Month: February 2012

Let’s Talk About…TRUST

Trust: The firm reliance on the integrity, ability, or character of a person or thing -free online dictionary

Some things come naturally to me but trusting my fellow man, isn’t one of them. Like many, I have seen too often, displays of the the desperate wickedness that lies in the heart of man and it terrifies me no end. It’s one of the things I’m working on changing though because to live life unable or unwilling to trust people is to live life crawling on your belly, afraid your feet will fail you.

You know me, I like to think I’m a hard nut to crack but truth be told , my unwillingness to dole out certificates of trust is an unwitting admission of my vulnerability. After all, I should have no qualms trusting if I’m really that unaffected by people’s opinions and actions, no? 

This being human thing sucks eh?! *wink*

I know you’re waiting for my sob story but I’ll spare you, this isn’t reality TV and there’s no million pound prize awaiting me post public therapy.

Alright alright, relax those twitching ears. I’ll share some stories with you and yours too if you’re willing to write them up and email them to me. Let’s have group therapy, it’ll be fun!

By the by, have you decoded the message behind all this waffle? Well done Sherlock, you’re right; it’s time for a new series! *whoop whoop*

We’ll be exploring all things trust; the lack, the loss, the restoration, the beauty.

If you’ve got any stories you’d like to share, I’d love to read and publish them! Please email them to wailacaan@gmail.com and as always, you can remain anonymous if you’d prefer. Your identity is safe with me.

Hopefully at the end of this new series we would have exorcised some of our demons and freed ourselves of some of the baggage we carry around.

Stay tuned!

xXx

Waila

REQUIESCAT IN PACE (RIP)

Death, a rude reminder of man’s mortality. 

It sucks but die, we must.

I lost someone, it knocked me for six.

We had our issues, the source of my grief.

Life is short.

Too short not to be open and honest with the people around us.

Too short not to iron out disputes, settle misunderstandings.

To short not to paint our visions, live out our dreams.

Too short to sit around twiddling our thumbs.

Too short to live in the past, neglecting the present.

Too short to live each day in fear and despair.

Too short not to laugh and enjoy living.

Too short to lose faith, give up on giving.

Too short not to embrace the things that matter most.

Too short to turn your back on blood; your flesh, your bone.

Life is short.

What do you die leaving?

What memories, for the hearts, here still beating?

Sleep in peace, we’re no longer at war.

I’ll remember you, without your scabbard and sword.

How Are We Doing It?

It’s your friend Abi’s 30th birthday on Saturday. You get an email inviting you to dinner at an upmarket restaurant in the west end. You check out the email addresses in the thread; @jpmorgan.com, @hsbc.com, @morganstanley.com, @gs.com, @bain.com, @mckinsey.com…and then there’s yours…@yahoo.co.uk.

You and Abi are close enough, she expects you to be there. You click on the attached link to the restaurants website to view the menu. Main courses are £20 on average. That’s all the money you have left in your account. You spot a section that reads ‘side dishes.’ You scan it breathing a sigh of relief when you see the figures 6.99 beside the words ‘Garden Salad.’ You factor in the service charge and conclude that if you drink water, you’ll get away with spending just £10. You need the other £10 to transport yourself to and from the restaurant.

Saturday night, time to get ready for dinner. You might be unemployed and broke but you’ll be damned if you let ‘penniless’ scribble itself across your forehead. Black mini dress, check. Nude Louboutin peep toes, check. Brazilian hair, check. Ruby Woo lipstick, check.  35mins and a train ride later, you arrive at the restaurant £2.60 lighter. The ambience is great and everyone looks fabulous. Menus arrive and orders are flowing like cool breeze on a hot summer afternoon. Cocktails, wine, champagne, starters…the works. You nurse your tall glass of tap water with ice and a slice of lemon and when the person next to you asks why you aren’t ‘having a glass’ you tell them it’s that time of the month so you’re feeling a little nauseous.

The mains arrive and you eye the plates of duck confit, steak and sea bass but it’s the sautéed scallops that cause saliva to drip from the corners of your mouth.  You employ the services of the napkin spread over your laps and face your plate of the freshest looking grass you’ve ever seen. You decline the dessert menu when it’s offered, “Thanks but I’m stuffed,” hoping no one can hear the rumbles emanating from your stomach. You can’t wait to get home and whip up some Indomie.

Conversation is flowing and everyone’s laughing and having a good time when suddenly someone catches a glimpse of the clock hanging above the restaurant bar and realises you’ve been sat there for four hours. He signals to the waiter to bring the bill and people start to reach for their wallets. The bill arrives and then someone asks the million dollar question;

“How are we doing it?”

You sit up straight. What kind of stupid question is that; how are we doing it? You pay for what you ate, how else will we do it?!

The genius mathematician at the table does a quick count and declares that if the bill is split equally, £45 per head should cover it.

You are about to object when you notice that every other head is nodding in agreement.

Another voice pipes up.

“Abi shouldn’t have to pay because it’s her birthday.”

The genius mathematician redoes the calculation and asks, “£50 okay for everyone?”

Again, every head but yours nods in agreement.

50 what?! From where?!

Your silence is not an option. “I think everyone should pay for what they ate.”

Echoes of “that’ll be tricky to calculate, it’s easier to just split the bill” float around the table.

Tricky for who? Me I can calculate what I ate o! Abi there’s a mathematician at the table, e le se further maths ni?. Jo jo jo, e ma koba mi, don’t disgrace me in public!

You pull out a £10 note from your wallet, walk over to Abi, give her a hug and say goodbye. You drop the note in front of genius, “that’s how much my meal cost.”

Head held high, you head for the door, the red soles of your Louboutins clicking sexily against the marble floor.

That is how we’re doing it.

xxx

Waila