The uncommitted man

He doesn't call you his girlfriend yet you refer to him as your 'other half''. All your friends feel as if they know the mysterious man in your life, his name is present in many a  telephone, dinner and in fact within probably every other conversation you hold, yet his face is quite absent - he is formidably unseen. This figure who should be at the center of your life, the LOVE of your life, your partner,  perhaps even the father of your child shys away from the limelight, from family events, girlfriend/boyfriend type appearances. He says that he's not into all that affectionate stuff.

You know I love you babe, I don't need to shout it from the roof tops or do that soppy stuff, we've got real love. 

He is often tired, he is often busy and generally, he is unenthusiastic. You make joint plans for the two of you, but he seems to always have a catch up with the lads', a gym session or a work event to attend to (Uhumm, prioritse). The signs for the devious and uncommitted lover are surfacing. Could the sad and somewhat silent reality be that your partner wants to be a part from you?

Now it may seem that I am stating the obvious, but what if he doesn't make it that obvious? Or what if the woman cannot read the signs? He may be sweet as pie in the enclosed abode but Mr single on the streets. During the past year I have come to know and have knowledge of three men who have all been in long-term relationships with women. These men had quite a few things in common which has lead me to believe that there is a species of man who not only has issues with commitment, but more disgustingly, denies his relationship. Yes, denies his relationship, keeps his girlfriend, mother of his child, the woman he is  LIVING with, swept under the carpet. The men who who have driven me towards this trail of thought were all doting fathers, heavily involved with their child and put their child's welfare before anything else. However, they all failed to mention that they had significant others and would play down the fact that they were in relationships.

It's on and off. We're on a break. The mother of my child.

loose, vague and disconnected terms to detach any glint of affiliation. I suppose, you think that the reason for the 'hush hush' D-low style living, was that they were not happy in their relationship. A man  in a three-year relationship with a two-year old child actually told me this;

 'I don't know if I want to be with her forever. I don't know if I see that with her. What if there's someone better out there?'

This attitude proved to be the general consensus with all three men. I find it to be horrifically cruel. Why would you prolong an un-happy relationship, surely not for the sake of the child? We all know that never worked. Why be bitter and more importantly why mislead a woman to believe that she has a life with you when you don't feel the same? That is the cruelest part. In my books, honest definitely is the best policy and if you aren't happy in a relationship then you should speak up. It might not be too late to save it, but if you decide to make a silly fumble then she may decide that it is the end.

How do you know that there is something better out there? Well that fact that that thought even crosses your mind shows that you think that you deserve better. Whether you do or you don't is an entirely different question. (I would say that you don't as you are being a shitty, fake boyfriend and that your poor girlfriend deserves better, but that's just me!) Yes, you should have standards and a want to be in a fulfilled. loving relationship but if you weren't feeling like that a few months in why did you  stick around? This is the interesting point; this uncommitted man knew all along that he wasn't serious about the woman of the moment, for she was just that - a pretty face, a bit of fun, a fling, a one off, a re-bound, an escape but then it got serious and it was too late to back out.

WEAKLING.

Now, I am well aware that you cannot go back in time but come on, you should have known earlier on down the line, you should have spoken out. It's not fair on her, it's really not. My advice would be to give it a good go, give it your all but if it isn't working then walk away otherwise you will both end up with bruised limbs. This is every man you may say but wait, there is more. There is another shade to this specimen, to the uncommitted man. For the uncommitted man is not just unfulfilled with one woman, but with many woman, possibly every woman. This man is always searching for something better, attractive, rewarding, something to make him feel complete. He never finds her. At least he thinks he never finds her for he never really pays good attention to what he has in his nest in front of him. The woman who loves him, cooks and cleans for him, keeps his child, manages his finances and plans vacations. He doesn't want that, he doesn't know what he wants. How can you commit if you don't know who or what you want to commit to? This man, has not matured enough to know who he is or what he sees his future as and until then he will remain uncommitted.

You've got to know exactly what you want and go for it.

