Tag Archives: expensive

Shoes Glorious Shoes

My earliest memory of falling in love with pair of shoes was when I was about 7 or 8 years old. The shoes belonged the original Aisha Joda, my late maternal grandmother who we all called Mamie. They were dainty slippers, skinny wedges with black skinny and some stonework round the front. Beautiful classic shoes, kind of understated in their elegance. Mamie had the most beautiful small feet. A size 3 to 3.5. At 7-8, my feet were that size so I would sneak into her dressing room and put them on and stare at them in fascination. I think she or my mama caught me once or twice. She must have realised how much I loved them because when I turned 10, she gifted them to me. I was so thrilled. I wore them every chance I got (unfortunately not enough as I didn’t have many occasions to dress up back then). It was with deep sadness when I came home at the age of 12 to find my feet had outgrown those shoes.

My love for shoes grew slowly and steadily. I found a bargain faux leather black boots in 2001, just below the knees and for the first time, they fit perfectly around my skinny calves. I felt much like Julia Robert’s character in Pretty Woman and that meant I felt fabulous because it was my favourite movie and still ranks in my top 10. I wore those boots everywhere anytime. For two years, aged 15 and 16. Sadly, they were not of the best quality so after a lot of miles walked in them, I reluctantly stuck them in the charity bin.

My first really lovely grown-up pair was bought by my sister. They were a classic black suede stiletto pair with 4 inch heels. It took a bit of getting used to with the height of the heels but once I broke them in, I loved them to bits. I had them for nearly a decade and had dozens of pairs of shoes by then but parting was still difficult. I gave them to a sister because I knew she would love them much as I did.

I will mention two other significant shoes. I love polka dots in any shape or form. I even had a polka dot wedding cake and have bonded with many a parent at work over their polka dot top/skirt/tights. 2 years ago, I found a beautiful pair of black with white spots polka dot high heels by Rocket Dog. They are absolutely stunning and I wear them every chance I get because even if things are going pear-shaped, I look down and my feet clad in polka dots never fail to lift my heart. My husband loves shoes and he is a generous soul so if I let him, he would buy me shoes costing hundreds of £££. I am of those who believe that if I have hundreds to spare, I would rather go on holiday than buy a pair of shoes I am too busy to wear out anyway. For my last birthday, my husband gifted me my first pair of Jimmy Choo’s. Black knee length pure leather boots with a gorgeous soft lining that caresses my foot. A bit like my first pair of boots but more grown up and of better quality. I still feel like Julia Roberts but a classier one.

I shan’t go on about every pair of shoes I own but suffice it to say, there are quite a few and I keep running out of display space. One day, my husband and I hope to build our own home reminiscent of some of the inspiring Grand Designs homes we have seen. My one wish is to have a decent sized dressing room adjoining the master bedroom. The main reason being, I would like to be able to display all of my shoes in a beautiful setting, like Carrie in Sex and the City. Mmmm….

Male Drivers

Have you as a girl ever sat next to a male driver and heard them make the comment ‘female drivers!’ with disdain dripping from every word? Have you as a boy been the person making that comment? Well I have news for you, I think in many ways male drivers are just as bad and in some cases much worse drivers. Sure many female drivers tend to err on the side of caution and so you may be excused for getting a little impatient when they drive at a speed of 25 miles/hour in a 30 miles/hour zone and refuse to get into the slow lane. that annoys me too. However, ask anyone who has had an accident whilst crossing the road in a residential area where a boy racer (or just as likely a fat middle-aged balding man) has decided he would rather go at 50 miles/hour and you end up losing a spleen or even a kidney for a momentary lapse of concentration out on the roads. I regularly tell off male drivers for turning normal roads into formula 1 arenas and risking my life just to get to a movie or meal when they have wasted too much time starting out in the first place (you know who you are!). Not worth it is what I say.

One thing that intensely irritates me is when men say women have no spatial awareness. Er, I have no issues bay parking properly thank you very much and my reversing round a corner was the easiest skill for me to master. Ask my driving instructor and the person who conducted my driving test. I think men have spatial awareness issues big time. And they display these issues in the least expected place. They cannot drive within their lane! My husband is chief culprit. He is forever drifting over the line and sometimes well into the next lane without meaning to switch lanes. When I complained, he would say things like I am not holding anyone up or I was avoiding a bump. Rubbish! My father-in-law had to concede my point when on one 30-minute journey alone I pointed out 10 men drivers with their wheels on the lane divider or even over. And majority of those were holding me up too. Men!

