The One About Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day came and left. This piece is thus long overdue, but hey, if you’re willing to wait for one day in the year to prove your love, then maybe this is right on time. As you may have surmised, I’m not crazy about this day. I am not too keen on the visual onslaught of Reds and Blacks flashing all over the place. I don’t care for flowers either, or romance and stuff, but Kampala does as was evidenced all the way from…

7:00pm: I figure I will start my foray into the world of lovers by treating myself to some pork at Kyadondo Rugby Club. It kind of pales in comparison to the goodness of chocolate and all, but it keeps you going when you have to deal with romantics. Initially there are very few people here. The few that are present are here to watch rugby and/or be watched. Then slowly clusters form. People begin to pair up. Thankfully, there’s barely a colour-coded individual in sight.

I decide to roam to make sure. On my way to the bar area I encounter a lady that figured that it would be way too much work to dress up and as such just threw on a top and pants and that’s all. Seriously. I have not left anything out. She did!

At some point, I find myself wondering whether the couples that are here figured this was a romantic spot, or this is just routine for them and they care as much for Valentine’s Day as a Cuban dictator cares for democratic elections.

A little way off a man is buying popcorn and soda for his child. The sweetness of this gesture makes you forget that this is a bar of sorts and it’s pretty late for a kid to be out drinking soda and eating corn.

I move on to Garden City hoping for glitz and glamour and people with undergarments. I am disappointed initially. There is nothing fancy happening at Alleygators. Colour me ignorant, but wouldn’t it be a little romantic to take your date to a karaoke spot and serenade her? There was a couple holding hands, and that was sweet, then they invited their friend to join in a three-way hand holding session then it got weird. I digress. What I’m trying to say is that the only display of sentimentalism was shown by one couple. Which is why I moved to…

THE VENUE
There seems to be a little more activity here. The couples here are genuinely into each other. One instance of Red & Black and I’m thinking, “Return from whence you came, oh, colourful being!” No chocolate in sight, no faces I can pick out. But it’s nice enough. I sit at the counter waiting, scheming, but this whole “the guy makes the moves” thing seems to be messing me up. Sure there are girls, by themselves, but I get the feeling they won’t walk over and ask me to make them mine. The idea that I should walk over and introduce myself and threaten to write nasty things about them crosses my mind, but I leave lest I start to see Red, or that colour the French call…

Rouge: There’s a theme to this night at this club and though I am loathe to admitting it, it’s brilliant. The idea is you wear a mask that signals your status. Red says, “Back off, I’m in a relationship”, Orange says, “I don’t know! I could be in a relationship” and Green says, “Hah hah!
Relationship? Not yet. Try me”. It’s novel. And there’s a couple of desperate people out there. I got all three masks because I envisioned the night as a progression type thing. Start off single and meet someone, hit it off and not be sure of where things are going and then after establishing that wear red… or a grin.

There are balloons littering the floor and from all the action, I can say couples love themselves fun activities such as bursting balloons. The place starts to fill up at around midnight and for a brief moment think my bad luck can be attributed to my reluctance to wear red and black. I figure the organisers of this event actually did their job right. I’d probably lose the balloons, but what would I know? The waitresses are following the whole traffic light theme and it bugs me a great deal that I’m alternating between wearing my orange and green masks while they frolic about merrily in their red ones.
I step out briefly and wander to Platinum. Club Cascades was my initial option, but I am not too crazy about paying a fee for a “singles” dinner. What message would that send? That I don’t have food at home? Anyway, Platinum has some of the liveliest people I have met tonight. There’s some question as to whether the mood is brought on by love or alcohol. Given the constant bathroom visits, it may be the booze.

My stomach rumbles, a reminder of the pork from not too long ago and the night ends just like that.

The One About DVDs

DESPITE the well advertised fact that we’ve got a gajillion options from Digital TV alone and Side Mirror on WBS, the masses have looked the other way. They can’t be bothered to sit and wait for an entire week before catching up with their friends Jack (Bauer), Hiro (Nakimura) and that Seth idiot from The O.C.

Hawkers have made it easier for them, given that on top of selling torches and diaries from 2006 (the torches, not the diaries), there are stands showcasing the latest in Series’ rip offs. When they’d started out you’d be able to get an entire season of say, Smallville on one disc, but someone wisened up, and decided to split the series over two discs.

