Thursday, May 31, 2007

The Urge

So I said I wouldn't blog until after my exams, but two things brought me back here, actually three.

First - Pseudo WHERE are you going??? I saw your farewell message on The Afro Beat. I was so stunned I had to break my Blogsville hiatus!

Second - Miss Willie, Yes you can be my blog girlfriend. Forget those boys, especially as one of them is leaving the ville for no apparent reason. Teehee!

Third - I realised today that outside of one's house, there really is no place in which one can have a good cry in PEACE in London town.

Permit me to explain.

Around about midday, I felt 'the urge' coming. I tried and tried to shake it off, but being a cry baby hotcake (as was evidenced in my Miss Jones post), I knew the bad boys were going to come rolling down my cheeks any second.

So I darted out of the library (the skank hell-hole in which I have passed the last two days - Urrgh!) and headed straight for the loos. I knew it was not an uncommon sight to see a fellow female boohooing in the ladies' room, so felt that I would be safe if I went into a cubicle and cried as quietly as poss.

The first cub I tried, was disgusting. The gentlemen I debated with at the weekend, about the cleanliness of women's toilets versus the cleanliness of men's, certainly LOST that argument. Let's just say there were things splattered all over the bowl and it was uuuug!

The second cub was the middle one, and it was more than pristine. I put the lid on the toilet seat and sat down, and as I did, I let the boohoos rip.

Barely thirty seconds later, I heard someone walk in, and the only thing that passed through my mind was, "Gosh, I hope this person doesn't hear me crying". What I should have said to myself was, "Oh dear I hope she doesn't come in here and poop the place out!"

Christ People!

I mean, I know loos are for both the numbers 1 and 2, and that one shouldn't discriminate because we're all human beings etcetera etceteroo. But I have always been of the opinion that when one feels 'the urge' (and not the teary kind I described earlier) and one is in a public place, one ought to discharge that urge with consideration for one's fellow loo-user!

So there I was sitting on the loo cover, trying to cry quietly, when Inconsiderate Girl slammed her way into the cubicle on my left (the one with all the gross stains I had decided was too gross to cry in).

This is the scene that unfolded...

Inconsiderate Girl: [Slams Door Shut]

Bitchy: Oh dear I hope it isn't someone I know. I don't want to have to explain why I'm crying. Cry quietly Bitchy.

Inconsiderate Girl: [Releases a lot of liquid very quickly]

Bitchy: Sob, Sob, Boo, Boo, Hoo

Inconsiderate Girl: [Liquid, Liquid, LOUD FART, Liquid]

Bitchy: What the...?

Inconsiderate Girl: [Plop Plop Proooop Plop Prrrooooop]

Bitchy: [Opens door with loud BANG and storms OUT!]

PLEASE tell me I am not alone in thinking that kind of behaviour is unacceptable? Especially when you know that there are other people in the ladies' room besides yourself?

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

The Nigerian Proclamation










This has been put up as part of Solomonsydelle's movement to show that Nigerian and other interested bloggers are unified in our disappointment with recent and ongoing political events. By using the same document with the same title on May 29th, we hope to attract some attention by making The Nigerian Proclamation 'rise' to attention on Google and various other search engines when anyone uses 'Nigeria' as a search term. Let the world know that Nigeria's people too are far from impressed. Put it up on your blogs too today! Peace out Homies :)

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Letter to My Lovers


Darcy Mark Jaja and Pseudo a.k.a Timmy the name-changer,

I'm in the market for a cyber Boyfriend ;)

The Yote has refused to start his own blog (which I thought would be named 'Yote in the City' for sheer comedy value) so I wonder how he will keep up with the competition.

Thus far, Pseudo is the lead runner. His "ooohs" and "ooohs" and persistent, almost religious, perusal of this blog (and even my Afro Beat blog), have endeared me to him.

Never being one to limit my options, Jaja, I wanna get to know ya! You already have the kinsman thing going for you, which could make Papa Bitchy very very happy I'm sure.

If either of you returns to the Bitchy one's City, what say you?

Are you up to the task? Can you handle this crybaby hotcake?

Can you?

My kitchen is hot! My sizzle is the shizzle!

Cyber-Weenies need not apply. Thank you! :)

I'm Sorry, Are You Sorry?

I think I have a problem.

Scratch that. I know I have a problem.