Another thing is men in large expensive cars. As a sensible woman, my car is a good-size (I drive a Nissan Leaf and before that I had a little car, the Nissan Micra). I am forever having to pull up short because men see me coming and think they can just pull out in front of me when I have right of way. My husband laughs when I complain and says it’s because they think me in my smaller less expensive car would not want to bash their humongous overpriced toy. Well, I will have you know that this female driver makes it a point not to let such impudence slide and I never let them in if they try to force their way in front of me. I simply let the irate looks wash off my back and sometimes the swearing that comes with that. In fact, I usually grin broadly and give them a cheeky wave to rub it in. What a cheek! I regularly pretend I do not see them pulling out and purposely leave the braking a little late and then pull up just before I make contact whilst I enjoy the look of horror on their faces. Dangerous game I know but it’s so worth it when I get the reaction I seek. Hehehehe.

Biggest safety concern of all is men on their phones. It is as if that law was made for female drivers alone. The number of times I have had a man drive erratically in front of me and I have had to switch lanes to avoid an accident, only to go past them to see that they are busy fiddling with their phone. Van drivers in particular are always on the phone having a chat as they weave in and out of traffic. I always wonder who is supposed to be enforcing that law and where they are. I mean I sort of understand looking at your phone when you have stopped at a traffic light but actually driving at high speed and using the mobile phone is downright dangerous. Most of all I think it is very selfish. If you do not value your life all that  much and a phone call or text about how wasted you got last night is worth you risking your life, then take a second to consider that when you are driving a car, you are only 1 of potentially a whole crowd of people whose lives are at risk. I will give you an example of this. When I was out in Nigeria in 2012, one of my doctor colleagues lost his mother. How? His sister who was driving was using her phone, took her eyes off the road and crashed into another car, instantly killing her own mother and a passenger in the other car and causing serious injury to herself and the other passengers involved. I ask you: is it worth it? I know that if I killed my mother because of my mobile phone, I would probably lose the will to live. Even if it was a stranger that got killed or permanently disabled, it would scar me for life.

Having said all of that, I must commend male drivers for one thing. In general, I have found them to be more generous of spirit when it comes to letting you in when you are coming into slow traffic and they have right of way. I don’t know what it is with female drivers but it’s like a crazy competition not to let another female driver in front of them. Like letting you in is to give up their crown for the throne of I-don’t-know-what. I regularly am kept idling for multiple cars all driven by women and am finally let in by a kind gentleman. So all hail male drivers for their courtesy (and I will purposefully exclude the rude male taxi drivers particularly those in black cabs who are the opposite of gentlemanly). So I leave you on a final note that please when you drive out of your home and go on public roads, remember your highway codes, drive in your allocated lane (if you can’t tell where you should be, please do visit the optician at your earliest convenience), respect your fellow drivers female and male alike and most of all, do not presume to be a better driver because you have a penis. As far as I know, it is not actually capable of driving a car itself.

A Frenchie Couple of Days

Ebola is easy [to catch]. In the 1990s scientists in America put an [Ebola] infected monkey in a cage on one side of a room and a healthy monkey in a cage on the other. Two weeks later, the healthy monkey was dead. Following a spate of Hollywood films, most people believe the human race is at greatest risk of annihilation from a giant meteorite or some kind of religious nuclear war. But if Ebola ever gets on a plane, experts say that 90 per cent of us will be dead within six months. It is known in America, where they are good at names, as a ‘slate wiper.’

I am quoting directly from Jeremy Clarkson’s ‘The World According to Clarkson’. I have been trying not to lotl (laugh out too loud) as he brilliantly ridicules everything from the Lottery’s Heritage fund to the British Government’s then PM His royal Tonyness to the fact that Germans actually rule the world. Of course, the Ebola bit is not in the least bit funny. It is kinda scary in this period when Ebola has taken nearly 1000 lives in Africa. Having read half of Clarkson’s book so far and finding myself agreeing with him on things I never thought we would have in common, I came across this quote on Ebola and it prompted me to put the book down and write this blog. I am currently sitting in Charles De Gaulle Airport (Paris) and trying not to be suspicious of everyone that passes by me. I am especially trying not to be racist against my own race since majority of known infected patients are from West Africa like me. I am to my shame eating my first Mackey D’s meal in 5 years because it was a choice between a McDonald’s, something piggy or a dry bit of chicken for the price of venison in a Michelin-starred restaurant in England. In the end, it was an easy choice, if a little disappointing.

