Chasing the Velvet

The sun was warm and gentle like a tender caress on my skin, the air was breezy, the sky azure, it felt as though I was floating through velvet, far from being poetic, this is exactly what I felt one summer day in Algiers. I played footy with my little nephew, well I passed the ball and he ran for it mostly screaming for it to stop.

Then we walked up the stairs to the Monument’s esplanade where a Book festival was taking place, there were a lot of people, but not too many that I’d feel crowded, just enough not to feel deserted.  A big gaming castle was erected for children on the side and parents were busy queuing, filming and encouraging their little ones. I hung out, people watching, waiting for the festival to start. I felt good, so good, too good, I couldn’t explain it, was it the velvet concoction of wind and sun on my skin or was it something else…

I walked around the book fair, prospected the tents, each one representing a publishing house, mental notes made about which ones to contact for my book (I had a dream etc), purchased a novel and sat down on the reading area set-up, soaking up the soft rays of sunshine, reading a little, then getting distracted by this soft velvet atmosphere I feel but cannot explain, I tilt my head back and soak up more sun and breeze, this recipe that I feel I was the only one privy to, I look around to see if people feel it too, people seem to be happy, even I AM relaxed and my London pace has slowed down to a mere shuffle as if I am worried I’d finish too quickly and lose the thread of velvet.

I stayed idle a while, leafing through my book, my nephew at a table nearby going frantically with a red crayon over his colouring book with his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth.

My sister joins us, she looks stressed, Samia lives in Algiers, she’s always stressed and uses this word often, it seems Algerians finally matched the word to the feeling, she drags her daughter by the hand, she was at her ballet lesson, she walks over looking her usual flustered self, the security lady chasing her, demanding to search her bag before she could enter the book festival.

Samia joins me, breathing frantically, looking everywhere as she talks, trying to locate her son, I point at him, his head down on his book, colouring with a blue crayon now. Her shoulders slump immediately and she seems to feel what I am radiating, she tilts her head sideways as if trying to work something out, then she shakes her head as if to dismiss the feeling and picks a chair, dispatches her daughter to join her brother and sits facing me, she looks at me as if waiting for instructions, so I instruct her to relax, she fidgets a little, rummages through her bag for something she can’t find, she calls out at the kids and gives instructions to do this and not do that. She just can’t relax. I take her by the shoulders and shake her gently with a smirk, she fixes me for a few seconds then laughs, then as if making a decision, she rests her back on the chair, tilts her head back and lets her arms dangle on either side of her chair and stops moving. I say the word “velvet” because I keep feeling it and Samia says “il fait beaauuuuu”. Finally she feels it.

Back at the house, the smell of freshly brewed coffee was intoxicating, Mum made my favourite cake and set the table, we all gathered around and chatted about nothing I can remember, observations about the kids, something my mum wanted my dad to fix or buy, I find myself worried the time will ran out and I will find myself alone again, so I cling onto every moment of coffee or lunch where we’re together, I offer to wash up and to help out with lunch but I am not allowed near the stove, my culinary talents are little to be desired.

Sometimes, as discreetly as they can, my parents always with a smile, ask if I thought about coming back home, then I don’t know or remember what happens next, my mind flies back to London, to my life here, my friends and my things, so many things I attach myself to, shackle myself with to validate the decision to stay here and be alone.

Time to say goodbye, yet again, I don’t remember going to the airport, my mind was going through mental lists, lists of reasons why I would remain in London, why life would be better in London, but I am not convinced, justifying my choices through self-delusions and a false sense of achievement.

In London I don’t feel the velvet, the coffee doesn’t smell the same, the sun doesn’t feel the same, the street noise isn’t the same, and I am not the same. Living shackled by material processions, fears of missing out on something and constant worries of time elapsing, chasing the sun, the air and the velvet where it cannot be, making a lifestyle out of Nostalgia and homesickness like an orphaned child who lost his home, living in the myth of no return.

Dz-chick….nostalgeric! 