I didn't have this problem when I was younger. In fact, I had the opposite of this problem then.

When I was a kid, my mum or dad would glare down at me on a regular basis, and demand that I say sorry to whoever it was I had offended (my brother, my sister, nanny 1, nanny 2, the cook, the driver, my piano teacher, my lesson teacher etc etc). I would refuse and in the end, they'd resort to yelling, "say SORRY!" over and over again whilst I stood firm, unyielding and unflinching.

I then came up with a killer response round about age 7 or 8, which probably heightened their growing suspicion that they had produced a devil child - "Why? WHY should I say sorry? What will the sorry do for you?"

Looking back, I see that for all my sins, I was a wise tot! What does the word "sorry" do? Why do we all assume it can take away the pain or harm we have caused? And more importantly, why does this word bubble out of my mouth with such ease now that I am older?

It's a dangerous word you know.


Because it implies an assumption of guilt. It lays all the emphasis on you, the wrongdoer. And it allows you and the other to forget that they may have done something wrong to you too.

I have spent a lot of my time apologising in my adult life. And subconsciously, I have been taking on a world of guilt. Many a time I have said sorry to someone, even though they too have done something wrong to me, and then when they haven't turned around and said sorry back to me, I have had to hold myself back from prodding them with my pinkie and yelling, "Oi! It's your turn now!"

Instead, what have I done? I have sat back and watched them accept my apology, and have allowed them to act as though, in the 'hurt me I hurt you' dance we were dancing, I alone was the wrongdoer, I alone was a dancer.

Well... No more o!

In an hour I will step out of my flat and into the brilliant sunshine that's been flooding through my windows (Londoners - isn't this great weather we're having?)

And when that man or woman who isn't looking where he or she is going gets in my way, so that I end up stepping on his or her toe, I will not say "sorry" or "gosh! I'm so sorry" or "oh dear, I'm terribly sorry".

Ehn Ehn!

I will stand there and glare that person down. Let them apologise to me now for goodness' sake.
Damn right you are!

Monday, May 21, 2007

Call Me Miss Jones

It's Monday afternoon, late in the afternoon, and I'm in my pyjamas eating a cold lemon tart.

I should be studying, but once again, I have gotten bored of my Public Companies & Equity Finance textbook, and have decided to venture onto the world wide web to share my thoughts with whoever will be so kind as to read them.

This weekend, I spent much of my time thinking about how much I had in common with Miss Jones, the infamous character of the Helen Fielding series - you know her, the silly billy made a global phenomenon by Renee Zellweger?

These were the points of similarity I came up with:

Bridget writes in her diary. I write on my blog.

Bridget likes food and is relatively porky. I like food too, and though I may not be porky at this particular point in time, I have been (and will be) considerably porky at many a point in my life.

Bridget makes a fool of herself on an hourly basis. I make a fool of myself on a daily (maybe thrice weekly) basis.

Bridget had a man in her life, yet found it impossible to look beyond her perky British nose, to see that Mr. Darcy was the only person who would ever be able to tolerate her ridiculous behaviour. I had my Mr. Y, overreacted whenever he argued with me (apparently in my world, women can shout but men can't shout back), ignored all the wonderful things he did to make me happy, and honed in on all the negatives, forgetting that only a handful of people on the planet have ever been able to stomach me and my silly ways, and that 4 out of all 5 of them are tied to me by blood.

Bridget went crawling back to Mr. D, wondered at his ability to shun her advances, but somehow ended up being rescued by him after a disgraceful episode in Thailand. I have attempted to crawl back to my Mr. Y, and even though he ain't having none of it, he somehow found the time to help me revamp a presentation I'm due to give tomorrow.

Apparently folks, having the ins and outs of his private life published on the world wide blogosphere is something he detests and finds utterly unforgiveable. You would think I'd have considered that last week, after the Yote Strikes Back episode back in January?

I suppose I could argue that I'm not as bad as Bridget, because, her Mr. D was perfect, and mine was far from! But I guess when you consider how much of an effort he made with me, despite my acute inability to sort out the many silly problems I created in my life - like buying a pair of glasses on a whim, hating them, and then getting upset when Selfridges wouldn't let me return them; Or crying like a big baby when the piddly sums in my bank account were pilphered by some accursed rogue; Or skyving school, doing no revision, blogging for weeks, and crying like an even bigger baby when I realised my exams were only a day away; Or crying for well over two hours and refusing to go out, because of a hair cut that made little or no difference to my overall look; Or moaning about my hair or my weight, or my face, or my school work, or my social life, or my friends, or my family, or my career, or my groceries, or my tube travelcard, or my broadband, my wardrobe, my bank balance, the weather, my macbook, my esthetician, my cleaning lady, my fatigue, my boredom, my blog...