The prices range between sh2,500 and sh5,000. In the event that you cannot haggle (because that sort of behaviour is just unbecoming) you may be set back about sh10,000 for each disc.
Filling the void that was created by Friends is How I Met Your Mother, a show that is about how, well, the star of the show met the mother of his kids. It’s pretty entertaining and, like Friends before it, you will pick up a couple of phrases and habits that you’ll embarass yourself with from the show. To put it mildly, this show is legendary and just watching it makes you awesome. (If you’ve seen the show, you know what I mean).

Smallville is so last year. If you really want superheroes turn your attention to the aptly titled Heroes. Granted the title screams: “We couldn’t find a name”, however, the show is actually quite gripping. “You will like this one; it has people with powers!” says the guy hawking DVDs. The first offer was a Nigerian flick with Abby (who?), but I’d sooner watch the one with Karitas (who??) in it.

Heroes basically revolves around ordinary people that have experienced genetic evolution that’s granted them “abilities”. Such individuals include a cheerleader who can heal herself, a politician who lies, ahem, who flies, his brother who seems to be a sponge for these abilities, a bad guy with a penchant for slicing people’s heads open and a host of other people, some of whom think they are cursed.

The OC’s popularity hasn’t waned since forever ago. More and more people are picking up on this show with some trying to justify the habit.

Ismael claims that he watches The OC to find out which rock songs are being released. The premise can be surmised thus: “A show about a couple of teenagers, their families, their relationships or lack of and a bunch of cool rock tracks you can identify when you go for Rock Night.” I’ve found that just about everyone knows someone that (still) watches it.
Grey’s Anatomy chronicles the life of Meredith Grey and her advancement up the medical world’s ladder. It also revolves around her workmates’ lives, but seeing as their names do not feature anywhere in the title, this is mainly about Meredith. It’s been likened to House M.D., another medical drama that features Hugh Laurie as a limping, cynical, arrogant, brilliant magnificent bastard… that saves lives.

Lawyers have finally been given some slack. Boston Legal is a series that chronicles the oft-quirky lives of the individuals in the law firm of Crane, Poole and Schmidt. A lot of work went into this series that’s fast picking up fans in that place I loathe calling the corporate world.

There are also what I’d call lesser series. These enjoy an audience of about 6 people and include Rome, Surface and Dexter. Come to think of it, I know only five people that know I’m not talking about some short kid with a secret lab when I bring up Dexter.

The One About Graduation on April 1st

I confer upon you the degree of, well, whatever it is you lot have been studying. I am usually in the nasty habit of throwing amazing phrases around, but this time I’m just not feeling it. That, and the fact that I have received several complaints from lecturers who claim you have been enrolling for fresh degrees to gain insight into the workings of my vocabulary. So, go out there and work.”

And there was much rejoicing all around. The 12 people that had got first class degrees maintained their composure and went into some long-winded discussion on how the world was now their oyster and nothing would stand in their way.

This might have been inspired by the belief that they would actually get the sh500,000 that is the government’s way of saying, “Here is entandikwa. Top up and fly out for kyeyo.”) The rest of the guys that were on the ceremonial grounds were still considering giving their lives to Christ in appreciation of speeding up the whole process. And while all these thoughts were going through these brilliant minds, an announcement made its way through the now humid air, “I’m joking you fellows. It’s April Fools’ Day after all. Did you lads and lasses honestly think you had graduated? Come on, you should know better than that! Jeez! Anyway, let’s do this thing for real, like, next week.”

A little after this, it was reported that some guy called Bored Geldof made some nasty statements to the effect that “These guys have been a shining example, a beacon of light even, but really, man! It’s about time they left, otherwise they will become, you know, lazy and stuff.”

So there was great chagrin. Everyone was royally pissed, everyone that is, except the guys that were not graduating. See, the thing is, or was, depending on how you look at it, it had long been discovered that the ceremony, auspicious as it was, happened to fall on that most irrelevant of all holidays. No one tried to put two and two together. After about three-four years it was just too much work and not worth getting a retake for.

So gowns were rented, as has long been the tradition at “the hill” and so many other places. One “graduate” claims that the guy she got her gown from actually expressed a certain level of concern as she was making payments.

“Anti, I just thought mbu the guy was as-if trying to oba con-con me”
We are still trying to understand what the heck she was going on about.

