Soap Opera

I am normal

(well within the limits of my usual boundaries, which I think we can all agree are questionable after giving up a well paid job and amazing family and friends to come here)

What I mean by that is that other than a slight hangover (again I assert, normal) I am not stressed, ill, travelling somewhere, getting ready for the office on a Sunday or generally running a whole sector of the health service single handed.

AND I’ve managed to grow another year older.

Impressive.

So what does one actually do on these sorts of mornings????

I’m not one to brag (much), but having stayed alive over these past few weeks is I believe incredible achievement. As is still being of sound mind. OK I admit if we look back to last weeks entry, maybe I was a permeating out through the edges of sanity, but still on the bright side, no one is dead and I am not giving favours in a prison cell to a big black mamma. Many people around me do in fact see that as a remarkable achievement!

I also realized that my last entry, (while clearly demonstrating what a fabulous grumpy old woman I am going to make), was a little random. First I’m throwing up over myself, then I’m screaming at the Ministry (Mmmm maybe throwing up over the ministry would have been a more effective strategy all round).

So in a nutshell, it has been my task to get the Ministry to adopt a national strategy for rehabilitation services. The policy document was written in consultation with them over 18 months ago but since then they have been skirting the issue. Why? Well, quite simply it is acknowledgement that rehabilitation services are part of the health service and that the government bears legal responsibility towards them.

Simple equation being

Policy = more work.

Divide that by ‘don’t really care’ and it gives you a total sum of ‘Apathy’

I can sort of understand this though. When babies are dying of malnutrition and malaria. When even as I type, there is a cholera epidemic taking over the city and threatening the lives of 1000’s of people living in the slums. When you have one of the worlds worse maternal mortality rates, I can sort of forgive their irritation as I come waddling through the door pressing the issue of wheelchairs, false legs and massage oil.

But still I think they went a step too far in avoiding the issues when ministry worker told my staff that he was  popping to the loo, and then did a runner, later to be found hiding a floor down in a Ministry of Agriculture office.

Despite this, I continued to frequently heave my arse up those 5 flights of stairs (obviously the Ministry buildings lifts are broken and they can’t afford to have them fixed), and eventually, on my 37^th birthday, managed to get the government to launch its first every policy on Rehabilitation. In one room I gathered MP’s, officials from the EU and French government, users, Ministers, professionals and International Professors of Health and Rehabilitation to witness and present at the event. OK so I had to do literally everything, including checking the ministers speech, (he didn’t know much about rehabilitation). I also had helped my director with his speech but eventually it was nice to see my efforts in print and on the TV.

And then the next day I ran a workshop for all the countries rehab professional (oh yeah and sort of got myself in the papers again)

And then the one following that, I inspired those same people to reform their professional associations and adopt new constitutions.

Not bad for a weeks work.



Rather unfortunate headline & terrible journalism but still...



And now it’s Sunday morning and I’m bloody bored. To make matters worse its just sinking in that actually I spent my precious birthday with a bunch of ******’s AND I’m missing the Olympics. What’s that about?!!!

All I can say is thank God, literally, that I have such a thoughtful friend who while I forgot to acknowledge and celebrate my birthday, managed to arrange for me to be taken out for a meal and be given presents. Ok it was by a complete stranger, who just so happened to be a very assertive priest, and who left me no choice but to agree to go out with him. He was clearly a man on mission and this one wasn’t from God, but a force much more powerful – an O’Reilly!

But as always even this event did not pass without incident……..

So here I am, the eve of the policy launch at the now empty but prepared venue, scared to move as a man of God has told me to stay put until he meets me. I stand at the entrance waiting patiently when at last I see a man start to approach me looking slightly inquisitively, a faint smile of uncertainty and welcome around his mouth. I am sure my expression mirrored his as there was that awkward moment where 2 complete strangers meet and introduce themselves at the same time.

