Random

Dear Womb Watcher

Dear Womb Watcher,

You accused me of hiding my pregnancy. In your words, “We had been waiting for IMG_4752you to conceive and you didn’t tell us when it happened! Why were you hiding? You didn’t post any pictures on Instagram!”

First things first, who are the ‘us’ that I neglected to inform? Are you my husband? Mother? Father? Brother or sister? Friend perhaps? And why were you waiting for me? Do I owe you a child?

Secondly, I was hiding because you didn’t find out on Instagram?! Really?!

I am confused, I can’t lie.

You see, I got up in the mornings like all the other commuters in London and hopped on the train to and from work.

I patrolled the Canary Wharf malls on my lunch breaks (because assorted cravings) where I was spotted by many a friend and acquaintance. Shout out to the Naija massive in the wharf!

I was so robust, only lycra worked for me; so I lived in lycra dresses that advertised my ginormous bump.

I went grocery shopping, I went shopping. Heck, I spent half my pregnancy in Brent Cross.

I visited friends, I visited family.

I went to the cinema, I went to a few parties and weddings. At 32 weeks pregnant, I was in a club shaking my tail feather to celebrate a friend’s 30th. I even trekked to Winter Wonderland to chow down some hotdogs and gaze longingly at mulled wine.

I frustrated my poor husband because despite his concern, I was driving the streets of North London looking for everything and nothing…anything to get me out of the house.

I lived my life as normally as the fatigue, back ache and pelvic girdle pain would allow.

Yet, I was hiding because there were no pregnant pictures of me on Instagram.

You see that Insta life? It’s not real life. Real life happens OUTSIDE of Instagram. If you have been relying on Instagram to find out the intimate details of my life, I hate to tell you that there’s a hell of a lot you’ve missed out on.

If you had bothered to call me, you probably would have found out. Oh wait, you don’t have my number.

If you’d sent me a message to find out how I’d been, you may well have found out. Oh wait…

The crux of the matter is that you had no idea because it didn’t concern you. You need not have kept track of the length of my marriage. Telling me I’d been married long enough to have a couple of kids, who asked you?! Seriously, who you epp with your mathematics?!

And then you casually informed me that you’d assumed I was having problems conceiving! Some things are better left unsaid; that baseless assumption was one of them. Even if I was having problems conceiving, what a way to address the subject…not that addressing it is any of your concern.

I was so stunned all I could do was turn around and let you carry on the conversation with my back.

You would do well to focus on your business in the future and leave me to focus on mine.

Next time I won’t be so gracious.

 

All my love,

Waila.

 

P.s.

Your Instagram stalking skills are poor. I had a girl NOT a boy.

 

 

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Thou Shall Not Covet

longthroat.com

longthroat.com

Epistle begins.

My relationship with social media is a precarious one. Some days I love it and other times, I curse the person whose idea it was. More than once, I have considered shutting down all my social media accounts and obliterating myself from the internet. Well, I typically consider it for all of a nanosecond and then promptly cast down the evil thought. The only thing that stops me is my thirst for information and current affairs (also known as amebo); how else will the latest gist reach me?!

One of my principal gripes with social media is that is a well oiled envy breeding machine. Sometimes, it’s obvious. We see something someone has and instantly start plotting our ‘get it too’ strategy. Other times, it’s more subtle. All seems well until we wake up one day to find we are no longer satisfied with our lives. Other people are ‘doing big things’ while we stay drowning in the well of relative insignificance.

It is an accepted fact that people tend to portray the best of their lives on social media platforms. You post a selfie when you KNOW you’re looking hot but those pictures where you’re looking jacked up rarely surface. When you are in a relationship, we know about it because your poetic status and photo updates make the rest of us want to curl up in a ball and weep for love, but it is your silence that tells us when the relationship has ended. When you get a new job, we see the update on LinkedIn but we only know you were out of work when you post a new job update and we realise there’s a six month gap between when the last one ended and the new one began. We see the portraits of your feet on Instagram when you’re wearing Louboutin and Zanotti but the portraits of your Atmosphere and Store Twenty-One purchases never get their day in the spotlight.

