10 Ways To...

Can I quickly say before this gets read- I know I have not posted for a while, most of my stuff has stayed in 'draft' mode, but I swear- it is not because I have been practising these techniques!!)

Ten Ways to Create a Delinquent
1. Be sure not to show your son or daughter any affection.This will leave them unable to do so in later life.

2. Remind them on a regular basis just how usless they are.

3. Pit siblings against each other. Always take the side of your 'other', your 'favourite' child. If there are no siblings available, cousins and other youngsters will suffice.

4  Isolate the other parent and when your child asks for him or her say in as mean a voice as possible,  "S/he is not interested in you." Then walk off.

I can't get no sleep

Sleep evades me like an errant child. And not one that goes quietly either. She would slam the door behind her, stamp her feet and shout; "I never want to see you again!" and run off at 4 and 5 in the morning. I would be left with the sound of a small congregation singing "Ha....lle....uayah...." in the church just across the way, and a preacher preaching through a microphone as though it were indeed mid afternoon and his congregation was a crowd of one hundred and not a sprinkle of fifteen..
Sleep would tease me all afternoon. Hit me hard and then skip off.  "You can't catch me, you can't catch me!" Or stand at the foot of my bed at 7am whilst the carpenter banged yet another nail into a downstairs wall.

I spent weeks trying to catch this child. On some days I forgot I needed her until late. Those proved to be better days. There were the nights when I got all dressed up and went and danced with her anyway, watching her with squinted eyes.Or went walking or driving around, only to be shouted at from the church microphone just a few hours after I put my head down. Ear plugs, tissue and cotton wool all failing to keep her noise at bay. She was wicked. Wicked.

All I wanted was to hold her- for at least eight hours. Rub her back like I used to and say- "It's OK, you can stay. I really really love and need you". But here- she didn't care at all. Tongue sticking out and hair sticking up- "Nah na na na na. Come get me then!". I got to dragging the hem of her skirt on a few occasions. Forced her down on several others- but in Ghana, she never loved me, not really. My inner child ended up writing a few lines of stern complaint. You can read them under my eyes.

House Boy

Day two and I've yet to erase the memory of the horrible flight and horrendous Death Ride from my mind. This morning, however, I have a distraction. We have been introduced but this is the first time I get to have a proper conversation with him. Jacob, our house boy.  House boys and girls are the norm here. Someone who fetches and carries, cleans up and looks after you and mends or reports faults around the house. Well, that's what Jacob does.  At home my house boy is my son, but he does nothing. Nothing I tell you.  This boy is a sheer delight.  "Jacob, can you get me some credit please?" I am just testing the waters. "Of course". He smiles and goes off with what seems like pleasure to purchase 5 cidis worth of credit for my new local number.  On his return I get a chance to speak to him. "So Jacob", I say. "When you are not doing such a wonderful job looking after us, what do you do?"
       His skin is the same brown as my oldest son, despite this heat. He has a straight smile and a mini afro. He wears track suit bottoms and sandals and an over-sized basketball vest. In England the haircut would have to be sharp. The creps(trainers) would be Nike or Adidas or some other known label,  and the vest would have to at least match the tracksuit bottoms! Luckily for him he is not bound by the constaints of image and swagger and the his freedom is a refreshing reminder that there are alternative ways of being."You must be on vacation now, right?"

Babies in thirties and forties?

People do it all the time- Observations of Ghana .2

We call it the Death Ride
The first drive in this country was from the airport to where we are staying in a place called Koforidua. We travel in what the locals call a 'tro tro'. We pile in with our bags and suitcases; four volunteer teachers, a doctor, the project organiser, the driver and his two nephews. The driver takes us on a journey up long winding roads. There's hardly any traffic as it's now about 2am. He speeds up this mountain, as this can't be just a hill. It's black on either side. Eventually we can see the city of Accra laid almost beneath us. It resembles a black blanket with fire flies resting all over it. It's wonderful, daunting, but it's below and I'm worried that if this f*** ing driver doesn't slow down we are all doing to roll down there in this tro tro.

People do it all the time- Observations of Ghana

I spy with my Little Eye
Am sat in an Internet cafe in Koforidua, Ghana and all I can do is thank my lucky stars. This is the second African country I have visited, and- for the second time- I feel right at home. I walked about fifteen minutes from the where I'm staying to get here. Sand and dust fill my sandals and my fellow travellers Akuoswa, Eve and I have had to step over a few open sewages, but for me, I just love it and I know they do too. Right now they are on the Internet doing their thing and I am sat here beside an open door to my right. A large fan on the ceiling above me spins the aroma of 5pm and heat, but the open door lets in a breeze that sends shivers down my spine.  Just outside a bike is propped up against a black and red column. I can only see the front wheel and the front of a well worn silver frame with a black wire basket sitting near the front handlebars. Old cars are honking through the road. Golfs, Nissans; old models that back in England would be considered outdated. They whizz or crawl past this spot tooting every couple of seconds to warn pedestrians, and bikers who, in my mind, are just brave. They toot to warns the animals- dogs and goats  who all seem to understand the nuances of this busy road. It's alive. Not quite heaving, but vibrant.

what, no easter salary?

