THE BURNING BUSH.
The biblical account in the Book of Exodus states that the fire was burning, but the bush was not consumed. After debiting my Republic account and consuming some sushi from the original Saltfish Lady at Limegrove, I walked along the West Coast. Something was on fire.
As I choked on the smoke, I discovered the source: two big, hard-back fellas burning bush and tyres in a barrel.
Now tell me, reader – what is the purpose of burning so much stuff these days? Are we trying to avoid the tipping fees, or something?
Every day, for the past week, someone somewhere has been burning something. Let me not go off on that, because I may invade Hoadie’s space with my grievance when it comes to smoke, fire and the ash that seems to get through the creases under my door.
Anyway, on to another note. I was at Ashton last Saturday, visiting Kory Walters at his Get Mad! Fitness Centre. (Mind you, I was having a li’l chocolate while talking to him: I wasn’t there to get mad or get fit.) One of my friends – let’s just call him Ian Yearwood – had an episode. I picked him up at the gym to take him to his sister’s house. He was taking particular pains to look good.
He even had cream in his bag, which was extra special, since Ian never bothers to use anything on his skin but Duet soap. Well, he was to sing a solo at his sister’s wedding and didn’t want to look “ashy” – as he put it.
He began blending the balm, trying to work it into his skin while I drove him to his destination.
Well, something was definitely wrong. The sulphur-like whiffs I got were first ignored, since I simply supposed that
Ian was nervous. But this stench was stinking up the car; and Ian then screamed, “It burning!”
No shoulder
I could not pull the car over, since we were at Waterford Bottom – and you know, I have spoken many a time on the fact that there is no shoulder! So I tried my best to ascertain what the problem could possibly be.
As I asked him to show me the bottle of cream, Ian pulled out a bottle of Nair. Well, for you men who do not know what that is, let me tell you this: when you see Neet or Nair, stay far, far away.
It is a depilatory hair-removal cream. I sped to Sky Mall as Ian ran to the nearest washroom. (Just in case any members of the Royal Barbados Police Force are reading, I was going 79 km/h and no more.)
Ian returned within 15 minutes, looking shiny indeed. One leg and one arm were hairless, while the other leg and arm were unharmed and bushy. I suggested that he complete the task, for consistency’s sake. He gave me a bad eye and a few bad words to go with it.
Before I go, congratulations to Mr and Mrs Andre Savoury on saying “I do”.
Veoma Ali is an author, broadcaster, advertising exec and most important, a karaoke lover.