I’m no wet blanket. I’m happy when good things happen to people and get ridiculously excited when I see people living out their dreams and succeeding too! I also have no issues with people owning luxury items. If you can afford them, knock yourself out! I mean, I’d quite like to play landlady to a Chanel Boy bag myself (hi Yoruba Boy!). This is just me pointing out to the people who haven’t figured it out yet or those who have perhaps, forgotten, that what you see of people’s lives via social media is;

  1. what they want you to see
  2. a miniscule glimpse of their bigger picture
  3. false advertising
  4. all of the above

Let’s consider the possibility that life IS going really well for them (they are happy, rich, successful, in love, famous and everything else you dream of and haven’t quite managed to become) because let’s face it, fortune shines blindingly over some of us mortals. Alongside that, let’s also consider the reality that success is more often than not, the result of the shedding of sweat and blood. Whose blood (their ancestors perhaps), is irrelevant. When we see the evidence of other’s success advertised via social media, it’s worth reminding ourselves that;

  1. It came at a price
  2. Your success has a price too
  3. No payment, no collection
  4. all of the above

 

I know we’re considering many possibilities here but let’s also consider the possibility that most of your dreams do not come true in your lifetime. This is a likely possibility…and no, I’m not cursing you! What happens then? Does your life become a den of depression, regret, envy and lust?

The ability to find contentment regardless of the hand fate deals us is necessary, mandatory, if you will. If we live life happy when things are going well and miserable otherwise, we will soon turn into self-induced manic depressives.

The moral of this epistle is simply this; be content with what you have and where you are. By all means, aspire for better but on your way there, make the most of the here and now. You cannot stop people from advertising the best of their lives on social media (and I advocate celebrating others’ successes) but you can control your long throat so please, do yourself a favour and rein it in before it stretches to the point of no return.

Epistle over.

Thanks and God bless.

xXx

Waila

 

Two Become One Problems: Who Ate My Rice?!

If you think you’re the most selfless person that ever lived, I dare you to move into a house full of people and promise to be there for you when you realise just how selfish you really are. Don’t judge yourself too harshly though, communal living brings out the worst in us all. The manifestation of your selfishness will take different forms but today, we’ll be focusing on food.

A couple of days ago, I had a Facetime date with one of my girlfriends. At some point during the conversation, I noticed her opening up cupboard after cupboard, making a right racket. I almost died laughing when she confessed that she was looking for somewhere to hide a packet of biscuits from her husband! I couldn’t judge her though because heaven knows I have on occasion, rushed home from work to make sure I got to the leftovers in the fridge before my Yoruba boy. First come, first served!

Thanking you very much for your prayers, it will be well.

When you live with people, the contents of your fridge develop hands, legs, wings, propellers and all sorts of agents of transportation. But when you get married, it’s a whole new ball game. You see, when you live with strangers or even siblings, you can set boundaries. The boundary lines might be crossed by the brave amongst them but when you’re screaming at your sister for eating the bowl of rice you left in the fridge, you will feel justified. Try screaming at your husband when (and not if!) he eats the bowl of jollof rice you left in the fridge and if you don’t feel foolish as the words are flying out of your mouth, I envy you!

You see, the concept of two becoming one creates all kinds of problems in a home. It implies that what’s mine is yours and vice versa. There’s no more me, it’s now us. It means you cannot claim sole ownership of ANYTHING , especially things in the fridge, after all, OUR money paid for them. Never mind who journeyed to the supermarket, who stood sweating over the cooker and took the initiative to pack up the leftovers. All that one is for your pocket. Na who carry sense go market na him dey chop bellefull! In other words, you snooze you lose!

jollof

There are few things more painful in life than spending all day dreaming about the jollof rice in your fridge only to get home and find out it is no more. Such was my fate the other day. If not that shame would not have allowed me to cry, I would have wept for England. Alas, these are some of the problems that arise when two people are targeting one bowl of rice.