Nearly two years ago I attended the press night of a play in the Young Vic Theater, Southwark. At the time, I was a recent graduate working in a Department store searching for my big break into journalism. It was a great time in my life as I felt very free and invigorated. I was responsible, working nearly full-time and paying my way in the world. I was actually enjoying the routine of going to work, to a job which  I didn't want to stay in long term but equally enjoyed with the company of fun colleagues and a light-hearted fairly easy-going environment. I enjoyed talking to customers and pootling down to the stock room but I knew I wanted more. My work was flexible, I could take days off to go to the North of England and visit my grandparents, we went on a lovely holiday to the Lake District actually, and I enjoyed trekking up the Guisborough Hills solo - something I had never done before. I got really fit and healthy and finally began to understand what to do with my hair, how to have it in it's natural texture without changing it's form. I had a stint on well-known hair and beauty magazine too. I was growing. I had a great social life; exploring different parts of London with friends; Shoreditch, Dalston to Ladbroke Grove; checking out cool underground, Reggae and Afrocentric gigs and being rather silly in big house clubs in Kings Cross. I remember it being a really fun time. I was taking Spanish classes with people much older than myself who didn't notice my youth. I fell in love with Zadie Smith's eloquence. I fell in love with lots of things, I even considered Rastafarianism. I was writing, going to talks about being empowered in Hoxton, attending plays and music concerts, getting back in contact with old friends, going on random bike rides - it was a great time. I took up a TEFL course and ended up meeting interesting people from all over the world, a weed-smoking, outspoken French woman who after a gig invited a few of us to her house, where we had a weird and wonderful drive to her digs in East London where she shared intimate personal stories about her journey. There was an Asian guy too who shared his early 00s party day experiences, to being out on the road for weeks on end without contacting anyone and without having a bed to sleep in. I felt like I was going for it, finding my place in the world, planning new adventures, making career decisions. Admittedly, I was slightly confused, and I struggled to secure my big break into journalism. I still haven't had it actually.

Eagerly routing through to 'get my life started' I applied for job after job as of course, that's what gets your life started, right? Nothing seemed to happen. So there I was, nearly two years ago, having the time of my life, feeling free and ambitious, at a press night of a play. Sipping a glass of complimentary wine in the post-show social, there were a few celebrities in the room. The beautiful Thandie Newton graced her presence, but she didn't say anything memorable. I happened to spot a successful, well-known journalist from a similar background to myself, and with the encouragement of a friend I made a beeline for it and introduced myself. I asked her how she got to where she was and of course she told me that it wasn't easy, that it took years of hard work, of free work and of dedication - no surprise there then. Of course she couldn't help me, there was no 'quick route in', no 'pass card' so to speak. Just keep doing what you're doing. And then she said something frightfully striking; I think this is why I will possibly remember this encounter for the rest of my life;

'You have to know exactly what you want and then go for it.'

That is what she said to me. May I stress, 'exactly what you want'.

Exactly

What

You

Want

Did I feel encouraged, motivated, inspired? Well quite frankly, no because how on earth would I know exactly what I wanted at 22 years of age having just left University and striving to make my print in this large world? See the thing is, I do not think that any of us know exactly what we want. We have a rough idea, a silhouette. But most of the time we don't know quite how to turn that silhouette into an oblique.

And I think that is absolutely fine.

There is no right or wrong, there are just moments and experiences. I think that along the way we learn what we like and what we don't like, what we want and what we don't want.  

So to put it all into perspective, I was having a fantastic time in my life, I was happy. I may not, and still may not be in a place within my career where I desire to be but I am happy for the process, as the process gets the end result. I admire my fellow journalist, I admire her dedication and success. I agree with my play pal in one sense - you do have to work hard for anything that you want in life, extremely hard - but the question is; can anyone really know exactly what they want?

Custody - A sharing

Last night I had the privilege of viewing a 'sharing' of a new, striking and heavily poignant play entitled; 'custody'. The production was co- written and produced by an intelligent and inspiring Primary School friend of mine, Urbain Hayo. Thrilled to attend the performance and view my friend's work, I made sure I reserved a seat and made my way to London's Southbank on a somewhat wet and mysterious Thursday afternoon.

