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Interview
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Aug. 11th, 2007 | 12:51 pm
It seems like my chances for a tower house living are evaporating.
People – my Midwife Sue, for example – have warned me that it can take quite a while before you get a place from the council. But confidently I comforted Dani and told her that we must be the top priority of Birmingham City Council, given our situation.
I’ve started conducting the interviews for my dissertation, which is the fun part of the research. For a month I’ve been stopping random women with mixed kids on the street. Yesterday I did second interview and visited a woman on the other side of the motorway. She’s 38 and has five children. Because my first interview went really well, I had a good feeling when I knocked on her door. That was soon gone; “I’m not posh and I’m not trampy, you know what I mean” she described herself class status. I found it a bit saddening, really: poverty worse than that I have only really encountered in Cuba. How could I tell? They had a crap telly. The thing is, no working class or black people have a shitty TV; most of the time their plasma screens are bigger than the box that they call home. That’s how. She lived in a two bedroom flat with three of her children, the oldest being 6 and the youngest 3 months old. I got the impression she was being evicted. The council had told her to move into a refuge, but she refused.
“How long have you been waiting for a council flat?” I asked out of personal interest.
“For years, man.”
“Really? I thought someone like you would be their priority…”
“Are you having a laugh? It’s a pain in the arse, it is.”
I knew I’d have something to tell Dani when I’d get home.
Her 3-year-old boy was so beautiful, though, I thought he was a girl. You couldn’t really tell where his looks came from, but I put it down to the rough life that his parents had lead. She was a former prostitute. When I was leaving, the little boy wanted to walk me to the door and took my hand.
“His name is Kanye,” his mother told me. Kanye is a beautiful name. I’m really struggling coming up with names for boys. I have a royal list of names for girls, but not any for a boy (any ideas? Feel free to comment.). I like Kanye. But then again. It won’t go, because then everyone would think I named him after a rap artist, and I can’t really think anything cheesier than revealing to the public that you really watch too much MTV.
“He was named after Kanye West, you see.”
“Oh. Nice. How sweet. And, erm, what’s her name?”
“Ciara.”
So, if you hear someone on the crying that Missy Elliot should not put that thing on her mouth, that’s me and my kid.
I don’t care if it’s a boy.
The 25 Worst Rapper Names of All Time
People – my Midwife Sue, for example – have warned me that it can take quite a while before you get a place from the council. But confidently I comforted Dani and told her that we must be the top priority of Birmingham City Council, given our situation.
I’ve started conducting the interviews for my dissertation, which is the fun part of the research. For a month I’ve been stopping random women with mixed kids on the street. Yesterday I did second interview and visited a woman on the other side of the motorway. She’s 38 and has five children. Because my first interview went really well, I had a good feeling when I knocked on her door. That was soon gone; “I’m not posh and I’m not trampy, you know what I mean” she described herself class status. I found it a bit saddening, really: poverty worse than that I have only really encountered in Cuba. How could I tell? They had a crap telly. The thing is, no working class or black people have a shitty TV; most of the time their plasma screens are bigger than the box that they call home. That’s how. She lived in a two bedroom flat with three of her children, the oldest being 6 and the youngest 3 months old. I got the impression she was being evicted. The council had told her to move into a refuge, but she refused.
“How long have you been waiting for a council flat?” I asked out of personal interest.
“For years, man.”
“Really? I thought someone like you would be their priority…”
“Are you having a laugh? It’s a pain in the arse, it is.”
I knew I’d have something to tell Dani when I’d get home.
Her 3-year-old boy was so beautiful, though, I thought he was a girl. You couldn’t really tell where his looks came from, but I put it down to the rough life that his parents had lead. She was a former prostitute. When I was leaving, the little boy wanted to walk me to the door and took my hand.
“His name is Kanye,” his mother told me. Kanye is a beautiful name. I’m really struggling coming up with names for boys. I have a royal list of names for girls, but not any for a boy (any ideas? Feel free to comment.). I like Kanye. But then again. It won’t go, because then everyone would think I named him after a rap artist, and I can’t really think anything cheesier than revealing to the public that you really watch too much MTV.
“He was named after Kanye West, you see.”
“Oh. Nice. How sweet. And, erm, what’s her name?”
“Ciara.”
So, if you hear someone on the crying that Missy Elliot should not put that thing on her mouth, that’s me and my kid.
I don’t care if it’s a boy.
The 25 Worst Rapper Names of All Time