I have learnt my lesson.

I’m up and out of the house before my Yoruba boy gets out of bed so if there’s anything in the fridge I’m feeling particularly proprietal about, I get in there and take it to work with me. I will leave him to come up with his own strategy.

Every man for himself, God for us all!

xXx

Waila

Some Things Never Change

Some Things Never Change

It’s the start of a new year and change is in the air. Shingalinga (educate yourself here) is at an all time high and women like me who have never shot a hoop are hoping to be drafted into the NBA by the end of 2014. I mean, who wants the WNBA when the NBA is alive and paying millions. Aim high, aim impossible!

In the spirit of the New Year, I have been assessing the year(s) gone by and in the course of my assessment, I made a shocking discovery. Yes shocking because while it is widely agreed that the only constant in life is change, it is also true that some things never change.

Things like…

  • my mother being a women with skin heads activist

Since my mother was forced for medical reasons, to get rid of her hair twenty odd years ago, I have known no peace. The woman is hell bent on getting me to join the gorimapa (skin head) club. I was in Primary 6 (Year 6 to my fellow *cough couch* Brits) when she succeeded in temporarily converting me. I lived to regret it. Such was the horrendous teasing from my two evil brothers (they took to calling me Mike Tyson!) that I took to wearing a baseball cap everywhere. Everywhere of course included school, for which I got many a flogging. Is it any wonder that till this day I have an aversion to short hair?! *shudder*

  • being opinionated

You don’t want to ask my opinion on an issue if you really don’t want to know what I think because you will regret it. I have strong opinions on almost everything under the sun. It gets tiring being so passionate about so many things in this world. Can’t a girl just be blasé about life?!

  • losing umbrellas

Buying an umbrella is like ripping up a five pound note and chucking it in the bin. You’re a better person than I am if you have ever managed to hold on to an umbrella for more than 24hrs. Perhaps I am exaggerating but it’s not far from the truth. I have taken to helping myself to lost and found umbrellas, resting in the knowledge that someone somewhere is doing the same with the hundreds of brollies I have misplaced since I was born.

  • forks and teaspoons eloping

Where do all the forks and teaspoons go? To Vegas to get married, that’s where! I think. Today you have six of each, tomorrow, you have none. Please, if you know where they go, kindly inform me so I can head down there with a trailer to reclaim my lost property. My Yoruba Boy is prohibited from taking cutlery out of the house and worse still, from bringing home strange forks (that do not match our cutlery set) from his office. Let it never be said that I harbour fugitives.

Knives on the other hand, are friends that stick closer than brothers. When the rest of your cutleries do a runner, you can be sure your knives will stick around. The world would be a better place if one could use them to shovel mounds of rice into one’s mouths without stabbing one’s self.

  • hating my behind

I hate big butts and I cannot lie. This is why the likes of JLo and KimK never make my celebrity bodies to be envious of short list. This people, is a problem because I am one of those that the Lord has blessed with a derriere. No matter how slim I get, the bad boys stick out like a giraffe on an ant farm.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

xXx

Waila

Oops!!!

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No one likes to screw up but if like me you are plagued by the curse of having exceedingly high expectations of yourself coupled with a phobia for embarrassment, it is as devastating as an epically proportioned natural disaster on an unsuspecting city.

My fear of embarrassment is legendary. I have been known to faint and be so embarrassed about it, I pretended to still be unconscious long after I came around. I didn’t open my eyes till I had been safely carted out of the very public space where it happened and secluded in an ambulance. I am that bad.

Last week I made a mistake, a fairly big one and the fall out from my mistake met with me this morning. My instinctive reaction was to smash a hole in a wall and crawl into it. Seeing as that wasn’t a viable option, I sat at my desk, uncharacteristically sober and silent, for the best part of the day.

