I was at work since 9:00 this morning and you’re here lounging about waiting for me to come home and cook dinner? You know something …?”
And then you use your tongue like secateurs to prune that cantankerous thorn, cut it right back, hack it out from the root.
“For years I watched my father sit and wait for my mother to come home and cook dinner. And I made a vow that would never happen to me. I am not putting up with that nonsense. Never. I am not a skivvy. I am not a servant. And I sure as hell am not a slave. I should be coming home and you should be telling me to put my feet up and then serve me the food that you went in the kitchen and cooked. If you think I’m setting foot in that kitchen tonight...”
And so you carry on until that cantankerous thorn is out, lying limp, lifeless and exposed in all its treachery and ugliness. And then, like pruning a rose, you're left with the beauty, the freshness, the 'this-won't-beat-us-ness' of the marriage.
So, when the thorns appear, get those secateurs out, for there's none that a verbal pruning can't fix!
Enomwoyi Damali
Now is de Winter
Now is de Winter of our discontent?
It nah mine, me nah ask for it!
Who in dem right mind would ask for snow?
Soft and fluffy, no sah man
It cole like hell!
Me nose ah run, me feet come like popsicles
Me cyan’t feel dem
Me catch ah fall all de time
Me nah fair better in de English Summer
How de sun can shine but it nah warm unno?
It’s a joke – four seasons in one day
Mudda Nature you can keep your English wedder
Me never leave my hot country to come live in an ice-box!
Me ah go home, back-ah-yard!
Brenda Garrick
Return to contents page
Love, Hate, & Everything In-between
Peace is an inner thing
the breath rises in and out
body stills, mind calms.
Margaret Winstanley
If February be the Month ah Love
If February be de month ah love
Me know! Me look chupid to you
Dey does ram it down me troat all de while!
It all h’over de damn place
It come de same time h’every year, de same ole ting and ting,
de same ole story
Red roses appear in de middle ah winter
Where dey come from?
Perfume done stuff up me nose
Dem trying to choke me
And de amount ah chocolate I does see in de shop dem
Entice dey want to entice me
I jus’ spend de last six weeks after Christmas trying
to lose me love ‘andles dem
In my day, Valentines was about sending a card to a gal,
two if yous greedy
Now unno ‘ave fi buy card, chocolate, perfume
and wait fi it…..a teddy bear
And it mus’ be pink to rhatid!
Me look like millionaire to you.
Anyhow, ‘er indoors does say Valentines
should be h’everyday
Me can ‘andle dat
As long as it takes place inner de bedroom
You get me!
Brenda Garrick
Traffic Wardens
I remember the first day I worked as a self-employed person in London. The year was 1990, and we were living in Northampton at the time. The work site was close to Gloucester Road Underground Station, and we parked the car at a meter, and went off to work. I do not remember precisely what went wrong, but we returned to the car and found it clamped, with a notice telling us what we needed to do to have the car set free. I went to an underground car park, at Hyde Park, paid the fine, travelled back to the car, and waited for a man to come in a van to remove the clamp. I was in a state of shock. I was in a strange place, wasting at least two hours sorting out the car, and the fine was more than we had earned for the job. I still had to drive home to Northampton, and I was not a happy guy.
I believe that every able-bodied adult in this country, of working age, should do some work, and contribute something to society. Some of us will contribute more than others: we cannot all be brain surgeons and top sports people. I have little time for people who sit on their bum, and take a free ride. I would personally do almost anything rather than do nothing, but there are one or two jobs which I would find really challenging. Being a traffic warden is one such job.
It is reasonable to assume that most traffic wardens are just ordinary people doing a job to earn a living. I would lov
e to know how many traffic wardens do the job by choice. One hears stories of male African graduates being traffic wardens because it is the only job they could have at that time. Some drivers seem to view traffic wardens as cruel and devious people, who are determined to give them a hard time. I do not go along with that. There are rules associated with parking in London, and the traffic wardens are there to enforce the rules. Sometimes these rules are there to enable us to park near city centre shops, which benefit shopper and shop. If we break the rules, we are punished with a fine.