 The play itself is a work in progress, funded my The Princes Trust and working in association with Stratford East Theater, it was the first night members of the public were invited for a viewing. A taster if you like, to test public response to the production. Performed in a small and intimate room on the lower level of The Royal Festival Hall, the audience were seated closely together, building an intensified close-knit feeling. As the play is in the early stages of development, there was also the feeling that the hidden-away room represented a slight underground movement. With such a big and important story to tell, I hope this production surfaces to the loud streets of London and draws the attention of some high profile figures of authority, really allowing this production to evoke change and spread awareness of such brutalities which DO take place.

'Custody' is an extremely relevant play, written about a young black male who dies in police custody,
in shady circumstances incorrectly addressed or rectified. In light of the recent black deaths in America, it's timing could not be more appropriate. Brian is a young black man of African heritage
from south London. He is  successful, popular, he is the guy that everyone wants to be. The problem arises however when some figures in society question his success, how can a young black man have so much to his name, surely some illegal activity must have taken place? Abused, intimidated and
 ridiculed, Brian's dies while being held in police custody.

This is a powerful play, excellently executed by talented actors. Touching upon a magnitude of relevant issues in society surrounding; identity, race, equality and justice, this play does not only deserve to tour but needs to tour. Inspired by true events, this production tells the story of so many young men who may not have necessarily lost their lives in suspicious circumstances but who have lost their way in the world due to having their identity questioned and unaccepted.

Well done Urbain.

50 Shades of...What exactly?

A friend of mine recently sent me an excitable and somewhat forceful text message along the lines of; 'Steph, we have to see 50 Shades of Grey when it is released!' It sounded like a commandment, a right of passage. I replied, hesitantly, 'Why on earth do you want to see that trash?' Dismissive, and uninterested in watching, what my mother had referred to in a slight northern accent as '50 shades of sh*te' I expressed my disappointment in her intrigue in to what I viewed as soft porn, untalented, tripe. Okay, my words may be a little harsh however, I stood  firmly in my position, I had no interest in female erotica - especially a from which was so badly written, lacking substance, plot and vigor. Hey, don't get me wrong I love books, books with good stories, books with lessons, you know the sort. Refusing to read the book with the belief that the author had cracked some get rich quick scheme, I was not at all a fan of 50 Shades. I would not be a sucker for a dick, ha. I remember the hot summer days of  2012, everyone seemed to barking on about that book - and why exactly? Could it be that it filled some dark, erotic fantasy? Could it be that it took women to a place they had physically never been to before? Did the book fill some sort of void for the lonely, possibly sexually unsatisfied, woman? Or had the author really hit the nail on the head with the assumption that the majority of women fantasize about a man dominating them? See, I don't know about that one. Never fantasized about being treated like a slave, me. Perhaps it was a combination of all of these reasons; curiosity and wanting to know what the hype was about.

So along I went, to The Brixton Ritzi, armed with popcorn and sweets smuggled in from Iceland for 3/4 of the price sold for in the cinema, I was ready to be taken to the 50th Shade, ready to eat my soul to oblivion and beyond. Could this film arouse me? Intrigue me? What would the Shades be, I wondered - surely not just 50 shades of shagging? Bingo! That it was. 50 shades of; I fuck your brains out the way I want to. Not the way you want it, but the way I want it. Dang girl, you think yow little virgin ass had a say in this shizzle? Hell to the no, you mine, bend over, and make me a sandwich while you there. 

 The character Grey released his fantasy on his captive, his young, open-mouthed virgin who was ready to be dominated at all hours. 'Take me!' She near enough whimpered; 'I'm yours!' But are you Anna? Are you? He hasn't put a ring on it, and he took your bloody virginity, you held on to it until graduation  - you were doing oh so well Anna, with your little fringe and 1970s wardrobe. He
probably gave you cystitis too with the pace he's pumping, and he didn't even put a ring on it. Tut, tut. What would our Beyonce say now?  Poor little Anna, the leading lady, a romantic English Literate Graduate, who was probably dreaming of her Prince Charming, when she got a fucked up, sadist, sexual freak who wants to chain you up. Oh, Anna.