Ps: Mashallah

A few years ago, I went to visit a friend, she had 2 kids, I felt I needed to show some kind of interest, so I played with the little things, the boy laughed and giggled, the girl, still a lump of needy flesh only managed to squirm in her pram so I got away with saying “awww so cute, she really looks like a girl”, I paid attention to the kids and cursed my hypocrisy whilst she scrutinised me from behind the fridge, sometimes I caught her searching my face for any kind of feelings, feelings of jealousy, envy or something that would explain why I didn’t have kids or whether I envied her litter, or perhaps something that would make her feel better about herself?

I did my duty, said goodbye and was on my way, but later that same night I get a phone call from Yasmine informing me with panted breath that the kids have been quite poorly since I left. Shock horror. Are they sick? Do you want me to come? drive you to the hospital? What seems to be the problem? In my confused state, I tried to work out all the eventualities of what could be the cause of this but nothing; after all I am not a doctor, psychic or their mother.

Yasmine didn’t want any help; she just wanted to call me to inform me that since I left her kids, they have not stopped crying and paused for my answer, which was complete silence… confused,  I hung up the phone and texted her “Ps: Mashallah”

Mashallah, the new obsession of the year (which year?), the latest Wahabi import, the “Mashallah” that has to accompany every compliment, praise, every feeling and every expression. I don’t remember hearing it being used before, last year or a few years before that, maybe because I was younger or maybe because I don’t care enough about having children or carry enough envy to feel the compulsive need to say Mashallah at every little brat that moves in front of me, or every friend who has achieved something, or gotten engaged, married or went to Australia for a holiday.

You spot the Mashallahs everywhere on facebook, on texts, on people’s mouths, sometimes you spot someone from a distance gushing about someone else’s kid and you can almost feel the time to say the magic words* “Mashallah”. It feels like people feel compelled to say it or they’ll get blamed for everything that may or may not go wrong in the next year or two!  sometimes you forget to say it, sometimes you don’t feel the need to say it, maybe because you only said the kid was cute out of sheer politeness, still, people will think you’re envious or going to give them the evil eye (yeah), other times, you do say it and laugh at yourself because you think it’s such a geriatrics’ thing to say and nobody wants to sound like their grandmother, a pious thing to do and everybody knows that being religious is not über cool.

It’s not über cool to sound so religious, to say such words in Arabic, after all we’re Algerians and we have complexes to uphold, and there is no French word for Mashallah or Lahybarek, so we refrain from saying it, it ruins our image, I mean if you say Mashallah, you may as well wear the Hidjab. Hello!!!

And more often than not, when you do say it, the recipient of the Mashallah doesn’t seem to believe you mean it, so you catch them reciting in their hearts, you can see them concentrating on something, their little eyes fluttering and mouths moving like a slow reader moving his lips as he reads to himself, they recite prayers trying to build an invisible protective shield around them so you don’t touch them with your clearly evil compliment that will bring destruction…what else!

Others say it out of sheer convention, others expect it out of convention and because some people always have something nice to say to others, everybody else does and it can’t hurt to say a little Mashallah, it pleases the recipient and it clears you from any blame, everybody wins and it’s always nice to be nice. So I am going to give myself a Mashallah for getting to this conclusion, God knows we all need a little protection.

Dz-chick…combatting convention since 1985!

----------------

*it’s actually 3 words

Dios Mio

Playing with mummy's perls and heels!

I started scribbling this draft, already looking behind me; I had to dig out some old dusty screen shields from the stationery cupboard (and stole a pen), as I googled the first keyword I already looked shifty and suspicious, my Google search was instantly flagged as suspicious material and for fear of having HR and security on my case, I shut it down immediately. I kept writing using code words and shorthand, which I made up because I don’t know what shorthand is, just to avoid anyone reading from my screen! Dios Mio la paranoia!

I was sitting at a terrace the other day with a friend, he happens to have a daughter who looks older than her 10 years, in fact she looks just like the models on the banners we were staring at on the window shops of Miss Selfridges. My friend seems to be worried about the similarities and how his young child could be perceived as a model, a sexy model, regardless of whether Miss Selfridges might cater for teenagers or not, the pictures of the models used were those of very young looking frail little girls dressed very sexily and provocatively and Chris looked increasingly worried.