Working in London with an eye on the parking meter can be difficult. The parking meter rules are sometimes difficult to understand. There used to be a rule about “feeding the meter.” When your meter time is finished, you are not allowed to put more coins into the meter and leave the car parked at the same place. You are expected to move the car, not just to a neighbouring meter, but to another section of the road, or even another road. It took me awhile to understand that particular rule.
Nobody enjoys receiving a penalty notice. It is reasonable to assume that some drivers take a chance, and park illegally. If such a driver is caught and fined, what is there to complain about? The driver gambled, and lost: gamblers usually lose. The drivers I feel sorry for are those who unwittingly break a rule, and so incur a penalty. Clock House Road is in the London Borough of Bromley. There are five small parking areas on Clock House Road, near the junction with Beckenham Road. On the Clock House Station side of the road, there are two parking areas marked “Resident Permit Holders and Pay at Meter”. On the other side of the road, there are three parking areas: two for Residents and Pay at Meter; but the area in the middle, which is in front of two bungalows, and can accommodate three cars, is clearly marked “Residents Permit Holders only”. The “Pay at Meter” option is not available in front of the bungalows, and for good reason. Unwary drivers fail to read the sign, and so this bit of the road is where most of the penalty notices are issued. I imagine that the air turns blue when a driver, who paid £2 for a parking ticket and honestly thought the car was parked legally, returns to find a penalty notice on the windscreen. Any traffic warden within range would be verbally abused.
A driver issued with a penalty notice is not a happy person. The traffic warden is verbally abused whenever a penalty notice is found. He or she is not always around to hear the abuse, but the abuse is issued anyway. But penalty notices are nearly always issued correctly. A traffic warden gets abused for doing a good job. Now that cannot be right. But that is what happens: angry drivers abuse traffic wardens for doing nothing wrong.
I am a sensitive soul, and therefore I could not do a job where I am viewed as public enemy number one. Being a traffic warden is something I could never do.
Leibert Kirby
Response to ‘Traffic Wardens’
Are we talking about two different species here? Because there are many for whom the ‘Traffic Warden’ is just about the last bastion of ‘mean.’ They used to wear black uniforms with flashes of yellow, colours symbolic of the wasp and you know what they have in their tail, don’t you? The Traffic Warden is like a descendant of the wasp, waiting to pounce with that lethal sting called the parking ticket. Returning from innocent tasks like shopping, taking the children to school, popping into the bank, and finding that plastic coated ticket on your windscreen, will instantly take the buzz out of your day, the joy out of your life, the pleasure or satisfaction out of whatever it is you were doing.
And, like the wasp, they descend in a swarm, not hundreds of course, but a gaggle of them, huddling, congregating, watching and waiting. How many does it take to issue one ticket anyway? You can imagine them, gleefully rubbing their mean little hands in unison. “Ahh! Gotcha!” they whisper to each other and wait until the unsuspecting motorist is out of sight, then slap on the ticket and add this to their commission. Because this must be about commission, right? Maybe £10 for every ticket issued? A voucher to spend in any one of 10 shops of your choice? A mystery gift worth ‘a lot of money’ for every 10 tickets issued? Without this, the “minimum wage and opportunities for daily exercise in an outdoor environment” would hardly inspire anyone to apply for the post of Traffic Warden, would it?
Imagine a job where satisfaction comes from causing misery and rage. Even the pain in the dentist’s chair is designed eventually to lead to relief and hopefully a confident smile. And imagine a job where you spend the entire day looking like the concept of a smile is alien to you, and where the daily pleasantries of life, ‘good morning’, ‘how are you?’ are contrary to the efficient undertaking of your mean and miserable working existences. No, they have to maintain their sour facade. How else could they look in the eye of the desperate motorist, returning three minutes after the expiry on the metre, oblivious to their pleas about the queue in the bank, wordlessly slapping that ticket on and walking away.
