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Pity the blog’s no longer updated…

In a few days time, I shall pack my bags and head across the Atlantic one more time. The driver is some unfinished business from 2009. There was the small matter of a conundrum which developed in April of 2009. The ladies in question were F and my ’nearly girls’TheB and S. Over the course of that year F and I would finally put ourselves out of the misery of our forced dalliance, for good. ‘S would turn to me as a husband finder, and TheB and I would drift apart for no real reason. ...

When the clock chimed in the New Year, I was cuddled up next to the girlfriend at the time. I had my feet on a foot stool, was sat in a couch in front of the television and was cradling her head as it lay on my chest, whilst we mused about the new year, and all the wonderful, beautiful things we hoped it would bring us. I had flown nearly 5000 miles to make this moment, and in the heat of the moment, life couldn’t have felt better. There was me, the one woman in the world I loved, and a bright and shining future ahead of us. If ever there was a fairy tale moment in my life, that was it. ...

Arthur Ashe’s moving memoir ‘Days of Grace’ ends with a heartfelt letter to his (then) six year old daughter Camera in which he unpacks all the things he suspects his illness will deny him the opportunity of telling her in future. Covering a range of categories from the importance of family, racial discrimination, loss, marriage, money and even faith, it reads like a distillation of many years of living and learning. The section where he talks about faith and religion reads like a primer for a balanced, liberal, yet essentially Judeo-Christian worldview. Excerpts below: ...

Lyrics here

They say there are five stages of grief… First there is denial. Everything slows down to an almost imperceptible crawl, leaving you with the numbness of disbelief and a full blown Fariku Singularity. You replay that final scene in your head again and again until it is etched in your mind like an indelible tattoo. You deconstruct the words hoping to find an iota of comfort; and when the lads ask you about her, you pretend the phone lines garbled that bit of speech, or mutter various incomprehensible answers. ...

How sad is it that I can totally relate with this sentiment? via xkcd

Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems.. …so said Salman Rushdie. The corollary is that memory is deceptive, and nostalgia can skew our recollection of things so much that it becomes an alternate reality far removed from the cold, hard facts as they occurred. Sometimes clarity hits you suddenly like a blow to the solar plexus, at other times the bleeding obvious slowly becomes apparent. All told, some day a bloke has to decide – what’s important, what’s not, and what to leave to fight another day….

Huddled around the lone telephone in Meeting Room Twelve, how we end up talking about the potentially explosive subjects of immigration and living on the dole escapes me, but once the first, tentative blows are struck, it all takes off from there. There is me - very Nigerian, Ahmed – devout Muslim, Pakistani – born, but as English as they come and Steph – part free thinker, part new-ager, also British. We are waiting for the phone call which will initiate a teleconference – one which should have started a full ten minutes earlier. ...

As seen in the window of a pub on Union Street.. Couldn’t be truer…