There was a,

“Hello is it Jo/Joe/yes/yes/hi/hello” * insert nervous laughter*,

Both speaking and laughing and shaking each others hands simultaneously together. Both equally sizing each other up. He was younger than expected, a lot younger and not quite dressed as a priest. OK I wasn’t expecting the dress or anything, but something a little more conservative. Then again I’ve met the other priest friend of the O’Reilly’s and he is anything but traditional, so I followed this man indoors.

He sat; I sat, he asked, “so you’re the woman I have been phoning?”

 “Yes” I replied, slightly relieved but somehow not 100% convinced.

 I proceeded to ask “you are Joe aren’t you”, “Of course I am, we arranged to meet here”, came the reply,

“I called you to confirm half an hour ago”.

 Indeed this was most definitely true; problem was his accent seemed a little stronger than on the telephone and his English not as fluent. This seemed odd as while I know his pronunciation will have been polluted by those Yorkshire folk in Cottingham with whom he’s spent a lot of time, I wasn’t convinced that he could really understand me. Certainly when I asked, “Are you a priest?” his “yeah, yeah” answer was on the dismissive side for a man of the cloth.

“Let’s get a drink” he suggests, calling over a waitress. In no time at all, we soon had 2 bottles of water before us and a slight awkward smile and silence between us. I was first to break it and still suspicious asked

“So when do you go to the UK?” remembering an earlier phone conversation.

“Well I don’t have definitely plans but soon I hope”.

Mmmm I thought, scratching my head, the answer should have been ‘Friday’.

Just as I was about to ask another probing question another man approached the table and sat down and was introduced as Joe’s ‘friend’. At this stage those little faint warning bells turned onto great big sirens in my head and the words ‘DANGER ALERT’ began flashing before my eyes.

“SIR. Please. What. Is. Your. Name?” I implored.

“My. Name. Is. Joe. We. Have. Been. Speaking. On. The. Telephone”, came the equally insistent reply.

“Who then is that then”,  I say pointing at the “friend”, now completely convinced that I am about to be kidnapped and sold into sex slavery, my arse being too tempting for the local mafia not to make a profit from.

“A friend”

Right this was not working. I tried anther tactic.

“Who the hell (oh shit, just blasphemed at a priest), do you think I am” (bollocks, also just said shit – and bollocks)

“The English woman I called and arranged to meet here!” He continued, “Look I’ll call you”, getting out his mobile.

While he was fiddling with his phone and obviously activating some special MI5 type device that would make my phone ring and hypnotise me into going to see some puppies, I decided I would not be outdone by this serial killer and his fancy technology. I proceeded to return Father Joe’s last call, all the time thinking that if the mans phone opposite rings and I get out of this alive, I’ll have to find a gentle way of teaching the O’Reilly family how to distinguish priests from Gangsters.

The mans phone opposite didn’t ring and yet I heard clearly through my earpiece a nice, friendly, warm “hello Jo, I’m not far away now”

And at my “Thank you Father Joe, see you soon”, the ‘friend’ got up abruptly and took his leave, giving an admonishing look to “Joe”.

Joe meanwhile looked genuinely baffled stuttering, “but I arranged to meet you here” I’ve been talking to you on the phone” I’m Joe” “You’re the British woman”, but at seeing the murderous look on my face, he paid for his and more importantly my water, and swiftly followed his friend.

I took up my previous position at the entrance, half bottle of gratis water in hand, somewhat in a state of shock having escaped a life of prostitution, waiting for the real Joe to materialise. I even considered giving thanks to the Lord for my narrow escape and for sending me one of his loyal servants to save me.

But then I was awoken from this thought by utter amazement, as I witnessed a car pull up, a white woman get out, be greeted by ‘Joe’ (who approached this time with extreme caution) and was gobsmacked to hear the woman say in a clipped British accent ‘Oh Joe its good to meet you in person after all this time’.  WHAT???

By some strange twist of fate or coincidence, on that one night, of all the venues in this capital city, 2 Sierra Leone men, both called Joe were meeting British women for the first time who’d they’ve only ever spoken to on the telephone.

This cannot be for real, and yet it was. Someone please tell me who commissioned this soap opera and cast me as the leading lady, because I’m sure its time for the ads!!

XxX