This is one of my main gripes with Paris. On British telly, all the chefs are always saying how all food French is simply amazing and many a guidebook or review will agree with that. Well, that’s a lot of kaka I tell you. The first time I went to Paris, I innocently believed in these chefs’ believes so imagine my horreur when I asked for a bit of authentic French fod (onion soup) and when it came it tasted like dirty boots with no salt and the texture was not much better. Now I am one of those people who once I make a choice to have a meal, I can usually eat a fair bit of it and remain positive even it is not the best meal I have tasted. With this soup, the crushing disappointment combined with the disgusting taste and I couldn’t manage more than a couple of spoon fulls. I had to resort to sharing my mama’s salad which thankfully was more palatable. Then on my 2nd trip this time with my mama and dear sister, we were on the Avenue de Champs Elysee when hunger struck and we decided to chance the overpriced restaurants there. What we got was edible this time but my good God! It really wasn’t worth paying an arm and a leg for. I mean my sister enjoyed her frogs’ legs but my badly done chips were not worth the plate they were served on. The best food I have had in Paris was either from a fast-food joint (mostly crepes) or from the home of a family friend who lives in the suburbs. Maybe the reviews should specify this salient fact. You can get good food in Paris if you like baguettes or crepes or if you happen to know any Parisians who would cook for you.

My 2nd gripe is related and is about how expensive everything is. A can of pop in England ranges anywhere from 50p to 80p. In Paris, and not in a posh area, I have just paid 1 euro. I walked past a plastics shop and a cheap tatty toilet brush would have set me back by 6.90 euros and a single croissant in the land of croissants was 90 cents or 1 euro. What a scam! My ‘cheap’ McD meal is 7.70 euros (compared to something like £4 in England). A single to the airport, their equivalent to Heathrow is just under a tenner. A simple phone charger was 25 euros and a £100 mobile phone costs 200 euros. Don’t even get me started on their ‘fashion’…the simplest vest top would buy me a lovely dress in H&M England. To be fair, my cousin dragged me into their H&M and I realised that H&M is amazing even in Paris and it has French fashion to boot so I know where I will be going for my ‘French fashion’ the next time I visit Paris.

My biggest gripe is the stench. Don’t get offended if you are Parisian and reading this but man alive! I stepped off the plane and 100m away from the first restrooms, I could smell the stale urine. I declined to use the ladies at this juncture because I thought this is because they are the first restrooms after getting off the plane so maybe that why they are so smelly. Not so! Just before immigration, I spotted a seemingly isolated Ladies and off I went. The stale urine smell was pervasive even though the floor looked clean and dry. As I really did need to go by then, I inhaled and ran in to do my business. I came out and joined the ‘queue’ for immigration. I use the term queue loosely because apparently people here do not know the term. After 2 families squeezed in front of me in the queue and I was forced to endure the body odour coming off them, I cottoned on to the technique and pushed and shoved with the best of them. By the time I got to immigration, I was sick to the gills with all the smelly people around me and hacked off by their disorderliness. I almost forgot I was there because my one supportive uncle had invited me to come and spend a bit of time with him and his family as they holiday in Europe for the summer. And over the past 48 hours, the only bathroom I went without the stench was in a mall at La Defense so if you have to use a public restroom in Paris, I suggest you hold it until you get to this oasis of true hygiene.

There are numerous other things I do not love about Paris but I shan’t go into them all for fear someone labels me an anti-Frenchie and tries to stab me to death. What I will point out is that there were not even cute babies and young children to soften the disappointment and lighten the heart. So where are all the pretty Parisian kids in their designer clothes, enjoying frogs’ legs and foie gras? Maybe they all go to the French Riviera in the summer and are not due to return until the school term is about to start. I did have a good laugh at some of the fashion though. Lots of uncool ‘edgy’ fashionistas on show but the one that made me pinch myself so I would not lotl was a middle-aged lady in knee high cream pop socks tied up using wisps of netty material worn with open sandals and a long flowing black coat of shiny pseudo-suede material. OMG! Give me our English goths and emos anytime. I did clock a cute white baby who might be Parisian in the airport but doesn’t matter, plenty of mixed race and African babies going through Charles De Gaulle to brighten up my day. So now I understand the comments of some of my friends who greeted the news that I was going to Paris with a look of bewilderment and quite a bit of amazement that I had been to Paris twice already and was willing to go for a third time. Je suis une ‘silly’ saucisson! Hehehe.

Black Sisterhood

I am black. I love being black. I celebrate being black. Earlier this week, I had an incident that to me highlighted what is so amazing about being black and being included in the black brotherhood. Or sisterhood when it comes to us ladies.

