Last year, I wrote this post about Halloween to give some insight into the reasons I have no time for this holiday.
Once upon a time, Halloween was about the kids. It was about children being able to dress up and rove about their neighbourhoods like little balls of buzzing excitement and anticipation, knocking on the doors of the people they lived by and receiving a handful of sweets.
Dear Big Bro,
Remember that time I broke one of our landlady’s decorative German plates that hung on the wall outside Mum and Dad’s bedroom in our house in Onchan? You were beside yourself with glee at the thought of me; little sister aka The Untouchable, finally getting into trouble for a change instead of you. All day you tormented me, laughing and pointing and waiting eagerly for Mum to get home.
I was a six year-old wreck all that day.
The look on your face when Mum took one look at my weeping, snot-smeared face, gathered me up in her arms and told me that she didn’t care about the stupid German plate was priceless. I gloated for a while but you didn’t seem to mind. An hour later, we were back to cavorting about the house with gay abandon, later smashing one of the landlady’s hideous commemorative German vases.
That’s one of the things I absolutely adore about you – you never hold a grudge. Your anger is something I have barely seen; choosing sternness, a few terse words and then completely forgetting about any grievances. I wish I could do that, I wish I was strong enough for that.
There was another photo I thought of using but the girls were in underwear. Why were they in underwear? Does the illustration of frenemies necessitate underwear and acres of bare flesh? Whatever, People are pervs.
I am developing something of a theme here.
When I look back on my years at secondary school, I can hardly characterise them as halcyon days spent giggling and jostling with friends at the back of Physics class or steeped in the camaraderie that comes from close-knit extra curricular activities. I played hockey and netball (the former being the bane of my very existence), I was the head of the Publicity & Web Team and for the first year, my mother refused to relinquish her role as Hair Suffragette, desperately trying to make sure the Jheri curl had its place in society.
In line with B’s (@GeekinHard) post and the banter a bunch of us shared on Twitter last night, I thought I’d stop by to give you a quick musical interlude. These are the top 40 played songs on my MP3 player over the last month. Some gems, some slightly less gem-ish but all worth a listen if you haven’t heard them yet. Thanks for the inspiration, B!
This morning as I shoved my way off the tube and traipsed to work, I received a text message. It was from a number that I hadn’t saved in my phone and this is what it said:
Long time. What are you up to now? Still in London? – Jx
I thought nothing of it at first; this isn’t the first, second or third time I have received random text messages not actually meant for my eyes. I tucked my phone back into my pocket but something about the text kept niggling at me. And then it hit me, the only person I have ever known to sign their text messages “Jx” was a boy called Jared.
Allow me to explain.
Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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