The Icarus Girl

I'm sitting in my flat, on a Wednesday morning, eating pork sausages and ketchup, and feeling very 'Manhattan' with myself. I don't think women in their twenties in Manhattan eat pork sausages on Wednesday mornings, but I think this is just a warped projection of my desire to live the New York dream.

A long time ago I thought I would one day be a writer, and that I'd have a fabulous apartment in New York in which I'd sit all morning long, looking out into Central Park from behind my typewriter, and gathering mounds of inspiration.

I suppose that day is now long gone because, as you know, I'm on my way to becoming a city lawyer.

Quel snore!

The cultural enlightenment and emancipation of OluwaBitchiola has so far been very exciting. In March, there was Bamako, which I despised, but there was also Shuffering and Smiling, which I never blogged about. That was a documentary about Fela and Femi Kuti, and their endless struggle with Nigeria's many problems - political mismanagement being the key one from the film's perspective. I'm surprised I forgot to talk about it on here, seeing as I went all the way to Clapham (CLAPHAM people) to see it. Ooh wait a minute, I did talk about it, but on The Afro Beat.

Yesterday I ventured into a territory even more foreign to me than Clapham... I went to Dalston. I actually didn't know I was going to Dalston at the time, I thought I was going to Hackney. My three friends and I (one yellow investment banker, one development economics wiz cum fashion designer, and one stunning Spaniard in baby pink trousers) got onto the Bus 149 from Liverpool Street at about 7pm. The aim had been to get to Hackney for 7, but it turns out maths (well time mathematics anyway) isn't my forte'. Why did we need to get to Hackney at 7? Because 7 was when the 'pay what you can' tickets to the play we were going to see, were going on sale.

Quel cheapscates!

Needless to say, we didn't get to Hackney at 7. But we did get to Dalston at 7.40. The play, was at the Arcola Theatre, in what can only really be described as Turkeytown. I never knew that just as the major cities (London, New York, Lagos even) have Chinatown, they also have Turkeytown, which is where good people of Turkish origin come out to play. In the corner shop (or so we thought initially, but it was really just a dirty warehouse) nextdoor to the theatre, we stared at shelves for well over 5 minutes, struggling to find something familiar to purchase. Rukks, ever the daring soul, went for the least strange-looking biscuits she could find, whilst I ended up with Doritos, Ells with Walkers, and E-Weezy with pretzels.

As luck would have it, despite the website's advice to arrive at 7 to be sure to secure 'pay what you can' tickets, there were still some available at 7.45. It was a funny moment when the lady asked us what we were going to pay, and I said £5. She thought I meant £5 for all 4 tickets, and struggled (but failed) to hide her scowl. In hindsight, I really should've thought ahead, and shouldn't have gone so well dressed!

Tickets bought, weird Turkish snacks abandoned, chitchat underway, and I see a girl by the counter who looks oddly familiar. So I nudge E-Weezy and say "I think that's Helen Oyeyemi". After some hilarious debate, I conclude that it is her, and that I'm going to say hello. I suppose if she had been a much older author, I might have thought twice, but then seeing as she's my age, and we have friends in common, I didn't think much of it.

Turns out, it was Helen. The only reason we were surprised to see her there was because our friend Tomlinson (yet another code name thank you... I do not have friends with names like Tomlinson) had brutally rejected our invite to the play because he already had plans to go see it with "the author herself" (i.e. Helen) on Thursday. It hadn't really occurred to us that she would want to see it more than once!

Helen, as you must know, is the author of The Icarus Girl, a book I have purchased twice and never read.

I first learnt about her about four years ago, when the book was as yet unpublished. We were both still at school at the time. She was on her way to Cambridge, and I to LSE (talk about the wrong university for a hopeful fiction writer). I bought the book in the first month of its release (because I have a thing for hardbacks... quel dork, ey?), read the blurb at the back, and gave it to a friend. I then bought it again last year on a whim (okay because it was only -N- 600 at Nu Metro), but never once worked my way onto the first page.

Why? Because I am the biggest fraidy-cat known to mankind, and I had heard it was a very scary, almost disturbing story. Even the critical acclaim phrases on the back of the book were saying so, so I did what any discerning fraidy-cat would do... I heeded their warning, and left TillyTilly and Jessamy Harrison well alone.

Well... I certainly got 'acquainted' with them last night. And it wasn't pretty! At one point, I even held onto Ells and E-Weezy, shutting my eyes because I was afraid of what was coming.

Talking to Helen after the play, she said the director had cut out many of the book's more frightening scenes. I had thought the play was bad enough! I couldn't stop myself from declaring to the author then and there, that I was never ever going to read her book.

How surprised was I then to find myself dredging it out well past midnight, and reading the first chapter. I got to the end of that, and abandoned the book in the kitchen, just so TillyTilly couldn't get at me whilst I was asleep.

(Yes, I have a very vivid imagination)

Back to the play though... it was very well done, and there's still loads of time to go see it. Its on at The Arcola, which is in Dalston, not Hackney, get it right! And I could even go as far as to say that it was worth the near-death encounter Ells and I had on the way home.

We decided to take the Bus 30 which'd take us right back to our cosy little end of London. The problem was that the Bus 30 didn't come anywhere near the theatre. So we got on some random bus with Rukks and E-Weezy who then, wisely, decided to go all the way on it to Waterloo. Ells and I, got off at the Dalston Lane Junction, and found the Bus 30's bus stop on Balls Pond Road (which was distinctly more creepy than the junction with all its bright lights). We stood there for a minute, pleased with ourselves, until I decided to check what direction buses at that stop were heading in. It turned out they were headed even deeper into the lion's den.

We then crossed the road, and saw that the Bus 30 was already at the bus stop nearest to where we were standing. I looked around me and thought, there is NO way I am standing on this street for another half hour with a stunning Spaniard in her baby pink trousers waiting for another bus. I believe she had the same thought (minus the stunning Spaniard bit). And before we knew it, we were both legging it down the opposite end of Balls Pond Road, as fast as we could.

It pains me to think of what was going through the minds of the other bus-awaiters that we had stood beside at the wrong bus stop. First, a posh looking black girl and a hot white girl stand in front of them looking flummoxed, then they cross the road and stop for a good minute, then next thing they're flying down the road with the black one in the lead, before the white one overtakes her leaving a good mile between them. (I never said athletics was my thing at school!)

We ran so fast that we got to the stop long before the bus, and then had to get our breathless selves together hurriedly when a scary looking man began his approach (I suppose even a toddler would look scary against the Balls Pond Road backdrop). I could see Ells' veins popping as the man got even closer and the bus crawled sluggishly for what seemed like ages up the road. As Olodumare would have it though, thirty seconds later we were safe and snug on a filthy Bus 30 surrounded by two Chinese girls, one drug addict and some old people, and were on our way home.

My only regret is that we forgot to make a pitt-stop at Obalende Suya.

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Helen and I should be going on a date to share something we have come to discover is a mutual passion next week. If anything other than drooling ensues, I will be sure to blog about it.

Ooh and I'm going to the screening of the Naij documentary on Sunday. Will be sure to blog about that too, even though Jeremy already got in there first after his private screening. Can you smell the envy?