And when you consider that I was also unable to shoulder the costs of my bank-breaking telephone habit, or the costs of my bank-breaking duck curry addiction, and that he took on the former with only a twice monthly grumble, and indulged the latter (even throwing in the odd tub of strawberry cheesecake ice cream for good measure despite my phoney protests), I guess he wasn't doing too badly all along, was he? :(

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Boys Can't Cry - Part Deux

I seem to be part deux-ing everything lately, but I felt I had no choice where this particular post was concerned.

After writing Boys Can't Cry (numero uno) the other day, I was forced to reconsider my stance on the issue by my mother, who telephoned me all the way from Lagos to inform me that she was "ashamed" of the "bush" girl she had brought up.

According to mother (let's call her Snobby S for ease of reference - and please don't be fooled by the odd nickname, my mother is probably my best friend and is one of the most down to earth people I know, she just has a slight tendency to be uppity once in a while) the reason a lot of Nigerian men are "maniacs" is because of "ridiculous" attitudes like mine.

She said (and I'm paraphrasing here) that it's neanderthal-thinkers like myself who perpetuate this image of boys and men needing to be super-macho at all times, even when a good cry is more than justified.

She also said that if a man can cry in front of you, it is because he trusts you, and because he won't expect you to have a stupid (like mine she means) reaction or response to him.

After what can only be described as "the attack" from Snobby S, I suppose I was forced to think about why I had the attitude to men crying that I described in Part 1. And I realised that I had that attitude because of the little exposure I had had in the past to teary-eyed men.

{I have chosen to discount my brother in this short trip down memory lane that will follow, because crying when you're 10, and have just had your head clunked against a television set by your devil of a sister, does not count}

The first teary-eyed man I encountered was a philandering boyfriend from my early teens who pretended to cry (after subjecting me to much torture) when I refused to speak to him one particular afternoon. I remember sitting there looking at him thinking, "are you for real?" and "you actually expect me to believe that you're crying, when you're the one who's been messing around?" I was more than irritated by him at that stage, and I believe he too could see that I was on the verge of dumping his sorry ass which was why he resorted to turning on the waterworks.

The second was another boyfriend from my teenage years who, if I'm honest, I had no business dating. I can't remember much of our relationship, neither can I remember what he cried about, but I think it was something to do with the fact that I clearly wasn't in love with him, and was being a pretty mean bitch about it. I suppose he should be given marks for his powers of observation because at the time, even though I protested with "but you know I love you {insert pet name}, you just always beat me to saying it," [gag] over and over again, I was really thinking, "What the hell am I doing with this boy that I can barely stand to look at?!"

I guess the moral of the story is that Bitchy is a weirdo.

Or better yet, that Bitchy is just a bitchy bitch.

Or alternatively it could be that even though Bitchy would prefer a macho macho man, her Romeo is allowed to cry if he hasn't been pissing her off, and if her feelings for him are still genuine at the time, because then, she will probably cry along with him too from the sheer heartbreak of seeing her Romeo heartbroken*.

The End.

NB Heartbroken does not include soppyness over a football team's glory/defeat, sporting legends or any other sport-related eventuality.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Diary of A Bitchy Black Woman and Her Hair #2

I have been itching to blog since I last did on Monday.

But I have just not had the time to! It's been crazy.

At first it was annoying me, but then it began to excite me because I knew that this evening I would, some way or some how, find the time to talk about all the random things I've been experiencing/ noticing/ whatever-ing.

Just now, on my way home, aside from the song I was singing in my head, I heard the following:

"To station cleaner. To station cleaner. There is some vomit to clean. Come and get the vomit."

"To the man at the bottom of the escalator. Please remove yourself from the station. The police have been called and they are on their way."

"There is a delay on the Victoria Line between Warren Street and Brixton due to a person lying under the train at Green Park."

Is this what London is normally like? Or have I just not been listening for a long long time?

