WHEN IT RAINS, it pours. And when it pours, it floods. I poured a drink for Julia Harewood (she and Rossann Yearwood like to drink nuff) as we discussed the recent photos of Bridgetown, depicting surfing dogs, gushing water and floating cars.
In fact, I had to practically swim to The Nation on Tuesday to get this article in on time. This is why swimming lessons are so important.
And talking about swimming lessons, my first was the worst. Trevor was the instructor. She was a big, burly retired bodybuilder. Yes, reader, Trevor was known as the “shark lady” of the swimming school.
She would lift you and fling you into the pool with one hand. In her better moods, she would lift two of us at a time and promptly pelt us in. The sink-or-swim approach was cruel, but it was also a life’s lesson.
Anyway, my friend Vanessa was morbidly scared of the water. Her mother complained to Trevor that she didn’t like to bathe or even get her feet wet. Trevor gently caressed the child’s head, pretending that she was the most loving, tender tutor in the world.
But somehow, I think Trevor took a sick pleasure in hearing this. As soon as the mother left, Vanessa was pelted into the pool. Like a terrible fast bowler, the shark lady was on the attack. She was bowling and Vanessa was bawling.
Poor Vanessa. She bawled out her liver until bits and pieces started floating in the pool. Well, it wasn’t exactly her liver; it was her lunch.
By this time, I had basically taught myself to swim and sped off to the side of the pool and climbed out. I rushed to my brother’s side. “Boy, thank God I swim out before all the vomit start spreading,” I boasted.
Reader, my brother looked pale and upset. “Look at your top lip,” he advised. I looked at my reflection in the mirrors and felt faint. A floating remnant of Vanessa’s lunch was stuck to my mouth. I’m not sure if I used an entire bottle of Squezy in the shower that day, but it was the last time I got into a pool. It was late December, back in ‘63.
But back to 2015. If one afternoon of showers could have everybody and everything drifting all over the place, I don’t even want to think about more rain. Can you imagine? Seriously, recent rains have brought the lack of proper drainage to our attention.
Come, we must do something about this flooding situation. Pay Pete and his fellas from Courtesy Garage or something to fix the things. Pete called me last Sunday – from his office – to inquire about my vehicle’s performance. Working even on Sundays, folks.
That’s the fundamental difference with people like Pete, Rashida, Lisa and the lot at Courtesy – a combination of genuine care and hard work. Truly, legendary service!
Hoadie, I deciphered your code. Gnimoc I!!!
Veoma Ali is an author, broadcaster, advertising exec and, most important, a karaoke lover.