I am human and by virtue of that, intrinsically fallible. Making mistakes is in my DNA, yet, I haven’t managed to communicate that fact to my brain and deal with it accordingly. It is part and parcel of life and an essential component for growth. You make a mistake, you learn from it, move on and become better for it. That’s the way it should work. That is wisdom. Beating oneself up, especially over an action that cannot be altered, is an exercise in foolishness and futility.

I think my brain is slowly beginning to understand this.

I started off writing this as an outlet for my pent up frustration with myself and the situation. I do this a lot by the way, write to clear my head. But perhaps someone out there needs to be reminded that making a mistake is not the end of the world. The sun isn’t going to stop shining because you cocked up so you might as well enjoy the sunshine.

Sometimes our mistakes are minor. Sometimes they are major, life altering even. Sometimes they are visible, seen and judged by other. Sometimes they are private, known only to you. Whatever the circumstance, it is never productive to beat yourself to paralysis or wallow in it.

So, my fellow error makers, this one is for you;

Make your mistake. Because you will, there’s no escaping it.

Contemplate. Don’t just dismiss it, acknowledge your errors… but don’t dwell on them.

Evaluate. Thoughtfully consider your actions. What you did, what you should have done differently.

Learn. The only thing worse than making a mistake is making a worthless mistake. Learn from it.

Move on. Forgive yourself. Even if no one else does.

xXx
Waila

Supernatural Things

Miracles-Happen

Supernatural things happen in this world; deaf people regain their hearing, the blind see, the lame walk, the dead are raised back to life, I am writing this post…and I cried watching a Nollywood movie. Not ‘a lone tear escaped my tear gland’ type of crying, proper crying, complete with sniffles and things. That I was not alone when it happened completed my shame. I blame that Mercy Johnson, her crying spirit leapt out of my laptop and entered me. Now I know that it is time to stop watching those movies, evil spirits abound therein.

The last few weeks I’ve been running into random people that read my blog and I tell you, I’m surprised that you people still bother to visit this site given how sporadic my posts have been. See what I was saying about supernatural things happening in this world? God bless you all and abundantly too!

It’s was my birthday last Saturday (this isn’t me begging for birthday greetings, walahi!) and for the first time in a very long time, I decided not to just sit at home, drink tea and estimate how many more years I have till I can no longer get away with wearing hot pants. Not that I wear hot pants, I don’t have the legs or courage for them but a girl is allowed to dream, no? I dragged a bunch of my friends to a private hip hop dance class and we left the studio with sweat, aching muscles and choreography to Usher’s Yeah.  Shame will not allow me post the videos on here.

On the topic of things one should or shouldn’t wear, my poor Pastor suffered from a severe case of melancholy when his eyes beheld some of the latest fashions at my wedding. So much so that it found its way into the sermon he preached at church the following day…not that I was there to hear it. I was holed up in a hotel room staring at my band clad finger and trying to understand how I ended up married to a man I always thought would make a great husband for some girl, that girl not being me of course! See what I was saying about supernatural things happening?!

Lest I digress, most of the people who were at the wedding and heard the sermon were surprised by it and when I looked through my wedding pictures, though I did spot a couple of sexy dresses, I couldn’t find any that I deemed scandalous. It got me thinking about the times and how we change with them, sometimes rightly and sometimes to our detriment.

There are some clothes sitting in my wardrobe now that I would never have bought, let alone worn, a few years ago. My lover girl MrsOhgee (see how I’ve upgraded you!) found an old picture of herself wearing jeans under a dress that stopped just above her knees and though we laughed at how ridiculous she looked, it symbolised the point we were discussing. In those days, she considered a dress that stopped just above her knees too short but today, she would wear that same dress, legs commando, and not think twice about it. A demonstration of how we relax our standards over time. Sigh.