The parties were in abundance and for the first time in some people’s lives a deeper understanding was gained of the words “gatecrashing”. In fact, so rampant was its use, it spilled over into other parties that were held after Friday.

In a moment of inspiration and proper drunken stupor, someone was heard to have asked the inevitable question, “What next?” The people he was sitting with failed to grasp where he was heading with this question, possibly because they were still sober, so they went on to name a couple of beer alternatives.

Nonetheless, the whole graduation on Fool’s Day decision has been questioned by many a scholar. So much so, we might be forced to write a dissertation on the silly thing.

We cannot help but wonder, “Are they trying to say something?” The problem though is that we can not quite place our fingers on who “they” in the question refers to.

Once we do we will move on to more serious questions like, “Are they trying to take the piss, is this about the strikes?”

The One About Rallies

I went for this rally with as much zeal as I could muster on such a hot Sunday afternoon. See, the thing is, usually, when people tell you to go for “The Sprint”, they make it sound so exciting.

Like it’s an event that could only be eclipsed in awesomeness by the abrupt declaration by Joseph Kony that war isn’t really his thing and he’s opted to become a missionary.

What they don’t tell you is that there’s a chance that you might actually derive from it levels of excitement as high as those a child sitting in on a discussion about the downward spiral of the Cuban economy.

It started simply enough — long journey to Garuga with the adrenaline levels moving at a speed surpassed only by snails racing through mud on a hot day.

The guys I was travelling with were great company though. Made the journey worth it, actually.

You have to understand that I am not a sports scribe, so the last thing on my mind was whether Emma Kato’s new vehicle could actually round a bend without losing any fuel in its tank. I was out there for the thrill of… actually in retrospect, I can’t say I had a clearly laid out plan.

That probably means I shouldn’t belly-ache about the presence of Uganda’s own Amarula Family (sorry Uganda, such stuff shouldn’t keep happening to you).

There was some spiel about someone willing to reward with sh5,000, anyone that found his sh20,000. It was actually quite funny. Seriously, it’s been funny since its inception in the ‘80s.
Moving on, there were a couple of food stands. The most impressive thing here were the chips. They actually looked palatable.

Ordinarily, such places inspire the notion that fries found there will have been carved from a tough-as-nails spud that will defend this reputation from inside your stomach and emerge victorious elsewhere.

Speaking of which, there were actually some loos. It’s not that I went looking for them as such, but when people emerge from bushes zipping up their pants and smoothing out their skirts, one can’t help but figure where you are supposed to go when you need to go about your business.

At this point you’re probably wondering whether I am actually going to subject you to a long-winded piece with no mention of skimpily clad vixens that were out to show off as much flesh as they could whilst acting surprised that guys ACTUALLY DO find this appealing.

Well, sadly yes, there were none of those, and if they were there then they did a pretty good job hiding. There were, however, a number of Fashion police cases and a chick with hips huge enough to disqualify her from some competition involving faces.

And there was the lake a short distance away, with people swimming and a kid that figured swimming in the nude was actually the way it was meant to be done. Speaking of lakes, I half expected to see some guy emerge with a sack of cash flung over his shoulder and disappearing in the crowd. I might have gotten there late.

Then there were the cars. It’s been a week since the event, I honestly doubt there’s anything that I could say that hasn’t been said yet. Well, they were fast, and they looked like cars that were being used to wreak havoc. You know what? This isn’t really moving in the direction you would want it to.

Not very unlike the performance of the make-shift band that was set up to actually draw our attention away from the naked swimmer or the people oblivious to the importance of keeping the environment clean. Right, back to the band.

Initially it was churning out some good stuff, no lie! The songs actually drew a crowd of people who were either drunk from the cheap brew that was lurking in the depths of gourds and calabashes or heading towards drunken stupor.

Then suddenly without warning, they started doing adverts for Jomayi something or other, the guys who made the rally possible, or the music that was keeping people away from the rally and the fast cars wreaking havoc.

Looking past that, it was pretty cool as far as rallies go. Granted I figured they should start being picky about who should attend these things (the way that bouncer at Silk pulls it off).

By the end of the feat everyone had accumulated enough dust to start a low-scale farm — on their bodies!

The One About Strikes On Campus

It’s no secret, strikes are part of the curriculum on most university timetables. They are a rite of passage, except we can’t quite fathom how to justify them.