My husband borrowed my nice 100% electric eco-loving car on that day because his work car was in for repairs and I was stuck with his super-sexy sporty German turbo-charged something or the other. Honestly, I am a bit of a speed fiend so I wasn’t complaining too loudly and he did custom-order the interior leather colours to suit my taste. So here I was in his sexy car running down to the nearest Charity shop to drop off some bits and bobs. On my way back after another diversion for road works, the fuel low indicator began to flash furiously at me and I thought this was the normal husband thing where the fuel is always a little too low for comfort and I get teased mercilessly for preferring the comfort of a few extra litres, just in case. Anyway, to cut the long story short, as I debated where the nearest fuel station was, the car started to slow down and then cut out shortly afterwards and then I was broken down.

OMG! I managed to steer the car into the inside lane before it cut out completely then called the recovery people. I popped my hazards on and settled down to wait for the lovely recovery people to come save me after a few choice words to my husband which clearly displayed my displeasure at the predicament I found myself in. The first bus that came up to me stopped and pretended a whole lane was not wide enough for him to use and he wanted me out of the way. I pretended not to see him but I was looking as he gestured something rude. A really fat white man.

I got onto my phone and started doing phone things to stave off the boredom that was already overwhelming me 3 minutes into the wait (in a promised less than 1 hour wait). I was engrossed in my phone when I perceived a vehicle slowing down to a halt beside my car. I reluctantly pulled my eyes away from my device when I heard an incredulous voice say ‘oh no, she is on her phone’. My already bad mood immediately worsened and before I could engage the brakes on my mouth, I said ‘Well I am broken down. Is there a law against using my phone when I am stationary?’ It was a white police woman in a police van. She blushed in embarrassment because her jumping to that conclusion was completely prejudiced having seen that here was a young black woman in an expensive car stopped in an unusual position. She apologised immediately and after suggesting that I might perhaps be safer standing out on the pavement, she drove off swiftly. Smh!

As I stood by my car and waited, I had several dirty looks from passing drivers, all white and seemingly hostile because I had the audacity to break down in their path. Never mind that they could all drive past in the unobstructed outer lane. I stared them all down and waited. A black guy driving a delivery van stopped 2 car lengths behind me and offered his assistance. With his help, I managed to reverse back into a better position leaving more space for the outer lane to flow nicely. When he was satisfied I was in a better position, he left with a kind word. My mood much improved, I hummed a song as I paced the pavement. I was broken down in a spot near the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital so I had a few patients stop by to offer their kind help too.

There was a very elderly very English gentleman who tottered over in his tweed jacket to ask if there was anything he could do to assist me. My smile firmly restored, I was able to say no but thank you and watched as he made his slow progress away from me. Next a pair of fellow elderly Africans stopped. I joked that I just needed a parking space and was waiting for them to leave. After they had unsuccessfully tried to guess that I was Nigerian, they commiserated with my situation and offered to let me sit in their car to shelter from the light drizzle. I declined their offer and instead had a debate about the Ebola outbreak and what it would do potentially to us ‘poor’ Africans. I had to reassure the ‘dad’ that I was definitely okay and that the recovery van man had called to say he would be there in the next 15 minutes or so before they reluctantly drove off.

I have been reflecting about this little incident for the past couple of days and my conclusions are as follows. There is definitely a lot of work to be done in inter-racial relations and the negative stereotyping we all do especially when it comes to colour. Britain might like to pretend it is PC and all that but actually there is an undercurrent of racism in a lot of their institutions, the Police being a prime example. The neighbourhood I broke down in was inconveniently the ‘most racist’ one in Birmingham. Northfield – the stronghold of BNP in Birmingham where many EDL supporters live. Allegedly. I am sure many of those white drivers who jumped to conclusions about why my car was stopped on the main road going through Northfield were of the BNP/EDL-persuasion. But who knows?

Most importantly, that incident was a very positive experience for me. First that the lovely old gentleman saw a woman in need and was gentleman enough to offer help that he physically would not have been up to. Second that the black delivery guy took time out of his busy schedule to stop to help a sister and indeed succeeded in making me and my car safer. Lastly that the African pair kept me company and offered to shelter me from the rain. I am thankful that kindness and neighbourly concern are still quality traits on display and that there are still men out there who would go out of their way to offer their assistance to a complete stranger. Despite her gender or colour. I am thankful to be part of a race that believes still in brother- and sister-hood of everyone black and that where we are a minority, there is a code of this black-hood that means they automatically consider us part of one large family. It is such a lovely feeling and it is part of the reason why I love being in Birmingham because I see evidence of such goodness often as I go about my business. Long may these feelings and attitudes continue to prosper!