Speaking of relaxer, the other day I ventured into Toni & Guy to find out how much it would cost to relax and trim my hair. I showered the receptionist with saliva when she gave me a quote of £130. The shock was that shocking.  I blamed the splutter on ‘that blasted hay fever’ and apologised profusely. I guess I’m not a big enough girl yet to be venturing into such establishments. I shall respect myself and my pocket and nosey on down to Upton Park or Burnt Oak. Better still I might just invest in a second mirror so I can see the back of my head and do the thing myself. One day, I will be great.

On a final supernatural note, and people, it’s a big one, my consumption of Indomie has fallen by 80% in the last six months!!! Somebody needs to get on up out of their chair, throw their hands up in the air and wave ‘em like they just don’t care!!! This is a serious miracle, more miraculous than me collecting aso-ebi for your wedding. Don’t get me wrong, I still LOVE Indomie and that ain’t ever gonna change (Lawdy, my hubby has infected me with his American spirit!) but the desire to consume the stuff all day everyday has faded into nothingness.

If I didn’t know my husband was a praying man before, now I know!!!

XxX

Waila

Waila Rants: Manners 101

Today is rant day. Are you ready? Let’s go!

Courtesy, the showing of politeness in one’s attitude and behaviour toward others, is a dying concept and I am sincerely worried for mankind. Whether you are an eighty year old pensioner or a three year old running around in diapers (do three year olds still wear diapers?), there is absolutely no excuse for bad manners.

I concede that some human beings have the capacity to invoke rage in a dead man but provocation is but a temptation that can be overcome.  It is easy to succumb to and justify bad manners when provoked but hanging on to good character against the odds is a thousand times more admirable.

At the very least, we must learn to say please, thank you and sorry. All it costs is the parting of our lips. If you capable of opening your mouth, you are capable of being polite.

Please-Sorry-Thank-you

Why all the grammar?

I got a message from a strange number on WhatsApp (another rant for another day). The message read;

“Get me a bottle of cologne. It is my entitlement as Chief.”

I was convinced it had to be a mistake, there was no other explanation for such nonsense finding its way to my mobile phone.

I replied, “Huh?! Who is this?”

“Chief xxx. Buy me a cologne.”

I recognised the name and realised it wasn’t a mistake; the person is a member of my extended family. Words cannot express the depth of the anger that possessed me, not least because my relationship with the person does not exist beyond the realms of “hello” and “goodbye”. His sense of entitlement knocked me for six, grandiose delusions of the nth degree. Even if he was my brother, same mother and father, and not just any kind of brother; my Siamese twin who was still attached to me and sharing one brain, he would still be bang out of order sending me a message like that.

For the sake of my own moral standing in the association of the moralistically upright, I ignored his subsequent messages. I was sorely tempted to give him a lecture on begging etiquette but I had to take one for the team.  Team, and by that I mean mother, you owe me.

I’ll rant no more but I beseech thee, if you do nothing else in life, please do manners.

XxX

Waila

Why I Hate Wedding Receptions

Ladies and gentlemen,

I found this in my archives and cracked up at the irony. I’ll let you know how my own wedding reception (which I refuse to call a reception. LOL) goes when I get round to getting married.

I’m still very finicky about wedding receptions but since writing this eons ago, have discovered that some of them are out of this world fun. Just depends who’s getting married!

Must have just returned from a disastrous reception when I wrote it so read with a pinch of salt! Lol.

xxx

Waila

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images

Everyone around me is getting married and exciting though it is, I’m reminded of why I hate wedding receptions so much.  Yes, I am not a fan of weddings. Not unless it’s a destination wedding. I love travelling and have a long list of places I want to visit. If you really want me at your wedding, do the deed as far away as possible. You want to drastically slash numbers? Pah! Go as far away as possible, I’ll be right there waiting for you. You can’t slash me!

Anyway, back to the topic at hand; why I hate wedding receptions.

