theworldisbreakingallaroundus

There is a chill in the air. It crackles, like a live wire.

A boy runs into our yard, his bright hair all over the place. I am immediately on my guard; who is he, and where has he come from? There are no houses surrounding mine. I chose it for that reason.

The wind suddenly lifts and a shiver runs down my back.

I can feel Him, His presence a given. The dog has stilled and the corners of my eyes crinkle as I take in the little boy, with khaki pants and a little boys blazer on.

Hi, he says, I'm sorry to bother you.

And then he is still, his attention drawn to the back of my right ear. The distance.

And I can feel Him there too.

What are you doing here, I ask the little boy with the crazy curls. All the while I'm closing ranks with the little guy, in a defensive mother pose.

He has never hurt me, but I'm not taking any chances.

By the time I have reached him, the little boy is smiling at me and nodding at the distance. I am uneasy, the unkown is prevalent, and I feel like there's a private joke I'm missing.

What's your name, I ask mr crazy curls.

He stops for a second, as if listening to someone speaking to him, although there is silence, nods, and answers me rapidfire.

"Angus. My mother left me here. She was angry."

And I am livid. He cannot be more than six years old. What kind of mother does that?

"But E said not to worry, that you would help me, that you are a kind lady."

And I'm immediately overwhelmed. A tear trickles down my face, and I only realise I am crying when I brush my cheek to push errant hair back and it is wet.

The sky is azure, memories knock in the distance. I still, searching for that elusive answer.

You can see him, I say to Angus. What does he look like?

For in all the years I've known Him to be in my life, I have never seen Him.

He's very tall, like verry tall, replies Angus.

And I cannot help but smile. When you are that little, anything higher than you must be very tall.

"He says to say to you that he is six foot two intees."

And I giggle. I'm a rain splatter on a sunny day. Two intees? Oh bless. And I have a sudden, violent urge to belong to Angus.

He says to say you look like a rainbow too, Angus says and smiles.

I am greedy and want more information. A wasp buzzes past, startling the still that has become the norm when He is around. Is He gone? But no, Angus continues to relate information to me, from Him, obviously just repeating what he's being told.

He has green eyes and brown hair and a crooked nose, Angus giggles.

"But he has, most of all, something for you."

And I can no longer resist, whirling around as if I expect to see Him.

But there is nothing, no one.

Do you want to come in, I ask Angus. Where do you live?

He does not know his address but has his phone number memorised. Good boy.

As I give Angus a cookie and a glass of milk, my mind rattles trying to prioritise recoveries, investigations and this irrational urge to set up camp in my front yard.

With summer sun browning my shoulders as I, once again, take up my post.

Celebrate

"Over the years I have been exposed to women with extraordinary bodies, some of whom are naturally blessed with them, and others who have to fight for every inch. Some are reed-thin and others creamily voluptuous. The happiest are the ones for whom eating is a pleasure, rather than something to be held hostage by. These women are sexy. They share a total ease around food and the understanding that whatever their shape or size, they steer the ship in which they sail. Women have historically given much power to food, yet food is inanimate. There is nothing sensual about militant restriction. It is infertility, osteoporosis, and bleeding gums. It saps and withers."

Wise words indeed by Sophie Dahl in the March edition of Vogue US.

The topic of weight is a long-running one, the world over. Growing up in Kenya and having limited exposure to the West, anorexia was a distant thing and something I can honestly say I didn't have to consider the implications of. I cannot speak on behalf of all the young girls (or guys) growing up alongside me in Kenya but its fair to say that when a vast majority of the country is worrying about sourcing the next meal, the impact of magazines/models/designers/media/the resultant feeding loop of mothers and daughters and the knowledge passed on regarding food is not in the foreground.

I am now well aware of the extreme dangers associated with starvation and the fact that food obsession caters to being in control, and is addictive and soul-destroying.

So do we tackle the problem the right way? Dahl's article iterates the importance of placing value on taking pleasure in food. Natural ingredients, traditions. The French, the Italians, the Africans (to name a few examples).....they have it right. They are not the same stick thin build but then why is that attractive again? They have it right, they embrace food and conversation, cooking together, espousing delicious flavours and aromas and tastes. Food is life. Food is culture. Food is family. And food is meant to be nurtured, celebrated and to satiate.

I have to be honest here. I've stumbled across a few blogs where pictures of the authors do nothing more than nauseate me. Where do we draw the line? Dry skin, brittle hair, bones protruding where they shouldn't be? There is no excuse. Models too, in my opinion, are meant to look vibrant and gorgeous and full of life. And a gorgeous item of clothing on a beautiful girl will spark my desire, not a sack of bones with a hessian sack (because everything starts to look like that) draping over it coming down the runway.