My first thought, self-centred as ever, was: “no wonder I can’t find a decent man” but I didn’t voice it for fear of sounding too shallow in the face of his fatherly worries over the fact, the high street and the fashion industry could be inadvertently or not, cultivating a paedophiliac culture.  There I said it.

Could it be the case? Could it be that the fashion industry is brainwashing people into seeing children as sexy? Into the adultification of children? And consequently but perhaps not so relevant here, making us look and feel less attractive because we lack the freshness and firmness of our teens and strive to find the fountain of youth through indulging into this very consumerist and shallow tourbillion of fashion and trends.

Children (and blondes…and my friend Tania) are the most easily influenced demographics in terms of consumption, and marketers have an easy job steering their tendencies and trends, parents will undoubtedly find it hard to fight the “pester power”* and this massive fashion monster and logo culture that is everywhere you look, on TV, press, internet, buses, airport, trains and every last available space for advisement (one day they’ll advertise in our dreams). 

Without digressing further from the topic, what seems to be happening is an inappropriate sexualisation through clothing and make-up and the fact all children want to look like their favourite pop star or footballer, which could engender other issues such as children being blamed for being molested or harassed following in the women-ask-for-it-old chestnut; the Guardian published an article quoting with no traceable source given, a piece published by the church where it appears they partially blame children for pedophilia, it says: "Methods of dressing which are almost next to sheer nakedness have hyperbolically** increased the incidence of rape and vilification of otherwise innocent children." 

The main concern here is over the ‘adult’ styling of fashion for children, especially girls. Girls’ fashions can provoke anxiety about the sexualisation of young female bodies; a concerned parent said the following to me: “I mean if they are marketing bras to a seven year old, it’s a pædophile’s dream isn’t it?”

I chose to stop here, this is just food for thought for parents out there who need to recognise; first the impact of commercial industries on children (the new commodity) over their innocence, looks, welfare and how they are commodified, transformed into sexual objects and therefore targets.

And second that succumbing to their children’s nagging over the logos and the latest in fashion is supporting the commercial industries and the sexual offenders, who are like poised vultures who count on this very obliviousness on the parents’s side.

But you must often wonder; how did these predators come to be? Are they aliens from another planet where the way of life is different? Where children are sexual objects regardless of their gender?

Paedophilia has always been a taboo subject, but in recent years, as much as more awareness has been raised about this problem, instead of discussing the problem and assessing prevention and solution, it seems to have gone the other way, so much so that nobody can utter the word without fear or being stared at or chased with sticks,  one would think there is a conscious effort striving to keep it taboo, to surround it with the utmost prudery and secrecy that victims wouldn’t talk and parents deal in secret whilst predators roam free; unnamed and unashamed. 

Notice how most people are always wary of looking at a cute kid in the street or pat his hair, cannot smile at a child, how we consciously strive not to look or make eye contact for fear of being labelled a kiddie-fiddler. Yet nobody ever voices their concern or frustration, nor seems to question the over sexualisation of our children.

Notwithstanding, the physical and philological traits that exist within the offender, notwithstanding, the local, geographical and economical situation of certain cultures and countries that perhaps cultivate sexual perverseness not intentionally but more as a result of frustrations, segregation, poverty and more, or the intrinsic reasons for the paedophile to come to be. We should be concerned mostly with the protection of children and teenagers, from all the monsters of this world, the fashion, the religious and not just the outright perverse sexual predators.

You might find this all very controversial, but I believe you need to vulgarise the topic in all its terms and use when appropriate, regardless of the dreadful feeling it carries with it, regardless of people’s looks of horror and shock.

Dz-chick….philanthropist in training!

----------------------

* pester power: nagging and pestering the parent for the latest trainers and the latest toy

** Big word!

Very interesting piece of research I found on an angle of this topic: http://www.consume.bbk.ac.uk/working_papers/Boden%20Working%20Paper2.doc

Very shocking material: http://www.beautifully-invisible.com/2011/01/children-and-the-fashion-industry-when-are-they-too-young.html

Women talk!

