I would like the man calling my number for a room to rent to please stop. In the name of the Almighty, I can take it no more. I have no rooms to let; I am no letter and you are pushing the envelope. I have your numbers and I will pay for an ad in this revered publication if I have to, so as to halt this harassment.
Now that I have that off my chest, let’s go to the chapel. Oh, sorry . . . we can’t. Alas! It is no more. We really shouldn’t point fingers and accuse others of not keeping promises, when we demolish and discard what we pledged would not have been “demolished and discarded” right?
What happened? A chapel, over a century old. Cuhdear, you mean we just wreck it so? Maybe that is part of “we culture”. . . mash it up and buy it back. Wreck up de bumper . . . and de chapel too. This is a sad approach to symbols of the history that we promise to never forget.
I don’t like to whine, so I will just chip in with a few observations. Is it me, or does the Honourable Chris Sinckler’s tone of voice sound more appealing? So mellow, so controlled . . . when I was listening to his media briefing, I didn’t even recognise the timbre, at first. I thought it was Archillus.
The hollering vocals are less appealing than the character of the conversational tone. I am sure broadcasters like David Ellis and Pearson Bowen will nod their headphones in agreement.
I was about to buy a pair in town, when I heard a boy bawling for murder. Alarmed, I looked to decipher what was being said between sobs. “I got to got it, Mummy; I got to got it for my birthday.” Since we were in a furniture and appliance store, I began pondering that the proposed purchase may be a bed, TV or video game.
Apparently, I am out of touch with the desires of children these days. I would have never guessed: the child was crying out for a washing machine. I hope the big yellow store could make his wish come true this Christmas.
But children are the weirdest people on earth. Before I go, let me tell you about Aiden. The child is only three, but postulations on poops seem to be an ostensible obsession. His mother (who demanded anonymity during this paragraph) took him to the post office to send a letter. On that day, there were World Post Day celebrations, so the crowd was thicker than normal. Aiden blurts out, “Mummy, you poop!” She hushes him sternly. “Mummy, I said that you poop!” Mother turns a lighter shade of pale.
Post-haste, she hauls him out of the post office, amidst giggles and suspicious eyes. When she relayed the story, I had to ask: “So, did you or did you not?”
She went postal. “That is not the point!”
Julia Harewood, I’m still awaiting an answer. (Reader, I’ll keep you posted, hear?!?)
Veoma Ali is an author, actor, broadcaster, advertising exec, and most important, a karaoke lover.
