James Hamilton AKA Big Jim AKA My Dad

I have nothing but love and respect for my Dad, Jim.  

He is old fashioned; self identifies as working class and enjoys half a bottle of whisky most nights.  He shouts and swears at random objects like mobile phones, television remote controls and new-fangled kitchen utensils that don’t work.  He serves portions of Scottish food (like mince and tatties) which could cure world hunger but he believes there is something wrong with people who don’t clear their plates.  He thinks he is being utterly PC and impressive by saying ‘I’m going to get a CHINESE for my dinner tonight’ while winking at us all.  He reads the Daily Record and watches old episodes of ‘Only Fools and Horses’ repeatedly (loudly laughing every time).  He hates the dentist but loves old fashioned toffee bars - so frequently loses a veneer and remains toothless for a week or two.  He shows aggression to anyone who tries to intimidate him or a loved one and cracks dirty jokes often, loudly and in inappropriate places.  He also has hands that resemble large shovels.  

He is named ‘Big Jim’ by all of my friend’s children and all of my little cousins.  He tries to avoid being climbed over by them and sat on when they see him but they just adore him.  He has a large ‘beer belly’ which makes him look like the world’s first pregnant male but he refuses to eat the healthy food lovingly prepared for him by his partner Sylvia.  He takes over in the kitchen, the garden and whenever there is driving involved.  He shouts loudly about the stuff he dislikes but in the end always does the right thing.  He gives the best hugs.  He never says ‘I love you’ but he makes everyone feel loved.  He shows compassion to everyone, including strangers.

Unconditional love is hard to find and hard to describe but, Big Jim gives it out freely.  Despite his ‘scottishness’ and his inability to discuss how he feels, he is the warmest, fairest, and most generous man I know.  He takes every person he meets as an individual and is prepared to like everyone he meets.  Evidence of this being the transvestite drinking buddy he met at my brother’s last birthday party.  

Throughout my life my dad has always been there for me and my siblings, in the background, waiting to celebrate with me or catch me if I fall.  Through good times, bad times, exciting times and everyday life he is there.  We don’t have to speak every day, we don’t have to be polite, and we don’t have to buy each other expensive gifts or even remember birthdays.  He forgives, forgets, celebrates, commiserates and understands. 

 

Unconditional love – affection, understanding, forgiveness – are the best gifts a parent can give.  He truly gives me the confidence to live life fully and to do what I want without hesitation and to make myself better.

  

If I ever become a parent, the ability to love unconditionally is the legacy he will have passed on through me. 

He certainly is a Jolly Good Fellow.

Italiano

I’m in Italy for the first time and I love it.  I’m staying with my Uncle Alan’s Italian wife Chiara’s family.  

No one speaks English and this, for me, is bliss.  Amongst the loud, animated, emotional, almost aggressive conversation, complete with amusing gesticulations and facial expressions, I have quiet.

‘ No comprende’ is my line and I’m sticking to it!

Evenings here are bellissima, my aunt and uncle are showing me around Barletta.  It is old, historic and really beautiful.  The cafes and wine bars serve the most delightful coffee, prosecco and fresh food.  I could spend my whole summer here.

My little ‘cute as a button’ cousin Carla is keeping me entertained.  She has the intelligence of her parents, the deep, ponderous mind of her father, the Italian temper of her mother and a sweet hyperactivity and lust for life which keeps everyone on their toes.  

Today I went to the beach then had an eight course lunch of octopus, fresh fish, pasta, risotto, clams, oysters, beef, chocolate cake, espresso and limoncello.  All in a day’s work!

Bank of Patience

It has come to the time of the year when I can pack up and shut up shop for a month or two. 

School is out for summer and I fly to Scotland on Monday night (via Italy for a week – yippee). 

I have grown to love Lagos but I need regular breaks.  I reckon I get to about three months before the hassle of Naija life starts to irritate me and I have to get out.  In the countdown to flying out, my lack of patience really begins to show.  Regular day to day chores, like going to the bank, become perilous missions of tightrope tensions and frazzled nerves.

The banking system in Nigeria is like most government regulated systems here – fragmented, slow, unnecessarily bureaucratic and incredibly frustrating.  On Friday, I went to the bank to withdraw all of my naira in order to take it to an exchange office and, eventually, to the UK.  (You may be thinking this is odd but the bank not only charge me an outrageous amount of money to make an international payment, but also do not offer any kind of currency exchange.) 

While waiting I remember I cannot use my bank card to withdraw cash inside the bank (you can only do that at a cash machine) so I set about writing myself a cheque to cash.  I do this inside Zenith bank – which is a bit like Gringotts bank from Harry Potter.  You wait in a queue but often a security officer will come and ask you what you are doing and if you are taking out enough money he will usher you through to the back of the bank where you enter a room full of money and cash counting machines!!!    

Anyway on Friday this is, indeed, what happened.  I handed over my cheque and awaited my bag of money.  You end up with bags of money because the largest note in Nigeria is 1000 Naira – the equivalent of £4.  You can imagine what a few thousand pounds looks like!  Half way through this process the teller says ‘ Madam, you know you will be charged for withdrawing all this at the same time.’  I’m not surprised because they charge for EVERYTHING at Zenith so I casually ask how much.  The amount angers me so much that I jump off my seat and rush back through to the ‘normal’ banking area.   They are trying to charge me almost £50 to withdraw my own cash!!  Not transfer, not break an ISA agreement, and not take all my savings but to simply withdraw my own cash from my own current account.  

After a good twenty minutes of heated discussions with various members of staff and exasperations from me I decide to withdraw less money to avoid the charge.  The funniest thing is the reason given for the charge is that they are trying to discourage people lifting large sums of money and encouraging a cashless system where we all use our cards at POS.  This sounds great BUUUUUUUUUUUUT none of the POS systems work in Lagos, they block the card when I try to use it abroad AND there is a very low cap on the amount you can withdraw at a cash point.

Eventually I get my cash and go to meet the dodgy money exchange man.  Now, please bear in mind, my friend called this dude earlier in the day, negotiated a price and told him how much I was bringing.  She also arranged a time to meet at his ‘office’.  I turned up in my school clothes and high heels with my bag full of money.  Not my best security decision!  He wasn’t ready, he didn’t have enough sterling, his office was a filing cabinet, a calculator, a safe and two upside down beer crates as seating. 

 After half an hour of waiting for more sterling to show up I lost it at this dude too!  

‘Why lie?’ I screech!  ‘Don’t tell me you have something you don’t.’  He looks at me bemused and says . . . . . . . that old chestnut . . . . . . . . . . you guessed it . . . . . . . . . . . ‘Sorry Ma’.  And then he goes back to playing on his phone.

In the end the bags of money were changed for a small envelope of notes.  It is safe to say I cannot wait to get on the plane and recharge the old batteries at home.  Scotland isn’t perfect but I need to be in a place where banks, shops, airports simply work and function and provide a decent service. 

 I’ll be able to cope better in September when I return.