Ideally we wouldn’t have to, but society suggests otherwise.

With some thought, often over a couple of beers and pork, someone mentions that they do not really have grounds for a strike and the one girl they allowed to attend the meeting offers, “Why don’t we strike over the fact that we do not have a good reason to strike?” So she gets “bounced” from the meet and she goes to watch Woman Of My Life.

The rest form what is later known as The Band Of Brothers (or UYD in short) and ponder harder than ever how to go about the whole strike issue. They finally figure they will strike over the fact that the lecturers don’t ask after them when they skip class.

But then, fate intervenes, as she always does. The newspaper reports that the lecturers may have a strike of their own.

So the students strike over bad food instead. The quality of the food is usually depressing and it would take a tremendous amount of effort to worsen it. That’s probably a stereotypical remark, but a cause is required, so let’s go with the food story and for good measure let’s complain about the sorry state of the toilets.

Apparently they’re so dirty, it’s no longer healthy to stand on them as you go.
Then it leaks that the non-teaching staff has a strike of its own.

So another meeting is called and the girl is invited to come over and contribute a couple of ideas, but she can’t make it. Her rich Kikuubo guy is going to pick her up and they will go out to “full enjoy”…

After a reasonable amount of calm, someone picks up a timetable and sees that a strike is long over due, so he calls up his pals and the new crew, and is a bit miffed by the way girls claimed to be watching Woman Of My Life way before it hit the screens.

The usual debate ensues, then it comes to their attention that some guild candidate is screaming foul. For a fleeting moment no one is sure of whether this means he is giving them chicken to celebrate or is actually saying the elections were rigged. Everyone is depressed, the girl shakes her head sorrowfully and says something to the effect, “Kale, they know we won’t get 100 law students to defend the other guy!” Sneers and jeers ensue then it finally occurs to the people present that there, right in front of them, is a brilliant cause for a demonstration.

Yes, a demonstration. They have since learnt that calling it a strike is not valid unless it’s of Kenyan University-proportions.

So a demonstration they have, peaceful at that, save perhaps for people picking up stones and, after deciding they are not really the kind they are after, hurling them in the general direction of car windows. The riot police are happy, now they can finally try out all this new stuff they have received from some donor who lacked any serious use for it. And because it works in the movies, some tear gas is carried.

The scene on campus is in the realm of chaotic. People take it upon themselves to run around screaming stuff that makes no sense at all. This gives what was a casual demonstration an uncanny resemblance to a full STRIKE!

The One About The Price Of Fame

Forget that spiel where we “abuse” our freedom of speech and say certain guys force accents. You know you are a celebrity when you read reports of your own death in the papers.

The internet was saturated this week with a rumour saying that Ciara, the Queen of Crunk&B, was a guy. Forget the tomboy thing: it had gotten so bad that if you mention that you like Ciara, people would throw insults your way, asking which rock you’ve been living under. “Don’t you know she was a guy?” Suddenly that fantasy you’ve been clinging onto makes a One-Two step and leaves you gaping like, “Oh”.

If you type “Ciara” and “sex change” in the same line into the Google search engine, you’ll turn up thousands of results.

One story says she was on the Oprah show and said that she/he/it was a transsexual. Another story says she was a hermaphrodite and has both sets of goodies.

However, Ciara’s people have issued a statement alongside all the hot blooded males saying it’s not true. “We consistently get rumours saying that Ciara was born with male and female genitalia. We have no clue where this crazy rumour started, but it’s not true. She only has one female private place,” writes Allhiphop.com

The truth is that there is a Ciara who is transsexual and who has a website. But this one is white and Irish. Someone got them confused and started the rumour.
Let’s face it, things could be a lot worse. A fan in denial could refuse to let someone rest in peace. It’s you I’m talking about, you lot who have refused to believe Tupac is dead. In fact it’s so bad, you would readily kill off a couple of artistes —like the time you told everybody that Chameleone had died in a car accident, forcing him to come out and declare that We ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet the best way they can, by saying things like, “Mambo Bado”.

Then you’ll take it further and say that Genevieve Nnaji is dead, similarly, in a car crash. Nollywood fans (recent polls show that that’s about ¾ of the population) know who she is and also know she is very much alive. There’s no telling where the whole accident rumour came from, but we are considering that a person who read the synopsis for one of those flicks didn’t quite realise that it was not a true story.