Now... to yet another discussion about my hair.

But it's probably not the kind you're expecting.

Earlier today, I went to my "beauty therapist" for a quick "beauty treatment".

In actual fact, I went to this thin and over-worked Chinese (or is it Korean? I'm not sure) woman for an under-arm wax. Ha! There! I said it!

I only started having my arm-pits waxed a year ago. Prior to then, I had done what I thought all Nigerian women did with their arm-pits. I had been using razors. But I got tired of having to use a razor every other day (and I am not even hairy!!) so I thought I'd give this wax thing a go.

The first time I had it done, was in Lagos, where I happened to be last July. I had been walking past the new "beauty spa" right next door to my hairdresser for close to three weeks at that point, and thought, on one random afternoon, "what the heck, I'm going to do it jo!"

By the time the lady was done, my throat was hoarse, and there was no husky or sexy vibe to it.

I had yelled the place down. I knew I'd been yelling, obviously, because I'd been opening up my mouth to actually do the yelling. But I had no idea how loudly I'd been yelling until I walked into the salon next door to have my hair done, and my regular torture-master/ self-appointed body-fat monitor/ "hair therapist", Joseph, said "Nawa oh. That thing was painful abi?"

I got sucked into waxing my arm-pits from then on (which is why I'm still doing it and hating it now), because they all promised me (and by 'they', I mean everyone who has ever either come close to my pits with wax, or with whom I've swapped waxing and hair-removal tips), that it would get less painful with time. Another promise was that the growth-rate of my under-arm hair would slow down, and I'd soon be able to go weeks on end without waxing.

Bull Shit!

In the last year I have discovered that there is no such thing as a pain-free wax, and that when it is close to being that time of the month, or when it is that time of the month, or when it has just been that time of the month (basically all the damn time), a woman's skin is more "sensitive" to waxing.

I have also 'discovered' that my hair grows back "very quickly" (even though, like I said, I am not hairy), and that my hair grows in different directions. This, apparently, is why it needs to be ripped from my hair holes (are pores hair holes? I got confused about what the right term was just as I was typing now) with brutal, mind-shuddering, scream-inducing force!

Where my "beauty-therapist" works, they know me well, because I scream the place down. My name is often difficult for even Nigerians to pronounce (although I dunno what the hell is so difficult about it, it's not like my name is Ogheneginigba, or something like that). But everyone at Busy Body (what an odd name for a "beauty spa" I hear you say) knows my name. They know how to say it, they know how to spell it, and they recognise me instantly, even after a two month-long hiatus, when I arrive with different glasses, different hair, different everything... even when I am a different me!

Monday, May 14, 2007

Boys Can't Cry

This post is completely unrelated to my previous two posts.

It is not about me or my relationship.

There will be no gut-gushing or trash-airing here so kindly zap back into etcetera etceteroo mode before you carry on reading.

Thank you! :)

Now, whilst I was struggling and failing to read one of my textbooks, I suddenly had this itch to find out the answer to the following questions:

1 - Because boys can't cry, do girls automatically assume (in a difficult situation) that there's no way a boy could ever feel as badly as they do?


2 - If boys can't cry, then can they ever get as upset as, or more upset than, a girl who is boohooing away in front of them?


3 - What do boys do when they feel like that (given that they can't cry)?

And finally...

4 - Do boys automatically see girls as manipulative because girls can turn on the water-works whilst they can't?

Notice I said boys can't cry as opposed to boys don't cry. Because I don't really think boys have any options when it comes to crying. You can't cry if you're a boy. You just can't!

Okay you're allowed to cry if someone dies or if you're in excruciating pain or if something terribly terrible happens (and that something terribly terrible would have to be something that would make a girl faint from the pain, or lose her mind were she in your shoes).

But boys are not allowed to cry about the things that girls cry about all the time.

If a boy started to cry because of a relationship/other issue, his girlfriend (even if she too was sobbing her eyes out at the time) would stop in her tracks and ask herself what kind of a wuss she had ended up with!

It has never even occurred to me to ask these 4 questions before. I guess I always assumed that boys could never get as upset about something as girls could, that they were desensitized somehow.

But then I really started to wonder (when I was reading my boooring textbook) where the basis for that conclusion came from. Why have I always assumed that a boy could never ever get as upset as me? Societal role-play and all the psycho-babble aside, are boys not human beings too?