They’re only doing their jobs, you say. Making sure we keep the rules, you say. Well, I almost never get parking tickets and every appeal that I’ve submitted, I’ve won. Why? Because often the rules are ridiculous and the application of those rules even more so. Take my first ticket, issued under the category of having four wheels on the pavement. The pavement was so narrow that even two dogs would have to walk in single file to get by. I am a very confident driver but even I could not get all four wheels on that pavement (though I did manage two). I appealed, and I won. What an absolute waste of time and money.
So desperate are they to change the public perception, they’ve even changed their name to Parking Attendant. A quick search and you will find that an attendant is an assistant, a helper, ‘somebody employed to serve or help members of the public in a public institution or place.’ What a contradiction in terms! An idea ...how about consulting with the public. I’m sure we would generate some very useful and interesting alternative names!
Enomwoyi Damali
Response to Traffic Wardens!
What godforsaken planet dese people drop from?
Dey on de road 24/7, me nah see dem sleep, me nah see dem eat, nah go for a comfort break!?
Me nah even see dem before dem ah strike, dem like de silent stalker!
Dem 'ave no 'eart, no mercy
Jus' slap a ticket 'pon me car
You carn't say boo, ooh, I sorry - nuttin'
Jus one second, one second me late
And dem stand dere wid a face favour Smiley Culture
Dem face favour Satan!
Enjoying de misery dem inflicting 'pon me
Wid a piece a paper, a piece a paper dat will cost me h'over £100!
Dat seem fair, dat seem fair to unno?
Dem carn't ketch terrorist but dey can ketch innocent me wid a parking ticket!
I look like a criminal to unno?
Spiteful, dem spiteful you see!
Brenda Garrick
Don’t Throw it all Away
Early morning, it would still be dark, and I would hear the clattering and clanking of the metal bins in the front, as the dustmen (that’s what they were called in those days), cleared away our discarded rubbish. One bin per house, filled to the brim with ...everything. You name it, in it went. No thought of what happened to that rubbish. No thought of the time it takes for different types of rubbish to break down into their molecular components. We didn’t consider that most so called rubbish can be recycled, shredded and used again, composted, turned into something else, repaired, given away, given a new lease of life. No, if it was broken, old, not wanted, not needed, not liked anymore, had no purpose, had served its purpose, then it joined the multitude of other discarded objects, generically called rubbish.
‘Rubbish’ is one of the greatest misnomers, comprising everything that the individual chooses to throw away, whether it deserves this fate or not. Back to the ‘good old days’, and open a bin at random and you might find food waste, paper, cardboard, tins, plastic wrapping and cartons, odd socks, a teddy or doll with one arm or the stuffing falling out, inkless Biros, tin foil, grease
proof paper, a rusty saucepan, chipped crockery, dirty nappies, clothes that were too big or too small, unwanted presents, Christmas lights that don’t work, dust, leaves, hair trimmings, nail cuttings. It reads like the end of the Generation Game when the contestant had to remember as many objects as they could that passed in front of their eyes on a conveyor belt. Except, that was funny. That was entertaining. The disposal of all and sundry without a thought, just isn’t.
My black wheelie bin is almost empty on the day of the refuse collection. I routinely wheel it out onto the pavement every Wednesday night ready for collection the following morning and wonder if the refuse collectors think it’s worth the effort loading it up on that huge, stinking, groaning truck, when all it has in it is ...well what precisely? Because, unless my family are sneaking things in there behind my back, it should be empty! I won’t put so much as a shopping receipt in there! I get palpitations at the very thought! I am completely and utterly committed to recycling and composting everything that I possibly can. In fact I’m passionate about it. I delight at the sight of my green recycling bin overflowing with stuff. Stuff that someone, or some machine, somewhere, will painstakingly and lovingly sift and sort into sympathetic piles of connectedness ... paper, cardboard, plastic, metal, glass, fabric. What a joy to ponder on my ‘trash’ becoming someone else’s ‘treasure’. How satisfying to know that my stuff is being revitalised, re-energised, renewed, rejuvenated. What a sense of purpose to realise that I am contributing to the greenness of this land, this world, this universe!