                           

I was scrolling through an old conversation thread between myself and a male friend, (not reminiscing, I was simply looking for a specific info he had sent) and on the ichat, the colour was predominantly blue. Every self respected Iphone owner should know what this means, for the rest of you un-evolved people, it means that for every one phrase by him, I sent 3 average sized paragraphs. It is scary how many words I felt the need to use to express a simple Yes or No or maybe it is simply because I am so eloquent I simply couldn’t express myself as concisely and as rigidly as men do. True story!

Then I saw this article (no I really don’t read the daily bloody mail, it was sent to me because I can talk for England) and it got me thinking about the verbal differences between men and women

Women talk about 20,000 words a day, 13,000 words more than men. What do we say exactly? We talk so much; I don’t know when we breathe! Frankly I am a little dubious!

The other half always vocally denied, pride themselves in saying little and meaning even less, they grunt and nod and cough and scratch their balls and you’re supposed to have picked up a message from all of this primal behaviour they call communication.

Whereas us, superior female race, have a talent and a flair for communication, we say everything twice or thrice, using different terminology with different tones and body language; sometimes we’ll touch our hair, sometimes we’ll play with the pearl necklace around our necks and sometimes we shoot daggers through our eyes but somehow and unlike the male creatures, we don’t resort to touching or scratching our private parts, much to their (men) disappointment.

We have evidently mastered the art of communication, whereas our male counterparts remain primal and continue to generate muffled and dubious sounds including scratching sounds.

But they (m e n) describe our communication otherwise known as women talk as verbal manure and claim they can usually summarise women’s conversation from say an hour of verbal lexicon to a powerphrased “so he didn’t call” or “so what you really mean is that you’re not coming”.

It is not a deficiency in the universal verbal discourse we’re trying to fulfill, it is not because men are so emotionally retarded and verbally shackled that women have developed the need to talk so much or say so little in so many words, no, men talk just as much, I mean have you ever listened to sports show on the radio? Talk about talking all day without actually saying anything, or listened to my father yap about why we’re all apeut-pristes!

No, we’re yackers because we're emotionally more developed, more aware and yakking simply makes us feel good, apparently the simple act of talking triggers a flood of brain chemicals which give women a rush similar to that felt by heroin addicts when they get a high. I can’t testify to this statement; however I can absolutely confirm the good feeling experienced not so much from the fact of yakking but actually from the simple fact of expressing ones’ frustrations, views or emotions.

But without saying too little in so many words, I am going to cut to the chase, It is all a bit anecdotal, this is all down to social conditioning and gender differentiation since birth, so when a men talks a lot he has a point to make, when a woman does, she is yapping or yakking or whatever other word they invented for us.

So let me be concise for the good of all women out there….Men talk drivel all day, they just manage it in fewer and far less eloquent words.

Dz-chick….a writer, not a talker!

A bad case of the Dates!

Soooo I thought I’d stay faithful to the blog title and write about ….guess what?

Oh yes…this year? As ever I remain single.

Last year I had a disastrous couple of dates with somebody who turned out to be married, early this year I had ONE long ass date with somebody who apparently never grew balls and didn’t know why he turned out to be an utter asshole, so I have decided to go on a strike until conditions improve.

Comes another misguided attempt at setting me up this year; the guy called, he was so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear a couple of times, but he kept getting louder, I had to check the sound setting on my phone!

As well as being loud, he was also obnoxious, the type of guy I would definitely slap at some point during the date and pretend there was a fly on his face because I am sure he’s the type who’d hit back.

He alluded and not very subtly to the masses of disposable cash he has access to, he enquired if I had ever been to Ibiza because everyone knows that’s the ultimate reference in terms of travel, he asked how many languages I spoke on top of the obvious Arabic, French and English, evidently when you’re Algerian you need to speak a fourth language to impress as three is just the norm. How dull!

Hang on, there’s someone at the door, will go see who it is, but I am coming back to finish this rant. Hmm I could see a lady who looks like a Jehovah’s whiteness…”I am already on the path of the righteous and Jesus rocks, your work here is done” I look again, the lady shakes her head and heads to the my next-door neighbour.

