It is very hard to find a tea pot which suits all requirements. It must first of all be a thing of extreme beauty, and there is nothing more beautiful than a tea pot of perfect proportions in dusky turquoise-blue with a hint of green, circa 1960s. Secondly, and just as important, it must be a good pourer, meaning it must not dribble down the spout and it must tip elegantly from the handle. The lid must not rattle or fall when tipped to extract the last half-cup from the pot. It must feel good when held, as if shaking the hand of an old and dear friend. It must be a thing of beauty in form and function.

This teapot was one such item, elegant yet full of character. I found it in a shop in Bethnal Green, and as soon as I saw it I knew it had to be mine. It was a lot more than I might usually spend on a teapot, but I loved it so much that I didn't care. I asked the man in the shop to show me to a tap so I could fill it with water and watch it pour. It did not dribble. He wrapped it, and I took it home, via H.'s house where we had pot after pot of tea, admiring it at every sip. We all agreed, it was a divine item of retro crockery.

Arriving at my home, I unwrapped the pot from its bubblewrap to find the handle in pieces. I had knocked it ever so slightly on the gate post on leaving H's house and now it was broken. The person in me who accepts life's tragedies and moves onwards tried to find some way to deal with this. But the retro crockery-consumer in me went to bed and cried, mourning the loss of what was a brief, but loved companion.

Minty-green Poole teapot, c.1960-2010.

Last night I had an interesting conversation with one of the small group of British musicians who tempted me away- briefly at first but more seriously recently- from African music. Chris Wood is a fine story-teller, singer and guitarist with a burning hatred for Margaret Thatcher and a love of the Kentish land where I was brought up. Since Thatcher was also a large part of my growing up (parents to this day divided over the issue), as was the joy of visiting fish and chip shops by the Kent coast on special occasions, there is a lot in Chris's music which reminds me of my childhood and points me back to a place which, in my meanderings, I thought I had long left behind.

We've met briefly on a couple of occasions and I am amused to discover that he still finds the music press in Britain a waste of everyone's time. Last night he asked me how it all worked, a question I am often asking myself as I try to navigate my way onto the pages of the papers which seemed filled with the regular names- both journalists and musicians- and nothing much new or adventurous. Occasionally you'll read about something non-commercial but once a big release comes out, you can be sure that anyone hoping to sell any papers will be printing something about it, even if everyone agrees it's rubbish.

One of his criticisms of the music press is how much we rave about things, to the point where it all becomes meaningless. I'd agree, though if I'm writing about something it's usually because I've gone through weeks or months (years in many cases!) of research, contacting, pitching, waiting, pitching again then listening, organising and finally interviewing and writing about this person who I better think was pretty interesting in the first place or else it's been a painful waste of my time. But he's right: there's a lot of shoddy journalism out there and it must be pretty disappointing to spend years working on a piece of music only to have some unprepared nit-wit turn up asking the obvious.

Perhaps I should write something critical about his gig? The audience were a pain in the arse, the extra-tall couples infront of us stroked eachother in an annoying way that they no doubt thought romantic and secretive, though everyone standing behind them could see what they were doing. Some people sung along to Chris's tunes, and they did not have good voices. It was too hot.

But Chris put on a rusty performance (it being the first solo gig in 3 months, he told us) which just added to his witty way of telling stories, made him seem even more down to earth and made us all laugh. I hate to say it, but it was a really good way of passing two hours. Sorry.

Oh, he did ask me how I ended up in Senegal. I told him I heard a Song by Orchestra Baobab and that was the next ten years turned on its head. He said he thought that kind of thing only happened to musicians. Photos back from the lab today, reminding me of why I'll be really happy to get back to Dakar in March.

This from Kenyan writer Binyavanga Wainaina, entitled 'How to write about Africa', an excerpt from an article published in Granta. (Thanks to my anonymous blog-reader for the correct attribution).

'Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.

In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don't get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn't care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.

Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African's cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it—because you care.

Taboo subjects: ordinary domestic scenes, love between Africans (unless a death is involved), references to African writers or intellectuals, mention of school-going children who are not suffering from yaws or Ebola fever or female genital mutilation.

Throughout the book, adopt a sotto voice, in conspiracy with the reader, and a sad I-expected-so-much tone. Establish early on that your liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can't live without her. Africa is the only continent you can love—take advantage of this. If you are a man, thrust yourself into her warm virgin forests. If you are a woman, treat Africa as a man who wears a bush jacket and disappears off into the sunset.'

Wanlov the Kubolor (right) features on our up-coming compilation out on Outhere Records in June. He's got an acerbic sense of humour, and it's often people who think they know about Africa who end up as the butt of his jokes, though his lyrics are usually too clever for the people he's attacking to understand.

I saw him perform at Passing Clouds in London recently, and much of the audience, who were just there to drink cheap beer and laugh at their own, drunk jokes, talked throughout his set. Wanlov was wearing a skirt, and no doubt the audience- who were not interested in Africa or African performance- thought this a typical outfit for an African, a colourful wrap and bare feet. If they had listened they would have realised that he, and those of us who were listening, were in fact making fun of them.