Even with animals, do female dogs love more easily than male ones? Not necessarily. And do they feel the pain of abandonment more than male dogs do? Is there any proof that shows they do? Those sad-looking, abused and ill-treated dogs on the RSPCA/Animal Shelter adverts that crop up on British TV at this time of day, are they all female? Is not one of them male?

Sassie or Lassie, its still a sad dog!

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Look Into My Pickle Jar. Pretty Isn't It?

“When I grow up I want to be a banker like my daddy.

And then I want to start my own bank that will be bigger and better than his, and make him beg me for mercy.”

– Bitchy, age 7

Things 've changed. Not where being twisted is concerned (I still am). But I no longer want to be a banker.

Now, I have no clue what I want to be. I don’t know which way to go.

With 'good job' (that starts in just under a year)?

Or with 'no job'?

An odd choice when you think about it. Some would even say it wasn’t really a choice. For many, money (or is it the survival instinct) dictates which way they go. When faced with good job vs no job, they choose the former. Duh!

If I'm being real, 'no job' doesn’t really mean no JOB! It just means no job right now. My C.V. is brilliant (I don’t like to brag, but really it is! Hehe) So honestly? I would have absolutely no trouble getting another job.

'Good job' is the job I moaned about in my first ever blog post. Many law students are desperate to be in my boat, but I’m now getting pretty desperate to get out of it.

Here are my two reasons why:

1 - It's not my dream job.
I won’t suck at it. If I put in the effort, I could probably get bloody good at it. But it doesn’t interest me. Here’s an example. Two weeks ago when I met with partners and managing associates from the firm, I noticed that as soon as they began to talk about this and that huge deal, and Sakhalin this and that, I tuned out. I didn’t even notice it happening! I tuned out right then and there. Imagine the disaster that would've unfolded if one of my future bosses had asked me a question at that point? And can anyone explain how I will be able to do a job when I can’t even listen to future colleagues talk about it in an informal setting? By the way, I also tune out of my lectures that are centred wholly on preparing me for this line of work on a regular basis. Back in February, I even allowed myself to walk into a series of exams with the knowledge that I could potentially fail them, for the first time ever in my life. I did literally no work. I blogged, read magazines and did maybe about five hours of revision in the week leading up to the exams. Kindly note that these were Law School exams that many of my ‘comrades’ had been gearing up for since December! These were Law School exams that many an intelligent student had failed in the past. Somehow, I passed (told you I’m smart!) but I only just did.

2 - My relationship.
How will it survive my job? It’s already difficult enough as it is. Long-distance is no easy thing, and so far Mr. Y has handled it pretty well. But the thought of us struggling to stay afloat for another three to four years whilst both working incredibly insane schedules, is scary. Right now, he works like a maniac and I do absolutely nothing with my time. This means that whenever he finds the odd 5 minutes or so to breathe, I am ready and available for a phone call. It’s also meant that I’ve been able to hop back to Lagos at random junctures in the past few months, in the effort to keep our relationship alive. When I start to work longer hours than Mr. Y, and possibly even weekends too, how will we survive? (Obviously we’ll survive, but I mean the relationship – how will the relationship survive?) And when it becomes impossible for me to go to Lagos, and for him to come here, how will we be able to continue to feel as strongly as we do about each other? That kind of distance just could not make our hearts grow fonder. It just couldn't.

The pickle here is though, that if Mr. Y hadn’t come onto the scene however many months ago he did, then I probably would’ve pushed Reason 1 out of my head and gotten over it. I would’ve spent the last few months psyching myself into falling in love with the idea of a high-powered job, truck-loads of money, and don’t-fuck-with-me power suits.

I feel like such a brat. Many people are working jobs they despise. They’re busting their asses to make an extra buck, and working over-time in the process. Yet I'm thinking about giving up good job when I don’t even have a viable alternative to it! If I did have an alternative, this might not be so difficult. I could turn to my daddy and say “daddy I’m going to be a singer, will you pay for singing lessons and buy me a jazz club?” (Obviously I couldn’t, my dad is not an idiot! But you know what I mean.) I’d be able to suggest something else that I’d be doing with my time instead of good job.

