Yesterday Bushman returned from Jamaica. His bounty consisted of nine bottles of Wray and Nephew White Rum (63%) , three bottles of Appleton Dark Rum Estate VX, six mangoes, two ‘bammies’ and twelve fried fish.
Twelve pieces of fish on a 10 hour flight.
"Yuh waan fish?" he says to me, when I mention that I'm peckish.
"Errr...." I say, "Perhaps not. I'm not sure whether it's the 10 hour flight they've been on or the fact that they are staring at me. I think I'll have a bacon sandwich instead."
Bushman tells me that there is nothing wrong with them; that the methods of cooking and preserving means they are perfectly safe to eat. Still.....I'm not convinced. He gives them a good sniff and eats two. His nose is his 'best before date'. I am both disgusted and in awe of him at the same time.
And so my two week stint as a pesudo single/stay at home mum comes to an end. Thank god. It’s either complete selflessness bordering on saintliness, or insanity, which drives women to be ‘Stay at home Mum’s’. For those of you who do it, I salute you. You are better women than me.
When I started this blog I was on the brink of returning to work. I found it really tough going back and often wished that I had the luxury of staying at home. This fortnight has taught me a lot. Namely, that I'm too damn selfish to devote myself entirely to another human being. Frankly, I am exhausted and bored by the monotony. It’s at this point that I’m supposed to say that’s it’s also been wonderful, thus reconfirming my love I have for my son. Well I think it goes without saying that I love my son and naturally there have been moments of pleasure but for the most part, being pregnant and raising an 18month old is just generally knackering (and it's not even like I haven't had any help).
There have been upsides to getting up at 6 every morning..... like getting hold of these.
Early strawberries from Ripple Farm Organics. I was at the Farmer's Market before it even opened on Saturday Morning, which meant I got one of the last four boxes. Delicious and clearly like goldust.
I also went all 'Make Do and Mend' and got out my sewing machine. I turned two vintage items of clothing into maternity skirts (looked at the clock and it wasn't even 9am). I turned a double duvet into a single one, fixed a tea towel, made a skirt for my unborn daughter, created three cushions and a picture of a turtle for my son. I also dyed some of his old clothes purple, thereby making them suitable for his sister. I cleared out loads of old trimmings and textiles from my sewing box.....am I boring you yet? Just to reiterate....I've been fucking productive for a knackered out old witch. I've looked like shit of course, but you can't have it all.
As Bushman complains that his clothes smell of fish and rum and we discuss the several loads of washing which need doing, yet another march against gun and knife crime parades past our flat. This week everyone on the march looks white, possibly Turkish? A few weeks back everybody on the march was black. I can't help thinking that if they all got together this marching business might be more successful. Ironically, one of the placards being held aloft says something to the effect of "The Met Police aren't protecting our young people". This is ironic because as they march proceeds down the street they are flanked by police putting out and picking up traffic cones and blocking off traffic so that the marchers are safe.
Bushman is unmoved by this.
"De whole a town run red." he tells me.
Translation: In Kingston, Jamaica the streets are running with blood.
He's not exaggerating. The U.S are trying to have Christopher 'Dudus' Coke, a questionable 'Robin Hood' character/gang leader extradited and a state of emergency has been called. Police are being killed, fires are being set, politicians are resigning and women and children are being evacuated from the capital. As usual, in Jamaica, drugs, guns and politics are mixed into a lethal cocktail.
I'm thankful that Bushman is a country man and for the most part, kept away from the troubles. But I'm still bloody grateful he's home safe because Jamaica can be a beautiful but deadly island (unless you are holed up in a Sandals resort).
I look at the piles of stinking washing and the fish heads in the fridge and feel very lucky and strangely content. I don't imagine that this feeling will last long, so I decide to savour it all the more.