Then we had the bit with Luther Vandross being Gay. There’s no telling how true this is seeing as no one has probed, sorry, looked into the whole thing. It’s just sad when you think of it. All those song titles you sent in your mail to your high school sweetheart may have actually been inspired by a GUY! What does Luther say to all this? Well, BET put the question to him and he told them it was none of their business.

Let’s not forget that it’s not the first time someone has been called gay on TV. There’s this one time in the days of good TV (in retrospect, this day was the last one of good TV) when Kazoora said he had been reading some stuff online or watching MTV (there’s some lack of patriotism here) and he’d discovered Alicia Keys was a lesbian. If that’s true, then if I say I am actually the fifteenth reincarnation of Tupac and it appears online it will be gospel.

The One About Kabalagala

WE set out, fellows three, for a great night out and some fun, you see. The plan was simple, no grand designs, but like all plans things went awry as you shall see in the following lines…

The first stop of the night was Punchline in Kabalagala. It’s a great place that’s almost difficult to miss. The gentleman at the gate seemed to be sent from some family planning association that had equipped him with a metal detector and told him to go forth and put an end to all this mindless “procreation”.

This alone would explain why many guys were walking like they’d had some sort surgery. I couldn’t bring myself to go into the main part of the club (?) seeing as I have seemingly picked up a gambling addiction and there are slot machines in there. So we sat outside close to the pool tables where a Missy Elliot look-alike was wreaking havoc. I decided to make like a liberator and paid for a game. Sadly that came to naught and I played another. It was then that I came under the impression that I was getting better and demanded a third term…

The company I was with begged to differ and we thus trudged on to L’il Mama (That’s the third time I have mentioned that place, surely I deserve some sort of thanks.) where we got frisked and were visually assaulted by tabletop dancers. And I mean the professional kind, not Bebe Cool.

Upon entry you realise you have nowhere to sit, seeing as all these people have come hither to drool.

To disassociate myself from these heathens I stepped over a puddle and went indoors. I feel compelled to say Priscilla Ray happened to be here. Which is not saying much really considering that she is probably at many places at many times, I just happen to have a word limit to beat.

Somewhere along the line the Dee Jay decided, as most DJ’s are wont to, that he sounded much better than the music. He thus cut in and announced that it was some guy’s birthday. Not to be outdone, Sylvia Owori (currently the lady to ask for clothes if you’re going to act) also took to the mic and proclaimed that it was something of a tradition to give out a crate of beer to anyone who “just happens to be getting older”.

After storing that little bit of trivia, (“Free drinks and a speech filled with the letter ‘R’” for birthday people) we went over to the den of sin that is Capital Pub.

The bouncer asked for an entrance fee with such tact I’m almost certain if we hadn’t agreed to pay up, he would have assured us that we would get discounts from the ladies of the night if we obliged.

Moving through to find a place to sit was not easy, it practically felt like the whole world and its children had come out to play. And play they did, and they worked up a sweat that was worthy of its own definition in the dictionary. The annoying thing with all this is that as one tries to wade through, everyone picks that moment to thrust themselves in front of you, thus branding you.

And then there’re the ladies of the night. Not particularly aggressive this bunch; the attire was worthy of arrests and inspired someone to ask whether they had no access to East Africa TV so that they could pick up some lessons.

Presumably, they didn’t need the attire to hook guys, preferring to employ a technique best described as “trying to dislodge meat from teeth using tongue” to indicate their intentions.

The One About Exams

It’s never made sense, the whole idea of exams. I mean, sure you’ll go sit down and complete your paper with the sort of speed that suggests that there is a patient somewhere waiting for you to donate your kidney, but it still doesn’t seem worth it.

Everyone knows this, yet we still feel obliged to walk in and see whether this will be the year someone is caught with a summary running down the length of her thigh.

It is usually with that sort of resolve that you saunter into the examination room (previously known as either a “lecture theatre” or “under a tree” depending on where you are) and wear a grin that suggests you actually know what you are doing.

Shortly after you, the invigilator (a gentleman we usually refer to as “That Guy”) walks in with a smile plastered across his face. That’s when the trouble begins. Paranoia sets in. All of a sudden you are not so confident. It’s that smile. Why the heck is he smiling? Does he know something you don’t?