Guests arrive and wait a million years for the couple to turn up, all the while, slowly dying of starvation. The couple finally show up but before they can enter the venue, both sets of parents must spend at least 30mins dancing to their seats. Why they never do that while we’re sitting and waiting, I know not. Couple finally dance into the venue and this bit I must admit, can be fun. They take their seats and then some MC who rates himself quite highly on the comedy scale takes the mic and dulls the crap out of us. Just as your brain cells are beginning to dry up, the chairman of the occasions takes the stage. He collects all the drying cells, arranges them in a neat pile and crushes them with the soles of his feet. Only then do the gods feel sorry for you. The smell of jollof rice fills the air.

A hostess stops you as you attempt to rise up from your seat.

“We’re going table by table. Please wait till your table is called before approaching the serving points.”

Otherwise, you have to haul your behind up and stand in line to get served. By the time you get to the front of the buffet queue, all the good stuff’s gone. All you’re left with is a few grains of cold jollof rice, an anorexic chicken drumstick and a few squares of shrivelled up plantain.

You really should have gone to McDonalds before coming.

You’re so hungry you’re grateful for whatever is left and you wolf it down like a starving urchin.  Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you register that the food is crap and you bank the knowledge for a day when you are well fed and gossiping with your girlfriends.

A couple of friends give mildly funny speeches and the bride’s sister balls her eyes out as she proclaims her love her irreplaceable sister. You’d think the poor bride was suffering from some sort of terminal illness. (No Imeme, I’m not talking to you. Muhaha).  Okay okay, I’ll be honest; speeches are one of the few things I like about wedding receptions, even the emotional ones. You need a few tears shed at a wedding to make the day that bit more poignant.

Just as I’m managing to convince myself that it’s not been such a bad reception, some strange aunty wheels out the wedding cake and annoys the crap out of me by insisting the bride has to kneel and feed her husband. Sure aunty, why not insist she spend the rest of her life crawling after the man?

The bride and groom take to the dance floor for their first dance and this bit is dicey. They have the power to either redeem my mood or send me plunging into the abyss of manic depression.

By the time the party starts, I’m so out of there. That’s if the bride and groom failed that pivotal test. If they succeeded, you’ll find me dancing off my sorrows… assuming Mr DJ doesn’t fall my hand!

How Not to Lose Weight

One of the downsides to having worked in customer service is that I am well aware that no one gives a flying banana about moaning customers. If you have the misfortune of dealing with an irate customer, you stick your phone on mute and do your crossword while they rant and if you have the even bigger misfortune of dealing with them in person, you imagine them naked and bent over a chair with you flogging them unconscious.

For this very reason, I always try and maintain my cool because there are few things more annoying than going off at someone who you know couldn’t care less.

Where am I going with this?

I dragged my lazy self away from my desk at lunchtime and headed to the gym to Spin the calories away. I changed into my gym gear and kept telling myself “think wedding dress” as I grudgingly approached the studio. I opened the door and alas, the class was full!

How can the class be full when I booked in?! Ko possible!

I marched toward the instructor.

“Excuse me, I’m booked into this class and there’s no bike available for me to use.”

“Are you sure you booked in?”

I gave him a murderous look.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

I’m sorry if you booked in but the class is now full. Let me just ask if everyone else booked in.”

Turning to face the class, he announced, “Did everyone book in for this class?”

Yeah, like the culprit was REALLY going to fess up! They all nodded their coconut heads but at least one of them was lying. I tried to spot the culprit but my powers of discernment failed me.

I was furious but I knew kicking up a fuss in front of their entire class would only make me look like an idiot so I left them in peace and went to unleash the dragon at reception.

“Excuse me, can you please check if I’m booked in to the 1pm Spin class?”

“Yes you are.”

“So is there a reason I turned up to the class and it’s full?”

“Well, it’s now 1:05pm so any extras would have been let in if because you were late.”

“It is now 1:05pm because I have spent the last five minutes debating with the instructor. I turned up on time and the class was full. What’s the point of a booking system if you have no way of monitoring it?”

I’m not even sure why I went to complain at reception. I know the score, no one but me gives a flying banana! She wasn’t about to go and interrupt the class to do a roll call so I knew there was no point to the discussion. Anger blazing, I marched back to the changing room to wear the clothes I’d grudgingly stripped off.