Is food a friend or an enemy?

And is it a pleasure, or a guilty pleasure?

I am a woman for whom eating is a pleasure. I embrace culinary experimentation, natural ingredients, and the mouth-watering results. I thank my parents for encouraging me to learn how to cook and to enjoy it, and for never passing on that negative food association that so many mothers unfortunately inadvertently pass on to their daughters. I am not a saint, I eat things on the 'no go' list. And between the ages of 17 and 22, I sometimes experimented with the whole "could stand to lose a few kilos" stance. When food was a guilty pleasure or when I thought I could stand to lose a few kilos and attempted to diet somewhat, I was the biggest I've ever been. And as soon as I stopped worrying about the few kilograms and just focused on enjoying food, I lost those "trouble" kilos without even thinking about it.

In truth, uncompromised control is timpossible to maintain. I quickly realised that its all about moderation. My timely realisation that uncompromising control over what I eat will lead to a breakdown of sorts when something doesn't go according to plan allows me to enjoy food and to treat it as just that. You may think you are in control when you monitor everything that goes into your mouth, but you don't realise that you're the one being held hostage.

So love food, embrace it, enjoy it. Because embracing our size and shape and embracing food, in the truest sense, is the perfect way to be. Ne'er has a truer statement been made. The happiest women are truly the ones for whom eating is a pleasure.

Let them feast

....kissing statues, whistling at guys dressed as women during carnival, eating sardines lathered with spices and grilled to perfection, drinking tea in Arabian teahouses, getting drenched in ocean spray, licking roads, making friends with gorgeous flamenco dancing gypsy girls.....

"Gingerbread Houses"

"We come bearing gifts..."

"Swirling Lights on 5th Avenue"

"Welcome to the Masked Ball"

"Mercado"

"The Imitation, it is flattery"

"Splitered architects take one on nigh"

"Roman God adoration"

"Kissing a Stranger"

"The Fortress to solitude"

"Super Mario"

"Masked Light"

"Flamenco di peso"

"Short Street"

"Blistering..."

"Tropicana Melua"

"Abandon all Pretenses"

"Burning of the Sardine"

"Snapshots"

"Beauty, personified"

"Simple Pleasures"

"Sunflower shades"

"By sea we see"

"Technologicality"

"Drag Race '10: Carnival"

"The go go girls"

Photos of me by Stuart

The rest of the photos by me

In response to a query I got, I don't edit my photos. At all. Ever. I should try it.....right?

I am a complex being, a mass of thrumming organisms...

"I myself have never been able to figure out precisely what feminism is. I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat."

(On Beauty, Zadie Smith)

don't call me crazy, just buy me that timeless wail

He grasps my arms tightly. So much so I know there will be bruises the next morning.

"Stop it, Peter" I whisper, my voice trembling with this turn of events.

"Or what" Peter taunts. He sneers, his eyes blazing and his breath coming in short gasps. As if he'd just run a marathon.

The wind picks up. I hear it whistling through the otherwise eery, uncomfortable silence that pervades. A chill runs down my spine and I blink and close my eyes. A solitary tear rolls down my left cheek and I think to myself, 'where do we go from here?'

Peter's unkempt hair sits awry. The wind that comes through the broken window pulls at it, like a child pulling at his mother's necklace. I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt that at this point in time it is all I can think about. I cannot help him. I have tried. And I have failed. There is so much to say and yet there is nothing.

Peter turns away. He has let go of my arms. His shoulders are hunched and his posture submissive. He looks like he is in pain and it is all I can do not to reach out to him and embrace him. Moments pass, and I become aware of the ticking of my watch.

"I love you Peter" I say. I cannot stop the tears now, even if I wanted to. He turns back to me. His eyes crinkle at the corners and I can just see him working it all out in that beautiful brain of his. Slowly he nods.

"I care about you too" he says solemnly, "but I can only spend a maximum of two hours with you every day. I have to play soccer at 5pm. And then I have to practice my guitar playing for 45 minutes. And then comes dinner....". At this he trails off.

I wait, patience is my name.

"I can only spend two hours with you" he reinforces and nods once. And then once more.

It is the best I will get and I take it. I sniff surreptitiously and at once he is wiping away my tears. It is the best I will get and I smile at this beautiful boy, my beatiful boy with Aspergers Syndrome.

I cannot let him go but the future is marked with uncertainty. All I know is that I will be beside him for as long as he will let me.