New life
Woe is me
Zenga Longmore
This week, for me, can only be com- pared with the third act of a Russian play. Life has become so grim that I half-expect to find bearded men in frock coats mourn- fully polishing samovars every time I enter the kitchen. In a way, I wish they were there. It might cheer the place up a bit.
Three woes stir within my breast. Woe A, as you might say, is that I can't switch on the telly without being confronted by steely-faced journalists bearing fresh news of missile attacks.
Woe B is that Omalara has learnt to switch the telly on, and stands in front of the screen with so great a look of jubilation that I haven't the heart to get up and turn it off. The other day, she banged the switch with a dimpled wrist and I was faced by a man I could only presume to have been President Bush's personal bard or war poet. A two-ton redneck with wild, staring eyes, he leapt up and chanted: 'Wham, bam, thanks Saddam, I hope you got the ledder! Do not wait, pull out Kuwait, 'cause it ain't gonna get no bedder!'
Fortunately, Omalara is a discerning child, and her myriad skills include turning the telly off when she decides that what is being broadcast is not fit for baby con- sumption. She did so at this juncture, and instantly the room was plunged into sil- ence, leaving our trembling trio with nothing to do but stare at the walls. The walls! Ha! (Mirthless laugh.) Here I am brought swiftly to Woe C (a very minor woe in comparison to Woes A and B).
Just months after I had spent a veritable fortune on buying all the necessary equip- ment needed to decorate my flat, there was a knock on the door.
`Wotcha, luv,' said a very pleasant-faced young man in council attire. I could not help noticing that he held a step-ladder under one arm, and rolls of wall-paper beneath the other. 'I've come to redeco- rate your flat.'
`But I've only just . . .
`Ah, I can see why the council sent me, darlin'. A proper hash the last lot made of things by the look of it. Cor! Would you Adam and Eve it! Cowboys, luv, cowboys. Right,' he continued, walking into the bathroom, lovingly papered by Olumba's own hands. 'Let's start on this wall! Aggh! See how the wallpaper just falls off at a touch! Never mind, old girl, I got a nice pattern of orange and brown pomegranates to go up instead. Look a treat it will.' With that, he proceeded to sing a chorus of that new song that's being hummed all over Camberwell these days. I can't remember the tune too well, but the words go something like this:
Peeping through the knot-hole of Grandma's wooden leg A boy's best friend is his muvver. Turn turn.
Olumba, seeing the work of six whole days of his life peeled away to the tune of such a song, heaved a wistful `chai', and dis- appeared into the kitchen to dry the cutlery in a doleful manner.
The design the council has allocated for my living-room could only impress lovers of the macabre genre of the Czechoslova- kian film industry. It is greeny-brown with unfortunate grey smudges where you least expect them. Since it has gone up, I have given Omalara a packet of felt-tip pens with instructions to get cracking on the home improvement front.
So far, she has drawn a series of multi- coloured hedgehogs on the skirting boards, but it is to be hoped that she will eventually reach the walls. Once her prickly scribbles cover the new wallpaper, things should look very much the same as they did before the chirpy council crooner arrived.
We's right, you know. We're asking for trouble swimming like this.'
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