I will not hear that recycling is a myth, that it all gets burnt or sent to landfill regardless. I will not entertain the idea that my passion is in vain or that I’m a naive and foolish woman, who has been ‘Had’. My faith is powerful and all-embracing and cannot, will not, be shattered. I need no concrete evidence, I need no signs. I will continue to wave the recycling banner, fill my green bin with recyclable stuff, and delight when I catch anyone in mid flow of throwing away food waste, paper, cardboard, tins, plastic wrapping and cartons, odd socks, a teddy or doll with one arm or the stuffing falling out, inkless Biros, tin foil, greaseproof paper, a rusty saucepan, chipped crockery, dirty nappies, clothes that were too big or too small, unwanted presents, Christmas lights that don’t work, dust, leaves, hair trimmings, nail cuttings...
Enomwoyi Damali
A lovely pair …
The grass is always greener
On the other side they say
I’d like to take a trip there
Just once on any day
I’d like to have a chance to
Experience once again
The joy of buxom bosoms
Please just let me explain
The only time I’ve been endowed
Is when I was expecting
Hormones swelling tiny buds
And also when lactating
My 34A bust ballooned
I beamed with maternal glee
Shoulders back and chest thrust out
Though toes I could no longer see
Full and plump they were displayed
In sensual low cut tops
No push up bras or rolled up tights
None of those helpful props
36DD a sheer delight
Warm cushion for young and old
Nourishing, nurturing, full of love
A wonder to behold
The wonder was not to last
When post term hormones faded
My brilliant, bouncy, buxom boobs
Were very sadly downgraded
Now resigned to furtive glances
At other’s plentiful assets
And reminiscing with a sigh
They draw me in like magnets
You say they ache, they drag you down
Your bras are like a scaffold
But your frustration with your baps
Quite frankly leaves me baffled
I’d really like to taste that grass
On the greener other side
I’d show them off and bounce around
And walk about with pride
Wish we could swop and I have half
Of yours and you have half of mine
But would we really be content
Or would we start to pine?
Would you miss your bulging melons
And me my plums so tiny
I think I’ll stay on own side
And love what belongs to me
Enomwoyi Damali
Fine Line
There’s a very fine line
Between our passions
And our obsessions
And who can say
When one merges
Into the other?
Passion for order
Clothes lined up
Colour by colour
Neat blocks
Make it easier to find
Coordinated outfits
On hectic workday mornings
Passion for clean plates
Every last rice grain
Purposefully located
Scooped up
Less guilty feelings
For hungry mouths
And swollen bellies in lands afar
Passion for wildlife
Lifelong vegetarian
Won’t eat it
Won’t kill it
Disoriented insect
Stinging, biting, or not
Gently guided to their home outdoors
Passion for culture
Embracing heritage
From Africa to the Caribbean
Deeply proud
Trini to the bone
World Cup minus Trinidad
Holds no interest whatsoever
There’s a very fine line
Between our passions
And our obsessions
And who can say
When one merges
Into the other?
Enomwoyi Damali
Passion
Passion, what is passion?
No budder h’ask me!
I is a champion lover
Dey call me Sagger bwoy!
I ‘n’ I had passion before I could walk
Before I could talk
De girls dem love me to rhatid!
You no seh whey Grace Jones dedicate a tune fi me?
My Jamaican Guy
It’s me she ah sing ‘bout
You know someting?
I ‘n’ I was born ready
I could sweet talk de girl dem from de time I was in me nappy!
James Brown no know what ‘im talk ‘bout
Sex Machine, me, I is a sex h’industry!
I soon go global and trade ‘pon de Stock Market
Den h’everybody can ‘ave a piece ah me
Seen!
Brenda Garrick