April is my favourite month. Since my body clock is tuned into the academic year, April marks being settled, being established into what one is doing. Not only that but the sun tends to sneak out at this time of year with whispered promises that have people like me thinking about spending the afternoon dozing with a good book in the park.

But for the first time in over ten years I am not getting paid during the holidays. This takes some adjusting to and some skill at stretching the old penny. I have spent the last ten years almost gloating about being in bed for two weeks at 10am knowing that I am still getting paid. And it really was great.                      But this year it's different. This time round I am busy working on my plans for world domination- no I lie- just my plans to get more of my courses out there so I am indeed comfortable during these holidays that now seem to happen all too quickly.

17th march 1983

Dear Diary,
It's been nearly a week since I last wrote- but never mind! Sheba our puppy (we changed it's name cos it's a girl) may have to go away.I don't want it to as it's really sweet. Jenny Morgan's gonna ask her dad if she can have it. I hope he says 'yes' then I can go and see it. By the way Jenny's had her hair cut. It looks OK. It makes her look older!
I simply must mention- There's a person I can't stand. Kiki! She is always looking at me in maths!
Sarah's been away lately. She won't be back till next week. Oh.
For Art we have Ms Donaldson now instead of Mr Sampson. She's quite nice.

The Audacity of Youth

Everyone knows how fond I am of the students I teach. I still maintain contact with students I taught many moons ago and I still enjoy them calling me, telling me about their progress:
"I'm working now Miss".
"I'm engaged Miss".
"I've got my own place now Miss."
"I got into Uni Miss"(That's one of my favourites!)
They tell me as they know the encouragement will still be forthcoming although they have long left my care.
Also, I live in the same area that my old college is in so it is nothing unusual to bump into any one of them, so I wasn't at all surprised that once again I bump into-let's call him Adrian. I taught 'Adrain' in 2001 or thereabouts.

my ORIGIN

Yesterday evening I took my son to a group called ORIGIN; A Rites of Passage Program for young men of African decent. We waded through the rush hour traffic on train and tube and at 6.50 we entered a building right at the end of Willington Road. He didn't want to go, my son. He would rather spend his evenings moving from kitchen to lounge to kitchen to bedroom. From Ps3 to msn to PS bleeding 3. But as his mother, of course, I know what's best. Plus, his older brother done the program years ago and it benefited him so immensely I cannot say. The program was available to us at a time when he was at an emotional low, and needed strong male role models and the cushion of love and support that the program mentors provide.

the video

My good friend's daughter just recently had a baby girl. Gorgeous little thing she is- both of them actually; Sweet smelling, petit and soft. We were invited to watch a video of the baby's birth as we'd heard she was a real trooper, so now we had the chance to see for ourselves.
       "But so soon Teesh?" I inquired. "Aren't you still on fire?" I know I was squeezing, squashing and folding my legs tight  for at least a month after my last big headed baby was born. I couldn't imagine watching what I went through, much less watching it three days later!!

14th January 1983

I found an old diary of mine!! Here's an entry from twenty seven years ago!!

Dear Diary,
It's been a long time since I've written in here. Not that the days have been boring, not at all. I just didn't find the time. Anyway, the week has been alright. On Thursday MM and the World Famous Supreme Team were on Top Of The Pops! It was the best song.
On Sunday church was alright. We went back extra early. I was sick in the van.
On Monday I went back to school. Denise has got the wet look and P**'s done something wierd to her hair. It looks wierd.
I haven't been waking up early tho. I have to try harder.
Oh yea, they're still on about the boots business. "Take em off when you get in school and all that jazz". We can't do anything in school.

In my parent’s house I obey the sign that says: NO SHOES NO EXUSES before mounting the stairs. There’s a smell of apple crumble, my favorite, coming from the kitchen; Sweet cinnamon, brown sugar, nutmeg even; and although these aren’t the stairs I used to climb back then, I am thrown into childhood. Then, all of my Sundays were dominated by Sunday- School first, Sunday dinner next and the delicious desserts that followed.
I hug my mum who is sat up in bed and hope the smell of mints and white musk is stronger than roll ups. Sweet soap and powder waft upwards from her cheeks, her robe. The room is drenched in the yellow of the afternoon. My mum is soft and warm to the touch with arms that feel like a chocolate cake that I take out of the oven too soon.

Flash Fiction

In the run up to the new year, instead of thinking about Sales and Food and Nights out, I have been thinking about FLASH FICTION. At a recent writers retreat the fabulous author Kate Clanchy introduced a group of us to the concept: Ten word and one hundred word stories.
When it should be sleep I am counting words! It's a true test on the concise use of language, especially with the ten word stories:getting to the essence of the story straight away but still with the beginning, middle and an end! It's fun as well, and as such I've dedicated a whole new blog to the idea!!Does it work? (my attempts and the concept) Take a look, see what you think :-)      http://2010wordstories.blogspot.com/