am i human yet?

So I was tagged by the lovely foss to reveal 7 bits of stuff about me. Thanks for recognising my increasing desperation to do this, mate, I owe you one.

One: I’m a mutt

Apparently we mutts are going up in the world.  My father was half black Jamaican, half Polish and my mum’s Croatian. “Good mix”, is the usual response I get to this information. I don’t really know how to respond to this, mainly because I’m not entirely sure what a ‘bad’ mix would be.  I don’t feel black and I don’t feel white; I’ve always just felt something else. Or ‘Other’, as I’ve had to put on questionnaires until a few years ago. Now I get to tick the little box beside ‘Mixed race: White & Black Caribbean’, which, you know, is kind of nice. I have hair which has mad skills at being curly and I can rock a pretty serious afro when called upon to do so (as you can imagine this doesn’t happen often. Or ever.).* I still don’t understand why some women would iron all the life out of their curls.

One of my favourite games is when people I meet for the first time try to guess where I’m ‘from’. I get the initial askance staring and then the inevitable question: “Where are you from?”. I tell them I’m from Croydon, South London. There’s usually an embarrassed smile and then “Yes, but where are you originally from. You know.”. Yes, I do know, but I’ve heard this so often that I have to be facetious for a little while longer. The usual guesses as to my ethnic makeup, in order of popularity, are as follows:

1. Brazilian
2. Spanish
3. Israeli
4. Italian
5. Arabic
6. Something vaguely mixed

It upsets me when mixed-race people refer to themselves as Black. This happens mostly in the USA, where racial history is very different and much more immediately brutal than ours in the UK, so I understand it completely. But I think we can start recognising some of the complexities going on here. Especially with a mutt about to be crowned Emperor of the World President. Well, witness the muttness and make your own decision where you think I’m ‘from’. Or, you know, don’t.

Two: I’ve whupped so-called terminal cancer’s arse

Because I am teh awesome. After months of strange fevers, burgeoning lumps in my neck, colds which lasted weeks, etc. I was diagnosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma a month after my 19^th birthday. The diagnosis came 4 days before I was due to start my year off, travelling with my boyfriend in Brazil. I wept when I was told, not because I had stage 3 cancer (which you can file under ‘Things I really should be crying about’) but because I wouldn’t see my lad. The cancer had spread, and I wasn’t really expected to survive for longer than 9 months. I didn’t really care, though, I was in love and that’s really all I had room for in my head. Which is really just as well because I went through some pretty nasty tests (bone marrow extraction, anyone? yes please, I’ll take 3!), extensive chemotherapy, radiotherapy and a resultant bout of Shingles all over and in my face (use your imagination) which had me in hospital for 2 weeks in excruciating pain & looking like something out of Creature Workshop, but not caring because a constant IV morphine drip is so, so, so nice. All these crazy here-comes-death-related shenanigans have left me with some serious and permanent side-effects, like not being able to have kids. But, I’m alive. Which, I think we can all agree, is pretty important if you want to write your second novel.

It drives me crazy when people call cancer things like ‘The Big C’, but what I hate the most, what leaves me grinding my teeth & wanting to get stabby with it, is when people say I was brave. When people say children with cancer are brave. Bravery has nothing to do with it. You’re brave if you run into a burning building to save an old lady or a kitten or your new 17″ MacBook Pro (OK, maybe not then, that’s just the law). You’re brave if you stand up to injustice at probable or definite serious cost to yourself. This is bravery because you are doing something scary or dangerous out of choice. Living with cancer does not involve choice. If you had a choice YOU WOULDN’T BLOODY CHOOSE TO HAVE CANCER. Right. Apologies. Rant over. Oh wait, no: UP YOURS, CANCER.

Three: I’m afraid of flying

Very, very afraid of flying. But I never let my scardiness stop me despite fully expecting to fall out of the sky at any moment while on a plane (related: benzodiazepines are my friend). So that’s good, I suppose. Unless the plane actually does fall out of the sky. In which case it wouldn’t be. OK, so, moving on.

Four: I cannot believe someone is publishing my first novel

I’ve wanted to be a novelist since I was about 3 but was always too frightened to show anyone my writing. The writing course I did 5 years ago resulted in an editor at a major publishing house being excited by my novel, then an agent, then other people and OMFG why, how, is that that I am writing stuff that others find readable? Good, even. “Bold and original”, even. I don’t know. I still can’t fathom it. But I know that I am one lucky lady.

Five: I’ve been meaning to get a tattoo for the past 15 years

Latest idea: swallow on either a) shoulder blade (too normal), b) somewhere on lower belly & to the side (too hidden), c) under forearm (too trendy). Cue another 15 years of sweet, sweet indecision.

Six: I’m a sailor

I have 2 sailing boats, ‘cos that’s how flippin’ posh I am. I started sailing about 6 years ago, on a beautiful hot day in June. The boat was a friend’s 35-footer, the sea was calm, the breeze slight and the sun shone. This is the life, I thought to myself. Two months later we had a 22′ saily boat, a 1976 Kingfisher 21+ called Santa Teresa de Jesus (previously owned by a devoted Catholic). Oh, and that thing about being posh? Bollocks. We couldn’t afford this boat, no way. I just had to have one. Needed to have one (I’ve mentioned previously how I have somehow confused the words ‘want’ and ‘need’ in my head, much to the detriment of my bank balance). Lovely old thing, my boat is, tough as the proverbial ancient footwear. But where is the sunshine I’d promised myself in my head, the lazing, the cocktails on the foredeck?  I learned to sail ST in the Thames Estuary & River Medway, dodging oil tankers, freezing to death, peeing in a bucket and regularly going aground stopping for tea on the mud banks. Since then we’ve sailed the boat round to our current lovely haunt of Chichester Harbour, and often spend weekends messing about in the Solent, longer holidays sailing along the coast to places like Beaulieu, Isle of Wight and further into Devon and Dorset.

We bought a 35-year old, 30′ Kingfisher a couple of years ago because it was going so cheap it would have been rude not to. It’s still being worked on, and has been renamed Wakulla (which means ‘Strange and Mysterious Waters’) after one of the largest, deepest freshwater springs in the world. It (the spring, not the boat) is in northern Florida and that’s where A and I spent our 2^nd wedding anniversary. It’s also where The Beast from the Blue Lagoon was filmed. So there. One day I’ll cross the Atlantic in Wakulla. One day.

Seven: The Internet is my spiritual home

That’s all I have to say about that. Because it’s, you know, pretty sad.

Right then, it strikes me I’ve written much more about me than I originally intended, which I guess makes me an attention whore. Thanks for sticking it out. I’m sure the whiskey chasers helped.

7 other people I’m stalking want to know more about are:

@secretsquirrel

@coyotesqrl

@sween

@stevewhitaker

@favrdbot. Oh wait, no, hang on…

@trelvix

@Artsmonkey1

@adamisacson

Oh, go on guys, please do it. I’ll shout ‘arses’ at you until you do.

*Please advise on the correctness of my punctuation here. Yeah, I’m asking. You don’t get to come here are read all this shit and not have to pay for it, you know.

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