Faux-rish

                     SO IT TURNS OUT I LIKE WRITING NOW...  Tw enty years of oil paints, clays and w hat-nots and I'm after finding a load of words now. But sure, I'll try anything once. Twice if I like it... Except bungee jumping, I'll never do that. And sushi. That's rotten shite. But my earliest memory of writing something decent, was in high school - Mrs C’s English class. She thought it was so good, she read it to the room - I nearly collapsed off the chair - I was rubbish at school – couldn’t be bothered, all seemed a bit pointless really. But I liked Mrs C - the only one I did like. She never stuck me in detention like the others did – but they knew all too well how often “The dog ate my homework” - wouldn’t let me forget it. Some reason, I always did homework for her. She never patronised, put down or picked on anyone. But she could shut up the biggest tosser in the class, like that! Wish I...

SO I DIDN’T LIKE HIGH SCHOOL VERY MUCH... And I hated the uniform – and that my weirdness kept on sticking out of it. And the God-awful boredom crushed the spring in my soul. But I had a couple of mildly tolerable subjects, English and Home Economics. 'Cause Home Economics seemed to add plenty to my purpose - some cooking practicals – a useful life skill, I think, the ability to make lasagne and Choux paste... And when running my own café market stall, summers off from college, I always sold out of chocolate éclairs! Still, I never learned how to be a “Chef in the kitchen, a hoor in the bedroom...” and I forget the last one... nor was I taught how to rouge my cheeks, for the man in my life – the subject's un-endearing stereotype... but was always impressed by teacher’s talent, for matching   eye-shadow to outfit –   perhaps a skill that she had learned in her own Home Economics classes. And only a few brave boys, cooked along with us gals... dunno whether or not they...

               “ ’TIS AWFUL COLD OUT IN’T IT...” The start of every great conversation with a random. And the start of the chat outside my local London Costa, with a lovely lady from Limerick. "Ah Jaayzuz, I went to college in Lim'rick!" I’m saying in the 'Slightly-exaggerated-so-the-locals-can-understand-me' Faux-'rish twang. ...She’s now telling the tale of how she left home in '65 for a better life, on only 5 Pound. "There was no indoor plumbing or not'n!" Her accent as pure as the day she was born. Me, grateful for the childhood indoor toilet. And for the heap of shite family station wagon – rarely would it start without six Pettits, pushing 'til it sparked.   Grateful too that the house was situated atop a steep incline... Family bonding time, I spose. "You've a lovely accent" she told me as she got up to get her ‘messages.’ "It’s African, London, Irish...” Feeling all over again, like the alien seed ...

SO I’M PLAYING IN THIS HERE BROCKWELL PARK And my dad strokes his beard retelling how he used to walk through this very park with his aunt as a toddler - probably only a shortcut to his house in Brixton... And and stares into the distance, recalling childhood curiosity: “What magicness might lie inside of the Lido?” Because he could only see people jumping from a diving board from behind the wall... He just couldn’t see where they were jumping to. Wonder why he didn’t ask - maybe wasn’t told... For It is only my own inner child’s, unsatisfied emphatical empathy, that answers my nephew’s constant questions - no matter how uncomfortable they be... And how come I ended up coming here anyway – seeing as dad only told me this beard stroking story, after I’d brought the boy to Brockwell Park when he was two. Would’ve frequented more had it not been for them meat-head dogs - the sort of dogs I’d not want around young children - and their owners insist on letting them off their leads... ... Da...

  SO I HEARD SOME IRISH ACCENTS TODAY... And I wanted to pounce on them, suck all of the Irish accent out of ‘em. For it is familiar and comfortable. I've been eight years here in London's unfamiliar accent... I’ve this obsession for accents – or national identity more like. For which I am lacking... Because growing up in Africa, was like growing up in a foreign land – didn’t know at the time - but my guts did. Such an oppressive, conservative place - which I never got, never will - like the rules and that. But I found a bit of liberation, escaping to my first full time job – waitressing in a cafe, 9 hours a day, 6 days a week... and an hour after, doing dishes - since they hadn't a dishwasher...but a summer breeze comparing my first vomitus chores in Eire. And when I’m converting the money, I'd say I was making around £100/month - that's wages from ye olden times - plus tips, which were shite...feeling a bit mollycoddled now, seeing as the folks only ask...

   SO MY DAD WAS  IN THE AIR FORCE… The RAF in his twenties – the SAAF in his  thirties settling down in a caravan in Cape Town... An apprentice at 16, after quitting his grammar schooling – couldn’t be arsed sitting still at the study - wanting to use his useful hands, his good logic and his maths - an aircraft mechanic, was to become his craft - And my frustrated nomadic soul, a facsimile of his... – So he was sent away, to some mad made-up-sounding islands, like Christmas and Easter... We, the kids, only busted a gut – at the beginnings of his endless stories, “When I was in Christmas Island...” - then we’d all fall about, faux snoring at the next and the next and the next... and some of them even started off with, “When I was in Singapore...” But we had snored at his exciting times. His growing up - and I’d say some bleedin’ terrifying times. And now I’m telling all of my stories – but they’re nothing compared to his...my modern mind imagining, cleaning bogs and ...