Call 211 For The Poh-Leece

Not my story but so Bajan I had to pass it on.

My boss, while entertaining on the patio of her safe little gated community home which neighbours the Oran mansion, is shocked out of polite dinner conversation by the shrill and perpetual scream of a young woman coming from the said mansion. Noting that earlier the young lad who lives there had invited the ghetto block boys for an unsupervised pool party this five minute scream for her life conjured up images of gang rape and worse. Perhaps a bit over cautious but certainly with good intetntions, she dials the emergency number to report the incident.

It went sort of like this:

"Hellowuh..."
"Yes hello, is this the police emergency number?"
"Oh Yah-police 'mergency."
"I'd like to report an incident."
"Who dis is?"
"My name is F---- A----."
"What part you calling from?"
"My home in G--- S---"
"Where dat?"
"In B-- Hill"
"In Hillbrooke?"
"No. In B--Hill."
"And whaz you number?"
"It's 555-5555"
"Un Hun..."
"Umm... I've just heard a young lady screaming for the last five minutes from the house behind mine. Everything has gone quiet now but I'm a bit concerned."
"Whas de name of de house?"
"I don't know."
"Alright."


Needless to say no police ever did check on that report- why would they need to? If the screaming had stopped she's either fine or dead. Either way not much to be done about that now. There's nothing beats good common sense.

Putting Shoulder to the Filthy Plough

The morning after the meeting I assuaged my guilt for having launched a green attack on the state of the beach by joining Mr. Money Bags (a proponent of this Amerindian fiasco) at 6am in front of the church where Michelle married, to pick-up trash. Well I didn't really join Mr. Money Bags, he passed at the end of the mission in his BMW, tinted windows up, to confer with his minions. His "associate", the AG's boy, some Brownies, Michelle's pregnant friend, IZ and I pulled on the surgical gloves and climbed through gullies and over rocks filling our Santa sacks with all kinds of loot. Bottles from the 80's, condom wrappers, styrofoam food containers, buckets, tyres, pieces of car engines, you name it. At the risk of sounding politically correct, Bajans are filthy, disgusting, shameless pigs. I literally picked up their crap off their front yard as they peeped through their windows. One of those "I hate Barbadians" moments, I experience from time to time.

Anyhoo, though Money Bags didn't pick up a single scrap, he did finance the garbage bags and the congratulatory tuna sandwiches so three Boos for Boos and his beach clean-up effort. After putting his money where his mouth is by using my shoulder to the plough, I know I went home to scrub off the scum.

Cookie Cutter Chaos

Town Hall Meetings in Third World Countries-

After attending my first official I made the six o clock evening news and the front page newspaper and since then have been cowering from the prescribed three day fame. Moms, who went with me, has coined the term "cookie cutter kiosks" as in (and remember to use the slovak accent) "I've been here eleven years and I still do not understand your Barbadian fascination with these cookie cutter kiosks, perhaps I will need to stay eleven more so that I do." Cookie Cutter kiosks was quoted in both of our national black, white and read all overs.

The intention of government and several private sector initials is to dig up lots of trees, lay down even more concrete and ugly-up the hill overlooking Bathsheba as best as they can. Local opposition, consisting of a room full of educated and for the most part, displaced souls eventually walked out on our Honourable Attourney General et al. after the architect forgot that his map contained a legend and confessed that he just did not know how many square feet he had drawn for the hundredth time.

For those who've never been to my little Bathsheba I dare say you have 5 months to do so before rural meets "intervention" and charm gets burried in the ashphalt.

On a positive? note- you can mark Friday May 19th down in your callenders as the first time mom and Dennis played for the same team in almost a decade. Now that was a scoup for the press.

That's Master Hustler To You

For my only critic (that's you LQ) I have not gone Wizard of OZ, I was bearing down on crash week- that's the week when my final paper is due, work is busier than normal and the obligations of extra-curricular driving, housework and PTA ever loom. On Saturday I managed to hand in my final paper for the term which didn't leave me with a warm fuzzy feeling but at least it's in. Then what with catching up with work...well blogging took the back burner. Sacrilege, I know.
I am half a year away from getting my degree. Yes before the year 2006 is out I will officially be going by the name "Master Hustler". I'm left with potentially one course (although that's not looking too likely...) and a research paper of a billion words. As peer elected feminist of this little rock I have decided to shoulder the responsibility of the Caribbean Woman's cause. Without devulging too much of my supercalifrajalisticexpialidoshes topic I am throwing out a request for all you literary and cultured metrosexuals (that's the new hot word, ent?) to forward me any references to water/sea myths particularly those from west Africa or the caribbean. I'll thank you in my forward and maybe in my dreams.