Categotry Archives: Misadventures

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The Wasteman Resurrection

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Categories: Baking, Misadventures

My Wasteman Carrot Cake Cupcakes

So this is a Baking Diairies and a Wasteman woes of old. When an ex crosses your present path. To recap: It’s 8pm on the last day of the long weekend and I’ve promised Slave Owner cakes. He wants healthy to go with his never decreasing waistline so I’ve done banana bread and carrot cake except, yesterday I had a cooked brekkie and ate some eggs so I’m eggless!

I look online and Waitrose Kings Road is supposed to be open but, bank holiday. If I go to Waitrose I don’t have to faff on the snack front so I can be in and out in like,  5 minutes. A record for me. I sling on my winter coat which never actually gets put away, my sparkly uggs and pop my headphones in as I march up the Kings Road. It’s more of a dance, waddle , march as I’m listening to the new MATM album and fantasisting about scoring a winning goal. Whole other story for another time.

As I pass Bluebird I hear someone call my name like I owe them money so, I keep walking. I also can’t see very well at night so although I can make out a black guy on the other side I have no idea who it is.

Turns out it’s this dude I went on one date with years ago who then got arsey when I didn’t put out and went on about all the money he had spent on a Marco Pierre White meal? This was way before I knew who Marco Pierre White was so, totally wasted on my Nandos level self. Besides the food was heavy and pretentious and left me uncomfortable, as did he. He also lied unnecessarily

He lied about being a banker (he worked in finance) and living in the City (more Bethnal Green) and spoke with a pretentious British accent which belied his 30 odd years in a naija village. Any hoo we weren’t friends. Why was he calling me so hard? I had heavy thoughts on my head like, what time did Waitrose close? Did the winning goal celebration constitute a shirt off moment? How had I left my house without earrings on?

Turns out he needed to see me at that particular moment because he had a new girlfriend and wanted to rub it in. Honestly? She’s cute. He’s punching above his weight. But I didn’t need the smug look of glee as he told me that the reason he hadn’t been around was because she was taking up all his time now. Dude, I haven’t seen you in over a year! Nobody is blowing up your phone wondering where the fuck you are! See earlier heavy subjects weighing my head.

He tells me how he’s trying to get her to move to Shoreditch. I look confused and ask him if he’s moved from his flat in Bethnal Green? He mumbles something about needing to be in a creative space. I mumble in y head about needing to create more wasteman lies. We both smile snark at each other. Why are we doing this again? Oh yes, so he can gloat.

I told them I was in the middle of a baking emergency and needed to get to Waitrose. Cutey pipes in with, ‘Oh, is it open?’ Ok so she’s not that cute. They’re a match . I run off and yes, Waitrose closed at 7pm.

How is this life? And the carrot cake cupcakes don’t like right. Too gloopy, too dark, too sinsister with the cinnamon. Kind of like him. Oh well, I’ll always have banana bread.

© Chelsea Black 2017

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The public train ride

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Categories: DATING, Misadventures, Sex

Sex train

When the sex train pulls in. Recently we’ve been celebrating 20 years since university which has meant a flurry of photos of a slimmer, more confident me. I know right? All that teenage angst and I never had to worry about what I ate or wore. EVERYTHING fit. But I digress

The Boyfriend

In one of these photos I spotted an ex. I thought 15 weeks of therapy and a marriage had exorcised all of my demons but apparently I can still hold a grudge? Hey, I’m a Taurus. Once you really piss me off then you may as well just move countries. Which he did. He moved to Scandinavia.

He was a cute guy and initially we were friends as we were both into sport. He was younger than me but somehow we ended up dating each other. I don’t know how relationships at university ever started but I don’t recall an official ask out. Just one day our names were joined.

Things were fine until we had sex. 9 minutes after we started he was done. Was I being punk’d? Youthful inexperience I guess.  Initially he was apologetic but then he got all cocky and he thought he’d done something special by being in my bed? Like he’d blessed my life with that 9 minutes? Oh dear god! But I was young and didn’t know how to tell him he was shit without damaging his rather large but fragile ego. His cock wasn’t so large sadly. But again, I digress. I should have just hurt his ego.

The train

A few weeks later there was a group picnic up a mountain. You had to take a train up this mountain. Everyone broke off into groups and pairs. We wandered off, started making out and he suggested we go hide out on the waiting, empty train. I’d not gotten much spontaneity out of mr mediocre and missionary so this was surprising. He shocked me by suggesting the cowgirl. Wow. A change is a coming!