Am I stupid for wanting to wait until I find the thing that makes me tick rather than plunging into good job and being miserable both in my work and personal life? Especially when you consider that if I take some time out, and the search for the dream job and the relationship with the Yote don't work, I will always be able to get another job! It might not be as great or as prestigious as good job (which I really should've called 'great job' from the beginning, I just can't be bothered to go back through this post changing it). But I will still be able to get another good job.

What I don't think I'll be able to get is another Yote. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those stupid little girls who thinks she's going to marry every single guy she happens to fall for. But Mr. Y makes me happy in ways I never thought possible. And even though I can't be 100% certain we'll be together forever, I just don't want to put us in a position that even Romeo and Juliet would find impossible to get through ...

Friday, May 11, 2007

Cooking for the Bushmeat Lover - The Intro

So I'm moving on now.

The love life is lacking in lustre :(

Perhaps Mr. Y is panicking after seeing all this mede-mede I've been whipping up.

Perhaps he thinks I can't give him the jungle goodies he needs...

I need to reclaim my title as the Yote's one and only.

I'm going to work my way through all the meat recipes on

They kinda scare me with all this talk of wild boar etc etceteroo.

So I'll be starting with the suya.

I will make Mr. Y fall in love with me all over again.

Forget that nonsense "Continental Man" talk from before.

Its all about the Bushmeat Lover now baby.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Screw You 36A

The neighbours must be pissed.

Today is make smoothies day.

A basket arrived half an hour ago.

More fruit, and of the exotic variety.


This is my kumquat, mango, papaya, orange and banana smoothie.

I call it 'The JamaicaYoteMan'

Have decided I'm not going to Law School this week. Will be making smoothies and broths instead, and reading and blogging too.

P.S. I don't know how to open the pineapple you see in the picture there.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

The Opposite House

"Now it's 4 a.m. and I'm still awake with my fingers splayed over my neck and its old loop
of pain
(and I am at St Catherine's again,
at the window again
amazed again
at the way a steep hill holds growing green on its swerve
when it will support nothing else).

On the wall is St Catherine of Siena, sheets of chestnut hair floating in heaven-driven winds, Catherine who I always fail to love when I remember that she is not the Catherine of spike-wheeled martyrdom. Catherine of Siena looks at me with all of her soul in her soft smile; she looks at me, glad that I will not be staying. I think about the mothers I know or have seen or have heard of. My mother, Amy Eleni's mother, mothers in books, mothers in Chabella's apataki, her stories about the gods. Twenty-four not being old enough, I want to tell my son, Not now, please."

Never having read her before today, I am in awe.

I am often OTT with my expressions of sentiment, and deliberately so. But this time my tongue lies not in cheek.

Get it today.

Save My Piggy Soul

Fellow Foodies Listen Up...

Today I'm playing truant. I'm on a sabbatical and have now landed myself in a bit of a sticky situation.

I started the quest for the perfect parsnip chip earlier today. Half an hour later, I find myself sinking into a pit of despair.

Having amalgamated several roasted parsnip recipes courtesy of google, I did the following -

Peeled and sliced two parsnips (and some carrots that were lying about too),
Boiled them for 5 minutes,
Tossed the slices in olive oil, cayenne and some salt,
Made a fake oven tray using foil paper, greased it, and lined it carefully with the slices,
Put the tray in the oven for 15 minutes at 180 degrees C.

This is what my oven expects me to have for lunch...

Parsnip and Carrot Chips

I have refused to accept them and so have tossed them back into the oven and upped the temperature. I need a fat-free, carb-free solution to the problem. I will be at it all day. I shall know no respite 'til my chips are crisp.

Words of wisdom are more than welcome.

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Diary of A Bitchy Black Woman and Her Hair

[Nigerian accent] "May the good Lord bless you and keep you. Amen."

[British machine-woman accent] "After the tone, please record your message. When you have finished, you may hang up or press 1 to hear your options."


A couple of days ago, I rang Julia*. After hearing that recorded message, I promptly hung up and chose to send a text instead. Returning to a hairdresser with your tail between your legs is not an easy thing... especially when she's a thunder-firing, hell damning born-again Christian.

I first met Julia several years ago when she was working at a fabulous place in central London - it was every black woman's dream! A clean environment with lots of stylish ladies (some white ones even!) tending to your hair's every need, in the most minimal of settings. Free of innit, wizzit and wa'gwan type accents, or the Anglo-Jamo patois I described in my Smackdown vs. Raw post, it was perfect.