Back to the Schizo dude;

He took a great deal of effort to shout something at the waiter in bad Italian, trying to impress me, so to answer his question I said: well I do speak Italian fluently :) yes yes I smiled, I am sure he could feel my smile. This was beginning to be fun...

He also said his name was something then left a voicemail with a different name! Alarm bells stopped ringing, there was no point, I was only continuing with this charade for my own amusement.

He insisted, he just wanted to see what I looked like (shallow anyone?), then insisted I travelled all the way across London to meet him for a drink, but it’s ok, because I could bring a friend if I wanted to!!!

When I suggested we meet half way, he got louder if that was at all possible and cancelled on me. How could I suggest to a Chelsea man to venture out of his manor! Anything beyond Knightsbridge was considered a foreign land. Oh this is getting more fun…

It’s always fun to listen to the assumptions and pre-judgments people make about you before even meeting you, based on my being home at 10pm on a weeknight, apparently I am no fun, he said and I quote “home on a Thursday night? You’re an old woman! Man”, he then told me off for being a bore because I was asleep when he called me at half past midnight one Sunday night.

Then I really had to ask, “How young are you exactly” and he proudly announced he was 50. So I rest my case and hang up the phone.

That’s when I thought, ah what a girl has got to put up with in the name of blogging.

But you all know dating has become a new national sport after Football and Cricket, all of which can be action packed though a little dubious about cricket which can be a dangerous sport, yes yes you can die of boredom.

Dating however, is most definitely action packed, well the last time I remember anyway, you never really know who you’re going out with, looks, profiles and pseudos can be very misleading unless you’ve been introduced by a friend of a family member, be assured you will have a few surprises, not to say that your family and friend’s introductions are without concern.

I had to do some research with friends who are actively dating and reporting their horror stories.

Kate in the 70s

Kate met a guy ironically on Anti-valentines day*; she met Mark, he texted the next day and asked her out – happy days!

Kate and Mark went out on a date, she wore her lovely red dress and she looked stunning, he came in a pair of trouser she couldn’t make out if they were flares or bell bottoms, she looked around to check she was not in an 70s theme bar, sadly she was not.

Mark bought her the first drink and they clunked glasses, so far so good, then as his pint glass touches her delicate diet coke he looks her in the eyes and says: Chin Chin Moverfucker” jaws drop – silence – excuse me? So then he says “you’re supposed to say Chin moverfucker chin”

She bares and grins and wishes she could have her time back.

Monique and the neon lights!

Monique is on all dating sites known to men, including Alien lovers and loveisforsissies.com, she gets snapped up quickly because her profile picture is from her 20s and she wasn’t jowly then. He wore a sleeveless t-shirt, had a smile that showed way too much of his gums and had about three chins. He took her to a ghastly bar in Leicester square where it smelt of cheap cologne and old carpets, she excused herself to use the ladies, on the way down she saw the shiny EXIT sign…it was warm, yellow, glowing and inviting….so she buggered off.

Nicola and the Urinals:

Nicola vouched it would be her last date, it had to work, she couldn’t go through the whole thing again, the butterflies, the hair, the preparation, the outfit, the waiting, the anxiety, she vouched to make it work whatever happens even if he wasn’t into her, she’s gonna make him – God help him.

He must have forgotten to brush his teeth, she could see bit of broccoli, mental note! Not kissing this one, unless he manages to swallow the broccoli with his pint!

Nicola goes to the ladies, the toilet sign was too hard to decipher and she ended up in the gents, faced with a man at the urinal, she gasped, he turned around and chirpily says “alriiight?” she apologised and ran off to the ladies room giggling like a teenager, when it was his turn she advised him the Gents was on the right hand side, he came back saying “you either don’t know right from left like every other women I know or you’ve done it on purpose, I just got chased out by a bunch of angry pussy posse” RIGHT she says and storms out of the door, on the way out she screams: “Oh and you can’t finish my beer, I spat in it”

Nobody is normal anymore. They’re all crazy.

The strike continues…in the meantime; feel free to share your horror dating stories…

-----------------------

* a day celebrated by people not in love or pretending to be, basically