I can sympathies with the feminists who boycotted 50 Shades of Grey. It is an overtly sexist film. Actually, it is shockingly sexist. The ending of the film is somewhat disappointing as Anna is near enough abused and does not seem to be enjoying her man's fantasy. Do we really get to see 50 Shades of Grey? Do we see deep inside this character's soul? No. But we do see 50 Shades of Shagging, more shagging oh yes, and some Shagging! If you want to cop an eye-full get yourself down to the cinema today!

Old Flame.

A little tired and unfocused I am just about to exit the station for Croydon, a place I once frequently habituated. Always seeming to be a bit of a blur to me, with it's grey skies and non nondescript buildings.Tall and new, all voice and no character. If they could talk they would merely yawn.  Oh there are some lovely parts too, parts where you move to in sought of that family life, to the long, wide, windy roads, and the set back houses, but the town has quite a generic face to it; working class, busy, mums, tracksuits, student bars, not particularly trendy. Well, we can't all be cool - sorry. Wearing my long puffa jacket with it's fur hood, I am here merely physically, so essentially I am absent - my mind is elsewhere. My mind is in Latin America, in a hot climate, exploring a town, wondering along the path of a stream, with pebbles pressed in the palm of my hand, the cool breeze stroking my face to ease the heavy sun. Now I am conversing with a local woman in a draped garment - my mind never stops. It races to the future, it warps back to the past. Sometimes I reckon I really can time travel, this mind of mine can take me anywhere. It can transport me to particular moments and to what exact emotion I possessed while I was there, like the first time I rode my bike in the car park downstairs, at the back of my block of flats. It was a shiny red bike for a boy, yet my parents didn't seem to realise so upon purchase.

That was a great birthday, I would awake mum and dad at the crack of dawn, pitch black in December, a depressive hour really. Yet it would become so joyful as they would lead me through to the living room, automatically awake, Daddy nearly as excited as I as they guided me towards the nestling treasure which would be perfectly arranged by Mummy.  

Daddy would push the back of the bike and run behind me as I cycled frantically, trying to stay a balance until one moment, I looked back and Daddy was standing there in his big leather jacket watching me, possibly with a cigarette in hand. Standing and watching as I cycled freely, surely stabilizers don't count. A proud moment, my head can still whip back now and see his face, only a glimmer of emotion, no smiles, no applause, but a twinkle in the eye - I did it. That's what life is made up from isn't it; moments. Some we remember, some we don't.

I'm dragging a bag of presents in a suitcase behind me, walking towards the ticket barrier to continue onward with my journey, absent minded, yet intent on reaching my destination. 'Suzanne?'. I hear a voice call. I turn my head to see an old, familiar face. Startled, I search his eyes, scan his appearance, not much change, apart from longer, now braided hair. 'Hello Adrian' I reply. 'wow, what a surprise'. Mixed emotions, I am hesitant, I do not know how to respond or how to conduct myself. Should I be friendly, reserved, standoffish? He is intent on speaking to me, looking at me. Isn't it strange how two souls can be so close, so connected and then suddenly drift away from each other. I lay in bed wit this man, my ex-boyfriend, he was my lover. I attended family parties, I held babies, discussed my life plans to his family, deep down always knowing that they would not be shared with him. We laughed, we cried, we fucked, we explored, we drank, we ate, we connected. Then we disconnected. It all seems so long ago. All these thoughts flash through my mind as I look at him, feeling nothing, feeling embarrassed, feeling sorry for him. 

'You're so hard to get hold of, you didn't reply to my emails.'  He says,

'Er, yes, I didn't..didn't think it would be worth it...I have the same phone number, you could have called.' I say.

'I've lost and broken so many phones since then.' He's laughing now, trying to re-kindle some long lost flame? 'You know me, I can't look after anything, if I could then I would still have you'.