That is, until it shut down without warning when the owner (a British guy who made it a point to remember every customer's name) went bankrupt.

The salon's workforce spread out all over London. Most chose to remain in the same area code, and one even went on to star in that random British reality show - I think it was called The Salon?

At the time, I wasn't loyal to Julia. Her thunder-firing and hell damning was bloody irritating, even to Christians like me! She was in the habit of launching into her biblical propaganda whilst washing my hair, accosting whichever poor woman was next to me having her tresses soaped. For reasons I still don't understand, I always felt compelled to shoot lady at sink 2 an apologetic look, as though I was in some way responsible for Julia's relentless bombardment and harrassment. Her favourite tactic was reciting John 3:16.

Lady at Sink 2, whoever she was on the particular Saturday I arrived, would shift in her chair nervously and uncomfortably, whilst Julia probed and questioned her on her faith and relationship with God. If she was a rude one, she would take out her ipod. If she was a cowardly one, she would answer politely, and would make weak attempts to cut the conversation short - which never worked, Julia couldn't (and still can't) take a hint.

One day, Lady at Sink 2 was a fiery Jamaican lass (they always are aren't they) who, despite her well put together ensemble, looked like the kind of person one ought not to mess with. Julia, as usual, began her probing and poking, only for the lady to put one well-manicured hand in the air and shout - "Halt!" Julia stumbled a little, I couldn't see her face as I was lying in front of her with my neck against the sink. Lady at Sink 2 continued - "This isn't church! I didn't come here for a sermon! I'm paying through my arse to have this time to relax, and you think I'm open to listening to this bull sheeet?"

Julia was flabbergasted. She rinsed her hands, and I (thinking she was preparing to back away) said a silent prayer - "Jamaican Lady abeg please come back same time next week! Amen!" Little did I know, but Julia was actually lunging into her handbag in search of her Bible. My hair was soapy and wet, and I was in a very compromising position, but even I had to turn round to look at her (along with the rest of the salon) when I heard the words "Get behind me Satan!" as she began to extol verse upon verse on Lady at Sink 2.

Needless to say, Julia wasn't very popular. Whilst some hairdressers would have two or three people waiting patiently for a turn with them, Julia's chair would be unoccupied, and you would find her waiting patiently behind in it, reading her Bible. Being an impatient so and so (the one thing in life I can not stand is waiting for a hairdresser) I always ended up with Julia, knowingly subjecting myself to the torture that would lie in store whenever we made our way to the sink.

Today, years after those irritating Saturdays, I went back to Julia. I had actually been to her last year when she worked at a very nice Lebanese-run place, but then I think they fought with her over the Bible-quoting thing and so she left, and I just couldn't be bothered to follow her to her next even more random establishment.

Today's reunion was long, as it always is with Julia, and she wanted to know about 'Miss Nigeria' and 'Madame President' (her irritating nicknames for my cousin and my sister).

Somehow we managed to get onto the topic of what I was doing at the moment, and where I was going with my life etc. I told her I was still sticking with the law thing, but was now thinking of jumping ship in a couple of years to become an editor or publisher.

Next thing, she says - "It's as if God answered my prayers when he sent you today. Kai!"

I thought to myself - "Christ! WHAT now?"

She then went on about how she was thinking yesterday about the three books she has had in her head for a while now, which could really help mankind (I promise you she said 'mankind'), but the problem is that she isn't such a great writer, which surprises her because she's such a fantastic talker.

She then looked at me expectantly, and I thought - "What the hell am I supposed to do with that info?"

Realising that I wasn't going to throw any offers her way, she proceeded to go into the detail of these books, nodding enthusiastically as she laid down the plot of each, saying how determined she was etc etc.

Anyway look, to cut this 'tory basically she wants me to PUBLISH her books (which thankfully I'm not in the position to do any time soon) AND to find someone who will ghost write them for her.

Now, the problem with Julia though is that she never gives up, and she will literally bring up the issue every single time I go to her. I really don't know what to do because after having suffered with Whilomena* (another hairdresser, but more on that cow next time) for the last 6 months, I know that my hair will only return to its former glory if I allow Julia to take the wheel!!


If you are appalled at what a silly billy I can be, I implore you to head here ---> to see for yourself that I am in fact capable of occupying my time with non-fluffy matters too!