What I didn’t know is that he’d told ALL his hall of residence mates and we had a group of spectators who gleefully brought friends. So dude couldn’t last more than 9 minutes but he thought literally exposing me to the elements was a good idea? Before we got back down the mountain later that day the story had spread like wildfire and I was labelled a slut. Having sex with my boyfriend on a train was a sinful act apparently.

And thus began a campaign of idiots thinking it was ok to approach me on campus and ask for sex. Guys are stupid when presented with a sexually liberal woman at the best of times but this? This became group bullying. Sadly the women on campus were worse because apparently some women deem themselves to be the moral compass for all other women. It’s not nice to be pariahed for any action but especially one that wasn’t of your making. But I don’t know any of those people now. They don’t influence my life. You learn to get on with your life and move to the chugging motion of your own train I guess.

The result

Needless to say when some women told me what had happened we broke up.

9 minutes contacted me on Facebook a few years ago and I’m not going to pretend I was pleasant. I have come to understand that I don’t have to forgive or be pleasant to everyone from my past. He’s a father with daughters apparently. I think I’m meant to care?

Yeah, it’s been 20 years but I’m nowhere near forgiving him and his nonsense. Sue me. And not all #tbt photos from the past evoke pleasant memories. But sometimes, when I’m on a train I think of that time and smile. I think, fuck, he lasted a whole minute longer!

© Chelsea Black 2017

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Roadrunner aka the leggings

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Categories: Latest, Misadventures

Disclaimer: I’m not hot. I just have a butt and a penchant for wearing leggings. Roadrunners are a new phenomenon. Unfortunately the leggings of 16th March 2017 have special powers and have not been reduced to house only leggings. Men act like leggings are an invitation to fuck. They’re just leggings. Here’s how it went down:

So I was on my way to French class and about 3 minutes from my house. I had just passed the spot where I’d gotten mugged in 2010 and was thinking about how I was going to explain in French that I hadn’t done my homework (again) due to sheer laziness. As I was listening to my music I spotted a black guy in a diarrhoea brown leather jacket running in the middle of the road against traffic. This was a one way street? Where the fuck was he going? I watched as he nearly got run over by a delivery scooter as he looked to cross over to the other side. Cue Chicken jokes.

Turns out he was jogging to me. He came over and a conversation ensued

Me: Are you ok?

Roadrunner: Yeah.

Me: Can I help you?

Roadrunner: Yeah I saw a gorgeous young lady so ….

Me: You better go find her then?

Roadrunner laughs like Ricky Gervais. Am I a comedian though?

Roadrunner: Hi I’m Roadrunner

Me: OK

Roadrunner: Can I chat to you

Me: Regarding?

Roadrunner: [sensing that he’s losing me] So do you live around here?

Me: Yeah

Roadrunner. What’s your name

I tell him. He asks if it’s short for anything. I lie and say no. I don’t have the energy. And now he’s making me late for French. Grrrrr

Roadrunner: I’m in Wembley. I’m just on my way to the gym because, you know. That’s how I live my life?

This confuses me. Are we about to have some sort of metaphysical / existential conversation? On a THURSDAY?

Me: Ok Dude I have to go

Roadrunner: Wait! Where are you going.

I explain French class. He has a weird accent

Me: What’s with the accent

Roadrunner: I went to an American school but grew up in Europe.

Me: I see.

Roadrunner: So where are your parents from?

Why Black Jesus are you bringing all these thirsty men to me?

Me: South Africa. And yours are from Nigeria right?

Roadrunner: Yes! How did you know?

Me: A strong guess

Roadrunner: Can I get your number so that we can chat later.

I give him my number. Maybe he IS my person. You never know.

Roadrunner calls me immediately to make sure I had his.

Me: Why? I’m not going to call you ?

Roadrunner does his Ricky Gervais laugh and asks me what I do. I lie.

Me: What do you do? I

Roadrunner: I’m a broker. But also I work as an administrator in a hospital.

So, he’s a broke broker who needs a side job? I sigh and go to French. This one is just a liar. I see. He said he would call me about French but it’s already after ten. I blame the leggings. It was too soon for Spring attire. The men aren’t ready. And for those that don’t know, that’s sarcasm.

Aw lawd he’s started whatsapping about my figure. I may have to block him. Sigh

Night all!

© Chelsea Black

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