You try to ignore him as he hands you the answer sheet. For some bizarre reason, the booklets have seemingly put on weight. Is it possible that you are actually expected to fill this thing? You consider raising your hand to ask this all-too-important question, but it’s too late. With what can best be described as the cry of a warrior, the invigilator tells you to start.

All sorts of thoughts start to surface. Not the kind you need at the time. It gets such that walking out doesn’t seem too bad an idea. All you need is back-up. Where the heck is that chick with the thigh? Someone in the corner is smiling. You wonder why.

Is it possible that the idiot had in fact taken the lecturer’s advice and revised? “Bloody traitor!” you think to yourself. Well, try to think anyway. Amidst all this thinking a cry cuts through the air, it’s the invigilator and he wants you to “Stop!”

The One About Flicks

If there’s anything we have learnt in life, it’s that we won’t pick up life’s lessons from classrooms. And that’s because movies do a better job.

Water is a bad thing, its no secret. Take Titanic, The Perfect Storm and The Ring movies. If there’s any lesson to be learnt here, it’s that H20 is nasty. If we had taken the time to study this trend we wouldn’t have to deal with the Kabalega-Kaawa debacle. Then again, if someone had decided to study anything at all, none of that would have happened.

Nigerian movies have hinted at the fact that juju or voodoo is aplenty in Africa. Initially, I was a bit sceptical about it, but after the UK-Kisanja incident, I think there’s some truth in it. Let’s overlook (as did some people) the fact that it was spring and flowers try to bloom around this time. There’s simply no way the guys we send to represent our views (and make a buck) would make up something like that. Green banana leaves are just supposed to dry up in such temperatures, “innit”? One politician was quoted as saying that their point was made. I don’t know what it was, but every time I enter a chatroom and mention I am from Uganda, someone asks if we live in trees.

The president’s emphasis on science subjects is brilliant. Movies have shown that people that study these things are not just mutants, but very bright.

This means that if everything goes the way it should and we actually pay attention in class, we ought to become hackers and be able to commit all manner of transactions online. Plus, we should be able to control traffic lights and more importantly, by using a set of algorithms we ought to hack into Umeme and put an end to loadshedding.

There has also been some concern over the state of potholes and the nasty way our roads are starting to look a lot like some geographical physical features (i.e. craters, crater lakes, valleys). According to movie research this is a non-issue.

We are in the 2000s,which, by all accounts, mean we are on the way to airborne vehicles. The good news is that this will mean less traffic jams down below and the elimination of both instances of The Phantom Menace; boda-boda cyclists and traffic cops.

For far too long we have been up in arms complaining about how wars keep dragging. No one seems to be paying attention to the fact that this is a trend in movies.

If you are an incredibly skilled fighter you move pretty fast while everything around you seemingly works in slow motion. This is not to say that our soldiers are lousy fighters, far from it.

They are pretty good. Our problem is, and I am sure I have some serious backing on this one, voodoo!

The One About The Killer Billboard

THIS week brought with it the startling revelation that even if you drink and desist from driving, your car can still be totalled.

This was made evident in Nakulabye on Sunday. It’s a shame really, because the location had previously enjoyed popularity as a great place to get pork and listen to boring music at the same time.

Anyway, as you might recall, it was raining a great deal. So much so that a Member of Parliament remarked that it is rains such as these that we shall enjoy if we support the kisanja policy. People who couldn’t be bothered to read the label on beer bottles that says “drinking alcohol could be harmful for motorists” were out having a good time.

Then suddenly, there was a clap of thunder which has since been explained to have meant, among other things, the gods’ displeasure with Chelsea’s performance.

After everyone had gotten over the initial shock, a bigger shocker awaited them. A Pilsener billboard had collapsed on a row of parked cars. No one was hurt, but beer had finally shown its its wrath. An onlooker had this to say: “Wow!”

As the drivers were trying to assess the damage and recall the number that is given in that insurance advert, someone remarked that this was not too different from the tsunami thing that several artistes have come together to sing about.
He has since gone into hiding.

Of course we cannot go ahead and apportion blame to booze. Plus it’s not as though it was just cars that were damaged.In Bugolobi, two blocks had the sheets pulled out from over them and water started gushing in.

A resident interviewed at the time was forlorn and depressed because, she said, she would not be able to watch Woman Of My Life in peace. Another resident could not be reached because his phone was engaged. An expert claims its because he was calling an insurance company.