I have this churlish habit of wanting to close accounts and cancel memberships when organisations annoy me but I’m learning to give second, third and tenth chances (but not to you T-Mobile or whatever you call yourself these days!) so I talked myself out of cancelling my membership and headed back to work.

The anger wasn’t abating though and I really needed something to make it go away…so I stopped by the Thai takeaway place and ordered myself some Penang chicken curry and egg fried rice.

It did the trick! *wink*

xxx

Waila

The Arik Experience: Goodbye London, Hello Lagos!

39,000 feet above ground and bored as a scarecrow in a deserted field. The inflight entertainment is playing up so I can’t watch any of the movies on offer and thanks to my die hard resolve to wash my hair before leaving for the airport, I didn’t have enough time to download any movies to my iPad.

I’m on an Arik flight, first time ever. Snob that I am, I was apprehensive about trying out the new airline on the block but na condition make crayfish bend. My funds were not ripe enough for British Airways and as for that Virgin, don’t get me started on their extortionate fares.

I must admit, this plane is impressive. The seats in economy (promotion cometh!) have more leg room than I know what to do with. You long ones would be pleased.

Fot those of you that travel with all your worldly possessions, you’ll be pleased to know that be baggage allowance is 32kg. In this day and age, that’s stupendously generous. God bless them

The cabin crew were a lot scruffier than im used to seeing…not that i was bothered bt their appearance. Just a random observation. They are also as rude and abrupt as any others but unlike their colleagues on other airlines, lack the ability to be politely so. The ability to insult while grinning must be  added to their training syllabus. That said, Nigerians are demanding and can test the patience of a dead man. Our diva antics are out of this world ridiculous.

The plane was taxiing and a woman was still yapping away on her phone.

Air Hostess: “Madam! Please turn off your phone, we are about to takeoff!”
Woman: “Ha ha! You will give me the full gist when I come. What of that guy from before?”
Air Hostess: “Madam, turn off your phone!”
Woman: “I’m already on the plane, we will soon take off.”

Even my patience was tested. It took…

Sorry, I was just interrupted by the sound of the most ridiculous attempt at an American accent I’ve ever heard. I’m not a member of the “thou shall not speak fone” brigade but if thou must, thou must do it well.

…the air hostess raising her voice to deafening levels for the woman to obey. Terminating the call, she calmly addressed the hostess.

“It’s like something is wrong with you. Did someone annoy you before you came to work this evening?”

LMAO! Some human beings are just not normal.

The elderly man two seats to my right has spent the last half hour moaning about how sub standard the service on this flight is. He is especially upset that he was only given a tiny  glass of red wine.

“Why can’t they give us those little bottles other airlines give? Why are they rationing the thing, is it communion?! I need to get tipsy so I can sleep well.”

The woman next to him is irritated because the crew did the coffee round before serving the tea she was desperate for.

“I don’t know why they can’t serve the two together. Is it not two hands they have?”

If I had a pound for every time she has hissed in the last two hours, I’d have enough money to pay the £300 difference and hop on Mr Branson’s plane.

Another man in the association of moaners is upset because he doesn’t like the selection of movies on offer. “When I flew last weekend, it was the same set of movies, this weekend too, the same.”

The person behind me is snoring like he is propelling the engines of this plane. How is a girl supposed to get some sleep when no one will shut up?!

The food is WACK! My friend IB had told me stories about how nice the jollof rice on the flight is but this jollof wannabe I am eating is like poison. The bread roll is rock hard and this cheesecake isn’t worth a mention. The only edible thing is the salad. Sigh.

Arik have a reputation for taking African timing to another level but thankfully, my flight left on time. I’m grateful for small mercies.

Time to sleep. Don’t know what internet access will be like out there so I’m not holding my breath. Blogging while I’m there is highly unlikely…or maybe I’m just a lazy fart.

xxx
Waila